#yes it fits his character. but i want to torment him more visibly. let him have a moment of being absolutely SHATTERED

[slime-crafters]

Gonna be real, I think Link deserves to have a panic attack. Just a full-blown mental deteriorating, absolute heart-wrenching scene of him absolutely losing his shit. I'm just thinking like... Imagine Link learning about what happened to Zelda in TotK and his response being something like falling to his knees, something to show that he can't Take It anymore

I want this twink to absolutely crumple.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

The Last Cigarette (Spencer Reid x Reader) Smut

Summary: Mr Scratch was an unsub with undoubtedly the greatest impact on the team. Even in death, he pushes Spencer beyond the preconception of his limits. 

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins​‘ server! This Unsub!Spencer!AU is for the outstanding @cardigayn​ <3 I hope you like it! 

Content warning: Character death, abuse of power, physical assault, murder, Unsub!Spencer, mentions of rape and attempted murder, mentions of knife wounds, unhealthy coping mechanisms

Smut content warning: AFAB!Reader, they/them pronouns, facesitting, hair pulling, overstimulation, light choking, riding, biting, praise kink, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a hint of breeding

Gif credit: @imagining-in-the-margins​ // Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

No one on the team spoke about what Luke did to Scratch – or rather, what he didn’t do. The BAU were far beyond tired of that man’s torments. His impact upon each member was the greatest of any unsub they had ever encountered and now it was finally time to close the book on his crimes. That included turning their gaze away from the abuse of power that Luke had taken by letting Scratch fall from that building. Not the first time the team had banded together to mask a member’s tracks.

Spencer glanced up from his paperwork. Everyone else in the bullpen was focused on their tasks, as if nothing had happened. Even Emily was at her desk and typing away at her desktop when she had been an inch away from death not two weeks ago.

Spencer’s pen tapped against the desk twice before it was placed down adjacent to his pencil pot. He remembered the details of their cover-up. That wasn’t what paused his paperwork.

His mind was straying to another timeline, in accordance to the multi-verse theory. Luke had made a choice in this universe to not pull Scratch up. In another universe, he decided to save the unsub. What happened next?

After experiencing prison first hand, Spencer could somewhat pinpoint how long Scratch would have lasted in a place like Millburn. The respect for serial killers on the inside, especially those who had tormented law enforcement, would keep him alive.

There was the chance that there was another universe where Scratch would have gotten off scot free. And another timeline where Scratch, without a gun, overpowered Luke or Matt, taking either or both of them down. Kristy had no husband. Jake, David, Chloe, and Lily had no father. Roxy had no owner.

Maybe it was better that Luke didn’t help Scratch off that ledge, that Matt had just stayed back.

Spencer could not decide what he would have done in that situation, and he didn’t have to. But that didn’t mean another version of him didn’t. To be jealous of a version of himself that did not exist in his world was a bad idea. It was out of his hands and in his head – the roof, the unsub, the choice.

 --->--->--->--->--->

“Anyone want a coffee?”

A series of murmurs rose from the team, all negative, and Luke tucked his chair back under his desk before he walked off to the SAPD break room. Spencer watched his reflection in the conference room’s window. There was an itch in his brain that spread through a nerve to his knee – bouncing it just beneath the table.

Suddenly that nerve propelled him to follow Luke. Spencer’s feet weaved him in between officers until he found his teammate switching on the station’s coffee pot.

“Change your mind?” Luke raised an unsuspicious eyebrow.

“Yes,” Spencer lied, and he collected a mug to wash up. Suds flooded in the sink, rolling out the mug and around the plughole. Spencer fixated on them, a menial hope that he could focus on something else rather than the temptation of asking Luke for details.

He had to be closer of being clean of this whole thing than he thought. Scratch was dead, the case was closed. A few more years, this would be a memory that haunted him every few weeks instead of every day.

Dilaudid was craved by a tiny section of his brain, but he knew that it would not help him at all. He needed something else to help ease the cravings. If only he had inherited his mother’s affinity for cigarettes.

“Can I ask you something?”

Luke shrugged in return, “Sure.” He had opened his palm by his side but did not reach out to Spencer’s clean mug. Spencer appreciated that. A glance at the bullpen, visible through the open door, told him that no one else had followed them. It wasn’t too late. He could come up with a question about the case, about Roxy, about anything.

“What did he look like before he fell?”

Luke’s expression sobered and soured. He too checked the proximity of the police officers outside their bubble. Clearing his throat twice, he poured the coffee into his mug and spun the handle once it was down to fit Spencer’s need.

His voice was low as he said, “He looked desperate.”

Spencer nodded while he poured into his own cup. Perhaps more caffeine would aid him, for he had scratched the itch and it had spread elsewhere. Stirring in some sugar, he took a burning sip before it had dissolved and cringed at the granules in his mouth.

It was when he’d finally swallowed them, instead of spitting out like he wanted to, that Spencer gave into the itch: “Did he say anything to you?”

“He asked me to help him.” Luke blew on his coffee before taking a sip. Even then, he still struggled to swallow it. “He begged.”

“That can’t have been easy. Thanks for telling me.”

But Luke didn’t seem like he concurred. In fact, he looked as though he wanted to make right the claim and say that letting Scratch die was the easiest decision in the world.

Spencer blinked. Luke was gone, already back in the conference room. Perhaps he’d imagined something like that. His attention shifted to Scratch’s face, morphing it until it was a stereotypical expression of fear. Spencer had heard too much of that man’s voice, but it was good for one thing: recreating the words Luke had told him.

“Help me. Please!”

Matt was back with Emily.

And suddenly so was Luke. Spencer had gone it alone after Scratch. It was just the two of them on the roof, and soon it would be one.

Scratch’s clothes were whipped up by the wind, his begging too. It was almost as though he reached up for Spencer. One last cry for help. Then he fell, silent and ragdoll-esque.

Just before the body hit the ground, Scratch was clinging to the building’s side again. When he fell this time, he screamed hysterically. It echoed across the roof until Spencer couldn’t discern it from the wind. A swell of relief spread through his body. He took a sip from his coffee.

“Reid?” Just as he had done a minute prior, Luke was lingering in the doorway. “We should get back to the conference room.”

“Right,” Spencer dropped the teaspoon onto the side. It clattered about the side, then went quiet, then hit the floor. Spencer didn’t turn to see where it landed.

 --->--->--->--->--->

What an absolute smarty pants who could just about learn to use Teams by himself. Spencer leant to the right in his office chair as his partner Y/N showed him the ropes of his new application. How lucky he was to still have them after all they had been through – together and apart.

“And… ta-dah!” Y/N made jazz hands at the monitor.

“Thank you. You’re so good to me,” Spencer straightened up, smiling at the screen, “Can I get you a reward?”

Y/N seemed to ponder on this offer, an act Spencer had seen many times and never grew tired of. Then Y/N tapped their cheek twice and bent forward. With butterflies in his stomach, Spencer tilted his chin up and pressed a lingering kiss there. There was a bashful smile across their face when they drew away. Even after all this time, Spencer was proud he could still affect them so.  

The door to his office shut behind them and Spencer looked over his desktop’s background. His students’ homework was hovering in the background, already being printed off. The printer stuttering out each page had long since been tuned out

He glanced away from it to his left and saw Y/N again. Their arms were wrapped around themselves, their body close and facing Spencer with a clear expression drawing bravery upon them. Spencer’s head then turned to see if Scratch was still dangling by the tips of his fingers. He was.

“What do I do?” Spencer asked, his voice almost torn away by the wind he couldn’t feel against his cheek.

Y/N hardly spared Scratch a glance. They had never seen him before, and they made this one time they did as short as possible. Their hand moved Spencer’s head so that Scratch was in his blind spot. They held his face and looked on him sweetly, even in the darkness around them.

They gave Spencer their answer: “Leave him.”

Scratch’s body trembled as his head rigidly shook, “Please!”

But Y/N took Spencer’s hand in their free one and they held it even as Scratch’s grip failed him. Only then did they look at the unsub and watch unflinchingly together as their tormenter fell to his death. A second later, the pair heard the body hit the ground. Spencer began to move towards the ledge, Y/N tugging him back towards the door of the roof.

“I have to see,” Spencer insisted, “I have to know he’s really gone.”

There was no pity, just empathy, as Y/N nodded their head, “Ok.” Their hands tensed together while they approached the roof’s end.

There he was, his body broken, his head smashed against the dirt. Lifeless. Gone.

Then Scratch was falling again, the last seconds of existence, and Y/N was hiding their face in Spencer’s shoulder. He was holding them tight, so that if they changed their mind about watching, they wouldn’t be able to. But he was watching everything in slow motion.

Every fraction of change in Scratch’s terror was drawn out until it was a pantomime of itself.

“Are you ok?” He asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

Closing his eyes, Spencer kissed Y/N’s head. He basked in his comfort before he opened his eyes again and drew a deep breath from the comfort of his desk chair. Then he collected the printed essays of his students, grabbing a pen to prepare for marking.

  --->--->--->--->--->

 This time Hotch was there, Jack’s face hidden in his father’s chest. Derek too, holding little Hank with all the tenderness a father could.

Spencer waved his hand towards the door, “Get them out of here. I don’t want them to see this.” He waited dutifully for them to leave, both of them sending a nod Spencer’s way.

Once the door bounced against its frame to close, he stood at the edge. He couldn’t feel the cold rushing past him, coaxing him to fall with Scratch, but he could picture hearing it. Almost deafening him to Scratch’s pleas, he turned those words up loud so that he could hear the moment the words stopped, the moment that Spencer pulled out his Smith & Wesson and shot Scratch in the head. His grip faltered instantly and his lifeless body tumbled down.

“No.”

Spencer screwed his eyes shut before looking back at the geographic profile.

“No what?”

He started. He didn’t realise that Tara was still in the room with him.

His words tumbled out quickly, “Just testing a theory, but it’s not right, it doesn’t fit.”

Nodding, Tara made her way beside him and observed the evidence collected so far, “We’ll get there. Just keep that brain going.”

Spencer planned to do just that. This daydream wasn’t as satisfying, like Nicorette mists or chewing gum. Just shooting him in the head? That was more than mercy for Scratch. No, he’d have to come up with something else to use. For the daydream of course.

He was glad that Tara was treating him normally. Not like JJ, who had checked in on him for Dilaudid before take-off. She was hovering around him like a gnat and it was starting to piss him off. Where was this energy when he was actually contemplating the drug’s pros and cons? He was determined to keep it together for the team to function and solve this case, but JJ in his peripherals was making it hard to focus. On work. Not the daydreaming. He loved her to bits, but he just wished she’d leave him to his own devices unless it concerned the case. That was the priority now.

The broken fingers of the victims sat like warped roots of a tree on the board, each knuckle shattered with a hammer. This unsub – a man in his 20s, not 30s – had such an odd post-mortem signature. Like when Ronald Weems did on the prostitutes. The ones Nathan Harris was obsessed with, wrote about, then killed himself before he could re-enact such a crime.

But it was fine. This was different. Spencer wasn’t writing these down. He didn’t need to. That, and he wasn’t about to recreate his daydreams.

“Excuse me.”

“Off for a smoke?” Luke joked half-heartedly.

Shortly after shaking off that effort at a joke, Spencer’s hand froze against the metal pole of the wheelchair access to the police station. His lungs took a deep breath of the cool Christmas air, a worthless hit. He hoped that Derek and Hotch were being the fathers they always wanted to be - that Gideon could have been.

--->--->--->--->--->

Adrenaline was what enabled him to haul Scratch up. Still, Spencer strained with his weight. He was gasping with the unsub when they were both allowed back onto the roof, Scratch’s knees digging into the floor for security and his hands still clasping the edge of the building - from the other side now.

Spencer watched, blood roaring in his ears with each panting breath. He took one deeper and let out a yell as he kicked his foot up into Scratch’s nose. Scratch rolled onto his back with a ragged rasp, blood spouting from his nose to stain everything it made contact with, and his head lolled off the edge of the building. Spencer’s chest burned with unsatisfaction so he kicked again. This time, his foot came down on Scratch’s groin. Ineffective in stopping him from standing, this was personal deliverance of pain.

He was out of breath but completely fine. He had the energy to drag Scratch back with one hand at his ankle, so now his head was beneath a solid enough surface to stomp on three times. Each one sent Scratch’s eyes rolling back further into his head.

Spencer began to use his hands. Getting close into Scratch’s space, he lay punch after punch, no pain on his hands, no. He put it all into Mr Scratch for every second he stole from him and his team until finally he stood up.

Scratch barely had enough energy to cough behind the blood pooling in his mouth. But Spencer could make out the one word he was wheezing in his agony.

“Spencer.”

Then, and only then, did Spencer draw his gun once more and shoot Mr Scratch in the neck.

The jet jolted as its wheels touched the runway. Spencer leant back in his chair, dragged as the jet slowed to a stop. He grunted, his head still catching up to that sudden jolt.

“I want you all to just go home, alright?” Prentiss was already stood at the end of the plane’s gangway, “Get some rest.”

The rest of the trip home was a blur for Spencer; it was committed to his memory but not with any intrigue. Only when he dropped his keys in the front door’s bowl did he start paying attention to his surroundings again. Y/N was powerwalking over to him, instinctively reaching out long before they made it to him.

“Hey baby!” They greeted, and Spencer enfolded them into a tight embrace, “You must be knackered.”

They swayed a little on the spot as Spencer answered, “I was.”

“Was?”

“Not after seeing you.”

His chin brushed over Y/N’s shoulder before he kissed that spot, smiling against the cloth of their shirt. His support rocked as Y/N giggled. Their grip on him tightened for a moment before they ran a hand over his tummy, the little “pouch” as they had affectionately named it. A thought ran past his eyes: that it wouldn’t hurt to start working out if he was going to do more than just shoot Scratch.

“Cheeky,” Y/N touched one of his curls as they pulled away, “Come on, let’s go to bed. Not like that.” They tapped his nose at the raise of his eyebrows.”

“I missed you,” Spencer said, not immediately after that, but when they were both in bed together, “I always do.”

“Me too.”

Y/N was unable to look Spencer in the eye. Spencer loved that they were so overwhelmed with love that they had to seek refuge elsewhere. They were just like him in that sense.

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Gun drawn, Spencer took deliberate steps stalking through the darkened apartment complex. The entire area was due for demolishing the following morning, so there were plenty hiding spaces for this unsub to jump out of. Every deep breath stilled his hands as he moved swiftly around each corner. Matt mumbled something in his earpiece about going down to the poolside.

He made his way to the third floor and followed the glowing green signs towards the fire escape.

Martin Harvey had just turned around to see Spencer. He instantly dropped the pipe he was wielding and thrust his hands into the air.

“Ok, ok, ok, you got me. Don’t shoot.”

His legs crumbled and he fell to his knees. A coward, just like the profile had said. This was too easy. No, it wasn’t actually. Interviewing those parents and friends of the victims, gritting teeth while working through red tape set up by the small town talk and the prejudices constructed long before this case occurred, none of that and none of what came prior was easy.

“Get up there.”

Harvey frowned, his eyes unsteady between Spencer’s face and Spencer’s gun, “What?”

Spencer tilted the barrel of his gun to the fire escape stairs for a second, immediately returning it onto Harvey, “You heard me.”

Shaking, Harvey took the steps as they came. His hands were still on his head. His boots made hollow clanks against the rusting metal, echoing Spencer’s lighter taps, until they came into contact with the concrete of the roof. The wind felt more brutal today. It was colder than Spencer imagined. The February chills shouldn’t dissuade him much though.

The second Harvey made a move to spin around, Spencer smacked his head with the butt of his gun. Harvey tripped forwards but remained upright. So Spencer holstered his weapon, grabbed Harvey’s shoulder, and punched across his nose. Both men let out a cry. Spencer flexed his fingers to subside the pain, but it continued to shoot up and down his bones. Another attempt, he grappled with the scruff of Harvey’s shirt then shoved him off his balance to the ground. The unsub wobbled and cried out as he fell backwards. Spencer kicked again, not as strong as the last time, but he felt the surge of power in him. Adrenaline, real and flooding his every movement. This was beyond what his fantasies had ever brought him, and he was living for it. He didn’t have to hold back anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” Harvey sobbed, trying to hide in his hands. Pathetic. The man who had raped and attempted murder on five different women couldn’t take it when a man stood up to him.

He hit Harvey once more but drew back from the opportunity for a third. Instead, he rolled the body over the edge with just enough tact to allow Harvey to make a grab for the edge.

Once more, Harvey begged for Spencer to stop.

Spencer looked down on this low life, this scum that dared to interfere with innocent lives for fun. The heel of his shoe came down hard on Harvey’s hand. He howled in pain. Spencer stomped down again; this time there was a series of collective crunches. Harvey let go with that hand, but the other was still clinging dearly to the roof.

As he stared into those panicked eyes, Spencer squatted down beside Harvey’s hands. Broken fingers flailed nearby, Harvey not strong enough to pull himself up and reach for Spencer. His thumb slid off the edge, and the pinkie finger too.

The begging faded into the background. The fear in his face, it had to be at least somewhat the same as Scratch’s. The proximity to danger was beyond comfort.

People he lost:

Derek.

Hotch.

Emily, nearly.

People he loved:

Tara.

Matt.

Penelope.

Luke.

JJ.

Him.

Mom.

Y/N.

Spencer brought down the butt off his gun onto the last three fingers holding on. His eyelids forced him to watch as Harvey fell fast to the ground, a crunch of bones reaching his ears when the ground met with him

A delicious shiver ran up Spencer’s spine. He shook his shoulders and breathed it out. There was not the extreme of happy. Felt in his heart was content in the gentle breeze, in the dull pain.

“Prentiss. He’s dead. I’m on the roof.”

“We’re on our way, Reid.”

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Paramedics had pressed the sterilised cotton against his cuts while his eyes were on the bag that was wheeled away towards the other ambulance. Spencer’s thousand-yard stare ended shortly after that; Emily walked into his view and touched his shoulder. Her embrace was welcomed greatly, as was the nap he took on the flight back.

