#like someone opened the flood gates and now you have to deal with the consequences | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

demonologist-in-denim · 3 years

Text

Review of Falling Skies by VivatRex

The first Crowley redemption fanfic I ever came across was Falling Skies by VivatRex. This was shortly after 8x23 aired, and at the time, there wasn’t much fic out there involving Crowley that portrayed him as anything other than a villain. (There still isn’t, to be fair.) And there definitely wasn’t much out there in which Crowley actively sought redemption, much less worked alongside and eventually earned himself a place among the Winchester extended family. So the fact that Falling Skies was a slow burn Mooseley fic was just something I was willing to accept in order to read what I was desperately looking for in a Crowley fic.

I was inspired by this post to go back and reread Falling Skies for the first time since it was completed in 2015. All 328,000+ words of it. It’s certainly the longest fanfic I’ve ever read. And I’ve read fanfics that more closely align to what I’m looking for – but because this was my first Crowley redemption fanfic, I’ve never forgotten it. There are parts of it - scenes, even single lines - that I vividly recall. There are scenes and dynamics and plot points in this fic that were significant influences on my own writing, and are so deeply entrenched in my understanding of post-cure Crowley that rereading this fic felt like some tantalizingly familiar part of myself echoing back to me after a long absence. This is the longest review I have ever written, but then, it is a very long fic.

To quickly summarize the fic, Falling Skies begins after 8x23, with the angels falling to earth and Sam having collapsed from attempting to abort the demon trials. The overarching plot follows Dean, Sam, humanized Cas and resentfully cured Crowley as they attempt to deal with the fallout of Abaddon’s return and the shuttering of the Gates of Heaven. Along the way, a new villainous angel makes a play to rule both Heaven and Hell, angels and demons battle out their differences on Earth in a massive slaughter, and the Man Tablet is discovered, which reveals that the ultimate apocalypse involves merging all the known planes of existence into a hellish nightmare. Throughout all of this, Crowley struggles with a blood-born conscience that begins to form itself into a soul, a mental and emotional link that now connects him and Sam due to the incomplete cure, and rival selves: the cunning, successful King of Hell and a man haunted by his past, longing to make amends. It’s equal parts Mooseley, Destiel, and a season’s worth of near-world ending scenario.

Scenes from this fic that I’ll never forget:

The opening scene is Crowley in the church at the end of 8x23, beset by guilt and shame as he can feel for the first time in hundreds of years the depth of pain and suffering he’s caused.

His reaction shortly after the aborted cure to remembering he killed Meg. “Crowley’s stomach twisted in a painful knot at the thought of Meg…The unspeakable acts that hadn’t seemed unspeakable at all at the time…He promptly rolled down the Impala’s window. He leaned out, vomiting onto the road.”

The scene in which Crowley admits to Sam that he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself after the cure, “if you’d cured me, I would’ve hung myself the minute I found a long enough rope.”

The scene in which Crowley faces the demon who tortured him on the rack, and sees himself in comparison to that demon, hears his own awful words to Kevin, “What you people fail to under is that you are nothing” and “it makes him sick to what little remained of his soul to think that his mindset had been similar to this…only a few months prior. That he hadn’t been much better than this, once.”

Fergus’ death scene was particularly memorable. Driven by fear of his own impending death and going to Hell, he accidently kills someone he loves, and takes his own life by hanging. It’s not ever the backstory I would have imagined for him, but it was written with real heart behind it.

Having chosen to complete the cure, that Crowley receives complete forgiveness. Whatever substitutes for divine authority in this fic restores his soul fully, forgives him for all his past sins, and frees Crowley from the ruinous effects of damnation. “He’d been forgiven. Crowley sobbed into his hands.” It’s not the story I would have written for Crowley, but at a time when Crowley redemption fic was almost nonexistent, this was powerful.

In a rare moment in which Cas is being a self-righteous asshole, Dean remarks that “you’re really reminding me of someone…a douche bag I met back in ’08 who threatened to throw me back into Hell if I didn’t show him the respect he deserved.” Later, after he’s had time to calm down and begins to feel guilt, Cas asks “The ‘douche bag’ who raised you from Hell. Did you hate him?”

This fic offered a lot of the emotional struggles and scenes, the waypoints, I wanted to see along Crowley’s road of redemption.

His struggle with embracing more human emotions and perspective. His subconscious and then intentional rejection of the monster he used to be.

Being offered a choice between more power and more humanity, and after a long internal struggle, choosing humanity.

Ultimately choosing the Winchesters and (Crowley’s own conception of) the greater good over demonic self-interests. Choosing “one tiny forever [with people he cared about over] a never-ending existence” without them.

Crowley grasping – and openly admitting to valuing – humanity for its own sake. And that while in becoming less demon and more human, in becoming family with the Winchesters, he may lose his powers and influence, his immortality and near-invincibility, that he gained everything else. “Love, friendship, family, redemption…It’s all worth it!”

Crowley in this fic is written as having that change of heart and perspective because of and for Sam’s sake, and I very much write all of that happening for Crowley’s own sake and born of something innate to him, but seeing all of this in a fic assured me that I wasn’t the only one who thought that redemption was possible for Crowley. It meant a lot to me at the time. I guess, considering I was willing to reread this whole fic again all these year later, it still does.

Crowley admitting – to himself and to others – or directly referencing feelings of guilt, remorse and shame for his actions. It wasn’t explained away as just the effects of the cure. Something deep inside him had been changed, restored.

The very first scene resoundingly validated my own understanding of 8x23 – Crowley caught up in the flood of emotions brought on by the cure, seeing his actions for the first time as truly monstrous, hearing the cries of his victims. Holy mother of sin, the things I’ve done.

The admittance to himself that time alone in the bunker’s dungeon, in the dark, was too much time left to self-reflection and memories – the nagging of his conscience when he’d rather suppress it entirely.

The rawness of his emotions, his unfamiliarity with how to process them, “it had been a constant struggle not to start sobbing like a bloody child since Sam had almost cured him.”

His increasing hatred of other demons, not because of their disloyalty or incompetence, but because of what they symbolize: their delight in suffering, the misery they cause, that he was anything like them and might still be – or worse, might regress and become again.

In canon, Crowley asks Sam where to begin looking for forgiveness. He references wanting to make amends again in 10x17 when he tells Sam he thought making changes to Hell “might matter.” But after the cure, Crowley in canon never really expresses one way or another whether he thinks he’s capable of or can earn redemption. We’re left with subtext that suggests Crowley thinks he’s too far gone for that – or has been convinced that that’s the case by the attitude of the Winchesters and Cas. Fanfiction, this fic, offered up what canon couldn’t:

Crowley admitting to hating what he was and wanting to be better. Saying things like “I’ve been past the point of forgiveness for a very long time” and “There’s no forgiveness, not for a thing like me” and hating that.

Feeling beyond ashamed to have so thoroughly damned himself beyond any hope of redemption. “Even now, he would never forgive himself for all he’d done – and truthfully, he didn’t believe he deserved forgiveness.” Crowley feeling that way both kills me – because it’s not true, dammit – and fulfills a perverse need to see the character suffer through all the necessary growth to actually become that better self that is worthy of that redemption.

Crowley admits his own efforts are “not enough!...It’ll never be enough” compared with his sins. In canon, Crowley never says as much, but plenty of other characters, particularly the Winchesters, are more than happy to come to that conclusion for him.

Again, I am amazed – looking back at this fic – of how much of Crowley’s road to redemption that this fic established for me. One of the waypoints was Crowley coming to a point where he recognizes and then internalizes that being a demon is bad. That seems obvious, but Crowley had so much to gain from being a demon. Did gain so much, compared to his human life. But in becoming a demon, souls lose something, something of immense and irreplaceable value.

After the aborted cure, Crowley “had all the souls of the damned behind him, and he’d never felt weaker.”

And then there was the matter of watching what other demons did, the harm they caused – seeing the consequences and aftermath of the pain and suffer he had caused, how that effected the people around him, the people Crowley now cared about.

There’s coming to grips with the understanding that possessing a meatsuit is a horrible, violating experience for that person.

And that being this broken, corrupted thing is something Crowley wants to get away from, forget about, suppress. And as he increasingly becomes one of the boys, it’s something he tries – without success – to put behind him. “Would you believe that I’d almost forgotten?...Forgot what I was.”

Crowley’s road to redemption, his “transformation” in this fic, is slow. As appealing as the plot point of the demon cure was in canon, I couldn’t imagine the reforming of a soul of the demonic smoke to be anything other than slow, painful, and complicated. It had to be that way, it had to be something of value, to be a redemption that was actually earned.

Crowley’s humanity shines through a little at a time. In most of fanfiction, we go straight to the heart of the matter. That’s what we’re here for. But it’s so much more impactful when the glimpses of Crowley’s feelings and humanity are rare, and veiled behind snark, dismissal, and misdirection.

Crowley has moments of both begrudged self-reflection and open admission. He surprises himself in moments with the sincerity of his own remarks.

Grapples with longing for humanity and the good aspects that come with that, as much as he hates human weakness.

He often considers himself not human enough, and is hard on himself for that.

He learns to ask for help, and the scene in which he asks for help in completing the cure is something I longed to see play out in canon.

There is a scene where a character can see Crowley’s true form – what an angel sees when looking at humans, demons and other beings – and can see that it’s healing from the corrosive effects of damnation and being on Hell’s rack. This is something that I’ve never explored in my own work, but have often thought about and wondered how to visualize for the reader. Visualize Crowley “regaining pieces of his soul,” as Eliot in Leverage recently put it.

There are moments in the fic in which Crowley’s demonic instincts and humanity align, have the same goal, which is something I love and would have wanted to see explored in canon.

At one particular vulnerable moment, Crowley admits to the cure having saved him – “You saved me” – from the damage done to a soul corrupted into a demon. Saved him from himself, stopping him from doing more evil in the future.

The tragedy of that, of course, is that the Winchesters didn’t save Crowley intentionally, didn’t do it for Crowley’s sake, and because of that, Crowley in canon could only begrudge having been transformed from an “icy, unfeeling, ruthless, perfect” demon into a “messy, emotional” shadow of himself.

Even as Crowley laments “not being human enough” in this fic, he is also conflicted about not being demon enough.

The part of Crowley that still revels in depravity and violent strength, in ultimate power, can’t stand the idea of being weakened by human nature. He can’t believe he’s starting to feel all those rainbow, feel-good emotions that make such fools of the Winchesters and their kind.

Equally, not being demon enough undermines Crowley’s legitimacy as King of Hell. If he isn’t the most ruthless, sadistic, uncaring monster out there, he isn’t fit to rule Hell. And not being the king, who is he? And from where does he obtain his power, his means of security and self-preservation? It is as much an existential crisis as it is a matter of wanting to hold onto ill-gotten power and authority.

Giving into his more human side, “would he even be able to rule Hell,” or would he be reduced back to the nothing that he was before bashing his way through the ranks?

And if he gives up humanity for being King? For power? At least then “I’ll have power. I’ll have respect. I’ll have the best a demon can have. The best I can have…It’s all I can do.”

Even in admitting letting go of humanity secures him power, Crowley admits that he chooses that because it’s all he thinks he’s worthy of, a sad consolation prize. Crowley never admits as much in canon, but I absolutely read all this as the reason for his inability to let go of Hell and move to join the Winchesters sooner.

Crowley’s perspective on being king in this fic and how that perspective changes over the course of the slow burn is perhaps the greatest strength of the fic.

Throughout much of the fic, Crowley legitimately loves being king. He loves the authority, he loves the power. The fic leans heavily on his cunning and strategic mind, something that canon failed to capitalize on after Crowley became a second-tier member of Team Free Will. While reading, I honestly believed that the author was writing a Crowley that loved the crown and would begrudge giving it up.

But slowly, what he loves about being a king cannot outweigh everything he hates about Hell, demonkind, and what being king costs him.

Very much in line with canon, Crowley gets to a point where he is forced to admit to himself that despite all the perks and benefits, he actually hates being the King of Hell.

He believes he has to keep being king to keep Hell in line and less of a threat – just like in canon. And uses that as a justification, along with love of power, to remain trapped in his own personal hell.

