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a-bad-case-of-the-stephs · 1 month ago

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Okay!

After nearly a full decade of our time of Stephanie Brown being told to go home and give up being Spoiler, Batman takes her on as a student and sanctions her, with no preamble or warning.

That’s weird, let’s talk about it.

Batmans strange choices in how he treats Stephanie Brown can only be understood by analyzing his character.

Let's place Batman in context of what is going on directly before his decision to bring in Stephanie Brown as part of the team. The last major event preceding Stephanie Brown being sanctioned is Officer Down, which by the time it concludes Batman has lost two of his oldest allies: Jim Gordon has retired and Alfred has resigned.

In the wake of Officer Down, I’d like to track two key conflicting characteristics of Batman, how they are exacerbated, and how they influence how Stephanie is treated.

1. A Longing for Companionship

Batman's desire for the company of others is increased post-Officer Down, as he deals with suddenly being isolated from most of his core group.

Other characters point this out:

Batman #590 (1940)

Additionally, for the first time in a long while, Bruce Wayne is entirely alone in the manor.

Gotham Knights #20 (2000)

So, why doesn’t Batman just do the normal, healthy thing and reach out to the loved ones he still has? I personally believe it’s because of how embarrassed he is after getting epically owned by Alfred, but the more general answer is: he’s the Batman.

Out of paranoia his feelings will be used against him, or out of fears those close to him will be harmed if he directly expresses affection for them, or out of just being too damn cool for “emotions”, any way you slice it, Batman is:

2. Deeply uncomfortable with appearing emotionally vulnerable

We can see this with one of Bruce’s primary response to immediate grief: denial and silence

A simple example of this is how he acts after Jason Todd is killed. Bruce completely refuses to acknowledge his existence, and remains utterly silent when confronted.

Batman #437 / #440 (1940)

Another easy example of this is how he inexplicably approaches Nightwing dressed as Matches Malone in order to express that he isn’t trying to step on his toes:

Nightwing #14 (1996)

While it varies over time how emotionally closed off Bruce is, I believe one of the biggest triggers for an increase in this emotional cut off is when he is made to feel helpless.

During Cataclysm, he is helpless to stop the earthquake or meaningfully protect Gotham, there’s no enemy to fight, it’s just pure random crappy luck. He responds to this feeling of circumstances being out of his immediate control by cutting off almost all of his allies and sending them out of Gotham.

After he learns about how Zatanna and some other JLers wiped his memory and betrayed his trust, his reaction is to create an artificial intelligence to spy on the Justice League.

When Batman is put in situations which makes him feel physically or emotionally vulnerable, when he’s subject to circumstances out of his control, Batmans response has been historically to double down and isolate himself and cover up any potential weaknesses by convincing himself he’s better off alone and paranoid.

Eventually, after some time of this, he has a big moment where he decides to let people in, but his knee jerk reaction is always to pull away first.

This aversion to vulnerability is in play during and post-Officer Down, where Bruce is confronted by Jim’s mortality and retirement as well as Alfred’s resignation, all “enemies” he can’t just punch away.

Nightwing #53 (1996) / Gotham Knights #13 (2000)

In the wake of Officer Down, these conflicting traits are prominently portrayed.

In particular, Gotham Knights #18 demonstrates how these ideas clash.

Batmans loneliness is explored heavily: he starts the comic off talking to a bat, repeatably calls Oracle who is trying to sleep, and wanders through the completely empty manor.

His loneliness is conveyed through how he is framed: a shadow in a batsuit, wandering though desaturated and darkened hallways and rooms, completely silently, like a ghost.

Finally, the silence ends. Bruce calls Aquaman, asking for help excavating his giant penny. They have an awkward conversation, until Aquaman eventually calls him on his BS, pretty much directly stating that the penny was a total excuse, and that Bruce just wanted company, that he only called because he was lonely.

Gotham Knights #18 (2000)

When confronted with his loneliness, we see his desire for companionship come into play. He tries to talk to the bat, to Oracle, and then Arthur.

We also see it mitigated by the second impulse, his aversion to vulnerability. He can't tell Oracle that he just wants to talk, he has to frame the interaction through a case that he himself admits he no longer needs her help with.

Likewise, he can't just tell Aquaman that he wants to hang out, he has to make up a lie about needing help moving his giant penny.

His desire for companionship drives him to reach out, while his aversion to emotional vulnerability forces him to obscure this desire for human connection.

So, thats fine and all, but what does any of this have to do with Stephanie Brown?

As I mentioned earlier, Officer Down is the event that occurs just before Batman brings Steph onto the team. I argue that this dynamic of yearning for companionship vs. resistance to emotional vulnerability influences heavily his decision to "sanction" her as Spoiler.

Stephanie as a balm for Batmans loneliness.

This is immediately clear if you compare how much he's talking in Gotham Knights #18 to how he chatters away at Stephanie. He directly references Tim and Alfred's absence. But unlike Gotham Knights #18 the absence is not a bad thing per se, its framed against Stephanie's presence, how he allows her to stay.

Green Arrow #5 (2001)

Stephanie's role in assuaging his loneliness is evident in other places as well, for instance, in the Gotham Knights Last Laugh tie in. Stephanie realizes she forgot to turn her comm of, and had been "blabbing in [his] ear all night", Batman reassures her that he isn't upset. Just the opposite in fact, he tells her to not turn it off, saying he "doesn't mind the company" and placing a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. He clearly appreciated the relief from his loneliness her "blabbing" had provided.

Gotham Knights #22 (2000)

So Batman's embarrassing loneliness might have had some role to play in him taking her on as a student and "sanctioning" her. But what about that second impulse? How does it come into play?

2. How Stephanie as an outsider allows for emotional vulnerability

Originally, Batman takes Stephanie on because he needed her to help him find Tim at Brentwood, as he is unable to go himself. The reasons he "can't" go himself only become clear when Tim confronts Bruce, calling him out for being afraid of running into Alfred.

Robin #87 (1993)

This scene illustrates how Stephanie satisfies the second impulse, her outsider status. Stephanie is different from the rest of the team.

Tim has access to the context and information which allows him to expose Batman's emotionally vulnerability. Tim can call out Batman out for his pettiness and cowardice in how he hides from Alfred.

But Stephanie? Stephanie doesn't know who Alfred is, or how embarrassing it is for Batman to be avoiding him after Alfred yelled at him and called him a baby. She doesn't have the context that Tim and the rest of the team have.

So what does this mean? It means that Batman can tell her shit that is not true, like that he calls his car "The Car" instead of the Batmobile. And, more importantly, it means that he can express emotional vulnerability without any of the potential consequence. She has no context, and she has no one to tell.

Alfred is beefing with her over Bruce's choice to tell her Tim's identity, so that potential friendship is over before it could begin. And she gets (seemingly) brushed off by Batgirl.

Robin #88 (1993)

She doesn't even have Tim, who Stephanies believes is mad at her.

Robin #94 (1993)

I cannot emphasize this enough: she has nobody to tell. And Batman absolutely knows this.

He is emotionally vulnerable with her, expressing concern for the future and uncertainty:

Robin #92 (1993)

This moment is weird. It stands out. Stephanie seems aware of the strangeness of this moment, she reflects on it internally.

This moment parallels something in another comic. His fears and uncertainties about bringing other people into his "war"? We see a similar dialogue in the beginning of Gotham Knights.

Gotham Knights #1 (2000)

These are his uncertainties and fears that he can normally only express through creating a case file where he writes in the third person, assessing himself as Batman as if he is a completely different person. But theres no subterfuge here. He just straight up tells Stephanie Brown, utterly unprompted.

And this isn't the last time it's mentioned. At least half a year later, at the very start of War Games, the strange and scary vulnerability of this moment is still etched in Stephanies mind.

Batman: The 12 Cent Adventure (2004)

And while Batman gets to dump his insecurities on Stephanie, it's not exactly reciprocal. Stephanie expresses fear that Batman will drop her if she goes to him for help after her dad threatens to kill her. She has no feeling of security in her place on the team if she's afraid of this.

Robin #94 (1993)

And she's not even wrong about Batman's willingness to fire her at the drop of a hat, it just occurs later.