His bag was not as heavy as he remembered it being as he drew up to his apartment. Once his keys were out the door, he dropped everything and was on his way to the bedroom for an early night when he bumped into Y/N – who was all bundled in their pyjamas.

“You’re back! In time for Valentine’s Day!” Y/N’s smile was quick to disappear, “What happened?”

“I found the unsub. He fought back, resisted. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh Spencer.” They hovered an inch over his face before they settled their hands on him.

A quick kiss on his lips, then they took him into the kitchen and set about making a tea for him. But Spencer didn’t really need, or want, one. He slipped up behind them, mumbling into their ear, “I’m meant to be the one taking care of you today.”

“We take care of each other, Spencer, you know that.” Y/N patted his arms that were now around their waist. Spencer kissed the spot below their ear, smirking into\ them as he felt the stutter in their movements. His lips found the side of their neck and kissed again.

“We do,” He agreed.

“You know, I won’t be able to take care of you if you keep doing that.”

“Oh, you will,” Spencer nuzzled his cheek against them, “Just not by making me tea.” To make extra sure his point was getting across, Spencer moved them around and kissed them with two fingers lightly pinching their chin.

“Your hand-”

“Doesn’t hurt. And I have two.”

Already Spencer was unbuttoning Y/N’s shirt, his thin fingers parting it open to place his cool touch against their bare skin. It shuddered beneath him, sending waves to help him map the rest of their body again in his mind. A tingle sat in between his shoulder blades as Y/N tugged at the curls in the nape of his neck.

How they got into bed doesn’t really matter. It was when Spencer’s hands pressed into the mattress that he winced away from Y/N’s lips.

“You are hurting,” They pushed to sit up.

“I’m fine.”

“You need to rest.”

“What I need is for you to sit on my face and not stand up until I say so.”

Spencer heard Y/N’s teeth knock together as they closed their once-agape mouth. “Can you help me with that?”

Y/N nodded, dumbstruck at Spencer’s words and the thumb he was dragging across their bottom lip in an attempt to distract from his injuries.

“Y/N, I’m ok. Really. It’s just a little sting. Let me love you.”

“I’m not stopping you. I’m just worried.”

Throb of each cut on his hand as his fingers fanned across their skin Grasping tight on their thighs

He only had to let go for a moment while Y/N stripped clean of their clothes Seeking refuge, he felt completely content with those thick thighs wrapped around his head. Not a single time did his mind stray to Scratch or any other unsub now that Y/N was safe from them. Calm seeped over him, fuelling his biting and lavishing his tongue upon their inner thighs

His pace enjoyed such a leisurely stroll around their cunt, the tip of his tongue gliding through each of their folds. Eyes still closed, he had the image of it soaking wet with his spit and their juices. He licked his lips once before he pursed them around the clit. His hands, now stiff and sore from stroking their hips, reached up to touch their chest. He fondled at their sensitive nipples with delight at Y/N fisting at his hair. All this, and he licked at Y/N’s clit like it was an ice lolly on a summer’s day.

When Y/N came first, they let out short bursts of breath coupled with their moans. The second time, they had to hold onto the bedframe as their body slumped forward and their clit rubbed up against Spencer’s nose. On the third, they fell off his chin, rolled to their side of the bed. Giggles fell from their satisfied smile as they curled up. Smearing the back of his hand across his mouth, Spencer pushed onto his side so he could reach them for another kiss. Y/N could barely respond and they were still laughing as Spencer pulled them into his lap. His fingers looked so pretty around their neck; he kept them there until silence filled the room again. When they reached that moment, he squeezed lightly and let out a gentle “hmm” at Y/N’s moan.

“You good, darling?” He whispered.

“Just what the doctor ordered.”

Though their lips were together, they parted in pants and smiles.

“You got one more for me?”

“Of course,” Y/N clumsily patted a hand down his cheek, “You haven’t even had one yet.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You must be the only guy to say that and mean it.”

Swallowing the statistic on how many men had said they wanted to orgasm during sex, Spencer watched Y/N struggle to sit on his cock. Their legs were shaking uncontrollably; they didn’t settle, not even in his firm hold.

His hands dragged them down onto him and over their moans he whispered, “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one.”

“I wanna give you what you want.”

As Y/N  rocked into him, Spencer shared the last of their tangy taste that lingered on his tongue. Then he found peace in resting his chin on their shoulder, rising and falling as they did.

“You wanna cum for me?”

Their words hit his ears, “Please, help me.”

A spike of pleasure ripped through his body. In an instant, Spencer flipped them over and drove his hips hard into them. His teeth sunk into the skin of their shoulder before releasing his load into them. His entire being trembled into Y/N, their ankles locked in his lower back lazily as he milked every last drop of exhilaration he could from them.

His cock stayed inside them, keeping his cum safe inside. Y/N barely lifted their head but luckily for them, Spencer’s shoulder was within their reach. They bit him in the same spot he had bitten them, not releasing him until their marks matched.

“I’m so glad you’re safe,” They mumbled against him.

Spencer tipped himself back an inch or two, “I’m happy you’re safe too.” He didn’t mind the ache on his skin any more than the others. It was a nice collection he had gathered today.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Spencer.”

--->--->--->--->--->  

 This was it, the last cigarette. He didn’t have to worry about Scratch anymore after this.

A low whistle lead Spencer to pull at his collar sheepishly, and Tara leant against his desk. At first, he ignored her, signing off the last of his paperwork. His mandatory session with the team’s therapist set fresh on his lungs without a single symptom of guilt.

“Well, well, well,” Tara teased, indicating to her neck with two fingers tapping, “Something about a life or death situation that gets you in the mood?”

“Actually, research into the terror management theory has shown that people respond to mortality reminders by bolstering their own cultural view, derogating opposing views, and shoring up their self-esteem. By this account, the effect of death on libido will depend on the meaning that sex has for a person.”

“And what does it mean for you?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“You don’t have to,” Tara grinned, “I would hazard a guess that Y/N’s looking the same.”

Spencer shook his head playfully, “We said we wouldn’t profile each other.”

The ribbing came to a close as Penelope brushed past and announced to the bullpen, “We have a new case, in the conference room.”

Spencer dropped his finished case file into Emily’s empty office on the way to the conference room, his hand only complaining an itch at the motions of holding a pen and a form. It didn’t end as he flicked over the file’s papers while Penelope went over the details of their latest case – gruesome photos of open knife wounds the television screens.

The shrinking juxtaposition between body discoveries indicated a devolving unsub with a disintegrating cooling off period. Basically, it was an unsub not worthy of his daydreams or of his injuries.

Except that’s not what it was at all. This was an unsub to be arrested and face punishment, before more people could be hurt. Spencer didn’t need a cooling off period because he wasn’t going to do that again. He could recall his played-out fantasy in complete and utter detail, never forgetting a thing he saw.

And anyway, this unsub was definitely an impotent and disorganised man lashing out. Couldn’t hold a candle to Scratch. So why waste his time on that? Why would he have another cigarette when he didn’t need one right now?

--->--->--->--->

AN: I do not condone the actions displayed in this fic. I find unsub!AUs of the show interesting developments and the intended recipient of this fic is aware of that. I will not write a part two for this, because I do not have the motivation or idea besides Spencer getting caught and subsequently arrested.

Thank you for reading!

[sunlitroom]

Hello. I hope u do not mind asks. Just now became enthralled with Jeremiah Valeska. I am trying to write a story with him, but I am looking for input. I can't decide if he had some craziness in him before the gas or not. I know it's supposed to be up to interpretation I guess? But I'm just curious to know what you think. I like your blog :)

Hello anon.  I do not mind asks at all :)  I hope you are well.

What follows is a bit of an essay - sorry.  I love a bit of meta.  Feel free to pick and choose or discard completely.  I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter - too.  I agree that Jeremiah is a fascinating character.

So.  Did Jeremiah have some craziness in him before the gas?

It’s a tricky question. One of the things that Gotham did really well with Jerome and Jeremiah was to set them both up as unreliable narrators.  Jerome doesn’t ever claim to have been a good child, but he does specifically deny what Jeremiah accused him of.  Jeremiah, on the other hand, says that even though he might not specifically have done what he told their mother he did – Jerome definitely wanted him dead and was going to kill him.

You’re insane.  And I tried telling mom, but she didn’t want to listen to me.  You blame me for everything that’s gone wrong in your life – but this truth is, Jerome - you were born bad.

Born bad, huh. ��So that’s why you made her think that I tried to kill you.  What was it again?  I put a blade to your throat – no I tried to light you on fire

We both know you wanted to!

Yes – that was a funny story

Ok - maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that.  But I didn’t have a choice and I was right.....You killed our mother.

She did deserve it, though, after that whore hid you away she gave up on me.  Poisoned by your stories.  You turned everyone I loved against me!  My own flesh and blood!  I guess it’s just like what they say.  We could all go insane with just one bad day.

Jeremiah wants to believe there was something fundamentally wrong with Jerome.  Jerome doesn’t deny this, but says that they share the same blood, so Jeremiah must be bad too.  

Interestingly, Jerome seems to see nuance here – though.   On one hand, he says that they both have insanity in their blood. On the other hand, he specifically tells Jeremiah that he caused/worsened Jerome’s insanity by turning everyone against him.  Which is true in Jerome’s mind?  It’s hard to say.

What about what we see of Jeremiah pre-gas – does that say anything to deny or support Jerome’s accusation?

Jeremiah is restrained in some respects, not in others.  He lives concealed in a labyrinth, hidden away – but constructing an entire labyrinth as a home in the first place is pretty self-indulgent and decadent.  He hides behind a pseudonym - but it’s a showy pseudonym: Xander Wilde.  He’s quiet-spoken and controlled in his manner, but he’s visibly short-tempered and quickly irritated by Jim.  His life looks uncomfortably spartan, but we see him help himself to a generous drink from a cut-glass decanter.   There’s an odd tension to how he lives his life.

Even his clothes have this duality to them.  They could just have put him in a version of Ed’s season one geeky ‘n clever get-up, or something boring and neutral - perfect for a man who wants to disappear.

If you look, though, although he’s ostensibly buttoned-up and professional, there are clues that there’s more to him. Look at this shirt:

It’s a silky purple paisley shirt.  That is not a restrained item.  Oswald would happily wear a waistcoat along those lines.  There’s the fit, too.  To use Ed as a reference, his season one clothes were often deliberately quite ill-fitting and unflattering– which highlighted his awkwardness: sleeves and trousers were often too short, making him look like an overgrown child, reinforcing the idea that he’s not a ‘proper man’ (something that torments Ed early on)

In contrast, Jeremiah’s clothes are form-fitting.  He’s buttoned up to the neck, yes – but, he’s definitely tailored to show his body to its best advantage.  Again – you’ve got that tension: covered-up and buttoned-up, but flattering his body.  

You could argue, given his fancy schooling, that he learned about good tailoring and how to present himself, but I can guarantee none of the other wealthy boys who attended his school are donning a purple paisley shirt and a jacket with a nipped waist for an average workday.  

There’s a great article on costuming in Hannibal that talks about how his clothing is often a red flag – letting us know that there’s something much more dangerous underlying the respectable exterior.  We see this with Oswald in season one, and I’d argue it’s present with pre-gas Jeremiah.

https://ew.com/article/2015/08/29/everything-hannibal-wore-hannibal/

Jeremiah might be afraid that there’s something to what Jerome says.  Maybe, then, he’s hiding not only from Jerome, but from himself?  They’re obviously physically identical, and Jerome is apparently intelligent enough to solve Jeremiah’s labyrinths.  Imagine watching someone who looked just like you acting out constantly, being chaotic and violent and frightening.  Maybe you might start to wonder whether there’s something of that in you – if you only let yourself go?  It’s possible that Jeremiah is hiding not only from Jerome, but is also unconsciously hiding from himself, impulses he can’t or won’t acknowledge, a shadow-self – much like Ed’s mirror self.

That doesn’t have to be criminal urges, or urges that would point to insanity. But maybe he became scrupulous and highly-controlled because he was so afraid of this possibility – clamping down on even natural feelings?    His reaction to Bruce seems intense and instant.  I honestly think it’s a case of love at first sight – but it’s possibly intensified and exacerbated because he has hidden himself away for so long, seemingly denying himself any relationship outside the professional.

Ultimately, for me, I wouldn’t say he was ‘crazy’ before the gas - but I would say that he was psychologically unhealthy, way more fragile and unstable than he might appear on the surface.  I think that Jeremiah’s tight rein on himself – adopted because of his horror of his brother’s behaviour, and unconscious fear that he might be like him – created a tinderbox of repressed feelings and fears.    The poison gas then acted like a match – igniting all those repressed feeling and thoughts, and then distorted them.

Thanks for the ask, anon!  I’d love to hear your own thoughts :)

[thewhumpstuff]

Backfire

Backfire

@badthingshappenbingo​​ [Original Characters and content for - Dehydration] Whumptober Day: No. 4 - Running Out of Time - Failed Escape [Art+Drabble] Ten Trails: Death Trap (9) - Burning Building [@yuckwhump​]

CW/TW: Reference to captivity and tortrure. Drugging and Fire. [Let me know if I missed something, I can’t think of anything] Art under ‘keep reading’ (attempts to) feature a woman stuck in a burning building and guy outside.

The day was just fluorescent lights and the night the pitch darkness of her cell. In between that white and black - Was the dull grey blur of text, test tubes and the torment etched on Jared and copied onto her. At least she had more freedom than Jared. She was convinced Red wasn’t himself anymore and she feared he was never going to be. No matter how many times she tried to tell herself that she was only doing what she had to… That she was doing her best to keep Jared alive, to buy time, not compromise the mission and navigate Zachariah’s expectations, she couldn’t help but blame herself for… Everything.

A soft cradle for his chin and an apologetic and concerned whisper forced him to stir, “Jared…? Red? Sweetheart, can you hear me?” Sunken eyes, stared up at her vacantly, from underneath the thicket of shaggy, dishevelled hair. He held her wrist in a tight grip, which despite his best efforts was much weaker than it had once been. It didn’t hurt, not physically, but she recoiled because it felt like a fearful attack by a cornered animal. He pushed her away and she let him. She repositioned and knelt at arm’s length. Akira couldn’t blame him, on instruction, she had used the affection they had shared to attempt pretentiously disarming him before… He had no reason to trust her and she desperately needed him to. Simply because she selfishly hoped she wouldn’t be forced to use plan B.

She blinked away guilty tears as she scanned the scars, the cuts and bruises she had been forced to leave on him. Not unlike the ones that she bore, except hers were covered by the lab-coat. Worse than the visible evidence, was all the pain and anguish she couldn’t really see, except in his tired eyes. There was a flicker of hope in them, perhaps because she called him Red. She had made sure to never do that through everything they’d endured over the last few months… Maybe more, maybe little less… “Shira?” Yes! Akira cleared her throat to stabilize a quivering voice, so she could assuage the fear she knew had to be bubbling up inside him. “Yeah… It’s me. I’m not here to ask questions or to hurt you, okay?” But the spark died and was replaced with the same, dead and wary caution. He hissed, “No! Stay the fuck away from me...” He curled into the wall he was already pressed up against. She didn’t have the time to haggle with him. Not if she was to succeed in saving him. Time for plan B. It took so much from her to swiftly break the promise she’d just made. Aki stabbed him with the tranquilizer. He wasn’t really in a position to put up a fight. The drugs… the lack of adequate nutrition and the repeated exposure to Akira’s power had left him quite weak and vulnerable. After he lost consciousness. Akira dragged his form to the fortified underground lab. A lab within a lab is both genius and hilarious. This was left off the blue-prints. Very few people knew of its existence and luckily Zach wasn’t among them. The only friendly she’d seen was Mark’s, who had been guiding her. He was the one who provided her with this knowledge. The rest was up to her. There weren’t as many people monitoring them. Zach had kept this whole thing underwraps… So Akira had exploited the freedom she had to sneak and survey the hidden lab on a midnight excursion. The underground lab was equipped with a single D.P.S.C - Damage-proof-stasis-chamber. Now, her shaky hands, prepared Jared and put him in it. The hope was that he’d be presumed dead after the explosion she was about to set off. The lab was unlikely to be found unless someone knew where to look. The chamber would keep Jared alive… and in time they’d be able to go back for him. All she needed to do was get out of there after the accidental explosion… They had to let her out. None of this was her fault. At least not in any verifiable way. 

All she had to do was convince Caius. - 

[Credit: A shot from the movie Om Shanti Om, is used as a reference for the art and inspired the fic] It was Zach who noticed that the surveillance footage from the lab was on a loop. So he made his way there, only to witness an explosion. He had been losing patience with the two of them steadily. While Jared was just a little more than a husk, Akira still had her wits about herself… And he had not gotten anything significantly useful from them. Their deaths would not be a favorable outcome, but it was a fitting consequence for their continued lack of cooperation. Afterall, Zach couldn’t risk anyone else finding them either... He dismissed Caius and waited for Akira at the locked entrance.

The fortified door and the thick laminated glass between them, muffled Zachariah’s question, “So... You finally gave up on trying to save him? Gave him the death he’s been pleading for?” Not enough for her to feign deafness. She responded in a cry that sounded foreign to her. Her shrill plea was desperate and panicked. Akira didn’t typically allow herself to get this way. She had not expected Zach to stop her from leaving the damn building, “No! Zach…” “Ok, go fetch him then.” Even with the panic clawing at her, she still had the sense to lie… After all, even if she couldn’t make it out, he’d survive. Mark would wait and he would know where to look. “I don’t know… I don’t know where he is.” But even the sheer fear was not enough to cloak that fact that she had to know something. There was no way that there wasn’t some foul play here. An out of commission lab, didn’t simply explode. And security footage didn’t scramble itself. Zach would have to look into that later. Someone had tried helping them. At least the list of suspects was a short one. Not many people knew about this venture, “I’d say this is overkill, the building didn’t deserve this...” She lied again, “I didn’t do this. Please! Please let me out!”