A few aspects of being King of Hell that the fic explores that canon doesn’t include:

The brilliant idea that “Hell chooses who leads it.” Demonic loyalty shifts from an unsuitable leader to a powerful alternative, and when that loyalty shifts, the power of Hell shifts from to that particular demon or Knight of Hell. That’s what gives the king (or queen) of Hell their immense power and legitimizes their authority. Love that idea – it almost makes it like a…demonocracy.

Crowley feels responsible towards the overall protection of demonkind. This is somewhat suggested in canon, such as when Crowley refers to Bobby Singer as being a surge to “his kind.” But it doesn’t have quite the paternalistic quality to it, compared to in the fic when Crowley gets angry that Abaddon is using “his subjects” as cannon fodder against angels. “Yes, they were traitorous, weak-minded prats, but they were still his.”

But the most significant aspect of Hell and demons this fic explores – in my opinion – is how Hell turns souls into demons. Falling Skies delves into Crowley’s own torture on the rack, “he kept seeing flashes – brief, vivid visions, memories” of “blood and laughter and screaming ad begging and pain.”

Souls are strapped to the rack and torn apart, “destroyed brick by brick…violated and torn down” and then, made into a demon, “pieced back together into something else…something evil. Something poisonous and wrong.” This unmaking so as to create from the ruins departs from the idea that a soul caves or gives into to evil in Hell, and instead invests in the idea that it is something done to them, that it is a perversion of everything that they are, which in my opinion is a much more compelling take on demons.

Hell doesn’t only take a soul’s humanity, it takes their memories as well. Crowley references how “his torture in Hell had been enough to erase almost every part of his human life. He honestly only knew the barest details of the man that was Fergus.”

What he does remember is primarily the bad memories, as if Hell intentionally allowed him to hold onto those memories to either fuel his damnation or to discourage him from being nostalgic for his human life.

Much of what Crowley actually feels, even as a demon, is suppressed, “drowned in smoke”, numbing him to his actions and clouding his own thoughts and emotions in Hell’s influence. “He’d never realized how much he’d lost, how much he’d blocked out, how much he hadn’t even thought was worth remembering.”

All of this significantly influenced my own ideas about what it meant to be a demon – to be a semi-cured demon – and Crowley’s existential struggle.

Some smaller, more personal characteristics of Crowley that this fic influenced in my own writing include:

Crowley being a cook, and rolling his eyes at the boys fearing he’s going to poison them

Crowley referring to or thinking of the Winchesters as “his humans” rather than him being “their demon”

Crowley stating in fanfiction long before that final scene in 12x23 that he “always wins”

pointing out how even before the cure, he has carried his own weight in the saving-the-world department. “Who helped you stop the apocalypse? Me. Who helped you take out Castiel when he tried to pay god? Me. Who helped you stop Dick and his cronies? Me! ARE YOU NOTICING A TREND HERE?”

In this fic, Crowley takes a younger meatsuit – the son of his canon meatsuit. Which made me very uncomfortable and felt hypocritical, because by this point, Crowley is very much one of the good guys and should have had qualms about that. But then angelic powers make it possible for Crowley to take that meatsuit and the person is snapped back into existence, whole and unaware, and Crowley is visibly relieved by that. Vessels and meatsuits has always been something that the canon never properly addressed or explored. And while Crowley taking just a younger version of his vessel felt like ageism here, at least the author addressed the moral complications of his choice.

Crowley’s central, guiding concept of redemption and what it means to do the right thing was also established for me in this fic.

He has the chance to murder the demon that tortured him, that led him on his path to damnation. The demon attempts to play the mortality card, telling Crowley to “kill again and blacken your heart even more.” And Crowley, in perfect character, replies “in for a penny, in for a pound.”

Crowley truly believes himself to be beyond redemption, but that he can use his damnation as another resource in the larger fight for what is right. If he’s already damned, no reason to hold back – he can do the ugly, messy things the others can’t, what might even need to be done to secure the win for Team Free Will.

He reflects on his changing perspective of morality, how he thought good and evil were just human concepts that got in way, that people mistakenly draw line between good and evil when really it’s a spectrum that people move up and down all the time.

What he comes to believe in, with his semi-restored humanity, is choices. “That night that Sam had injected him with human blood, that night he’d come close to being saved (or doomed?), he had seen the darkness inside of himself, and he had hated it…there was good and evil within everyone, or at least the potential for it. What mattered was what side you chose, or at least which you chose the most often, which you kept trying to fight your way back to…For the time being, Crowley was not evil. And really, he rather liked that.”

That idea of Crowley fighting his way back to a better version of himself, to his morality and humanity being defined by his choices – that is central to me in Crowley’s character and road to redemption.

Much of Crowley’s relationship with the boys post-cure for me was based on this fic as well.

With the cure coursing through him, seeing Dean as an actual person for the first time.

His professional respect for them morphing into admiration, into protectiveness, because “they tried. And that should count for something, damn it.”

His understanding that the boys’ don’t just use people up – they do so by giving them something to believe in, something to fight for, and letting the cause use them up.

Dean making a deal with the angels to kill the King of Hell, and being unable to go through with it, then choosing to stand between Crowley and the angels.

Crowley recognizing his and Cas’ similarities, discussing with him the benefits and difficulties of being human or semi-human.

He and Cas getting a drink together and sharing their woes.

Cas admitting that his old angelic biases being in the way of seeing before how alike they are.

Crowley and Cas joking that in their team-up, Crowley is Dean and Cas is Sam.

Idea explored in this fic that I loved and want to flesh out in a fic:

Closing the Gates of Hell means all the demons, including Crowley, will be trapped down there forever. And a) Crowley considers or b) the Winchesters consider without telling Crowley - turning him human so that he won’t be trapped down there with demonkind.

A third or even second attempt at the cure might not be possible, or not take full effect.

Turning a soul into a demon takes proper time, that “hurrying the torture, letting out the souls before they’re fully cooked…churning out demons with bits of human still left in them. You’d think it would make them less dangerous, but it just makes them a hell of a lot worse. They’re out of their minds and out of control.”

And I very much appreciated that it referenced the reality that in killing a possessed meatsuit, the boys were killing a victim, a possessed person. That is something that sort of fell away and became an acceptable collateral damage, and never sat very well with me.

Falling Skies also introduced a loyal lackey for Crowley by the name of Laharl who I loved as a character. Crowley very much needed that someone in later seasons.

Castiel attempting to heal Crowley, and him suffering an instinctual fear that the angel intends to smite him.

The boys – and Crowley – struggling with the unwelcome knowledge that if Crowley chooses to become king again, there will come a time when their interests don’t align, and they will have to be enemies again. How much Crowley doesn’t want that, can’t bear the thought he might hurt them again.

I know this is a really long review. And I honestly don’t expect anyone to read it all the way through. I wrote it more for myself than anything. Because, even though there is plenty about the way that I write Crowley that differs from the way this author did, there is also so much here that influenced my understanding of him and his road to redemption. When there was no other fanfiction about Crowley fighting his way out of the dark, about choosing the Winchesters and to be better, there was Falling Skies. And I will always be immensely grateful for that.

Read the fic on AO3

#spn #spn fanfic #crowley #fic rec #happy sulphur saturday

8 notes · View notes

mintjamsblog · 5 years

Text

The Gospel of Alfie Solomons: Part I

Written by Steven Knight. Transcribed from a recording by Tom Hardy.

You see the idea I fucking hate the most, right, is that everything starts off perfect and then it gets worse. That is demonstrably not fucking true. Some things are just born bad. Some people are born with no intention to do anything good on this earth and they carry out their plan to deceive and cheat and rob and desanctify all that is holy just because that is the way that they were born, that is how they are, that is what they do. Relentless, relentlessly. Their creed runs thus…

If I can I will rob you, if I must I will kill you, if you let me I will fuck you, when I’ve fucked you I will leave you.

My father, Alfred Solomons Senior, was such a man with such a creed. He was a dispenser, a dispenser of semen to the gullible and the bewildered, a maker of bastards on a scale unseen since Genghis fucking Khan; a barbarian for whom every empty womb was Rome. He planted the seeds but he did not tend the gardens. He stayed only long enough to piss on the compost and behead the roses to sell in Summers Town in the market there. With his stolen roses in his pockets he would leap the garden gate, leaving behind only the scent of rum, marzipan, tobacco and Portugal Water which he did, he sold out of his suitcase, right, at 6 pence a bottle. At least that is what I’ve been told. Yeah, someone fucking told ‘cause all I ever saw of him was his fucking hat. It was hanging on a wall on a nail above the sink where my mother washed other people’s laundry. That hat was a holy relic, size eight and a half, made in Luton, where the hat makers go insane on the fumes of their trade and leave little messages sewn under the hat bands. The message in my father’s hat was this:

This hat, right, is a kettle in which to boil up your wicked dreams and make a soup of your soul.

It is a hat that actually I wear to this day, it still smells of Portugal Water; when I wear it the schemes and proposals come out of the darkness as if seeping out of the felt and the leather that is stained with his erotic sweat.

My mother washed bedsheets, my father was a fucking hat. No kisses, no bedtime stories just parcels of sheets to deliver to the hotels and the brothels of Camden Town for nothing more than flatbread and a pinch from the priest who would then open up his robes when I passed. And from that I drew my dark and accurate conclusions on religion.

So, Alfie Solomons Junior grew untended and wild, a stem with hardly a root sticking up like a skinny cock out of the gutter so every nasty little Christian kid walking by their nasty little Christian school with their gropey old Christian masters could kick it down and stomp on it and shout, “it was you lot who killed Jesus so have that in your belly and have that in your face and see it as charity. We’re not nailing you up like you did our Lord.”

But every time I got stomped down I fucking stomped back up again, mate. I survived out of spite and instead of learning how to fight I learned how to put right the wrongs done unto me tenfold, a hundred…a thousandfold, yay, unto the fucking stars, right, by using the bit of my body that God had cleverly put inside a strong bone box so the kicks and the digs could not reach it. The bit of me that is my brain. With the help of the alchemy of my Portugal Water hat in the strong bone box I process the schemes and solutions the mad hatters of Luton and my father had put there; my brain a factory producing schemes and solutions dodges and speculations ways around and ways to undermine, a trickle at night and a flood in the day when I unlock my bakery and smell the aroma of secrets and sit and begin the process of accumulation.

I am the Chairman of Alfie Solomons’ Aerated Bread Company, Bonny Street, Camden Town to be precise. My two Vice Chairmen are Mr Threat and Mr Violence and the former I prefer but, but, the latter is necessary to support the former because without violence there is no threat and without threat there is no accumulation, without accumulation well there’s just no fucking point, mate.

As a baker I occasionally sell bread. As a bookmaker I occasionally let the fastest horse win. As a landlord I occasionally have a roof fixed. But mostly I find it is quicker and it is easier to deal with the complainant, right, rather than deal with the complaint. From all of this you are drawing your conclusions.

Alfie Solomons, begat from a bad man, beguiled by a hat band, became a bad man. Inspires bad men to do bad things in bad ways to good people who have bad, bad luck – but is good enough to at least admit he is a fucking bad, bad man.

But consider this, right, in all my years as a baker in Camden Town I have overseen, I have organised or otherwise been responsible for the deaths, right, of thirty-five fucking men. All of whom, I’ll have you know, attend my dreams each night in various disguises, in irregular order, with no pattern or logic to it but with the consequence that I wake up each morning in sheets that, they have to be wrung out from sweat, right, by my maid, Edna, who it should be noted I have never had an evil thought about in fifteen years because when she washes my sweat from the sheets she reminds me of my poor mother, now residing in hell and washing the robes of satan himself.

So, thirty-five men, thirty-five times, I am a bad man. But here is where mathematics comes to my rescue. Logic rides in like an accountant on a penny farthing just in time to make proof of mitigation before moral bankruptcy is officially declared, yeah. Here is, here is what logic puts forward in my defence. In France, right, Passchendaele for example, take one day, one hour, one fucking second, I am standing, right in the uncultivated mud, a stem with hardly a root. In my hands I have an artillery shell. It is the size and weight of a newborn baby, a little bastard made in Birmingham – sharp nose the colour of the morning sky. And in that one second, right, one fucking second of one day of one month of four years, in that one second I feed that baby to the upturned mortar barrel, arse first, I turn, I put my fingers in my ears and boom I send my baby into the morning sky to do the only job it was ever, ever intended to do. Two seconds later another boom and there, in the mud, over there, lie thirty-six men. Brown bread. The thirty-six killed by the solider, right, are just as dead, right, as the thirty-five killed by the baker, but the thirty-six, they do not attend my dreams and are not there in God’s ledger counting the good against the bad. I was given a medal for the thirty-six but I took a bullet from the Peaky Blinders for the thirty-five. So.