And when it occurs is important. The events of Bruce Wayne: Murderer lead to Alfred coming back into the manor and Bruce's employ. It ends with a big reconcilltion between the primary team, where Bruce explains he's been off since Officer Down.

Batman #605 (1940)

Alfred is back, no questions asked. The "real" team gets an apology and an explanation. And in other words, Batman is no longer as alone as he was before.

Everyone was locked out of the cave during Bruce Wayne: Murderer/Fugitive, but Stephanie is the only one who is not let back in once it concludes. She doesn't get an explanation, and Batman did not seem to have a plan to tell her she's been fired. She had to track him down and confront him to find out he'd given up on her.

Gotham Knights #37 (2000)

We can see how his isolation contributes to how she is treated by who is told when she is fired/sanctioned. When he brings her on the team, no one knows ahead of time. We don't see him tell anyone at all. In contrast, once his primary support system is firmly reestablished post Bruce Wayne: Murderer, Bruce separately informs Tim, Cassandra, and Alfred that Stephanie was fired. He's able to do this because his web has been repaired.

Stephanie Brown essentially fulfills the same role as the bat that Bruce talks to in Gotham Knights #18.

A new presence, unencumbered with the point of view the rest of the team has, unknowing of Bruce's history of fucking up. A sounding board, a stand in for Bruce's normal company.

Stephanie's presence perfectly satiates the contrasting impulses Batman deals with when it comes to how he interacts with other characters. Through her, Bruce can have companionship without being afraid of the danger of emotional vulnerability. She doesn't have the context, she doesn't know Bruce Wayne. She only knows Batman, and she seems pretty starstruck about finally being let on his team.

#stephanie brown meta #batman meta #Bruce Wayne meta #stephanie brown #Batman #bruce wayne #dc comics #detective comics #robin 1993 #mine

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iamnmbr3 · 7 months ago

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Originally put this in a message to someone but I'm still salty so I'm posting it here too.

I just keep thinking about how Dumbledore is presented as this great advocate for equality and justice in the Wizarding World but what does he actually do? For example, it's said he "opposed" the killing of the last giants in Britain (implying there was a state sanctioned genocide btw) but like...how did he oppose it? Dumbledore does not care about respecting the Ministry or following the law when it doesn't suit him ad he is also tremendously powerful and essentially has his own private army. (Not to mention that until Voldemort's second reign it seems he was generally respected and influential in the Ministry and held a lot of sway there). So if he really wanted to stop it, he could've done a lot but it sort of seems as though he was more like 'oh no...don't do that...oh well...'

And there are so many other instances like this. He says Sirius was wrong to mistreat Kreacher but did he even once try to intervene? Does he ever make a rule saying that using slurs like "Mudblood" is against the rules? He has full control of the Hogwarts curriculum until 5th year but does he make Muggle Studies mandatory to expose Purebloods to information that could prevent their radicalization into anti-Muggle organizations? Does he try to get legislation passed to prevent the wanton use of spells on Muggles to modify or wipe their memories despite the risks of such magic? No! He does none of these things.

He seems pretty happy to let the status quo be and focuses mainly on Tom Riddle - who he has been bizarrely fixated on in a kind of disturbing way since the first time they met - while ignoring the larger, systemic problems in wizarding society and doing little to aid the groups he claims to represent.

#Albus Dumbledore #Harry Potter #do i need to tag #anti albus dumbledore #?#random musings #i don't count this as bashing but in case ppl are looking in that tag i will tag #albus dumbledore bashing

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tonydaddingham · 1 year ago

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okay let's fucking crack into finally discussing the book of life, ive been putting it off for ages but the time is now upon me to chat shit about it, bc apparently i might have a meta/analysis rep to maintain?

so first thing's first, im going to look at the narrative itself and the references we have to the BOL. we start off with michael discussing it on the phone with an unknown person:

given this dialogue further on in s1, i think we're all in agreement that the conversation is with beelzebub; the precedent of intelligence sharing was definitely set in s1 with michael and ligur.

but beelzebub sounds surprised on the phone, and when speaking to crowley seems to slightly hesitate on whether extreme sanctions actually did exist... but the archangel michael has just threatened it, so of course it must be real. it's a threat to anyone without discrimination, by this account - any angel, demon, or human (i imagine) can be written into it - so it stands to reason that beelzebub chooses to take michael at their word.

now michael obviously seems similarly convinced that the BOL indeed exists and that it erases from existence any name that is erased from it. ive mentioned before that its interesting that the moment that the metatron appears in the bookshop is when michael is intending to make good on that threat with aziraphale:

but authorised by who? just in the general scheme of things, as supreme archangel duty officer? in which case, why wasn't this a chekhov's gun suggested in s1, even if in the very abstract? i guess it could have been information overload but, given aziraphale literally helped to divert armageddon and disrupt the great plan, you'd think that would be a situation that would warrant such a threat too, from gabriel as supreme archangel?

so by that reckoning, it must be knowledge that michael didn't know about much before the telephone call, because they weren't of sufficient rank (albeit the rank seems to be one they've assumed rather than been entrusted with in the interim). alternatively, the use of the word 'authorised' suggests they've received a direct green-light from someone above them... and who is above the supreme archangel? 👀

but the metatron interrupts the threat before it can be actualised, which obviously feeds into the whole 'came down here to get aziraphale back on side, here have this coffee 🙂' thing... wouldn't do for you to go out on a recruitment drive and have the angel you want to be blinked out of existence before you can make the job offer. so off the archangels go - after a very pointed interaction of michael and uriel not recognising the metatron at all.

but where does metatron fit in the narrative as concerns the BOL? well, nowhere yet. the conference scene in the beginning of ep6 that Crowley witnesses doesn't have any reference to the BOL at all, so it was never on the table as concerns gabriel's demotion (just a good ole memory wipe). so this is where i come to parsing out what i think the BOL actually is.

now im reluctant to go by other texts to riddle this out, mainly because GO is largely inspired by other works and religious texts so i don't tend to double down solely on what they themselves say, but in the absence of any other information from GO itself, this is what ive got to help it make sense.

BOL indeed, by both hebrew and christian text, records all those that are considered worthy before god. that those people are written into it before birth, and to be removed from it signifies death. now that this seems to be to be very human-centric, so how would this apply to angels? well, the re-wording of 'death' to 'never have existed' is an indicator here.

in Revelations, st john the divine of patmos recorded that those who were written and kept in the book would be saved from the Last Judgement; which i think can be agreed in this case would refer to the resurrection of christ aka. the second coming. and to be removed from the BOL would result in being "cast into the lake of fire" (20:15, KJV). which sounds somewhat familiar, right?

so can we be certain that the BOL just simply means oblivion for any angel written in it? i don't think so. there's the school of thought floating round that crowley had his memory wiped which - yes - there are clues that that may be the case (i still sit on the fence, because in some of the examples that support the theory i still also hold the thought that the angel that crowley was may have just been a bit of a work-obsessed knob). but i do wonder if there's some small grain of truth to it, because if we consider this hypothesis that being'wiped from existence' isn't actually that at all, or not as it sounds anyway, wouldn't an angel consider that not being an angel is essentially the same thing?

in falling, you lose who you were, and you're no longer that person. that person, that angel, ceases to exist?

it would certainly make sense to therefore not erase gabriel from the BOL, because it would make him fall, and they would lose another powerful angel to hell... after all:

"For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happen twice makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem."

#good omens #might add to this over time idk #this directly contradicts my aziraphale theory but if youre new here please know this happens a lot #don't forget tho this could be wrong given the st john quote in the book but im electing to ignore it rn #good omens meta #good omens theory #metatron spec #memory wipe theory #book of life theory

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karahalloway · 3 months ago

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Morally Grey - Part IV: Covert Affairs

Fandom: TRR x Mission: Impossible II

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series: Morally Grey

Synopsis: Drake meets his handler...and realises that he is in deeper than he thought...

Word count: 4,200

Rating/Warnings: E (swearing, lemony-ness, references to death and carnage)

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: I know this is not necessarily what people were hoping that I have been working on (poor Intentions keeps getting sidelined...! 😫) but this is where my brain has been for the past month.

A/N2: Associated clips from the movie for this chapter are below:

youtube

I jerk awake with a start.