He watched with disinterest as Akira slammed her flattened hand against the glass. He was safe on the outside. But it’d be unkind to let her flirt with death alone… So Zach drew a cigarette and lit it, which was as uncharacteristic for him as screaming for help was for Akira. It felt like a fitting way to honor Jared… Given he had to still be somewhere in the building that was slowly getting consumed by flames. The Knight deserved a better death...  A part of Zach wanted to save his friend. But that cat had run out of his nine lives… and all the second-third and several chances that Zach had given him. Aki left bloodstains on the glass. But she could barely register the sharp slices of pain that ran through the cut on her palm. Another accident… Like the explosions were meant to be. The flames roared and cackled behind her, she turned with a snap, as an explosion on the first floor forced heat and fire to billow into the grand reception lobby. With one final question, “Did you actually think I’d let you live?” Zach walked away.

She held her breath. Her lips were already chapped and her eyes stung. A sputter, followed a helpless surge of hacking coughs that wrecked through her. She stumbled her way to the back. Her lab-coat caught a lick of flame and soon it’s arm was ablaze. She screeched as she swiftly tried getting rid of it. She succeeded, but not before it seared her elbow. She used the charred coat to bat away the flames in her way with her uninjured arm, as she headed back towards the underground lab. Stuck between death by active fire… or presumably by dehydration… Akira couldn’t help but buy herself a little more time.

She dropped into the lab with barely a minute to spare. Within moments, the exit was buried in rubble. Her breathing was laboured, she was certain soot lined her throat… Aki crawled towards the stasis chamber, as a futile attempt to prevent feeling the stab of loneliness. She sat against it, chuckling at one small silver-lining- that at least she wasn’t claustrophobic. She sat up, till she couldn’t hold up her weight any more. And fading into unconsciousness felt like a gift.

[marril96]

Tonight

Chapter 6: The Waking Nightmare

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Characters: Rowena, reader, Sam, Dean

Summary: It was supposed to be a happy, carefree outing. After tonight, however, nothing will ever be the same for you and Rowena.

Editor: @rowenaisfabulous

NOW…

"You didn't tell them anything?" Dean asked.

"I had nothing to tell," Rowena replied, swallowing, sucking in a breath, balling her fists — anything to keep her rising anger at bay.

She didn't like his tone. Didn't like the way his eyes narrowed into slits like that of a snake. Didn't like the suspicion on his face, the clear, unmasked disbelief.

He didn't believe her and he had no qualms about letting her know about it.

She didn't care. She didn't give a single fuck what he thought, what he believed. He'd wanted to hear the story, and she was telling it as it was.

She hadn't lied when it mattered, when your wellbeing, your life, depended on it.

And she sure as hell wasn't lying now.

"I'm not on good terms with the witch community," Rowena added, even though she didn't have to. She didn't owe him an explanation. "They've practically exiled me."

Good riddance. If not for the power she'd been seeking, for the knowledge she'd needed to harness it, she would have estranged herself from those pompous cowards centuries ago. They'd always feared her power. Had tried over and over to sabotage her, to make her out to be a fool. They'd taken advantage of her, used her, abused her. Treated her like trash.

She was better off without them.

"I didn't know anything about the covens they were asking about."

If she knew, she would have told them. Guilt would have eaten her alive, but she would have told them.

The truth was, the majority of the people who'd been cruel to her were gone. There were, no doubt, plenty of new covens around. Groups of young girls and boys bonding, coming together in these times of acceptance. They didn't have hide like they used to. Didn't have to look over their shoulder after every step, startle at every shadow… They could just be.

Rowena would have traded them all for you in a heartbeat.

Tears filled up her eyes. She tried to will them back, but one broke free, slid down her face in a wet, bitter trail. She wiped it away with her palm. Rubbed at her tender cheek.

It should have been her. Those hunters should have hurt her. She was the reason they were there. The reason they'd manipulated you, tricked you with a false name and a promise of friendship. The reason you'd suffered so horribly.

She would have deserved it.

You had not.

A hand suddenly landed on her shoulder. Rowena looked up, shaken from her thoughts, only to meet Sam's eyes, ever gentle, ever kind. Friendly to the bone.

"It wasn't your fault," he said.

She lowered her gaze to her feet. Focused on the soft pink polish adorning her toenails. Stared at the specks of glitter in it, started counting them to distract her troubled mind. "If I told them what they wanted to know, they wouldn't have…"

They wouldn't have done what they had.

They wouldn't have tried to—

"You didn't know," Sam said. "Y/N wouldn't want you to blame yourself."

You wouldn't.

You would blame yourself, instead.

"They-they hurt her," Rowena said, and finally tears spilled, drenched her reddened cheeks like a downpour. Her eyes found Sam's once again and locked with them, stared into them long and hard. "They hurt her, Sam."

Because of me.

He was quiet for a few moments, taking her words, her broken expression, in. Then he said, "She's gonna be fine. She's strong."

Rowena shook her head. "Sam, you don't know…"

Don't know everything that happened.

Don't know the whole story.

"She… They…"

She breathed deep, in and out, like a mantra. Her heart hammered as if she'd run a marathon, hands shaking in tune with the beats.

She couldn't talk about it. Not now. She needed some time to compose herself, to get her thoughts in order. To will her body to remain calm — as calm as possible — as she told the final part of the story.

As if on cue, a sound strangely alike moaning made her ears perk up. She stilled, willed her raging storm of thoughts to calm, as she focused on the sound.

There it was again. A moan, similar to the mewl of a cat. Soft, with a hint of desperation to it. Helpless.

Yours.

Rowena's face lit up.

You were awake.

She got you back. She could hold you. Kiss you. Tell you she loved you.

Tell you she was sorry.

She froze at the prospect. What if you were mad at her? What if you wanted nothing to do with her?

She would want nothing to do with herself after what had happened.

Regardless, she decided, she needed to see you. Even if you rejected her, the least you deserved was an apology.

"Sounds like Y/N's awake," Dean, said.

Rowena's face fell, all brightness draining from it.

Sam, in turn, squeezed her shoulder. "Go talk to her. It's gonna be okay."

Aye.

It was going to be okay.

Easier said than done.

*****

It was when she neared the bedroom door that Rowena heard the full extent of your moan, heard with clarity what you were saying.

Her name.

You were calling to her. Weak, spent, you were trying to reach her, trying to get her to come over. Yearning to see her even after everything.

A pang of pain shot through Rowena, sharp as a blade sinking into her skin, cutting her up from the inside out.

You'd gone through so much. Endured pain and trauma that would no doubt last for as long as you lived. Suffered. Bled. Cried. All because of her.

And you still wanted her by your side.

You still needed her like the air you breathed. The same way she needed you.

She opened the door slowly and walked in, steps soft, light, careful. Your eyes widened as they fell upon her. A light flickered in them, a sliver of joy barely visible to those who didn't know you.

Rowena knew you all too well to notice even the smallest details, the quietest words of your body's language.

"You're here," you said, sighing in relief.

"Of course I am," she replied. "Where else would I be?"

She wouldn't leave you alone. Not after—

"You brought me home," you said, eyes darting over the room. Your room — yours and hers. The safest, most comfortable place in the world, you'd once called it. A haven. A refuge.

"Aye," Rowena confirmed. "Not on my own, though. The Winchesters helped."

You shot her a surprised look. "You called them?"

She nodded.

You gulped. "What about… about, y'know… them?"

The hunters. Those monstrous, sadistic brutes.

Rowena let out a breath. "They know."

You froze, features turning grim, terrified. Coated in rising panic. "They know?"

"Not everything," Rowena assured you. Taking a seat next to you on the bed, she took your hand in hers and interlaced them, intertwined the fingers into a tight knit. "I didn't tell them about…"

She couldn't finish the sentence.

From the way you breathed in and out, you appreciated it. What they did — what they tried to do… you couldn't bear putting a name on it. Not yet.

Rowena couldn't, either. Naming it would make it real. Make it hurt so much more. Make her feel ever guiltier.

Tears sprung from your eyes, fell like waterfalls. "Rowena, I'm scared," you said in a voice so small it made her heart shatter.

She tightened her grip on your hand, an emphasis, a promise. "You've nothing to fear, love. They're dead."

And if they weren't, she would make them dead — after she made them beg her to kill them, to end their suffering.

"You're safe now."

"I don't feel safe," you admitted.

Rowena knew the feeling well. After her second death at Lucifer's hands, brutal as it was, she was scared of her own shadow. She kept looking over her shoulder, terrified she would see him, that he would return to finish what he started and would make it hurt even more. That he would torment her over and over, for days, weeks on end, no pause, no reprieve of death — not for a long while.

For a while she couldn't leave the house. She'd kept checking the warding guarding it, hiding it, over and over, like a mantra. Your assurances that it was fine, that she was safe here didn't do much. A momentary relief would wash over her as she buried her head in your chest and you enveloped her in a tight hug, but it would pass far too quickly and she would be back at square one, shaking with fear, struggling to breathe, heart racing madly.

You'd stayed by her side through it all. Stayed through random crying fits, through nightmares that woke you in the middle of the night. You were helpless, but you'd stayed. You'd endured. Kept her grounded, fought for her when she'd lost the strength to fight for herself.

She would do the same for you, she decided. She swore on her life. She loved you too much to stay by helplessly, uselessly, as you suffered. She couldn't cure you, couldn't take the pain away, but she could be there.

"I know, love," Rowena said. "I know it doesn't feel like it now, but it will pass."

"When?" you asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. No point in lying, in sugar-coating the truth. You'd been there when she was going through it; you knew how these things went. "But it will pass. It will."

You nodded, taking her words in. Letting them settle in your brain. "You're sure they're dead?"

"Aye. Every single one."

She'd personally made sure of it.

A fresh batch of tears spilled from your eyes. Your lower lip trembled, followed by your hands. Your eyes locked with hers, then wandered aside, red, watery, scared. "I'm sorry," you whimpered.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Rowena said with enough firmness in her tone to get her point across.

"We were there because of me."

She shook her head. "I said yes."

"Because I asked you," you argued.

"You wanted to help me," she pointed out.

"And I almost got you killed!" A whine, so much like that of a hurt puppy that Rowena's heart fluttered with pain, tore from your throat. "I let that asshole trick me."

"It could've happened to anyone," Rowena told you.

"But it happened to me," you said. "And you got hurt."

"I'm fine. I promise." She squeezed her hand in emphasis of her words. "I've made plenty of mistakes myself. I trusted Lucifer, for goodness' sake!" She still bore the scars from it — mental ones, imprinted on her soul, on her mind, on her heart, that, despite the time passed, still hurt like fresh, open wounds. "Don't be hard on yourself, love. I don't blame you a bit."

"Why?" you said in a small, small voice.

"Because you didn't do anything wrong. Because…" She sucked in a breath, a big, painful one. "Because those brutes were there for me."

"Rowena, it wasn't your fault," you said. "You didn't know."

It was. She was to blame for you getting tricked. For you getting hurt. If it weren't for her, none of it would have happened.

"How are you feeling?" Rowena asked, itching for a change of subject. The guilt argument could last for days and would accomplish nothing. You blamed yourself, and she blamed herself. No debates or arguments would change that. You were both too stubborn for your own good.

You sighed, but still responded, "Nothing hurts, if that's what you're asking."

She was, partially so. "Good. And emotionally? Other than scared."

"I'm…" You pondered on it for a moment, trying to get your thoughts in order. "Confused. I don't know how to… how to feel about it. Is that weird?"

"It's natural," Rowena told you.

A ghost of a smile grazed your mouth. "I don't feel dirty or anything. I know it's not my fault. But… I feel like I should feel more, y'know? Like I'm missing something."

"I'm glad." Because it wasn't your fault. What those men did — what he did — was on them. "The rest will clear up soon."

"I hope so. I'm not gonna be scared of men or something, right?"

You looked at her with hope in your eyes, begging her to say no. Begging her to tell you you wouldn't have to go through life with that particular fear.

"Some women are," Rowena replied honestly.

Your lip quivered. "I don't wanna be."

"Whatever happens, I'm going to be here. I am not going to leave you."

You smiled, utterly grateful. "Thank you."

"You never have to thank me for that."

It wasn't a service she was providing. It was love, and love was free. Her only payment was your happiness.

Raising yourself up into a sitting position, you threw your arms around her. Rowena returned the hug hastily, without a moment's hesitation. It felt so good to hold you, to feel your warmth against her. To have your immense trust, no second guessing, no doubts shadowing it.

She held onto you for dear life, squeezed you almost to the point of pain. You reciprocated just as ferociously. Her abused side ached, but she ignored it; ignored the pain, the bruise that would no doubt develop soon. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but you.

"You can tell them," you suddenly said.

Rowena frowned, confused. "What?"

"Sam and Dean," you elaborated. "You can tell them what happened."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"If you're doing this for me—"

"I'm doing it for us both."

Fair point.

"Okay," Rowena conceded. "I'll tell them."

"Could you give me some time alone, please?" you asked.

Pulling back, she looked at you. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," you said. "I'd just like to be alone for a bit. Think about some things. If that's okay."

"Of course!"

Sometimes, solitude was a comfort.

She'd been there.

"I'll be in the living room with the boys," Rowena said. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will. Thank you."

She pressed her mouth to yours in a quick kiss, then got up to head out. Just as her hand landed on the doorknob, your voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Rowena?"

She turned back. "Yes, dearest?"

You cleared your throat. Sucked in a large breath. "Thank you for saving me."

Rowena smiled, big and bright. "I told you, you never have to thank me for that."

And then she was out the door.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @victoriasagittariablack @rowenaswife @dropsofpetrichor @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @wayward-kaia @angel7376 @rowenaisfabulous @ruthieconnells @evil-regal-vampiress @collectorofsecretsandsouls @angel-e-v-a @melisandre02 @a-queen-and-her-throne

[subconwell]

Title: In Locomotion Characters: The Snatcher & The Conductor Description: In order to get his Death Wish plans off the ground, the Snatcher is going to need the Conductor to make his dreams a reality. It’s more difficult than he bargained for. Word Count: 1689

I just think the dynamic between the Snatcher and the Conductor is neat. My future fics are probably going to feature them if I’m being honest. You can read it either here on AO3 or below the cut!

If you enjoy it, please feel free to leave a comment/kudos on AO3! I’d really appreciate it.

“Hellooooo there!” Snatcher waves to the bird that’s driving the train. He seems more annoyed than startled. “Nice place you got here! Can’t tell what sort of thing you were going with this, but I digress.” He clasps his hands together, grinning more than usual. “Listen, I vaguely know of you, you might’ve heard of me, so let’s talk!”

Now, Snatcher’s not normally the type to come barging in and asking for their cooperation—trapping them in by force is more his style—but considering everyone he needs won’t set foot in his forest any time soon, he has to improvise.

The Conductor looks over his shoulder, and then immediately turns back to his work. “Those good fer nothin’ owls were supposed to keep people from coming in while I’m working. Look, I have no idea who ye could possibly be, so it can’t be that important.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate, because I know all about you!”

“Wish ye didn’t,” he mumbles. “Guess that’s what happens when ye run the only train on the planet, so I’m nae surprised.”

“You run a train? How interesting! I thought this was all just for show—”

“Can’t ye see I’m busy here?” Putting the train on autopilot for the time being, the Conductor swivels his chair, face to face with the sudden intruder on his train. He crosses his arms, visibly annoyed. Most who encounter him tend to fear his appearance and unsettling voice, but not this guy, apparently. “If all yer goin’ to do is make idle chit chat, then get out!”

“I won’t be long,” Snatcher says, making his way over to the other. “I just have a deal for you.” He probably should’ve started with that off the bat with him. The kid did say that he has a temper.

“What? That’s all?” The bird’s not impressed. “I never asked fer one, so I’m not interested. Get off me train.”

Okay! Maybe this will be a bit more difficult than he thought. “Not even willing to hear me out?”

“Yer as suspicious as they come. I got nae reason to trust ye.” The Conductor sighs, turning his chair back to the control panel. “Go on, be on yer way now.”

Unfortunately for the Conductor, it’s going to take a lot more than a rejection to get Snatcher out of his way. He needs this guy to make this Death Wish plan a reality, and he’s not going to leave without his soul. “I don’t think you understand,” the ghost says. Grabbing the back of the Conductor’s chair, forcing it to a stop after a few rotations. “I wasn’t giving you the option of saying no to me.”

The bird huffs, trying to drive off the dizziness he just experienced. “If ye aren’t outta here in the next few seconds, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Snatcher picks the other up by the neck of his collar, hoisting him up so they’re seeing eye to eye. “What can you possibly— ”

Perhaps he should’ve seen this coming. Provoke a wild animal enough, and it’ll bare its teeth. In this case, the “wild animal” is a bright yellow bird, and the teeth is his knife that’s sticking out of Snatcher. He feels absolutely nothing from the knife itself, but he does feel overwhelming satisfaction seeing the Conductor’s smug look change to that of shock.

He’s not going anywhere unless he does what Snatcher tells him to.

“Are you done?” With his free hand, he pulls the knife out, tossing it over his shoulder. “I’m very surprised you couldn’t tell that I can’t be hurt that easily, but I guess I overestimated you. Sorry about that!”

“Ugh.” The Conductor is resigned to his fate. “Tell me what ye want since yer insisting on it, peck neck.”

That’s the closest Snatcher is going to get to a ‘you beat me,’ which isn’t as satisfying as it could be, but he’ll take it. It’s been fun knocking him down a few pegs regardless! He drops the bird on the ground. “Now that I finally have your undivided attention,” he says, “I can bring this out!”

Behold, one of Snatcher’s signature contracts, with a pen to match! “Since you’ve been so difficult, I’m almost tempted to just take your soul right here and now! But I’ll be nice since I need every part of you for this.”

“I work in entertainment,” the Conductor says, “I don’t have a soul.”

“You would think, but no, you fortunately have one. I checked!”

“How the peck—”

The Snatcher puts a hand on the other’s shoulder, who slaps it off immediately. “How I go about my business isn’t your concern. I’d be more worried about reading the terms and conditions of what you’re agreeing to if I were you.”

“I can’t read if ye can’t be quiet,” he grumbles, grabbing the piece of paper and skimming through the document. After getting halfway through, he looks up. “What, so ye need me to do yer dirty work? And fer what?”