Therefore, my beloved congregation, I will leave you with this conclusion, right. There is no good and there is no bad, that is categorical, in this world beyond the calculations of powerful men, right, who shift the definition according to their own selfish schemes of accumulation. The only things that are categorical are life and death. For argument’s sake we’ll say life is good and death is bad … purely, purely for argument’s sake. Which means, which means my father was fucking right, mate, you dispense your semen, you piss on the compost, you deadhead the fucking roses, leave the garden gate, take what you’ve stolen to market and you sell it at a reasonable price leaving behind only your hat and the scent of your fucking wares mate. That is the creed of Alfie Solomons.

A lame shepherd among nimble goats who nevertheless, at the stable doors, shall be counted and accumulated as lambs to my gentle slaughter. Because never forget this, right, Alfie Solomons is always waiting.

Listen to Tom Hardy’s performance here.

#peaky blinders #alfie solomons #steven knight #tommy x alfie

107 notes · View notes

sebthesnipe · 4 years

Text

Basic Bickering

First // Previously // Next

My Dearest Procyon

Masterpost

MDP Discord Server

Chapter 31

Original story based on this wonderful post by @underdog-arts

“Is he asleep?” Patton asked in a soft whisper, glancing over his shoulder. Logan shut the flap of the large backpack looped over the dragon’s shoulder carefully, as he straightened.

“Yes. Hopefully, he remains that way,” the witch sighed, moving next to the smaller man as they walked.

“You’re worried about him,” Patton stated, eyeing his partner.

“He has been through a lot,” Logan replied. There was no use denying his feelings when Patton could sense them so acutely.

“It’s more than that though,” Patton countered, peering up at him expectantly. “You’re terrified.”

Logan’s gaze shot to the shorter man. The empathic bond certainly had its inconveniences. Perhaps Logan would be able to find a way to block the flow of emotional traffic, given enough time. He only wished he had the ability presently.

“I would argue that it is a logical emotion, given the situation,” Logan sighed, trying to concentrate on his breathing. The fact that the dragon could read him so easily was disconcerting and almost invasive.

“Sorry,” Patton mumbled, flushing as he glanced away. Guilt washed through the witch and there was no confusion as to whom it belonged.

“It’s alright, Patton,” Logan huffed, reaching out for him. “You can’t help it. This is all still very new to us both.”

The dragon seemed to brighten at the touch, his own hand lifting to cover the one on his shoulder, enjoying the feel of Logan’s reassurance.

“Your bond with Virgil wasn’t like this?” Patton asked curiously.

“Not in the least,” Logan admitted. He gave the smaller man’s hand a gentle squeeze before allowing his hand to drop. “Virgil and I were bonded out of necessity and desperation. It was sloppy work, but we managed it. The bond was functional, nothing more.”

“That sounds awful,” Patton whispered in awe. “There had to be more to it. Otherwise… Well, otherwise you wouldn’t still be helping him.”

Logan blinked in surprise, his heart sinking as he realized what Patton meant. The dragon had obviously misunderstood him.

“I care a great deal for Virgil,” Logan insisted. “He is the closest thing to a friend I have ever had. I would do almost anything for him. The bond he formed with me to save my life is more than I can ever repay. Even if, as a witch, the magical bond we had formed to sustain us is gone, it more than served its purpose. As a person, my bond to him is still strong.”

Patton took a moment to consider the words, feeling out Logan’s reaction.

“You feel-” Patton paused, brows furrowing at ugly emotion. “Hatred?” he asked, confused.

Logan tensed at the question. He wasn’t sure how to answer it.

“Logan,” Patton sighed, eyes wide as he moved closer, still mindful of the direction they were headed. “What is it? Is it Noname? Hating him won’t-”

“It’s not him,” Logan interrupted a bit more harshly than he intended. He scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to calm himself.

How was it that he could manage to stay so calm and collected in the worst situations, but when he was around Patton it seemed as if the metaphorical flood gates were forced open? It was so frustrating! Now, more than ever, he needed to control these feelings and he was failing miserably.

The hatred increased.

“Is it me?” Patton practically squeaked, his hurt ebbing through to the witch.

“What?!” Logan asked, eyes wide as his gaze turned back to the dragon. “Patton, no!” He turned bending to take the smaller man’s hand in his, pulling them to a stop. “No, Patton. I could never feel that way towards you,” he reassured.

Patton peered up at him, eyes glossy with tears. “But you still don’t trust me,” he pointed out, “and I’ve kept the truth from you. You have every right to-”

“Patton,” Logan repeated a bit more firmly. “It is not you. I can not deny the distrust I feel, but I certainly do not hate you.”

“Then what else could it be? It’s not Virgil, I know that. But-”

“It’s myself, Patton!” Logan snapped, causing the dragon to jump slightly in surprise.

Logan pulled back, taking another moment to focus on his breathing. He needed to calm himself.

“It’s me,” he stated more evenly. “I loathe my very existence.”

The witch could feel Patton’s concern and empathy as he tried to work out why Logan would feel this way.

“Virgil severed his bond with Noname to try to save me,” Logan explained. “He decided to help me instead of having a long and healthy life. He has been forced to live as a procyonidae for the majority of the time away from that, that… bastard!” Logan managed, feeling his face flush at the realization that he cursed in front of his partner.

“Logan,” Patton sighed, obviously ignoring the profanity. “Virgil chose-”

“No, Pat. No he didn’t,” Logan interrupted again, not willing to be comforted. “Virgil knew that bonding with me would save me and sever his ties with Noname. He didn’t know it would slowly kill him!”

“Neither did you!” Patton argued.

Logan fell silent, honey gaze shifting downward in shame, his anger rising once more.

“L-Logan?” Patton asked a bit weakly. “You didn’t… Did you?”

Logan couldn’t bring himself to answer, chest tightening. How was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

Patton lifted a hand, covering his mouth in horror. “H-how c-could you do that? How could you trade someone’s life-”

“It wasn’t like that!” Logan rushed, tears filling his eyes. “You weren’t there! You don’t know what it was like!”

“Maybe, but I would never-”

“Can you really say that?!” Logan spat. “Can you really say that you would never? As long as you’ve been alive, the countless years that you have lived, can you really say that you haven’t done something so bad that you thought you would never do? No one knows what they are capable of until a situation presents itself for them to learn!”

Patton was speechless for a moment as Logan glared at him. The shame, the anger, the pain, the disgust, all of it swirled through their bond making the smaller man’s body shake with the force of it all.

“No,” Patton admitted softly, lifting his chin in defiance. “No, I can’t.”

Logan tensed at the words. Whatever argument he had prepared died on his lips. He let Patton’s pain wash through him with no resistance. The dragon mirrored Logan’s self-loathing with his own.

What had Patton been through? How could Logan be so insensitive? For once, being right was not something Logan enjoyed.

“Patton-”

“Don’t!” the smaller man ordered flatly. “ My choices were made and set long ago. Whatever the situation was, there is no excuse for you to choose your life over someone else’s. I know better than I hope you ever will. There is no equal trade for death!”

“You’re right,” Logan sighed. “I spent what felt like an eternity in those cells. I was forced to lay awake for weeks on end, and when I was finally allowed to rest, Virgil was sent to turn my dreams into nightmares. I was tortured, beaten down both mentaly and physically. The things that they did to me…” he paused, fists clenched at his sides, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t have the words… But I survived and when an opportunity presented itself for me to escape, I took it! I didn’t care about the consequences… There is no excuse for what I’ve done.”

Patton set his jaw against Logan’s turmoil, his own tears threatening to spill.

“But the consequences I chose to ignore are here now,” Logan pointed out, voice breaking slightly. “And Virgil is paying for my choices.”

Logan paused, finally managing to get a hold of himself as he started running through his mental list of alphabetized constellations.

“It was different back then,” Logan whispered softly, “I didn’t- I didn’t know Virgil was so… I thought he-” Logan tried to explain, his own brain betraying him.

“Logan,” Patton sighed, moving to press against him. The dragon would have given anything to be able to wrap his arms around the tall man, but knew it would be far too painful for him. Instead, he settled for squishing himself against Logan’s chest.

“It shouldn’t have mattered whether Virgil was the man I thought he was or not,” Logan admitted, wrapping his arms around Patton’s small form.. He pressed his face into Patton’s auburn curls and breathed him in, searching for some form of comfort. “I have regretted my actions every second of every day since,” he admitted. “I had hope that in finding a new source we could both survive. However, if the opportunity presented itself for Virgil to gain a new bond without me then-”

“Then you would have chosen to die,” Patton supplied for him, burying his face in the man’s chest.

“Yes, knowing that my actions had been corrected,” Logan nodded.

“But then I came along,” Patton’s muffled voice sniffled. “I’m so sorry, Lo.”

“Nonsense,” Logan said simply. “I’m thankful you did. I am a better person when I’m around you and I can’t bring myself to regret that or anything else when it comes to knowing you. Regardless,” he continued, “there is no use dwelling on the past. I can not change my previous actions, but I can change what I do in the future. I am the reason Virgil is in the state he is. I caused this and I should be the one to correct it.”

Patton shifted to press his ear against Logan’s chest, trying to calm himself with the rhythmic pounding of his heartbeat.

He could feel Logan through the bond.

He could feel his determination.

He could feel his fear and loathing, his reservations; Logan would do whatever it took to save Virgil or he would die in the process.

Patton steeled himself. There was no doubt in his mind...

Logan was determined to die along with Virgil if they failed.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Silence fell between the witch and the baku. Remy’s coffee had grown cold long ago as Virgil recited his tale.

“I told you, you should have never trusted that seer,” Remy scoffed, folding their hands in their lap as they tried to make sense of it all.

“Remy,” Virgil huffed, obviously not amused.

“Guuurrlll! You know I’m right!” they replied sassily.

“I have no regrets,” Virgil countered simply.

“Except that you're as good as dead. Puppet, you’re paler than I am,” Remy pointed out.

“Yeah, well, what can I say?” Virgil mused. “It looks good on you. I had to try the look for myself,” he teased. “Listen, if we save Roman, then my death won’t be a problem.”

“We?” the baku asked with an arched brow. “As in you and the astrology nerd?”

“It’s astronomy, Remy,” Virgil sighed, hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck.

“Whatever,” the baku dismissed.

“And not exactly. I need your help,” he admitted softly.

“Obviously,” they groaned. “Listen, Doll, I want to help. I really do. I certainly don’t want you to kick the bucket, but I’m not like you. I don’t have a bond to severe. I’m stuck here.”

“I know,” Virgil hurried, leaning forward in his eagerness. “I know you have a deal with Noname and your deal can’t be broken, but if we succeed-”

“You won’t.”

“But if we do-”

“You won’t.” Remy added once more.

“Then you can strike up a new deal with Roman, a creature more powerful than Noname,” Virgil offered, making the baku pause.

“That’s an awfully big if, Puppet,” Remy sighed softly, turning their gaze to the imaginary sky as they considered it.

“That wasn’t a no,” Virgil pointed out with a grin.

“You don’t even know what Prince Charming is,” they pointed out.

“Does it matter? Whatever he is, he is stronger than Noname. Otherwise why would the guy want his power?” the witch countered.

He had a point, Remy had to admit that. Still, Remy’s deal with Noname was a pretty sweet gig, even if he forgot to feed them once in a while. Was it worth risking? What if this new deal wasn’t as good? Technically there was nothing in their contract with Noname that kept them from forming new deals. It could work, at least hypothetically. It was a risk Remy wouldn’t usually be willing to take. But…

Virgil stared up at them, eyes shining with something Remy could only assume was hope. They hated hope. It was such a messy human emotion. Hope always failed, and when it did it was worse than if they hadn’t felt it in the first place.

“Come on, Remy!” Virgil pleaded playfully, “If I die then who are you going to get all the good tea from?”

Remy pursed their lips, gaze narrowing.

“Guuurrl, please! Your tea is mediocre at best!” they scoffed.

“Maybe, but you’re gonna miss me and you know it!” Virgil chuckled.

