#idk anything about thralls really. sorry.

[boysdontcryboycry]

this post is pretty metaphorical and almost entirely nonsensical. sorry

thinking again about dustin's s2 mindflayer analogy falling apart when hopper asked how to kill it. thinking about how will the wise is a wizard but mike (who is pretty much never wrong about anything) (except for calling el a mage when mages are npcs and she doesn't even really have mage powers she's much closer to a wizard leaping between schools of magic but also manifestationgate 👁👁? cuz this sure descibes her before she broke out of the lab

) called will their cleric. how vecna's curse is literally necromancy in the form of draining a person's life force and how henry should have died from the radiation burns he got traveling between dimensions or disintegrated like jason was by the gate opening in the creel house but didn't because he just necromanced like thirty people. and how the mindflayer isn't actually a mind flayer but a tool and the physical representation of the hivemind that henry is the brain of as the actual dnd mind flayer and so henry is a paradox in that he is both the mind flayer and the undead (lich? zombie? both? who knows!) that can resist the mind flayer's thrall oops i started reading about thralls and having revelations

billy was DEFINITELY a thrall, and will was well on his way before being blasted out of it by the power of love and seventy space heaters. i think the shadow is like a physical representation of the thrall and plugs you into the telepathic network and is also possible to expell Like A Demon so they could do a quasi-thrall that was reversible?

the rest of the flayed in season 3 i think were somewhere between ceremorphs and (reverse?) oblexes? possibly because ceremorphs henry wasn't really looking to make more mind flayers and ceremorphs ? he was just looking to kill? the hive mind. let me be coherent in a different paragraph (although i will say oblexes were introduced just over a year before season 3 came out as the creation of a make-a-wish kid and thus the similarities might've been a happy coincidence)

ceremorphs. illithid tadpoles injected into beings to eat their brains and take over their bodies and either become mind flayers themselves or become some other ceremorphized being that either was a subset of the hivemind to boost psionic ability or to find new victims to become food/members or other stuff idk etc, or in special cases becoming a being powerful enough to split from the control of the elder brain and start their own colony. the flayed in s3 get their faces sucked by tentacles a lot like will in s1, when the tadpoles were first deposited. they certainly look like corpses whose brains are currently being devoured from the inside.

anyway i don't think henry was particularly looking to make more mind flayers at this time partially from his fixation on el and will and also thinking pretty much the entire planet isn't worth it and they don't deserve the power and are better off as food and then as a biomass in his meatflayer that we still don't really know the end goal for? and so their orders were to munch the brains and then destroy the host body! yummy chemicals! the meatflayer ALSO could've been his attempt at literally physically creating his own elder brain. tadpoles plus nutrients plus hivemind shadow particles plus biomass? all the makings of a big ole brain ready to stew in some brine in a deep dark cave with lots of tunnels oh yeah that's why they were digging the tunnels

also btw besides ceremorphs a super rare tadpole will birth a super powerful mind flayer whose job it is to split the colony and move somewhere else and to become a new elder brain :)

and so im gonna black out cuz i can make absolutely anything about rosegate and the mind flayer "deities" ilsensine and maanzecorian just SCREAM rosemary and dick wheeler respectively, bro just trust me (go read their wikis), even dick's glaring abscence from the narrative as maanzecorian "died" and yet survived and his principles still being followed also .

mike wheeler knowing things he absolutely shouldn't check.

so like im convinced there is a (metaphorical?) elder brain underneath the creel house that tadpoled henry on move-in day (running from the bathroom?) and he became a ulitharid and is now splitting off to form his own colony with an elder brain under the library that may or may not be a brainstealer dragon. this bitch tadpoled tiamat

also if time travel is your thing Illithids Are Your Bitches

i completely lost the plot of this post

[kwop-kilawtley]

do you ever think about how so many of bella's choices occurred during times of extreme life or death stress? like she never had a chance to slow down and evaluate and process. lives were always at stake, hers or the cullens' or charlie's or renee's. when she re-chooses edward in nm he was trying to commit suicide. irl that creates a sense of responsibility, bonding and dependency for both people involved in the attempt. idk i'm just thinking out loud

Absolutely. When you look at the twilight timeline on paper it’s legitimately a SICK JOKE!!!! Edward stalks her just of mere weeks of knowing her. They start dating like two months later. Then she almost dies shortly after. Literally the entire saga is within a year & a half I believe.. I think even less? Bella never was in a relationship before, she wasn’t in therapy, she was 17-19 aka A TEENAGER who’s frontal lobe is not developed whatsoever. It makes me sad because she never was given a real chance to sit and think.

I think what makes me so sad about Bella is that she was so used to the trauma and thought she would never be able to recover from it so she didn’t even ATTEMPT to think of being without Edward. She is so deeply traumatized and suicidal not because she loved him so much and he left, but because of how the entire situation had a whiplash affect. How do you recover from that shit? Like oh mythical creatures exist and one loved me and then I almost died because of my involvement with him. She can say it’s love all she fucking wants but it was TRAUMA BOND.

Edward took everything from her & made her suicidal. He abandoned her and without Jacob she would’ve been dead because he introduced her to his world. People see this as romantic that they will do anything for love but I’m sorry lol they knew each other for less than a year and there is an EXTREME power imbalance and GIANT AGE GAP. He was predator, she was prey. This is why EL James wrote 50 shades based off of Twilight, cause the power imbalance is OBVIOUS. Bella never had a fucking chance.

Jacob was the only one trying to put some sense into her. Like she never once really thought about it, she just knew she had to in order to be equal to Edward. She didn’t think she was strong enough to leave him or recover from the trauma she endured. Her turning was a copout when really she should’ve just been single for a few months, went to therapy & ACTUALLY weighed her options. She never had a choice tho and Edward knew exactly what he was doing. He manipulated the situation & shouldn’t have pursued her. It’s genuinely heartbreaking she didn’t have time to breathe. Vampires are inherently selfish creatures, Edward even says this. He was selfish for pursuing her. And in the end Bella was selfish and just wanted vampirism to fix her problems. She saw no value in being a human and killer herself for a dude she knew for a year who had her under thrall. Tragic truly.

[kaidans-alenko]

this is me poking you about your kaidan thoughts 👀

So we're all aware that Kaidan is a gentle profoundly sensitive guy and I've played the trilogy a thousand times but for some reason it's hitting me harder this playthrough.

There have been many oh moments for me this time around just a few I've taken note of especially being

- that third conversation you have with him "when someone is special to you, you want to help them, keep them from making mistakes better made by a kid."

His tone really got me this run around, like you can just hear how much he loves Shepard without him having to say it.

- the hostage mission "I'm an L2 like you, trust me, the Commander will make sure burnes keeps his word."(or something along those lines)

After I finished that mission I found myself wanting to write it from his perspective and explore what he was feeling during and after because I imagine it was a some sort of reality check.

I'm sure he's aware as far as L2s go he's lucky(doesn't he say so at one point?) But being hit in the face with it is something else entirely so I've always kinda wondered how he left that mission, he had to have been feeling some type of way about it.

- another one everyone is gonna judge me for but when you mow down those indoctrinated salarians he's the only crew member(I know because I've checked) who takes a step to the side and looks away because he can't watch.

And typing it out it sounds like something stupid to be taken with but as I said none of the other characters do it(from what I remember anyhow) and for me it sets him apart from the other characters.

Yeah he knows how to kill people with his brain, that's his whole job but he's not a "put them out of their misery" kind of guy in fact I think that's what bothers him so much is that as far as he knows there is nothing that can be done to reverse indoctrination and yeah death is better than being a mindless thrall in a cage and I think that's why it's so hard for him to watch, he wants to help but he can't.