“Not exactly. Keep reading.”

It’s hard to convince someone to thoroughly read through a legal document if they don’t want to. Snatcher knows from experience about those types—they go through it as fast as possible, only pay attention to what benefits them, get the transaction over with, and don’t realize how badly they’ve been screwed over in the process. Suffice to say, they’re his favorite kinds of people to make a deal with, and the Conductor seems to fit that category perfectly.

His face lights up. “Award 42?” He sounds almost in disbelief. “How would ye…?”

Snatcher smiles. “I have my ways.”

To be fair, it’s not too hard for him to figure out what a person’s deepest desires are—that, and the very kid that he’s trying to torment really thinks the conversations she has with him are purely banter. She’s been enlightening him about the very adventures he wants to twist around for his own gain, hoping to finally get the revenge he’s been seeking from her all this time. Promising the Mafia Boss a body, promising Mustache Girl he’ll rid her island of the Mafia, and what did he plan on promising the Conductor?

Award 42.

It’s all he could talk about when he was attempting to kill Hat Kid, according to her. Snatcher figured he’d be able to reignite the Conductor’s murderous rage with that particular carrot dangling in front of him. Luckily, the wording is vague enough that he can get away with only partially fulfilling his end of the deal. Once all is said and done, he’s going to hand off the award to him, and nothing else. No fanfare. No change in the actual history of the awards. He’ll have the award, just like he promised, but it won’t truly be his to claim.

With the Conductor the way that he is, Snatcher anticipates the fallout to be catastrophic. He’ll take care of it when the time comes.

“Yer not kidding? Ye really mean it?”

“Sure do!” Snatcher nods, his grin only growing the more he speaks. “It’s as it says. Sign your body and soul away to me to use for the time being, and I’ll give you an award for your troubles, no strings attached. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me!”

The Conductor already has the pen in hand, but he stops short of putting it to the paper. He looks up at the Snatcher. “Who’s going to take care of me train, then?”

“Don’t worry yourself about that,” he says. He has no real plans for that part, he’ll probably try and get a minion to make sure it doesn’t crash or something like that. “It says that in the contract, doesn’t it? If the train is destroyed in any way in your absence, the deal’s off! It’s pretty simple.”

He hesitates. The pen’s in his hand, he’s looking at the document, and to be perfectly honest, it’s not clear what the Conductor is going to do. There’s something he finds fascinating about how unpredictable this man can be—at least that’s something he can use to his advantage while he technically owns the rights to him.

“So, what’s it gonna be?”

“What, sign or let ye kill me? Yer not giving me much of an option!”

“Then why the hesitation?”

“It’s.” The Conductor pauses. He’s trying to search for something, but he’s at a loss. It’s not something he wants to put into words, but Snatcher’s all too familiar with it: no longer being in control. Inhaling sharply after some silence, he says, “It’s nothing.”

Without ceremony, he signs it, the contract disappearing before his eyes before he’s gotten the chance to fully take in what he’s done. “Hey, don’t be so glum, chum!” Snatcher cheerfully sings out. “You’re getting Award 42 at the end of all of this! Don’t forget!”

“Aye, how can I?” Taking his hat off, his runs his hand through the feathers that sit atop his head. “Look, I know ye need me, but I can’t go along with it just yet.”

“I know,” Snatcher replies. “I still need to make arrangements with your future coworker! Pretty sure you know him.”

“My…” It dawns on him. “Ye didn’t—!!”

“Oops! Looks like I’m needed elsewhere!” He didn’t actually have anywhere else to be, but he’s not exactly looking to get stabbed again. “Smell ya later!”

As he was leaving, he could still hear bits and pieces of the fit the Conductor started to throw. Sitting back in his chair at home, Snatcher can finally relax! At least, that’s what he wants to do. All he can think about at the moment is how much of a pain it’s going to be to have to be around that piece of work. Maybe he can get him and DJ Grooves to cooperate if they’re able to hurt each other too? Heck if he knows!

He better not be going through all of this trouble just to have the kid live through it all. That would be the worst. Oh well, he’ll meet that situation when if he comes to it.

[ashapon]

Sanctuary

The second part of my KazuHi Caretaker series! I’ve read through it a few times, but it’s still possible I missed an error, so apologies.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s not alone.

Part 1

---

Hiei’s destination seems like a lifetime away, within eyesight and somehow perpetually out of his reach. On a horizon blurred out by the rain.

He shakes his head, because it’s nonsense. Irrationality born from the fever that has tormented him for days, the one that’s granted him a few fleeting moments of rest.

He knows he’s too caught up in his thoughts when his foot slips on a branch; of course, he catches himself and blames it on the weather. If he were so clumsy as to fall, it truly would be the end.

The pain in his temple is tremendous, it prevents him from attempting to discern where he’s going. He knows, but it hurts to think. Everything is instinct.

Hiei lands on another branch - and it’s sloppy, but he doesn’t have time to think on it. Every breath he takes is a trial, the air around him is simultaneously frigid and blistering. A desert caught between night and day.

He crouches, raising to tap his knuckles against a window close by.

There’s no answer right away and he snorts. It would be just his luck to come all this way and find the place empty.

He’s leaning on the window when it opens and he doesn’t quite have the time to recover.

Someone catches him and he holds onto consciousness just long enough to hear them say his name.

---

Kazuma paces the length of his room, phone in hand, eyes darting to the mound of blankets on his bed.

More specifically, he supposes, the ill demon curled up beneath them.

To say that Hiei showing up minutes ago and tumbling through his bedroom window was the most eventful thing to happen that Sunday afternoon would be an understatement. After all, Kazuma’s main goal for the day was to fit in enough studying that he didn’t feel like a complete mess going into next week.

So yes, Hiei was a surprise. The sickness not so much, but the degree to which it had progressed? Definitely.

They’d all noticed he was unwell, as much as he tried to hide it, it was clear when Hiei was off his game. This was, however, the same Hiei that would sooner hole himself up and burn the illness away with sheer rage than admit to a bad case of the sniffles.

The instant they commented on the fact that he should look after himself, he disappeared.

And okay, maybe Kazuma entertained the insane notion that somehow Hiei had just stabbed the sickness out. Like there was a singular mass, a physical manifestation of his affliction that he’d carved out and buried away, deep beneath the earth for no one to find.

Then, perhaps, he’d spent the rest of the week training. Because how dare his body succumbed to any sort of weakness. It must be punished, something, something.

“Come on, pick up,” Kazuma groans, cradling the phone against his ear. “Sorta outta my element here.”

The call rang through, Kurama must be busy.

He hangs up, defeated.

The lump that is his friend, Hiei the Headstrong-- no, no one calls him that -- Hiei the Stubborn -- oh, they definitely call him that -- shifts in his sleep. He makes a sound that can only be described as anguished and Kazuma is dialing another number.

The thing is, he can do the whole caretaker thing. The common cold, a flu. But he’s never interacted with a demon flu or cold or whatever this is and he really doesn’t want to mess this up.

Hiei trusted him enough to come here, after all.

None of this matters, though, if none of friends pick up their phone.

Kazuma snaps his phone shut and slides it onto his desk, fed up. Okay, so it was time for plan B, which loosely amounts to do your best.

He rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

---

Hiei is aware of a few things in the transitory moments between sleep and more sleep.

He knows he isn’t alone. His body can’t decide whether that’s a positive or negative thing, if the tension in his muscles can be relied on.

He’s out of the rain, at least, because he’s not soaked, his clothing isn’t drenched. It’s warm. Too warm.

The clothing isn’t his, it’s not familiar. The brush of the fabric on his feverish skin. Foreign.

Soft, he decides. Which means it can stay.

But all of it -- the clothing, the piles of blankets -- it contributes to the unpleasant heat layering his skin. Stirring up sweat on his brow.

It’s too hot, somehow it burns hotter than the flames of the demon realm. Unbearable.

Impossible.

So, he’s dying, and that’s it, then?

Someone chuckles nearby and Hiei forces his eyes open. Narrows them.

This isn’t funny, let him die in peace.

“You’re not dying,” the voice says and sounds like a smile, gentle and pitying. “At least, I’m pretty sure you’re not.”

“Stupid,” Hiei manages and closes his eyes once more.

---

Kazuma can’t help but grin at the single word he assumes is directed at him. If Hiei can still toss around an insult or two, he can’t be too far gone.

He can’t blame the demon for his drama, it doesn’t feel great to be sick. If it doesn’t happen to you often, it might as well feel like death.

Kazuma sighs, dipping a cloth in cold water, ringing the excess away. When he starts to dab the sweat away on Hiei’s brow, the demon flinches.

“Sorry,” Kazuma blurts, hesitating. “It’s just water, that okay?”

He doesn’t receive an answer, but Hiei is more receptive to his touches from that point on. Less tense.

Hiei was never a chatty character, but his words are certainly few and far between. They’re distant, like his awareness.

Kazuma isn’t even sure he knows where he is half the time.

Still, Hiei sleeps and its fairly sound.

Kazuma takes to settling on the floor beside his bed, textbook in his lap, cell at his side. He’s close, just in case Hiei’s voice fails him.

For the past hour, Hiei has been making remarks about being too warm. It’s happening consistently enough, that Kazuma isn’t sure anything he does will be effective.

At first, he tries a cool cloth. A compress, something chilled and resting over Hiei’s closed third eye.

“No good?” Kazuma furrows his eyebrows when the demon head drops to the side and he groans.

That’s a no.

So he gets a fan from the storage closet, sets it on high oscillation. Thinks better of it and simply has it face Hiei directly.

Kazuma calls Kurama again. No answer.

In his desperation, he dials a second time. A third.

“Kurama, man,” Kazuma whines into the voice mailbox, rubbing his arms when a sudden shiver strikes him. “So, we were right about the shrimp being sick, okay? He’s here and, uh, is there like a book I can read or somethi-”

He shivers again, his breath leaving him in a frosted puff.

“So,” his teeth chatter and he curses under his breath. “Damn, nevermind.”

Kazuma snaps his phone closed and takes a few short steps to his closet, wondering all the while why each step feels like his feet on bare ice.

It’s not a spirit, he doesn’t actually sense anything. What, then?

He pauses just as he’s about to slide on a sweater. He does sense it now, realizes. Demonic energy that he’d dismissed before because there was an air of familiarity to it.

He’d just associated it with--

“Shit,” he spins, eyes searching, landing on the form still resting in his bed.

--with Hiei, who’d been quiet this entire time.

Kazuma’s watches the demon’s soft exhales leave his lips, clouding up in the frigid air. But that makes sense with whatever’s happening.

What doesn’t is the blue glow that surrounds his slumbering form, the thin layer of frost accumulating on Kazuma’s sheets, spreading to the floor. The icy air curling, spilling very visibly from Hiei’s fingers.

Wide-eyed, Kazuma shoots forward, winces when he finds it is, in fact, even colder the closer he gets to the demon.

“Okay,” Kazuma grits his teeth, recoiling when his hand brushes Hiei’s. “Oh fuck, that’s...”

Cold. It’s like ice.

“Is this normal?” He squeaks at the same time that he thinks, and he knows, that it isn’t. “Hiei?”

---

He hates it, he hates this.

If he could burn it away, he would. He doesn’t think he possesses any flames powerful enough, shame as it is to say.

“Shrimp?”

It makes sense, if this is it. His life began in flames, it should end the same way.

Usually, the fire, it listens. It’s the only thing he’s had all this time.

Fine, then.

“Hiei?”

Now it betrays him.

Fitting. Wild, temperamental, this borrowed power.

Tendrils of heat coiling beneath his skin, seeking freedom. He’s not enough for them, he never has been.

So, then, if his life is not meant to be lived in fire.

...no, he would rather die than rely on it.

Their power.

He can’t -- won’t -- count on ice.

So the fire can have him.

“Hiei!”

Unless there’s something else.

---

Kazuma heaves a sigh of relief when Hiei’s eyes shoot open.

And just like that, the frigid temperature disappears. His room is no longer an impromptu ice rink.

Kazuma’s shoulders fall and he turns to meet Hiei’s wide-eyed gaze.

For an instant, he thinks that Hiei might disappear. Might run, just like that. The fear in his eyes is that real, an uncertainty that Kazuma has never bore witness to in an otherwise cool calculating stare.

So he feels like he has to say something, because it’s fine. It really is.

Hiei looks like he needs to know that.

“Hey,” Kazuma’s startled by how off his voice sounds. “Do demons like ice cream?”

Hiei blinks at him, brow furrowed. He rises, slowly.

“What,” he starts, weary, “is ice cream?”

Kazuma grins.

Thirty minutes later, he learns Hiei has tried ice cream. He calls it ‘sweet snow’, which is simultaneously accurate and entertaining and, though he is dismissive of the delectability of strawberry and chocolate swirl, he polishes off an entire carton with ease.

“You liked it,” Kazuma accuses, propped against the wall his bed rests next to. “You can say you like something, you know?”

“I like sleeping,” Hiei returns, tugging the blankets up to his shoulders and turning away.

Kazuma laughs until Hiei kicks his leg.

---

Hiei recognizes the forest surrounding him on all sides: the towering trees that blot out any source of light, the lullaby that the wind whistles through its branches, haunting and beautiful. The unconventional beauty of the woods he grew up in was often a comfortable sight, but tonight was different.

Tonight, the danger that always lurked behind every rustled bush, that skulked just on the edge of your vision, it was very real.

The night is cold, in spite of the crackling fire in front of him. When the wind picks up, he clutches feebly at the edges of his tattered cloak. There’s enough of it there to wrap around himself entirely, twice, but still it does little to keep him warm.

In the distance, where they think he can’t hear, the bandits debate.

He tells himself he doesn’t care what they say, what they believe, but knows not deep down enough that this matters.

Pieces of the conversation filter through his waning consciousness.

“--just a young’in--”

“We don’t have ti--”

“A weapon, at least.”

“We need everyth’n we can take.”

At the last bit, Hiei’s gaze shoots over to the large blade at his side. His hands are too small to clutch the hilt in its entirety, but he holds it close, watches with a newfound attentiveness the way that the fire scatters its light across its steel.

Heavy footsteps stop to his left. He doesn’t look up, he doesn’t let go of his blade.

“Hiei--”

“I don’t care,” Hiei answers, frowning. “If you’re going to leave, do it.”

There’s a silence where Gen, the enormous earthen demon who boasts second-in-command of their little group, their family, shifts his weight. He’s hesitating, so Hiei makes it easy for him.

“Shut up,” he raises his voice, but it still comes out a rasp. “You talk too much.”

“Boss and I know you’ll catch up,” Gen continues, unphased. “Rules we live by, they’re tough.”

Hiei feels the other move closer and leaps to his feet, drawing his sword and using it to create distance between them.

“I don’t need your pity,” he snarls. “If you don’t want to lose that hand, leave.”

There’s a fury that stirs in his chest when Gen sighs and it does, in fact, still sound like pity.

Hiei lets the anger fester there, lets it consume the despair. It’s easier to be resentful when Gen turns his back and sets off with the rest.

So much easier than the two tears that escape and clatter to the ground as he holds himself, alone, and stops just short of reaching out, of pleading for someone, anyone, to come back.

---

Kazuma tears his eyes from his book just in time to see Hiei awake with a start, to watch him wildly search the room and heave breath after frenzied breath.

He’s looking for something, someone, but he doesn’t really see. Not until Kazuma speaks up.

“Hiei,” Kazuma sits up, slides as close as he can. “Hey, it’s alright, I’m here.”

Hiei sees him, meets his gaze, but he doesn’t relax. Not yet.

In the silence, Kazuma offers a smile, carefully rests his hand over one of Hiei’s and leaves it there when he’s allowed. He waits, listens for the demon’s breathing to even out before he tuck his book to his chest and moves to fill the distance between Hiei and the wall.

There, he rests his textbook on his folded legs and resumes studying. Nothing more to say, no need to comment on the glassy sheen to Hiei’s eyes.

With their shoulders touching, Kazuma feels Hiei relax beside him.

Kazuma finishes another chapter of his reading before he realizes the weight on his shoulder is heavier. When he glances over, Hiei is sound asleep.

It takes some time and isn’t particularly graceful, but Kazuma manages to shift their position without waking the demon.

And like that, with Hiei nestled against his chest and sufficiently covered with every blanket in the Kuwabara household, Kazuma gets a head-start on his reading for the week.

The two round gems, their own unique shade and luster, that slid beneath the pillow... those Kazuma slips into his pocket to get rid of later.

[daywillcomeagain]

galadriel

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. this is the first, but you’ll be able to read the rest here once i’ve posted more. they’re from discord chats, so they’re in a very casual style.

