#ivy will have my head for this but the legs thing is a crucial part of my Tall Regulus Truther-ing

[foursaints]

Why do u keep saying regulus has pretty legs it genuinely scares me a lot

the thing is that when i vaguely ambiguously mentioned ‘androgynous boys with pretty legs’ in that last post i was talking about evan rosier .

but i think it says a lot that your mind instantly leapt to regulus . does it not

[kmikaelsonimagines]

Peace: A Kol Mikaelson Imagine

Request from Anon:  Peace feels like a song for Kol - thank you xx

So requests are fully open again! Just a quick reminder that I'm only taking song imagines for Folklore, although everything else is good to go! Hope this is okay for you lovely, and enjoy x

Want to hear the song? Find a link to it just below:

Peace

Our coming-of-age has come and gone Suddenly this summer, it's clear I never had the courage of my convictions

"Are you going to be okay?"

You were lingering by the door when you heard Freya's question to Kol. It was a crucial moment in Mikaelson family history, one where they would separate to protect Hope, each sibling keeping a piece of the Hollow in their soul.

Kol had almost been too late in answering Freya's message, and you remembered how he had sped down the highway. You put your hand on his knee, on his shaking leg, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel. “We're going to get there, Kol. We'll make it. "

It warmed your heart to see him rushing to get to his family, to save the little girl who had stolen all of your hearts. You knew that you would never be able to have children of your own with him, but the image of him in the role of an uncle made you smile. You weren't teenagers anymore, adults in a relationship, really thinking about these things.

He moved one hand off the wheel and put it on yours, clutching onto your fingers. He had always adored your optimism, your bravery when it came to making decisions. “I know we will, Y/N. I just don't want to be too late. "

And you weren't, getting there just before Freya turned herself into a vampire. You had chosen to stay out of the way, letting brother and sister embrace for what could be the final time.

As long as danger is near And it's just around the corner, darlin '

You could sense him, the danger that radiated off him, and so weren’t surprised to see Klaus Mikaelson come around the corner. The hybrid looked tired, drained, and you felt your heart break a little to see the seemingly invincible Original in such a state.

He was saying goodbye to his daughter, to his family, knowing that although he was protecting them, he would never see them again. He looked at you, raising his eyebrows. “So Kol showed up then?”

“He’s in there with Freya.” You gestured to where Kol stood still talking to Freya, slightly frustrated that after all these years, Klaus still didn’t expect to his younger brother to do the right thing. “You don’t give him enough credit, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a good man, Klaus. I know he messes up from time to time, and I know he hasn’t been particularly well behaved over the years, but he cares. About all of you.”

Klaus took a step towards you, and smiled.

“You’re the one who brought out the good in him, Y/N, and I thank you for that.” You didn’t know what to do when Klaus Mikaelson pulled you into a hug, but it wasn’t long before you hugged him back.

'Cause it lives in me No, I could never give you peace

From your spot by the doorway, you watched as Vincent prepared the spell that would separate the Mikaelson family forever. They were a family, Kol’s family, your family, and it would be difficult to see them apart.

Even if you hadn’t always got along.

Kol had always told you that he had found peace since he met you, and when you first looked upon the chaos that was the Mikaelson family, you understood what he meant. He had told you that he felt calm whenever he was with you, part of his soul at rest, a part of you living within him.

You were the cool breeze in a blazing heat. His moment of sanity in the madness of being a Mikaelson.

That madness was disintegrating before your eyes, and you knew that, although he would never admit it, Kol would miss it. It was as much a part of him as you were, and it had become a part of you too.

You had always believed that as long as you had Kol, you would be at peace yourself, no matter whatever threats faced his family. But now, the prospect of spending a life alone with him was real, and as delighted as you were, part of you was hurting too.

Hurting because you knew he was.

But I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm If your cascade, ocean wave blues come All these people think love's for show

You had stopped listening to the conversation between Kol and Freya, not wanting to eavesdrop on what was a private conversation. Vincent had finished preparing the spell, and now the courtyard of the Mikaelson compound was quiet.

There were so many memories here, hidden in the walls, ones that you had made yourself.

You remembered dancing with Kol over the concrete tiles, remembered him pressing you up against ivy covered pillars and kissing you, igniting a fire within you that continued to burn to this day.

A life alone with him. A few months ago, it would have sounded like a dream, and it still did. You only wished it could be under different circumstances, with the possibility of visiting this old, ancient house, still present.

Maybe you would move down to the beach, spending your evenings listening to waves crash against the shore. You imagined your legs tangled with Kol’s as you lay in the sand, your head on his chest as he kissed the top of it, carelessly, lovingly.

It would be a bittersweet ending to your story, but you would make the best of it.

Your head snapped up when you heard your name, Freya Mikaelson talking about you. You turned, head peeking through the doorway again, hoping you wouldn’t be noticed.

But I would die for you in secret The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me Would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

You watched as Freya looked at her youngest brother with concern. She had always been a friend to you, the first of the siblings to sympathise when you and Kol had left New Orleans, ready to start a life of your own.

She had told you that you made Kol happy, that you were doing the right thing, that you provided peace and tranquility whenever he needed it. She had thanked you for loving him like he deserved.