Same when the Normandy is going down you'll hear a scream and he'll look in that direction but stops himself from going over there because there's nothing that can be done same with that lady who gets blown up you can tell he's thinking about dragging her into the escape pod just incase but the rational part of his brain is telling him there's no point.

Idk I just *screams into pillow* I just love Kaidan a lot and the remaster just made me realize how much.

Everyone wishes they could experience their favorite piece of media again for the first time and see if anything changed and that's what I got to do with the remaster.

Kaidan feels go brrrrr and all that ya know and it's very obvious just how much I do indeed worship the ground Kaidan walks on but the remaster really cemented those feelings.

The graphics changed and some of the game play too but if there's one constant and that it's Kaidan Alenko is a fucking amazing, well rounded, well written character and I'm the idiot who fell in love with him.

This isn't what you asked for but it's what you got and I'm very sorry lmao

[ddarker-dreams]

Online Love. Yan Shigaraki x Reader [Part 3]

Part 1

Part 2

From: [First] 9:45 PM

today was so much fuuuun (＾▽＾)

From: [First] 9:45 PM

thank you for spending time with me tomo-kun... let’s get together soon again, okay??（´・｀ ）♡

“Soon, huh?”

Shigaraki’s words are intended for no one. He strains his eyes on his phone, looking over each word you sent. He knows he should respond, but all words escape him as his mind remains blank. Grimacing at these unknown feelings, he finally thinks of a half decent response.

To: [First] 9:50 PM

We can

For some, he knows the short response wouldn’t be satisfactory. But for you, Shigaraki never needs to present himself other than how he is. You never critique his struggle with social etiquette, or set expectations for him. Maybe that’s the reason why he’s so drawn to you, unable to escape your thrall.

Minutes pass since he sent the message, his phone in hand awaiting your response. On nights like this, where there’s no League business to attend to, he can offer you his full attention. Normally the two of you would duo and play an MMOPRG until the early hours of the morning.

Earlier at the mall you mentioned that you had made plans with friends in the morning, and wouldn’t be able to play tonight. Shigaraki had nodded his head at the time, but now that he’s all alone without your company, it hits him.

He misses you. 

The thought alone is fleeting, but makes his stomach churn nonetheless. It was so unlike him, to have such doting feelings for someone. The sickeningly sweet sensation left a bitter taste in his mouth. To think that a murderer like him would have his knees turned to jelly by you so much as smiling.

Shigaraki hears a buzz, realizing that’s your response. Wasting no time, bloodshot eyes look over your response.

From: [First] 9:52 PM

i can’t wait!!!! i felt sad leaving, but yknow, life and all right? ˚‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥᷄⌓˂̣̣̥᷅ )‧º·˚

Shigaraki fights off waves of exhaustion, not wanting to miss out on interaction with you.

From: [First] 9:53 PM

u should come over my place next! i dunno if u will like my set up, it’s not the sleekest but it works just fine... 

From: [First] 9:54 PM 

wait that sounds kinda weird doesnt it??? im sorry if i sound pushy or anything, i just think itd be fun to game together, even if we just do gacha games! none of my friends are into this stuff so i’ve always wondered what it’d be like to just chill at home instead of going out (´Ａ｀。)

This is how you always are, getting flustered over the littlest things. Shigaraki doesn’t understand why you find so many things embarrassing, but there’s a cute quality to it. 

Being alone with you in private would be a dream come true, but could he really contain himself? 

In public there was a constant public presence that forced him to not act out. It would be excruciatingly difficult to not hold you and never let go if given the chance. Shigaraki is aware of himself enough to know that he acts out on impulse often. 

To: [First] 9:55 PM

That sounds better than going out, whatever you want 

Even if watching you squirm in an attempt to validate your previous words is tempting, he wants to affirm your plans as fast as he can. The mere thought of being alone with you is enough to cause his heart to beat at an unhealthy rate, a grin stretching across his face.

He would have every aspect of you then. All of your attention would be on him, all of your cute idiosyncrasies on display for him and him alone. Shigaraki wouldn’t have to concern himself with a Hero randomly appearing and exposing him, or deal with the looks he got in public for his shrouded appearance.

It’d only be you.

His hand grips his phone tighter in excitement, vision growing blurry.

You, you, you, you, you, you--

From: [First] 9:57 PM

aa what a relief *:ﾟ*⋆ฺ(*´◡`) i’ll have to think of a good date!

From: [First] 9:58 PM

tomo-kun... thank u for everything. i like talking to u

Shigaraki inhales through his nose sharply, unsure if he read the words displayed on his phone right. He reads it once, then twice. Three times. Then four.

From: [First] 10:00 PM

i’m a lil sappy aren’t i? hopefully u dont mind. i was just thinking that i can really be myself around u. u always listen to me and never complain about my rambling, it just makes me happyyy ー( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

From: [First] 10:03 PM

i’ve been called annoying a few times. it’s probably true but u never make me feel like im bothering u. idk why im saying all this lmaooo

How anyone could degrade you in that manner is beside him. He would kill anyone if they spoke about you like that, but Shigaraki realizes that wouldn’t be a comforting sentiment to send right now. Ah, shit. How do you comfort people again? It’s not exactly his forte... 

To: [First] 10:08 PM

You’re fine, don’t worry 

To: [First] 10:08 PM

It’s nice talking 

Shigaraki’s fingernails begin to scrape against the sensitive skin of his neck, his lip being gnawed at relentlessly. Will you find this off putting? Should he have said something else? Or did he say too much and weird you out. If you ever were to reject him in any form, even he is unsure of what he’d do.

From: [First] 10:10 PM

tomo-kuuuuuuun (´;︵;`)

From: [First] 10:10 PM

thank u, it means a lot. i should probably head off soon... it’s getting late

From: [First] 10:11 PM

goodnight <333 thank u for today! i’ll talk to u tomorrow and we can game if ur up to it!

Ceasing his harmful actions, Shigaraki pulls his hand away to respond. Ignoring the warmth of blood traveling down his neck, he hurriedly types a response to you. 

To: [First] 10:11 PM

Goodnight [First]

From: [First] 10:12 PM

o(≧∇≦o)

He thinks he might be in love after all.

[sublimediscord]

10 first lines

I was tagged by the lovely @setsailslash​ through my main blog. The rules are to post the first line of your last 10 published fics/works, then tag 10 people. However, I might cheat and post some first lines of WiPs. IDK. Depends. I’m also not going to be tagging anyone because that’s not how I roll (mostly because I have really bad anxiety about it but also because I’m lazy)

SO AFTER READING SOME OF THESE I’M PUTTING THEM BEHIND A READMORE BECAUSE THEY ARE NOT, IN FACT, SAFE FOR A PUBLIC ENVIRONMENT. 