2.9K words under the cut!

galadriel is born in valinor, in the undying lands, in the west. death is unheard of. only one person has ever died in the history of the entire universe, and it was because she wanted to die. the streets are paved in diamonds; emeralds and rubies and sapphires are scattered on the beaches as a gift. galadriel is the youngest child of the youngest child of the king; she's a princess, yes, but she's fifteenth in line, eighteenth if the noldor get over their sexism by the time the king dies. and she's smart. she's absurdly smart. she goes to the valar and begs them to teach her everything. they agree to teach her as much as they are willing to. she learns mathematics and astronomy and biology and botany and anatomy and poetry and physics and chemistry. and she runs out of things to learn that the gods will teach her.

she starts dreaming of going to middle-earth. ruling her own kingdom. she's in paradise and she knows everything there is to know and nothing she does matters, not really, she could have learned it all or she could have been the best archer and runner and swimmer in the land or she could have sat at home and done nothing and it wouldn't have mattered because she's already in paradise. and she's still not taken seriously here, she has all the knowledge of the gods but in the eyes of everyone else that still doesn't make her anything more than a young girl. she is valued most not for her knowledge but for her hair, so beautiful and golden, the most beautiful anyone has ever seen. from strangers it is flattering. from those who know her, it is nothing but an insult. and she doesn't fit in anywhere, not exactly, half-lindar quarter-vanyar quarter-noldor, with blonde hair and a telerin accent that speaks so confidently of her own knowledge.

and then the king dies.

feanor gives his speech, full of fire and rebellion, and his sons jump to his side to swear an oath, and she can't tell if her shivers are terrified or excited. (maybe it's both.) he says: say farewell to the gilded cage of paradise. let us go to middle-earth. let us pursue evil, let us destroy it, we will never turn back, and we will win, and all shall bow to our glory.

galadriel has always hated feanor, but it surprises nobody that his speech wakes something up inside her. her brothers, her father, her mother, they all council calmness, of cool heads, of softness. galadriel wants to go. she is described as "the only woman of the Noldor to stand that day tall and valiant among the contending princes."

they have, of course, no boats. perhaps you have already heard this story. but let me tell it again, as she would have seen it:

it is dark. galadriel has never seen night before, not truly; she grew up in a world where the hours were marked by whether the light was the sharp gold of laurelin or the gentle silver of telperien. at least there is starlight now--it is not the pitch black of void that came with the darkness at first. but still, it is so very dark. her sight is better than humans, but it is not perfect, and she has never before lived in dark.

she is at the front of finarfin's host, which is to say that she is still at the back. it chafes, of course, because it all does, because every second in valinor aches and all she wants is to be gone.

and she arrives to see her uncles fighting her aunts, she arrives to see blood and death, she arrives at the end of a long line of people who are in sword battles with her mom.

the noldor--her dad's people--are smiths and hunters. they work with iron and diamonds. morgoth taught them how to make swords and armor and then how to point them at people. the lindar--her mom's people--are singers and fishers. they work with wood and rope, building boats and tying knots and harmonizing with the sound of crashing waves.

the outcome was, of course, inevitable.

what did galadriel do? well, that depends on which version of the story you heard. some say she fought with the lindar, used her swords and armor in a desperate attempt at defence. some say she just stood aside in shock, because everything is dark and full of blood and metal and screams and nobody has ever died before. i suppose it's your choice, in the end, because nobody could ever get up the nerve to ask her. how could they walk up to the great Lady of Lothlórien and ask her, did you kill your uncles, or did you stand aside and let your mom be murdered?

either way, it doesn't matter, in the end. the lindar are killed. the boats are taken.

this is, of course, when the valar choose to speak up. mandos lays upon them a doom that is maybe a curse and maybe a prophecy, and says that everyone who leaves now is exiled forever, and that they shall be killed, "by weapon and by torment and by grief", and that the valar do not care. he declares that every good deed they do shall end in evil, that anyone who survives shall come to see their own existence exhausting, that they shall fade and diminish and become shadows of themselves.

galadriel knows, now, that fëanor started the fight. she hates him more than ever. but she cannot help but think again of his speech, decrying the valar, decrying paradise. for she did nothing, and now they are punishing her for her half-uncle.

her father turns back, to stay with her mother. her mother whose people have been killed. it's a good decision.

but--she's been dreaming for so long, and her people are still going on, and she knows that if she stays she will never forgive herself for losing her only chance.

it is a day (or it would be, if it was not still endless night, a black sky with so very many stars) before they realize.

there aren't enough boats.

fingolfin doesn't trust fëanor. fëanor doesn't trust fingolfin. the house of finarfin doesn't trust either of them. they argue and argue and argue, who will go first, how will they do this. feanor's people took the worst losses--feanor's people started the fight--fingolfin's people trusted them and followed them and they wouldn't have if they had known--but they still trusted them, and the people of finarfin were the only ones who knew the other side--

--in the end, none of the argument matters. fëanor takes the boats when they are all asleep. sails across an ocean. waits for everyone to wake up before he sets them on fire.

this is the alternative: the helcaraxë, an arctic wasteland of freezing cold and mountains. they had already deemed it impassable. if it had not been, the first kinslaying would never have happened. by all rights, they should be trapped there, in valinor. making that walk would kill countless people. it would be suicide as surely as it would be suicide to hike across antarctica in the winter, or trying to cross siberia during a night that lasts forever.

with no light, there were no years. but later, timekeepers would calculate. it is 37 years of the sun later when galadriel steps foot, shivering, on middle-earth. and with that footstep, the moon rises for the first time.

the war is, of course, exactly as hopeless as they were told. fëanor is dead; maedhros is being tortured, publicly, visibly. they are not winning; they are only in stalemate because the enemy is not, currently, doing anything. galadriel is no longer the young princess who did not know death. she has learned something about herself, on the ice: she does not want to fight a hopeless war, no matter how beautiful the songs they sing about her death. she wants to live to tell this story.

she moves in with her great-uncle from her mother's side, instead. elu thingol. his people call themselves thindar, not lindar, but they look the same. not like the ñoldor. it's welcome. their realm is warm, and full of flowers, and safe. his wife, melian, is a wizard. galadriel has changed a lot, but this has not changed: she goes to melian and says, teach me everything you know.

and so she does.

they learn from her about the silmarils, about the oath. they do not learn from her about their dead family; she is too coward for that, still. but they do learn. when thingol learns, he makes his decree, bans quenya. she has to change her name. artanis she is no longer. she chooses her own name, in this new language. galadriel.

she gives speeches, writers letters, begging her people and her family. please, abandon this war, stop using your forces to fight morgoth and start using them to defend your people, it cannot be won, your job is not to win it, your job is to mitigate the damage. she petitions thingol and melian to take in refugees, to save as many people as can be saved.

they don't listen. nobody listens. every battle is a new casualty. her cousin, her brothers, her uncle.

(she falls in love. his name is celeborn and he has and if her hair is laurelin then his is telperion and he does not compliment her hair. he meets her after a speech, compliments her way with words, proposes meeting and teaching the men and dark wood-elves to the east. she had always thought that it was silly, when people spoke of love at first sight, but as soon as she hears that, she knows she will marry him.)

she visits the one brother who is still alive. he has collected names for himself--once findaráto, now finrod, felagund, nómin. he has made a beautiful city in the caves, where thindar and noldor and dwarves mingle. he has named himself king. he has sworn an oath.

meanwhile-- a human comes to doriath. he watches the daughter of thingol and melian--the princess lúthien--as she dances, as she sings. he calls out her name and she looks back at him and in the songs they will sing thousands of years later it is that moment that they will point to as the moment she is doomed. she brings her love to her father. her father laughs, says "he can marry you when he holds a silmaril in his hand." beren does not take this as a no. beren looks thingol in the eye and says "you're on".

finrod’s oath is to beren. galadriel’s half-cousins are still sworn to get the silmarils back at any cost. she weeps when she hears the news.

in the end, there is not yet another kinslaying. this is mostly because sauron kills her brother surely enough that her cousins do not have to bother.

(beren gets the silmaril. they get married. everyone in doriath is full of joy and hope. everyone but one.)

more die. once, she was eighteenth in line for king of the ñoldor. more have been born since, but counting herself, only two of those original eighteen walk on middle-earth. there are scarcely enough ñoldor to justify having a king. the silmaril still burns in doriath.

thingol dies in a fight over who owns the silmaril. nobody's quite clear if it's his fault or the fault of the dwarves. it doesn't really matter. melian goes into mourning, goes back to valinor. takes her protection with her. for the first time in a very long time, doriath is vulnerable. (the sons of fëanor send messengers, reminding: neither thingol nor the dwarves own the silmaril. it is theirs by birthright. and, they add carefully, they swore an oath. they do not have to say what they will do for it, because everyone knows.)

more cousins fall. if she wanted to claim High Queen of the Ñoldor, she could, probably. or maybe the kingship orodreth's, or idril's. she finds to her surprise that she doesn't really want to. she has learned at the knee of dozens of ainur, and she knows nothing that will help win the war. she wants to rule, yes--but not like this.

she still gives speeches. she doesn't really expect them to mean anything.

the sons of fëanor come. she has known them since she was a child, grew up with them. she has memories of riding and laughing and going to classes and learning how to work in the forge and being babysat when her own brothers were busy.

they kill everyone. even the children. they do not get the silmaril.

the survivors flow into a refugee camp that her cousin's daughter leads. they had crossed the ice together when galadriel was an adult and she was still a child. it is strange, to take orders from someone when you were there at their birth. but they are both old now. she does not bother to give speeches.

(they come. they kill. they do not get the silmaril. they do keep two children--twins--hostages, not dead, and she has fallen far enough to be grateful for that.)

seven years after the third kinslaying, five hundred ninety three years since fëanor’s speech, the valar arrive in beleriand. the war is horrific, but at last, at last, it is not hopeless.

galadriel fights. it is a grueling war, decades long, ainur against ainur. chunks of land break off, crumble into the sea. doriath is lost. arvernien is lost. dor-lomin is lost, hithlum is lost, nevrast is lost, all of it lost to the sea.

but they are winning.

she loses her last two cousins. they were murderers--she shouldn't care--she still cares, a little.

they win. the valar declare: you are pardoned. we forgive you. you can return to valinor, if you wish.

she almost laughs in their face. she has done nothing wrong to be pardoned for. she rejects it a thousand times over. they should be begging her pardon. they trapped her in paradise. they came six hundred years too late to save her family. and then they act as though it is such an act of mercy and graciousness, to forgive her for the terrible crime of being related to kinslayers.

she learns that another of her relations--gil-galad--has taken up the kingship of the noldor. she and her husband build a city within the land he has claimed as his kingdom, for the sindar who chafe at noldorin rule. she moves, after a while, to eregion; her half-cousin once-removed rules, there. grandson of fëanor, son of curufin. he does not call himself that, though she has seen the star he puts on his work. he introduces himself instead as a craftsman. celebrimbor of eregion, and that is all.

she is happy enough, for a while, but she is restless. her husband says that he has connections on the other side of the mountains. they speak a language there--silvan--that is not quite telerin and not quite sindarin; she learns it quickly enough. she agrees to move, and they do, passing through khazad-dum at the height of its glory.

it is not long after that they learn that sauron is still around. celebrimbor sends her a ring.

this, too, is a song you have heard. gil-galad was an elven king, of him the harpers sadly sing. they wave celebrimbor’s corpse as a banner.

and then--then, it is just her. they are all dead.

she becomes a queen, but not of the noldor. laurelindórenan, the native silvan elves call it. they are a peaceful people who know as much of battle as the lindar did. it breaks her heart to change that, but she knows it is a choice between that and death. she takes over, crowning herself queen in all but name. she establishes borders. she helps them to fight. galadriel and celeborn become lady and lord of lothlórien.

she has a daughter. celebrían's hair is as silver as her husband's.

she marries elrond. she is so, so happy.

celebrían is on her way to visit galadriel and celeborn when she is captured and tortured by orcs. elrond heals her, physically, but she never recovers. she leaves for valinor, for real. and again galadriel is alone.

all the while, she wears the ring. because she knows that mandos spoke true when he gave his doom so many thousands of years ago, and she knows that she has rejected his pardon. here in middle-earth, she will fade, she will diminish. she has seen it happen: elves whose bodies just give out, becoming thin and transparent and then just a voice on the breeze and then nothing at all.

but as long as she wears the ring, that does not happen in lothlórien. as long as her ring still has power.

--you know the rest of the story. frodo comes. he is the temptation. she declines the Ruling Ring. she has seen too much of what her family will do, given power. in valinor, she dreamed of coming to middle-earth for a kingdom.

she knows he plans to destroy it. she knows that her ring will lose its power, should the One be destroyed. she also knows that it is the right thing to do.

and so she has two choices. she can stay, and fade, slowly but surely. or she can go again to the west, a returned exile penitent for crimes she did not do, walk again in paradise, useless and heartbroken.

(at least her father will be there. he had stayed, so very long ago, and she had left.)

out of all the peoples of the world, it was only the lindar who could make swan-ships. thousands of years ago, they were all burned, the wealth of the lindar gone in a single fire.

when galadriel sails back to valinor, it is in a swan-ship.

[erid-search-history]

Baby blues Ch.4

So i know that no one asked for a filler chapter, but here you go you little monsters

Slight mention of injury, past relations with parents, and fluff. you have been warned.

As the leaves began to fall off the trees, and the days got colder, Gwen only got bigger with it. At this point she was able to actually see a baby bump. This had made her decide that it was time to do some more shopping.

Max jumped out of the car, and shivered from the lack of a heater blowing in his face. “God damn it’s cold as s-shit.”

He waited for Gwen by the back of the vehicle, who grabbed his hand gently and lead him out of the cold. “I know, it’s only the beginning of November too. I hope your father is holding up better though. It’s gotta be freezing out there in the park.”

He nodded, concerned now. Hopefully he wouldn’t get sick on patrols.

As they entered the store, a wave of warmth washed over their skin. They let out a couple shivers, before noticing the smell of cinnamon and peppermint that followed.

Christmas decorations flooded their vision. No store window was complete without a deer or Santa. Nope.

Max shuddered at the ugly excuse for a christmas display he saw inside a store. He felt like he could barf at merely the sight of the festive characters.

As they walked through, he noticed an abundance of other mothers with their children. They were most likely trying to get more winter clothes or were simply enjoying the sales. Other than this, it wasn’t all that busy, it still being somewhere around two thirty in the afternoon.

They made their way into a kid’s clothing department, Max rolled his eyes once more.

Gwen smiled, looking for the baby section. “Ok sport, go look around the kids side and see if you can find something to wear when it snows. You grew quite a bit since last year, meaning you’ve probably grown out of your other one by now.” He gave her a half assed salute and started to walk to another section. “I’ll be right here where you can see me if you need anything ok?”

He nodded again and continued.

She could visibly see that he had immediately taken interest in a grey hoodie with the words ‘thirst for the void’ on it. She smiled to herself and picked up a green onesie. It had small pine trees on it with the words ‘lil’ camper’ on it. She knew david was going to throw a fit when he saw, she just couldn’t resist.

She plopped it into the cart and was about to pick out another, but stopped when she heard a small voice yelp in pain. She looked over, and just guess who she saw sitting on the ground. The now concerned women rushed her way over to the small boy to see what was wrong. He sat up, and she put a protective arm around him. “Are you ok? Did you trip on something?” she looked over at what appeared to be one of those dolls that were supposed to be on the shelf in another area.

“Yeah i’m fine, people and their shitty kids need to pick up after themselves though. Seriously david would have a cow if i left something laying around like that. Shit.”

He tried standing, but his movement was stunted.

He had small tears form in the corners of his eyes, and gwen’s heart broke at that.

“Well C’mon, let’s go find you a seat.”

He stood up, and leaned against her, she would have picked him up, but was pretty sure it would murder her back.

He hissed anytime his foot touched the tile floor, and it only caused him to become more agitated. She sat him on a bench, before going back in to pay for their things.

When she came back, he had already began to inspect his swollen ankle.

She sat next to him.

“Does it hurt too much to walk?”

He nods.

“Well, how about I get you into a cart and we can go to the car? You’ll probably need to see a doc, just to make sure it heals properly”

He shook his head, “I don’t wanna ruin this. This is the one day i can actually say i was looking forward to this week.”

He turned a shade of red and looked away, gwen smiled a bit.

“Ok, well.. How about I let you sit in the cart while i finish, it should only take about an hour. Plus, now that I think about it, the doctor’s office might be closed today.”

He nods, and opens his arms to be comforted. She holds him close, and in this moment, she’s happy to be here with max.

They finish buying all of the clothes they need, not that many actually, and head off to a nearby fast food joint.

“Ok, so what would you like to get Max?”

They both decide on hot chocolates and some burgers.

Once they’re home, Gwen gets max to sit on the couch, and pulls out  the first aid kit. He’s set up with his food, a nice holiday special, and his foot propped up on a stool. The heat from a heating pad feeling really nice where it was painful before.. Gwen sat beside him, also enjoying the warmth of the space heater in front of them. She places a hand on her stomach and giggles when she feels slight movement.

Max glances over but says nothing. It’s not like he cares about whatever mushy thing she’s thinking about. Probably one of her doctor thingies again. Barf.

“Hey Max, did.. Did you wanna touch it?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the sudden question, “excuse me?”

“My stomach, i mean. I know it might seem weird, but i’m willing to bet you’ve never been around someone who’s pregnant before me, huh?”

He scoffs, “yeah I didn’t get out much growing up. To be honest, i’m still trying to comprehend the fact that you got pregnant and decided to keep me.”

She frowned, but placed her hand on his.

“It’s ok to be curios max, and we would never replace you. Even if you’re a little shit sometimes, we still love you.” She smirks, “besides, who would be around to help me torment David?”

He giggled and nodded, “yeah, anyone else who even tried would be shit at it, i guarantee.”

He pulls his hand back to his chest, and rubs his fingers together anxiously. He looks to her stomach again, his own in knots.

“So..say I was kinda wondering what it’s like… how would I..?”

She giggled at him again. “I’ll show you, it’s ok.”

She placed a hand over his again and lead it up to the top of her small bump. She dragged it up and down slowly. “You feeling anything move Max?”

He started to shake his head before stopping their hands.

“whoa…..I.. That’s gross.”

He retracted his hand, and folded his arms. Gwen couldn’t help but laugh this time.

By the time she had calmed down, she noticed max was staring at her stomach.

“What is it? Wanna touch the ‘gross’ thing again?”

He shook his head rapidly. “N-no i just, well...do you feel it when it moves?’’

She looked down to her stomach. “Yep, every damn move.”

He paused, but gently reached out again. It was weird, but kinda cool?

Gwen relaxed against the couch,  continuing to watch the movie. “Yeah, just wait til I get bigger. The baby isn’t even due for at least 5 more months.”

He retracts his hand again, and looks down to his foot.

“Damn, does.. Does it hurt when you’re pregnant? What does it even feel like?”

She drinks some co coa out of her foam cup, and shakes her head. “Nah it’s more like..someone is poking you from the inside. It really only hurts my back sometimes but that’s it really.”

As she goes to set her mug down, the front doorknob jiggles and the sound of keys can be heard.

David walked in slowly, not wanting to startle anyone. He smiles at gwen when he sees her.

“Hey guys! Sorry i’m home so late, i was helping miss johnson with her decorations in the park, and you know how, well, scatterbrained she can be!”

He smiles and sets his bags down, taking off his ranger hat and kisses gwen on the cheek. “How were my two favorite people today?”

