#ingenuity isn’t dead yet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sevs-corner · 2 years

Text

Tokyo Rev Scenarios: Serenading Bonten!Koko (Heart on Ice: Rod Wave)

"Kakuchou! Just open it up for a sec!” They whined, continuously pounding on the door that was held closed by three executives of Bonten.

You see, dear reader, their friend was a person to be respected yet feared for their pranks. Even after all these years, they stilled pulled this kind of shit on their closest friends. Of course, this included the gang overlords of Japan- Bonten. I mean, how would they be able to pass to opportunity to display their talents- and cause chaos- for the inner circle of Bonten?

“NO!” Kakuchou, alongside Sanzu and Ran, shouted back at them- actually trying hard to push the ajar door closed.

Right inside the room was another door which led to the office of Mikey, who was currently having a meeting with an important client for their business. Of course, Koko- their monetary adviser- had to be present, as well as Takeomi, his actual adviser.

All their friend wanted was to have a chat with Koko, but knowing them for years- Kakuchou knows that having a chat isn’t just having a chat. He knows that by heart for sure.

And from the current mood of Koko with the dealings, they weren’t going to risk their necks for their friend that simply wanted to mess with him.

‘Hell to the nah.’ Sanzu thought as he placed more force into his shoulders that was trying to push the door with all his might.

The man was literally gritting his teeth while it seemed like they didn’t put any effort at all as they placed the same amount of force on the door but triple of that.

“How the fuck are you keeping this door open?!” Ran complained with his hair, that usually slicked back but was now all over his sweaty forehead.

All they did was huff in response, sneaking their hand past the small opening of the door to point at something, “with this, ya’ numbskulls.”

Right by the lower end of the door, there was a solid gold plaque that was sticking out and holding the ajar which all three males gaped at.

“Where the hell did you get that?!” Kakuchou shouted in concern, finally relenting and giving up on pushing against the door, realizing that they were outplayed right from the very beginning.

They just shrugged, casually walking inside the room of three panting executives on the floor, either wiping the sweat off their foreheads or removing their suit jackets.

“Well,” they began while walking to the water dispenser and giving them a drink to their sweaty asses, “that’s a trade secret of mine.”

Sanzu instantly called them out on their bs, “fuck you! You can't even keep a secret!” Quickly snatching the paper cup from their hand, he downed the water as if was a shot to cool himself off the exercise he unprecedentedly forced to do.

Ran nodded along, using one hand to slightly loosen his tie to fan himself with his other hand, "In all seriousness, where did you even get that from?"

He watched as they took a seat on one of the lounge chairs, reveling in its comfiness as they casually pulls out their phone, "downstairs at the lobby, I was planning to sell it-,"

Kakuchou, once more, shouts in utter disbelief, "sell it?!"

They rolled their eyes and showed the bidding money on the item it accumulated in a couple of minutes, making all three males drop their mouths in shock.

"1 Billion?! For a plaque?" Ran asked, absolutely shookt to the core at the kind of people who bid for the rusty old thing they keep at their lobby to accentuate the feng shui of the building. He, alongside his co-workers, were absolutely flabbergasted.

"That's not even real gold tho?" Sanzu pointed out and their friend merely chuckled whilst shaking their head.

"Correct! Hence," they paused, quickly swiping and tapping on their phone before showing the screen once more to their friends, "the phony scam website I created for people who's broke- like me!" They stated proudly with their nose pointed upward, hands rested on their waist. Their friend laughed haughtily, reveling in their own ingenuity and genius invention.

On the other hand though, all three men dead panned.

Why so- you may ask? It is not definitely not just because of their ego- that's already a given. It's actually because they were the main reason the meeting was going on right now in Mikey's office.

Let me narrate to you the timeline of events currently transpiring in the heads of the executives.

The money that was being wired and transferred to Bonten was being cut short and Koko was pissed. For weeks, day in and day out of the headquarters- he spent all his time and resources into finding why this has all been happening. Until one of their hackers stumbled upon one of their clients account wherein their money is being drained to a company connected to a dark web- based app.

Finally finding a lead, Koko reported this to Mikey who instantly gave him the order of tracking people down related to it. If their business was being drained down because of random website that popped out of nowhere- they are sure to pay them back in kind.

Right back to where they are right now, with Mikey, Koko, and Takeomi meeting with one of their hackers about finally cracking the website's system.

With Ran, Kakuchou, and Sanzu on the other hand, they were about to toss their friend's ass right into the room- damn the consequences afterwards, they didn't give a flying fuck anymore.

'THEY'RE THE REASON WHY I HAD OVERTIME FOR A MONTH?!' Sanzu screamed in his head, still feeling so done with life.

'How didn't we figure this out sooner..?' Same with Kakuchou, he too was simply flabbergasted at this whole reveal.

'Fuck this shit.' Ran thought, silently inching towards the their friend who was trying to calm down from their cackles.

Grabbing them by the collar, he forcefully pulled them through the double wooden doors that would- soon- determine their fate.

"Finally," they threw their hands up in the air in exasperation, "you're bringing me to Koko- took you for 5ever!" They whined, missing the evil glint in his eyes as he creaked open the door and carelessly tossed them into the room.

Landing on their ass cheeks, they groaned and rubbed the sore area. Slowly looking up, they could see their phone in Koko's grip, everyone having a dark look over their faces.

"Oh, hey guys!"

Sadly, they cannot read the room.

"You." Mikey simply called out which made the them stiffen up instantly. Hearing him call her out without any endearment never meant any good news for them. They knew they were screwed.

Badly.

"Yea- yeah? What's up Mikey?" They tried playing it out, standing up and walking closer to his desk.

Motioning to the seat, they quickly sat down with their hands laid on their lap, back as straight as their papa before they were born.

"Do you know this website?" Koko asked, cold hand laid on their shoulder.

"Yes."

"Are you apart of it?"

"Yes."

"As?"

"The admin."

"Ah, I see…"

Hearing his resounding footsteps as he walked away, Mikey stared dead straight in their eyes and trembling form.

'I'm just wearin' my overall! Why the hell is it so cold in here?' They thought to themselves while also thinking for reasons on why they are currently in trouble this time.

"Take it down. Now."

Mikey simply said, the coldness of his voice sending shivers down their spine.

"Sir yes sir!" They salute.

"Right now."

"Yes!"

Hours later and they were on house arrest at the pent house of Koko. They were tasked into getting all of Bonten's money back from their scam website. To be honest, they didn’t know it would get this popular that even the biggest gang in Japan would feel threatened by it.

Sighing, they slammed their head on the wooden table before them, their hair bun loosening in the process. It was hell, spamming keys and coding on their laptop all day- as well as making calls on the clients who used the website.

'Maybe I'll take a quickie~.' They thought to themselves with a smile, skipping towards the hallways where a toilet was behind one of the doors on their left and right.

Feeling relieved, they thought of an ingenious idea that could- probably- make Koko forgive them.

'A song!' They thought with a lightbulb flashing above their head, 'that's what I'll do to make him like me again.' They hummed to themselves with a smile, instantly thinking of a plan that will win his heart over.

"This is it!" They cheered, hands already swiping on their phone to look for that song.

"Shut up! I'm on the phone!"

"Sorry Koko!"

Koko, finally taking a break after weeks of the internal issue they had, felt like a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders. Getting out of the bath, he took his sweet time in going through self-care routine.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he opened the door and took a deep breath of the scented candles he had lit earlier up earlier before he went in the bath.

'Nothing can get more relaxing than this-,'

"Speaker bangerz~"

Eye twitching, he could already feel the stress bubbling up inside of him once more as he saw the friend he despised dressed is his loose sweats and hoodie, a gold chain around their neck , Raybanz sunglasses hanging on the tip of their nose, and an old cap Inupi gave to him placed backward on their head.

'For God's sakes- what did I do to deserve this?' He facepalmed and cursed the strings of fates or whatever God had granted him into knowing this embarrassing dumbass.

"Look, uh, look" They began whilst bopping their head,

"Heart been broke so many times I don't know what to believe," they sang as before biting their lip with their eyes closed, a slight body roll included.

Placing a hand on their chest, "Mama say it’s my fault, it's my fault, I wear my heart on my sleeve," then swiping it across their arm.

"Think it's best I put my heart on ice, heart on ice ’cause I can't breathe~" They emphasized with a hand to their neck,

"I'ma put my heart on ice, heart on ice, it's gettin' the best of me…" They walked up and placed a hand on Koko's bare chest, still wet from the bath, and gave him a sad look to which he looked unimpressed by (obviously used to their shenanigans.) Grabbing their hand and tossing it away, they pouted but, nonetheless, continued the verse.

Sitting on the window sill of his room, they rapped their heart out.

"While in the cell with Lil' Hakeem, after I slapped him I had told him

'I don't know how you get down with them clowns but I'm a soldier'

"No one could understand, I had way too much aggression"

"That built over the years from my abandoned adolescence"

They continued, with a heavy breath (slightly lagging behind the beat) to which Koko had to stifle his chuckle at.

"See I done been lied to, backstabbed, and heartbroken"

"I wanted to cry but I was too afraid to open"

"Prayin’ one day I’d find a peace of mind by the ocean," looking out on the view of the city lights that glared at their eyes.

"I spent all my time committing crimes to get closer" placing a hand on the window and doodling a little

"While at my nana house I play at the couch-," they ran to his couch and dived onto it which made Koko jolt in surprise at the noise of their body hitting the leather couch on impact.

"-starin' at the ceiling," flipping around, they mimic their words which made Koko slightly smile at their goofiness.

"Tryin’ not to get in my feelings~"

"Thinkin' of a way I could make these millions" Looking Koko straight in the eyes, he could finally see the genuine emotions swirling in their orbs.

"Maybe that'll take this pain away and clear up all these rainy days, yeah" Jumping up from their laid form, they went back into the chorus.

This time, grabbing Koko's hand and giving him a guilty smile.

"Heart been broke so many times I don't know what to believe" They slowed down the tempo, making Koko raise his brow as the music was now off beat of their singing.

"Mama say it’s my fault, it's my fault, I wear my heart on my sleeve," shaking their head then looking anywhere but on him, they continued,

"Think it's best I put my heart on ice, heart on ice-" Koko grabbed their chin and lifted their head to make eye contact, seeing it glistening

"- 'cause I can't breathe,~" starting to feel their words choke, they forced out the last line,

"I'ma put my heart on ice, heart on ice, it's gettin' the… best of… me…" Unshed tears now at the brink of their eyes, guilt now washing over them as they see how tired and stressed they had made their friends.

Sniffling as all the thoughts began clouding their rationality, they began bawling in Koko's hold.

On the other hand, the Banker of Bonten now too felt the wave of guilt wash over his consciousness, reminiscing how much he had shouted and blamed them for all their doings while they kept their head down, dead silent, the whole time.

'I shouldn't have acted that harshly…' He thought to himself, still trying to sort out his thoughts before impulsively hurting someone close to him again.

"Hey," he breathed out, chin now softly plopped on their head as he pulled their trembling form on his chest, "I acted out of line, I hurt you and…only cared about releasing my stress on you. I'm.. sorry."

Trying to pull away, they wanted to mumble out apologies- denying his apology. 'Its my fault Koko!' They wanted to scream but was drowned in by the continuous hiccups. But they were kept at his chest, trying to soothe their cries.

"Shh…breath, alright? You're choking on your snot." He teased, cupping their wet cheeks, slightly brushing his thumb over the wet trails.

They pouted, accentuating the softness of their cheeks which tempted the taller male pull at it as if it were mochi.

Mumbling, "I'm sorry too Cookie," they mumbled out, looking like a chipmunk.

Koko's eyes softened at the endearment that was reserved for him and them alone when they want to be genuine with their feelings, he couldn't stop the heart-filled sigh fall from his lips.

"I know Sugar, just…," tapping their cheeks to get their attention, he smiled, "let me know if you need anything, alright?"

They gave a toothy grin of their own, "even money?"

Koko rolled his eyes, hugging them close once more.

"Yeah, even money."

"Fuck yeah- that black card is mine!"

"Oh hell no- that is off-limits."

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

Bonus Content!:

A week had passed from that incident and everything was all right in the world once more. They had managed to get every single penny back to Bonten which Koko had treated them to a Boba date for. He was honestly shocked, and proud, of how they pulled all that off- which made it all the more sensible for him to do this,

“Join Bonten.” He spoke, casually twirling his half drank matcha milk tea.

They eyed him for a couple seconds, their brain still buffering his offer. He was one of their friends that always said to stop thinking about those things, that it was a dangerous business for them to be in.

"You said you needed a job right?" He spoke up, looking at them for some time had passed before they could respond.

"Uhm..well," they stammered, taking a sip of their drink before continuing, "yeah, but- didn't you say that it would be too dangerous for me or something?"

The male, sitting opposite of them, hummed in response, "yes, but…"

Nearing his date, who shrunk from his close proximity, he smirked and proposed something more embarrassing (yet heartfeltly true.)

"I'll be your personal bodyguard, alright?"

They rolled their eyes and shoved him away with a finger to his chest. Seeing their red-tinted cheeks and how they avoided eye-contact, Koko chuckled at his scheme.

"With your stick-lookin' ass? Aww hell nah- I'd even rather have Sanzu be my bodyguard!"

"Stick-looking? Pssh- pretty sure you said the opposite last night," chocking on the boba, they had to hack their way out of the situation as people were starting to look at them oddly. Koko, on the other hand, was smugly crossing his arms, a triumphant smile on his face at his clap back.

'I guess watching those american dramas with Kakuchou does have its perks.' He thought to himself, taking note to record the next episodes of 'Keeping up with the Kardashians' to watch after working.

"Koko wtf," they harshly whisper as Koko just chuckled and grabbed their hand, pulling them up and walking out the shop and to his car.

"Where are you takin' me this time?" they grumbled, annoyed with their friend's teasing.

"To our hideout." He said.

"But-,"

"Nope, you're accepting and that's final." Koko interrupted before intertwining their hands and looking past the building they were just in.

"We're all there for you, so don't worry too much about it."

They smiled while tightening their grip in his hold, swinging it slightly in tune with their steps.

"Fine~, I better get some good benefits."

"For you? Only the best."

#tokyo rev x you #kokonui #kokonoi hajime #bonten kokonoi #koko x you #tokrev mikey #mikey got scammed #ran is dead inside #kakucho can rest easy now #sanzu wants to stabby stab #rindou does not give a damn #mochi peaced out #takeomi can smoke in peace now #unedited #maybe ooc #crackfic #songfic

3 notes · View notes

trekreviews · 2 years

Text

S7E25: All Good Things...

Recommendation: Watch Rating: 6/10

Picard learns from Q that he is to be the cause of the annihilation of humanity and begins an incredible journey through time from the present, to the past when he first took command of the Enterprise, to twenty-five years into the future.

…must come to an end. If there's one word to describe TNG's series finale, it's Bombastic. On one hand, this is how it should be; who doesn't want to see this show go out with a memorable bang? But on the other, the episode is nearly 2 hours long and feels like it, becoming bogged down in places by lumbering plotting.

First of all - Q. There's a wonderful continuity to having the finale conclude the storyline that was set up waaay back in the premiere 'Encounter at Farpoint', for both narrative and nostalgia purposes. Q reappearing to judge humanity by proxy of Picard one more time, revealing that his trial at Farpoint never actually ended? This is great stuff. It sums up the show's themes of humanity growing beyond its limits, and as a story element presents Picard his final, ultimate challenge of ingenuity. The actual challenge itself though is a headscratcher. Sure Picard has to be 'smart' to work out the mysterious temporal anomaly in three time periods - the present, 7 years previously when he became Captain of the Enterprise, and 25 years in the future - but it's a challenge that relies entirely on Q letting him bounce around in time, without which it'd be impossible. Q implies he's giving Picard a little helping hand when he's really giving him the only key to the solution, and then telling him the solution outright. Does Picard solving a relatively straightforward puzzle really demonstrate anything grand about humanity?

Picard’s adventures in the three time periods are okay, but in each one his mission's the same, to get into the Neutral Zone and find the anomaly, so it gets a little repetitive. In the past there’s Tasha again and it’s enjoyable to see young Picard interacting with a crew that doesn’t know him yet. The clip of beardless Riker clearly pulled from old season 1 footage is a comically dumb inclusion. The main problems arise in the future sections. It’s not particularly fun watching a senile Picard ranting and raving; this is the sort of thing that might work but only in a standalone concept episode specifically about ageing, here it just gets tiring and drags the pacing to a crawl. The future timeline isn’t very fleshed out and seems to exist just to show us gags like Data with gray hair and "warp 13", and little ‘what if’s. The most inexplicable is that Troi is straight up dead in the new timeline. Why? Just so Riker and Worf are sad about something for the five minutes it remains plot relevant? There’s other implausibilities too, like Beverly taking Picard into the Neutral Zone and Riker destroying the Klingon ship.