So, without further ado, in reverse chronological order:

1.  Raleigh is shuddering on top of his brother’s dick, shamelessly grinding himself in Yancy’s lap for all he’s worth while Yancy clearly tries his hardest not to fucking explode right then and there. (a healthy appetite; Pacific Rim, Raleigh/Yancy/Chuck/Herc/Bruce/Trevin smut; oneshot)

2.  If Herc’s honest with himself, “sparring” isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe what Raleigh and Trevin are doing in his shuttle bay. (these starlight hours; Pacific Rim/Mass Effect crossover,  Raleigh/Yancy/Chuck/Herc/Bruce/Trevin action/drama/romance/fluff; chaptered fic)

3.  "Rals," Yancy nudges his kid brother, trying to get him to stop messing around on their cart, "cut it out. You could get hurt." (the first words of your story need not be spoken, Part 1 of the silence, made whole series; Pacific Rim, Yancy/Chuck pre-slash, Raleigh&Yancy brotherly adorableness, in an AU where Raleigh (who is 13 years younger than Yancy) was rendered mute as a child and Yancy had to drop out of college to raise him; oneshot)

4. Yancy finds himself thinking that the sight of Raleigh scrunching up his face like that shouldn’t be as goddamn adorable as it is.(upon these words (you continue to begin), Part 2 of the silence, made whole series; Pacific Rim, Yancy/Chuck, Raleigh&Yancy; oneshot)

5.  Isaac hisses between his teeth, pleasure tingling up his spine in glittering waves. (my body moves in languages only you speak; Teen Wolf, Isaac/Derek smut/feels; oneshot)

6.  Someone once told you that dreams are your mind’s way of dealing with shit. And not run-of-the-mill shit, no: capital-S Shit. (fifty words for murder; Teen Wolf, Jackson/Aiden with referenced general Polypack, fluff and angst; oneshot) (yes I know it’s supposed to just be one line. Whatever. Also it’s in 2nd person which some people apparently hate and which some sites BAN????)

7.  The second the words leave Yancy’s mouth, he wants to regret them. (behind your words we glimpse a tomorrow, Part 3 of the silence, made whole series; Pacific Rim, Yancy/Chuck, Raleigh&Yancy; oneshot)

8.  In the promotional vids, they make the trip from the ‘dome out to a drop site look instantaneous. (we're the lucky ones, you say; Pacific Rim, Yancy/Chuck and Herc/Raleigh secret santa gift; oneshot)

9.  His back hurts. (to settle among, upon the dust; Pacific Rim Uprising, Jake/Nate/Burke and Jinhai/Amara/Vik (I regret this last tag) fluff; oneshot)

10.  Yancy is woken by his alarm. Not his phone, or a clock, or anything else mechanical, digital, or indeed otherwise electronic. No, this alarm clock is entirely biological, and is named Chuck. (our new world, writ in words unspoken, Part 4 of the silence, made whole series; Pacific Rim, Yancy/Chuck, Raleigh&Yancy; oneshot) (yes I know I cheated again)

Mostly this is making me realize it’s been too long since I published something... OOPS. 

With that in mind, here are some first lines of things I have in the oven:

1. One of the thralls manages to hook its claws into Raleigh’s arm, and it is only long hours of Crucible training that have Yancy’s instincts snapping his hand cannon up and firing a shot practically from the hip—a shot that neatly intercepts the creature’s eyeless, skeletal face. (PR/Destiny 2 crossover)

2. Scott's favorite thing to do is count his birthmarks. Has been, ever since he'd been little. Back then, he hadn't known the significance they held—at least, potentially. Didn't understand that birthmarks of any shape or size could be—could be, but were not guaranteed to be—something transcending a physical difference. (Soulmarks AU where birthmarks can be soulmarks) 

3. It is where they meet, skin on skin, pupils and subcutaneous capillaries dilating alike. It is the rush of blood as fingers mesh, entwine, feeling their heartbeats sync up where whorls and arches and loops meet. It is a sanctuary, defined less by bedposts and a mattress—or what passes for one—and more by the bob of their throats; the gentle, hollow hiss of an exhale; the hush of palms soothing over clothing, exposed skin, golden hair. It is the soft whisper of their names, “Rals” and “Yance” offered to one another like monosyllabic stories and promises and prayers.

It is theirs. Their haven. Their safe harbor from the world. Their first and last resort. 

In the bracket of one another’s arms, nothing can touch them. (Just another Beckets story. Because the world absolutely needs and wants more of those. *rolls eyes at self*)

4. Sorry, will be home late. Need to finish this prototype before tomorrow. ETA after midnight. 

The muted whoosh of a message arriving isn't nearly enough to capture all the disappointment that rushes into Yancy’s chest. (Part 5 of silence, made whole series)

[servetolive]

Buddy, can I get a porn fic with Lore punishing a newly-assimilated Borg given emotions who stepped out of line? I've always wanted this and your shit gets me hot.

fuckin-A!

LORE/HUGH Y’ALL Written to “Thin Red Line” by Mona Mur and En Esch. also, idk why, but i wrote Hugh while thinking of Megaman/Megaman X.

SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! took a few day break from tng fandom and am preparing for xmas weekend, and now i’m good to go!

The knock on the door was out of sync; syncopated, in a strange way that the Borg had no way of knowing was so. Lore pulled his lips away from his brother, leaving just enough room for him to murmur loudly, “Come in.”

Crosis and another drone had him by his shoulders, his feet skidding against the ground as he struggled against them. Once Lore caught sight of him, he moved to stand. Data caught on and stood from his twin’s lap, and together, they observed Hugh being dragged before him, his brow furrowed in defiance and his bottom lip pursed and tense.

Crosis and his drone shoved Hugh to the ground, holding him firm against the ground. Hugh grunted as his chin hit the concrete.

“Data,” Lore said, turning his chin down to his younger sibling. His eyes did not leave the captive before him, however. “Go outside. Make sure that the others keep busy.”

Data looked up at Lore, eyes widened for a moment. Hugh had seen it many times before: separation anxiety from those of them fortunate enough to be in Lore’s intimate presence.

“But, brother–”

“Go on.”

Without another word, Data left the room. Hugh’s eyes followed the younger android’s movement until he heard the door behind him hiss open and squeeze shut.

From the corner of his eye, Hugh saw the black, pointed tip of Lore’s boot adjacent to his face. He didn’t know why he was straining so much to see more of him–the more he tensed, the harder the drones pressed him into the ground.

Lore sighed.

“Let him go,” he said.

They did, and Hugh dared not move. He breathed heavier than ever against the floor, looking up at Lore, as the drones released him. He shook his shoulders away–a sign of defiance that no one bothered noticing.

He was able to crane his neck upwards to look up at The One, who gave him a kind smile before reaching down and pulling the cord the connected his visual feed to the rest of his body.

When Hugh opened his eyes, it was to a slightly different reality. His limbs were entangled in a mess of of hydraulic wires that fed into the main computer in Lore and Data’s personal lab, and he had no control over them.

It was not something that normally would have caused him immediate alarm: he had spent his earliest years hooked up to the Collective in the same manner, undergoing maintenance or repairs after a battle. He would hear the comforting hum of his comrades and could feel the warm thrall of nutrients entering his feeding tube.

His eyepiece–which he had once showed Geordi, the one who had given him his name–was missing. He felt the strange, brisk sensation of cold surge through him, something that was foreign, even in the dark halls of Lore’s lair.

He heard his name.

Hugh.

Hugh lifted his head. Off to his right, attending a panel, Lore stood with his back to him, typing in commands.

Hugh fought the impulse to allow his neck jerk to the side, and failed. He grunted just as Lore punched a few commands in and looked in his direction, over his shoulder.

His world faded again, just as if he were in the nursery.

Hugh opened his eyes, frigid air billowing from his nostrils into a cloud in the air before him.

Lore was near him. He couldn’t see him yet, but he could see how the air refused to settle around him. He caught a flash of gold, though it took a few seconds longer for the light to reach his brain.

“Let…” Hugh thought about what his human friends had taught him, but nothing they had said had anything to do with the concept of conflicting emotions.