Gwen smiles when she’s kissed gently by him, and hums in response to the question. “Well, we picked up some clothes today, got a bite to eat and all. Max kinda sprained his ankle, so..”

She looks over at max’s set up, along with david. He frowns and puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh no! Does it hurt? Where is the pain? Can you feel it?”

Max has to push mama bird david out of his face. “Yes, it’s fine. Geez, you act like this has never happened before. Broken bones aren’t that big of a deal david, let alone a sprained ankle.”

He crosses his arms, trying to put on his “i don’t fuckin care about shit” face, but he actually is kinda glad that david cares so much about his well-being.

David frowns again, but chippers up and raises a hand in excitement. Max flinches a bit, but watches carefully.

“Well max, even though i know you don’t want me to know how painful that is, i have something that will get your mind off the pain!”

He smiles at both of them and grabs a box out of his bag. The front is red and has a gingerbread man on the front. “I thought maybe we could put together a gingerbread house!”

Max and gwen look at him confused, and he gives a small chuckle. “Heh, my dad and i used to make these every christmas before he left mom. Those were some of the best years of my childhood.”

He looks to nothing in particular, reminicing back to when he was probably around 4.

Max looks at the man very warily, nodding. “Ok, i guess that sounds ok. At least it involves food.”

“Yeah,” gwen chimes in, “that sounds like it could be something that won’t burn the house down.”

David sighs, “ONE TIME.”

Gwen and max bust out in giggles at the flustered man. Well, at least they’re smiling.

All together it was a nice bonding activity for them, save for the frosting david had mushed in his hair for a week. Max’s ankle had been doing fairly better, and was back to causing mischief in no less than two weeks.

Max was happy, but only hoped it would stay that way...

[neen-writes]

Lady in the Garden -- Chapter 4

Series: Fairy Tail/Doctor Who

Characters: Gajeel/Levy

Genre: Adventure/Angst

Summary: She was a falling star; an angel speaking in stardust dialects.  She was madness and wonder, and she asked him to come with her.

Note: This chapter was fun for me, if a little challenging.  I am hoping, really, that everyone enjoys this one!  I had mentioned once before that every Doctor Who companion goes through 2 distinct adventures in the beginning.  The one that solidifies their relationship with the Time Lord, and one that shows them what time really is.  This is one of those two.  Just one, as I have a plan already for the other.  Enjoy!

Ch. 1  Ch. 2 Ch. 3

Gajeel balked when the door opened in front of him and he was able to see the room on the other side.  The very small room, and the large, single bed.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Levy has already chimed in ahead of him, “Cozy!”

“Are ya kiddin’?  Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?” Gajeel protested, his gaze pointedly moving from one corner of the room to the other.  Two oil-burning sconces cast their yellow light from mounted positions on the back wall, framing the corners of the bed.  The smells of the food and mead still wafted in from the main hall, but the smell of wood and must still prevailed.

Infuriatingly, Levy shrugged, “Wherever you want.  There’s room for us both, or you can sleep on the floor.”

The nonchalance of her statement set his cheeks ablaze.  It was clear she had already determined she would sleep nowhere but the bed as she pranced across the room and plopped onto the straw mattress.  “The floor then, hell,” he grumbled.

“Whatever suits you, it’s your back.  We need to be up early; the innkeep agreed to take us to see the last victim.  Apparently she’s still alive.” Levy explained.

“Exciting,” Gajeel mumbled, mirthless. “This is turning out to be real peachy, y’know.”  The displeasure on his tone was tangible.

Levy shrugged again, “I said it would be dangerous, not glamorous.”

He glared at her for the noncommittal answer, but sat heavily on the floor at the foot of the bed.   “I’m still waiting for some aliens or somethin’.  I’m sure you draw them like a damn magnet.”

Levy laughed dryly, leaning her back against the headboard.  “Little bit of both really.  They either seek me or leave the galaxy, there’s little in between.”

Gajeel turned his head, regarding her from the corner of his eye with palpable skepticism, “You’re kiddin’, you want me to believe you can send anything runnin’, let alone some alien?”

The woman huffed, puffing her cheeks pridefully.  Still, for the insult, she deigned him an answer, “Not all alien races are created equal.  Oods love me, for example.  Mutual, really.  Love an Ood,” the perplexed, arched brow from him drew a genuine laugh from her, “Atraxi and Sycorax, on the other hand, not my biggest fans.  Scatter like roaches when I enter the system.  We’ve had bad run-ins way back, so I’ve got a reputation.”

Gajeel leveled a prying look at her, as though waiting for her to start laughing and dismiss it as a joke.  But she merely looked back, waiting for a response for him, face completely serious.  He was halfway inclined to believe her, given what he had seen already.  Still, he felt that doubt was not a wise instinct to abandon just yet.  “That sounds completely made up.  But sure,” he turned away from her, leaning his head back on the mattress.

“Eh, you’ll see soon enough.  Give it time.  I’ll do my best to keep you alive until then,” she teased, rewarded by a visible tensing of his shoulders.  “My my, how easy to provoke you are, beastie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call me shrimp.”  The responding huff told her that wasn’t going to happen, and she let out a deep sigh.  “Get some sleep, then.  You can torment me more tomorrow.”

After a few quiet moments, Gajeel glanced back again to see her with her eyes closed.  She hadn’t laid down, but rather sat like she was before with her eyes shut and arms crossed over her stomach.  She looked peaceful, but still alert.  He took in that image; he’d seen it before.  Gajeel didn’t always keep the best company, his father had drawn the same ilk when he was younger.  None of them were terrible, by the world’s standards, but in the time he had spent around all of them, more than one slept the way she did when they weren’t in their own homes.  

It was a light sleep, a position that could put them to their feet in moments if they needed to be.  A sleep that only people who let danger, real danger, into their lives.   What the hell am I doing here? He finally thought.  Truly, he couldn’t quite figure out why he had decided to come with her and only settled on curiosity over and over.  Here he was, out of his time, with a woman he didn’t know, trying to figure out what mystery force was killing people.  By all accounts agreeing to come here was a stupid choice.  And yet, he found himself trusting her.  

Levy tried to let Gajeel sleep as long as he had wanted, which as it turns out, was halfway through the morning.  He had fallen over onto his side and sounded like a slumbering bear, with no signs of waking anytime soon.  And there were only so many strolls she could take through her thoughts and so many trinkets in her too-big pockets.  Finally restlessness caught up to her and she bounced to her feet, walking around the foot of the bed and casually dropped her psychic paper on his face with a heavy slap.  

With a choke he sputtered awake, wiping at his face as he shot upright.  Wild eyes flew around the room, before settling on her angelically innocent face.  “You’re awake!” she quipped, smiling brightly enough to match the morning light flooding the room.  

“Fucking…” Gajeel growled deeply, slowly angling his head towards her.  He leveled cold, unwavering eyes at her, before tightly gripping her wallet and tossing it up at her.  She caught it with ease, keeping that smile on him before she sought breakfast out in the main hall.

It was was mid afternoon by the time Trea had found the time to bring them, personally, to the healer’s residence.  She had mentioned the woman, already on edge, wouldn’t see them without her introducing them.

That was as far as Trea was willing to go for them however, leaving promptly after the introduction, and not daring to spare a glance at the motionless woman on the cot.  

Levy broke the silence first.  “How long?”

“She has three days, maybe four,” the nurse replied, taking her attention away from dabbing at the woman’s forehead to regard Levy and her companion.  “It’s the thirst that takes them first.”

“Where did you find her?  How?” Levy pressed, taking her too-serious eyes away from the girl, who could not have been more than seventeen.

“Same as the others,” the tone was tired, with an even apathy cultivated by doing her kind of work for too long.  “Outside, at night.  She had gone out to river for water, judging by the bucket, but she had gone no farther than a few houses, where someone found her, clawing at her neck as if it was aflame before she became, this.” The nurse gestured to girl, turning away from them to dip her rag in the bucket of warm water and wring it out.  “We cannot give them water for fear they’ll drown, and cannot give food for fear they’ll choke.  Medicine is thus equally impossible.  I can clean her, warm her, and moisten her eyes.  And bid her to the other side when it comes.”

Levy was gravely quiet for several seconds, glancing at Gajeel.  His eyes were steeled on the motionless girl, her own blankly staring at the thatched roof, all color gone from them.  She waited until he caught her own gaze, and she angled her head pointedly.  

His brows twitched, but he understood her deliberate quiet.  For whatever reason, she wanted him to speak.  The realization of being tested sat sourly with him, but regardless, Gajeel weighed his words.  “How quickly do people find ‘em?”  

The Time Lady’s face twitched with restrained approval before the nurse answered them, brows knit as though she had never thought of it, “Immediately.  They are still in the fits when they come to me, and the fits always last the same amount of time.”

“Someone different brings them to you each time, I imagine?” Levy probed, and the quick shift in Gajeel’s posture told her that he followed her train of thought.

“Yes.”

Levy didn’t even need her to affirm it, and already had her next question out before the woman had finished, “Who brought this one?”

The nurse turned now, regarding them both with green eyes narrowed, not in ill will, but having been caught off guard by such an inquiry.  It took her a moment to remember, “The herbalist.  Lana.  She lives...in the house with the garden, on the eastern side.  She grows rosemary, along her fence.”

Golden eyes fell on Gajeel quickly, before she inclined her head to the woman in thanks, “We appreciate your time.”  The finality in her tone was clear, and Gajeel followed suit as she turned on her heel to leave. Once the wooden door thudded shut behind her, she glanced sidelong at him.  “Lives are saved by asking the right questions.  Lesson one.”  Gajeel huffed at her haughty tone, but she ignored the indignance.  “What’s your conclusion?”

The man stopped, looking down his slightly crinkled nose at her.  He wanted to fire something back at her, but the question wasn’t a taunt.  It was an opportunity.  It was an indication that he wasn’t a guest, or a tag-along.  If he didn’t know better, he’s think she was offering him the chance to be an asset.  “The key is in whoever finds ‘em.  It’s too convenient that someone gets to ‘em right away each time.  Other’n that, I don’t know.”

Levy’s answering smile was far more satisfying than he had expected it to be and it warmed something that surprised him.  “So what do we do?”

Gajeel curled his lip, “Sounds like we need to find Lana.”  The Time Lady clapped a hand against his bicep with a bright smile, heading down the road due east.  It took him a second before he followed after her.  “If it’s a different person each time, what is doing this to them?”

“Aah, that’s the question isn’t it?  I have a feeling when we find this herbalist we will get a clue,” she replied.  

True enough, thick bushes of rosemary marked the residence, but no one was within.  They tried walking the perimeter, peering into the windows, but the inside was quiet; dark.  Slow, deliberate circling around the house yielded nothing, including anyone returning to the house while they were there.  “Interesting.  That our key player isn’t here.”  Levy mused, glancing back at Gajeel.  His furrowed brow mirrored her sentiment.  What he did not expect, however, was her to stop in front of the door and pull out that screeching silver object she had used several times before.  She pointed it to the handle of her door, followed by a soft screech, and then a click.  Quickly, she pocketed the item, and pushed open the door to stride inside with the baffled man hanging back.

“...How.”  Not a question.  But demanding an answer.

“Sonic pen,” Levy replied, scanning her eyes over the cold room.  The fireplace was cold, dead.  The table wasn’t clean, withering herbs left scattered.  Like someone left in a hurry and hadn’t returned to clean up.  “I have never,” Levy started from the center of the room, “encountered an herbalist, alchemist, or any -ist that would leave their wares out like this to waste.  They are disheveled, chaotically intelligent folk but all their ingredients and goods, while a mess to us, are safely stored as they need to be.  This is the space of someone who left without planning to.  Someone--”

“Who left to go after someone.  Looks like someone hasn’t taken care of place for more than a few days.” Gajeel offered, glancing to her for approval.  And he got it.

“We need to find out who’s seen her last.”  Levy declared, heading outside and closing the door behind them both.  The two returned to the inn, hoping to ask Trea, their center of information,  where the herbalist might be, and who had seen her last.

When they returned there, however, they found another woman behind the counter.  “She’s out  for the afternoon,” was the curt answer.  The glance exchanged between Levy and Gajeel spoke everything that needed to be said, and they were completely on the same page.  

The man started to say something, but Levy cut in first, “We’ll have whatever is fresh for the day, Trea is aware of our bill.”  The pleasantness in her voice was clipped, hiding something that she wasn’t ready to address at that moment. Gajeel held his tongue until they were seated at a table, away from the others. “It knows we’re here,” Levy said, all the light having left her tone.  It was a declaration, and a warning.  One more for awareness than to frighten him away.

Gajeel clasped his hands in front of him on the table, leaning forward onto his forearms.  “So what do we do now?  If we don’t even know what it is?”

Levy ran her hands through her hair, the mirth of discovery having left her features.  “Like I said, we wait until the screaming starts.”

It wasn’t a flair for the dramatic, and it wasn’t something she’d said just to rile him.  Because after the sun had set and patrons started to flock the inn, screaming did start.  It was dull at first, almost quiet enough to be mistaken for something else.  But then it grew louder, and Levy, who had been staring absentmindedly at her food, shot to her feet.  Ready,  

“Everyone stay inside.  By order of the Baron, stay put, and do not come outside,” Levy declared with an authority, a steadiness in her voice that took Gajeel off guard.  And astonishingly, as though word of their arrival had spread to everyone, the hall obeyed.  She shot a glance to Gajeel, looking him over as though sizing him up, making a final choice before she said, “Let’s go.”

He needed nothing else, no other encouragement to follow her outside.  If not for intrigue alone, he was fully committed to following her into the dark outside. 

At first they saw nothing.  The street was empty, and the screaming had stopped.  Are we too late? She thought, eyes scanning the street.  In the doorways lining the dirt road cutting through the settlement, people began to peer their heads out.  However, when they saw the two of them standing outside, they retreated.  Good, saves me having to announce us, she thought with some relief.  

Levy glanced to Gajeel after looking up and down the roadway.  She paused, several thoughts flying across her face before she looked away from him up the road, eastward. “You head that way,” she gestured with her hand opposite where she was looking, “see if you can find a body; anyone wandering.”  The steely tone left little room for him to question her, and he nodded quickly before turning away.  Gajeel took several steps away from her, searching, before something prickled on the back of his neck.

“I didn’t think it would be quite so difficult to catch her more than a few feet from you.” A woman’s voice cut through the night and Gajeel whirled, seeing Trea, the innkeeper, standing behind Levy.  Lantern light glimmered off a metal object at her throat, and it took a moment for him to realize it was a dagger, poised dangerously close to her skin.

A moment, before his eyes narrowed and he took a heavy step back towards them.  “O-oi!  The hell you think you’re doing; let her go!” Gajeel shouted.

“Ah-ah,” the woman cautioned, pushing the blade a little closer to the Time Lady’s neck, stopping Gajeel immediately.  His eyes met Levy’s and to his surprise they were remarkably calm, while he struggled to not rush them both.  He might have almost thought she was trying to comfort him with her gentle stare, not an ounce of worry or fear there.  Gajeel looked back to Trea, gritting his teeth in frustration.  “I have to say, I didn’t expect this.  This town doesn’t have it’s share of surprises.  Well, except for me,” she smiled unnervingly, a cunning lacing her features that hadn’t been there when they first met her, huffing out a small laugh.  “These people might think you’re some envoy from their Baron but they are simple, unimaginative folk.”

“You spotted us as soon as we arrived,” Levy commented, her tone even.  “When we walked past the cemetery.  You were someone else then.”

Gajeel furrowed his brow, shifting his weight from one foot to another uneasily.  He felt completely helpless, and the sight of her with death at her neck was nigh unbearable.  But still, he was distracted briefly by what she had said.  Someone else?

“Aah, perceptive little thing, aren’t you?  So perceptive the mere figure of an angel statue stopped you cold; tell me, how many times have you met them and lived?”

Now a flinch rippled Levy’s features, but only for a moment.  Enough to catch your attention.  

“I thought as much; what a cliche pair you are.  The brains,” Trea slowly moved her sharp, serpentine stare to Gajeel, “and the muscle.  But, it seems I’ve been found out as well.  How exciting!”  Amusement hung heavy on her tone, and she slowly moved the dagger up alone the skin of Levy’s neck.  “Which means I’m sure you know what’s next, but I’d love to hear your take, m’lady.”

Levy laughed bitterly, tilting her chin upwards a little to ease the pressure on her flesh.  “I fear you overestimate me.  I merely noticed what didn’t belong: a pendant of crafting that doesn’t quite fit here.  The woman I saw in as we arrived wore it and,” she turned her head slightly, careful of the blade, and looked at her captor from the corners of her cold, golden eyes, “now you do.  Clearly it’s killing people.”

Trea frowned slightly, but it quickly faded, “Shame.  You’re close but...I expected more.  I’d hoped for a few more moments of entertainment but, it’s time for what I really want.”  She looked back to Gajeel again, whose knuckles had turned white.  “You.” Levy tensed suddenly, looking to him as well with a noticeable loss of her previous calm.  Surprise flickered in her eyes.  “All of these vessels are so, frail, and they expire so quickly.  But you, I can see it in your eyes, there is more to you than the others.  Something far more delectable.” Again Levy’s eyes swept over Gajeel, but this time she searched for something new.

Her companion, however, was quick to cut in.  “The hell you on about?  I ain’t letting you do a damn thing to me,” Gajeel barked back to her.  Frustratingly, Trea answered with a laugh.  

“Oh my dear brute, you don’t have a choice,” with her free hand, the innkeeper gripped Levy’s shoulder in a claw-like hold, pulling her closer.  “You’re going to waltz on over here and take my pendant, or I bleed her like a lamb.  And judging by your proximity over this last day, I don’t think you’re keen on that happening.”

Gajeel flinched, looking from her to Levy, the woman he had known for two days, give or take.  It was hard to keep up.  Was he really considering letting… whatever this was, take him to save her?  It would have been the right thing to do, regardless who she was.

Before he realized, he had taken a step forward, every muscle tensed.  The hell are you doin’?  You don’t even know what you’re getting into and you’re gonna what, take a chance to help her?  She’s the one that got us into this mess!  And for what?  His sense shouted defiantly in his thoughts, but all he could see was the enthralling blue-haired woman with a knife poised at her throat.  