You hoped you would live up to such praise in the years to come, hoped that you would be able to look after him, to lead him on the right path when none of his siblings could. Looking over his shoulder, Freya smiled at you, and Kol turned to face you.

You smiled at him, at the twinkle in his eye as he gazed at you with such adoration, your heart ached. You would have died for him, anything to make him as happy as you were when he told you he loved you. 

Kol turned back to his sister, and she pulled him into a tearful hug. “Tell me you’re going to be okay. Both of you.”

“As I’ve told you,” you could hear the laughter settling in Kol’s voice, “we’ll be fine.” He turned to look at you one last time. “We’ll always be fine as long as we have each other.”

For the first time since you had arrived at the Mikaelson compound, you felt what Kol felt when he was around you.

You felt peace.

Masterlist

Folklore Masterlist

[drethanramslay]

Rock Bottom

Pairing: Mona X MC (Alexis Jennings)

Masterlist

Word count: 1.8 K (I really tried🤧)

Warnings: None, there is swearing, also there is a crossover 👀

Author's note: I'm taking part in @rodappreciationweek and this is my entry for day 3 (mona)

The hosts of RoDaw @client-327 @brightpinkpeppercorn and @choicesarehard are donating $5 usd to the Lebanese red cross, up to $500 for every piece of Mona content today! Please consider making/posting something for Mona today if you haven't already❤️

I'm also taking part in @wackydrabbles so you will find the prompt in bold

Forgive me if I make any mistakes

"Prisoners move back to your respective cells." The loudspeaker blared, cutting sharply through the air, giving Mona a cold splash of reality.

Until that godforsaken announcement, Mona had been sitting on the steps, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the cool breeze threading through her hair. The sun rays poured over her and she enjoyed the warmth emanating from them. She could smell the ocean and with her eyes closed, she could almost imagine standing on the shores of Santa Monica, the sound of the waves washing over her.

But there is only so much imagination one can use to forget that she was in jail.

To her darn luck, she had been transferred to Trask Island, a maximum security prison off the coast of Florida. It was one of those dreary prison where you were completely cut off from the world.

No call, no letters, no communication.

Whatever fucked up environment they created here, that was her world and Mona hated every second of it.

It was also called the 'rock' because one, it was on a island and two, it would drown all your hopes and wishes of a future, just like how a rock sinks in water.

No one has ever escaped Trask Island and no one ever will. The words of the warden echoed through her head making her scoff.

It's cute that he thinks I will be sticking around in this shit hole.

Mona was super determined to get the fuck out of here even though there were moments when she was completely and utterly lost.

She hated the orange tracksuits she had to wear. She hated the way these spiteful men dictated her life and tried to break her spirit. She hated being stuck in a tiny cell.

She longed to feel the adrenaline rush in her veins when she raced.

She longed to feel her hands gripping her steering wheel, as she drove at speeds defying gravity.

But most of all she longed for Alexis... The girl she left behind.

Mona found it ironic. After her ex ratted her to the police she swore that she would never let anyone have that power over her. That she would never wear her heart on her sleeve again. She built this impenetrable fortress around herself so that no one could enter and know the real her.

But Alexis managed to do that by just smiling at her.

The way their hands fit perfectly into each other's... The way that all her worries would go away when Alex was in her arms... The way that they both pushed each other, looked out for each other and challenged each other...

Mona had never witnessed such a feeling of companionship and she couldn't help but fall for her.

I love you Mona... Those words haunted her but at the same time motivated her to keep going through the motions of the day.

Her fantasies were abruptly interrupted by the guard kicking her combat boots. "Up and going, or do you want a month in solitary?"

And the thing she hated the most about this prison are the guards. I mean it was normal to hate them but this was some next level shit. She absolutely abhorred them to such a extent that she wanted to strangle them with her bare hands.

The number of times she was thrown into solitary was not even funny. And all of them were for the dumbest of the dumbest reasons.

Hell she was thrown in the hole for a fight she wasn't even part of.

All men are the same... Power hungry and drunk on greed. That's why girls are better.

So not wanting to risk living in the darkness for a month, she bit her tongue and got up before joining the other cellmates.

"What a dick." Eris Huang, an expert demolition muttered under her breath, so low that only Mona could hear it, causing her to snort.

In the six months she was here, she was low-key glad that she met Eris. They two met when Mona was moved into Eris' cell. Both were strong willed, hard headed and sarcastic woman so it wasn't really surprising that they became fast friends.

"Tell me about it. One of these days he is gonna piss me off so bad that I will end up castrating him with a blunt knife."

"Oof. I will hold him down and break his legs." Eris offered causing Mona to smirk. I like this girl. 

"Anyways, I have a shift at the library so meet you later." Eris spoke.

"Get me another notebook if possible."

"What are you writing? A love letter?" Eris teased which made Mona roll her eyes but she wasn't very far off from the truth.

"A lady never tells." Mona answered causing Eris to chuckle as she took a left to go to the basement.

Mona reached her cell and she felt the the cell gate close behind her with a loud clang, which resonated in her ribcage.

Sure, hanging out in the yard and working in the workshop was a welcome distraction but staying in her small cell for more than 17 hours would make a girl lonely.