What does work is how, after Picard tells them about the future he experienced, the present crew vow not to drift apart in their own future. I think leaning further into this idea as the ‘point’ of the future section, and taking away the semi-dystopian elements, would’ve made it a lot better. Picard's final conversation with Q gives a sort of meta contextualization to the rest of the episode, that it was part of the Q's test and not to be taken 100% literally, which helps it look better in retrospect. My favourite scene of all though is the very final one: the crew amiably playing a game of poker, which Picard at last joins in on. It's the sort of ending that makes you sad to leave these dear characters behind.

#star trek #tng #season 7 #The End

1 note · View note

pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

Are very, very old friends

My Masterlist

Your heart and my heart (first part of this)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A second part to Your heart and my heart, where Ivar and Reader were childhood friends (and pretended to get married when they were children) and got separated by circumstances of life, only to meet again on a battlefield in Wessex.

Word Count: 9.8k (I am so fucking sorry, holy shit)

Warnings: My unwavering state of denial over Aslaug’s death, mentions/descriptions of injury/battle, allusions to sex (nothing graphic), and my terrible writing lol

A/N: I hope you are no longer surprised by how I seem to be able to focus only on the stuff I need to focus on the least, bc here we are. Writing has been very difficult lately, so I am not so sure this is any good, but I still hope you enjoy.

As a reminder: In this universe the brothers (minus Björn) are in Wessex with the Great Heathen Army but Aslaug isn’t dead (Lagertha never took over). This is an almost 6a in age Ivar, but of course a different canon where he has stayed raiding in England. And Princess Blaeja (who was briefly mentioned in the previous part) is engaged to be married to Sigurd.

Your eyes cannot move fast enough to take in the field ahead of you, trying to check every trap and every barricade. Even if you were to find a fault, you remind yourself, you wouldn’t be able to change anything.

Hlíf comes to you, brisk pace that you can still see the exhaustion in, and stands at your side, shield with your colors and your symbol. It looks heavy.

“They are coming, Dane.”

“I know,” A deep breath, and you signal with your head to the center of the camp, “Go back, you’ll lead them to hold the second line. The Saxons will breach the first one.”

“You are not staying here.”

You don’t meet Hlíf’s gaze, instead meeting the eye of a few shieldmaidens that stand tall ahead, waiting for the Saxons to come. They nod their heads once, they know what they are agreeing to.

“We are.”

The forward scouts sound the horns, and before long the marching feet of warriors makes the unfamiliar ground tremble under your feet. Your hands tighten on the handle of your sword, and you take a breath.

Hlíf steps closer, but her gait ins anxious, “You better retreat to us when the time comes, Dane. You are not allowed to die here.”

“Says who?”

Hlíf grunts a curse, but retreats behind the second line of spike barriers.

You’ve been hounded by this group for weeks, ever since you and your warriors departed for York back from a successful raid. You aren’t sure if they are from that city or sent to intercept you from somewhere else, but they are bloodthirsty and determined.

Making camp was a necessity, especially with the wounded and weakened you have in your group, but the years have made you ingenuous, and the months you’ve spent with the Great Army have taught you to use the surroundings in your favor.

Your warriors dug ditches and laid spikes within them, much like you remember hearing Lagertha did when she assisted Aslaug in defending Kattegat, and while you didn’t have the defenses of walls, you made sure to draw passageways with the placement of the tents, to lure the Saxons to follow a path you know by heart when they came.

And now you stand, restless in your spot, waiting for them to get close enough for your archers to thin their numbers, for the frakka’s of those closer to you to take down the stronger ones.

It is not enough, but you never expected it to be.

Once they get close enough, you shout the command to march, and your forces and theirs clash.

The sound of battle deafens you, shouts in two different tongues and death in the same language echoing around you. Still, you seem to hear the faintest of rustles, and you lift your shield as you turn, stopping the downward strike of a Saxon.

Pushing back while you bend your knees, you unbalance him, slashing at his thighs before you plunge your sword in his chest. He meets your eyes, and spits blood in your face before his strength leaves him.

So, it is personal then.

You keep moving, blunt hits of your shield and quick strikes of your sword, taking down as many as you can, worrying more for injuring them and weakening them before they reach the more vulnerable in the camp more than for killing them.

Maybe that is your mistake.

The sword slashes at your leg, the pain sharp and weakening, and your stance buckles. You turn around with a raised shield to try and defend yourself, but you are too close to the ground and the warrior puts all his strength behind his kick and forces you to the ground.

Scrambling to turn on your back and grabbing a discarded axe, you stop the advance of his sword, but your arms burn under the strain, and his snarling face reminds you of a chained dog too close to breaking free.

It isn’t enough. You have no choice.

Releasing the strain of holding him back, you are able to swing your arm back and hit the side of his neck with the hand axe, but not before his sword pierces your shoulder, drawing a scream of pain from you.

Pushing him off you, you stand on uneven ground, trying to make sense of the battle around you and keeping your defenses against the Saxons that are still very much after your blood.

Your shield once again on your hand, you stop the attack of a younger warrior, slashing his chest with a move of your arm that feels weaker and trembling even as you manage to deliver a fatal blow.

Another manages to get close enough to bit the edge of his shield against your wounded leg, and his sword slashes at your side, drawing blood and blinding pain in its wake. He is taken down by a snarling shieldmaiden that comes to stand at your side, and your eyes scan the first line of the camp’s defenses already breached.

You are outnumbered, you are not going to win. Not like this.

“Through the east!” You call out in your own tongue, not waiting for any of the few that remain able to fight to acknowledge your command before you dart for the passageways you can make use of.

You are close enough to the second line of barricades to cross it if you wish to, but your mind is made. The Saxons trailing after you and the few others that still stand, they make quick work of your shieldmaidens soon enough, and you grit your teeth at the screams of pain you can do nothing to stop.

Most of them were foolish enough to think you were retreating, and they trailed after you and the remaining warriors.

Reaching the end of the alleyway, you turn around, standing on shaky legs and lifting one hand. Breathing past the pain is proving difficult, and there’s black at the edges of your vision, but you can still make out the shapes above you, and those that stand next to you.

You close your hand into a fist, meet the eyes of the Saxons that seem to hesitate to approach. They will always fear a heathen woman that smiles while surrounded by blood and death, the fearful -faithful- will call her a monster and insist she is not human.

They fear, they hesitate. And that is enough.

And you drop your hand, the weakest of smiles on your lips as you give one last command,

“Loose.”

____

The first thing you can sense when you awaken is the pain, and the weight keeping you down. Awful, but at least you aren’t dead.

You open your eyes slowly, half expecting to see the murky forests of the Isles towering above you after having been left behind by the Saxons to bleed out slowly and painfully; half expecting something with women on winged horses and a lot of golden shades.

But all that greets you is wood.

Inconsequential, unimpressive, mediocre wood. Yet, your body is filled with such a relief you almost give in to the temptation to doze off again.

Still, you force your body to answer and you sit up on the cot, breaths ragged as the wound on your shoulder sends pain like lightning through your very veins. And slowly, painfully, and with more curses than your mother would like out of a princess, you stand up.

Just when you are considering what the plan after standing up actually was, a woman barges into the room.

“Oh, you’re standing,” She says, and you lift your eyebrows but say nothing. She tsks her tongue, and approaches, her eyes focused on your upper chest, “You shouldn’t be.”

“I would think it was a good sign.”

“Which is why you do the fighting, not the thinking,” She quips, a quirk of her mouth as she glances at you. Quite mean, for an old woman, but still you offer a smile as well. Her palm presses lightly against your shoulder, before going to your side. “You’re not too hot.”

You pout, “Aw, shame.”

“And you seem to be in good spirits.” She chuckles.

You meet her eyes and lean closer, asking quietly,

“That will change soon, though, won’t it?”

“You are the reason a lot of people are angry, yes,” She confesses, before stepping back, “You also are the reason a lot of people are alive as well. Make sure they remember that, and you may keep your head.”

With a non-committal gesture you step past her, a hand on the doorway keeping you upright as you meet the gaze of the expecting shieldmaidens. They call your name and a few expletives in greeting, some in anger, some in welcome, but all in relief.

“While I love seeing you all alive and well, I…have a feeling at least one of you is here under specific instructions.” You state, a quirk of your eyebrow when one of the younger ones stands up, and slips out of the house quietly, with a murmur of being glad you are alright.

You sigh, and though one of them offers you a seat you highly doubt you’ll be able to stand if you sit down, so you wave away her offer, and lean on the doorway.

“Did the rest make it?”

“Most of them, yes. The injured are going to be escorted back, they couldn’t make it on their o-…”

The words die in a gasp as the door to the humble home is kicked open, and a tall shieldmaiden strides in, eyes blazing and set on you.

“You mad Dane bitch!”

“I have a name,” You quip as the shieldmaiden advances towards you. “It is a very pretty one, my mother chose i-…”

She shoves you forcefully, stopping whatever it is you were going to say.

You stumble back but catch yourself before falling, and you can’t help but let out a grunt of pain as your side is pulled tight by the sudden and forceful movement. The healer quips from the room at your back something about not injuring the already injured further, but you both ignore her it seems.

Hlíf still pushes on, ��Of all the hare-brained, reckless, st-…”

“Hey!”

“You don’t scare me, Dane,” She huffs back, stepping forward until the shieldmaiden towers over you. “Half dead as you are because of your stupid decisions, you aren’t a threat to anyone, least of all me.”

In the back of your mind, a voice that sounds so alike your brother’s, always calm and collected; begs you not to do this.

You were never good at listening to him, though.

Headbutting one of your oldest friends wasn’t high in the list of things you wanted to do if you ever came back from the dead but…here we are.

Hlíf stumbles back, holding her nose and setting incredulous eyes on you.

Strangely enough, the tension seems to slowly ebb away with the unexpected action.

“I like proving people wrong.” You tell her around a shrug, slowly betraying a smile that she returns, even if there’s a resentful sort of relief in the way she approaches again and presses her brow against yours.

“You are so lucky you’re injured.”

“I wouldn’t call it-…”

“I would. I’d be knocking your pretty ass to the ground if you weren’t,” She promises, and scoffs a laugh that sounds like a reprimand, “You scared me, Dane.”

You meet her eyes, study the dark circles under them, the haggardness on her face, the stubborn tremble in her voice; and realize maybe you weren’t the only one to believe you’d die in that forest.

“How long has it been?”

“A little over a week since we made it to York.” She tells you, motioning for a seat, and motioning again when you refuse it. Stubborn.

You carefully sit down before the fire, narrowing your eyes at the girl that attempts to cover your legs with a fur. You are injured, but you’re far from an old woman.

Though you do accept the awful-smelling brew of herbs the healer presses into your hand before scurrying off back to the room where you were sleeping.

Watching the herbs swirl in the cup, you mumble, “You know, I did the right thing there.”

Hlíf’s kohl-lined eyes narrow, “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

You gesture with the arm of your good side, “I wasn’t the one leading them! For once I followed orders and we got stuck, it isn’t my fault!”

Hlíf’s eyes only grow bigger and bigger in affront and fury at your insistence, and you decide to shut your mouth.

“You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“When you put it like that of cou-…”

She interrupts you, her tone cold and imposing as she repeats, “You defended when you could have retreated, even though you were wounded, and alone.”

“I heard you the first time.”

She offers a side smile, head tilted to the side, “Huh, you listen. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“That is uncalled for, come on.”

Hlíf looks at you, blinks slowly two times, and takes a breath.

“You defended when you could ha-…” She starts again, but you interrupt her with a shove of her good shoulder and a huffed laugh. She does have a point, however insistent she is at repeating it.

“I panicked, I…I needed to give you more time to leave safely, without Saxons trailing after you. I needed to stall them.” You confess quietly, fidgeting with your fingers, elbows resting on your knees, ignoring the soreness on your side as your position strains at the healing wound.

“You agreed to retreat if you were outnumbered, but you didn’t.”

“There were still some traps that hadn’t been used, I could lure them to the east side, and it worked, the archers made work of the thick of their numbers.”

“You were half-dead by the time that happened.” She insists, biting.

“All that matters is that most made it out. It was the right call.”

“If I hadn’t insisted we go back to find you, you would be dead,” She argues, though her voice quietens as well. “You’d be alone in that damn place, we wouldn’t even be able to bury you.”

That is not something you want to think much about, and with your gaze on the flickering flames you press quietly, “Do you want me to apologize, is that it?”

“No.”

“What do you want then?”

“I don’t know, Dane. What do you want?” At your confused frown the shieldmaiden shrugs, “Coming back from the dead and all, figured I could grant you at least one thing.”

“Those Saxons that hunted us down strung up on a tree?” You ask, only half-jesting. Hlíf doesn’t laugh though, she only presses her lips together.

“Can’t do that, Dane. They have been handled already.”

You really shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Still, you ask the question to which you already know the answer,

“Ivar?”

“Poured melted crosses onto their heads, left some alive after it too. Gruesome thing,” She explains, and you nod your head with a hum, wondering how long ago that was and trying to imagine how exactly they were captured so quickly. Hlíf watches you with growing worry, “I don’t know if I should be concerned about your reaction, or…lack of it rather.”

“You get used to it after a while.”

She scoffs, shaking her head, “You do.”

After a few breaths of silence, Hlíf calls your name quietly. She usually calls you ‘Dane’, a habit that never left her since the first days you were fighting together, when you first were able to call yourself a shieldmaiden.

When your attention turns to her, she says, “I’m sorry for shoving you.”

You look into her pale eyes, offer a smile and a nod.

“You should be.” You quip, and after an incredulous breath Hlíf heaves a sigh.

“You could say you’re sorry too, Dane.” The shieldmaiden chuckles, still oddly fond in her defeat.

“I’m not, though.” You reply around a shrug, sharing a smile with her.

The conversation ebbs away as you hear a voice distantly shouting commands, a voice you know well.

“Where is she!?”

“Oh, great.”

Furious stabs of a crutch on the hard ground, and the door opens just as many shieldmaidens scurry away, making way for Ivar the Boneless. His eyes meet yours with a fury you have never seen before, a snarl on his lips and tension coiled around his body like a vine.

When he speaks, though, his voice denotes none of that. His voice is carefully even, dangerously still, reminding you of a beast stalling its breath before it strikes.

For a man as explosive as him, calmness is never a good sign.

“What. Were. You. Thinking.”

Your nose furrows, and you offer with a grimace, “I…wasn’t?”

“This isn’t a joke.”

“I know. I’m the one that almost died, remember?” You prompt, but he doesn’t answer. You nod your head, not really sure what to do, muttering to yourself, “Serious business, dying.”

Hlíf lets out a choked groan, before advising, voice low, “You should really just shut your mouth, Dane.”

Ivar turns to her, the sharp focus of his pale gaze making the shieldmaiden straighten in her seat.

“Get out.” He orders, voice low. You see it in her, the pride insisting on resisting and the instinct pleading to obey.

Instinct wins, and after sparing you a look Hlíf stands up, and motions with her head for the other shieldmaidens to follow, leaving you and Ivar alone in the small home.

It feels even smaller as his gaze returns to you, it even feels almost suffocating as Ivar takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders but says nothing.

You clear your throat, and start what you hope will be a conversation and not a screaming match.

“I am not apologizing for the choice I made.”

An angry breath leaves him through his nose, sharply. His eyes remain on you, quiet intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Of course you’re not,” Ivar bites out, before shaking his head at himself, “I can’t believe you’d be so-…”

“It was the right call, Ivar.”

He wrenches his gaze from you, looking straight ahead. For a moment you wonder if he refuses to look at you because he thinks he can hide anything from you. Because he should know better, because he should know by now you are aware of the way his jaw tightens, of the way his breaths are intentionally -forcefully- even, of the way anger and pride are the only thing keeping his control from slipping.

“You could have died.”

“And?”

His focus returns to you, and you snap your mouth shut.

Wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say, wrong thing to say.

Ivar’s eyes widen in anger, and when he takes a breath he seems to be twice as tall.