All of his sense left him, drowned out by one thing.  I can’t let this happen.  If he ever had another independent thought again after this, he might chalk it up to a bleeding heart and an overactive conscience he worked hard to conceal.  But he might never have the chance to defend himself, knowing how the others ended up.  

“Fine,” Gajeel finally responded, prompting a look of shock from the Time Lady.  He entire body locked up.  Gajeel intentionally kept his gaze away from her, which he knew held nothing but protest and disapproval.

“Approach, then.  Slowly.  And remember, try anything, and she pays for it,” Trea, not Trea, warned.

He didn’t need to be told, more than aware of what was at stake.  Gajeel took another step forward, slowly closing the distance.  The Time Lady narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, having not anticipated this outcome.  Interesting.

“A Vimm,” Levy said suddenly, stopping Gajeel for a moment.  She felt the knife ease away from her neck suddenly, and the grip on her shoulder faltered.  “You are a Vimm.  There’s the truth; I know exactly what you are because I have seen you before.  You want a consciousness that will feed you for more than a few days?  You want me.  Not him.”  The grip on her shoulder disappeared, but the knife remained.  Trea was quiet for a few moments, and feeling the hesitation Levy took her chance, “I’m sure you know we’re not from this time.  It’s why you targeted us.  How we know what you are doesn’t matter much, does it?”  Levy made eye contact with the woman, her gaze piercing, “You just know we’re better than the swill you’ve been drinking and must have had a means of getting here.  And now you know I have more to offer than the brute.  So take me.”

Those final three words jolted through Gajeel, shattering the resolve he had dedicated to getting her out of that mess. “O-oi, Shrimp!”  He burst in a mixture of offense and protest, but when she flicked her eyes to him, his throat dried up.  The gold, more brilliant than ever, was fierce.  What he had seen, for that brief moment in the Tardis, was there again.  The centuries, the age, and this time she did not conceal it.

“I see we are past the point of playing coy,” Trea commented, her free hand moving to clasp the ornate pendant.

“Damnit, Shrimp!  You said yourself it kills people!  What the hell am I supposed to do here?  How are ya gonna throw yourself away like that?”  Gajeel took another hard step forward, but the woman merely brandished the dagger in front of Levy, at him.

The sound of a door swinging open now caught their attention, and they looked to a very alarmed Warner, holding his sword unsheathed.  He had burst from a building, ready to face the disturbance, but the sight of Trea had stopped him.  The distraction was all the possessed innkeep needed, and with one quick motion pulled the necklace over her head with her free hand.  Trea dropped the knife, took the necklace in both hands, and dropped it over Levy’s neck.  

“No!”

The second the item left Trea’s grip, she dropped to the ground in a heap, clawing at her throat where the pendant had been.  Levy stumbled and hunched forward, taking in a sharp breath.  Her arms hung forward and she kept her head low, hair concealing her face.  

“Trea!”  Warner shouted, racing to the shaking woman.  He dropped his sword beside her and took her in his arms, but needed to only see her glassy eyes to know what had become of her.  Though he didn’t understand how, he knew it had to have something to do with the strange woman that had entered their town.  The one that was still standing.  Moved by anguish, he reached out for his sword again, eyes fixed on Levy.

Gajeel didn’t miss it, and it broke him out of his stupor.  “Don’t!”  Gajeel barked suddenly and forcefully enough to give Warner pause.  “Don’t.  Touch her.”  The look of distrust on the other man’s face was clear, and Gajeel lifted a hand, “Just wait a damn second.  It’s not her, it’s…” well, he didn’t know what the hell it was.  “Just wait.”

Levy swayed a little, and finally, started to straighten up.  “Oh…”  she exhaled deeply, lifting her head quickly with a big smile on her face, hair flowing around her features.  Eyes wild.  “Oh this is exquisite.  It’s so, different.  There’s so much.  More than I can even reach.  I can’t even see the bottom!”  The frenzied woman let out a quick laugh, gripping both sides of her head and spinning in a single circle on one foot before finally focusing back onto Gajeel.  “You!”  She snapped her fingers at him, trying to break him from the daze he was in.  “Who is she?  What is she?  This is not the mind of a human.”

It took her. Just like that, she looked entirely different.  The sparkle was gone, she looked duller somehow, even if overall she became much more manic. The gold of her irises, if hadn’t known better, had turned to ash.  This wasn’t the same woman he had come here with.  Whatever that necklace was, had stolen her.  Stolen her from him, he realized.  But he wasn’t as disturbed by that as he was by the muffling of her.  He could think of no other way to put it.  “You, took her,”

“That’s not what I asked you,” she snapped.  “But I’ll get to it eventually.  Recent memories to sift through.  A lot of you, really.  Oh, she likes you.”  Levy winked, then continued to speak as though she was flipping through a book, eyes focusing on nothing in particular, “You, you, and oh-ho,” her eyes widened, happening upon a memory that caught her attention, “What a ship.  A ship!  Bigger on the inside?  But no, wait, it’s a time machine?  That explains you two.  Now, there are some possibilities.  I only know of one race that makes one like--”  The possessed woman stopped suddenly, eyes growing wide.  She jolted like a shock ran through her.  “That, no.  She’s not, there aren’t any…!”  Suddenly she was looking straight through him, unfocused, and her mouth moving to try and form words she couldn’t finish. She staggered backwards a step, the air leaving her lungs in horror.

Behind her, Waner held the innkeep closer, inching away from the, and the spectacle that was unfolding before him.  

Finally Gajeel found his composure, closing the distance and taking hold of her upper arms.  “Levy!  You in there?!  Hey, come on!”  He called, shaking her gently, but her expression didn’t change.

“There’s so, I-I can’t.  So much, so many… I see all of it, at once!  I can’t take--all this at once!” Her eyes were searching now, and finally in an instant they focused back onto him like he was an answer to the crisis, a vicious glare on her features.  “I need out--out!  It burns!” she cried out, shaking considerably.  “I can see them.  They’re dying, all of them are...!”  Levy’s hands flew up to take the necklace, which now glowed a faint blue he hadn’t noticed before.  “You.  I need, you, before she--”  She started to lift it, and Gajeel’s grip loosened slightly when he realized what she meant to do.  But he didn’t outright recoil from her.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, she stopped, her face becoming far more calm.  A quiet, punctuated only by both of their hurried breaths, settled back upon them.  The glow of the necklace brightened suddenly, and the woman let out a deep sigh, closing her eyes slowly.  More breaths, settling herself, heaving her shoulders.

“Too much at once?” Her voice was quiet, gentle, but vaguely threatening.  Different from the Vimm’s; far more refined, and primally frightening.  “Vimms are leechers, not gorgers.  And you are not made for a conscience like mine,” she paused, “You are finished here.”  Like a dying flame, the pendant’s glow fizzled, sputtered, and just like that it was gone.  Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked back up to her companion.  The resplendent gold staggered his heart’s rhythm for a split second, and the warm smile almost stopped it. “Hello.”

“You, you’re, are you…?” he stammered, all coherency leaving him.

“Yes me,” she smiled, glancing at his hands.  “You can let me go now.”  Shocked, he dropped his hands and took a quick step back.  Levy took off the necklace nonchalantly, earning a strongly suspicious stare from the man.  “It’s safe now.  Short circuited as it were.  Or, something of the like.  Not quite because it wasn’t electronic but… oh you get it.”

“What… the hell… did you do?” he finally got out, “What was that?”

“Yes,” Warner’s voice cut between them, bringing their attention back to the startled, and still armed man.  One arm held up his sword defensively, the other clutched a motionless Trea to his knelt frame. “What have you done?  And what magic is this?” His voice was sharp, and dangerously accusatory.  Levy already knew how this would go, but she could still hope that an explanation would be the tiniest bit beneficial.  Still, in what she had tried to make look like thoughtful pacing, she separated herself from the two of them before speaking.

“This?”  She gestured with the necklace, before pulling open her coat pocket and dropping it inside.  “Harmless trinket now.”  Levy could see on both their faces that this wasn’t a sufficient answer.  “Vimms--what that was--feed on consciousness, minds, until there is nothing left.  A human can feed a Vimm for a few weeks if they want to make it last, or drain them in hours.”  Levy glanced to Trea, “Leaving nothing left.  She could have done the same to you,” she looked back to Gajeel, “Easily.  And obviously we couldn’t have that, though I appreciate the sentiment.  But if she knew I was Time Lord, she would have never chosen me.  Time Lord consciousness is more than anyone but a Time Lord can take.”  She looked to him now, “You did well, Metal Man.  Even called me by my name.  I’d say that’s progress.”  She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“And where the hell does that leave us?  You’ve done this!  How are you going to undo it?”  Warner demanded, gesturing to the woman in his arms.

Unable to say anything, Gajeel looked to Levy, who had something he couldn’t quite pin on her expression.  She was calm, but there wasn’t the worry of someone who was facing a mistake, or crisis.  It was almost the face of someone who wasn’t surprised; someone who had expected this.  She was the doctor holding bad news that had been expected from the start, ready to break it to the family.  

“There’s nothing that can be done.”  Flat-toned, blunt.  Levy looked directly at Warner, “It can’t be reversed, there is nothing you can do for her but keep her comfortable.  And Lana, the herbalist...she is out here somewhere in the same state.  She is the one that was held before her.”

His knuckles turned white, gripping his weapon.  He trembled, but stayed put.  “You,” his voice was strained, and it cracked slightly, “You said that thing was gone?  Entirely?”

Levy nodded.

“Then leave.  Never return here, or I will meet you with violence.  If not for your darkness, then for impersonating the Baron’s scout,” The guard shifted his blade in his grip to punctuate his threat, but it wasn’t necessary.  

“I am sorry for your loss,” Levy replied gently, turning so quickly to walk away that it stunned Gajeel.  His mouth hung open, feeling as though he should say something, but the piercing glare from Warner urged him after her.  

The walk back to the Tardis was painfully quiet, and it wasn’t until she was standing in front of the doors that she heard him come to a heavy stop.  She turned to face him, knowing he had been stewing on the words he wanted to say to her.  She didn’t need to prompt him, she just waited.  

“That girl’s gonna die,” he said simply.

“Yes,” she replied.  “She’s already dead,” Levy added.  “This is the past.  In your life, she’s centuries past.  She’s dust.”  She clasped her hands behind her back, standing very still.

Each statement seemed loaded, but Gajeel was too frustrated to notice.  “No, nuh-uh.  You can’t say that.  This ain’t the past.  We are here now, and she is alive--dying--now,” he shot back, gradually raising his voice.  “And we were part of it.”

The Time Lady’s eyes looked him over for a moment, taking in the aggravation etched on his features and the heated outrage that radiated off of him.  She deliberately said nothing, waiting for the train of his thoughts to direct itself.

“Aren’t you bothered by that?” he finally demanded.

“Are you?”

Gajeel faltered, stunned that she would ask such a thing.  He sputtered for a moment, tilting his head in disbelief.  “I’m an asshole but I’m not a damn monster.  Of course I care that she’s gonna die.  And for what?  Because you had to show off?  And to so eagerly let it nearly happen to you,” he could see her start to try and disagree, but he cut her off, “I don’t care if you think you got some damn top tier invincible brain that only you can handle or what-the-fuck-ever, I didn’t know that.  You didn’t tell me and so you got me thinking it’s gonna happen to you.  I don’t care how you wanna slice it, it ain’t alright for you to mess with me like that.  You got a damn plan?  Tell me!”

She watched his shoulders heave from the effort, her brow furrowed thoughtfully.  After a quiet moment, she nodded, “Okay.”

His shoulders dropped and he staggered a little.  “What?”

“I said okay.  I’ll tell you next time,” she replied.  “I just needed to know if there would be a next time.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Levy sighed, “Not everyone I meet is of stellar character.  And I only take the best with me.  I needed to know who you were.  And you’ve showed me.  Both just now and when you offered yourself to the Vimm.  I will keep you in the loop for now on.”  Before he could think of a reply, she reached into her coat pocket and produced a small metal object that left Gajeel wondering just how much she could possibly stash away in one garment.  “And yes, I do care.  Deeply.  More than I can express, really.  But I have spent a great deal of time alone; which makes the maintenance of humanity difficult for someone who isn’t human.  I need someone to remind me.”  She held out the object to him, which he could now see was a key on a silver chain, “If you still want to.”

Gajeel released his tension as understanding replaced his anger, and he released a shaky breath. A key to the Tardis.  A solidification of his invitation.

Holding the key in front, her eyes probed him for any answer.  “I told you, at the start, that it would be dangerous.  But it is also...this.  People die, Gajeel.  I try, but I cannot save them all.  Sometimes we get days, those rare days, where everyone lives.  I cling to those.  You will have to as well.  If you choose to come, but say the word and I will take you home, not 5 minutes from your departure, and you can return to your life.”  There was a control, a practiced tone in her words that told him she had done this many times before.  Like everything else he had already seen, and bit by bit he was comprehending her years.

  This woman is a damn trip.  But still…  Slowly, he reached out and took her hand in his, studying her face for a moment, and finally flashed her a toothy smile.  “Sure thing, short stuff.”  Releasing his hold on her after a moment, he took the key and paused before dropping the chain over his head, “This isn’t gonna steal my brain, is it?”

Levy chuckled, opening the doors behind her with a wink, “In a manner of speaking.”

[bluescarabguy]

THE AMAZING SPIDER-RANT

Spider-Man is a pretty important character to me. Back when I was a wee little lad, a handful of things happened. In 2002 (I would have been about six years old), Sam Raimi’s first Spider-Man movie came out. I don’t remember if I went to see it in theaters or not, but I certainly remember seeing it many times on cable not too long afterward. Around the same time, to keep my hyperactive ass entertained for a little while, my mom bought me my first (and for quite a while, only) comic book, issue #8 of Ultimate Spider-Man by Brian Michael Bendis and Mark Bagley. Growing up, I suppose I was mainly a DC kid, with two of my favorite cartoons being Justice League and Teen Titans. But even back then, Spidey was almost undoubtedly my favorite superhero, and I’m pretty sure I saw Spider-Man 2 in theaters (and I very clearly remember seeing Spider-Man 3 the day it premiered).

Through most of middle and high school, I fell away from a lot of my geekier obsessions, more out of pressure to fit in than disinterest. Sure, I was still INTO comics and cartoons and stuff, but aside from browsing my quickly-outdated copy of the Marvel Encyclopedia every once in a while, I didn’t read comics or really actively seek out superhero cartoons. Spider-Man: Friend or Foe was my first videogame, but other than that? Not really all that much. Even the emerging Marvel Cinematic Universe and the Dark Knight movies didn’t hugely bring me back into the genre except as a casual fan of superhero characters and a sizable movie buff. Just as high school was ending, though, I started getting really huge into anime, which was my gateway back into hardcore geek culture as a whole.

Then, during my freshman year of college, after hearing about how good it apparently was through the internet (I suppose I’ll credit Nostalgia Critic Doug Walker, since he marked it as the greatest nostalgic cartoon of all time), I started watching Batman: The Animated Series. This was around the same time I started playing through the first two Batman Arkham games, so all that together made me get REALLY big into Batman. I went back and watched the Michael Keaton movies for the first time, checked out all of the recent direct-to-video animated films, and finally started reading actual comic books again (other than my copy of Watchmen, I really hadn’t read the actual stuff) by picking up some of the more recognizable and well-regarded Batman collections (Dark Knight Returns, Killing Joke, Long Halloween, and Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s then-ongoing New 52 run among them). For a little while, I was ALL about Batman. Best superhero, hands down, no one’s as cool as ol’ Brucey.

Out of curiosity, I started checking out Superman’s direct-to-dvd movies as well, and reading some of his more prevalent comics. Stuff like All-Star Superman and Superman: Red Son, along with movies like Superman vs The Elite, Chris Reeve’s original 1978 performance, and so on, and let’s not forget to factor in Max Landis’ outstanding American Alien that was running at this time. And as I looked into Supes more, I started to realize that indeed I found Clark Kent to be a far more meaningful and relatable character than Bruce Wayne. You see, I don’t really have some big tragedy that defined my path in life. Much like Clark, I was adopted from infancy by two amazing parents who taught me to be an upstanding and moral person, even if I didn’t realize it. So for a while after that, Superman was my favorite hero: the paragon of what a hero should be, someone who doesn’t need to extrapolate some personal tragedy to motivate them into doing good, but who just innately understands (though both instinct and good parenting) that one should use the talents they have to better the world.

But here’s the thing about Superman. Remember what I said about extrapolating tragedy to motivate doing good? Clark Kent doesn’t really have that. Clark didn’t know that he was an alien until he was a teenager (depending on the version), and while it’s sad in theory that he’s (initially) the last of his kind, Clark identifies FAR more as a human being from Kansas than he does as an alien super-god, at least in my interpretation (once again perfectly summed up in American Alien: “I’m not from Krypton–I’m from Kansas.”). In terms of a big tragedy, that’s what I like about the character: that he doesn’t need to have someone important in his life die in order to motivate him to do good (though the death of Jonathan Kent CAN be done and done really well, as in Superman: The Movie, or really poorly, as in Man of Steel), and therefore is a hero out of selflessness and good nature, not at all out of guilt. But the thing is, life isn’t really about big tragedies, it’s about small ones. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the difference between fiction and reality, it’s that real life is ANTICLIMACTIC. There’s no orchestral swell to back you up when you really need courage, and there’s no sad piano theme to confirm that you’re correct to be feeling down when you do. Life continues on, and sometimes you get over horrible incidents within hours, and yet the smallest grievance or “maybe if I’d done this” can swirl around in your mind for years.

Superman doesn’t really tend to have a lot of small interpersonal problems to deal with. Clark Kent wasn’t bullied in school for being geeky and weird, he didn’t lack social graces, he was (as far as those he grew up with knew, though how he felt on the inside about hiding his powers depends on your interpretation) relatively popular, handsome but not a model, strong but not a jock or bully, intelligent but not a nerd, his main attribute as a person being his good nature and willingness to stand up for people. Good role model? Hell yes. Incredibly relatable to the everyday person(or more specifically, the average comic book reader in the modern age), despite being the textbook definition of average? Not really.