“Psh!” Remy scoffed, rolling their eyes. “What makes you think you're so special, Doll?”

“Because I am,” Virgil counted, “Who else gets a cool pet name like ‘Puppet’?” Honestly, Virgil hated the nickname.

Remy tensed at that, shooting him another glare.

“I call everyone that.”

“Liar!”

“Fine!” they huffed in defeat. Virgil was right, they would be miserable if he died and misery did not look good on a diva of their caliber. “I’ll help, but just ‘cause I’m tired of this drab cell! I deserve better!”

“Of course,” Virgil laughed. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

“So, what's the plan?” Remy pressed, giving another wave of their hand to conjure more of the dark liquid. They were going to need a lot more coffee if they were going to survive this…

To be continued.

Taglist:

@hiddendreamer67 @nightashes @aequinoctiale @sumersnowlilly

6 notes · View notes

tehnardier · 7 years

Text

Heartbeat — Steve Harrington

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Words: 3511

Headcanon: “Steve would probably be so great at comforting his s/o” by anonymous.

Summary: Y/N hasn’t been able to sleep because of nightmares for a long time and seeks help of the one person that will be of help.

Warnings: insomnia

A/N: this is a new style of writing i’m trying out bc i wanted to see if i could write flashbacks and write a non gender specific fanfic... well, here’s it is!! feedback is always appreciated :) enjoy!

You woke up startled, sitting up immediately and trying to catch your breath. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last. Ever since you fought off the Demogorgon, you had started getting nightmares. Luckily, you learned to deal with them and didn’t have them as often, but with the recent events with the demodogs, they came back stronger than ever.

You looked at the clock on the wall and sighed, knowing that it was useless to try to go back to sleep. Laying back down on the bed, you felt tears on the corners of your eyes threatening to fall. ‘I’m so weak,’ you thought, ‘who wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and starts to cry? Certainly none of your friends who went through the exact same shit do.’

It had all started when Nancy Wheeler asked your help the year before to rescue your mutual friend Barbara Holland. At the time, you didn’t know that by rescue she meant fight a monster from another dimension with the help of Jonathan Byers and, surprisingly, Steve Harrington. After that, the four of you developed a somewhat close bond, or at least a knowledge that, when and if the time came, you’d be there to help each other. A year had passed since then and, when you least expected it, you were helping a bunch of kids and Steve to capture some kind of tiny Demogorgon (or, as Dustin liked to call it, demodog) called Dart. After that, you somehow ended up in the upside down putting the whole thing to flames, and it was like all the hard work you put into overcoming your nightmares had been burned off with it. There was only one good memory you could think of that stood out from all the bad ones.

It was over. Eleven had closed the gate, and you and Steve had gotten all the kids out safely from the tunnel Chief Hopper had dug to the upside down. Relief flushed through your veins as you looked around and made sure everyone was alright.

Suddenly, there were two arms around you and you felt the familiar scent of one Steve Harrington. You didn’t stop to think twice as you wrapped your arms around his back and breathed him in.

“We made it.” he whispered in your ear, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest. You barely hummed in response, choosing to focus on his heartbeat instead and letting its steady thumps lure you into a state of pure bliss.

You found yourself wondering if hearing someone’s heartbeat would help you sleep better. Deep inside you knew that it wouldn’t, not anyone’s, at least. Steve’s heartbeat would help. Along with his warm eyes and soothing words.

You could admit to yourself that you had grown hopelessly fond of the boy since everything that happened, and could guess that only situations like literally saving the whole town could have made someone like yourself fall for someone like Steve. You suspected that even Nancy had figured it out.

The only reason you accepted to chaperone the middle school Snow Ball was because you missed the kids. But, after watching Jonathan take some pictures, complimenting Dustin’s hairdo (no doubt a consequence of one of Steve’s many terrible advices), giving Lucas a pep talk so he would have the courage to ask Max to a dance and hugging them all embarrassingly close, you had realized that middle school dances were probably the most boring thing you ever attended.

It was during the ninth time you circled the entire gymnasium (you counted) that Nancy called you over to the punch table. You rapidly made your way to her, desperate to have a distraction from watching kids dance and ogle at each other.

“So, where’s Steve?” she asked amicably when you got there as she served punch to a nervous looking boy.

You stared at her, confused as to why she would think you’d know about Steve’s whereabouts. “Uh, I don’t know?”

“You don’t?” Nancy glanced at her, frowning and looking equally confused.

“Should I?” you questioned as you two watched the nervous boy leave with a couple of full cups on his hands. That set something off in Nancy’s brain and her confused look turned into one of embarrassment.

“No!” she exclaimed loudly, making herself busy and filling some random cups with her ‘pure fuel’. “It’s just that... No, it’s nothing, forget it.”

“It’s not nothing, or else you wouldn’t be acting this way.” you said as nudged her shoulder with yours. “Come on, tell me.”

“You seem close, that’s all.” Nancy murmured, shrugging her shoulders. That made you tense up, fearing that your friend was mad at you for being friends with her ex-boyfriend. Nancy seemed to sense that, turning her body towards yours and putting a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“I’m not mad at you, silly,” she let out a giggle, “I just wanted you to know you have my blessing.”

You didn’t think much about Nancy’s words at the time, sure that she was only joking. But now, the more you thought about it, the more fearful you were that your crush was too obvious. You sighed and closed your eyes, trying to make your mind shut up so you could at least try to rest a little.

It was no use. Twenty minutes later you were still tossing and turning in your bed, thoughts of your friends and, most importantly, your crush still on your mind.

You were waiting for your mom to come get you after the Snow Ball when a familiar car stopped in front of the school. You smirked and walked over to the driver seat of the car, tapping on the glass and startling the boy inside.

Steve rolled down the window and gave you his signature grin when he saw it was you. “Y/N! I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“What can I say? I missed those little shits.” you joked, using the nickname Steve had given them.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he laughed, “I’m here to pick up Dustin.”

You felt your heart get a little warmer when he said that. “That’s really sweet of you, Steve.”

He gave you a small smile. “He’s a cool kid.”

“He is.” you smiled back. A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as you waited for Dustin to come. You shuddered when a gust of wind passed by and wrapped your arms around yourself.

“Hey, are you cold?” Steve asked in concern and rapidly took off his maroon sweater. Before you could even answer him, he was shoving the fabric into your hands.

You tried giving it back to him, but he just shook his head. “You’re gonna get cold, too.”

“I’m inside the car, you’re outside,” Steve shrugged and pouted nonchalantly, “you’re gonna get colder.“

Knowing it was no use to fight him, you thanked him and put the sweater on, cuddling into it. Steve couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“It’s no problem,” he told you, “I’m here for you whenever you need me, Y/N.”

Your eyes landed on the sweater you still hadn’t given back and you let out a sigh. You stood up and wrapped it in your hands, holding it close to your chest. Steve lived so close to you, only a few minutes walking and you’d be there with him, holding him instead of his sweater. The words he said flooded in your head, had he truly meant them? I’m here for you whenever you need me, Y/N.

Before you could think too much about it, you shrugged the sweater on and put on your shoes, making your way out of the room and downstairs as quietly as you could, not wanting to wake up any of your family members.

Only when you were already outside your house you realized how insane was your idea. ‘I can just appear at someone’s house in the middle of the night because I can’t sleep,’ you thought to yourself, ‘also, why would he want me there? He’ll probably freak out. But then again, he did say that he would be there for me when I needed it. That counts as needing it, doesn’t it? I sure as hell need a good night of sleep.’

You interrupted your little internal monologue with a determined huff and let your feet make the familiar way to the Harrington residence. The walk took about five minutes and soon enough you were looking up to what you knew was Steve’s bedroom window. You started to think what you should do next, quickly discarding the idea of just shouting “Steve, Steve, let down your gelled hair” and hoping for the best.

You looked down to your feet, noticed the little pebbles scattered around the floor and groaned. You absolutely hated how sappy this would look, but it was your only option. So, you kneeled down, grabbed a handful of the pebbles and started throwing them on Steve’s window, missing a few but still managing hit the glass most of the time.

You noticed some movement happening in the darkness of the bedroom, followed by the light turning on. After a while, a disheveled and sleepy Steve appeared. He frowned confusedly when he noticed you and opened the window. “Y/N? What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Hi,” you waved shamefully up at him, “did I wake you up?”

Steve just stared for a few seconds, then pointed his finger at you with determination. “Just wait there.”

He disappeared from the window, leaving you wondering what was going to happen next. A good thirty seconds later, you saw Steve walking outside the house and towards you barefoot and with nothing but an old t-shirt and sweatpants on.

“Are you ok?” he asked when he reached you, looking you up and down in concern. “Did something happen?”

You’re not sure why, but all it took was those two questions for your eyes to well up with tears once again. Steve noticed that, immediately closing the space between your bodies and throwing his arms around you. You didn’t have the energy to replicate the hug, but you let out a choked sob and the tears fell freely down your face as he held you close.

“I’m here,” Steve whispered, running his hand through your hair, “I’ve got you.”

He held you until you stopped crying, carefully stepping back once he felt your breathing go back to normal, but putting one of his arms around your shoulders almost as if he was afraid to let you go completely. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

You nodded and let him lead you to the house. Once inside, he let go of your shoulders and took your hand instead, murmuring something about his parents being asleep. You two tiptoed your way towards his bedroom and, when you got there, he let out a relieved sigh and closed the door behind you.

You quickly let go of his hand, the brightness inside the room making it too real, making your feelings for Steve too real. There’s something about the darkness that can make you think you can shield or avoid your sentiments with the shadows. But once there’s light, you’re vulnerable again and all those feelings come straight out to the surface.

Steve sensed your discomfort and, not knowing exactly what to do, walked up to his bed and sat on it to avoid just standing there and making you even more uncomfortable. “You can sit, too, if you want.” he said meekly.

You nodded and made your way to the bed, sitting close enough that if you leaned just a tad to the side, you’d touch his arm. Steve looked at you and chuckled, “I was wondering where that went.”

"I, uh... What?” you said and turned your body towards him confused.

“My sweater.” he answered, indicating to your torso with a nod. You looked down and remembered what you were wearing, feeling your cheeks warm up.

“Oh,” you said simply, “yes, I had completely forgotten about that. I can, uh, give it back to you if you want.”

Steve waved his hand carelessly and shook his head. “There’s no need. It looks better on you anyway.”

If your cheeks were warm then, you were pretty sure they were on fire now. You managed to choke out a “thanks” and looked back down, fiddling with your hands nervously. You had come here in the heat of the moment and now you had no idea how to act and what to do around him. Sure, you and Steve were friends, but not friends friends, just, you know, ‘we went through a lot of shit together and now I guess we’re close’ friends. You didn’t know how to hang out with him, or how to start a normal conversation about random stuff.

“So...” you dragged out, hoping he would somehow complete the sentence or start a topic of conversation. “How have you been?” you asked after he said nothing.

“Managing, I guess. You?” he glanced at you and it was the first time you realized how nervous he looked. It was both relieving and unsettling seeing him like this, acting so unlike his usually confident self.

“Yeah, me too.” you mumbled, giving him a small smile.

“Are you?” he blurted out, making you snap your head towards him defensively. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude or anything, but what happened outside doesn’t exactly make me believe that you’re managing it so well.”

You frowned angrily, shooting daggers at him with your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t mean it like a bad thing.” he cringed and looked at you apologetically. “I just... I think that you’re maybe not as ok as you’re trying to make it seem. And that’s why you’re here, right? We went through some tough shit, Y/N, it’s normal not to be over it so quickly.”

“Is it?” you spat out. “Because I look around and I see everyone being so strong. People like Jonathan... Considering what he saw his baby brother go through, he should be the one who’s not managing. Not me.”

Steve opened his mouth to interfere, but you continued talking before he could. “Or Will himself, or Mrs. Byers, who had to watch her boyfriend get literally eaten by those things. They’re the ones who should be fucked up, but they’re not. They’re holding up.”

You felt your chest get heavy, guilt taking over your body.

“You think you’re the only one who’s still scared?” Steve asked suddenly, finally being able to stop your little rant. “Y/N, I sleep with my nail bat under my bed every night.”

You couldn’t help but crack a small grin at his confession. He nudged your shoulder with his, happy to have made you smile. “Just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean you’re the only one having a hard time dealing with what happened.”