“And!?” He repeats, voice thundering, “You almost died! You…” His nose curls in anger, but there’s something more fragile in his wide eyes, something like fear, “You spent days in that damn bed, they told me it was in the hands of the Gods whether you survived or didn’t.”

A pit of worry forms in your stomach, and you quieten your voice, trying to offer reassurance, “I pulled through, I-I am alright.”

But it falls on deaf ears.

“You were there, dying, and there was nothing I could do,” A sharp breath, but it sounds choked, “You would have gone where I can’t follow, I-…there was nothing to do, nothing I could-…I c-couldn’t-…”

“Ivar…”

He turns to you, accusing, “I was unable to do anything while you died, while you left me.”

“I didn’t die, I am alright.”

“You almost did.”

“That’s-…”

His lip curls into a snarl and your eyes are drawn to the scar on the right side of his mouth, the scar you are responsible for. The process of healing from the deep cut you left that first day you were reunited was a slow one for him, especially because of how much you insisted on finding ways to make him smile and then grumble at the sting of a reopened cut. And now your eyes are drawn to that scar, watching it follow the movement of his mouth as it curls in anger.

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” He interrupts you, a gesture of his hand. “You made the wrong choice. You put yourself in danger when you didn’t need to.”

“If I hadn’t, most of my shieldmaidens would be dead now. We couldn’t fight them directly, Ivar, we had too many wounded.”

He walks past you, the stabs of the crutch on the ground still more forceful than they need to be, and pours himself some mead in one of the unused cups, his back to you.

A deep breath, and before he drinks he offers, “You should have left them behind.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

You move to walk forward, but putting too much weight on your injured leg makes pain shoot through you. You falter, and you try hiding it but you know Ivar notices, judging by the way his eyes narrow.

Still, you insist, slowly walking closer, “What is a few shieldmaidens against all the people we went there to aid? It is a sacrifice we all were willing t-…”

He gestures with his free arm, stopping you, “Well it isn’t a sacrifice I’m willing to make! Not if it costs me you!”

You are stunned into silence, whatever words that were to leave your mouth dying on your lips with a gasp.

Ivar glares at you as if you were somehow responsible for him saying something he hadn’t meant to, a twitch of anger that makes his furrow his nose and his lips press together in a line.

He moves to one of the chairs by the fire, taking a few breaths through his nose that you are sure are meant to be calming but sound equally as angry as before.

You still have nothing to say, no words to leave your lips.

There’s a part of you that never let go of him in all those years you spent -grew- apart, and in these months you have spent with the army, leading your own forces under Ivar and his brothers’ commands, learning from them -from him- many things and offering a few tricks of your own, conquering new lands and fighting new battles; your foolish heart has started to speak of hopes that could never be, has started to feel light like it never did before, as if it and his own heart recognize each other even after all the years and the scars.

Ivar takes a breath, discarding the crutch on the chair by his side.

“I…I never forgot you, you know. Not when you left Kattegat, not when father died and we came to England, not-…I never forgot you,” His eyes linger on yours for a moment, before Ivar turns his head and looks back ahead, clear tell of gritted teeth as he confesses, “I kept an eye on you, through the years. I had men near Ribe when you and your brother fought for it so that they could tell me the outcome of the battle.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, and you slowly take a seat by his side.

“I…I never knew.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” He retorts without missing a beat, hesitating before continuing, “I always hoped we’d meet again. With what I’ve done, with what I’ve accomplished, I hoped that maybe I’d find you again and I could give you enough reasons to stay this time.”

Quietly, you offer, “I never wanted to leave.”

“I know that now,” He assures you, the slightest of movements of his head that you think was supposed to be a nod. Ivar’s eyes lift to yours, and he says, so low you almost miss it, “I just found you again, I can’t…I can’t lose you.”

You don’t know what to say, you don’t know how to put into words what his words are doing to your foolish heart, to the heart that has always been his.

“Ivar…” You start, not certain of what you’re trying to say.

But it doesn’t matter.

Ivar leans forward surprisingly quickly, pressing his lips against yours. The touch of his lips on yours is urgent and hurried, shaky and inexperienced; leaving behind wide blue eyes that look into yours as if desperate for an answer to a question that isn’t a question at all.

You sigh shakily, but your mouth trembles into a smile, and with barely a moment of hesitation, you cross the distance between you again and kiss him, this time deeply, this time eagerly, this time ardently.

There’s the desperation of having lost too much time without this in the way his hold on you is tight and frantic, there’s the anguish of having thought lost you forever in the way your name leaves him in a choked gasp when you part for air, there’s the relief and the elation of finally having you within reach in the way he doesn’t let your lips part from his for any moment, a faint sound of protest from somewhere deep in his chest whenever you pull away.

You finally part but don’t move too far, it seems both of you unwilling to let much space come between you. Breaths labored, you whisper,

“I have wanted to do that for a long time.”

“You have?”

In any other man the question would be a blatant seeking of praise, and maybe it is in him too, but there’s something else too, something more fragile, something more vulnerable. Like some part of him never ceased to be the boy you kissed before you were to leave Kattegat, like some part of him will never truly believe how wanted he can be, how loved.

“I never forgot you either, Ivar,” You confess quietly, lifting the hand you can and tracing the side of his face, the scar on his cheekbone, the scar you claim of your own over his lip. “I could never forget you.”

His smile is awed, and softer than you ever thought it could be, and more boyish than it should be allowed to be for the sake of your foolish heart, that skips a beat in your chest.

With the crackling of fire and the feel of him under your hands, you forget the passing of time, you forget the soreness of your body, you forget everything except him.

You exchange secrets and promises in the shape of kisses that linger always in between adoration and hunger; and after a while, with your fingers trailing absently over the scar on his mouth, you offer your regret.

“I was reckless,” You tell him, resisting the urge to curl the hand on the side of his face into a fist when you notice how much it trembles. “I…I should have retreated. I am sorry.”

“I was…I was stuck here, unable to do anything. I couldn’t go fight with you, I couldn’t go search for you,” There’s the familiar resentment -at the world, at Fate-, and you say nothing, but your hand moves towards the back of his neck and tries to offer a soothing caress. Ivar continues, “I can’t will my stupid legs to work as they should, but I can…I can keep you safe. You have to let me keep you safe.”

“You cannot keep me from death, no one can,” You remind him, before acquiescing, “I promise I…I will be more careful, I will not make pointless sacrifices.”

Even if it wasn’t pointless to you at the time, it is the best way you can word it.

And, judging by the faint and almost shaky nod Ivar offers in acceptance of your words, it was the right thing to say.

____

Ivar had planned to make the journey back to York and raid from there one more time, while matters about his plans to settle in the Isles are solved, and originally you were planning on going with him.

However, he insists you need to rest and heal so he won’t let you fight, and you insist being bedridden will only make you go mad, so you reach a compromise. You and Ivar discuss the details of the agreement as the healer checks the wound on your shoulder, and when he is to leave you notice the way he hesitates before he does, eyes travelling to your lips before meeting yours.

You smile, but then his pale eyes travel to the woman that is cleaning her hands with her back turned to the both of you, and you understand the question.

Being Ivar the Boneless’ woman is not something you would ever feel shame for being, or wish to hide, and though you do have your reservations about what it would mean as a commander of your own share of forces within the Great Army to be so close to one of the sons of Ragnar, you know no fear of rumors is with making Ivar believe you are ashamed of being his.

Instead of voicing your answer to the question he doesn’t ask, you just tilt your chin up, eyes on his.

Ivar’s smile is a tad on the shy side, a tad overwhelmed, but he still dutifully leans down and captures your mouth in his, promising to meet with you again after you’ve spent time with your warriors.

He leaves, and before long, as the healer changes the bandages on your leg and shoulder, you hear the familiar sounds of your friends settling again in the small home. It makes a pang of what you refuse to call regret go through your heart, at the thought of how easily accustomed they are to spending time at this home, waiting to know if you would survive or not.

You take a breath, and walk out to meet them.

Vígdís, one of the elder shieldmaidens, doesn’t even look up from the piece of chicken she is carefully pulling apart with her fingers as she states dryly, “I was betting he would kill you.”

“I’m glad you gals are on my side, really.”

Hlíf swallows a mouthful of chicken and points the drumstick at you, “Hey, I bet you’d kill him.”

You look at her with a frown before conceding, “Actually, that’s flattering.”

She offers a toothy smile, and encourages you, “Yeah, you could take him!”

Vígdís scoffs, “Oh, she wants to,” At your glare the older woman only shrugs one shoulder, “Or the other way around. You don’t have a preference, do you, Dane?”

“Anyhow,” You drawl out, turning to the others, “I suggest you prepare your belongings and say your goodbyes. We won’t raid with Ivar and Hvitserk in these lands, our forces are needed elsewhere. We will be travelling to East Anglia in a fortnight.”

Hlíf scoffs, “One hell of a spat you two had, huh?”

“Wh-…? You know, I really don’t want to hear it. Just…do what you must.”

“I’m just saying, your love life is taking us all over England, Dane.”

“Shut your mouth already.” You grumble, but Hlíf’s brazen laughter resonates in the small home.

____

In the days that go by -way too quickly for your liking- before you are to depart to East Anglia, you find yourself drunk on the foolish happiness of having within reach what you never truly thought you’d have.

It is three nights before you leave that in the quiet of your shared room Ivar presses his lips to yours with a softness that is jarringly unlike him, and breathed over your lips the most hushed I love you.

It was that same night that you tangled your fingers in his hair and drew him back against you, not able or willing to resist the temptation to flick your tongue over the scarred side of his lip to make one of those choked little sounds leave his lips; and when he kissed you back hungrily pulled back to promise the same, just as softly even if you vowed it fiercely, I love you.

And now you are to depart. Standing in the stables and watching as your shieldmaidens and warriors finish loading their belongings and the supplies for the road.

Ivar is next to you, leaning against a wall with an arm secured around your waist and allowing you to rest slightly on his chest.

“Take some of my men with you.” He insists, for what must be the thousandth time since you made the agreement to part until the last month of the spring.

“I don’t need protection,” You remind him, leaning back a bit so you can see his face, “If I remember correctly, and I do, last time it was you who needed help from me.”

“I didn’t need help.”

“Of course not, love.”

Ivar takes a deep breath at your mocking tone, choosing instead to insist, “Just take those men with you.”

“No.” You tell him, one last pat of your hand on his chest before you turn to walk away.

Before you can pull away his free hand grasps yours, and you easily give in to the slight pull, turning back to met him and stepping closer again.

Ivar tilts his head down so he can look you in the eye, something dark and tempting shining through his expression as his mouth curves into a crooked smile.

“I thought wives are supposed to obey their husbands?”

Your heart does a foolish thing in your chest, beating out of rhythm as if trying to leave your chest and burrow into his. Still, you stare him down with your head tilted to the side, and all the answer you offer is a dry reminder,

“‘Countless sons and daughters’, Ivar. If we are holding each other accountable for those promises, we ought to start there.”

He wants to argue, you know he does. And you aren’t entirely convinced some of the warriors that join your forces because they want to aid Ubbe are there at all for him, but you have no evidence, so you shut your mouth and just make sure to keep an eye on them.

As you expected, they act as your bodyguards, no matter how much you try pushing them away.

And so time passes, and in your time on the road towards Soham you are able to heal well enough, slowly getting back to training with Hlíf and Vígdís. And by the time you reach Soham, where Ubbe awaits support to hold on to the city, you are able to fight once again.

And how you dearly missed it.

Time becomes a blur after that. Soham proves to be more difficult to hold than expected, and so your forces remain a while longer before moving to Dunwich where you manage to take over relatively easy, since the Saxon forces retreated from the coastal city.

The years made you capable, and the Gods made you arrogant.

Which is why, as the warriors from Dunwich start retreating, following their Lord’s commands, you, standing still close enough to the edges of the frontlines that Saxons scurry around you, take a knee and pretend to catch your breath.

The footsteps behind you are predictable, and you tighten your hold on the shield. When the warrior gets close enough and tries striking, you lift your shield, catching his arm on the edge of it as you stand up.

You twist your arm holding on to the shield, feeling the strain in his own and hearing his surprised scream of pain.

It snaps out of place under the strain, and satisfied, you let go of him with a push. He stumbles forward and tries grabbing onto a dropped sword with his uninjured arm, and you let him.

Readying your stance, you notice two others refuse to retreat as well now that their countryman is fighting, but make no notice of them as you stride forward, driving your sword through him, ignoring his pitiful attempt at deflecting it.

You approach the other two, shield tightly grasped, and push back against the strike of the first one against your shield, deflecting the sword of the second one with your own.

Making use of your smaller size, you quickly spin in your place and slash the neck of one of them, lifting your shield just in time to stop the attack of the second one.

But he lets out a grunt, falls down before you can kill him. The Saxon falls on his face, an axe protruding from his back.

You lift your eyes to meet those of an unfamiliar warrior, who stands proudly and offers you a nod.

“You’re welcome.”

Walking past him and not bothering to hide your distaste, you insist, “I didn’t need any help, and certainly not from you.”

He proves to be more insistent than you would have thought, and for too many nights you have to bear him sitting close by to you, trying to impress you with one tale or another. The man is unbearably persistent on either bedding you or courting you, and as the days go by after the fight for Dunwich, he proves to not be the only one.

Until, eventually, you can’t take it anymore.

____

“I’m going to need an explanation for that.” Hlíf asks, a broad smile on her lips and eyes shining with mirth.

You grit your teeth and start walking away, but of course she follows.

The winds of East Anglia are biting, and the ground under your feet is still softer and so different than that of your home, but in the time that has passed since you and your warriors joined the Great Army you have learned to be as familiar with this foreign land of England as you once were with your own.

Granted, the incessant waves at the coast and the ever-present sea salt in the air that characterize Dunwich are not something you are planning on getting used to any time soon. You really just want to get back to York.

“I shouldn’t have saved her ass at Soham.” You mutter to yourself, even if you know you don’t mean it.

“I heard that!”

“You proved you have ears, congratulations.”

She skips the few steps she was lagging behind, walking at your side and matching your stride with a wide grin that you choose to ignore.

“Thank you, but I’m married,” She quotes, the mirth coming through in her voice, and she laughs to herself, “Gods above, Dane, what kind of answer is that?”

“He was insistent, and I couldn’t exactly fist fight one of Ubbe’s trusted men,” You explain, your voice a grumble when you add, “Tis not my fault if the prick heard I was a princess and suddenly decided he needed to have me.”

“You sure it was your title? After seeing you fight when we took this city, I’m not surprised so many want you.”

“Hey, I appreciate the compliment, don’t get me wrong,” You quip, sparing a glance to her, “But if you’re trying to court me, I’m afraid it will go as well as it did for Olvir.”

On her lips grows once again the mischievous and devilish smile, and the shieldmaiden tilts her head to the side as she says, “Oh, I know that, because you’re married.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why lie?”

“It wasn’t a lie.”

“If you think you’re making sense, prepare for disappointment.”

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s…complicated.”

“Well, the whole camp will soon hear about you telling Olvir you’re married, so we might as well get the story right: are you taken, Dane?”

Blunt, and to the point, not that you expected anything different from Hlíf.

You consider your words before answer, slowly, “Yes.”

She chuckles, shoulder knocking against yours playfully, “Ah, so who is the fool that has your heart but isn’t staking a claim?”

“He has, you just haven’t noticed.”

She stops walking, and so you too stop, turning to look at her wide eyes and offering a shrug of your shoulders again.

“You mean…” You nod, and past the surprise she finds it in her to laugh, shaking her head in amazement, “Oh, you really are a mad woman, aren’t you?”

“Well, we are technically married. I can’t turn my back on a bond before the Gods, right?”

She shakes her head with a chuckle, “So that is why you have been so insufferable, you miss York. I just thought you really hated East Anglia.”

“I really hate East Anglia.”

“Of course, Dane.”

____

You return to York as dawn breaks, and you don’t have time to get off your horse before Hvitserk is standing there, arms crossed over his chest and leaning with one shoulder on the entrance to the stables.

He offers his older brother a nod of his head as greeting, but Ubbe passes him by and Hvitserk keeps his eyes on you.

He blurts out, “You are married?”

“Hello to you too. I am glad to see you alive and well, dear Hvitserk.”

“You are married.”

You look at him, at his smug little smile and his warm eyes shining with mirth, and take a deep breath.

“You should know, you were there at the wedding.”

His sniggering laughter follows you as you walk away, but you forget your irritation quite quickly as you find Ivar in the rustle of movement, determined and uneven steps carrying him towards you.

