Disclaimer: Is there a 3rd/4th/5th/... season of Witchblade? Did Sara and Ian get together in said seasons? No? Not my fault 'cause I don't own them. And I lifted the dialogue marked with * from the ep 'Transcendence'. Ian having Excalibur (it's part of the Witchblade) is taken from the comic books.
Summary: My spin on 'Transcendence', EvilIAn and his 'agression levels'.
Agression comes in many forms. What happens when Sara is the sole focus of EvilIan's agression? How will he use his 'appropriate tools'? And how will Sara retaliate?
Warnings: violence/smut-alert, character death, unbeta-ed, with a fluffy ending
Distribution: my site 'Spinning Round'
AN 1: It was meant to be a really short fic, but once I actually got my muse to work, she demanded that Ian... nah, that would be giving it away. *evilgrin*
Ian Nottingham is standing in the library, still trying to assimilate the memories the ghost – or is it soul? – of his dead predecessor pounds into him. It’s a violent and merciless circle of infinty. But perhaps it only appears this way.Whatever the case, he’s trapped in the onslaught of jumbled emotions, painful regrets and bittersweet dreams. But he is not helpless. He learns from the mistakes his predecessor made and makes plans for the future. A future that does not involve Irons or Sara as his Masters, but Sara as Mistress to Ian’s Mastery. *“Ian, please come down.” Irons calls from below. His protégé, of course, obeys. For now. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” he greets them neutrally, swallowing the sarcasm he wants to lash them with. “How are you feeling today, Ian?” Dr. Immo asks, trying to hide his fear of him, but the new Nottingham knows and smirks mentally. Yes, be afraid of me. “Restless.” he answers. What he’s thinking is another matter entirely. Like a live wire. Frustrated. Horny. He keeps it to himself, of course. For now he will tell them what they want to hear. “Do you remember how you spent your day?” Immo continues. I gave my life for HER. Without claiming HER. Anger coats that last thought, but there’s no trace of it left when he speaks aloud. “No, sir. I think I’ve been asleep for a while.” But Kenneth Irons is never easily satisfied. “What do you remember?” Sara. The Witchblade. My role in their lives. “My primary mission is to protect you…” But not for much longer. “Following that I protect Sara Pezzini, the wielder of the Witchblade.” As always. She is mine. Then, here, now and again. “Do you know what she looks like?” The dark-haired man closes his eyes and sees her in his mind. Pleasure, desire and passion course through his veins. He smothers the urge to smile. I have always known. “Exactly.” He smirks just lightly. But his mentor has noticed and digs deeper. “What else do you know?” That you won’t live for much longer. “That there have been others before me. That my immediate predecessor was defective in his emotional make-up. He was soft…” Too soft. Never took what he wanted or what was his. Never found the courage to get rid of you, Kenny. “This deficency cost him his usefulness, thus his life. I know I still have some of his memories…” And the rest will come soon. “I know I only exist because you allow it.” Nottingham laughs inside. This is irony at its best. The truth is with or without Irons there’s always an ‘Ian’ around when the wielder is active. A teacher, protector, companion or lover. Sometimes he encompasses all these roles. Sometimes he fails helplessly in one or all of them, due to outside intrigue, misunderstandings or unfortunate age differences between the wielder and her destined man. But one fact remains the same throughout time. When an ‘Ian’ dies, the next one is born, the memories of his precedessors ingrained within him… body, mind and soul. This time though… it is the Iron man who provides the grown body over which he believes he has control. But does his servant work properly? “Do you feel capable of retrieving Sara Pezzini?” he inquires. Thought, truth and expectations collide to form words Ian can speak aloud. “Oh, I feel capable of anything.” “Do you have the appropriate tools?” Irons needs one last assurance. The improved Ian lifts his hands and looks at them, already seeing what he will do with them. Hearing Immo’s heart rate increase, he glances at the doctor. The old man’s fear has returned. Kenneth does not notice and issues Ian’s most important task. “Bring me Sara Pezzini.”