“I feel like I’m being selfish not being able to get over it.” you said quietly, glancing at the boy beside you. “What we saw is nothing compared to what they lost, Steve.”

Silence filled the room for a few seconds before Steve turned his whole body towards you and stared at you with wide eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“What?” you questioned, looking back at him.

“Y/N, you’re not selfish.” he told you, his voice sounding serious and determined. “You got into all this to save your friend. And even after you lost her, you continued fighting and protecting everyone you could. You’re not only completely selfless, but pretty freaking badass, too.”

“You mean that?” you asked him incredulously. Steve nodded enthusiastically in confirmation.

“You’re also pretty freaking badass and selfless, Harrington.” you said, smiling up at the boy. He blushed and mumbled a “no” in return.

“Yes, you are!” you raised your voice as much as you could without waking up his parents, not sure how they’d deal if they found you in their son’s bedroom in the middle of the night. “Was I the only one who saw you make yourself a prey for those monsters to protect the kids?”

“And you.” he said quietly. “To protect you, too.”

It was your turn to blush, the feelings you hid deep inside you threatening to burst out. “You had no obligation to do that, but you did it anyway.” you told him sighing.

“It felt like the right thing to do, that’s all.” he explained nonchalantly.

“That’s my point. You’re probably the most selfless person I’ve ever met.” you said. A voice inside your head just screamed ‘fuck it’ — you wouldn’t hide your feelings any loner if it meant Steve wouldn’t know how important he was.

“You know, I haven’t slept properly for a long time,” you confessed, “I get these horrible nightmares almost every night. And when I don’t, I don’t sleep anyway because I get scared I will.”

“You had one tonight.” Steve murmured, piecing all the pieces of the puzzle in his head.

“Yeah.” you whispered, taking a deep breath and grabbing his hands. “And I remembered that, when it was all over, you gave me this really tight hug.”

You waited for a confirmation that Steve was following you before continuing. He then interlaced your fingers together. “You held me so close I could feel your heartbeat. And that made me feel safe. You made me feel safe.” you told him. You felt dizzy and breathless as you waited for a response.

“I never thought I’d make someone feel safe just by hugging them.” he said and smiled at you lovingly. You gave him a matching grin, glad to have finally made him understand.

“I feel safe with you, too, you know.” Steve said, holding your gaze. “Back at the junkyard and in the upside down, what kept me grounded was having you there.”

“Seriously?” you asked him disbelievingly.

“Yes.” he confirmed, his smiled getting even bigger. “So, if you want to maybe spend the night... I’ll hold you all night long if it makes you sleep better.”

Looking at Steve in that moment, his eyes shining and a hopeful grin on his face, was when you realized how far gone you really were for this boy. “Ok, I’ll stay.” you said simply, squeezing his hands.

Steve brought your own hands to his lips and gave kissed them before letting you go and standing up to switch the lights off. You took your shoes and his sweater off as he walked up to his bed, laid on it and put the covers over himself. “Come on, bring it in.” he said with a cheeky grin, opening his arms wide open.

You laughed as you got under the covers and threw yourself in his arms. Steve wrapped them around you, holding you safely to his chest. You breathed him in and snuggled closer. “I like this a lot, Steve.” you murmured. You felt his heart start to beat faster and he kissed the top of your head.

“Hey, I need to ask you something.” Steve said after a while, sounding tired but purposeful nonetheless. You lifted your head to look at him.

“What is this between us? Are we only friends or is there something more to it?” he asked, his voice quavering a little.

“After everything I said, you think that what I feel for you is purely platonic?” you questioned him incredulously, your mouth agape and eyes opened wide in a mocking manner.

Steve chuckled and shrugged. “Well, I wanted to check.”

You closed your mouth, stopping for moment to look at him. You felt as if every cell on your body was on fire just by doing so. His eyes held your gaze with nothing but sincerity, and a small and loving smile graced his features. His normally styled hair was down, a few soft strands falling to his forehead, and you thought he looked completely breathtaking. You could feel his heartbeat and his chest go up and down, every consuming thought on your mind being how intoxicated you were by him.

“I can assure you I’ve got very romantic and very real feelings for you.” you told Steve as you closed the space between you two and kissed him hard. He smiled into the kiss and brought you even closer to his chest, kissing you back.

“Good, because I feel the same way about you.” Steve murmured in between kisses.

You leaned back, smirking at him and giving him one last peck before laying back down.

“Good night, Steve Harrington.” you said into his chest, closing your eyes and holding back a smile.

“You’re such a tease.” he moaned, letting out a breathy laugh afterwards and running his hands through your back in a soothing manner. “Good night, Y/N Y/L/N.”

For the first time in a while, you felt completely safe, letting Steve’s warm presence and stable heartbeat lure you to a peaceful sleep.

#stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things imagine #stranger things imagines #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things headcanons #stranger things headcanon #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington imagines #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington headcanon #my-writing #my writing #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington fanfic

519 notes · View notes

paperhatcollection · 7 years

Text

Call for help

Dr. Flug Slys contacts a band of local heroes to seek out protection from his boss... he'd a good actor, isn't he?

Strongarm set the file on the table in front of him, taking a moment to acknowledge how thin it was. Almost as thin as the man it was about, in fact.

With nothing else to do with it, Strongarm flicked it open to remove the first page, containing the most bare bone basic information they’d been able to scrounge up.

“Dr. Flug Slys, correct?” Strongarm asked.

The man sitting across from him managed to give a court nod, focus still on the bowl in front of him as he twirled his spoon around in what had been ice cream, before it melted into a colorful slop. To be fair, he probably should have finished it half an hour ago.

Melted ice cream didn’t seem seem very satisfying to Strongarm, in fact it seemed more of a shame, as ice cream normally helped people like Flug relax. If only just a little.

Strongarm got that it was probably hard to eat ice cream when you refused to take the paper bag of your head, but it was even harder when the ice cream had already melted. Maybe he could get Flug a straw?

“You came to us for protection.” Strongarm stated frankly, shoving the folder asied. “And the weapons you turned over to us in exchange were… concerning, to say the least. We need to know more.”

Flug visibly shuddered, dropping the spoon in the bowl and shaking his head quickly.

“I can’t. You don’t know what he’d- what would happen to me.” Flug said, voice shaking slightly. Maybe someone should get the poor man some water. “I told you, I can give you anything else, but I can’t tell you about my employer.”

“We’re going to need names.” Strongarm pressed, keeping his voice firm. “Real names. We can’t help you if we don’t know who you’re running from.” And if he were being honest, he doubted ‘Flug Slys’ was his real name in the first place. But he had to admit, it didn’t really matter what his real name was, once Flug was relocated and given a new identity- well, that just about explained it.

This wasn’t his first time dealing with someone like Flug. Some port smart lad had gotten snatched up by a super villain and forced to make weapons of mass destruction by force. And more often than not, those scientists had never had the chance to work for anyone else. It had been their current employer or death for much of their lives, and the hero’s they approached were their only hope out of said life.

That didn’t mean they weren't still afraid of their employers once they were safe.

“I c-can’t…” Flug muttered, his voice soft, as if he was trying not to be heard.

Strongarm shook his head, leaning forward. His hands were clasped together on the table, like a teacher attempting to get a kid to tattle on the bad kids in class.

“You have to.” Strongarm stressed. “If not, they might come and take you back. They’ll keep hurting people. You might be accused of protecting them.” he wasn’t playing bad cop as much as he was… laying out the possible consequences.

Flug shuddered.

“Do you know what you’re asking me to do!?” he suddenly yelped, surprising Strongarm. Flug dragged his hands down his bag, unable to keep still all of a sudden. Strongarm was surprised the bag didn’t rip, with how hard Flug was tugging at it.

“Do you have any idea the weapons I would be taking credit for? All the deaths and pain that were caused by the things I was forced to create?” Flug asked, still unable to stand still. Strongarm watched Flug cross the room, letting him exhaust that pent up energy.

“We can offer you legal protection.” Strongarm offered. “You won’t have to face time in jail, but you will need to prove you dedication to good before you can re-enter society.” okay, maybe he was the good cop now.

“But what about the people who will want personal revenge for what my work has done to their friends, their families?” Flug asked. “What about other villains who had hated the competition? If I tell you who I worked for, I’d be opening the flood gates!”

Strongarm didn’t stop Flug from ranting as his voice grew in it’s panic. He watched Flug instead, waiting to see if he’d slip up.

“And what if you can’t protect me? You can’t be there every second for the rest of my life! I’d be living in constant fear that one day someone would show up to kill me in the most painful way they could think of! Just imagine what Black Hat would do if he found out-!” Flug’s voice shut off in the way it would if he’d snapped his mouth shut, and in the sudden silence Strongarm knew he’d realized his mistake.

“Black Hat.” Strongarm said slowly, nearly a question. “You worked for… Black Hat.”

Strongarm stood up, watching Flug closely. Suddenly, the meek man took on a new light. “You’re- you were one of the scientists forced to make weapons for Black Hat. To sell them to villains across the globe and watch as what you created tore the innocent apart.” he stated. It was… a bit harsh, but he needed to be sure that Flug regretted what his inventions did.

Flug tugged on his bag hard enough Strongarm was surprised it didn’t rip. “The scientist.” he responded after a moment.

“The… you were the head scientist?” Strongarm asked. Well, that made Flug a lot more valuable to get away from-

“The only scientist.” Flug corrected.

Strongarm stilled himself, his eyes widening a touch as he realized what Flug admitted to. Every invention that had come out of Black Hat Inc, each and every instrument of torture, the most sadistic and evil devices Strongarm had ever seen…

All came from one man too nervous to eat ice cream.

Strongarm stepped out from behind the table, approaching Flug and putting a hand on his shoulder. This was… well, Black Hat was a hell of a lot stronger of a foe then Strongarm had been expecting. But this was an incredible opportunity to take down the fiendish operation.

“We can help you. But we have to know more.” Strongarm said, keeping his voice firm. Commanding. “Weaknesses, strengths, how to take him down.”

Flug flinched, looking away. He seemed to be thinking, weighing his odds at survival.

“O-Okay, I-”

Before he could utter another word the lights in the room suddenly shut off, leaving the three in a moment of pitch back. Flug suddenly ripped away from his grasp, and a dull thud could be heard from across the room. A moment later the red backup lights kicked in, revealing Flug had flung himself across the room and was now clutching his head, shaking.

Strongarm opened his mouth to speak, only to pause as a muffled explosion rung out from further within the base. He gave a glance to the security camera set up in the corner of the room before he braced himself for a potential fight.

Strongarm moved a hand to his helmet, activating the commlink.

“Strongarm here, what’s happening?” he said, hearing a loud crash through his headset.

“Strongarm, it’s-!” Dr. Stevens began, only to be cut short moments later. Something akin to mechanical whizzing passed through his headset, followed shortly by crazed, female laughter.

Strongarm cursed, shutting off the headset.

“Get down Flug.” Strongarm ordered, moments before a loud CRUNCH came from the wall opposite Dr. Flug. The hero spun around, ready to fight.

The wall was crumbing as what looked to be a girl in a lizard hoodie crashing into the room to land on all fours, in a crouched position. What looked to be a camera with a bunch of mechanical arms and legs followed shortly after, a blue bear waddling in the a confused sounding grunt.

“S-sorry Sir!” for a second Strongarm thought that Flug was talking behind him, but then he realized an identical man was stumbling over the wreckage and making his way into the room, paperbag and all. “They changed some of the codes, we had to improvise.”

“I don't care.” the first Flug snapped, suddenly standing straight and talking in an annoyed voice. Strongarm looked back just in time to see him explode into guts and teeth, body shifting unnaturally as he rose, shape changing to better match a suit, his mouth too wide and too full of sharp teeth, with a black top hat on his head. “Just give me the ray gun, Dr. Flug.” Black Hat ordered.

Before the hero could react, the camera had grabbed his ankle, yanking him into a wall with a loud thud to stun him before tossing him into the bears grasp, who wrapped soft and fluffy paws around him. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Strongarm’s superstrength was not enough to break free of the bears grasp.

“Cambot, set up.” Black Hat ordered, passing Strongarm without sparing a glance. Instead the demon marched right up to Flug and snatched the gun from his hands, the scientist barely flinching.

Black Hat spun around, giving a wide smile to the camera just as the red recording light flicked on.