Your smile is wide and lovesick and foolish, but you do not care for hiding it. His is quieter, more secret, but it doesn’t fail to make your heart skip a beat in your chest.

Ivar’s free hand grasps at the back of your neck once you are close enough, bringing your mouth to his with urgency, quickly letting the kiss become passionate as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Your hands find purchase on his hips, and more than ever you hate the armor that doesn’t let you feel him his warmth, his strength- under your fingers.

“I missed you.” You whisper quietly when you part, your brow pressed against his.

He blinks his eyes open, more than a little dazed, and the look in his eyes -the need, the adoration, the everything- makes a pang of heat go through you, threaten to set you alight with only a look.

“And I you.” He finally tells you, quiet voice rough.

You barely have time to be alone with Ivar before obligations pull you apart, a feast to welcome back the forces Ubbe and the Princess of Ribe, a reunion to exchange tales of victory and be together with those that were missed in the months apart.

Granted, that means that they don’t let you be together with the one you missed the most in those months apart, but you don’t have it in you to complain. Except you do, but that is not the point.

The night dies down and you roll your eyes at a few pointed toasts in congratulations for your marriage, but remain sitting at your place beside Ivar, pretending not to notice his hand on your knee or his arm around the back of your chair.

You grab his hand when it starts trailing up your leg and making you feel the effects of his touch like lightning crawling over your skin, and you could swear the smug bastard chuckles at the way you have to stop him.

“Eh, sister!” Hvitserk calls out, and with gritted teeth you turn to look at him, sitting by Sigurd’s side with an arm over his brother’s shoulders, “I am glad you are back, truly.”

“Thank you, Hvitserk.” You tell him, immediately feeling like you are about to regret accepting he doesn’t mean to tease you any longer.

“If only because I cannot stand my brother’s moping any longer. Who would have thought a son of Ragnar would be so loyal to his wife?”

You dismiss him with a gesture, but you cannot help but chuckle alongside the others.

Ivar turns his head towards you, nose almost nuzzling at your hair as he moves closer to speak by your ear,

“Why did you tell people you’re married?”

You don’t lift your gaze from your joined hands, following the trace of your fingers as they trace over the back of Ivar’s hand, “So that they would leave me alone.”

“No one is leaving you alone now that they think you are my wife.”

You spare him a look, glancing up, “The men that insist on either bedding me or courting me will, and that is enough for me.”

Ivar, of course, clings only to part of the words you speak, and his voice lowers, expression hardened with what you would swear is jealousy -pointless, unfounded, stupid jealousy- as he asks,

“Who are these men?”

Your eyes narrow, you honestly cannot believe this man.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I just want to know who they are.”

“I-…” Running your free hand through over your face, you bite back a groan, “Everyone thinks we are married now, shouldn’t you be worrying about that?”

He shrugs, “You were the one that told them you are married.”

“You are the one that I told them I’m married to!” You tell him, exasperated. He says nothing, and in the two blinks that he offers you somehow find it in you to be even more offended, “You truly are not worried?”

“Why should I be?”

Slowly, you remind him, “We are not actually married, Ivar.”

He shrugs, “We could be.”

“But we aren’t.”

“But we could be.” He insists easily.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, taking a moment to bite back irritation, you love him, even when he is being intentionally insufferable.

“Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

“You seem to have done that for me already,” He replies instead, raised eyebrows and another shrug of his shoulders that only makes you angrier. “You seem to have done more than that.”

You sigh, and shake your head at his mocking, only to make him chuckle at your reaction. Gods, he is infuriating.

Ivar’s smile loses the mocking edge as he leans even close, pressing a soft kiss by the side of your mouth in an attempt to make you stop pretending to be angry.

“What’s the harm in that, hm?” He asks, eyes falling from yours to your lips when you finally turn your head to face him, “They know you’re mine now.”

You almost want to argue there’s no way they wouldn’t know judging by the way the two of you have been joined at the hip since you returned from Dunwick, but you won’t deny a part of you grows darkly proud at knowing everyone knows he is yours and yours alone.

“And you are mine.” You remind him lowly, the beginning of a smile on your lips. His eyes linger on the curve of your mouth, lids growing a little heavier at your words and tone, and you have never felt more powerful.

Ivar nods his head,

“I am, wife.”

____

As you come down from both of your highs you find out Ivar is as unwilling to relinquish the closeness as you are, and in between soft touches and breathed presses of lips on heated skin, you find a kind of peace you never realized how much you missed.

“I was thinking,” He starts, and you cannot stop yourself from teasing him, so you let out a soft, uh-oh, and he scoffs, biting down on the side of your neck in retaliation, “We will be settled in the Isles by next winter.”

Ivar pulls back to look at you, holding himself up on one of his arms. At the strange expression in his pale eyes, you reach up with one hand and caress the side of his face under the guise of moving his hair back.

“We will.”

“Let’s go back to Kattegat,” He tells you, a tad rushed, “For this winter. Let’s spend one last winter in Kattegat.”

“Are you homesick, love?” You drawl, a side smile that he rolls his eyes at.

“What do you say?”

You search his gaze, because something tells you there’s more to the question, more to the action of spending your winter in Kattegat.

You won’t lie and pretend you haven’t missed the town, you won’t lie and pretend the memories you made there aren’t still with you, kept safe by some nostalgic and soft part of your heart.

Fate has a funny way of working, you’ve learned, and time brought you back to the side of the boys you made so many of those memories alongside of. Time brought back to you the cadence of Sigurd’s voice as he hums in par with his oud, time brought back to you Ubbe’s easy companionship as you train together, time brought back to you the secret smiles you share with Hvitserk over a joke only the two of you know of. Time brought back to you the one you’ve loved since before you even knew what love was, brought back to you the heart that your own finds itself familiar with.

But there is a part of you that misses Kattegat and always will, the sinuous streets of your childhood, the foreign scents and sounds of the bubbling market.

Instead of giving your answer outright -you always did like making things harder than they have to be-, you muse aloud,

“Having married you when we were children should keep me safe from your mother’s wrath, shouldn’t it?”

“Wrath?”

You let your fingers trace over the scar over his lip, the one you are very much responsible for. In these last few months, you’ve grown quite fascinated with it, with how it stretches when he smiles one of those big and crooked smiles, and especially with how Ivar trembles when you run your tongue over it before kissing him.

But that is not the point.

The point is you are very much responsible for at least one of the new scars Aslaug’s youngest son bears, and she will know, and she will look at you in that way you remember from your younger years. It is enough to make a grown woman shiver.

Ivar chuckles as he understands your hesitation, “You don’t need to fear her.”

“Easy for you to say.” You scoff.

“And if I tell you she still remembers fondly that childish wedding? Will you agree to come then, hm?”

“No,” At his frustrated sigh you tighten your fingers on his hair in silent reprimand, “Now I know you’re just saying that to appease me.”

“I would never.” Ivar mocks, earning another tug of his hair that he breathes a laugh at. You don’t fail to notice the way the laugh stutters a bit past his lips, you are very much aware of your effect of your hands on him.

Said effect is very much evidenced in the way he doesn’t resist the temptation to lean down and steal your breath with the slowest of kisses, his nose nudging against yours softly before he speaks again, voice low,

“What if it wasn’t just that wedding?”

“W-What?”

His eyes open to look into yours, an edge of anxiety, of hesitation, that he -of course- pushes past anyways, clearing his throat and asking, “What if there were something more…permanent than that wedding from our childhood?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“A second and last time.” He vows, a quirk of his mouth that speaks of jest but does nothing to hide the apprehension that shines in his eyes.

There was never anyone else, not for you and not for him.

Your answer leaves your lips in a breath that Ivar doesn’t hesitate to taste against your lips, with a gentleness that speaks of adoration and desperation, stealing your breath much in the same way he stole your heart.

____

Aslaug almost wants to laugh at the irony that it was the youngest of her boys that was the first one the be married, not once, but two times. And, surprising only those that don’t know him well enough, to the same woman both times.

Older but still holding that arrogant pride at the announcement -the same pride she saw in him when you walked Kattegat’s streets with your hand in Ivar’s- Ivar sat down in front of her and told her he had found a woman he wanted to marry.

And her heart felt a surge of a warmth she had long since missed with all her sons fighting their wars and their father’s across the sea; not willing or capable to hold back the wide smile that blossomed in her face.

Her hands cupped her son’s face, and the small, almost shy smile he offered her reminded her so much of the boy he once was. She promised her blessing and vowed how proud she was, and in silence, as she looked into her youngest son’s eyes, she thanked the Gods for being allowed to live to see this, to see him happy.

She knows there are so many twists of Fate that have let this happen. She knows -like she knows the streets of her kingdom- of the paths their son’s life could have taken, almost took. She knows of yours, and what could have been.

Even if she hadn’t heard of your close encounter with death in England, she would have the moment she was forced to see in her dreams what had happened across the sea, she would have the moment she saw the way it still haunted Ivar today.

For almost two weeks she dreamt of her son’s voice, the same repeated pleas to the Gods -to whatever would listen- said so many times his voice grew ragged and broke. Still, he did the one thing he could, and pleaded with the Gods for more time, for anything other than this.

He needn’t know she went to the Volür and they all made a sacrifice praying with the Gods to give a Dane shieldmaiden strength and health. He needn’t know, and he won’t.

Because it is past now, and you have healed and learned, and he has healed too. And there is no use in resurfacing pain in an occasion such as this.

Kattegat is lively even as winter approaches fast and cruel, the flurry of motion increased even more now that a Prince is to get married.

Your smile is the same mad little smile she remembers from your younger years in Kattegat, and Helga’s hands are more worn and her smile is a tad dimmer, but her fingers are still nimble and gentle as they braid the wedding crown of winter flowers.

Aslaug feels the pull of emotion when Ivar cups your face between trembling hands and kisses his wife for the first time, she feels the tears prickling at her eyes at the lovesick smiles on your faces as you remain in that moment after a kiss for a few breaths, eyes locked together and futures intertwined.

Ubbe stands tall as he watches his younger brother get married, and Aslaug’s heart grows warm at the easy smile that curves her son’s lips. She still cannot help herself, and finds herself hoping before winter is over and her sons are to depart from her side again, that she can see him with a woman by his side as well. For too long Ubbe carried a burden he shouldn’t have, shouldering the brunt of the world for the sake of his brothers, a boy trying to stand as tall as the man that left an absence in his place after Paris. Even if she once argued she cares not if they find love as long as they find a good woman to breed and form a family with, she holds the secret hope that she can see Ubbe happily settled with someone that he can love.

She hopes the same for Hvitserk, who watches the ceremony with a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners, but she knows better than to expect him to settle anytime soon. Before the celebratory feast is halfway over, he has teasingly held a young girl to his side and exclaimed, mother, I am getting married as well, three times, with three different women. She doesn’t hold much hope he will settle soon, and has to bite her tongue and tell herself she is happy for him even if he insists on sleeping his way through Kattegat.

Reluctantly, she admits it is Sigurd who might follow in Ivar’s footsteps and marry next. He and that Christian girl have been promised to one another for years now, and the excuse of war and distance has kept them safe from their obligations to marry. But Aslaug knows it is a matter of time. For all her demure and shy nature, Blaeja’s eyes shine with something like amazement as she takes in the wedding ceremony even if a faint blush covers her face at yours and Ivar’s displays of affection. And she won’t pretend she doesn’t notice the way Sigurd lingers close to the princess, irradiating that gentleness of him that Aslaug is still regretful for having made so fragile in her carelessness.

Winter lets her have all her sons with her, though she knows it is probably the last time. Ivar has plans to settle in the Isles, the title of king and the promise of advantageous positions for his war against Alfred enough of a lure to keep her son across the sea; Ubbe has intentions to settle and take families with him to England even if he has to wade through blood to do so, Sigurd won’t stay too long away from his princess anymore, and Hvitserk will nevr bear to stay apart from his brothers.

But she has this winter, and it is enough. She will sit with her sons and have dinner while they talk and argue and laugh, and she will hear Ivar and Sigurd go for each other’s throats as if they haven’t spent these years fighting side by side, and she will watch you and Ivar get drunk on nothing but each other, and she will thank the Gods for all of it.

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, I apologize if this isn’t very good, I tried my best. Love ya!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar

254 notes · View notes

idesofrevolution · 4 years

Photo

Here y’all go. Hope you like it.

Look at him, isn’t he adorable? I’d been watching him and his college friends playing ball every Saturday from my balcony. Each time, I’m hearing him talk about “slamming pussy” and “playin’ the game” as if he knows what that means. Jock boys always think the world of themselves, and sometimes for good reason. Every now and again, I look back on my own days at that age, fondly remembering all the bullshit trouble got myself into. I’m telling you- once you hit a certain age, you just want to relive those debaucherous days again; and hearing this little shit wasting those years degrading the ladies... I knew I could do so much better with his assets.

So into my mind popped a little idea. We’re living in a world of infinite possibilities, and using a few tricks and a whole lot of ingenuity you can really access some more unattainable goals. For instance, knowing the local voodoo priestess can be an invaluable advantage. Miss Marie had lived across the hall for as long as anyone could remember, and she had the respect and fear of everyone she met. So for a few hundred dollars and debt or two to her, she gave me a little gris gris which she insinuated could help little old me up my game.

With bag in hand, I had to make my move. That Saturday I watched with bated breath as the boys were shooting hoops and talking shit until the sun went down. When the streetlamps went on, one by one they departed and left the ladykiller waiting on his Uber. As he sat there flipping through Tinder on his phone, I whispered the incantation that Miss Marie had taught me. Three times I repeated it, never once breaking my gaze on him. Upon the fourth recitation, I saw him suddenly throw his phone on the ground in rage. He tossed the basketball across the street and started to pace back and forth. Calling down to him, I “checked in on him.”

“Hey! You alright?” He looked up to my balcony and grimaced.

“Shut the fuck up ya fruity bitch! Phone’s dead that’s all! Mind your business!” I chuckled and leaned against the railing, watching my hateful prey unknowingly within my clutches. Thinking his Uber was on it’s way, he sat down on the curb and pouted to himself. Five minutes turned to forty minutes and with his ride nowhere in sight, he played right into my hand. “Ay! Fag! Got a charger or somethin?” A smirk crawled across my face and I waved him over to my building and buzzed him up.

Now truth be told, I had no idea what to expect. Marie didn’t exactly explain how the gris gris would work, nor did she break down how to initiate the plan. So when he knocked on my door, I’d be lying if I said I was entirely understanding of what I was doing. I swung the heavy old door open and there he stood. Glistening with sweat and a scowl on his pretty boy face with his beat up skateboard in tow.

“So where’s the charger?” He looked me up and down, disapprovingly looking at my big belly and old biker tattoo sleeves. Back in the day, I rode with my crew from coast to coast, fuckin’ every stud, twink, and bear that came my way. But the years hadn’t been too kind to me, and from the look on his face he sure didn’t see me the way that those boys back then did. Convincing myself to swallow my pride, I tossed him an iPhone charger and pointed him to the living room outlet. Plugging it in, he plopped down on my couch, and completely ignored my existence. Muttering under his breath, I could tell his Uber had cancelled.

“You can stay here until your car gets here.” I leaned against the hallway arch, taking in his steaming muscles. He clearly worked out in addition to all the days and hours of basketball. And damn... did he smell like hours of and hours of basketball. It was my favorite scent- raw testosterone, absolute masculinity, untempered musk; and his was STRONG.

“Bet your ass I’m getting the fuck out of your creepin’ ass house when this car gets here.” He thought he was so hood, so badass. He had no clue. Soon, though, he’d learn how to be a real man. Soon he’d be more than just a basic pretty boy frat kid. He started coughing gently, trying to hide it behind his phone screen, but the coughs grew louder and heavier. “Yo, get me some water!” I smiled.

“Get it yourself, bitch.” He whipped his head in my direction and tried to jump up, but realized he could barely move. It was as if he had no breath. “Oh, you’re feelin weak, huh? Why don’t you call your friends and they can come pick you up.” He tried to reach for his phone, but his arm had all but given out. Panic set in behind his cruel, mean spirited eyes and for the first time I saw him for who he really was behind the muscles, good lucks, and put on swagger: a little homophobic bitch who was in over his head. I walked over to him and plopped down on the couch next to him. His smell was strong and virile, full of youthful pheromones that he knew were a gift straight from God. I tested the waters and lifted his limp arm, exposing his wet pits. Assaulted, I tell you, I was assaulted by the sharp fragrance that poured from the hairy confines. He could do no more than a whiny whimper as I buried my nose and tongue into his armpit.