The russet light of the late afternoon sun pools into the room, smearing the sheets tangled 'round my legs in a warm crimson.

My brows draw together. How and when did I end up in bed?

Running a hand down my face, my mind tracks somewhat groggily back to the events of this morning...

...to land bodily on me fucking Gale right there on the kitchen counter.

I shake my head. No, that can't be—

The rustle of the sheets draws my attention, and my gaze collides with the mess of honey-gold curls spread across the pillows...

...and the bare shoulder poking out from beneath the covers.

My eyes clench shut. "Shit..."

I shouldn't've touched her. That's what set this whole thing off. I should've just kept my hands to myself, or offered her a damn serviette. But I hadn't been thinking, and I'd let the heat of the moment carry me across the very clearly marked line that I've been told never to fucking cross.

Because a kiss — or two — is one thing. Not sanctioned by any official means, and definitely not one you'll find allowance for in any kind of training manual. But the rules are one thing, and real life is another. And if push comes to shove, a kiss can double as a well-timed distraction, or even as a potent lure. And Christ knows it's saved my ass more times than I want to count...

But locking lips with Gale had been different. It'd felt different. There'd been no thought, no planning, nothing even close to resembling a rational choice... Just a wild shot cracked off into the night with no target in sight.

And while I can BS myself 'round the circumstances that led to the first instance — the adrenaline, the cortisol, the heated argument — I sure as hell can't acquit myself regarding the second...

...except by virtue of the fact that I'd wanted to do it.

I'd wanted to taste her again, to hear her gasp against my mouth as her nails scraped down my skin. I'd wanted to leave her breathless, to make her forget her name, and scream out mine instead.

Because as good as she'd looked in that lace dress, that get-up had been a mere smokescreen. A calculated camouflage designed to achieve her objective back at the manor.

And it wasn't until she let her hair down that the mask slipped off... and I caught a taste of who she really was.

As beneath the firecracker façade and the biting wisecracks lay an almost naked authenticity that I thought had been wiped from this world... or at least from the world that I now inhabit. There was no bullshitting this girl, and she wasn't gonna hold back, neither. And honestly? That was like the taste of a damp breeze after an endless summer of drought.

Cracking my eyes open, I sneak a glance over at her. She's still asleep, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, her features verging almost on innocent...

...except there'd been nothing innocent about the way she'd fucked me right back.

A low groan escapes me as I'm hit with the memory of her legs slung over my shoulders, her hands gripping the marble above her head as she slammed back against me with each violent stroke.

Sweet Jesus, she'd felt good...

As if to reaffirm that assessment, my dick twitches against the constraints of the sheets.

And even though I know it's a bad idea to pursue this liaison even a fraction of an inch further — you don't mix business with pleasure, period, let alone in this line of work, where emotional entanglements will literally get you killed — the only thing I want is to lose myself in her all over again, consequences be fucked.

Which is why — against my better judgement, and against every goddamn protocol — I find myself reaching across to run a fingertip across her delicate skin.

Because let's face it... I'm already up shit creek. So, I may as well ditch the paddle.

Her nose scrunches into a brief mou of disapproval, before she grabs the top of the covers to twist away from me...

...presenting the bareness of her backside in the process.

My gaze dives south like a fish on a lure to trace down the smooth expanse of her back, before settling on the dark cleft nestled between her cheeks... and the promise of its final destination.

Because if that's not a blatant fuckin' invitation, I don't know what is.

Kicking whatever reservations I may have left to the curb — which, if I'm being honest with myself, ain't a whole damn lot to begin with — I slip a hand 'neath the sheets.

Finding the warmth of her skin, my palm tracks briefly upwards to round her hip, before sliding down towards the coveted V between her legs.

She stirs briefly in response to my explorations, but doesn't quite come to...

...which makes me wonder just how far I can push my luck before she catches me out.

Shifting my weight slightly, I prop myself up onto an elbow, gaze trained on her face as my fingers seek their target.

Coasting over the soft flesh of her mons, I hear a low moan rush out of her as she moves against my hand.

My dick bucks against the small of her back like an over-eager hound on a leash, impatient to be let loose. But I keep myself in check, letting the anticipation build one hair's breadth at a time.

Because it's sure as hell gonna be worth it.

Slipping a finger into the heat of her folds, I seek her clit... and groan out loud when I come into contact with the veritable wellspring hidden within.

Because to say that she's wet is an understatement. Every inch of her is still coated in the aftermath of our combined climaxes and my fingers come out soaked.

Damn, that shit should be 'gainst the law...

But as much as a part of me wants to skip the foreplay and just yank her backwards onto my raging hard on, I force myself to take a steadying breath.

Because we erupted outta the gate once already today like a pair of wild broncos, jumping each other before our clothes had fully hit the deck.

And even though that'd been exactly what we'd needed after last night, this time I want to dial it back a gear... to feel her out... to make it last.

As who knows what kind of shit IMF is planning to throw our way when I finally pull my renitent ass outta bed? We could be going deep undercover... Behind enemy lines... Or even off-grid...

So, I'd rather steal the moment now, when I know I have it, than kick myself down the line when neither of us'll be able to avail ourselves of each other.

Because let's face it — Constantine yanked me off of my overdue vacation. So, as far as I'm concerned, he owes me a fuck-ton of time in lieu. And I'm planning to claim it. With interest.

"Mmm..." she moans, vindicating my decision as I start to tease her slick bud.

She twists against me and I drop my head to feather a kiss on her shoulder, drinking in her unguarded reactions as I pull her steadily towards the precipice of consciousness.

Her mouth parts with a more audible gasp as I find her sweet spot. "Drake..."

The sound of my name cascading off her lips like a breathless prayer causes my teeth to sink into her skin.

Fuck, that's hot...

"You awake yet?" I growl, tacitly pressing the issue with the addition of another finger.

"What if...I say... no...?" she mumbles, arcing against me half in protest, half in unabated need.

"I'd say you're a dirty liar," I counter, trailing my tongue up towards her neck.

She scoffs breathlessly, fighting the inevitable. "Yeah, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Walker?"

"Perks of the job," I smirk, nipping her ear.

She snorts back at me. "Not sure I'd call that a perk...!"

"Trust me," I grit, snapping her to me. "It's a definite perk."

She yelps as I roll her on top of me in one quick motion, leaving her spread-eagled with her back pressed against my chest.

Wedging her legs apart before she can think to argue, I shove my fingers deep inside her.

"Drake!" she cries, nearly lifting off of me at the sudden intensity.

"Case in point," I smirk, snapping a strategic hand over her breast to pin her back down against me.

She arcs into my hand. "You're such an ass..."

"You sayin' you'd rather wait a decent interval?"

She lifts her arm to tangle her fingers into my hair. "Who wants to be decent?"

"That's what I thought..." I drawl, circling her nipple with a lazy thumb while curling my fingers inside of her.

"You treat..." she gasps, even as her body strains for more, "...all your accomplices like this?"

"You mean, like this?"

"I— Ah...!" she gasps, free hand slapping onto my wrist in desperation as I add a third finger.

"I can stop any time..." I say, sliding in and out of her with deliberate slowness.

She snaps a hold 'round my dick. "Liar."

I swallow a groan with some difficulty. "Got me there, girl..."

She bursts into a laugh above me. "Guess we're just as bad as each other, aren't we?"

"Baby..." I grin, gliding my hand up to her neck. "There ain't enough time in the world for any of this to be bad."

"You say that now, cowboy..." she purrs, teasing me just as relentlessly as I'm teasing her. "But you're a spy in bed with a thief."

"Your point?"

"Right and wrong got left at the door."

I scoff dryly. "D'you wanna go find it?"

"It's a bit late for that..."

I frown. "Thought thieves weren't supposed to have a conscience..."

"Everyone picks up bad habits..." she admits with a rueful exhale.

Something in her tone gives me pause.

Slipping my fingers out of her, I tip her face towards mine...

...to find her hazel gaze welling with uncharacteristic vulnerability.

"Hey," I say, brushing my thumb across the underside of her jaw. "If you're having second thoughts—"

She shakes her head. "It's not that."

"Then?"

"Can I really trust you?" she whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear.

"To the grave," I affirm, holding her gaze.

She snorts softly. "Why do I believe you?"