So, in all these hours of loneliness, sadness and hopelessness Mona found some sort of solace in writing about her dreams, list of things she was going to do once she was out, her aspirations... But most importantly, how much she missed Alex and how she wished to be by her side.

So settling into the corner of her bunk, she opened the notebook with tattered pages so that she could write.

Dear Alex, I know I told you to not let me imprison you but that's not applicable to me because you are always on my mind. It's hard to forget you. I miss you so much....

Do you know what day it is today? It's the fifth... Or I assume so because there is no calendar here. We aren't told what date, month, year it is. It's just days which sinks into the lonely nights and the cycle continues.

It's been six months since I last saw you... And I guess it just hit me hard.

It's just cruel how little time we had together.

I still remember that night. How happy we were in that cute little prom of yours. I still remember how heartbroken you were when I betrayed you.

But you didn't let it break you.

I still remember the way you took down those bastards. I still remember how fucking proud I felt on that moment. I still remember how I took a bullet for you and the shock that coloured your face.

And I know the thoughts which ran at your head in that moment. "Someone actually cares enough for me to take a bullet for me."

I'm here to tell you that yes, I took a bullet for you and I would do it a thousand times over just to prove that I love you and I care about you. I'm here to tell you that you are worth it and you deserve all the love in the world.

I wish I could hold you in my arms and tell you all of this but... Life loves fucking with me and you got caught as collateral.

It's just... Hard some days. Sure I have made friends with some other criminals and tried to make this fuckery my new normal but I'm only human. I'm few moments away from sinking to rock bottom, as shocking as that may sound.

You always perceived me as an aloof, careless and a strong badass but that changed when I met you.

Sure I was always strong but you make me stronger. You and me... We both are like two knives sharpening each other. Pushing each other to reach new heights of awesomeness.

But, I also want to worry for you. I want to appreciate you. I want to wake up next to you and I want to love you.

I often wish how we would have met if I had not gone down the wrong path. Would we have met at some pub? Or in some Ivy League college? Or some frat party?

People often say that you shouldn't waste time thinking about the things that could have been but when you are in a prison with nothing but time, that's all you seem to do.

So yeah, you are the only thing preventing me from going insane.

I think that's enough emotional bullshit for today and I'm low-key relieved that you aren't reading these letters, of me talking like a sap.

But one thing is for sure- I love you.

Yours, Mona.

She heard the electric buzzer and the door of her cell opened. Eris walked in with an impassive face with a guard standing at the entrance. He shut the cell gate and walked away.

Mona's eyes narrowed as she sat up straight. Wait a minute-

She waited for the guard to be far away before she spoke up. "You have a plan."

Eris turned the light off of the cell and plopped on to the bed opposite Mona's.

"Smartie. Always knew I did a good job of recruiting you."

"But how? Do you remember the last time you failed and ended up in the hole for a month and a half?!"

"Yes I do remember but this is foolproof. We have outside help."

"... I'm listening."

"Do you speak thief?" She asked which made Mona scoff in disbelief.

"Obviously. I have stolen cars and kidnapped people. Obviously I'm no amateur."

Eris proceeded to explain how her friends Rye and some other chick had come up with a plan. She listened with complete attention and only stopped her to ask valid questions.

"So... Are you in?"

Mona tried weighing the pros and cons. It's sounded a tad bit unrealistic and far fetched. There were a couple of loose ends which made her hesitate.

Eris noticed that and grasped her hand. "See Mona, no escape plan is perfect. This is a rough draft and we will work out the kinks. But remember, the three crucial things an escape plan needs is- Luck, faith and determination. We don't know about what lady luck has in store but, we sure can have faith and determination."

"I know that you hate it here and I know the punishment of escaping is harsh but what's wrong in trying? We are already suffering as it is, what's a little more? And I see that fire in your eyes, M."

"The fire to break free and the fire to go back to your girl."

Mona looked up and the momentary joy of getting to see Alexis soon. Adrenaline courses through her veins, causing her heart to beat faster.

Eris leaned forward, her voice intense. "So tell me- Would you like to blow this joint or rot in here for the next five years wishing you could have atleast tried?"

Mona's eyes met hers and a smirk formed in her face. Reaching forward she shook Eris's hands, sealing the deal.  "What the hell. This is without doubt the stupidest plan you've ever had. Of course I'm in."

Don't worry Alexis, I'm coming home.

Hope you liked it 😊

Mona x MC Taglist : @kamilahsayeet2063 @kaitlynliaofanxx @vampiregirlsblog @made-me-deep-blue

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[nitholites]

Damienette Soulmate AU, part 2 (here we go again)

Part 1 

Thank you @friendly-neighborhood-enby for proof-reading this word dump you’re gorgeous and I love you

Getting permission to leave the group was disturbingly easy. The fact that Marinette was so 'disruptive to the class, always starting things. Even when she should be leading by example' and Damian was 'so mature and responsible, and works at WE, where employees are known for their trust worthy natures!' helped. 

"You are much too kind for them, Marinette," Damian said as they left the class behind. She had actually restrained him from saying one of the many roasts he dearly wanted to, or from punching the incompetent teacher in the face- whichever he felt like.

Marinette opened her mouth, but snapped it shut and hummed instead. "You can say it," Damian coaxed. "Never halt your speech in front of me."