“Well, fuck, kid. It’s been a fuckin’ bitch knowing you. But it’s gonna be one hell of a good time bein’ you.” I saw the last of his pathetic consciousness fade away. Where it went I neither knew nor cared; all that was left was his empty, hollow husk. Curious, I brought my fingers to his plump lips and pried. A sound I can only describe as stretching elastic rang through the room as I pulled and pulled. Looking inside, he was hollow, albeit padded with slick flesh that outlined his impressive musculature. Letting go, his face snapped back to normal. He was ready.

I eagerly stripped, thinking of all the adventures I could relive from within him; thinking of the numerous opportunities that I could snatch with his glorious body and my confident mind. Laying him down, I stuck my toe into his mouth and pushed. After a few thrusts downward, my foot slid down his throat. It took a solid minute for me to weasel my second foot into the tight confines of his slimy mouth and down his throat, but they were soon both slipping down his torso, through his muscled legs and landing in his tight feet. I was several sizes larger than he, so his tiny size 7s felt like a pair of tiny, wet rubber socks to my size 13s. Yet, after a little adjusting, they looked amazing at my size. I brought one to my face, pressing the damp soles on my nose, taking in the salty, rank funk that emanated from between his toes. I stood up, his mouth around my ankles making my a little wobbly. I grabbed his waist and pulled up, watching his legs slip over mine. The sheer size of my pudgy calves and thighs seemed to be suctioned into his, adding my mass to his musculature. He would be so much better at my 6′2 than his 5′9.

After a hefty tug, my bloated ass was sucked into his, tightening and firming into an ass any stud would kill to plow, and anyone would kill to plunge their tongue into. Sauntering over to my mirror, I saw a toned, gorgeous lower half, with my tubby top pouring over our waist. My cock was pressed tightly against my groin, since I’d forgotten to slip it into his when my ass was... compacted. I stuck my meaty hands beneath our skin and tried to grab my shaft, leading it towards his. The kid wasn’t packin’ anything impressive. I guess his ladies didn’t have high standards for dick. But I’ll tell you when my thick rod was slurped into his, it was like I was thrusting inside the tightest fleshjack I’ve ever used. Looking down, I smiled at a girthy, 10 inch, uncut fuckstick. I swiped my finger underneath my new foreskin and took a deep sniff. Fuck. Yes. It was unreal. The cocksmell was so strong yet so addictive, it was as if it was dripping manliness in odorous form.

I knew that there was building pressure from within, and that the midsection would be the hardest thrust. So, I readied myself. Getting my footing underneath, I took a deep breath and held it in. With as much strength as I could muster, I tugged upward and my bulging belly was gulped into his skin with a loud “shlorp.” This took my body a moment to adjust, with a hefty beer gut protruding from my stomach, but after a deep belch, a set of washboard abs was there before me. To my surprise, and glee, some of my tattoos had transferred to my new skin, which gave me hope for the sleeves I’d grown to love.

Speaking of which, it was time for me to thrust my arms into his, which seemed entirely easier than my stomach. I slipped on his arms like gloves, the sensation of touch returning to my fingertips as they slipped into his. Looking at the mirror, it seemed only a fraction of my sleeve transferred over. Oh well, better than nothing! His shoulders snapped over mine, and I stood there in all my nude glory- with his jaw around my throat. I was ready. I was so ready to begin anew. I grabbed the jaw, matching his bottom lip to mine, and pulled his face over mine like a silicone mask. It suctioned to my head and within seconds I opened my eyes to a new man.

I was incredible. My face was an amalgamation of both our likenesses, the best of both worlds. I winked at my new self, testing out my old cocky smoulder. I still got it, and hell, I would be using it a whole fuckin’ lot. A knock on the door woke me from my eyefucking and walked over to the door. Opening it, there stood Marie. She looked me up and down and rolled her eyes.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s a bonafide stud once again.” I smirked, and let her in. “Phew... Boy you’re fragrant. But then again, I’m sure the boys you fuck are into that sort of thing huh?” Smiling, I lifted my arms, and took in my scent. Better than poppers. “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we? You agreed to the terms, now it’s time to pay up.” I plopped down on the couch, preparing to hear the terms of my debt.

“What you need, baby?” She grabbed me by the cheeks, looking her straight in the eye. All color must’ve flooded from my face.

“Your big blue eyes aren’t gonna get you anywhere with me, son. You are to do as I say, do you hear me?” I nodded silently. “I need followers, boy. Followers. Those who are willing to do what I need done, and in exchange... I’ll add them to your little crew. When I tell you to get something done, I need it done, you hear me?” I nod. “Now when I say go get some more boys, ma cher, you understand what I’m saying, yeah?” I smile as she lets go of my cheeks. “Enjoy your immortality, baby. I’ll be in touch.” With that, she tosses me some clothes as she walks out my door.

It’s been three weeks since that day, and the old man in the flat is nowhere to be seen. His ‘son’ Sebastian has since taken over the lease, and become something of a staple in the community. Always makin the ladies swoon, and the guys drip. Always there to end a fight with a swift K.O. to the chin. Always happy to help a down-on-their-luck neighbor. But most importantly, always looking for new people call ‘family.’

WELP. Introducing a potentially new recurring character: Sebastian the Voodoo King. Let me know what you think of him through asks, and what you’d like to see him to HERE. Have a dope day, kids. Hope this is everything y’all wanted.

#male possession #male bodysuit #male transformation #badass transformation #swagification #jock possession #musk #smelly #gay possession #weird af #original #male takeover #revenge #jockification #body possession #male tf

851 notes · View notes

themaribatpit · 3 years

Text

Jasonette July Day 10: Light

Written by: The Maribat Pit @jasonette-july-event Prompt: Light Rated: T A/N: This is just a fun silly story.

"Aren't we a little old for this?" Marinette wondered aloud, the three of them decided to move to Gotham city after they finished Lycée.

"We live in a world with superheroes, magic, and literal aliens, but you don't think there's anything spooky about Wayne Manor?" Alya cocked an eyebrow, Marinette shook her head.

"I hate to agree with Marinette," Chloe sighed, "but maybe getting in trouble with the local billionaire is probably not the first thing people do when they move to a new city".

"Hey, you're the one who said there was something off about them." Alya argued.

"I said one of them looked like his son who died a few years ago." Chloe reminded her. "Besides, when I met this person, he seemed bored by the whole thing. Probably counting the number of drinks he could down until it was over." "So you're just mad he didn't want to talk to you?" Alya joked.

"I think the only words he said to me were, 'do you have a light?' and nothing else." Chloe recalled. They both looked up to find that while they were bickering, Marinette was gone. "See, Marinette thought this whole thing was so stupid that she just walked away and left us here." Chloe scoffed. She would have been right, had Alya not seen Marinette climbing down the other side of the wall.

"What are you thinking?" Chloe hissed.

"Bring me back a souvenir" Alya called, before Chloe clamped her mouth shut with her hand.

Marinette looked around the old manor house, as she felt the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes. It was certainly the kind of place people thought of when they imagined a place that housed a literally bloodthirsty coven of vampires. As she came to a pair of large double doors, she looked back to see that Chloe and Alya had gone back to arguing. There was no turning back now, as she pushed open one of the heavy doors and let herself in.

She didn’t know how to feel when she found out that the big, grand, old manor house was also dark and empty. She also thought it was dark, but didn’t want to alert anyone by turning the lights on. Marinette saw there was a candle on the side table, probably used because it smelled nice more than anything. She picked up the candle and took a little whiff before lighting it with a small lighter she kept in her handbag. Gently and quietly, she decided to explore the grand old house. Maybe find something to prove to Alya and Chloe that she had been inside. Jason preferred to keep to himself in the library, Bruce and the others were away attending an event that he and Alfred were exempt from. It means that he got to sit by the window and immerse himself in yet another slow burn gothic novel. Most likely one involving a Byronic hero and the ingenue who is drawn to him like a moth to a flame. At the very least, it meant an afternoon where he wouldn’t be disturbed by Bruce, Dick, Replacement or Demon Spawn. His plan was cut short, however, when he heard the creak of the door to the library. Jason took one look and saw that it wasn’t Alfred. For one thing, this person looked more like a small young woman. Was she Replacement’s secretary? No. For one thing she was dressed in casual clothes, and secondly she was carrying a small candle in her hands. She carefully set it down on the library table, trying to keep it as far away from the other books as possible. Marinette set foot inside what looked like a library inside the house. She set the candle down on the library table, and was startled to find that there was, in fact, someone in this house. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, Marinette swallowed as she tried to think of an excuse. “I uh, I’m here because,” she stammered, the man staring down at her raised an eyebrow. As if waiting for whatever excuse she came up with and knowing full well it would be a lie. “I spent the night here, and got lost on my way out.” Marinette spluttered, if they were anything like Chloe described, at least one of them would be the type to bring girls back here. Though if Alya’s vampire theory was true, who’s to say that the girls who entered this house ever left. Still, she had to give it a try. “Alright then, with who?” he asked, there was a smirk on his face, as if to say “this was going to be good”. Marinette’s mind scrambled for a name that Chloe might have mentioned, “Tim?” she said. “Was that a question or an answer?” the man asked. “Little Timmy the usurper isn't one to bring girls in.” “How would you know?” she asked, “I mean he’s one of the youngest CEOs in Gotham City, never mind the world”. So that’s how she was going to play it. Jason was slightly disappointed, if she was going to lie about spending the night here she could at least make it sound believable. She wore a pink bunny rabbit hoodie and a pair of jeans with some pink flats. It was cute but not flashy enough to make her excuse believable. Besides, nothing and no one made their way in or out of Wayne Manor without Alfred knowing. “Well when you put it that way, why don't you tell me, what were you and Timmy doing last night?” Jason asked, the jig was up, he gave her points for creativity. If she answered anything besides “watch in horror as Tim drank his 10th espresso” it was game over. Instead she said nothing, because she didn’t do anything. “So why did you really come here?” he asked, smirking down at her. “Who sent you here? And this time, name someone who actually has a chance with a girl.” Jason joked. “No one, well,” Marinette stammered, she really didn’t want to throw Chloe and Alya under the bus. “One of my friends thought she saw you at a party, and thought you looked familiar. Another friend thought you were a vampire, for some reason, I don’t know and…” Marinette realised how silly this was all starting to sound. If she had any dignity left, she would run for the front door and consider moving to Metropolis and never show her face in Gotham City ever again. “You had me at ‘vampire’, so what, your friends want you to come back with a hickey?” Jason asked, the young woman’s face turned beet red. “N-no, not exactly, just proof that one of them is right or wrong, I guess.” Jason found this absolutely hilarious, she wasn’t entirely wrong. He just didn’t have the fangs or the shapeshifting powers. If someone could keep him in his next coffin by putting a rose stalk on it, that would be nice. If he was going to be legally dead, he might as well have some fun with it. Chloe and Alya were pacing the outside of the manor, worried that someone walking past would think that they looked suspicious. Moments later, they saw an elderly man hold the door open while Marinette skipped out the front door. Alya and Chloe watched in amazement as she waved a little polaroid photo in her hand. “Where were you?” Alya asked, “were you in the house or the pocket dimension?”. “It took me a while, but I managed to get you this,” she whipped out the photo for the both of them to see. In her hand was a polaroid of the boy that Chloe had met at the gala, only this time he was standing in front of a mirror with no reflection. Upon seeing the photo of the man without a reflection, Chloe felt faint, while Alya grabbed the photo for a closer look. “See, see? I was right”! she cheered. Chloe placed a hand on a nearby lamppost “This isn't something to be cheering about! We need to get out of here!” Marinette watched as they argued while keeping her real gift close to her chest, a little card that said “an invitation from a vampire to come back and visit sometime -J”. Marinette smiled as she pocketed the note, listening to her friends bicker all the way home.

#jasonettejuly2021 #jasonette #ml x dc #maribat

78 notes · View notes

alwaysavonlea · 2 years

Text

Ways that Anne with an E remixes the books, part 3

So for this I've got two scenes in Episode 5 of Season 2:

First, after the first game of spin the bottle, Diana walks with Anne to Green Gables. There, Jerry says Diana is the most beautiful girl in French and Diana translates for Anne.

Anne asks, “What does it feel like to be divinely beautiful, Diana?”

“That’s very kind, but I’m not div-” Diana starts.

Anne interrupts, “No, you are. Please answer the question. I have to know.”

Diana answers, "Compliments are nice... but... I’d rather be smart."

Second, after the second game of spin the bottle, Anne and Diana are walking home through the woods.

Anne says, “Of course, if I wasn’t so homely, I would have more options."

“You’re not homely, Anne. I wish you’d stop saying that. It’s not true," Diana responds.

Anne insists, “Diana, it is my firm belief that my life would be easier if I was beautiful like you.”

Diana says, “Nonsense. I’d trade my dimples for any of your cleverness. and consider it cheaply bought at that price.”

Anne replies, “Diana, I'm so glad you're exquisite. Next to being beautiful oneself, it's best to have a beautiful bosom friend.”

Ok so there are three parts in the Anne of Green Gables book that seem to be re-interpeted for AWAE S2E5. Some of the phrases are verbatim (or nearly) but I'm also arguing to count synonyms and synonymous meanings of phrases in this case.

First, in AOGG Chapter 2, Anne is riding with Matthew to Green Gables for the first time.

“Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?”

“Well now, no, I haven’t,” confessed Matthew ingenuously.

Second, in AOGG Chapter 15, Anne and Diana are walking to school.

“I should just like to see anybody dare to write my name up with a boy’s. Not, of course,” she hastened to add, “that anybody would.” [...]

"Nonsense,” said Diana, [...]. “It’s only meant as a joke. And don’t be too sure your name won’t ever be written up. Charlie Sloane is dead gone on you. He told his mother - his mother, mind you - that you were the smartest girl in school. That’s better than being good looking.”

“No, it isn’t,” said Anne, feminine to the core. “I’d rather be pretty than clever.”

Third, in AOGG Chapter 8, Anne asks Marilla to tell her what Diana looks like, because the two haven't been introduced yet. Anne says

“Oh, I’m so glad she’s pretty. Next to being beautiful oneself - and that’s impossible in my case - it would be best to have a beautiful bosom friend.”

Phrases like "divinely beautiful" and "best to have a beautiful bosom friend" are quintessentially Anne Shirley. If the TV show was a loyal adaptation of the book, Anne would've said these phrases to Matthew or Marilla in Season 1 Episode 1. Instead, the show writers hung onto these phrases for use later on in the context of Anne's insecurity about her appearance.

So in AOGG, Anne and Diana have this scene where Anne expresses her insecurity about no one finding her attractive, and Diana tells her "nonsense" and that it's better to be smart than good looking. In AWAE S2E5, Diana says twice that she'd rather be smart/clever. Instead of having Anne say she'd rather be pretty than clever, as she does in the book, the S2E5 scenes reverse it and give the lines to Diana to say that she values being smart/clever.

This is quite a mish-mash of AOGG book scenes, but the similarities are such that I really think the AWAE writers mish mashed intentionally.

#awae analysis #anne with an e #anne of green gables #diana barry #anne shirley #anne shirley cuthbert

12 notes · View notes

asflametosmoke · 3 years

Text

james farrow analysis (+ oliver and richard as they relate to him)

so last night i stayed up until 2 am messaging with my friend about iwwv, and what is tumblr for if not posting your 2 am ramblings. (i’ve streamlined and expanded on them a bit.)

massive spoilers for the whole book under the cut.