"'Cause it's the truth," I say simply, rolling her beneath me. "I meant everything I said on that bridge."

"That's what I was worried about..."

"Why?"

"Because," she sighs, wrapping her arms 'round my neck, "this whole thing would be a lot less complicated if you were just another regular two-faced jerk..."

I shake my head with another scoff. "Think that's the first time anyone's called out honesty as a personality flaw."

"I've been disappointed one too many times..." she admits with a rueful roll of her eyes.

"Any chance of setting the record straight?"

"You can try," she shrugs coyly. "But it won't be easy."

"Good," I drawl, closing the distance between us. "I like a challenge."

Her lips tilt up to meet mine, and as I sink back into her, a realisation hits me like a freight train.

I'd do anything for this girl...

It's pitch black by the time I step out onto the street.

But that doesn't mean the city is asleep. The exact opposite, in fact.

The warm sea breeze catches my still-damp hair, bringing with it the shouts and laughter of the locals and tourists thronging the city for the annual Lantern Festival.

And — to be fair to them — it really is a sight to see. Thousands of hand-made lanterns are cast aloft to drift lazily across the city, carrying the hopes and dreams of their makers skywards.

Which is great.

But wishes ain't gonna save the world. So, I still got a job to do.

Adjusting the lapels of the hastily thrown-on leather jacket, I cast one last glance back at the building — and the lone glow of light emanating from the upstairs window — before plunging into the crowd.

I hadn't planned to run the clock down so much. But Gale was apparently a more potent distraction than initially advertised. And by the time I'd even thought to come up for air, it was already well past sundown.

Not that I strictly give a damn.

What I do on my own time is my business — no one else's. And I'd chosen to do Gale. Three more times, in fact. Plus, once more in the shower.

But, unfortunately, I'm now running behind schedule and I need to step to it if I'm gonna make the meet before the end of the 48-hour deadline.

Weaving through the throngs of tourists and locals crowding the narrow streets, I head east towards the city's old quarter.

Hawkers thrust flowers, lanterns, and light-up pinwheels at me, but I brush them off, intent on my destination.

Turning a corner, I arrive at an unassuming gap between two buildings. Slipping into the alleyway, I come upon a faded, wooden door. Locating the intercom, I quickly tap in my unique agent identifier to activate the obligatory retinal scan.

One quick database check, and the lock clicks back.

"Welcome, Agent Walker," chirps the automated voice as the door swings open.

Stepping over the threshold, I find myself in a brightly lit foyer that is in stark contrast to the dilapidated exterior of the building.

Modern minimalist pendant lights illuminate the space, making the spotless Carrara marble that decks the floor shine as if it were wet.

"He is expecting you," advises the receptionist from behind her desk. "Upstairs, first floor."

"Thanks," I nod, turning towards the elevator.

Pressing the call button, the doors ping immediately open and I hit the request for the first floor. One short ride later, I'm stepping out onto industrial carpet.

"Right this way, Agent Walker," indicates a suited Joe sporting a buzzcut and an earpiece.

I shake my head as I fall in behind the guard. The White House wishes it had this kind of security...

Arriving at the pair of double doors, the guard swipes a keycard to let me through.

Constantine is standing on the far side of the room, hands tucked into the pockets of his immaculately tailored suit, gazing out the window.

"Festival's a pain in the ass," he declares, watching the revelry at street level. "You have to wonder how the city manages to avoid setting itself on fire... Please, sit."

I pull out a leather-backed chair from beneath the large tempered glass table and park myself in it.

"I presume things went to plan with Miss Gale?" he asks, back still to me.

"More or less," I admit.

"Good," he nods. "At least that's one thing that hasn't blown up in our face..." Turning to face me, he adds, "I'm sorry I barged in on your vacation."

I shrug. "Sorry I didn't let you know where I was."

"Wouldn't be much of a vacation if you did..." he counters. "We all need time off every once in a while."

"Yeah, well," I say dismissively. "Best laid plans and all that..."

"Quite," he chuckles, spreading his hands over the top of the table. "We'd both be out of the job if nothing ever went awry."

"True," I agree. "But you're sorry and I'm sorry. So—"

"Why did you phrase it like that?"

I frown. "Like what?"

"You're sorry," he repeats, eyeing me intently. "And I'm sorry."

A scoff slides out of me. "You've got to be shitting me..."

"I am very much afraid not," he murmurs, sliding a tablet towards me.

I catch the device on instinct, eyes still on my handler. But whatever he knows, he's not willing to reveal. At least not yet.

Swiping my thumb across the screen to unlock it, I am confronted with a video file.

My finger hovers for a split second above the play icon, wondering what the hell this is all about, before I tap down onto the glass.

Here comes the rabbit hole...

As expected, the familiar face of Dr. Balen Arion fills the screen, albeit older and more haggard than when I last saw him close to a decade ago.

"Do you remember, Draven, when we first met?" the recording asks. "You convinced me that there was a chance of a better world... if each of us made better choices. Well, old friend, I am sorry to say that I failed... As in my zealous pursuit of our hero Bellerophon, I stumbled instead upon... a Chimera."

Balan reaches up to rub his eyes painedly beneath his glasses.

"History will be the final arbiter of my legacy, but in the meantime, I beg you, Draven, come to New York and accompany me to Geneva, immediately. But, however we travel, I must arrive at my destination, within 20 hours of the time-stamp of this message. I fear I can entrust this to no one but you. As we say, 'I'm sorry and you're sorry'..."

The video cuts out.

"Do you have any idea what in the blazes he's on about?" asks Constantine.

"An idea?" I mutter, still staring at the screen. "Yeah."

"Which is?"

"That it's a good idea to pick him up in a hurry. And a bad idea to fly him on a commercial carrier." I flip the tablet back to the end of the table. "So, let's get to it. Is he still in New York?"

"Dr. Balen Arion is dead," Constantine declares. "So is his colleague Damien Dan. But that happened earlier."

My head snaps up. "How?"

"The American Airlines flight he was on went down over the Atlantic. The search for survivors is still ongoing, but at this point, all 467 souls onboard are lost, presumed dead."

Something doesn't compute. "How the hell did you convince him to get on that plane without me?"

A ghost of a smile flicks across the old man's lips. "Oh, you were there..."

My guts hit the floor. Oh, fuck.

"Arion gave us a tight deadline," Constantine explains, opening up another file on the tablet and shunting it back to me, "So, when we couldn't find you, we had to replace you. Christian Rhys was the obvious choice."

The device skids to a stop in front of me and I watch with growing aggravation as a physiognomic algorithm maps out my features before transposing them onto Chris' to create a virtual mock-up of a full-face mask.

Of all the damn—

"Agent Rhys doubled you, what...?" The old man's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Two, three times?"

"Twice," I grunt, tossing the tablet back at him again.

Constantine catches the device with one hand. "What did you think of him?"

"We're not exactly compatible," I bite out acerbically. "Isn't it a little late in the damn day to be asking me that?

"Not necessarily..."

"Jesus fucking—"

The tablet slides into my eyeline again.

"Official AA records list a Captain James T. Arnolds as the pilot for the ill-fated flight," Constantine advises, as a slideshow of photos plays. "And as far as the media and all governmental agencies are concerned, Captain Arnolds met the same watery fate as the rest of his crew."

Images of what the rescue effort could salvage of the wreckage spin past on the screen.

My jaw tightens. Damn, that's a shit way to go...

"However, that is not quite what happened," my handler reveals. "It appears that the poor captain ran into a spot of bother with ground control. Something about lost and unclaimed luggage..."

A gruesome photo of a beat-up body spilling out of a duffle bag in ways that should not be physically possible flashes up before me.

"So, we're dealing with a hijacking," I surmise tightly.

"It would appear so, yes," Constantine nods. "Whoever downed that flight was skilfull enough to cover their tracks and make it look like an accident. Well... Almost an accident. Captain Arnolds' body turning up unexpectedly at Heathrow certainly raises some awkward questions."

I flick the tablet away. "As does an IMF agent gone rogue."

Constantine meets my eye from across the table. "So, you think it was Rhys."

I scoff. "Arian was a world-renowned microbiologist who specialised in DNA-RNA recombination. Whatever he was in such a hurry to get to the WHO in Geneva was obviously valuable enough for Chris to bring an entire plane down over."