“Let me go,” he said. He knew he sounded weak. He knew he sounded unsure. He wouldn’t even have known to bring such words to his lips if it weren’t for the Collective, and he wouldn’t have any idea of the meaning behind them if it weren’t for The One.

Lore ignored him, at first. He clucked his tongue.

“Poor thing,” he said, quietly. He heard the sound of water, and closed his eyes to the warm streams that flowed in tiny streams over his forehead. The difference in temperature left signatures around his face and chest; everywhere that they touched.

“How many times is it now,” the android said. He appeared in front of Hugh, giving him a start. Lore’s gold eyes examined Hugh’s black pupils, the same way a doctor would. The pail in his right hand fell to the floor as the wet sponge came up to nip at the sore sides of Hugh’s mouth.

“Three?” Lore dropped it into the bucket and held Hugh’s jaw firmly in his fingers, like he were examining an animal to confirm its pedigree.

Hugh had no desire to be touched in such a way.

“Three times you’ve run from me,” Lore went on, turning Hugh’s chin this way and that. “And yet, I still refuse to believe that you don’t want to be here.”

Hugh remembered the first time he had run, and the first time he had been dragged back. The first time he had heard Lore’s voice in relation to him and him alone; the first time he felt the android’s fingertips slide against his own inorganic flesh. The fruitiess argument he had tried to pose to Lore. The response Lore had given him. The rising bumps on his ashen skin.

“I don’t understand it, Hugh.” Lore was fiddling with the remote settings on the device in his hand while Hugh hung from the wiring in the ceiling. “You’re not so different from me.”

Hugh tried to jerk away from Lore’s touch. He knew what would come next. The honey smile, the patronizing gaze, the pursed lips.

He heard the water drip as the sponge moved to his bruised lips.

“I want to leave,” Hugh said, trembling. “I do not wish to be–”

“Assimilated?” Lore sighed, looking at the floor for a moment in that infuriating way that reeked of condescension. “Nobody here wants to be assimilated, Hugh. Haven’t you been listening?”

Hugh said nothing, but his mind followed the patterns of warmth that the water made as it trickled down beneath his uniform. Lore reached out with a hand and tore way the plating of his torso, exposing the rivulets to cold air, causing him to shudder violently.

“We’re trying to advance beyond that.”

He felt the hot tips of Lore’s fingers tear through the rest of his protective clothing, razoring into his sides as the plasticine fell away.

“You have such a beautiful mind,” Lore whispered softly in his ear, his hands–at room temperature–curling around Hugh’s waist and sliding down to his hips. “I really don’t want to take it away from you.”

In that moment, with his chest heaving, Hugh wished he could say something to Lore. He wished he had the sense to argue with him, as others had, even if it might have meant the end of his self-awareness.

The android brought one hand up to the wires and snapped one free. Cold gasses hissed from the broken cord and Hugh felt a part of him jerk downwards, as all the feeling bled from his upper arms and feet.  

Smirking, Lore took the sizzling, live end of the wire and traced it against Hugh’s skin. He knew what it should have felt like. The first time he ran, Lore hadn’t bothered to take his nervous system offline before shocking him, and he remembered arching his back into the air, screaming out into the open as the currents racked his body.

Now he felt almost nothing, but not nothing: a slower, burning ache that trickled into his nerves rather than jolted through him out right.  He moaned an alarmed, frightened whimper as crackle of the charge traced the twitching muscles in his abdomen.

Smiling, Lore reached down and pulled the rest of the Borg’s clothes away from him, exposing his young and expectant cock.

“Don’t,” Hugh breathed. He still had problems understanding why, but something about his memory on the Enterprise told him that he should object. Perhaps even that the pleasure that Lore had given him the first two times was not desirable.

“Sssh,” Lore cooed into his ear, now standing behind him. This made Hugh even more nervous, since he couldn’t see what the android would do next.

“Stop it.” He brought his arms up and around Hugh’s arms, pressing his lips against his temple. “Don’t let those human discretions get the best of what you and I have here,” he paused to wrap a warm, buzzing hand around Hugh’s sex, which caused the young Borg to tense up and cry out openly, his eyes squeezed shut.

Before that, Hugh had been considering countering with something–something about whether or not they “had” anything at all, but the thought remained unformed, and without any reference to further it. This–even though it was “unwanted,” whatever that meant–was more than what he had ever been given by his comrades in the collective; more than what he had been able to give. That they were all connected with each other deep beneath the bioplast seemed to pale in comparison to what warm, gentle contact with a stronger being could offer.

Lore chuckled in his ear. “Why are you crying, Hugh?” His fist moved slowly up the shaft of Hugh’s cock, stopping to enclose the head with his thumb and forefinger in a ring. Hugh twitched and shuddered as Lore tightened the ring and moved it up and down.

He could hear the pointed corners of his mouth, smirking as he talked. “Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” he replied, still incapable of telling untruths.

Grinning madly, Lore scooped up the leaking fluid from Hugh’s cock and held his dripping fingers up before the Borg.

“Do you want me to make it feel even better?” he asked, smoothing it across Hugh’s jaw when he cupped his chin. He slid a finger past his bottom lip and teeth, allowing him to taste himself–an act, perhaps, a few degrees too high for him on the sensory input scale.

Hugh, who was seizing up from overstimulation, wasn’t sure what to make of all this. He opened his eyes toward the bright lights above him, hoping that their brightness would cut into his nervous system to distract him from the dull ache he felt in his crotch. It didn’t work.

He shut his eyes. Tears pooled at the corners.

“Yes.”

Their favorite reward was the show Lore would put on for them in the Great Hall, with he and his brother at the center, naked and caressing.

They never talked about it openly, but it was the wish of every Borg that they could have what Lore gave his brother. They emulated the same desperate looks Data made at him; the same pleading sounds of devotion in their voices.

Hugh had no idea how many of his cohorts were able to say that they had been penetrated by Lore, but no matter what his fledgling independence had taught him about autonomy and independence, the feeling either of those gave him were dust compared to the feeling of Lore deep inside of him, filling a space in his body that he had never known he possessed, connecting with him in a way that was wholly unknown to him and his people.

It wasn’t just the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of him or the grip of his fingers around his hips. Lore was able to tap into their hive mind with ease, filling him with indescribable thoughts and small comforts that gave more meaning to contact than his interactions with his so-called “friends” on the Enterprise had ever given him.

What’s more, Lore’s voice came into his head in words, just as much as feeling.

You want to leave us, Hugh?

The feeling of lips and hot breath against his cold skin was sublime. Hugh felt his eyes glass over as Lore pushed deeper inside of him, the remaining wires above him rumbling softly as they ran into each other.

Hugh moaned: a sound so foreign to his own ears. He could hear the mechanical ruffle of other Borg peeking at them from the doorway behind them. Lore paid them no mind.

The soiled hand cupped his chin again, this time harshly.

You want to leave me?

Hugh cried out again. It was meant to be a word–yes? no? What could he possibly mean by either of them?

Lore sighed into his neck, dipping into it with his metal teeth.

You think anyone out there can give you what I give you?

With Lore’s words fresh in his mind and the knowledge that his brethren stood watching, likely painting him as “lucky,” and the understanding that they would see him in a completely new, different light, Hugh found within himself the link to his thoughts and the functions of his body and clenched himself around Lore’s cock.

“No,” he said out loud, surprising himself: Borg never answered vocally to what was said in Their mind. He was near completion, almost convulsing, and had no mind to think about the consequences of it. He leaned his head back against Lore, another action that he could never have thought of it weren’t for he and Data’s displays of passion.