(edit: i realize now that the cut doesn’t show up on mobile, sorry 😬)

part i - james farrow + heroism

james’s casting archetype is the hero/lover/prince, but he actually subverts tropes of traditional heroism/heroic characters.

he doesn’t really have classic heroic traits. he’s not really brave, he’s slight of build, he’s intelligent yet manipulative.

he doesn’t really fall in love with the ingenue, wren. he sleeps with her, but more than anything, he does it to make oliver jealous. and i didn’t read his protectiveness of her as something that comes from a place of romantic love. you’re welcome to disagree, of course, because that’s a bit ambiguous, but most of the squad is protective of wren. james isn’t unique there. we see oliver and even richard, in his own way, feeling protective towards her. it’s not really an indicator that he loved her.

he falls into the trope of the hero killing the tyrant (richard), but it’s not a heroic action when he does it. it’s not a noble slaying. it’s the desperate act of a cornered animal.

he has what you might call a “hero complex”, a need to save and protect everyone. but this backfires hugely. his need to protect wren leads to him going into the woods to find richard, which, as we know, ends up with richard dead in the lake. his need to save oliver (and his own guilt over not having been able to save him) leads to the deterioration of his mental state, even to the point where he feels the need to disappear.

part ii - james farrow + villainy [buckle up, this is a long one]

here’s where it gets interesting. there are a lot of moving parts here:

he says he wants more variety on his resume, to not play heroes and lovers and princes all the time.

in gwedolyn’s class, he says he immerses himself in every character he plays, but can’t always find himself again afterwards.

he gets cast as macbeth.

he gets cast as edmund, the villain in king lear.

over the course of acts iv and v, he goes slightly insane.

james’s casting in the role of macbeth is arguably the inciting incident. it’s the root cause of richard going off the rails. it’s also the first time he plays a villainous character (macbeth is the tragic hero, sure, but when i say “villain” i mean it in the moral sense), and it virtually intoxicates him.

being cast in the role of edmund is not, of course, the only thing wearing on his sanity throughout acts iv and v. but it doesn’t help either. he says, “i want to hurt the whole world.” ultimately, this stems from his trauma from killing richard, but it’s no coincidence that he got himself cast as edmund while in this state. he wants to hurt the whole world, as james, and by immersing himself in edmund, he finds rhyme and reason for it.

not only that, but it’s through edmund and lear in general, through the vessel of villainy and tragedy, that he’s the most honest before his confession. in act v, scene ii, he gets drunk and desperately tries to talk to oliver through lear. there’s a lot to unpack in this scene, but here are some of the highlights:

“they’ll have me whipp’d for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying, and sometimes i am whipp’d for holding my peace.”

i’ve never read lear, so i can’t contextualize this in the play, but it’s very relevant to james. he’ll be punished (sent to prison) for confessing, but oliver can’t take any more lies.

“‘where is the villain, edmund?’ i asked. he smiled crazily and echoed, ‘“where is the villain, edmund?” a pause for punctuation, yes? but not the playwright’s - commas belong to the compositors. “where is the villain edmund? here, sir, but trouble him not - his wits are gone.”’

james isn’t really talking about edmund here, of course. he’s talking about himself, calling himself a “villain” and admitting he’s gone more than a little crazy with guilt and fear (“his wits are gone.”) he thinks he can’t be saved. but his hero complex and archetype are still important here. he’s been deemed the hero for years, and now all of a sudden he’s committed murder. his complex, his need to save everyone that in part stems from the role he’s been given for his whole career, is at war with his new belief that he himself cannot be saved.

“‘no less than all - and more, much more. the time will bring it out!’ he wrenched his arm away and smoothed the front of his shirt, as if he were trying to wipe his hands clean. ‘some blood drawn on me would beget opinion / of my more fierce endeavor.’”

clearly, this is a reference to richard’s death. james knows he’s running out of time, and soon enough his secret will be revealed one way or another. it also shows his guilt: he’s trying to “wipe his hands clean”, presumably of figurative blood, and he thinks he deserves to be hurt for his “more fierce endeavor” e.g. killing richard.

part iii - james + richard + oliver + royalty

princes fall into james’s archetype along with heroes and lovers.

kings fall into richard’s archetype along with tyrants and conquerors.

in the woods, richard repeatedly calls james “little prince”, placing james “below” richard in both literal and figurative stature.

after james’s confession, oliver says “worthy prince, i know’t” to him onstage even though he’s supposed to say that line to camilo.

he’s reclaiming the word from richard, in a sense, and telling james that no matter what he’s done, he’s still a “worthy prince”. he means everything to oliver despite the fact that he’s a murderer, and despite the fact that he himself doesn’t believe he’s noble anymore (though he desperately wants to be). it’s quite literally a love language for oliver, and perhaps the closest he comes to a declaration of love.

part iv - james + richard + oliver + the water [this is also a long one]

richard wants to see james drowned, and oliver is the only one preventing this.

the first appearance of this motif is on halloween, when richard tries to drown james in the lake.

this foreshadows james’s eventual fate. whether or not he truly drowned in the end is, of course, a point of contention. for the purposes of this analysis, i won’t take a position on whether or not james is alive, and i will address it with the same ambiguity that canon gives it. however, regardless of whether or not james is alive by the end, it’s undeniable that he went under the water, and in a sense, it was richard that dragged him under. filippa says, “it was the guilt, oliver.” and once oliver isn’t there to comfort him, enable the two of them to forget richard for a little while, it’s only a matter of time before his guilt weighs him down so much that he feels the need to disappear from his own life. even if he’s not dead, he’s certainly not james farrow anymore, wherever he might be.

james reveals that richard kept pushing him towards the dock. it’s unclear if he really intended to drown james or even push him in the water, but it’s not unlikely that this was his intention.

in the dock scene (act iii, scene i), james tries to dive into the water to save richard’s life, and oliver stops him. but oliver goes into the water himself in that scene (to make sure richard’s dead before they call the police). this parallels how in the end, oliver will turn himself in and falsely confess to save james.

finally, there’s the epilogue. when filippa tells oliver “james is gone”, oliver sees richard’s ghost again. “there he sits, in lounging, leonine arrogance. he watches me with a razor-thin smile and i realize that this is it - the denouement, the counterstroke, the end-all he was waiting for. he lingers only long enough for me to see the gleam of triumph in his half-lidded eyes; then he, too, is gone.”

this is the confirmation: from oliver’s perspective, at least, richard has always, always wanted to drown james. it was certainly his intention at halloween. while to us, it’s unclear whether or not that was his intention at the dock, oliver believes it was. so he sees richard’s ghost again and gets a final confirmation of what he’s always believed. richard, as oliver sees him, is finally satisfied.

but we’re not done. how could i be, without addressing the pericles in the room?

disclaimer: i’ve never read pericles, so as with lear, i’m not going to contextualize the monologue contained in james’s “suicide note” in the play as a whole. that’s a separate analysis, albeit an interesting one i’m sure, for someone with more shakespeare knowledge than me. (although i have read caesar, so i might analyze iwwv and caesar some time in the future.)

“alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock / wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath / nothing to think on but ensuing death.”

right from the outset, we see that james might be alive. he’s been “wash’d [...] from shore to shore, and left [...] breath”. the water has transformed him (to use a christian metaphor, almost like a kind of baptism. i think. i’m Extremely jewish so i might be using that wrong.) but not necessarily killed him.

death consumes james’s thoughts, and it likely has since he killed richard seven years earlier.

“what i have been i have forgot to know; / but what i am, want teaches me to think on: / a man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill, / and have no more of life than may suffice / to give my tongue that heat to ask your help; which if you shall refuse, when i am dead, / for that i am a man, pray see me buried.”

all the life has slowly been sucked out of him since he killed richard to the point where he’s little more than a shell of a man by 2004, so he decides to disappear into the water. again, whether or not he’s dead, he’s clearly not living the life of james farrow anymore, wherever he may be. so he’s disappeared. he may not be dead, but james farrow, the identity if not the man, did drown in that freezing water.

and yet, he has just enough of a will to live, just enough of a desire to be known (and perhaps loved) that he writes this note and puts oliver’s name on the envelope. he’s not ready to drown just yet. maybe the water didn’t care and drowned him anyway. but maybe, just maybe, it saved him.

part v - conclusion/author’s notes

if you stuck around all the way here, to the end, wow. thanks for suffering through my ramblings. seriously, thank you. and congratulations i guess.

i tried to write a tl;dr, i’m sorry, i failed. i know my strengths, and conciseness isn’t one of them.

i do wanna say this, though: james farrow is not a good person. neither is he a bad person. iwwv does not deal in moral absolutes, or really any absolutes at all. and i do feel like we as a reader base and fanbase don’t always do the best job at acknowledging james’s moral complexity. (or oliver’s, or meredith’s, but that’s another post for another time.) this is not a direct callout to anyone in particular, nor is it an attack. it’s really just meant to be food for thought.

#iwwv #if we were villains #iwwv spoilers #james farrow #oliver marks #richard stirling #analysis #tw suicide #tw drowning #tw death #tw murder #tw water

147 notes · View notes

ernmark · 3 years

Text

Juno Steel's Season 3 Finale Thoughts

Whoooooo boy.

Lots of thoughts. Lots of questions.

(spoilers under the cut)

A lot of this might be cleared up when I get my hands on that script, but until then:

Why was Sasha willing to destroy the Curemother Prime in order to kill Juno? That is a specific shot she made, and an incredibly valuable asset to destroy in the meantime. If killing him was more important than preserving the Curemother Prime, why did she attempt to spare him earlier-- or was it one of those 'bring him in alive' situations?

Is the Curemother Prime dead? Dead-dead? Or might some of it have splashed into Juno's open wound and hitched a ride in that weirdo blood of his?

Ruby is a Transformer now??? Like a T-2/Transformer hybrid? Is Juno gonna park on Io and then have the Ruby turn into like a necklace or a belt and just hang out with him so he has someone to monologue to? (Please!!!)

Who's waiting for him on Io (not waiting for him, per se, but he knows that somebody is going to be there)? Alessandra and her wife? Khan and family? Falco? Diamond?

Who set off the signal that lured Dark Matters to them? Right now the implication seems to be Peter, but I'm always up for a twist in the plot. (Peter's collector wanting to push him to actually get his ass in gear, perhaps?)

Who's side is Peter on, really? Was his preemptive escape him going along with that initial deal, or an act of cowardice and betrayal?

-------

Beyond that:

Alien road trip!

Seriously, though: we've seen Juno brought to his absolute lowest when he went out into the desert. We've seen him built back up again surrounded by support and loved ones and learn solid coping mechanisms. Now the scaffolding of that positive environment has been ripped away, and he's left to fend (almost) for himself. But this Juno Steel isn't the same one who came back from Miasma's tomb. He's taking the idea of Peter's betrayal in stride and then setting it aside-- not locking it away, but agreeing to deal with it when the circumstances permit. He's not resorting to self-blame or self-destruction, but taking an active role in getting out of there. He's trusting in himself and his family. And yes, he lashes out at the Ruby 7 for a moment, but it's a fairly brief moment, and then he calms down and they set out to work together.

Holy shit, you all. It's so amazing to see how he's grown.

-----

And really seeing the extent of that growth does in fact require pulling away those supports he's been holding onto. It's the real test, and that means he can't rely on Rita's ingenuity or Jet's wisdom, etc. This is going to be the larger, more extensive version of what we saw in the sewer with Small Fry, and I am so here for it.

But oh god, I hope the others are gonna be okay. Jet has the kind of faith that moves mountain ranges, but he's the one I most fear won't survive this.

Rita... I nearly cried when Rita admitted that she wasn't going to come with them. And of course she made out like it was no big deal, she just needed to take a detour, and of course Juno saw right through it and fought against her plan. But he trusts her, as much as she trusts him. It's a heartbreaking inversion of what we saw in Soul of the People.

And you'll notice that I keep circling around back to the end of the previous season, because there's a lot of parallelism going on. With the vibe I'm getting, this next season might just be the penultimate, if not the last season. It depends on how this next season is going to play out.

We've got this neighboring galaxy thing going on, with the Curemother Prime's origins, the memetic plague, and the Ruby 7-- all of which hearkens back to Season 1 with the Ancient Martians and Miasma.

We've also got a lot of untied strings involving the past. Peter's past, with his first love and his unspeakable debt; but also Diamond, Falco, and Hijikata; we've got the severing of Juno's relationship with Sasha, and what exactly happened that made their paths diverge. We've got Annie Wire-- I don't think we're done with her yet. And I'm still not about to let go of Marcus (aka, the mystery of the person who was mentioned in a S1 throwaway line that you can't even actually hear unless you're holding the script in front of you).

That's a lot of material to pack into a single season, but who knows?

#the penumbra podcast

76 notes · View notes

extremelyblackandwhite · 4 years

Text

handmaid - 37

PAIRING: mob!sebastian stan x ingenue!reader

WARNINGS: age gap

A/N: this chapter is gonna be the last one and i think i’m gonna need therapy for attachment. finished this chapter after seeing seb’s baby pictures and now i think i need double the therapy. hope you enjoy this chapter, it has been such a pleasure to write for you, it’s been my absolute honour to read all the comments and to offer you this story. thank you so so much for all your support x

A YEAR LATER

Y/N woke up in her bedroom with the sounds of birds chirping, the signs that another spring day was starting to wake up in Paris. Extending her arms, she remained under her weighted blanket for a while, watching the chandelier above their bed. It had been a wedding present from her mother’s part of the family and while both her and Sebastian thought it was a bit too much, they eventually got their contractor to install it in their bedroom in their Paris apartment. It had taken a bit of time to get used to but now she had the ritual of waking up and watching the sun create little rainbows through the clear crystal of the chandelier.

After she felt her awake status surround her whole being, she left her bed, grabbing her dressing gown and wrapping herself around it before taking to the room next to her. Slowly and carefully, she pulled on the handle of the door down, opening it. Her eyes came in contact with the peaceful grey colours of the walls slightly decorated with small little ivory coloured clouds. Coming in closer, she let her hips slightly hit the white crib where the one year old was standing, wide awake with the ear of Sebastian’s old toy bunny, Oreo, in his mouth.

- Hello my little bunny. - she smiled down at her son who, recognising his mother’s voice, immediately started to giggle, extending his arms up to be picked up by her. Y/N merely smiled, extending her own arms towards his crib to pick him and hold him against her chest. - Let’s go have breakfast. Can you say breakfast?

- Dada. - he said with a smile that showed he was proud of himself. She rolled her eyes at the word, if there was something Sebastian had done perfectly was make sure their son’s first word would be dada and while Y/N had been trying to make sure Nate spoke anything else, he only proudly said dada much to her nuisance. Y/N merely smiled as she rolled her eyes, getting him off his grey onesie and into a white shirt with little train drawings and some dark jean overalls. - Dada, dada!

- Say mumma. - she laughed, holding him close as she took to the kitchen where Amelia was starting to cook some breakfast. - Mumma.

- Dadda! - he broke out in laughter, wrapping his chubby arms around his mother’s neck. Y/N merely smiled, sitting down on her chair and pulling the high chair with her foot, popping the tray off so she could sit the baby down who was never happy whenever she strapped him to his high chair which is why Sebastian normally did it himself, but as of today he was still in New York dealing with some business transaction gone wrong. Normally Y/N would’ve travelled along with him but ever since Nate had been born, she had been paranoid someone would try and harm him.

- Morning, Mrs. Stan. - Amelia placed a plate of Y/N’s favourite breakfast, poached egg on mushrooms in front of her and a blue plate of slice bananas in front of baby Nate whose hands immediately went for the slices. - Are you sure you don’t want me to bake the cake for baby Nathaniel?

- Your holiday started yesterday, Amelia. You shouldn’t even be here.

- It’s baby Nathaniel’s birthday.

- So it isn’t due to my husband? - she raised an eyebrow at the maid. - You don’t need to worry about me, I’ll be fine.

- Mr. Stan is worried.

- Mr. Stan is always worried. - to say that Sebastian had upped security since the ill fated Mr. Williams incident was an understatement. If Y/N left the house to go to the bakery, four armed men would follow her around with one in front, one in the back and two on each side. Yet, that was nothing compared to when Nathaniel went outside. She guessed it was a regular thing, after all her small little ball of sunshine was the one who would one of day solely inherit her mother’s fortune, her father’s family and Sebastian’s too. Either way, he was excessive with protection and she should’ve guessed he wouldn’t have allowed her to be alone with their son for a long while. Before she could try and convince the hardworking full time maid to take her much deserved holiday, Nate grabbed his plastic plate, smashing his face against the banana slices making her choke in a laugh. - Alright bunny, that’s enough bananas.

- Don’t be upset at him, Mrs. Stan.

- I won’t if you take your holiday. - Y/N pushed her plate away from her, walking to her son’s high chair. Nate extended his chubby arms towards her, cooing to be removed from it which she complied to, holding him to her chest as she walked over to the living room that was filled with toys and other things belonging to Nate. He was spoiled but in this Y/N couldn’t completely blame Sebastian as she could be even as bad as him when it came to fullfilling her son’s requests.

Placing him on his baby matt, Nate turned onto his belly crawling over to her mother’s knees, looking up at her with a look that could only be described as cheeky. Y/N lowered to her knees, watching as Nathaniel crawled around happily with his toy bunny. He still didn’t say much and was still learning to how to walk, instead putting himself up on his legs, holding onto the couch before eventually collapsing to the ground. Speaking of which, the one year hold grasped onto the white leather and pulling himself off the ground and on his chubby legs, the other hand firmly gripping onto the bunny’s ears.