"With a name like Chimera, I presume it's safe to assume that we're dealing with some novel form of virus?" my handler muses. "One that has the potential to be turned into a bio-weapon?"

"Given that Arion started his career in a Drakovian basement trying to weaponise the common cold?" I ask sardonically. "Yeah... That's a definite possibility."

Constantine nods. "In that case, you've got to recover this so-called Chimera and bring it to us."

"No shit," I agree. "We just need to figure out who he plans on selling this thing to."

"That is where Miss Gale comes in."

"How?" I snark. "By getting her to pose as the buyer? No way. Even with her skills as a thief, it's—"

"That isn't quite what I meant, Drake..."

I frown. "Then...?"

"Miss Gale and Agent Rhys had a relationship," Constantine advises evenly. "One that he took very seriously. She walked away, and he's been wanting her back ever since. I have been assured that she is our surest and quickest way of flushing him out."

"So, let me get this straight..." I bite out with more difficulty than I'd've thought possible, given that I only just met this girl. "You want to use her as some kind of swallow to set up a honey trap op?"

"If you want to put such a crude label on it," comes the dispassionate response. "The goal is for him to confide in her — the identity of the buyer, the details of the meet, anything that may be useful — and report back to you. If sex is required to fulfill that objective, then she is well within her rights to resort to it. No one's going to judge her for her actions. She is a civilian, after all."

"You made it sound like I was recruiting her for her skills as a thief," I accuse, my voice dripping with acridity.

"Well, then I mislead you," Constantine admits, spreading his palms. "Or you made the wrong assumption. Either way, we're merely asking her to resume a prior relationship, not do anything she hasn't already done."

My lips pull back to reveal teeth. "She's got no training for this kind of thing..."

"You mean, to go to bed with a man and lie to him?" Constantine smirks. "She's a woman. She's got all the training she needs."

I shoot up from the chair, fists clenched.

Constantine meets my eye calmly.

I turn away, jaw tight. "I don't think I can get her to do it."

"You mean it will be difficult?"

"You haven't met her," I tell him dryly.

"Well, Agent Walker," declares the old man from behind me. "This is not Mission: Difficult. This is Mission: Impossible. Difficult should be a walk in the park for you."

I run my hand through my hair with an acerbic scoff.

Saddling and riding a damn croc would be easier...

"But it is not my job to tell you how to do yours," Constantine continues conversationally. "So, if you can think of a faster, more... palatable way to get to Agent Rhys, you are welcome to try. Just be mindful that time is not our ally. Since the plane crash, there has been a marked uptick in bio-weapons-related chatter amongst the denizens of the dark web. Our guess is that whatever Rhys is planning with Chimera, it is imminent."

"Noted," I grunt, still trying to figure out how the fuck I'm gonna break the news to Gale without her castrating me... Or worse — stealing the keys to the Porsche and vanishing into the night.

"If you feel that some... leverage may be helpful, feel free to show her the images on that device," Constantine instructs, sliding the tablet back to me once more. "A picture is worth a thousand words, after all..."

"You want me to appeal to her conscience?" I snort, turning around.

"The fact that she agreed to come with you indicates that she has some measure of compunction."

"Yeah," I snark, snatching the tablet up. "Damn sure she'll be regretting that decision by the end of the night."

Christ, this is gonna be a shit show…

Permatags

@twinkleallnight @lovingchoices14 @kingliam2019 @petiteboheme @angelasscribbles @aussiegurl1234 @nestledonthaveone @queen-arabella-of-cordonia @tessa-liam @alyshak92 @secretaryunpaid @princessleac1 @walkerdrakewalker @tinkie1973 @twinkle-320 @knaussal @nikkis1983 @lunaseasblog @ficloverevie @indiana-jr @differenttyphoonwerewolf @kristinamae093 @eversoaringqueen12 @3pawandme @alexabeta @veebug8 @fanfiction-she-wrote @queenmiarys @lancelotsimp @coco-lina-s @lolablackwrites @ivyflowers13 @persephone13 @hollygirl1269 @adri-ja-96 @harleybeaumont @katedrakeohd @uneravine @alj4890 @mywildheartremains

Picture credits:

Drake - Bed - Harper - Dossier

#harper gale #drake walker #the royal romance #morally grey #mission: impossible #mashup #Spotify #Youtube

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riaria93 · 1 year ago

Text

Aziraphale’s Guilt, Crowley’s Rank and How it Plays into the End of Season 2

So everyone’s talking about Aziraphale’s religious trauma or the coffee but I want to talk about why specifically he believes it’s a good idea to ask Crowley to return to Heaven as an angel. To do that we need to go back to the start.

Aziraphale meets an innocent, enthusiastic angel Crowley who is happy simply creating the universe. And then here he comes and crushes that innocence in his mind, telling Crowley that it will all end in 6,000 years and that his work means nothing. Crowley starts to question, thinks he can makes suggestions to God. Aziraphale tries to stop him but fails. Their first meeting ends with Crowley saying not to worry and asking how much trouble he could get into for asking questions. Because unbeknownst to Aziraphale this isn’t an ordinary lower level angel but an Archangel, possibly a Prince of Heaven, who believes he can makes suggestions, who believes others will listen to him when he tries to say “No”. But it doesn’t and it ends with a Fall and the same realization as Gabriel that nobody will listen.

Meanwhile Aziraphale meets Crowley through the next 6,000 years and sees the angel he first met inside the demon. During the events with Job Aziraphale even says “I know the angel you were.” Crowley replies “The angel you knew is not me.” Aziraphale holds that guilt of causing Crowley to Fall while Crowley knows it’s the whole institution of Heaven and Hell that’s the problem.

So they both see the best and worst of each other over the years and they start and stop Armageddon. The Gabriel fiasco happens and they see it’s possible to be together. And Aziraphale wants it so much but would Heaven really leave them alone after everything.

Then the Metatron comes with an oatmilk almond latte and an offer that seems impossible. He can become Supreme Archangel of Heaven. He can change Heaven and make it GOOD. He can make it worthy of Crowley. He can make that suggestion box that Crowley wanted. He can make it so they’re never hunted again. He can let go of that guilt of causing Crowley to question and Fall. Crowley won’t ever have to go through that again with him in charge. They can be together and that bright-eyed angel he remembers can return.

But it’s all a scam. He doesn’t realize he’s being used to start the Second Coming until right before he steps into the elevator, or that Heaven WANTS to separate him and Crowley, If Metatron didn’t threaten Crowley’s existence. But I don’t think he did. Because it’s only Crowley who really understands that Heaven was going to use Extreme Sanctions, who saw the file on Gabriel and their plans and more than that, possibly has first-hand experience of what Heaven will do to even a Prince of Heaven who tries to stop their plans.

“I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”

“I understand. I think I understand a whole lot better than you do.”

Crowley does indeed understand so much better. He’s seen the memory wipes, possibly experienced it. He’s been forced to Fall. He’s watched Heaven try to kill his angel with Hellfire.

“We don’t need them. They’re toxic!”

Aziraphale believes that if he can fix Heaven that guilt he felt will go away. He can make a Heaven worthy of Crowley, the Crowley who saved goats and children and helped a young woman at the expense of being in trouble with Hell. Crowley hears this and thinks Aziraphale only wants a him worthy of Heaven.

“Oh Crowley, Nothing Lasts forever.”

Aziraphale means that he’d give everything up to be with Crowley. Crowley thinks that means Aziraphale would give even him up for Heaven. This time though, unlike with “Exactly” neither of them pick-up on the other’s different meaning. Because they don’t actually talk to each other,

It’s a tragedy. And there’s so much more I can get into. But it’s so beautifully written. @neil-gaiman Thank you for this amazing show.

#Good Omens #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #gos2 spoilers #go2 spoilers #Aziraphale #Crowley

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icannot3 · 1 year ago

Note

Hi!

Please can you do a drabble for Kyle Spencer along the prompts "I didn't know where else to go" + "You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?"

Thank you

"His Sanction"

(Kyle Spencer x reader)

I LOVED THIS!!! Thank you, it's just what I needed, Anon!!! It feels so good to finally write something again oml.