The look she gave him made him want to turn around and give her class a word lashing they won't forget. She looked almost shocked someone wanted to hear from her- a reaction no one should have. The smile she sent at him made him reconsider that plan. "I wasn't planning on holding back my words- I just realized something."

"Oh? Mind sharing that?"

She nodded. "Maybe you're right, is all. My friends, Luka and Kagami, keep telling me the same thing. I just think it's time to stop defending them like this, is all."

"They truly don't deserve you," Damian said before his mind caught up. As her smile lightened the air around them, Damian asked more about her home life- her hobbies and parents. Learning she grew up in her parents' bakery rang a few bells, but Damian chose to ignore them. She may not have learned from her parents, after all. And how could an angel like her be tied to his mangled, dark soul?

She deserved the world, as he knew from their time together on the tour. He couldn't give her the light she deserved and gave others. But maybe he could give her a space away from the air of her class, away from the cruelty of the people she used to call friends. That would be enough.

Regardless of what he could or couldn't do, what he would do was simple: Protect the smile that lit up the world for as long as she allowed.

Yes, he realized just how absurd that thought process was. They'd known each other for a day- no, a few hours. Vowing to protect her smile so soon was absolutely foolish. If it were anyone other than the kind, selfless girl beside him, Damian wouldn't have given her a spare glance.

If his brothers could see him now, he'd be mercilessly teased till the end of his days. He could hear their voices now- laughing with undertones of utter shock and disbelief.

But when she smiled, when her laugh chimed through the air like a clear bell... well, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Still, he'd suppress his quickly-growing fondness to something manageable until he had time to sort his thoughts.

.

.

.

Marinette, not for the first time that day, had to stop herself from letting loose her full laughter, trying not to embarrass herself and her company in public. She knew she could be loud- her voice carried when she wasn't careful, so she tried staying silent to counterbalance it- but the teen in front of her didn't seem to mind. If anything, he looked amused. The café was their most recent stop, after the museum, gardens, and flea market. A short coffee break before they went back to her class.

"Seriously?" She couldn't- absolutely could not- believe the tale Damian told, though he hadn't yet lied to her.

The teen nodded soberly, echoes of a smirk lingering on his face. "Alfred doesn't trust anyone in his kitchen anymore."

"It's no wonder! I'd do the same thing if my kitchen was as trashed," she stated, letting her hands follow her enthusiasm. "Your brothers committed the equivalent of kicking a homeless, 3-legged puppy to any self-respecting baker, let alone chef! My poor grandfather would have a heart attack!"

"Do you bake?" The question was accented with a slight raise of an eyebrow- a sort of challenge. Marinette Dupain-Cheng was many things- but a loser was not one of them, regardless of the game. Is this a game? she asked herself, slightly surprised at that train of thought. She found she couldn't answer, realizing their conversations were many things.

"When I'm stressed," she admitted. "I love the bakery and my parents, but practically coming out of the womb with a baking sheet in my hands put a few... habits in me."

Damian didn't verbally respond, moving his hand and nodding as though to say 'Go on'. So she did. "Bakers wake up at least two hours before the shop opens- or at least we do. The bakery opens at seven A.M. every morning, so we wake up at five at the latest. Usually closer to four," she started, sending a bright smile and a nod to the waiter who set down her coffee. A returned smile and a small greeting later, she returned to her explanation. "So check ‘early riser’ off the list. As stated before, I stress-bake. But I also help Papa with trying new recipes. So I'm practically always on the lookout for new or interesting flavors and combinations. Sometimes, I get so focused that I forget what I was doing," she sheepishly smiled, earning a chuckle from the boy before her.

"How do Gotham pastries compare to your family's?"

He thought the question was innocent enough.

Thought being the crucial word there.

A fire lit in Marinette's eyes then, a fire that told of harsh rants and moving arms. She laid all her complaints out there, genuine tears gathering at her eyes as she mourned the lack of decent baked goods. And as she explained each good, Damian found himself nodding along, nearly able to taste the poor items from her descriptions alone.

He nearly gagged from the imaginary taste. Never before had he uttered a sincere apology to someone outside his family, but he found himself looking into her eyes with as much remorse as he could muster. "I'm extremely sorry you had to sample those."

"It's alright, I suppose," she sighed. "I've actually started working with the bakers there to improve the pastries."

"Already? How long have you been in Gotham?"

"About a day."

She moved fast. "Perhaps one of these days, I can show you the better restaurants Gotham has to offer."

Damian paused, his mouth having moved before his brain even realized he spoke. "I mean, if you're free," he added, trying desperately to make the awkwardness clinging to the table vanish.

Before she could answer, a familiar voice called out. "Ya sure it's here, Pam?"

Damian turned in his seat, surprised at the arrival of none other than Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy. He had to forcefully relax his body, seeing as the rogues had a good streak going. "I'm positive," the red-head responded, eyes searching the café. "This place is absolutely thriving." She gestured to the ivy on the wall near the register, which Damian now realized looked a bit greener than usual.

"Is something wrong?"

He turned back to Marinette, considering his next words. "Probably not," he eventually said. "What do you know of Gotham's rogues?"

"What was on the internet," she replied, eyeing the two women with... interest. "I wanted to make sure everything we needed to know was in the pamphlets, so I did my research."