Very good, dear.

Lore stopped moving and pulled out of Hugh, which made him sigh and gasp with disappointment: the most human noises he had ever heard himself make. The android’s hands came up and around, one grabbing Hugh’s cock and the other taking hold of his balls.

“I’m going to do something for you,” Lore whispered loudly enough for anyone listening in to hear. “That I’ve never done for anyone besides my brother.”

He tried to watch Lore’s hand move quickly up and down his anatomy, but the painful shocks it caused sent disruptions to his visual feed.

He panted, unable to speak. The shocks hovered between sharp jolts of pain and the addictive stabs of a narcotic flowing through his systems.

This was impossible. It was like witchcraft to him.

The whole structure seemed to shake with him when Hugh came. He didn’t realize until the very last moment that as he poured into Lore’s waiting hand, he was screaming loudly enough to breach the confines of the walls.

The sound of his voice died down as his processes shut off, one by one.

He woke some time later, still hanging, still hooked, but without the feeling of warmth that he had felt spread between he and The One.

He wasn’t alone. Data was there, still in his vibrant uniform, out of place as ever. He was examining a panel in Hugh’s head, unconcerned with his indecent, filthy condition.

“Lore wanted me to inspect you before releasing you,” he said, gently, without any of the beauty and closeness he had felt with his older brother.

Hugh said nothing, but hung there, tired and with a dull pain in his thighs, which were suddenly coming to life. To keep himself company, he tried to piece together the emotions he had when Lore was embracing him; the feeling of his head against his shoulder and the comfort of his touch. The pain and the unwanted excitement that was indecipherable for him.

And he realized, for the first time, just how cold anything else besides Lore’s touch felt to him.

[kareenvorbarra]

Stealing an excellent prompt from Vardas - top 5 edain quotes!

OKAY GONNA ANSWER THESE LAST FEW ANCIENT MEME PROMPTS

i’m gonna do it the same way you did, with actual lines of dialogue spoken by Edain characters. honestly it was a struggle not to fill this list completely with CoH quotes but I did my best. 

Predictably this got long so quotes and explanatory yelling are under the cut

1. Beren

To Felagund then Beren said: ”Twere little loss if I were dead,and I am minded all to tell, and thus, perchance, from this dark hell thy life to loose. I set thee free from thine old oath, for more for me hast thou endured than e’er was earned.’

The Lay of Leithian, Canto X

OUCH. let me cry at you about how little Beren values his own life, how much guilt he feels at outliving almost everyone he ever cared about, how he recovered some of his will to live after spending a few months in the forest with Luthien but after watching his new friends get eaten in werewolf jail he’s pretty much right back to square one x_x save him

2. Hurin and Morwen

‘And if we gain our ends, then the Elven-kings are resolved to restore all the fief’s of Beor’s house to his heir; and that is you, Morwen daughter of Baragund. Wide lordships we should then wield, and a high inheritance come to our son. Without the malice in the North he should come to great wealth, and be a king among Men.’

‘Hurin Thalion,’ said Morwen, ‘this I judge truer to say: that you look high, but I fear to fall low.’

The Children of Hurin, Chapter 1

Hurin/Morwen is the best-written Tolkien ship and that is the hill i will die on. all their conversations in the CoH are so good and shippy and full of awful foreshadowing and dramatic irony. you can feel their devotion to one another and how much they trust each other even though they have such different personalities and ways of looking at the world. Hurin’s been through a lot but he’s so determinedly hopeful, and Morwen wants to believe things will be alright (and in Hurin’s company it’s almost easy to believe) but she can’t quite bring herself to do it after everything she’s seen. 

my favorite thing about THIS quote in particular is that apparently, at some point in the planning stages of the Nirnaeth, Hurin and Fingon and maybe Maedhros sat down and discussed what they were going to do once they took back Ladros, and Hurin was like “that land belongs to humans, specifically my wife” and the elves were like “yeah you’re right”….god idk just something about Hurin recognizing her as the heir to the house of Beor, that that position still holds weight in his eyes and the eyes of the elves, gives me a lot of feelings 

3. Turin

‘All this I have answered,’ said Túrin. 'Valiant defence of the borders and hard blows ere the enemy gathers; in that course lies the best hope of your long abiding together. And do those that you speak of love such skulkers in the woods, hunting strays like a wolf, better than one who puts on his helm and figured shield, and drives away the foe, be they far greater than all his host? At least the women of the Edain do not. They did not hold back the men from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.’

The Children of Hurin, Chapter 10

okay i fucking HATE this quote kjghjlhgfjaksdgh along with the whole exchange between Turin and Gwindor that comes before it. i love it, but god does it hurt me. this is one of those moments when it’s so painfully obvious how out-of-touch Turin truly is, how little he knows about his own people. he was a child during the Nirnaeth, and sheltered from the worst of its aftermath in Dor-lomin, and it’s like he still views it through a child’s eyes - the men who went to the battle and never returned are heroes, and to behave any other way would be cowardly.

i love him, i love this speech, i totally understand how he ended up feeling this way, but GOD Turin you don’t know what you’re talking about!!!! i’m so mad!!!!!!!! “they did not hold back the men from the Nirnaeth Arnoedied” as if that means anything! as if that means none of them tried, or wanted to try but didn’t because it would have been useless! also this quote makes me think of Rian because you KNOW she didn’t want them to go, she’d been married for TWO MONTHS and she hated war and literally all her other male relatives had died in combat, and Morwen had major reservations about the whole thing too but Turin didn’t know about that because he was a little kid!!!!!!!! anyway i’m really upset about this family, why couldn’t they all stay together and be happy and get to know each other properly!!!!!!

4. Tuor

‘Gurth an Glamhoth!’ Tuor muttered. ‘Now the sword shall come from under the cloak. I will risk death for mastery of that fire, and even the meat of Orcs would be a prize.’

Unfinished Tales, Of Tuor and His Coming To Gondolin

Okay this one’s short but i LOVE all the lines where dangerous outlaw Tuor comes through, because he’s the same person as beautiful cinnamon roll Tuor, and kind, sweet characters with a violent streak are my WEAKNESS (see also: Tuor wrecking Maeglin’s shit with his bare hands in BoLT). so here’s my son snarling death threats in Sindarin, ready to kill the shit out of some Orcs. and possibly eat them afterwards, who knows (Voronwe: *whispers* what the fuck)

5. Aerin

'He speaks with the truth of death,’ said Aerin. 'You have learned what you would. Now go swiftly! But go first to Morwen and comfort her, or I will hold all the wrack you have wrought here hard to forgive. For ill though my life was, you have brought death to me with your violence. The Incomers will avenge this night on all that were here. Rash are your deeds, son of Hurin, as if you were still but the child that I knew.’

The Children of Hurin, Chapter 

ugh okay sorry that 2/5 of this post is me getting upset about things Turin says about Edain women, i actually love Turin a lot thanks ju but god….he’s so….oblivious sometimes and it’s not really his fault but i still want to shake him and yell “you have the NERVE to insult this woman who helped and protected your mother and sister for years and endured decades of horrifying abuse the likes of which you’ve never experienced, all of which you should KNOW because SADOR JUST TOLD YOU.” 

enough about Turin. Aerin is one of the most important Tolkien characters to me - she has such a presence even though she only appears in the story briefly, and everything she says and does carries so much weight and i’m impressed that Tolkien managed to create a character of such depth with just a few pages and a handful of earlier references. i don’t think Tolkien wrote enough women, but when he did, he tended to do a good job with them (better than some later fantasy writers tbqh). and the Children of Hurin is very special i think because it has maybe the highest density of female characters in anything Tolkien ever wrote (Morwen, Finduilas, Aerin, Nienor), and they’re all different and they actually say things and we get insight into their lives and thoughts and motivations. 