Word count: 600

Warning: There's mentioning of Kyle's mother and an overall theme of his trauma relating to her, although it is not directly said.

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

An exasperated cry threatens to spill from Kyle's lips. His body shudders with overbrewed anxiety, and he finds himself unable to regulate the feelings inside of him. It's not often that he experiences panic attacks, but this rarity is still unavoidable. Despite the fact that at one point in time, things were much worse and that he had drastically improved over the past few months through countless hours of counseling; Kyle still criticizes himself for getting to this point. After over a year of no contact, he'd seen his mother in public. Flashes of memories he'd buried deep down suddenly rose mercilessly to the surface. His mind immediately switched into a stress-induced autopilot setting. He needed something to ground him, to go somewhere he could feel safe.

Without any hesitation, he found himself knocking at your door.

Your heart drops at the sight of his puffy, bloodshot eyes. Immediately, you invite him in from the bitter cold outside. Without a word, he sits down on the couch. You can't help but notice how stiff he appears to be. His arms are crossed tightly together as he leans forward against his legs, unable to comfortably sprawl out across the sofa like he normally would. He's sniffling, and his breathing is unstable.

There's a few minutes of silence. You aren't sure how to address it, so you allow him the space he needs and wait for him to initiate a conversation. Instead, you quietly sit down on the other side of the sofa, giving him your undivided attention.

"I didn't know where else to go." Kyle's voice has lost its typical confident flare. He croaks out the words as if they are painful to speak.

You're immensely concerned for his well-being. You wonder what possibly could have happened to make someone as cheery as your boyfriend this distraught. "I'm glad you came here." You try to keep your tone as soothing as possible. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Kyle seems to finally self-soothe on some level. He grounds himself by running a hand through his hair and letting out a deep breath. His eyes refuse to meet your own. He's ashamed. He feels so weak, pathetic, and especially guilty for making you deal with his baggage.

You scooch closer to him, resting your hand on his knee. He jumps at the contact, which startles you; but he rests his own palm against it, allowing you to keep it there. "You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?"

With his free hand, he wipes the remaining tears off of his cheeks. He gives you a quick squeeze in an attempt to show you he's alright.

Your presence gives him a sense of comfort he never once found in therapy. Your skin feels cool against his searing hot face as you trace your thumb over his cheekbone. Kyle basks in it, allowing you to give him the comfort and support he's always needed. Without a doubt in his mind, he knows that your promise of being there is sincere. When he tells you he doesn't want to talk about it, you're immediately looking for something to distract him. He finds it especially considerate when you start playing one of his favorite albums that you remember him telling you about weeks prior. Your body swings to the music completely uncoordinated, which makes him laugh.

Kyle knows that you will always be his sanction and that one day, he'll become comfortable enough to share his story with you.

#kyle spencer x reader #evan peters #frat kyle #ahs #fluff #american horror story #angst #kyle spencer

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sotc · 5 months ago

Note

5, 9 & 21 for Lucinda!

LUCINDA - ASK MEME

5. Describe a memory from childhood they think of fondly.

I won't lie. I've been cookin' on some ideas about memory wiping during her time in the blackship so a lot of her childhood memories may be lost to her now anymore. 😔 But for fun let's say this:

Watching her mother put on her Imperial Navy uniform when she was a child. Her mother's long locks of curly hair tied into a tight bun, helping her into the uniform and pinning all the medals and accommodations onto it. She remembers her mother's words of encouragement, of what her future serving the Imperium will look like as she gets older and what an honor it will be. Even to die for it. A small thing of comfort Lucinda carried with her after her mother passed away in a ship battle.

At least before it was taken from her.

9. What was their Darkest Hour? How does it affect them today?

Answered here!

21. Do they have any notable markings? Scars, birthmarks, tattoos, etc.?

The plating on her jawline that extends to the lower half of her head from some totally normal sanctioning processes (instructive beatings / psychic mind and willpower testing / mindwiping 🥲) Tucked beneath the mass of hair near her ear she has some surgery scars as well from implanted limiters.

She also has some tattooed wards on the roof of her mouth to prevent her from speaking the names of Ruinous Ones. (Yes w40k dark heresy vibes let's goo lol)

annnnd her hair is notably greying at the roots a bit early from the long years she's been channeling her psyker abilities. 💖🥰

#*lucinda von valancius #TY FOR THE ASK!!#and i will say girlie only started being able to grow her hair out when she was finally sanctioned. so i think it means a lot to her too #and maybe she doesn't know why. maybe it's some old memory lost to her now. hmm :) haha #TYSM for making this ask meme too btw. they are full of so many good questions #really helping me nail lucinda down even more esp with her past <3

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malkavi-ann · 3 months ago

Text

When the Truth Hurts

Elden Ring: Shadow of the Erdtree fanfiction

Rating: Mature (May change in the future)

Relationship: F/M

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler/Original Female Character

Tags: Self-Loathing, Reference to Depression, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Messmer is bad at feelings, Mommy Issues, Abandonment Issues.

Link to Ao3

Prologue

How long has it been? How long has it been since he embarked on this holy crusade sanctioned by his Mother? Centuries? Millennia? Messmer has lost count of the years he had spent in the Land of Shadows. Some days he wonders if he can even remember what his life had been before he was sent away to this forsaken land. Most of his life he’s spent leading his army to eradicate the Hornsent, the native people of the Shadow realm. All this bloodshed almost wiped out their entire population with only a fraction of survivors scattered across ravaged towns and villages. For all the atrocities his army committed under his leadership, he was named Messmer the Impaler. This war has become his life purpose, though it was his mother – Marika the Eternal – who gave the order to start it. Yet, after so many years, she has never returned to the Land of Shadows.

It was already a late night but Messmer could not sleep. In fact, he hasn’t been able to get any proper rest for a very long time. Most of the time his thoughts and ruminations kept him awake. On a rare occasion, he’d try to sleep only to be awakened suddenly by a nightmare. At some point, Messmer mentally accepted that he would not be able to rest until his end. Is there even an end? It seems like every day is just a repetition of the previous one. The days of great battles, when objectives were clear and victories were celebrated, are long gone. These days nothing happens. His soldiers still patrol the areas where the Hornsent once lived but for what? Perhaps that’s the reason why the morale is so low among his ranks. They’re stuck here without purpose with no end to their crusade in sight.

Therefore, most of his days Messmer spent in his chamber thinking, lamenting, and expecting. He rarely went outside and only faced his most loyal knights to listen to their patrol reports. Those visits were brisk since the most common report was “Nothing of notice, my Lord”. Some folk might say that the lack of any news is good news, but for Messmer no news was excruciating. It was as if they were abandoned not just by Queen Marika but by the whole universe.

“O Mother. Didst thou truly forsaken me?” Messmer muttered to himself as he was looking at Marika’s statue. It was the only visual reminder of her that remained intact since the beginning of the war. Most of her depictions were destroyed or vandalized by the angered Hornsent. But here, in his Dark Chamber, she was still there watching over him just like when he was a child. Messmer liked to believe that this statue helped him preserve their bond, their spiritual connection between the two worlds. Yet deep down he knew he was fooling himself.

“Nothing… ‘Tis only a statue. And I am going mad.”, he lamented after his question was met with ear-ringing silence. Turning away from the statue, Messmer surveyed his chamber which was dimly lit by flickering candlelight. The space was devoid of any furnishings as Messmer didn’t like to have visitors. His chamber was his voluntary prison where his only companions were his winged serpents. They didn’t talk, yet Messmer could still understand them. This mutual wordless understanding was enough for him most days. However, some days his loneliness was so unbearable he wished he could sell his soul to Outer Gods to hear his mother’s voice. Tonight was one of those occasions.

“What is the point of my existence?”, he thought. “I was sent here to fight, but now there is no one to fight except ghosts. Maybe this is the price I have to pay for my curse, for being a monster. After all, no monster deserves love or compassion. Or family.”

“Hissss”, he suddenly heard next to his right ear. Messmer looked at one of his serpents that was resting its head on his right shoulder. “Hissssssss”, another hiss of disapproval came out. Messmer’s lips twitched upwards in tired amusement. “My apologies. I suppose, after all those years that we’ve been together, you ARE my family.” The serpent stared at him for a moment as if it was considering his apology. “You shall always remain my companions until the very end. Even if the abyssal serpent finally devours me, I know I will not be alone.”, he said somberly. Indeed, Messmer knew that this would be inevitable, yet deep down he hoped that before he succumbs to the Base Serpent he would know once again how it feels to be loved.