Neither got the opportunity to speak more as Ivy approached their table, Harley following close behind. The questions sent Ivy's way were  ignored, both from Harley and Damian. But Marinette's were answered, as she asked with a small smile. "May I help you?"

"How are you doing that?"

Marinette blinked, confusion etching into her features. "I'm sorry?"

"The plants are singing your praises," Ivy continued. "You heal them. How?"

If Damian had been watching Marinette instead of Ivy and Harley, he would have seen the flicker of understanding and surprise pass through the small girl. As it was, only Ivy, who had been watching her intently, saw it. "I simply have a bit of a green thumb," Marinette smiled, tilting her head as she did so. “That… isn’t a problem, is it?”

“Of course not,” Ivy immediately responded, shaking her head. “I just came to thank you. For as long as I’ve been Poison Ivy, the plants in Gotham have never been happier than in your presence.” Shocked silence came from the other Gothamites, but Marinette was only embarrassed. She had never been good at receiving compliments, even before Lila and most compliments turned into sneers and bullying. 

Marinette stammered as she tried to thank the woman, the heat in her cheeks only adding to her embarrassment. Her words failing, she took a deep breath and calmed herself until she could speak in full sentences. “It’s really no problem- I’m just happy to help.”

The café

seemed to hold it’s breath- or perhaps the people inside did. Either way, nothing moved until Ivy did, smiling. “What’s your name, Blue Bell?”

Blue Bell? She answered anyway, having practice ignoring nicknames (even if she didn’t mind the kind ones). “Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I’m here on a class trip. You’re Mademoiselle Isley and Mademoiselle Quinn, oui?”

The women nodded, sending smiles to the girl. “Aw, ain’t ya such a darlin’,” Harley cooed, lightly pushing past her girlfriend to pat the sweet teen on the head. “A right angel in Gotham, ya are. How long ya stayin’, Sunshine?” Harley slid into the booth as she asked. 

“A couple months. Hopefully longer, if my application is accepted.”

“Already looking for colleges?” Now Pamela was in the booth, sat beside Damian as she joined in the questioning. Marinette nodded, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “All the way in Gotham?”

“I want to experience fashion and culture outside of Paris,” Marinette started. “See what the rest of the world is like while I have the chance.” 

Every passing moment with Marinette caused not only the rogues, but the other Gothamites in earshot to start rooting for her. Alas, time marches on, and both groups had things to do. They split at the entrance, Marinette and Damian beginning their trek to find her class and the rogues going to… well, neither teen would ask. 

  .

.

.

Robin suppressed a sigh, eyes scanning the streets below his perch. “No helping it, Baby Bird,,” the infuriating voice of his eldest brother sounded. “It’s a slow night for everyone.”

“The third slow night in a row,” he shot back, leaping from the ledge he used as a perch. The wind tousled his hair as he swung through the night, boredom already settling in his bones. “Something’s brewing.”

“I’ll look into it,” Oracle’s voice pitched in. Silence followed (if you ignored his brothers’ incessant chattering -which Damian did). At least until Oracle spoke again. “Reported argument, three blocks from the museum. Possible escalation. Robin’s the closest.”

“I’ll check it out,” he said over his brothers’ complaints. 

Only a minute of swinging later, and Robin could hear the argument. If you could even call it an argument. A large, burly man stood yelling at a smaller, meeker-looking young man, an even smaller girl between them standing tall. With pigtails.

Wait.... Robin knew those pigtails- he saw them only hours ago! Why was she out of the hotel? In Gotham? At night?! Did she have a death wish?! His mask zoomed in, their voices sounding in his ear. The large man’s yelling practically boiled down to ‘He’s my boyfriend, and therefore my property’ in prettier, louder words. Robin rolled his eyes, having seen this kind of situation countless times before. Damian, though, watched the man and Marinette, worried for her safety.

The big man started spewing nonsense about the smaller ‘getting like this sometimes’ and ‘needing to take his meds, he gets confused’. The shaking man refuted everything said, repeatedly stating how he was done, trying to get away from the man who took everything from him. 

“You think those morons you call friends would take you in?! They abandoned you! You have nowhere else to go!”

“Anywhere’s better than here!” 

Marinette just stood, glaring down the man who was literally three times her size. But when he tried grabbing behind her, she moved. Before anyone could say or do anything, the man was out cold with a bleeding face, on his stomach as she tightened a couple zip ties around his wrists and ankles. 

Robin had to pause his thoughts and think back to register what happened. A knee to the groin. Hands on either side of his head, holding it in place as she kneed his nose hard enough to break. When he didn’t go down, she swept his legs from under him and kicked his temple.

Her voice was too soft for the microphone to pick up, but by the way the smaller man’s face slowly relaxed, she had to have been saying something. 

She didn’t spin to face Robin as he dropped, but did stop talking. Standing, she pulled out her phone. “May I help you?”

“I should be the one asking,” Robin stated, puzzled at the slight tensing of her shoulders. She turned, making a face at him once she did. “What?”

“You’re a traffic light,” she stated. “I prayed the images online were photo-shopped.” She sighed, shaking her head and tutting as the man behind her chuckled. Pulling a card from her purse, she pushed it into Robin’s hands, stepping on the zip tied man on the ground. “I will literally remake your entire group’s costumes for free if you send me the material. Heaven knows I can’t let the protectors of Gotham dress as clowns,” she muttered.