- Do you wanna try and walk all the way to mumma? - she asked the blue eyed baby who looked away from her and back again. - Go on, come to mumma.

Nate looked at her with confusion, the eyes he had definitely inherited from his father looking around the room almost as if he was preparing to fall into a pit of fire. With Oreo clenched by the ear, he let go of the couch, standing on his chubby baby legs. Before he could take another step, he went tumbling towards the ground yet Y/N was faster than that, moving so she could catch her baby before he got hurt. As he collapsed on her lap, he turned his head up to look at his mother, pouty lips and tear filled eyes.

- It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. - she pushed the brown curls away from his face, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. - It’s okay, mumma will always be here to catch you.

- Mumma. - he babbled, burying his head on her chest.

- What did you say? - she looked down in disbelief but before the baby could say it again the front door opened, a very familiar voice coming through.

- Where’s the birthday boy? - Y/N rolled her eyes, picking Nate up and getting up before walking to the entrance where Sebastian was taking his jacket off, placing away his gun before his wife could complain to him about weapons near the baby. His eyes shined with pride as he watched Y/N stand in front of him, holding their son on her arms, who had taken to hide his face in the middle of her hair. - Someone’s shy today.

- Guess what. - she walked closer to him, pecking him quickly. - Nate said mumma.

- No way. - Sebastian cooed at his son, caressing the top of his head. - You can say mumma, little buddy?

- Dadda! - Nate shrilled out of pure joy, extending his arms towards him which Sebastian gladly took, kissing the side of his head.

- You know, Seb, next time you ask the maid to watch over me at least let me know. - she leaned against him, head on his shoulder. - My father’s security can handle me and Nate when you’re not around, I told you that a million times.

- Can you blame me for wanting you and him to be safe?

- No, I can however blame you for making the hardworking maid work overtime. - she smirked. - How’s New York?

- It’s rather bleak when you’re not there.

- Did you speak with my father? - she questioned, fully knowing Sebastian would probably be questioned by her family back in New York at arrival.

- Yes and both him and Dan think it’s rude that they’re not invited to Nate’s birthday.

- Nate’s not getting a big birthday party, I told them.

- I know, angel, but you know how much your father likes this little bunny. - Sebastian smiled at his son who had taking to munching his jacket’s collar, eyes looking into the ones exactly like his. - Pretty sure the only reason I’m not dead is because I’m his dad.

- C’mon, we need to take Nate’s cake out of the fridge and sing happy birthday before his nap time.

- It’s his birthday, angel. Can’t he skip night time?

- Sure, he can. However if he does then we lose night time fun as you’ll be the one to check on him when he tries to climb out the crib.

- Birthday cake time it is. - he followed Y/N into the kitchen, placing his son on his play matt. The baby rolled around, hands gripping several of his toys while his father went to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist, placing a kiss on her shoulder. - Did you miss me?

- Of course I did. - she turned around to kiss him, hands on top of his shoulders as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. - It gets awfully cold when you’re alone in a king size bed.

- Mhm, it does get very cold, doesn’t it? - his hands toyed around with the string that held her wrap up dress in place. - Does our son’s birthday also count as my birthday?

- Why would it count as your birthday? - she furrowed her brows.

- It’s the anniversary of when I became a father and I think I deserve a little present. - he leaned down to kiss her neck.

- Well, I think th ...

- MUMMA! - the babyish voice coming from the living room interrupted her sentence and made Y/N look over Sebastian’s shoulder to see Nate standing on his chubby legs as he took a few small steps towards the kitchen table.

- Oh my god. - she ducked under Sebastian’s hold to meet her son midway, grabbing the polaroid camera on the way to take a photo before he fell down or decided to sit down. - You’re walking. Nate, you’re walking!

- What? - Sebastian turned around, joining his wife who was now sat on the ground with her arms opened towards Nate who quickly walked over to her before falling on top of her chest. - He walked, he just walked!

- I know. - Y/N picked the baby up, kissing his little fat cheeks. - I’m so proud of you, I’m so proud of you baby Nate.

- I can’t believe he’s walking already. We need another one.

- Sebastian, we just had one.

- Yeah but he’s walking and he can say mumma and dadda. In no time he’ll be going off to university and won’t want snuggles anymore.

- Honey, Nate can’t say anything other than mumma and dadda, is still eating soft solids, and he doesn’t even have all his teeth yet. He won’t be going to university any time soon.

- No, I think we need another one. A girl this time, so we have one of each.

- Seb, darling, I don’t think that’s how it works. Besides, wouldn’t you rather wait til Nate is a bit older and doesn’t require attention all the time?

- I know, it’s just that looking at you with our son makes me want to have at least 10 more kids.

- I won’t push 10 more kids. - she laughed, kissing his cheek before looking down to Nate who was cuddling her and his bunny. - For now, for now I have everything I could have ever dreamed of.

- Should we get that cake then?

- It’s in the fridge. - Y/N carefully got up, holding her precious baby close to her chest as Sebastian went and grabbed the little cupcake. The ex handmaid placed her son on his high chair as Sebastian put the little cupcake in front of him, lighting a single candle with his lighter which immediately caught the attention of small Nate whose eyes widened in pure joy and curiosity.

The mob boss wrapped his arm around his wife, kissing the side of her head before the two of them started singing Happy Birthday to little Nate who was clearly more interested in the flame of his candle. Once the song came to an end, both of them cheered, clapping at the baby who looked at his parents in confusion.

- C’mon, Nate blow the candle. - Sebastian took to be by his son’s side, making a blow motion with his lips. Nate merely turned to his mother, confused at his father’s actions.

- Why don’t we do it together? - Y/N stood by her son’s other side, blowing the candle together with Sebastian while Nate giggled, clapping his hands out of pure joy. - Happy Birthday, sweetheart. Mumma loves you, dadda loves you.

The rest of the day went rather uneventful, with Nate making both his parents laugh as he decided to eat the cupcake with his hands, getting his cheeks full of chocolate. He remained awake for a few hours, playing with his father while Y/N read one of her books in the couch, wondering how she’d gotten so lucky to have such a precious son and such a loving husband. As night began to make its presence known and the birthday boy became grumpy, Y/N put him back in his crib returning to the living room to see Sebastian standing on their balcony watching the Tower Eiffel’s lights. Without him noticing, she walked behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso, allowing herself to be involved by the scent of his cologne.

- Hello there, Mrs. Stan. - he turned around in her embrace, hand going to hold hers. - How about a dance?

- I can never say no to you, Mr. Stan.

He leaned his head to rest against the space between her neck and shoulder, free hand holding her waist as the two of them moved slowly from side to side. In that moment, no money belonging to her or to him, no empire he’d built or family she inherited mattered for in that moment he had his whole world in his arms and that ... that was enough.

tag list: @lilya-petrichor @xoxohannahlee @nikkipea @irespostthingsiwanttoseelater @madisonpillstrom @cevans98 @thelostallycat @sideeffectsofyou @anxiousdreamersworld @captainchrisstan @lookiamtrying @sarge-barnes-sir @stuffforreferences @thebadassbitchqueen @sebastianstansqueen @nsfwsebbie @strangerliaa @emzd34 @everything-is-awesomesauce @dreams-in-blxck @krismeunicornbaobei @buckysteveloki-me

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan drabble #sebastian stan fanfic #sebastian stan AU #mob!sebastian stan #mob boss!sebastian stan #mafia!sebastian stan #mafia boss!sebastian stan #mobster!sebastian stan

403 notes · View notes

doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Hell is just a beat away (3/9)

Despite early promise, young Maul has turned out to be a disappointment, willfully delaying his training with secret attempts to make himself friends from scrap metal. He must be properly motivated, and so Darth Sidious sends him to a slave market on an impossible mission. It backfires. Star Wars: Darth Maul (2017) comic AU | 5.2k | warning for slavery, sexual assault of a teenager (non-graphic)

Ten to doomsday, moving fast

Eldra does not sleep. She refuses. If she has to bite her fingers bloody when her eyelids threaten to drop, then so be it. Master Fyaar would have chastened her for it—she always insists that Eldra be at her best regardless of circumstance, and staying awake for what must be more than one or two entire standard days now will help with neither her innate distractibility nor her willful emotions. Her secret inadequacy, unknown to all but Fyaar, who chose Eldra when she was ten and had yet to develop the mind that is, and she has rarely admitted to those fears even in the privacy of her own brain, the mind that is perhaps fundamentally unsuited to the noble path of the Jedi. Sure, she does well enough in her classes, though she drives her teachers to frustration with her incessant fiddling with any trinket at all within her reach and her doodling and her daydreams. Sure, she mostly behaves acceptably among people, though she does not pick up on the right cues to be a diplomat and she vacillates too often between excited talking and secret loneliness, when she, once again, finds her peers more interested in each other than in whatever she has wanted to share. Her one friend in the Order is Bayro who’s two years older, though now she’s not even sure if Bayro would see her as more than a friendly, clingy acquaintance, and—

Will Bayro even miss her? They’ve made plans to watch a holovid after Eldra’s back from Teth and Bayro aces the Advanced Test on Coruscant Sublevels 6665 through 7900. Vague plans, though, and since Eldra didn’t know how long she’d have to guard Mayor Woobudg… Bayro will probably notice in a few months that Eldra hasn’t returned to the Temple, and then watch the holovid with one of her many other friends. She’ll—

Watch your feelings, Eldra, she remembers. It hurts. The memory of Master Fyaar hurts worse than even the imaginary indifference of Bayro does, but it’s necessary. As ever, Master Fyaar’s warning is right, even if it’s only the ghost of Fyaar living on inside Eldra’s grief. Eldra almost lost her calm over a scenario of her own imagination, yet another reminder of her unsuitable mercurial temperament. Yet another reminder of why she needs Fyaar, needs her constant watch, if she wants to remain on the path of the Jedi.

And Master Zalandas Fyaar is dead.

Fyaar’s dead.

Eldra watched her murder, and the murder of everyone she was supposed to protect on this mission. Eldra watched her murder and did not reach for the dark side of the force to avenge her. Eldra watched and held still.

Eldra allowed herself to be abducted.

She does not sleep in her tiny cell, just as she didn’t sleep on the freight ship that carried her to an unknown planet far away from bloodied Teth. She didn’t sleep then as stubbornly as she does now, but even before her wide-open burning eyes the pictures will not stop. The blood. The touch. The grin of her vile captor when he said that she would fetch a tidy sum, despite being a blue twi’lek (“A dime a dozen, they are, and this one’s not even a trained dancer! She hasn’t even… look!” Her captor had pulled her upper lip away then, and she had snapped for his fingers. “She’s still got those awful sharp teeth! Who the hell lets a twi’lek girl walk around with sharp teeth? She could tear a guy’s throat out, with these!”) she would still be worth a quick sale to her captors but only because she is (was) a Jedi padawan, and apparently there are quite a few pieces of shit out there who’d like to hurt a Jedi. Or—she keeps her eyes open, open, open till tears threaten to drop, and yet the thought comes. Or fuck one. Same difference.

A toy that’s padawan-shaped. That’s why they let her keep her own robes. But at least they did.

Watch your feelings, but still, Eldra shakes to her very core. She’s never thought of herself as being anything but a person, slightly inadequate perhaps in all ways that matter to her but a person; a luminous being, a small conduit for the very force to act through in the material galaxy; but now she’s been caught and taught that what she is is actually just a twi’lek girl. Cheap. Interchangeable. Nothing but her species and her gender, nothing but her flesh: a pretty dancer, never mind she hates dancing and if she ever makes it out, if the Jedi find and rescue her, please, please, she will never ever dance not even a single one of those silly novelty dances ever again even if Bayro does it first. She’ll go to whatever lengths needed to never be appraised, judged, looked upon, perceived as anything but a luminous dutiful Jedi ever again.

To these people, she’s not a person. Not a Jedi, unless the fetish counts, not really, not to the slavers and—watch your feelings, but still, the seething disgust returns and she wants nothing more than her lightsaber through her captor’s hearts or their hands torn off by her teeth—perhaps, maybe, please no, not truly anymore either to herself.

⁂

Maul wakes up to insistent beeping. He’s never heard the noise before, except—somewhere behind the headache and the nausea he remembers—except roughly five minutes ago, and five minutes before that, and five minutes before… He’s read about those periodical noises. Snooze button on an alarm clock, they’re called. He’s never used them before. He’s never used—Master teaches that a slothful tool is a tool broken, useless, and he’s never before dared to oversleep, even with his throat swollen and filled with mucus he didn’t, but now—it is a mercy he does not deserve, that Master was not here to witness Maul fail so deeply on this mission and just because something beats a booming drum inside his head and stuffed his stomach full of eels twisting up languidly through his esophagus.

Not real eels, though. He checks his vomit after throwing up. No eels. No animals hatched inside him; it’s just an inconvenient illness. And he feels better already, after spewing out the clear oily water and half-digested bread and no eels whatsoever. He does feel much better. Definitely. Illness during his mission would be inconvenient.

He has ample time to travel to the palace of Xev Xrexus before the padawan is sold there. Time he is grateful for, because Master’s ship will not let him in, so he has no access to his stilts or anything else he prepared apart from his cloak and the vocoder mask he carried in his satchel to the convenience store like a talisman of ingenuity and pretense. He doesn’t have his finest Sith robes that he left safe inside, only to be worn in the moment of Darth Maul’s triumph, and most of his weapons, too, apart from one anonymous knife strapped to his shin, are still tidied away in the ship Master gave him that will now pulverize anyone who dares approach.

Luckily, Maul is both incredibly clever—he figured out the location of the padawan! Despite Master giving him a wrong date and location! Solely by his own superior Sith cunning!—and he is within another sucker’s ship now—he sliced the lock in minutes! Because he is Darth Maul!—and the ship is full of new tools for improvisation.

Such as the large pair of black sunglasses that helps guard him at least slightly against the sun’s sickening poking and poking and poking of his cerebral cortex. Such as the trio of black shirts that, belted with a strange deltoid strip of fabric, bulk up his frame considerably and also make him feel toasty warm. Nar Shaddaa is cold, but Maul isn’t. Yet another victory to add to his tally.

With the gloves and the vocoder mask and the Sith cloak added on top, every square centimeter of Maul’s flesh is covered, and as he struts in front of the berth mirror he decides: he looks both incredibly dignified and scary, not to himself obviously but to those forcenull denizens of the underworld who will yet learn to tremble before the almighty Sith. He looks almost as impressive as Master. He doesn’t have the pale chin lurking under his cowl, obviously the most Sithly of looks, but in a pinch the black leather covering his cheeks and the opaque gridded speaker over his mouth should do almost as well.

Before he leaves, he ransacks the ship. No point in abandoning tools he might yet use. Everything he can carry, he stuffs inside his satchel.

Then, he begins the long pedestrian march to the palace of Xrexus. As usual, while he walks, he seethes in the Sithly anger of how much faster he could go if only he had a decent speeder bike. Soon, he reminds himself. Soon. After the oncoming awesome success of this mission, Master will be impressed enough to bestow the title of Darth and gift him a CK-6 swoop bike tuned up to the limits of terrestrial speed. Soon. Besides, with how slow the nausea is to settle, it’s perhaps a tiny bit useful that he is forced to take this brisk long walk in the Nar Shaddaa morning air. Although his coat and shirts fluttering with the speed of his bike would look very cool… He loses himself in his daydreams, and before long, he spies a duo of falleen in white dress shirts and black pants before the palace that belongs to Xev Xrexor.

The most adventurous part of his mission has just begun.

“Greetings,” Maul growls haughtily with the handsome baritone of his vocoder. “I have chosen to purchase a Jedi slave today. I trust this is the location for these sorts of errands?”

“Are you on the guest list?” the left falleen asks.

Guest list? Yet another complication. But Maul must not fail. “I am Ma Goweelr,” he says, borrowing the name of the man whose ship he ransacked. He found an identification card with his name on it and wisely brought it with him. He pulls it out now.

“You don’t look like Goweelr, friend,” she says.

“Unfortunately, I had… an accident.” Blast. They cannot see his face, so tt’s the height issue again. If Maul had his stilts, he could have made his way through easily, but because Master saw fit to lock the ship—no, it’s not Master’s fault. Because Maul was stupid enough to leave his tools aboard the ship, he now falters. What to do. What to do. What to—

“He’s slow,” the other bouncer whispers to his partner, but loudly enough that Maul heard it without issue. He stares intently at Maul, almost if he was expecting a specific reaction.