Enter Spider-Man. It’s well-known that Stan Lee’s direction with Spidey, that he have real-life problems like money and socialization as well as villains and strange happenings, was initially looked upon with skepticism by publishers who thought to themselves “all the people want to see is the hero fighting the villain and other stuff they can’t experience in real life. Why would they want to read about a superhero doing stuff THEY have to deal with too?”. But that’s the genius of this character. Lee (and Ditko, and whoever else was involved in Spider-Man’s initial conception) thought of Peter Parker as a real human being first and as a set of interesting super-powers second, and even with the very hokey writing style of silver-age comics (with characters narrating their every thought out loud and everything ending in an exclamation point!) that still shines through even today.

Now just to warn you, I MAY steal a lot of my upcoming points from Bob Chipman, aka MovieBob, and his “Really That Good: Spider-Man 1 & 2″ video (which is excellent and you should go watch it). But anyway.

One of the bigger things I take umbridge with in the two most recent solo Spidey films, The Amazing Spider-Man and The Amazing Spider-Man 2, is that Peter Parker, simply put, just doesn’t seem nerdy enough. Or to be a little more complex, watching this film, I don’t get the feeling that this kid, based on what we know of him, would have been bullied as heavily in high school as the film seems to imply. He’s relatively attractive and doesn’t seem to be suffering from the ill effects of puberty (obviously partially due to being played by a 25 year old) and other than having trouble finding the courage to ask out the girl he likes, he doesn’t seem to lack the ability to socialize with others his own age.

In contrast, Tobey Maguire’s Peter from Sam Raimi’s original Spider-Man trilogy (though moreso the first two films) is positively pathetic. He’s soft-spoken and lacking in confidence unless he’s directly passionate about a subject (such as in Spider-Man 2 where he’s excitedly conversing with Otto Octavius about nuclear physics). He’s not UGLY, but there’s something about his face that doesn’t exactly scream “handsome” either. When his bosses are yelling at him (whether that be J. Jonah Jameson in all the movies or Aasif Mandvi’s pizza shop owner from the start of SM2) he’s very quiet and just like “ok. yes. I apologize” and has an air of confusion and “please don’t hurt me yelling man” that’s unmistakable. Not only does he not really get how to talk to Mary Jane even though they’re friends and he’s deeply in love with her, he doesn’t seem to really know how to talk to anyone unless it’s something he’s personally passionate about. Some might criticize Maguire’s somewhat monotone delivery in some scenes as bad acting, but you’ll notice he only ever really does it to a degree that’s distracting in a scene where Peter is clearly, visibly uncomfortable.

Now, some people might say that this stereotype of the wimpy nerd who has trouble connecting to people is just that, a stereotype, and needs to be excised from popular culture in favor of more nuanced portrayals. But here’s the thing:

I was that stereotype. For a long time, that geek who couldn’t make friends and was tormented by schoolmates WAS me. Hell, even though I think I’ve improved a lot, in a lot of ways it still IS me. And I’m not conceited enough to think that that kind of life experience ended with me. So to downplay this idea of nerdiness in favor of some idea that “yay! we’re all nerds now!” is, in my opinion, foolish. Just because once nerd-only things like superheroes or anime are now more culturally acceptable in a broad sense doesn’t mean that shy, awkward nerds who turn to escapist fiction to ease their problems don’t still exist. Not saying there’s anything WRONG with being well-adjusted and sociable and popular and being a huge geek too, or that they lack “nerd cred” or something, but you get what I mean.

Perhaps all that is why @hannahblumenreich ‘s Spidey-Zine comics really struck a chord with me. The “high school sucks but sometimes you get to be Spider-Man” comic is poignant enough, and yeah, that’s definitely high school, but the one that really got to me was the Cowboy Bebop one. Spidey gets asked by a girl on the street to walk her home because some guys are following her. As they start moving, he awkwardly asks “sooooo…you ever see Cowboy Bebop?”, to which she replies “What’s that, like…a band?”. We cut to Spidey and the girl on the subway halfway there, and he’s just rambling excitedly as he’s just finished RECAPPING IN GREAT DETAIL THE FIRST EPISODE OF COWBOY BEBOP. AND GOING STRAIGHT INTO THE NEXT ONE. And then after he drops her off at home, he puts in his headphones, puts on Tank! (the Cowboy Bebop opening theme), and swings off to do some more superheroing. Not only is rambling like a madman about something I’m into to somebody who quite honestly probably couldn’t care less, but they’re with me and it passes the time, a thing I do CONSTANTLY, I’m more or less certain I’ve done it about THIS EXACT SAME SHOW. And putting on Tank! in the headphones to make the journey to wherever I’m headed more epic that it really is? I’ve done that a billion times too. See that’s the genius of this character, when he’s written well as a teen and young adult (writing him as a full-on adult is another set of issues): He’s one of us. He has all of our problems, our quirks, our fears. And while the mask he puts on to hide his true self and make others feel better is a literal one, it’s one we all wear metaphorically.

It’s why, despite forgetting it for a while, he’s my favorite super-hero, hands down, and up near the top of my favorite characters in anything, ever. Because you know what? Peter Parker is me. Who am I?

I’m Spider-Man.

(btw like I said earlier you may want to check out MovieBob’s Really That Good on Spider-Man 1 and 2 :) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wD3h_bT0Mfg )

[brawltogethernow]

Neutral Element - Outside the Castle

Installment Masterlist

Characters: Rescue Party, Gil, Klaus, Lucrezia, Agatha; Relationships: Wulfenbachs, Agatha/Lars and Agatha/Gil; Length: 2k. Immediately after no bless obli cheese.

The Jägers are definitely going to go after Agatha, so Zag jumps them before they’ve even started conferring. Because he knows Jägers well from working with the ones crashing with the Empire, and once they decide to plot the turnover rate from plan to action is functionally nonexistent. He sneaks up where they’re listening in from a wagon roof like creepy gargoyles and leans over the silent trio. “You’re going to get her, yeah?” he says. “Take me with you.”

They exchange looks. “He iz hendy,” says Oggie.

“He iz Miz Agatha’s friend,” says Maxim.”

“Yah, you iz coming, keedo,” says Dimo.

“Ve couldn’t schtopp you enny vay, yah?” says Maxim, grin fierce.

“Come on den,” says Oggie cheerfully. “Toot-sveetie!”

“Nobbles and wobbly cheese, honestly,” Dimo mutters to himself for some reason.

 *

Circling the castle doesn’t tell them anything good. Zag scouts around and then shares the rundown of what people are saying, and what they aren’t, and how no news is bad news.

“And I’ve heard things around,” he adds, nodding up at the Keep of Storms. “About that place. Things I do not like.”

“Hyu mean like, in repports from somevere, mebbe?” says Ognian, trying for sly.

“Yes, alright, I get news from damn reports to my father,” says Zag. If they’re asking leading questions, they already know. They smirk at him sharply, but it seems approving. “That doesn’t matter right now. Right now we have to get her out of there. And that means we have to get in there.”

“Hm,” hums Dimo, looking through the arcs of lightning barring the way to the keep. “Hyu know, ven she was out-like, the other day, Miz Agatha met op with a pretty gorl — hoo, she looked like she could rilleh fight! — mit a verreh pretty little airship.”

“No, Hy dun tink dat vould be enny good,” says Oggie.

“Dot ting, hit looked pretty small, yah?” adds Maxim. “How many pipple you figure it fit?”

“Hy dunno, brodder,” adds Oggie, doing a show of looking Maxim up and down speculatively, “mebbe if ve start cotting bits off uf hyu —”

“Hoy dere!”

“She could get in, though,” Dimo reasons, demonstrating seasoned experience ignoring tomfoolery. “Hy think ve should be tellink her habout dis, before ve go in. Hyu know, in case she vants to help Miz Agatha, like.”

Zag stares up at the sky above the castle. “Hm. I think they would still notice a dirigible, even a small one. It’s dark out, and the lightning moat is going to kill visibility a bit, but this is a town square. It’s not that dark.”

“Iz not a dir-rigy-bill, zo much,” says Oggie.

“Hyu’s be growink op in de sky, yah?” says Maxim. “Mebbe hyu will like it.”

 *

“They have Agatha?!” says Gil, looking overwrought, and Zag thinks, Hmm, to himself, quietly. His friend should have options, is all. Lots of options. Lars is a real sweetheart, and the wild woman Agatha apparently found in the Wastelands does not look like a sweetheart, but she’s a spark, and Agatha is giong to need someone who can keep up with her….

Zag regards Agatha’s friend (hee) as she waves her hands and explains that her flying machine definitely would not get off the ground carrying five people and a lobster. “But I could make modifications,” she says, staring at it speculatively like she’s considering ripping it apart then and there. She was patting it earlier, so it’s kind of unsettlingly like watching someone turn that look on a baby. Sparks, amirite. Sparks in ~love~, possibly. Zag is assessing.

“See, the vertical blades spin to get it off the ground straight up, and then I basically drop it and then it stays airborne.”

“Iz dot…safe?” Oggie asks, goggling.

“So!” Zag cuts in before Gil can find some acceptable-to-her way to say, Well, no. “I’m glad you’re going to help us help Agatha! Apropos of nothing, how do they feel where you’re from about having three or more people in a relationship? Good? I’m asking for a friend.”

Gil drops the wrench she was gesturing with on her foot.

“You don’t have to answer!” Zag calls back to her when they finally take their leave. “Just think about it!”

 *

“Huh,” Gil says to Zoing after the odd party of Agatha’s friends starts  back the way they came, getting into some sort of scuffle that involves a lot of gentle elbow-checking, as she starts to prep her ship. “I didn’t think you got that hair color around here.” She looks at the Jägers. “Uh, in humans.”

 *

The way back is a trudge, but Dimo seems pleased with the results of their detour. “She iz definitely good beckup for Miz Agatha to keep hendy,” he says. “En mebbe also odder things.”

Oggie leans over into the green Jäger’s personal space. “Hyu tink she can help her vit dot vagon she kept svearing at de odder day?”

“Dot vos some spicy language, dot vas,” muses Maxim. “Vere hyu tink she learn dot?”

Dimo shoves at them both. “Hy am sayink —” He breaks off into a gusty sigh. “Zott, hyu are so dense.”

“Hy am not dense!” says Oggie, dramatically offended. “Hy am very schooled in matterz of luff! See? Hy even knew vat hyu vas tokking about. Hend you thot hyu vas beink schneaky. Heh.”

Dimo rolls his eyes. “Yez, yez, hyu heff shown me op. Woe, woe.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the free entertainment,” says Zag (the Jägers shrug, sheepish at being caught at it), “but when did you three see that ship, anyway? She was explaining it to you like she’d never met you before.”

Dimo rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, hyu know.”

“Ve vas in de neighborhood,” says Maxim, eyes on the sky.

“Hy vas not op to ennything!” Oggie insists, distressed. “Honest!”

“…So you were following Agatha,” says Zag.

Maxim shifts, uncomfortable. “Vell…mebbe.”

Zag meditates on this, then reasons that the wild Jägers are pretty good guys and are also turning out to be surprisingly adorable about their real master. They were spying on Agatha on her dates. “Take me next time,” he settles on.

“Ey, vusn’t very interestink,” says Oggie, trace readings of shame gone. “Dey mostly tokked science schtuff.”

“Dot type, dey tink de interestink part iz de science schtuff.”

Everyone present groans.

 *

When the assembling rescue party gets back to the middle of Sturmhalten, again, they practically miss Lars. Also again, apparently.

“Been following you,” he says, breathing hard. “You keep moving around.”

Yeah, Zag can’t imagine an actor, capable point man or no, moving as quickly as three Jägermonsters and him, especially since he seems to have acquired a furry legwarmer, hooked into his leg for dear life. “You brought Krosp.”

Lars shrugs, a stage gesture. “He wanted to come!” Then he grimaces with his whole body when Krosp responds by flexing his claws. Also a stage gesture. Zag loves the Circus people, he honestly does. He thinks he could be at home in their “the world is a stage, so why not mug for the audience” mindset.

“So if you grabbed the Jägers because you knew they would come after Agatha,” says Lars, shaking out his cat-burdened leg (no joy) “— Uh, how did you know that?”

They’re Jägers, and she’s the Heterodyne. “They seemed to like her!” Zag says. He grins (leers, he leers) and nudges Lars with a playful elbow. “You like ‘er too, don’tcha?”

“I — !”

Tormenting Lars is a delight. Zag hasn’t known him very long, but he’s certain the guy isn’t normally this easy to fluster. Except about matters of life and death, which, whatever Agatha obviously privately thinks, is perfectly reasonable.

Krosp groans. (Krosp trying to make traditionally low human noises always sounds adorable, and this is no exception.) “I thought catching up with all of you might be better than being stuck with this genius, but I was wrong.”

Zag looks down at him. “…You’re gonna have to tell me what happened on your way here sometime, buddy.”

Lars and Krosp exchange a look of mutual, recent horror. Which is just the look of a half-decent story, so no regrets.

“Sewers,” Krosp whispers to himself quietly, his expression haunted.

 *

The Baron is framed by a brightly colored circus wagon, and it only makes him look more menacingly enormous. His swathe of silver hair is a chin-length version of Zag’s fluff without the two strands that frame his son’s face like thick ribbons. His gaze is riveted on Agatha and Zag, cutting out the rest of their crowd of allies. The Jägers finger their weapons; Lars looks like he’s on the edge of panic; Gil landed on the field nearby earlier but hasn’t approached. Krosp’s flicking tail detracts from the severity of his expression, and the Sturmhalten Sewermen look like they’re only still on the scene because bolting just then would make them the only moving things around, and if they were that dumb they wouldn’t have lived to be Sturmhalten Sewermen. To a one, they all stand around awkwardly. Gil hovers awkwardly to the side, and everyone else hovers awkwardly in the center. It’s not a brave day for rescue parties. The Baron’s speech to Agatha swallows up impetus for action.

“My son trusts you,” the Baron says meaningfully. His eyes cut back and forth between the swordsman and Agatha at this point, but Zag has always responded to Klaus’ allusions toward his romantic prospects by upping the ante and making the conversation as awkward and graphic as possible, so by this point Klaus is too subtly well-trained to ask about his motivations in running off with Lucrezia’s daughter. “If you both come back —”

Zag shakes out his shoulders, tense. “…You talk like it’s a given that I’m coming back with you, father.”

“Oh, no,” says Klaus. “The Lady Heterodyne, should she agree to talk terms, has her own responsibilities, but you will return. It’s time we had a long talk, young man.” The Baron looms forward, expression forbidding, and wraps his massive hand around Zag’s wrist.

And then chokes on something.

Agatha springs into action before anyone can blink. “Why are you all standing around?!” she shouts. “He’s choking! Let me through, I can help him!” The footsoldiers confer frantically and okay her, and she darts in.

“I’ll help, I’ve got medical experience!” says Gil, leaping forward.

“Oh, great!” chirps Agatha. Turning, she elbows Gil in the nose. “Oh, sorry! Here, I’ll just deal with it,” she says as the princess reels away, clutching her face.

She kneels to the ground, pressing a hand to Klaus’ chest.

“Stay back!” shouts Agatha. “He’s, uh, fructivorous!”

“Wot’s dot mean?” Oggie asks Gil, leaning over to consult her.

“Fzzrk,” says Gil, possibly trying to set her own nose. Her inarticulate response has a whistle in it.

Then the tide of the entire negotiation flips over in a breath, and everyone is moving.

 *

There’s a storm of motion. Lars and Agatha form its eye. The Jägers have leapt into the fight. The Sewermen  have vanished. Gil, her nose purpling, is bent over her ship ranting, and appears to be trying to refit it to use as an impromptu crowd disperser.

Klaus has given up on subtlety and negotiation, grabbing for his son. “You cannot stay with her!” he shouts at Zag, who grimaces and barely dodges. “You do not understand how dangerous — !”

“Hey!” says Gil, abandoning her ship and lunging forward with something she grabs from its backseat gripped in her right hand — it looks like a big fork with electricity dancing on the end — and one of her swords fisted in her left. “Get away from him!”

“Do NOT interrupt — !” starts the Baron, only half-turning from Zag. Gil darts into the space Zag has put between the two Wulfenbachs, fork thing aimed at the Baron’s torso, sword up to defend. Klaus raises his sword arm, his greatsword dripping crimson, then hesitates, eyes snagging on Gil’s snarling brass circlet, then darting to the bifurcated blade of her katar. His complexion turns from a red fury to an only arguably better putty color. “You — Djorok’ku Skifandias von?!”

Gil looks like she’s been smacked. “What — S’vek? Zur bakken Skiff?!”

“Kar!” The Baron presses a hand to his chest, greatsword mostly forgotten. “Mor bakken Skiff!”

“Morbukinskif vok!” says the blue coat by the Baron’s leg, which really puts a cap on Klaus’ day.

“What —” he says, and then is interrupted when the entire battlefield is overtaken by an upset like someone has picked it up and shaken it. The Baron and the Skifandrian dodge debris in opposite directions.

 *

The debacle with the chicken house and assorted other circus wagons ends with the Baron’s son, the Heterodyne Girl, and the mysterious foreign spark all unaccounted for.

Gil: What — What? You speak Skiff?! Klaus: Yes, I speak Skiff! Zoing: I speak Skiff too! Klaus: Augh what the shit

I do not feel bad about adding more pointless doubling back to the Rescue AT ALL, because the Rescue Party mostly runs in ineffective circles and facilitates a lot of really great comedy.

Lars’ arc is not significantly impacted by this AU. Unfortunately? I tried to scootch events surrounding “Showtime!” around to save him, but it didn’t work out.

Why did I structure this so I have to make up Skiff and then render it in Zoingspeak. @ me: What is this. Oh, right, Zoing is present and color-inverted, I’ll get into it later/earlier. Learlier.

When asked in an AMA whether all Skifandrians had green hair, both Foglios answered differently. For the purposes of this AU, the answer pretty much has to be no.