Robin crossed his arms with a scowl, narrowing his eyes. “Who says we-”

“Nope,” she interrupted, holding a hand up to silence him. “No way am I letting anyone- anyone- run around looking like-” she gestured to all of him, scrunching her nose in disgust “-like that. Doing so is an insult to fashion designers everywhere.”

Back and forth they went, until Robin paused and looked to the victim. 

Laughter. 

Marinette smiled as she turned around, gesturing between the two conscious men. “He agrees! You’re giving the gays and fashion icons nightmares, Robin. Nightmares.” 

The laughter flowing from Robin’s earpiece didn’t help the situation. 

Once the cop car (singular, without sirens as Marinette had asked in her call) rounded the corner, the three gave their statements and went on their ways. 

For the most part. 

Robin went with Marinette a ways, both of them stopping at the intersection. “You know how dangerous it is at night.” Once she nodded, he continued. “Why were you out?”

“Well, I had a feeling,” she shrugged, letting a hand land on her hip. “I was just going to the coffee shop down the block when they ran past me, like I told the officer.”

Neither spoke for a moment, standing in silence. “Be more careful next time.”

She smiled, starting to walk again. “Always.”

Taglist:

@goblinwhoships @mochegato

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course, chapter 1:

I started writing this story because I love Ivar, but disliked what he became. I loved him up to where Ragnar died, after that he became more of a villain than an anti-hero. For that, I wanted to give him a good hit of karma and figured making him a slave for Christians would be his worst nightmare. Before you continue reading, I’d like to address that the story will be graphic in the blood/guts/death/violence sense. I’m also aiming to get things as historically accurate as I can, but this is my hobby so if I make horrible mistakes, bear with me. 

Chapter 1) Changing Course .-.-.

Ivar had always been plagued by pain. Since the day he left his mother’s womb and drew his first breath, life had been an endless road of physical suffering. As a nursling, those insufferable muscle aches and stiff joints made him cry relentlessly. Endlessly. It would drive his brother’s up the walls; send their father overseas. He’d weep in his mother’s arms, only silenced by the warmth of her breast; his pain absorbing strength which turned him hungry. He’d endured remarkably, survived the first crucial years and eventually managed to tolerate the pain as part of his life. He learnt to see the inevitable suffering not as foe, but as an unwelcome acquaintance that needed to be ignored in order to get through the day. That mindset, combined with his stubbornness and willpower made it possible for him to keep his chin up and get through the day. It did not lessen his self loathing and envy towards his brothers. Blessed with strong and healthy bodies, their mere existence were three thorns in Ivar’s eye; the youngest son of Ragnar Lothbrok. The black sheep, the boneless; deformed from the waist down. 

His handicap planted a seed deep inside his chest and it spread all throughout his ribcage like poison ivy. It was blinding hate towards the world, to all who were capable to roam free and looked down upon him. Burdened by his physical limits his rage would at times rise high above his handicap, withstanding the pain to solemnly focus on destruction.  

Not a single soul forgot Ivar’s first victim. How he’d embedded his axe into the skull of another child. He remembered vividly how his tiny fist had trembled around the handle, how his mother pulled him tightly against her chest and rushed him inside. Hush dyrbare, she’d soothed him, her voice soft and warm, it’s not your fault, don’t feel regret, you are the son of Ragnar Lofthbrok, it’s only right for people to fear you. Her response was the only validation he needed. Ivar took the reassuring words of his mother to heart and smothered all forms of empathy. He was entitled to lash out to others and from that very young age Ivar found a coping mechanism; hurting the less fortunate. It wasn’t physically torture per se; his mother’s smothering grip enabled him to actually torture their thralls and peasants. He might be a useless prince, but he was a prince. His royal blood burdened him to keep their name up to certain standards, so purposely torturing their slaves was inexcusable. 

That did not mean Ivar would let any change go by to destroy the little belongings their thralls valued, pinch his nursemaid up to the point it left bruises, sink his teeth into ankles and throw a fit over the littlest of things. It was interesting to see that over time, he became quit infamous to the poor and powerless population of Kattegat. They saw him as a monster and that was much better than to be perceived as a crippled. So Ivar willingly took on the role of something dark and disgusting, he embraced being a monster.

His second act of bloodthirst happened during his pre pubescent years. The Seer had condemned a Christian to death by starvation. 

Curiosity made him crawl to their city centre in the middle of the night where he first observed the haggard form of a man, fiercely praying to it’s false God.