“Greetings, Villains!” Black Hat declared, raising a hand to fix the edge of his coat. “Black Hat here, with the newest invention to get revenge on the heroes that try and ruin all your hard work!”

Black Hat gestured to Strongarm, the lense camera spinning as if zooming out. Strongarm struggled once more, but still failed to break free.

“Such as this… arrogant hero that thought it be a good idea to raid one of my warehouses.” Black Hat declared, and suddenly it clicked in Strongarms mind. He just didn’t know how Black Hat knew he had been the hero in charge, given that he’d blown out all the cameras before he’d even stepped foot inside.

And to be fair, he didn’t know that warehouse full of weapons had belonged to Black Hat. He would have gloated a lot more had he known.

“As such, he’d the perfect test subject for our newest device to enact revenge on your worst enemies. Observe.” Black Hat aimed the gun at Strongarm, and fired.

The beam hit Strongarm square in the chest, the bear dropping him onto the floor. Rather then jump up and clock Black Hat in the face as he’d planned, Strongarm collapsed to the floor, barely able to keep himself a few inches off the ground.

“As you can see,” Black Hat said somewhere above Strongarm, the demons heels clicking softly on the floor as he approached. “This wonderful device leaves even the most resilient of heroes completely helpless, allowing you to enact whatever form of torture you value best!”

Suddenly, a gloved hand wrapped around Strongarms neck, pulling his weakened body up to Black Hat’s level. A moment later he was flug across the room, smashing into the wall for a second time before collapsing back to the floor.

“Bidding starts immediately.” Black Hat declared. The camera pulled back, the little red light on its side going off.

“Now, as for what to do with you.” Black Hat mused, turning his attention back to Strongarm. “I suppose lit’ Jack would be getting hungry by now…”

“Sir, wait.” Flug spoke up, stepping closer to his boss. “Can I have him?”

“Have him?” Black Hat snapped his gaze back to Flug, pausing for a moment before suddenly grinning. “Of course Flug… just try and keep this one alive for a couple days this time, alright?”

Strongarm was struggling to get up, but when he turned his head to the side he jumped as he realized the girl was… clinging to the wall, smiling brightly at him.

“Night!” she chirped, the last thing Strongarm saw being a mace suddenly flying at his face.

#villainous #flug #demencia #505 #cambot #blackhat #paperhatcollection

312 notes · View notes

atropaazraelle · 7 years

Text

A Spell for Happiness: Ch.2

Continued

Also available on AO3

Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

It was a long swim back to the kingdom. The waters were dark, but the dawn tides were starting to shift as they approached the Lucian border.

“We did the right thing,” Noct said, finally. It had been a long swim undertaken largely in silence. Ignis found himself struggling to forget the heat of the man's skin in his arms as he'd dragged him to the shore. All other souls on that ship must have been lost, he knew, but they'd saved two. Two too many, by their laws, and yet... “You felt it too, right? They weren't bad men.”

“No,” Ignis agreed softly, “they weren't.” The large one that Ignis had saved had a warmth to him that went beyond his skin. Humans had their own kind of magic, a power they couldn't wield and perhaps weren’t aware of, and the man’s had licked tenderly at Ignis' own, reassuring and comforting. It was the magic of a protector, of one who sacrificed for others. There was strength and power in there, but it wasn't used to attack. It was a shield.

Ignis had spent less consideration on the one Noct had rescued, but he'd put Ignis in mind of tropical currents, swarming with hundreds of brightly coloured fish and flickering shoals. Warm, and light, and easily distracted. Neither of them had been bad people. Ignis didn't honestly think he could identify any of them that had been, any that had deserved to die, but they'd been able to save only two.

“So we did the right thing,” Noct repeated.

Ignis sighed. “We shouldn't have been there to begin with, Noct.” It wasn't a matter of doing the right thing; they shouldn't have been in a position to make such decisions in the first place. If they had been below the surface where they belonged, safely ensconced within the realm of Regis's influence, they would never have known there was a choice.

“I won't tell if you won't,” Noct replied, flashing Ignis a bright smile.

If only it could be so easy. When they reached the palace, there were guards at the gate. Noct hesitated, looking at them, as did Ignis.

“Is something wrong?” Ignis asked, looking from one guard to the other, their tridents barring the doors without doing anything so crass as blocking the way. Unconsciously, he made sure to tuck Noct behind himself.

“Ignis Scientia?” the first one asked.

“Yes,” Ignis answered, feeling his stomach dropping into his tail.

“We have instruction to take you into custody.”

“What?” Noct's indignation broke the tension, and he ducked under Ignis' arm. “What for?”

“The crown prince is to come with me,” said the second guard.

Ignis straightened, drawing himself to his full length. “The crown prince is going nowhere,” he said, “until I see someone of authority.”

“Spoken like a true bodyguard,” came a voice. Ignis turned toward it, and felt his heart at once lighten and sink lower in his gut.

“Marshal,” he said. “What am I charged with?”

Cor was longer than Ignis, and imposing. His tail was a deep red that in the depths of the ocean was less visible even than black, but it was a dull red, not the shining iridescent hues typical among the royal retinue. Cor had earned his place on fighting skill and tactical acumen alone, and he'd earned every ounce of the respect he commanded. “You were seen,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “taking an injured human towards land. As was the prince. What were you doing on the surface?”

Ignis felt his heart hammer in his chest, his gills working to take in oxygen while he thought quickly. “I'd ask the same of your informant,” he said.

“Don't worry,” Cor replied, “we will. Were you at the surface?”

If they denied it, it wouldn't take much for the mystery informant to guide them to the approximate location, and less still for them to find the wreck. Denial would get them nowhere, then. At this point, all Ignis could do was damage control. “We were,” he said. Cor looked unsurprised. “Noctis came at my behest.”

That drew a reaction, not just from Noct, who spun to look at Ignis, wild-eyed and disbelieving, but also from Cor, whose eyebrows raised a fraction. “Your behest?”

“Specky, no,” Noct began. Ignis held up a hand to silence him.

“I was curious,” he said. “Our longstanding currents are becoming flooded with human traffic; we'll need new navigation systems in time. I thought to look for another reference point for navigation across the open ocean, however dangerous the surface may be.”

Cor gave a small nod at that, seeming begrudgingly impressed. “And what did you find?”

“A ship,” Ignis answered, his eyes flicking to Noct, who was wearing the same hopeful look he'd worn as a child whenever Ignis had told untruths to get him out of trouble.

Cor's eyes flicked to Noct. Noct never had been good at keeping the truth from his face, and Ignis knew that was likely to be their undoing. “In distress?” he asked.

Ignis drew himself up. “Not originally,” he said. “Someone attacked them. We felt the magic, and the ship was struck.”

“So you saved the humans,” Cor supplied, folding his arms across his chest.

Ignis bowed his head. “We were in Lucian waters, Marshal. They were attacked by one of our kind. I know the king's policy is non-interference. That attack did not come from Lucian authority.”

Cor sighed. “Be that as it may,” he said, “you saved human lives. That will have consequences.” He dropped his arms again and turned. “The King would see you both. Follow me.”

Noct gave Ignis a wary glance, and Ignis shook his head before he gestured for Noct to go ahead of him. He followed, swimming sedately, his mind roiling with his actions, and its likely consequences. His Majesty could not allow his own son to be seen flouting the laws of their waters; whatever happened, Ignis had to keep knowledge of Noct's involvement to a minimum. Perhaps, if he threw himself on the King's mercy, his punishment might be reduced to imprisonment, or having has magic sealed.

Regis was always an imposing figure on his throne, his black tail gleaming with rainbows of colour where the light moved across his scales. He was bare chested, and scarred, his hair greying with age now, but Ignis could still feel the power that emanated from him. He sat, gripping the arms of his throne, with his eyes on his son as Cor led Noct and Ignis before him.

“Your Majesty,” Cor said, bowing as he moved to the side.

“Is it true?” Regis asked.

“Your Majesty,” Ignis began, drifting forward a little and bowing, with his arm across his chest, but Regis cut him off.

“I was speaking to my son.”

Ignis felt a ripple of dread, and he glanced up to find that Regis still wasn't looking at him. He bowed lower, and drifted back, turning to look at Noct who had gone pale and nervous before his father.

“Is it true?” he repeated.

Ignis saw Noct swallow, and then pull himself to his full length. Noct had so rarely had to deal with his father's ire before; usually Ignis was permitted to speak for them both, but not this time. “They weren't bad people, Father,” Noct said. “They didn't deserve to die.”

“They were humans,” Regis said, his voice low, and steady, and imperious.

“They were under attack!” Noct protested, his voice rising. “I wasn't going to leave them!”

“My own son disobeys my laws,” Regis said.

“Noct acted on my instruction,” Ignis said, interrupting the King, his heart thundering in his throat. His skin prickled all over, and his stomach felt uncomfortably empty, as if his insides had been replaced with a vicious maelstrom into which he might collapse from the inside out.

Regis looked at Ignis, and Ignis felt his every scale recoil from the attention. “I assigned you,” he said, “to protect my son, and in your care he swims through shipwrecks, voyages to the surface, and rescues humans. Do not think your activities these years have gone unnoticed. You are unfit to swim by his side if you cannot keep him from such dangers.”

Ignis felt as if he'd been stung, his tail coiling as he drew back. “It's not his fault!” Noct cried, surging ahead of Ignis, his tail sparkling with the magic that roiled below his scales.

Regis rounded on his son. “I know he didn't tell you to save anyone,” he replied sharply. “He has covered for you too many times, but in so doing, he has never taught you to take responsibility for your own actions. It is high time you learned.” Regis rose from his throne, floating above it, with a flash of colour across his dark scales. “Ignis Scientia,” he said, “you are removed from your duties to the royal household, and banished from Lucian waters.”

The words came like a blow to Ignis' stomach, sending a wave of despair through him. “Your Majesty,” he said weakly, bowing his head and sinking lower.

“Dad, no!” Noct protested, rising higher.

“As for you!” Regis cried, turning to his son again. “You are confined to the palace until I can find you a suitable replacement. Perhaps this way, you will learn that your actions have consequences for people other than yourself.”

Noct swam up to his father, his voice pleading. “Don't do this, please? It's not his fault, he was only trying to keep me safe.”

“A task at which he's been an abject failure,” Regis answered. “Cor,” he said, turning to the Marshal, “escort my son to his rooms. Ignis?”

“Sir?” Ignis responded. Cor drifted over to Noct, taking him gently but firmly by the arm.

“I want you gone from our borders by nightfall,” Regis said, and there was a note of sadness to his tone. “For what it's worth, I have never doubted your loyalty to my son. I'm sorry it has led you to this.”

Ignis couldn't muster a reply to that. He merely bowed low, waiting for Cor to lead Noct from the room, and then followed.

*****

“It's not fair!” Noct argued, pulling at Cor's steadfast grip. “He shouldn't be punishing Ignis.”

“His alternative is punishing you,” Cor answered, his voice low and firm. “You're his only heir. Ignis gave you both a way out by claiming responsibility.”

“But it was me!” Noct wailed. “He only did it because I made him, it's not right! Who even saw us?”

“The only person who could have seen us,” Ignis said dully, “is the person who attacked that ship.”

Noct stilled at that. “What?”

“He's right,” Cor said. “Had it occurred to you that someone is trying to cause upheaval?” he asked, looking at Noct as he pulled him along. “The crown prince, and only heir to the kingdom, interfering in the lives of humans? It presents your father with the choice of banishing you, or ignoring your crimes. Either would cause problems.” Cor shook his head. “Did you never think that someone might have been waiting for this kind of opportunity? That they may have attacked the ship because you were there, and they knew you would do something stupid?”

Noct fell silent, and thoughtful. “I...” he began, and trailed off once more, swimming limply by Cor's side.

“Your father has enemies,” Cor said, “and you are his weakness. If you continue to give them the chance to harm him through you, there won't be a kingdom for you to inherit.”

Ignis stayed nearby as Cor led Noct to his rooms. He had a set of them within the palace, festooned with silks and pearls and corals, and, tucked away in secret places, things he'd retrieved from human shipwrecks. There were waterlogged books that couldn't be opened lest they be destroyed in the act, the pages more delicate than the brined fish skin used for Noct's ordinary books. There were adornments, and paintings, and things that humans wore on the ends of their twin tails.