#elden ring #shadow of the erdtree #fanfic #fantasy #elden ring messmer #messmer the impaler #original character #slow burn #memory loss #self indulgent

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moonyinpisces · 1 year ago

Text

🥃 alternate reunion | post s2 good omens snippet

to celebrate finishing act 1 of my s3 fic how do we turn on the light? , here's the original snippet for aziraphale and crowley reuniting after s2. i had began writing this before chapter 1 was even posted, and if you've read hdwtotl, you can see how different the plot ended up along with a few key similarities. the tone of this scene for the story i was writing felt way off so i did away with 99% of it in the actual chapter, but i feel bad about it existing all lonely in my snippets doc, so. enjoy!

1.7k words. context: aziraphale has been supreme archangel for 3 years, and has received instructions from the metatron to meet with the grand duke of hell to negotiate sanctions for the second coming. aziraphale assumes that crowley's been asleep this entire time. he was wrong.

He approaches Marguerite’s, the ivy climbing the walls having died from the winter chill. He glimpses the outdoor seating, feels a flash of something—a memory of—

‘Smitten, I believe. You’re being silly—‘

Aziraphale shakes it away, blinks in rapid succession until the image fades. The interior is more or less as he remembers it, lightly Tuscan and dimly-lit enough that it made every conversation somewhat intimate. The server is unfamiliar, and Aziraphale is grateful that he’s not meant to have small-talk with someone who recognizes him. Someone that he may or may not end up recognizing back, all this time later. He requests the table up against the window at the far corner.

He purposefully doesn’t look at his bookshop through the window, can remember—the last time he was there, when—when Crowley—Snap out of it, he thinks desperately. His memories are becoming too much to contain, fragmented as they are, and it’s enough to make him wary, intensely disoriented. Perhaps it can simply be attributed to his return to Earth, but, no, there’s a feeling in the air, something unfamiliarly evil but familiarly miserable. Almost as if there’s a… badness about London, now, something miserable seeping into the concrete, cloying the smoggy air. Either that means the end times somehow already began in his absence, or—

Crowley’s awake.

The thought makes Aziraphale's unnecessary heartbeat falter, makes his hand flutter to his puff-tie and dig into the fabric. There’s no guarantee, of course, and three years is on the shorter side for the handful of times he’s slept a period of time away, but—

Through the window, Aziraphale can just see the building next door. Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. There’s a woman—Nina, her name is Nina—wiping down the outdoor seating, stacking up the dishware following the lunch rush. He watches a familiar figure come out from inside, donned in an apron and a sunny dress, immediately reaching her arms forward to help Nina with the load. Maggie, he remembers with a rush of warmth. Nina says something to her with a crooked smile, and Maggie laughs, then tips forward to press their lips together over the stack of dirty plates between them. The gaping, dormant thing in Aziraphale’s chest lets out a slow, mournful whine. A flash of red and black passes his vision.

It all happens rather quickly after that.

First, something sharp and jagged slides between his ribs, buries into his organs, the celestial ones. He jolts, gasps, immediately pressing a hand low to his chest, grabbing at—nothing. He looks down and frowns, seeing no blood, golden or otherwise. A voice pulls him back up.

“Are you ready to order?” The waitress asks him.

“I—“ he starts, then smells it. Staticky, slight, but deep still, like—like the ocean before a storm, or the smoke after the incense has already burned off, like bourbon and he feels—he experiences it all again, every moment together in the past 6000 years, the things he poured futilely into ink and pressure to suppress, and—

When Crowley slides into the seat across from him, something fractures and mends at the same time, like re-breaking a bone. It’s all he can do to stare.

Crowley’s looking at him evenly. Crowley’s there, he’s perched in front of him like a—a materialization. It feels impossible, Crowley being here on his own volition. And now he’s raising an expectant brow, and when nothing is forthcoming he looks to the waitress, then back to Aziraphale. “Erm,” he says awkwardly. “I’ll have a double Macallan, neat. He’ll take—“ Another look. “A dry vermouth, maybe. The sweetest one you’ve got.”

His voice. Aziraphale’s fingers clench into the seat of his chair so tightly that the wood splinters.

The waitress departs. Crowley crosses a leg over his knee, leans back casually in his chair like he’s going to fall right out of it. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and a thick, dark-gray blazer. A fine maroon scarf drapes untied around his neck. His hair is identical to how it was three years ago, only—wavier. Disheveled, maybe. It’s not the worst bedhead he’s been afflicted with, in comparison to all the others. There’s dark circles just visible beneath the bottom curve of his sunglasses. He’s tilting his head imperceptibly up and down, and it takes Aziraphale a moment to understand that he’s being scrutinized right back; if Crowley has an opinion over Aziraphale’s own change of wardrobe, though, he doesn’t voice it.

“Hello,” Crowley says finally, almost politely. He has his hands folded at the curve of his knee, pulling his arms taut, and he says in a too-delighted tone of voice, “Been too long, hasn’t it?”

Aziraphale blinks. That’s the only possible movement he could make. “I—“

“—Of course, maybe it wasn’t long enough, to you,” he acquiesces with a tilt of his head, as if Aziraphale had voiced anything of the sort. His ankle is bouncing in midair. “We’ve certainly gone longer, though, haven’t we, Oh Supreme Archangel of Heaven.” He announces each part of the title distinct from each other, lips curled into a frown that looks more like a barely-schooled smile. “Who would have thought it, truly? Not me. Especially not me. You could have given me thousands of years, and I’d never have guessed this is where we’d end up.” He leans over his crossed leg dangerously. “Do I need to call you some sort of—I dunno, special biblical thing? Bow my head? Bend the knee?”

Breath rushes back into Aziraphale’s chest, and he dislodges his grip from the chair. He tries to look away from Crowley, back out the window unseeingly, but it’s as though his body can’t physically bear the absence, and his eyes snap back forward. He tries to form words that don’t exist.

The waitress returns with their drinks. Crowley barks out what sounds to be a genuine laugh, takes his whiskey and throws it back like a shot. His throat ripples beneath his turtleneck. He drops his hand back to the table with a thud, but keeps his long neck tipped back. “Fuck,” he sighs, long and slow. “Been a long time since I’ve imbibed, to tell you the truth.”

“You’re a demon,” are unfortunately the first words Aziraphale can find. They come out automatically, well-practiced. “You never tell the truth.”

Crowley drops his head back down and grins. It’s entirely teeth. He gestures towards Aziraphale with his empty glass, and says conspiratorially, “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself, then?”

Blinking rapidly, Aziraphale finally musters the ability to pull himself from his reverie. He looks down to the dry vermouth. Perfect guess, of course, though—he’s not sure he could swallow it without it coming back up. It’s been a while since he’s ingested anything. “What are you…” His voice softens. “What are you doing here, Crowley?”

It’s a hard moment, the way Crowley looks at him. His eyes are only glints behind his glasses, somehow both dulled and intensely alive. Then he sniffs, clenches his jaw and snaps to refill his drink. “What do you think?” He says tiredly, as if he’s exhausted himself of whatever charade he was trying to put on, just now. “Where else would I be? You’re here. I’m waiting for you to tell me why, by the way, though I—hah, I have a sneaking suspicion I know what it is already.”

“This isn’t—“ Aziraphale can’t look at him directly anymore, needs a moment to acclimate. “This isn’t a social call, Crowley. I’ve returned to Earth to—“

“—Make a deal with the devil?” asks Crowley, quirking a brow again.

Aziraphale frowns. He knows Hell talks, just as Heaven does, but he’s under the impression—well, Crowley had said he’d given it all up, before. An independent agent, if an agent at all. A proper human. Aziraphale eyes him from the peripheral. “How do you know that?”

Crowley freezes. His glass is suspended halfway to his mouth. “You…” His expression does something complicated. “You don’t know?”