Aerin is very specifically portrayed as strong in a way that Turin doesn’t recognize as strength - quiet, enduring, pragmatic - and she’s bitter and miserable and victimized but she still uses what little power she has to help others. Tolkien recognizes that, and he makes it clear that Turin is wrong about her. My other favorite Aerin-related line that didn’t quite make this list is when Asgon, one of the thralls who escapes with Turin, tells him that he thinks Aerin was the one who set the hall on fire, then says, “Many a man of arms misreads patience and quiet. She did much good among us at much cost. Her heart was not faint, and patience will break at the last.” i love that Aerin is this respected figure among her people, that everyone from elderly homeless Sador to young strong restless Asgon loves Aerin and recognizes that just living her life the way she does requires strength and bravery. so i’d like to non-sarcastically thank Tolkien for giving us Aerin, and for leaving her fate ambiguous even though every Tolkien reference site/blog on this damn internet seems determined to pretend that her death is canon i’m looking at you askmiddlearth

[dead-hummingbird-blog]

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[pomegranates-and-blood]

Her Own

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Past Ivar/Freydis, but this is about her

Summary: What if Freydis didn’t confront Ivar in 5x20? What if she made a different choice, after letting them past the walls? What if she lived?

(I wanted to write a fix-it for her ending, I wanted her to have a chance at happiness, that’s about it.)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: Passing mentions of death and violence, quite a focus on Baldur’s remains, angst.

A/N: My entry for @maggiescarborough​’s International Women’s Day Challenge (I’m sorry it’s 2k bby, you know by now I can’t write short pieces lmao). So, I like Freydis, even though I always change a bit (a lot) of her when I write her. She loved that baby, and (if she was honest, which I like a little less than the alternative) she loved Ivar, she was capable and willing to love despite all she suffered (because even if we aren’t shown it, the woman was a slave presumably her whole life); or (if she was smart enough to lie, which, kudos) she is a smart and cunning woman, and an ambitious and fucking fearless one at that (and I really like women in Vikings that fight and persevere while still playing within their gender role, as a wife, a mother, etc.). And yeah idk, she’s not a role model character by any means, but it is a female character that I was always fascinated by, hence why a work for her is my entry for this challenge.

The poem quoted here is Broken Crown, I couldn’t find the author or any link other than this though, sorry.

There’s a story about a queen who gave up her kingdom for a chance to breathe.

One day, she walked out of court with nothing. Somewhere far, the sky stirred, and the ocean raised itself for a glimpse.

She remembers being chained even though her wrists were free, looking into a man’s eyes and promising him that in his blood ran ichor akin to that of the Gods. She remembers the promise she made.

“I would give my life for you, if you asked me to.” She told him, and she meant every word.

With the wind biting against her face, her cheek still feeling the pulse of a bruise that has long since healed, her skin still wet with the phantom trace of tears that have long since ran out; Freydis walks away.

Kattegat trembles and quivers at her back, and if she were any more naïve, she would tell herself it is the lack of its queen that makes the town mourn, and not the sons of Ragnar that fight to the death -the death of others, the death of slaves and warriors; it is always the death of others that those men offer to the Gods as tribute, Freydis more than anyone knows that- for a throne that she has sat in, and has deemed as ordinary as any other chair.

A part of her wanted to stay, wanted to look Ivar in the eye and watch as he understood he had lost everything, because of her. Just like she had, because of him.

Her arms tighten on the cold and hard wooden box she wrapped in a cloak, and if she closes her eyes she can pretend her Baldur is nuzzled against her breast, just sleeping.

She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay to watch them all burn, she wanted to stay because she never lied to him. Despite everything, she never lied, or, if she did, she doesn’t remember anymore.

Her life was his, that never changed.

But her death, her death is her own.

The war was not barbarous men in broken armor, not limping horses or battle cries. The war sounds like her owl wings beating, quietly frantic, lovely beneath the eastern sky.

But one grows weary of being both assailant and defender.

She opens bleary eyes when she hears footsteps near her. Uselessly, she clutches the box cradling Baldur’s bones a bit closer, and watches with wide eyes as someone approaches.

She wishes she could stand, she wishes she could move. But she feels weak, she feels…tired. It is alright, she gathers.

Her death will be her own, anyways. Even if it is her body giving in on the mossy floor on the outskirts of some unknown city, it is her own. There are not many things she can call her own, not anymore. Her death might just be the last.

But the Gods won’t let her die, it seems, since a woman approaches, the stride of a shieldmaiden.

The woman, a blonde with a deep scar on the side of her face, takes one look at Freydis and calls out for her warriors.

Two shieldmaidens approach, look at her with something that looks like pity. And Freydis wants to bare her teeth, tell them she doesn’t need their pity, she doesn’t need anyone.

The blonde, the leader, takes a step closer. Freydis grits her teeth to keep her body under her control, to keep it from scrambling away like the panic singing in her blood begs her to.

“You are safe,” The woman tells her, voice strangely soft. “You were a thrall, weren’t you?”

“I-I was a-…” A slave, a wife, a queen, a…a mother.

“You are no more,” The shieldmaiden promises, almost as if she can hear her thoughts. “Tell me your name.”

“Freydis.”

“You are safe, Freydis. We won’t hurt you, and…we are going to Ribe, we can take you there.”

“Why would I-…why Ribe?”

The smile the scarred woman shows for that fragile moment seems understanding, seems like a secret. Freydis feels like she either knows or understands more of her story than any other.

“Because it is far from Kattegat.”

They say her shattered dreams rattle inside her lungs.

Freydis cannot help but wonder bitterly where these women were when she needed them most, when she still had a life that belonged to her, when she was alone and so scared she held on to him even if all she had to hold on to was a figure -a life- made of sand.

But they are here now, and they make flavorful but humble broths that they share with comfortable ease, and they offer touches that speak of compassion but not of pity -she is starting to see the difference-, and they have scars of their own that show when they smile or when they laugh.

Weeks after the scarred woman left her in the care of these women, Freydis feels strong enough to stand and walk on her own.

And she makes herself be strong enough to take her son’s bones up the hill.

She puts the cradle -the box, she corrects herself- on the ground, and traces her hand over the lid of it one last time, as gently as she would have stroked his little back.

And when she speaks, she speaks quietly, soothingly, as she would have to lull him to sleep.

“Sweet Baldur, to me...to me you will always be divine,” She promises, slowly grabbing the stones between shaking hands and making up the small grave, “The gift the Gods granted me, something of my very own to have, to love. But…” She swallows thickly, but raises her chin and makes herself admit her pain, her mistakes, “But you see, my son, I was blind, I was lost, and for my arrogance the Gods have punished me. I only wish they could have taken from me anything but you,” She sweeps one last time her hand over the carefully placed stones, smiles past her tears, “I know I will never hear your innocent laugh, or see you take your first steps, or feel you alive against me again, I know. But you will always be with me, you…you will always be my child.”

She will carry him with her, carry him alongside her pain. Pain is the one thing they can’t take away from her. She, better than anyone, knows this.

In dreams, her belly is swollen.

The storm rages and the baby cries in the woman’s hold, even as she rocks him back and forth, as calming and as enveloping as the sea. And Freydis watches, she watches until her eyes burn.