Ignis knew about them all, and had told Noct to keep them hidden from sight. Now the sight of them turned Noct's stomach. Someone knew, someone had told his father to try and cause trouble for him, and then Ignis had gone and done what Ignis always did, and bailed Noct out, and his father with him. And for his reward, Ignis was being banished.

Talking wouldn't change his father's mind. His father couldn't afford to change his mind. Noct had caused too much trouble, and now the adults were having to sort it out. A King had to make difficult decisions. He'd heard his dad say that many times, and perhaps this was one of those difficult decisions — banishing someone loyal to save those to whom he had sworn his loyalty. Talking and reason wouldn't change his father's mind.

Noct cast his eyes around the room and grabbed his bag. He picked out human trinkets, and valuable jewels and silks, stuffing them haphazardly inside. Right now, Cor would be taking Ignis to his own rooms to let him gather what he needed, and then Ignis would be escorted to the border. Noct would have to act fast.

He shoved the block of coral that marked his sleeping hollow aside and darted down the small hole. He hadn't used it since he was very young, when he and Ignis had snuck out of the palace together to watch the guard, or the way sunlight rippled across the sea floor. It had seemed larger back then; it was a squeeze now, and Noct felt his shoulders catching at the walls.

He squeezed and crawled until he was through, pulling his bag after him with his tail, and then he swam, as hard and fast as he could. There was only one person in all the oceans more powerful than his father. Reason wouldn't work, but reason wasn’t his only option. If Ardyn couldn't help, then no one could.

He kept low to the ocean floor, staying out of view, until he reached the crevasse at the edge of Lucian territory. The creatures that lurked down there were far more dangerous than any human, and he hesitated. He and Ignis had gone once, with an escort guard, to see the strange fish that lived in total darkness. They hadn't gone too deep; it grew intolerably cold and hard to move, and the water was poor for breathing down there. You could survive it, he'd been told, but it wasn't comfortable.

He thought of Ignis, being escorted away from the safety and light of Lucian waters, and dove down. He seemed to swim for an age, feeling woozy and weak as he combed the crevasse walls for what he was looking for. He could feel it, like it was beckoning him, a magic that tugged and pulled at his own, as if it to direct Noct to it.

He swam below a sleeping pod of whales, all upright, their tail flukes hanging below them, suspended and still, and eerie. They were pale shapes even to his eyes, and Noct dipped lower and kicked past them, following the call of magic.

In one side of the crevasse were lights, like lanternfish, but much, much larger. Here. It was here. He swam toward it, and found a tunnel carved out by unnatural means.

“Come in, dear boy,” called a voice from inside. “I've been expecting you.”

Noct steeled himself. The voice was slimy, undulant, and sent a shiver through Noct's fins, but the thought of Ignis being escorted to the edge of safety to make his way on alone made him press on. He swam into the hole, and followed the tunnel along as it wound up and down and through the rock. At the end, it opened into a chamber suffused with an orange light that came from lanterns along the walls.

A merman busied himself within, his hair an untidy cascade of dull purple, his tail a deep nacreous purple that shimmered with rainbows at his every movement. “Wait there, Prince Noctis,” he said without turning around, “I will be but a moment.”

Noctis watched as the man held up a bottle and swirled his hand through the water. Light poured from his hand into the bottle, and his tail brightened and flashed as he worked, pouring the magic in. It coiled in the bottom like a thread, glowing with golden light. Then he man stoppered the bottle, and the light faded, though the bottle remained somehow luminescent.

“Now, then,” he said, turning around. At first glance, his eyes were yellow, but when Noct looked again they seemed merely brown, and he shook his head. The depth and darkness and lack of oxygen must be affecting him. “What brings the Lucian prince to my little hollow?”

Noct looked the man over. So this was Ardyn. He was powerful, unquestionably powerful, but he was also strange and overly friendly. “I thought you were expecting me?” he pointed out.

Ardyn laughed, a low and dangerous chuckle that sent an unpleasant ripple along Noct's scales. “I sensed your approach,” he answered. “Magic calls to magic, and you call quite loudly. As for what drove you here,” he said, waving an arm and drifting around the table in the centre, towards Noct, “you will have to explain, if you want my help.”

Noct didn't want his help. The man was oily and wrong; he put Noct in mind of deep sea fish, and sharks, the ancient kind with too many gills and dead eyes. He moved wrong, and he was strangely predatory in his every action. Noct didn't want his help at all, but he had no choice; Ignis needed it. “My friend,” he said, “he's been banished for my sake.”

“Ah, yes,” Ardyn said, “that whole unfortunate affair with you rescuing some humans.”

“How do you know?” Noct asked, feeling his skin prickle. Whoever had reported them attacked the ship, Ignis had said, and Cor agreed.

Ardyn just gave him a smile, “Don't you know?” he asked. “Everything sinks down to bottom feeders like me sooner or later. Some things sooner than others.”

“It only just happened,” Noct said, through gritted teeth. His scales flashed, and his colour shone.

“To you, perhaps,” Ardyn said, giving an easy, unconcerned shrug. “How long did it take you to drag those men to shore? How quickly do you think word got back? They were waiting for you, weren't they?”

Noct felt his stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “yeah, they were.”

“I heard right before I felt you approach,” Ardyn supplied, waving his hand at the bottle he'd just made. “My last customer makes his payments in information. Banishment is the least of your father's punishments for interfering with humans. It's not difficult to work out.”

“Sorry,” Noct said, sinking down towards the floor of the cavern, “it's just...” He trailed off.

“Someone is out to hurt you,” Ardyn said gently. “I understand. Your friend has been punished in your stead, and that feels worse than if you’d been punished.” He drifted closer, curling his fingers under Noct's chin, and Noct looked up, finding himself caught in strange brown eyes. “I can't change your father's mind,” he said. “If magic could do that, I'd rule all the seven seas.”

Noct felt his heart sink. “There has to be something you can do?” he begged.

“I can't change your father's mind,” Ardyn repeated, “or undo what others have done, but perhaps I can help your friend.” He turned to the walls, and the array of bottle and vials arranged upon them. “Yes,” he said, as if to himself.

“How?” Noct asked, watching Ardyn swim up to his stock of potions and spells.

Ardyn drifted along his serried ranks of vials until he found what he was looking for, and plucked it out. He turned, presenting the vial in both hands toward Noct. “A spell for happiness,” he said. “Use it, and whatever the person most desires will be placed within their grasp.”

Noct reached for the vial, which glowed faintly green. Ardyn pulled it back sharply. “Be warned, however. It comes with a price.” He smiled at Noct, in a way that made him shift uncomfortably, feeling as if he was being scrutinised. “Should that price be too much to bear for your dear friend, he need only surrender the thing he desires, and the spell will be broken.”

Ardyn offered the vial out again, and Noct reached out gingerly to take it. “What do you want from me?” he asked warily.

“Nothing!” Ardyn answered, brushing his fingers under Noct's chin, and then circling around him. “I couldn't bear to think of your friend suffering on your account. You get this one for free.” Noct turned, catching sight of Ardyn glancing at his tail before he swam up and away again. “Of course, should you need my help again, it doesn't come cheaply.”

Noct looked at the vial in his hand. “Nothing ever does,” he said softly.

Ardyn smiled at him like a shark. “You should get going, little prince. Your friend will be nearly at the border by now.”

*****

Cor had been the one to escort him to the border. Ignis was almost grateful for that. At the very least, Cor understood the truth of what was happening, and what had happened.

Regis was right, however. Ignis had failed in his duty. He'd been assigned to serve, and protect, to try and curb Noct’s youthful enthusiasm and keep him safe from danger. These were dangerous seas for one as magically powerful as him, and magic always came with a price. Perhaps one day, when Noct was older, his legacy and power would rival that of his father. Ignis had hoped to guide him there one day, to push him forward, always.

He'd left the border of Lucis with Cor's gentle wishes of luck and safety, carrying a small purse of precious belongings. There was the small coral luck charm Noct had given him when they'd first met, crude in its carving, and clashing in its colour. It was painful to look at, though after all that had happened, it was more painful to contemplate leaving it behind. He'd left his books, unable to decide on any in particular, to Noct's inadequate care. He had a few pearls, and gems, his father's charm, and little more.

The ocean floor dropped away beyond Lucian waters. On one side of the territory was a huge crevasse, deep, and dark, and foreboding. They'd ventured into it for schooling, but it was only ever to be crossed with a guard, and Ignis had never allowed Noct to disregard that. All the rest was flat, featureless plains of silt and sand. In one direction, after enough travel, one would find corals, and fish, and, eventually, the shore and humans. In the direction, there was a vast expanse of ocean, a no man's land until one hit the warmer currents of the Altissian territory.

Perhaps a new life in Altissia beckoned. The thought of leaving Lucis, and Noct, ached in his chest, but with no way back, his only route was onwards. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, he thought, as he swam. He'd spent his whole life, all that he remembered of it, chasing Noct's tail, trying to keep the wayward prince from causing too much trouble or coming to any serious harm. Scraped scales and bruised elbows were unavoidable, but Noct had remained mostly safe, and entirely whole in his care.

Perhaps it was time Ignis found something for himself in life. He enjoyed preparing meals; perhaps there was work to be found doing that? A simple job, one that allowed Ignis to go home at the end of the day and curl up in his own hollow to sleep, and have no concerns until he returned the following day. It sounded fanciful, simple and yet so enticing. Perhaps he would even meet someone, some pretty-faced mermaid with whom to raise a brood of children, or some broad-shouldered merman to hold him at night.

Some broad-shouldered merman, he thought, with dark hair, and a close cropped beard around his jaw. One whose chest was as wide as Ignis' own shoulders, and whose skin was warm to the touch. One whose inner magic burned low, and deep, and protective within him.

Ignis laughed bitterly at himself. As if such things hadn't caused him enough trouble already. He swam on, the waters dark with night; he needed to find somewhere to sleep before dawn. Out here, sharks might chance upon him, and they preferred to feed at dawn and dusk.

“Ignis!” The voice carried through the water, projected at him, and Ignis stopped, turning.

“Noct?” he asked in return, amplifying the sound in his throat to travel over a greater distance.

“Wait up!” came the reply.

He could feel him, Ignis realised, swimming hard and drawing closer. His magic was there, unmistakable, all shafts of light among deepwater currents, depths as yet unplumbed, topped with the sparkle of light across sand. Ignis had spent so long in Noct's company he'd barely noticed the presence of his magic; it was just the background noise to Ignis' life. A noise that would be absent from now on.

“You're supposed to be in your rooms,” Ignis said, when Noct was close. He'd been swimming hard, and for some time, his gills working furiously as he finally came to a stop. His chest heaved with the effort of pushing water past his gills. “What do you think will happen when they find you gone?”

Noct looked stubborn. “They won't,” he said.

“You thought that about going to the surface,” Ignis reminded him, his tail flicking with irritation. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye,” Noct said, and Ignis felt the sadness of it wash over him. “I think I found something that'll help,” he added softly.

Ignis sighed. For all his sixteen years, Noct was still a bratty child, unable to accept that sometimes life wasn’t fair. “There's no help to be had now, Noct,” he said gently. “I wish that there were.”

“Please?” Noct asked, giving Ignis a flash of those blue eyes. “Just try it, please?”

Ignis looked as Noct held out a vial that glowed faintly green. Its contents were unquestionably magical; he could feel it even from here, even without opening the bottle. “Where did you get this?” he asked, reaching out to take it from Noct.

“It doesn't matter,” Noct said evasively.

“Noct.” Ignis said the name like a warning, a command to tell the truth.

Noctis huffed and threw his arms up. “My dad's stores, okay?” he answered. “I snuck out to see if there was anything that could change his mind.”

Ignis shook his head. “Magic such as that would be very dark, Noct. Your father would never keep it.”

Noct huffed, and folded his arms, avoiding Ignis' gaze. “I know, but I hoped—” he began, and then stopped, and shook his head. “It's supposed to grant happiness. It's supposed to make whatever you most desire into something you can get, if you want to take it. If you reject it, the spell breaks. I thought...” Noct swished his tail uncomfortably, daring a glance at Ignis. “I thought, if your happiness was your place with me, maybe it would help.”

Ignis looked at the awkward youth on his prince's face, and swept forward, encircling his arms around the boy and holding him. “I've never wanted anything more,” he assured him.