It was an offense, openly performing such devotion for it’s Christian God. Although the slave never laid an eye on him, Ivar resented the man with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t the poor man per say, that set him off, the poor thing simply represented defiance; praying to it’s Christian God in the centre of their town. What he later claimed as hate for the Christian, had simply been an excuse to unleash his rage. The wrath towards the entire world had been sprouting all throughout his chest and some of the roots must have reached his brain. Because what he did with his bare hands was inhuman. He destroyed the Christian, with his bare hands, knuckles and teeth. Like a meek lamb the man, awaited his death and did not fight when he was being slaughtered. It had been Ivar’s first intentional murder and it was hypnotic, addictive. Without empathy, it was easy to perceive the human body as a gigantic canvas; with endless possibilities. Destruction and pain was the purest form of art, of life itself. By ending it. Ivar loved every moment, every hair, teeth, every fiber of it. The iron taste of warm blood, the warmth of it running down his hands, chin and chest. He welcomed it, all of it and bathed in it. All for glory, all for Odin. All to make the world forget the crippled boy that wept for his mother’s warmth and see him for what he wanted to be. A monster, because he failed to perceive himself as a man, as an equal to his brothers. No, his weak legs would never place him in the same line as his brother’s. So, a monster then, was the second best choice. 

Ivar showed Kattegat another form of Boneless. At the first lights of dawn, the centre filled itself with exclamations of horrors and awe. The cobblestones were painted crimson and a flock of chickens were pecking at the intestines of the Christian. They lay spread throughout the centre, attracting flies and more bystanders. Ivar had just ripped out the tibia bones, leaving the muscles and skin lay wobbly and in a strange angle now that it’s inner skeleton had been removed. Ivar had been scraping the last bits of flesh from the bones with his fingernails when his mother appeared from the crowd and cried out in horror, falling down on her knees. 

From that day, his brothers looked at him differently. With disgust, yes, because he mauled the body of the Christian like a starved wolf. Which wasn’t far from the truth, honestly, he’d been hungry. Hungry for blood. And validation. 

From that day on, there was a hush whenever Ivar entered the Great hall, or any other place. Folks turned their head, acknowledged his presence. It was enough clarification for Ivar that being ruthless and malevolent paid off. Instead of being the handicapped son of Ragnar Lothbrok, he was the Christian slaughterer. Ivar the Boneless, now he was able to wear that byname with pride.

He’d carved pawns from the Christian’s bones and used them for his tafle game. During a game, he jokingly commented that he should’ve taken a knee bone too, it would have made an excellent king. Hvitserk chuckled uncomfortably, Sigurt’s eyes widened and Ubbe walked out. He’d loved it, pressing everyone’s buttons, making them uncomfortable and on edge. But eventually, his prepubescent act of monstrosity faded. 

That was why he felt blessed when their father asked him to join his raid in Wessex. Him, only him; Ivar the Boneless, joining their father on a raid. The Gods never favoured him and instead of glory, Ivar found despair. Their father, Ragnar Lothbrok willingly walked into the belly of the beast, with his hands raised high, unarmed and broken. Like a loyal dog, he’d crawled after his father, knowing full heartily in the castle of Wessex lay nothing but doom. Still, he’d rather die by his father’s side then end up dead in a ditch, from hunger and thirst. His father broke his promise, or rather King Egbert’s son did. The safe passage back home, which had been arranged turned out to be a lie. When he was dragged away from his father’s cell, a blunt object collided to the back of his head and pain temporarily blinded him. Quite helplessly, he’d been listening to Prince Aethelwulf arranging his deposit. The pain in the back of his head was severe. Pain throbbed so violently around in his skull that he wondered why it didn’t just crack open.

For the first day, the nausea was overwhelming, he could not keep anything down. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time and place. Curled up, cradling his damaged skull he wished for his mother. Any form of light ravaged his brain, pounding, throbbing, like a rotting tooth right between the eyes. It took his sanity away, his coordination. The few altercation he had with Saxxons made him whimper and plead for salvation. But no relief came to his pain. Without power to fight back, Ivar found himself tossed into a ship hold, as if he were a sack of potatoes; nothing more than damaged cargo. The circumstances below deck were horrendous; human cattle packed up and wedged together as tightly as the overseers could cramp in. Ivar, half aware of his surroundings and halfway sliding into a deep pool of endless nothingness, flinched when fingers reached for his oath ring. A fist formed itself around his wrist like a bear trap and with that, the last bits of his hereditary was ripped off of him. The leather protecting his fragile lower limbs, gone, taken too. His necklace, also gone. Even his shoes and tunic were worth taking. The overseers sniggered at the sight of Ivar’s weak attempt to intervene and shoved him aside, like a thing. Like a nothing.

Their journey overseas started although Ivar wasn’t aware, which in his case was a good thing. The onerous space was filled up to the max, with minimal resources. There was barely any light, no personal space. Water was scarce and so was food. Hygiene became a problem after the ship set it’s sails and some of the unlucky ones got seasick. It did not take long for the cramped out area to turn into a sewage; the stench and heat insufferable. 

Ivar withstood the trials in silence, cradling his head in a fetal position. The pain in his head was all consuming. Squeezing his eyes shut, he willed the pain to go away. Over and over, until in the end, the rest of the world became detached. 

He could barely hear the people around him. Some prayed in foreign tongues, others whimpered. Somewhere afar, a young child cried. 

Eventually, he drifted into sleep, waking up by a sudden toss aside. Cries were lost beneath the thunder that rolled overhead. Their cage of wood and sails was mercilessly thrown into a storm. The waves resolutely grew in size. Their vessel rode the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy, no longer controlled by the hands of men. 

The inhabitants below deck were violently thrown from the far end of the hold to the other. Bodies were being trampled, panic spread like the plague, festering into each and everyone’s head. Violence roamed among the poor souls in captivity in order to breathe. 