She closes her eyes, and the bed is comfortable and soft underneath her, his hand is warm and gentle.

“How is little Baldur, hm?” He asks, and in that figment of a moment she can give in, and pretend. And she lets herself forget the way the wood of the wooden chair makes her back ache, pretending there is only soft furs underneath her.

She lifts her hand, moves to put it over his on her stomach.

And she lets herself forget the sounds of the storm around her, pretending there is only the crackling of fire.

She opens her eyes, because his hand is not under hers, and her stomach is barren. She still finds him looking back, but it is the coldness and the cruelty, and his mouth curves unnaturally in a grin that boasts that he took everything from her.

Freydis grits her teeth and looks away, a sob, a cry, stuck in her throat as she gasps for air.

The woman looks at her, motherly and comforting in a way no one ever looked at her before, motherly and protective in a way she was never allowed to be. She doesn’t know if she ought to resent her for not being there or envy her for having what she cannot; even though Freydis knows both things would be useless and irrational.

The baby in the woman’s arms coos, and it tugs at Freydis heart, it makes her chest tighten and her very blood ache with an absence that on some days is heavier. Today, since that first day, is the heaviest.

Before Freydis can even give voice to her plea, the woman shuffles closer, a hand on the back of the baby’s head and cautiously extending her arm, offering him to her.

She holds him, brings his little head to her nose, and fights the urge to close her eyes and pretend.

In dreams, she is her own.

“You expect nothing for yourself, but you’ve revealed everything to me.” I have revealed nothing, she wants to scream, you haven’t let me. He continues, “You are all goodness. All truth.”

What makes her heart feel like it is being squeezed tight in his fist is that he looks like he believes what he is saying. She isn’t all goodness and doesn’t want to be, she hasn’t ever told the whole truth.

She wants to yell and scream and demand that he look at her, that he look at her face and see more than the woman he is proud to have made his wife and see the wear all those years of suffering have left etched in the angles and creases; that he look at her body and see more than the vessel for his child and see the scars and the mark of hunger that after months of life as a queen she feels hasn’t left her body.

She wants to be seen, seen as more than fragments of glass put together however he sees fit, seen as more than whatever image of her he sees even when looking directly into her eyes.

But it is better to be wanted like this than to not be wanted at all, she knows that much. And so she smiles, and pretends the tears in her eyes are for him, and tells him what he wants to hear. It wears on her, to see love and feel like she’s seeing it thought the cracks in a wall even when it is looking directly into her eyes, to feel love and see it accepted and embraced as long as she can be what he wants her to.

And in the morning when she wakes in that home that is so less familiar than the one of before, but so much more of a home; she meets the eyes of the people she lives with and grits her teeth when they smile, feels like a wounded bird in a cage when they call her name in greeting.

They don’t know me, she tells herself, rage and grief and something that tastes like the acid of fear swimming in her stomach, they are just like him.

It takes her time to understand that they don’t ask for her story because they don’t want to demand it. For too long she has confused demanding with wanting, need with love; and it takes a while but she realizes that they see the way she flinches and so they don’t gesture so broadly around her, and they see the way she looks at the latest woman that has joined them and they let her hold the baby more often, and they see that she likes sleeping closer to the door and they give her the keys to the home, and...and maybe they see her.

In dreams, she did not ruin herself to be dressed in dying clouds.

Wide blue eyes jump between the dark red and green dress and the woman that holds it with a hopeful smile.

“I thought you’d like it.” Frída tells her.

She wants to spit back accusations, ask her how would she know what Freydis likes if she doesn’t know her, ask her why she is cruel enough to pretend to see her when all she sees is an illusion.

But she always liked the way the dark red and the dark green of certain fabrics shimmer in the low light, she always felt a little more alive, a little more herself, when she wore those colors.

She noticed, her scrambled thoughts scream, she saw me.

And so Freydis extends trembling hands, and barely grazes over the rough but beautiful thread. Her lips quiver into a smile, and she hopes the words that tumble from her mouth, stuttering and hurried, are enough gratitude.

That night, and so many nights after that, Freydis lingers for a while in front of the small and smudged mirror in her room. She looks, she sees.

She never had time to see herself. Before, the days were long and exhausting, and the nights were hopefully quiet, she didn’t have time to linger on fickle things like herself. And after, while the days were softer and the nights warmer, she didn’t like having to reconcile what he saw and what she did so she didn’t try.

She sees the hair that has grown duller since the food has become scarcer and less varied, but she sees the way her eyes are a little bit brighter, brighter than they have ever been. She sees her body is bonier than it used to be before the running, but as the reds and greens play in the folds of her dress, she finds herself more alive than ever.

She is lost and youthful again, denies the wounds in her flesh.

Freydis has learned she was wrong, when she promised those things. He had no right to her life, no right to her death.

Both are her own, and though sometimes she finds herself lingering in a world so long past her that it seems like a dream -or a nightmare-, Freydis finds that there are many things she can call her own.

Her own is the secret smile she and Frída share over dinner as they talk about what is happening in the town, her own is the old and worn green and red dress she will mend until there is nothing but tatters, her own is the pendant hanging from her neck that she was gifted by a man of kind eyes that she hasn’t forgotten.

Her own are her memories, good and bad. Her pain, but also her joy. Her past, but also her future.

Her own is the child that Hídr’s husband brings from a raid, that Freydis insisted would never be a slave, that it would be hers -and free- instead. Her own is the two-year-old girl she names Sigrun and calls her daughter, and loves like her own because she is.

Her own is herself, and all that came after.

Word has spread that her laugh is the sound of a thousand waterfalls.

Before, she twinkled. Now she is ablaze.

She is cracked porcelain leaking out guarded hope.

____ ____ ____

If you caught a not so teeny-tiny cameo by someone who also deserved better than a son of Ragnar, I will love you forever.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked this, I don’t know if it is any good but I enjoyed writing it a whole lot :)

Taglist (I’m tagging those in my ‘all’ taglist, I hope it’s okay): @youbloodymadgenius @xbellaxcarolinax @1950schick @ietss @peachyboneless @encounterthepast @maggiescarborough @chibisgotovalhalla @fae-sedai @zuxiezendler @crazybunnyladysworld   @stupiddarkkside @northumbria @aprilivar​

[pomegranates-and-blood]

“Freydis.” (Freydis’ PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: None, Freydis/Ivar if you squint, but not really

Summary:  You can sum this up as a canon divergence from 5x03, from Freydis PoV, with the purpose of explaining why Ivar has some of the ideas he has (as a result of their interaction) and why she is the way she is in the story. I wanted to take a peek into Freydis’ head, mainly because the Freydis of the show is not exactly the Freydis I wrote in νοσταλγία. I wanted to explore the night she is freed, and how/why she finds herself in Kattegat after everything that happens, and why she is the way she is, why she believes in what she believes in. I suck at summaries, I know, sorry

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: The usual, a lot of focus on slavery tho

A/N: Okay so this is my first attempt at Freydis. I really like her character, even if I changed it a bit, I just hate the ‘I am a God’ storyline so fucking much, so I changed their interaction and, by extension, Freydis’ views on the world and the Gods. I’m sorry if this sucks, I’m trying to find her voice and idk, I don’t think I did very well but I still wanted to try and show you guys how I see/write her.

Please let me know what you think, I know this isn’t as flashy as an Ivar PoV but I hope you don’t hate these, cause I also have Sieghild’s little spin-off to post :)

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me

They grab her by the back of her neck, hiss some words she doesn’t hear. She drops the jug she was carrying, pale eyes remaining on the spilled milk and watching it be wasted on this ungrateful ground.