Noctis hung there in Ignis' arms, sullen and embarrassed. “So you'll use it?” he asked.

Ignis released him and drifted back a little. “Spells such as these are difficult,” he said. “They can put strange events into motion, dangerous ones, even. I wouldn't wish for it to work by endangering you, and forcing your father to rescind my banishment because I saved you.” He shook his head. “All magic comes with a price, Noct. For this one to grant happiness, its toll will be very high.”

“But if it lets you come back,” Noct pressed, “it's easy to break the spell, so it's worth a try, right?”

Ignis almost laughed at Noct’s belief that rejecting something you desired could be so easy. If you desired something enough to endure the trials the spell presented, and pay whatever toll it exacted, then giving up what it offered would be no easier than going through the trials of the spell itself. He was, in the end, still a boy. One who had never known unfulfilled longing.

“I suppose,” Ignis conceded.

“So do it,” Noct urged. “Use it.”

Ignis looked at him, and then down at the vial. The magic within was starting to come alive, sensing that he was considering it. It swirled within the vial, glowing brighter. Perhaps what would most bring him happiness was his place with Noct, he thought, or perhaps it was something else he hadn't thought of yet. Would the magic know? Would it let him choose? No, of course it wouldn't, but a chance for happiness was something he'd be foolish to pass up.

He nodded and squeezed the vial in his fingers. It cracked, and the magic leaked out, swirling around him.

#ffxv #final fantasy xv #gladnis #gladnis week #gladnis week day 7 #fantasy au

2 notes · View notes

jadehqknb · 7 years

Note

Could I request number 17 from that list with Tsukki and Ushijima?☺️☺️☺️

Tsukishima – This boy will take a while to kiss you. He’svery cautious and just the fact that he’s confessed and you’re dating is aminor miracle. For him to be willing to share such an intimate connection withsomeone is high praise indeed. But when he does…oh man are you in for asurprise. Tsukki has his pride and because of that has done what he can toprepare for this moment, meaning lots of research. He’s read up on kissingtechniques, bribing Yachi with art supplies to get him women’s magazines withtips in them on the subject.

The first time he kisses you will be soft and gentle, justgetting a feel for this whole thing. As he gains more confidence, his kissesget longer, a little firmer and before long he has your pulse beating to thedrum of his passion. Turns out he can use that tongue for more than wordwhiplashing.

Ushijima – Similar to Tsukki, this boy keeps his emotions incheck but not for exactly the same reasons. Mostly, it’s because he grew up ina household devoid of significant affection so physical touch in any sense isforeign to him. Most likely, you will have to be the one to initiate connectionof that level. Start off slow with little pecks here and there to allow himtime to warm up to the idea. Lingering goodnight kisses, closed mouth for thetime being, will start to leave him hungry for more.

You’ll know he’s graduated from passive to passionate whenhe draws you close, sealing your lips with his and tentatively stroking out histongue to caress your mouth. When you open up to him, the flood gates arereleased.

You’ve let out the beast, now enjoy…er…deal with the “consequences”.

#tsukishima #ushijima #haikyuu #knb #vball baes bball babes #admin jade #sfw #prompt request #thenorwegianpenguin

14 notes · View notes

lenific · 7 years

Text

OUAT. Belle & Rumpelstiltskin & Cora

Prompt: exotic

The thudding at the castle doors made Belle jump in surprise. In the two weeks since her arrival she had yet to see another soul. After having made the trek up the mountain to Rumpelstiltskin's front step, she didn't wonder at the lack of company.

Only the most pressing of needs could convince a person to walk this far. Those who believed that riding a horse or a carriage lightened the journey soon learned otherwise. Rumpelstiltskin's magic twisted the roads so the effort spent visiting him was equal to everyone.

When she asked why he had to make it so hard to reach him, Rumpelstiltskin had stared at her and laughed. "Because I don't want to be reached, of course! Only trouble comes from trucking with the outside world, dearie. The moment I'm distracted, I'm besieged with requests I don't care to fulfill - and gods forbid I actually exert myself. Why, then I'm saddled with a girl I can't get rid of!"

Belle had returned his pointed glance with a glare of her own. His deals were famous around the world, as the Dark One could be tempted to lend his aid for a price.

What he avoided, Belle suspected, was to actually have someone else in his home.

The most powerful wizard in the realm, and he got uncomfortable at so much as an attempt to converse during dinner. Were she a kinder person - or he a more polite host - Belle would consider leaving him to his dusty castle and empty dark rooms. But the promise to her mother trumped kindness, the deal he'd made was valid despite the two decades of silence, and honestly after the first hour in his presence, Belle had wanted nothing more than to prove him wrong.

Stubbornness had seen her through.

"You had your chance to set me aside, Rumpelstiltskin," she'd told him, holding back the desire to poke out her tongue. "Twenty years, and you never mentioned breaking the deal." She shrugged. "Live with the consequences of your inaction."

His growl had made her twirl around and march away from the room. To hide her smile.

For all his posturing, Rumpelstiltskin had yet to force her back to Avonlea.

The thudding started again, louder this time.

Belle made to stand up, wondering if she should check who it was.

The dark smoke that preceded Rumpelstiltskin's entrance swirled into the room before she'd actually moved more than a few inches.

He looked around, bouncing on his toes when he spotted her. "Perfect timing!" he said with giddy enthusiasm, making her blink in disbelief.

"Someone you expected today?"

"Oh, today. Tomorrow. Actually, it would have been better a few days ago, but one must make allowances for her age."

A woman, then.

"Should I retire?"

"No!" His broad smile pinned her to her seat. Whatever amused him, Belle feared, would not be in her best interest. "You aspire to become the lady of this castle," Rumpelstiltskin drawled, eyeing her with wicked mirth. "Let's see if you can handle the post, shall we?"

Belle opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but a gesture of his hand had the gates outside thrown open.

There were footsteps, and then a figure in bright red appeared at the entrance of the great hall. Belle felt her eyebrows lift in surprise, as the sight of a handsome woman was the last thing she had expected.

The woman's eyes swept over the room, finding her and dismissing her presence in the next second. Then she focused on Rumpelstiltskin, and her thickly painted lips parted in a smile.

"Rumple!" the woman called out, striding into the room with the confidence of one visiting a dear friend rather than entering the Dark One's lair. "You devil!" Her hand made a vague wave towards Belle. "So the rumors are true! You have finally replaced me!"

Rumpelstiltskin made a show of furrowing his brow in confusion. "Replacing? Oh no, dearie. That would require your actually having lived in this castle before."

The woman gave a sniff. "Oh. my dear. You know why I couldn't. But that's all water under the bridge, isn't it?"

His grin darkened. "It is, Cora. We could drown a kingdom in it. Yours, perhaps?"

Belle shivered. Intellectually she knew that Rumpelstiltskin was capable of untold darkness, but she had grown up in the town that owed its continued existence to him. It was difficult to picture him doing harm.

The woman - Cora - laughed with apparent ease. She had walked up to Rumpelstiltskin, and without hesitation or ceremony, leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Hardly my kingdom," she purred, though there was an edge to those words that gave Belle pause.

Rumpelstiltskin didn't react to her closeness. "Ah, yes. Of course. How insensitive of me, to make that mistake." His lips pulled into a smirk. "Do give my best wishes to old Xavier, will you?"

Dark eyes narrowed, but Cora only gave a tight nod.

"Such a relief, for a king in his dotage, to know that he has four strong sons to succeed him - all as healthy as himself."

"Five," Cora snapped. "Five sons."

"Is that so?" He tapped his chin, as if that tidbit had truly escaped him. "Ah well. You know better, dearie. But you must admit there's barely a need to mention a fifth son, when he has no chance to seize the throne."

The look they shared was that of generals across a battlefield.

It would help to know what was at stake in this war, Belle thought. Charging blindly would not help. This woman's visit was a test, and Belle could either pass or accept that she wasn't fit to stay,

She pasted a smile on her face. Stood to place herself at Rumpelstiltskin's side. The two of them could bicker until sundown if they wanted, but the three of them were aware that this visit had been planned for a chance to meet Belle.

The woman who had settled in the Dark Castle, bound to its owner by a deal.

The Dark One's promised. Never mind that he had never shown an interest.

The future wife.

Belle extended her hand, taking Cora's for a brief shake. "Pleased to meet you," she chirped, for once grateful for the boring classes on neighboring kingdoms and the royalty that led them. She had not recognized Cora by name, but the mention of King Xavier had jogged her memory. "Henry's wife, isn't it?"

Rumpelstiltskin was right, a fifth son didn't merit much attention. However, exceptions were made when his daughter became queen of the richest kingdom in the Enchanted Forest.

Cora's eyes showed surprise. Then she turned to Rumpelstiltskin with a satisfied smile. "Talked about me already, dear?"

Rumpelstiltskin sneered. "You flatter yourself."

Belle essayed another friendly smile. "I read about your kingdom. Beautiful place - and quite prosperous as well."

"Their mills never stop," Rumpelstiltskin added, too quickly to be just a passing observation. "They are not content until every seed and fruit is pulled off the ground. Bit greedy, if you ask me."

The way he and the princess locked glares, the comment had been a veiled jab and Cora had received the message loud and clear.

"But you must be thirsty after your trip!" Belle said, cutting through the tension. "Would you accept a cup of tea?"

Cora turned to face her, a thin line between her eyebrows appeared as she considered Belle. This time her eyes took a detailed account of Belle's appearance from her shoes to the loose ponytail she'd decided to wear today.

"Oh, Rumple," she exclaimed, ignoring Belle's question. "Isn't she a darling?"

Belle forced her shoulders to relax. She also recognized the sharpness of an insult hidden in saccharine tones. "No on the tea, then," she said, trying not to hiss in outrage.

So this was the newest test Rumpelstiltskin had concocted. To prove that she could rise above the likes of this woman.

"Perhaps you're not planning to stay long, then. You mind if I show you to the door?"

Cora arched an eyebrow. Then dismissed her to face Rumpelstiltskin again. "I admit, she's almost prettier than I was. But a pampered princess, one among dozens of her type? Really, Rumple, after all this time I honestly thought you'd prefer something more... exotic."

Before Rumpelstiltskin could answer, Belle had squeezed herself between the two of them. She had to tilt her head back to meet the woman's hard gaze, but was rewarded with the widening of her eyes in surprise.

"You misunderstand. 'Exotic' is for pets, or faraway lands, or-" Belle swept an arm around the room, pointing at the many curiosities on their pedestals "-whatever those are. There's no need for more strangeness within these walls, and there certainly is no room for your pettiness."

Cora giggled. "Look. It bites too!"

That was the last straw.

She turned furiously to Rumpelstiltskin, expecting him to deal with his guest's rudeness, but got only a bland look in response. It was up to her, then.

Fine.

"Out," she pronounced clearly.

Cora gave an amused smile. "Now, little one-"

She said nothing more. One moment she was there, and the next the castle had heard the orders of the woman it recognized as its lady, and a burst of magic yanked the unwanted visitor away and tossed her back to the edge of Rumpelstiltskin's territory.

Belle whispered her gratefulness.

The castle subsided.

"She will come back," Rumpelstiltskin warned her. "She never stays away for as long as one would wish."

Belle lifted her chin in silent defiance. If Cora insisted on her rudeness, she would handle the princess as she saw fit.

Rumpelstiltskin smiled. "Well, dearie. Congratulations! You've made an enemy already. A nice taste of what lies ahead, isn't it?"

Belle's head snapped up, understanding flooding her.

He had wanted to see if she could deal with an annoyance. But no matter the result, it worked in his favor. If Belle hid away, she proved that she was not fit to stay. If she was the winner in the encounter, she realized what kind of people she could expect to meet for the rest of her life.

"Exactly," Rumpelstiltskin said, reading her thoughts off her glum expression. "Still want to stay?"

Belle thought of the disagreeable woman she had just met. Then she thought of the line of disagreeable suitors that awaited her at home.

The choice was obvious.

"Oh yes," she said sweetly, making a point of grabbing his arm and coming to her toes to brush a kiss against his cheek. "You're stuck with me, Rumple."

The End 14/05/17

#fandom: ouat #ch: rumpelstiltskin #ch: belle (ouat)#ch: cora mills #ar: arranged marriage

17 notes · View notes