At one point, Ivar found himself suffocating. Never had he wished more for land, to feel the sweet green grass of his home against the palms of his hands. The sea, it felt like his rage from within. Like punishment, ready to tear itself through the wooden construction to claim their souls. His mother’s prophecy would come true. He would drown and never enter Valhalla, because there was no honour in this poor death. To be dragged down to the bottom of the sea with countless slaves. There was nothing heroic nor royal about this death. This was not the end of a Prince, yet it seemed inevitable. And although he fought the feeling with every last bit of strength he could muster, Ivar was petrified. For the cold water to seize his body, for his lungs to fill up with water, to feel his life slowly ebb away.  

In between the lightning, darkness prevailed. In between the darkness there were flashes of his fellow unfortunate souls, their faces overcome with terror. 

‘Is it Odin’, Ivar thought, ‘fighting with the Christian God?’ Was this his fault, for it was him who’d coldly, bloodily mauled a defenseless Christian? 

‘Please Odin, the All-father, do not allow a Viking prince to die such an unworthy death,’ Ivar pleaded, ‘if I survive this storm I promise you, I will make it worth your while.’ 

As sudden as the storm erupted, it disappeared. Along the dawn of morning, the ship anchored ashore. 

Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding Ivar momentarily as the portholes were pulled open by the overseers. Orders were being shouted in unfamiliar tongues, for those who weren’t familiar with the language, there was the beating of a whip. The human cargo was expected to exit the ship, rather sooner than later. 

Few bodies remained lifeless, passed away due to suffocation. One by one they were removed by the overseers; by simply being thrown off the ship. There was no honor, nor time to bury a slave.

When one of the overseers took hold of Ivar’s curled up body, he was surprised to find the slave to be alive. Surprise was rapidly replaced by irritation. Lashing his whip he struck Ivar across the face, making the poor young man hiss and hide his face. 

The overseer signaled another member of his crew to lend out a helping hand. Both grabbed Ivar underneath his armpits and dragged him up his feet. 

Both men grunted in annoyance when their slave immediately dropped back on the floor. One chuckled and nudged against Ivar’s deformed legs. The other one let out a long impatient sigh and kicked Ivar’s arms right from under him. 

Ivar’s chin merely had time to hit the wooden floor, before a familiar boot planted itself onto Ivar’s spinal cord, taking his breath away. 

The other overseer sank down on his knees, a knife playing between his fingers. Though rust had set on the handle and blade, it was strong and jagged, enough to cut a throat. 

The tip of the knife pressing against Ivar’s  Adam’s apple prevailed the pain in his head, the stiffness of his limbs and the heavy weight on top of him. 

“I can crawl you croaked-nosed bastard,” Ivar snarled, his hands bracing to carry his upper body. The overseers must have found it amusing, seeing him squirm on the floor like a spider being squished. To exaggerate Ivar’s deride, the boot placed on his back moved up to in between his shoulder blades, pressing him down firmly. 

The boiling rage inside of him, swept through his system, like an old favoured friend patting him on the back. 

In effort to remain silent Ivar gritted his teeth, his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists too hard. His eyes squeezed closed as his face contorted and he placed his palms down onto the splintery floor. Arching his back, the pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, but he would withstand it, even if it was the last thing he’d do. Inch by inch, he pressed himself up while another man’s weight pressed him down. With every inch, his demolished resilience sparked back up and inwardly he roared when the overseer took the boot off his back, allowing him to carry his crippled arse out of this hellhole. 

Crawling like a worm from a bird, he climbed up the steps, one by one, while sweat trickled down his face and his right eye twitched from the explosive pain inside his damaged skull. 

On the upper deck, he briefly sank against a barrel, allowing his lungs to fill up with the salty fresh breeze. Grey clouds roamed freely above – hindering the sun and its warmth. 

Once Ivar caught his breath and expelled the headache to the far end of his brain, he risked a peek over the railing. 

Dejection curled around his chest with the grip of an iron straight jacket. The ship had anchored at a small harbour, bedded near a murky dirt road. A long line of future slaves were staggering towards carts pulled by mules. One man’s sanity must have drowned during the storm, the poor bastard broke the line and made a run for it. 

He did not get far, an armed horse rider strode after him, stabbing a spear through his neck. There was no escape, at least not now. 

And so Ivar the Boneless, son of King Ragnar Lothbrok, found himself obeying the commands of Christians, lost in a faraway land while his father was at the mercy of a mendacious king. His mother presumed him to be dead, lifeless at the bottom of the sea. So there wouldn’t be a soul looking for him. 

He came to Essex as a Prince, for fame and glory; yet resurrected as a nameless, crippled slave. Oh, the Gods played him the most lousy cards of all. 

.-.-.

A/N: So this was chapter one of my Ivar fanfiction, I’m thrilled to hear what you think of it so far. As I’m still very much on Ivar’s side, I’d like to point out that yes he murdered a person in a gruesome way, but he basically did it for validation. Ok, yes that fact might make it even worse, but the way I see it is that Ivar desperately wants to become ‘something’, that he’d rather be a monster than be the person he is. 

And now he’s not even a monster anymore, now he’s just a slave, that’s karma baby. 

Xoxox Nukyster