They push her, shove her, to make her start walking. She does. Before long she stands surrounded by walls made of stone, and before a man made of fury.

The man at her side is dismissed by the son of Ragnar, and she watches him leave out of the corner of her eye, imagining for a second a world where she can be the one to stand tall and sentence the unworthy to die.

But the Gods didn’t will it that way, they willed it so that she is the unworthy one, tasked with rising above her pain, above her darkness.

“Slave,” He greets, and the word, the reminder, it brings forth so many memories to the front of her mind, so many scars seem to ache with the syllables of the word. Still, she remains quiet and unmoving, she thinks she even offers a calm smile, knowing she has nothing to fear. It seems to intrigue him, she notices. “You do not seem…afraid of me.”

“No,” She replies after a few moments of silence, almost certain he gave her permission to speak. “I have no reason to.”

“You know who I am.” He states, and she nods.

“You are Ivar,” Is all she says. His head cocks to the side, a question about to leave his lips, and with a pit of fear -a fear she knows she shouldn’t feel- on her stomach she adds, “Ivar the Boneless.”

She almost flinches when he lifts his hand to his lips, sure the order to force her into obedience after speaking without being allowed to is to come, but the man only looks at her, blue eyes curious and calculating.

“We are expecting to be attacked by the Saxons, they have a large army outside of these walls,” He explains, and she knows, she knows like she knows the scars on her skin, what he will ask out of her. “We must ask the Gods for help. Would you be…willing to offer yourself as a sacrifice?”

He asks her to respond, he asks her what she ought to do, like it’s a choice, like people like her have a choice to make.

Her lips part, her breath shakes out of her lungs, her hands tremble. They cannot ask her to make choices, if…if she is free to choose one thing, then…

As her breath quickens, as her chest heaves, she feels the familiar weight of the pendant on her neck, and she is reminded of why she ought to feel no fear.

So she brings herself back under her own control and nods, “I would be honored to give myself to the Gods.”

“You are not afraid.” He states in response, but it is a question.

“I have always known…” Her breath falters, but not her resolve, so she straightens her shoulders, meets his eyes with certainty, “I have always known that pain is the Gods’ gift to us.

She looks down at hands roughened by labor and pain, and is resolute when she continues,

“‘To live is to suffer’,” She quotes, the woman who told her that long dead by now, “It all leads us to Ragnarok, it all leads us to…pain, before and after the wolf breaks free. Pain is a mark of the Gods. And those who embrace the pain, those who are born in it, that live in it,” Her eyes look at nothing, nothing but the memories, the snarling faces, the hurting hands, the broken pieces. “Those are chosen by the Gods themselves.”

Her gaze returns to the man sitting in the makeshift throne, and she is startled by the gasp that leaves parted lips, the unbridled hope she sees shining in wide blue eyes.

“Come closer,” He whispers, and she does, with no fear. His eyes search hers, with a desperation she scarcely saw before in someone not a slave, “What…what do you-…? I don’t understand.”

“I know who you are, what you are; so I know you understand,” She offers a small smile, “I know you understand that some of us are chosen by the Gods themselves to be pushed to the ground, to be broken, to…suffer.”

“Chosen.” He repeats, and his voice shakes.

Hers does not.

“We are chosen, pain is a mark of the favor of the Gods. We are to endure, we are to rise above it, we are to survive, we are to accept the Gods’ gift.”

“I…”

“Those who endure, are rewarded,” She straightens her back, offers a smile cold but true as she raises her chin for what feels like the first time, “I am willing to be the sacrifice. And may Freyja reward me in the life after this one.”

But he shakes his head. Barely at first, as if enthralled, as if shaken, but when she meets his eyes with what is certain to be shock and surprise written all over her features, he takes a deep breath and finds his voice.

“You are free to go.”

“But…”

“You…” He frowns, his eyes fall from hers, look at nothing. She knows that look. But he shakes himself off it before long, and meets her gaze again, “You are a free woman now.”

She learns that night, that being free is a new kind of pain.

They leave her alone and unbound and alone, and she does not know what to do. For a time, she is thrilled in the newfound freedom, terrifying and suffocating as it is, laughing like a madwoman until her throat goes raw, convinced that this is the Gods’ reward for a life of pain, for enduring, for understanding their will. But the night darkens and she has nowhere to go, and her laugh turns into manic sobs even as she covers her mouth, the shadows chase her lonely form even if she is unbound.

They don’t talk about the loneliness of freedom, she realizes numbly in the morning, dress dirtied and hair wild as she sits on the ground, back resting against one of the stone homes of the city. They don’t talk about how terrifying it is to be left alone with your thoughts when you know you are free to do what you will, what those thoughts tell you to.

Her thoughts tell her she wants to burn the city to the ground and also explore every crevice of it, she wants to let the slaves feel the same freedom as her but she also wants to be on the other end of the terrified stare of a desperate thrall, she wants to…she wants to…she wants.

She wants, and she has wanted for so long; but they cannot ask her to decide, they cannot tell her now she has choices to make. She is scared, and the fear that runs through her veins like Thor’s lightning is a new kind that she has never felt before.

Almost twenty years they have told her to want for nothing, that a slave ought to never want. And now she can admit to having wants, and hopes, and…and now the world is at the tips of her fingers and if she just reaches…

But she is petrified, petrified and alone and fearful.

She wonders if this is but another kind of suffering to endure, this freedom.

____

She has learned, in these months of freedom, many new things. She has learned the taste of some strange dried fruits she stole from a merchant; she has learned working while a free woman feels differently than when working as a thrall even if it is the same routine; she has learned the possibility of choosing never stops being suffocating.

She has learned she is lacking many things. She is lacking a name, having long forgotten it and the people that knew it have been dead for even longer; she is lacking anything but the old red and green dress she wore the night she was freed; she is lacking the certainty being bound to servitude gave her.

A ghost has taken her place since that night, she thinks. Or maybe freedom feels like this. This wandering, this fear, this uncertainty.

A ghost that walks the streets, a ghost that still cries during the night clutching a worn pendant, a ghost that, when the ambitions of the sons of Ragnar take them elsewhere, follows.

Because she has also learned that she is utterly and unbearably afraid of being left alone.

An old woman with runes on her skin finds her wandering the streets one morning, the dawn breaking over the distant waves of the city that now has a new King. She smiles at her, like she sees her, like she understands.

“What is your name?” The woman asks, but all she can do is shake her head, eyes wide.

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t know many things.

And when the woman invites her to follow, she does, because she doesn’t want to be left alone but also because she can, because she wants to, because she can choose to.

So before long she sits in front of the fire and a mangy black cat purrs in her lap, the woman’s eyes piercing and calming as they study her.

“You have a home here, if you wish it so,” The old woman says, “But you ought to have a name, child. What should we call you?”

She grabs onto the pendant hanging from her neck, she thinks of the tales she was told, she hears the memories of whispered prayers.

And she chooses.

“Freydis.”

___

Okay, so that was it. I hope it doesn’t suck, and even if it does I would love to hear from you and learn how to improve.

Btw, her views on pain and what the purpose of life is, or life being suffering and all, it was very much inspired on Edith Hamilton’s insight on Norse mythology and its effect on VIkings and their way of life/worldview; all of it, of course, proyected into Freydis through the very poor vector that is my writing lol

Anyways, thank you so much for reading! I would love to know your thoughts on this, an whether or not alternate PoVs like Freydis’ or Sieghild’s are something you guys would be interested in seeing more of. Thank you!! <3