The left falleen winks. “All right. A little grease in the palm goes a long way, friend.”

Grease? Necessary for the function of machines. Cooking, apparently, also. Often a type of fat, either animal or plant-based, though hydrocarbons mined on certain planets or synthesized in labs such as Corellia’s X-Tech Max nowadays are a far more affordable and controllable—

“He’s dumb, Brighta. We don’t care whether you’re on the guest list. We want a bribe.”

A… Maul’s certain he read about bribes somewhere, but—

“Cash. Money. Credits.”

Credits! Maul found some on the ship. Since they were light enough, he put them in his satchel. The force is with him! He pulls out the chits he found, rummaging in a perhaps less than dignified way—the falleen exchange a look over his head that he’s too busy to try to read, but it doesn’t seem hostile—and when he hands over five thousand credits their vague non-hostility turns to genuine excitement.

“House Xrexus is honored to host you for this auction, sir,” the male falleen says when he opens the door.

“As am I,” Maul replies with a bow. When he walks past, the female bouncer taps him on the shoulder and then bends down to whisper in his ear.

“The Jedi’s auction’s in two hours, but the preview starts in one and she’ll probably get snapped up then, so. Might wanna hurry.”

“Thank… you?” Maul rumbles and winces at the vocoder turning his slight surprise into a question, but the falleen does not laugh this time.

“Appreciative customers are rare. Come back anytime,” and she winks and pushes him with her—warm, strong, startling—hand the rest of the way through the door and then slams it shut.

Presale. Other customers. Complicating factors Maul would not even have known about if it wasn’t for the bouncer—and for the force, therefore, willing him to succeed—because he didn’t… He did not actually expect any competition. After all, there are no other Sith but the Master and his apprentice. Who, then, would have need of a Jedi padawan? Who has need of Xrexus’ auction at all when they are not sent by their Master? Their… Master. Master might compete with Maul at this sale, both as a test of Maul’s readiness and as a failsafe, should Maul not manage to succeed in his mission. Master is incredibly smart after all, and foresees any number of possible twists and turns of a scenario, as unlikely as they might be. Even such unlikely eventualities as Darth Maul not completing in his mission. Master considers everything. It’s why he’s the Master.

Luckily, Maul was forewarned, and so when he passes a fire exit plan of the palace that’s nailed to a wall in the empty entrance hall he looks for any possible… There. A server room. A small bureau. Two places where Maul might gain access to the databases of Xrexus and convince the filing system that he has already bought the Jedi, before the first competitor has even placed their bid. It’s the only surefire way of preempting a person as thorough and prompt as Master is, and besides… Maul understands machines. He can charm and bend them to his will. His confusion at the bouncers’ hints and the tip the falleen gave him when he would never have expected anything of the sort based on the way the previous part of the encounter had passed—never mind the blasted lack of his carefully constructed stilts—were a sore reminder that in the field of people Maul does not yet excel to the standard of a Sith. Something he must remedy, but perhaps not on a mission as important as this. (Perhaps not among people who are oily and stare too hard.)

Laughter peals in a room straight ahead, but the server room is one floor down a side staircase. It’s sectioned off by a dangly gold chain that Maul needs to barely duck to pass under, and no-one passes through either the main corridor he left or the dusty unlit staircase while Maul hops down, thinking I am Sith alternating with I am shadow on every step.

The hallway leading to the server room is just as deserted. The door is locked, but Maul has sliced the access pads of twelve ships now and has refined his technique to under three minutes of elegant fiddling. This lock takes two seconds.

A datapad is already hanging inside right next to the door, from the cable with which it’s plugged into a socket there. Maul picks it up. Its screen is thrice-cracked and fixed up with clear tape. The touchscreen is incredibly sluggish to react, but as much as he might love the challenge of repairing it he only has less than an hour to spare. If he must, he will, but—gloves. He removes the right one, and the datapad responds.

A login screen.

Thus-far, the security has been abysmal. Worse than what he improvised for the secret hiding space of the first functional droid he built, and so he enters root, root. It works.

Pathetic, Maul thinks. Disappointing. Embarrassing. Horrendous. Useless. Awful. You deserve this. You deserve worse. It almost takes off some of the giddiness at how well Maul has been performing on his mission, thus far. His opponents are veritable morons. It is no great feat, to succeed against people as unprepared for basic survival as these, and it does not take a Sith’s cunning—it’s not worthy of the great Darth Maul who learns under Darth Sidious the greatest creature in the galaxy—to fight them.

In the central database he changes the status of the Jedi padawan to Sold and the buyer to Ma Goweelrand types in 666666666 for the winning bid. It’s a large number, and Jedi means valuable. It should pass muster. Probably. Money: yet another area where Maul requires further instruction. There was another card Maul stole with information on Goweelr’s account with the InterGalactic Banking Clan, and he enters it in the respective field. As to the user listed as making these changes, he picks the fifth-most appearing in the database. If he wanted to arouse no suspicion at all, he would need to research Xrexus’ organization in total, but—he’d really rather not. Even glancing at some of the entries of the database reawakened the eels in his stomach.

He pettily changes the admin password and wipes the screen carefully before he logs out.

Mission almost complete.

Half an hour left until the beginning of the presale, a clock tells him, and that’s most likely when they will check the padawan’s entry and approach Goweelr as her legitimate buyer. Everything is going according to plan, as long as he is not caught down here.

Since Maul is Sith and shadow and incredibly silent and deadly, he isn’t.

He sneaks back up and then strides, with as much power and dignity as he can muster when he wants to skip giddily to celebrate a job well done, into the room where the laughter comes from. It’s—

It’s bright. Loud. Full. But more than any other adjective, it’s huge, a room that is a thousand times bigger than anything Maul has ever set foot in, with a domed ceiling rising so far above that he can’t make out any details there. Can’t see whether there are any cameras, or snipers—can’t see anything but the luster and wealth on display. Plants growing on floating bowls of silver, plants he has never seen anywhere but in holos (Most plants are plants he’s only ever seen in holos. Almost all of them. Master rarely makes him train off-planet, and there is nothing but fire on Mustafar.), plants and waterfalls. Delicate staircases that appear to hover in the air just like the tree-bowls are. It looks like something out of a dream, if Maul’s dreams were able to imagine impossible worlds and not just impossible people who’ll save him.

Below it all, there are throngs of people in various kinds of festive garb, chatting and sipping on dainty glasses. People of most species he’s ever read about. Even…

Even a zabrak. There’s a zabrak over in a corner, not an Iridonian zabrak like the ones Maul finds often in his research but a zabrak who looks startingly close to him, hairless and bright and black-marked, only he’s much taller than Maul—he’s tall! Maul always worried that his species was doomed to remain as small as he is right now but he’s tall! He won’t need stilts forever!—and he’s yellow.

Idly—or trying to appear idle but actually shivering with curiosity—he saunters closer. The zabrak, it’s quickly obvious, is not here as a buyer. He’s chained up, both manacles connected to the neck cuff, though the bonds look so flimsy that Maul could have snapped them. He’s almost naked except for a pair of trousers that barely reaches his thighs and, moreover, is made of a fabric far too flimsy and tight to fight in. His skin is weirdly shiny as well, as if he was sweating but that is unlikely, given Maul’s not too hot under his three shirts and a cloak (in fact, it gets colder the closer Maul comes to the strange zabrak), and the yellow zabrak’s not exercising either but standing completely still, feet slightly apart and arms raised in a poor imitation of a fighting pose. The claws on his hand and feet would be called neatly trimmed if Maul didn’t know intimately that this length means they’re cut so close to the bed that it irritates several internal nerves. The horns are filed too close as well, and they look blunt.

A fighting slave.

No. A pretend fighting slave.

Everything about him might look fearsome to one who does not know what to watch for, but he does not stand or dress or groom himself like a fighter.

It’s—it’s difficult for Maul to sort out his reaction. This is a zabrak, the first person like him he’s ever seen, but he’s also a mockery of the warrior he trains so hard to become. Are all other zabraks like this? Does Maul look like this to other people? Flimsy and fake? It is almost enough to be ashamed of the association, and Maul is glad that with his clothes no-one else here can guess at their shared species.

“Welcome,” the unchained human next to the zabrak shouts, and Maul cranes his neck but apparently it’s addressed to him. “What are you looking for? A nightly companion? A gladiator? A—”

“This is not a gladiator,” Maul growls.

“Ah, well, he’s versatile,” the slaver says. “Do you see his muscles?” He squeezes the other zabrak’s biceps. The zabrak does not react. “He is excellent at bearing pain as well,” and alright, Maul will give him that. From this close, he can see the faint network of scars.

“He’s truly a wild beast when you want him that way,” and if to contradict him—the first time Maul feels anything approaching pride at their kinship—the zabrak refuses to bare his teeth, even when the human slaps him in the face twice and then prods him with something bearing electric sparks. Still, the zabrak will not relent. He’s breathing and moving but somewhere deep in his eyes he looks nothing short of dead.

“I have business elsewhere,” Maul stutters out and the vocoder smooths it into a low growl. The queasy pit in his stomach must be the return of the eels, or else the force aims to reveal to him that he might be being observed by fleets of holodroids, a technological wonder he should research immediately upon completion of his mission, when he will never think of the scar-covered zabrak and his empty eyes ever again. He won’t even remember his face or his color. No, Maul will attempt to engineer holodroids and present them to his Master, who will be proud.

That’s what he thinks about, while he wanders the huge room at random. Holodroids. He doesn’t think about zabraks. In fact, he’s forgotten every fact he ever heard about that species. No zabraks exist but Maul. That’s the way it goes.

He doesn’t think of zabraks at all for several more minutes, and then a tannoy system message calls out for Ma Goweelr and his time of floating is over.

⁂

Thus far, the boy’s little adventure has been a disappointment. There were moments of fear and shame and misery, but mostly, what Sidious receives from him is bright giddy elation at being entrusted with this mission. It should have figured that Maul is not intelligent enough to see through his Master’s true plans, and yet—it was folly on his part, Sidous is prepared to admit that, but he expected more of his little zabrak.

Well. More agony, mostly.

He’ll have to be a little more patient. Someday soon, Maul’s luck will have to run out.

⁂

“This is her, Sir. Opening the cell now,” a woman says in front of the suddenly-bright cell, and Eldra’s hard-won, tattered, wide-eyed serenity dissipates.

It’s Dilar. Dilar, self-loathing traitor of a twi’lek slave. Eldra’s only known her for a day and enjoyed exactly zero seconds of it. The old woman’s hatred and revulsion at what she is forced to do, preparing slaves to be sold on, crowds out the very air. For the slavers, her utter loathing might be imperceptible—Dilar is a grudging, but polite tool—but it’s everywhere in the force, and Eldra cannot breathe. It’s hard enough keeping herself calm—keeping herself Jedi—when she knows that any time now a lecher with a Jedi fetish will come to her cell.

A lecher, or her rescuer.

Watch your feelings: do not give in to despair, Eldra, as Fyaar would say if she could. Maybe a Jedi will come.

It’s a war inside her, equal parts of hope and terror, and without her Master’s guidance how will Eldra find the strength to make herself calm again? Calm, serene, like the Jedi she was supposed to be.

A Jedi is better than this.

There is no emotion. There is peace.

There is no hatred, especially. Eldra should not hate Dilar. She shouldn’t hate every single slaver in the entire world, with even deeper depths of seething odium reserved for anyone selling or buying her. She shouldn’t. She does.

She isn’t wearing a force-suppressant collar, but that doesn’t matter. There are things far more binding than chains, than collars, in this world: Eldra promised her Master that she would be strong. She promised. She promised, and she hates these slavers. If she reached for the force now, she wouldn’t be able to call herself Jedi anymore. She would fail her Master and lose herself.

She would use her hatred to kill her tormentors. She would tear their throats out.

She would Fall.

Fear, raging and cold, has been her only companion for uncounted waking days now, that and bitter loathing. Master Fyaar died in front of her. Eldra’s been stripped of everything she thought she was and turned into a commodity, and now the only bright spot in her life is the fact that Martrey Woobudg the slaver, slaver, slaver who brought them to Teth is also fucking dead. Hopefully, it hurt.

The sudden hope is new, fragile and staggering and still too volatile to make reaching for the force safe. Hope: maybe the new arrival isn’t one of them. Eldra’s Master was in constant contact with the Temple, after all, and they must know about the ambush by now. They must have sent someone to save Eldra. (She tries very very hard not to remember that they don’t, sometimes, search for missing padawans, because of deferring to a higher purpose and the will of the force and being instruments of the Galactic Senate and not privileging attachments, including to their padawans, over the greater good et cetera et cetera, which is a code of conduct that Eldra, too, had always believed in. Until she got thrown in this cell, at least.)

Please, let it be a Jedi. Even if she gets thrown out for her hatred. Please, let it be a Jedi.

“Get up, girl,” Dilar says.

Eldra struggles onto her feet. She almost loses her balance, and that would kriffing hurt, because she’s got little chance of breaking her fall. Her hands are cuffed in front of her, encased in thin manacles she could easily break out of if it wasn’t pointless. If she wasn’t watched at all times. If she could use the force without Falling. If there was any way off this planet she doesn’t even know the name of. She could break them, but she can’t. They’re tight, and her shoulders ache from the forced immobility. (Almost, she’d told the slavers that restraining someone like this for days on end was a sure way of causing muscle damage, that they were lowering her value—were hurting her, by treating her like this, but she’d reconsidered. It would probably count as ‘helping slavers’. She hopes instead that they lose all their captives to their own bad practices. Eldra will not help them, if it kills her.)

If her visitor is a slaver, they’ll probably enjoy the sight of her helplessness. If they’re a Jedi, there may be compassion, pity, judgment—they’ll feel how scared she is, and how close to breaking—and that’ll be even more embarrassing to deal with afterwards, but at least there will be an afterwards for her.

For a second, the force floods with pain. Anger. Then, the presence hides itself again. Doesn’t matter. She’s felt it.

A force user.

A… Jedi, then?

Would a Jedi… Eldra herself would be angry, if she saw anyone else treated the way she is now, no matter how hard she tries for serenity. Eldra isn’t a good Jedi though. She’s too scared for that.

She looks up. If the visitor is a Jedi, Eldra doesn’t recognize them. But that means nothing: they’re covered head-to-toe in layers of black fabric. They’re wearing some sort of mask that covers their lower face, too, and oversized mirrored-glass sunglasses, and gloves, and a cowled cloak and what looks like at least two shirts, one over the other. They look like a black ball with legs sticking out. They look like someone decided to dress up as the platonic concept of shady. They look ridiculous.

They’re very short as well. They’re about twice the height of Grandmaster Yoda, and shorter than pretty much everybody else that Eldra knows. Well… they could be Master Piell. Would Master Piell dress up like this, though? Would he come to rescue her? Would he… well, he wouldn’t feel like the visitor in the force. Even Piell is a Master of the High Council. He wouldn’t fall prey to emotions as easily as Eldra did. He would not fail the light.

The only bit of skin that Eldra can make out is the bridge of the nose, between the jaw-mask and those sunglasses. Red.

Whoever it is isn’t human.

It might give hope, but—whoever it is has already paid and they own Eldra now, they tell the slavers, in a deep and slightly mechanic voice.

Paid.

Own.

Not a rescue, then. The Jedi wouldn’t reward a slaver for abducting a padawan.

Eldra will not cry. Not because if does not befit a Jedi, because the Jedi didn’t come for her. Eldra remained faithful—barely—she didn’t give in to her hatred and fear, didn’t Fall… and no-one came to rescue her. She will never see the temple again. She’ll never watch those holovids with Bayro, and Bayro—will she even notice? Will she mourn Eldra? Or will she be relieved that the clingy kid is gone?

She won’t cry. She will not give Dilar or this new buyer the satisfaction.

The shielding of Eldra’s cell opens. Dilar attaches a chain to Eldra’s manacles and her buyer ties the other end to their belt. They barely look at her, at least—in the nightmares she refused to allow herself to grow into images they always looked at her, excited and hungry, but this buyer seems curt and weirdly business-like.

Without another word, they start walking.

Eldra has no choice but to follow. The Jedi didn’t come. She is alone. Whatever awaits her outside, though, it can hardly be worse than this cell.

#darth maul #eldra kaitis #savage opress #savage oppress #hell is just a beat away #dimtraces makes things

17 notes · View notes