Though he doesn’t know what Crowley’s referring to, these past three years has told Aziraphale that the answer to that question is usually ‘no’. Spending time aimlessly in Heaven has convinced him more than ever how little he truly knows. So he just shakes his head. Crowley watches him do it, eyes tracking the movement like he’s simultaneously a predator and an animal of prey.

“They didn’t tell you?” A dramatic juxtaposition to the feigned pleasantries earlier, Crowley’s expression tightens into something hard and angry, a rarely-seen darkness slithering just beneath the surface, causing his nose to twitch, his jaw to tense impossible more. He slams the glass back to the table, whiskey splashing up and over his fingers. It sizzles at the contact. His skin flashes imperceptibly, makes dark clouds roll rapidly in outside, causes the light directly above them flicker—Aziraphale has only seen him like this a handful of times before, and usually he’s nearly discorporated in what comes next, so he leans back in his chair cautiously.

But Crowley takes a deep breath. The light steadies, the sky clears. He looks away, out to the bookshop across the street, and laughs something humorlessly. There’s no clarification.

Aziraphale starts carefully, “I was told—The Metatron told me that I’m to meet with the—the…” Crowley doesn’t move. Aziraphale trails off, and that feeling returns, the one that’s fear, but comes before it still, like—like—

Oh. Oh, no.

Crowley’s still staring out of the window, tonguing at the inside of his bottom lip. His other lip is curled up, baring his bright, bright teeth. His crossed leg is now entirely flexing and unflexing with a rapid, inconsistent rhythm. And then something in his expression shutters, flattens, and he looks back to Aziraphale with his mouth pressed tightly together in a ghastly interpretation of a smile.

“Oh yes,” he says slowly, sardonically, tipping his head up like he’s basking in the realization. He holds his hand out over the table, long fingers twitching, perhaps wanting to curl into a fist instead. “Grand Duke of Hell, at Lucifer’s service. Can we begin?”

Dread, Aziraphale remembers weakly. The feeling is dread.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens snippet #grand duke of hell #grand duke crowley #supreme archangel aziraphale #aziracrow fic #post season 2 #ineffable husbands #good omens ficlet #hdwtotl #moonyinpisces writes #can you believe that in my OG plan for hdwtotl god didn't give aziraphale instructions??? what was i doing #crowley's outfit was WAY better though. which is why i changed it lol

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the-jam-to-the-unicorn · 7 months ago

Text

Address by Zelenskyy on the Day of Remembrance and Victory over Nazism in World War II

youtube

“They break into your house. They come to kill, burn, execute. They don't spare anyone – the elderly, women, children… They are beasts…”

These are the memories of the Nazi occupation survivors.

And these are the memories of the Russian occupation survivors. The same horrors, the crimes of the same monsters.

80 years ago, millions of Ukrainians fought to defeat Nazism forever. But today, Ukrainians are once again standing up to evil, which reemerged, returned, and wants to destroy us again. It’s an army of a fiend that kills, tortures and wipes peaceful cities and villages off the face of the Earth. This evil is called Russian fascism, or RF for short.

A witness to this is this basement in the village of Yahidne in the Chernihiv region. The ruscists herded all the villagers into it and kept them there for almost a month. All of them. 350 people, all the children of this village, 80 girls and boys, the youngest of whom was a month and a half old. Everyone in the world can understand what Putin's Russia is by imagining themself here, in this basement, among these people, without light, food, water, medicine, and air, in a room with less than a meter per person. They slept seated. They went outside only once. They ate 200 grams of soup a day. The men were stripped naked in the freezing cold to find Ukrainian tattoos. 10 of the hostages died here. It was forbidden to bury them. Another 17 people were killed by the ruscists. In any corner of the world, that’s known by the same word – hell. When entire villages are burned down, when there are mass executions, when people are put against a wall blindfolded to be killed – in any corner of the world, that's known by the same word – Nazism. If that's not Nazism, then what is that?

And everyone on Earth knows history and remembers how to fight Nazism. It’s done with humanity united to oppose Hitler, not with buying oil from him or attending his inauguration.

Yahidne, a village that survived the hell of the RF, is just one example. It's just one village, but it reflects the essence of Putin's vision of the world, his real goals. And his goal is to force underground all those who want to live freely, to force a whole village into the basement, and then another one, and then the whole of Ukraine, and finally, force the whole world into the basement. For the RF, these are just stages of their morbid plan to imprison freedom in a ghetto, in a concentration camp called the "Russian world," and to export Russia's main asset – barbed wire – worldwide, by repeating the same scenario Hitler created 80 years ago: swallowing the lands of others step by step and testing the world’s reaction. And when the reaction is spineless, the Nazis keep going. Appeals, resolutions, and half-sanctions don't stop them. And the only question Putin is concerned about today is: Who's next?

Russia has officially approved a list of states that cannot feel safe and called it a “List of Unfriendly States.” Tellingly, it almost completely coincides with the list of the states of the Anti-Hitler Coalition. Those who defeated Nazism are enemies for modern Russia: the countries of the European Union, the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada, and almost fifty states in total. They are free, democratic and independent, which in the modern Kremlin ideology means “dangerous.” And therefore, they are targets.

The world didn't see the threat, the world slept through the revival of Nazism – at 5 a.m. on February 24, 2022. And today, everyone who remembers World War II and has survived to this day is experiencing déjà vu. The Battle of Kyiv, bombing of Kharkiv, Odesa, Dnipro, mass graves, blockade of ports, plundering and seizure of grain, tortures, executions, deportation of children, filtration camps, and colonies for captives. Russia has brought pages from textbooks about World War II back into the headlines of the world's media. Russia has brought the terrible past back into the daily news, proving with each new crime that Nazism has revived. Just this time it has a new label: “Made in Russia.”

Recently, our society was moved by a photo of a man at the grave of his grandson who died at war. The father of this man was killed by the Nazis. His grandson's life was taken by the Russian occupiers. This is just one of the millions of examples that put the sign of equality between Nazism and modern Russia.

Today, Hitler's ideas are voiced in Russian. Nazi crimes are committed under the Russian flag. The difference is merely formal. The new Wehrmacht that invaded Ukraine wears a double-headed eagle on its sleeves. Kalibrs and Kinzhals are the new V-weapons, MiGs and Su-aircrafts are the new Luftwaffe, a Z symbol is the new swastika, and Yunarmiya is the new Hitlerjugend. There are dozens of similar parallels and hundreds of similar emulations.

And if the modern Kremlin resembles the Third Reich in everything, its end should be identical, taking place in the new Nuremberg – in the city of The Hague.

And like in 1945 this can only be ensured by a united free world, the world united in Anti-Putin Coalition, the world that can stop Moscow Nazis through actions, not words, and prevent the new evil from spreading to the entire European continent and, subsequently, to the entire world, the world capable of helping Ukraine defeat Russian Nazism, helping itself, and proving its commitment to the words “Never again!”, so that “Never again!” becomes relevant again.

Dear Ukrainians!

The residents of the village of Yahidne were held here for 27 days. On March 30, 2022, the village was liberated from the ruscist invaders. On April 19, it was demined by our military forces. This symbolizes that history is repeating itself, and everyone who came to destroy us will eventually have to flee from Ukrainian land. A part of our territory is still occupied, and some of our people are held in captivity, which means that our battle continues. And today, on the Day of Remembrance and Victory over Nazism, as we commemorate the millions of Ukrainians who fought and gained victory together with other nations, we keep believing and we bring a new day of a new victory closer.

When the expulsion of the Nazis from Ukraine, we read about in the history textbooks, will happen in real life. And the event of the mid-twentieth century will be repeated and become part of the history of the 21st century, the history of our joint victory over Russian evil.

Greetings on the Day of Remembrance and Victory over Nazism in World War II!

Glory to Ukraine!

#one of his best addresses #very gut-wrenching #leaves you with goosbumps of the chilling kind #on point though #a hard sombre watch but a must watch #rarely so far we heard him saying all of this so frankly out loud and called putin and russia what they are #here and there in some interviews but not often that frankly #but good we should absolutely do more often #putin is a dictator #russia is a facist terror regime #and the comparsion with nazism and the third reich are not overestimating or just talks from pro-ukraine supporters #these comparsions dont come from anything #they based on facts #volodymyr zelensky #volodymyr zelenskyy #zelenskyy #ukraine #war #Youtube

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