* It’s a command and dismissal. But Iron’s newest weapon has other plans. Naturally, plans often don’t go as planned when Sara Pezzini is involved. *** By the time Nottingham catches up with her, she’s with Jake McCarthy and about a dozen camouflaged Special Unit soldiers in an abandoned building. Dante – the dark-haired assassin can hear and smell the slimebag – is not far when the rookie professes his love to Ian’s woman. Mine! Anger wells up inside Nottingham and he decides then and there that surferboy has to die. He can barely restrain himself from doing so immediately. Only the knowledge of Sara’s reaction keeps him from rushing blondie’s execution. He’ll have to bide his time. Keep it from her. Make it look like White Bull’s revenge. He grins evilly and starts forming a new plan in his mind, while keeping his attention on Sara and the situation, Dante’s appearance, McCarthy’s betrayal, Dante’s downfall and his revelation about Irons’ part in her father’s murder, the SU sweeping in. But his attention snaps solely to his wielder when he sees the anger in her eyes, sees it vibrate through her body and manifest in her soul. He knows where she’s headed now, what she wants and needs to do. So he follows her. As does Jake McCarthy. The latter does it like a loyal puppy, the first like a silent shadow. Ian considers stealing a taxi and taking her to the mansion himself, but she’s faster, hails one and jumps in before he can reach her. He smirks, but Blondie is annoyed Sara slipped through his fingers. Again. The wielder’s protector modifies his plan and the blond detective follows her in his own car, never suspecting that death is stalking him, awaiting him, because Ian is faster and actually knows the layout of Irons’ estate. They finally cross paths at the hidden back entrance to the mansion. Irons’ henchman has a scary smile on his face and a deranged glint in his eyes. Jake pulls his gun. It is the only solution, the only thing that can give him any courage at this point. At least that’s what he believes. Ian Nottingham’s presence has always unsettled him, and he’s only once admitted his fear of Sara’s stalker to himself. But this transformed loon is scaring the hell out of him. And rightfully so. Before detective can pull the trigger, his gun is in his opponent’s hand, bending to his will, while the other closes tightly around Jake’s throat, slowly suffocating him. He struggles and fights, is desperately gasping for air. But it’s no use. He is not, will never be as strong. “She’s mine! Remember that!” Nottingham threatens. The blond rookie knows who ‘she’ is, but he’s puzzled. What is the use remembering a threat when you’re about to die? And this is his last thought. The myth that you see your life flashing before your eyes when you leave this world doesn’t apply to him. He’s part of another myth, a player on the chessboard the Witchblade created, a figure bound to a game of life that had a beginning, but will never have an ending. He’ll be born again and not remember a thing, except that one crucial claim he heard at the point of his death. It’ll remain with him forever, an unconscious thought shaping his future actions. The wielder is not his, but Nottingham’s – or whatever his name will be when they meet again to serve the Witchblade and its wielder. As it is destined. *** Satisfied from his last kill, Nottingham stalks in on Sara and Irons. They are arguing and the Witchblade is in sword form, extended towards the man who ordered her father’s execution and made Ian’s precedessor’s life hell. Sara is struggling, caught between the need for revenge, the morals installed by her father and the codes she lives by as police officer. And the rights… the Witchblade whispers... you have as wielder. Irons only makes it more difficult to stay on the right path with his taunting. His creation has seen enough, has felt enough, has heard what the Witchblade wants him to do. Kill him. He draws his sword and severs Irons’ head from his body in one swift, skillful move. Sara leaps back, avoiding the crumbling body, her eyes wide with shock as she looks up and her gaze locks with… “Nottingham?” she has to ask. How can this be? She saw him die not too long ago. But now he’s back and there’s no doubt it is him. He looks so different, yet she has no trouble recognizing him, even without the beard that always obscured his face before. She’s seen his features often enough to remember, to know them by heart. “Sara.” he greets, boldly gazing into her eyes. This is new. And he feels different, too. Still dangerous, maybe even more so now. His lost puppy expression is gone, as is his crush. Before her stands a predator, a wild, untamed and aggressive male, a warrior who oozes confidence, potency and raw sexuality. A god. Not even she is immune to the lure. Nocturnal self-destructive bad boys, she hears Danny whisper in her head, reminding her of preferences. And suddenly she’s struck with the realisation that her personal stalker is just her type. She swallows, but he just grins knowingly. “Sara.” His voice sounds the same, but it is not a mumble anymore. It’s confident and a rather seductive rumble. This is a man who knows what he wants. And what he wants right now is her. It’s all in his eyes, in his graceful moves as he approaches her hungrily. She recongizes his walk for what it is and takes a step backwards, trying to avoid him. He’s not deterred. She is the prey, he the predator. There is no need to run. This is the primal dance between man and woman. Still… this is Nottingham, she’s never considered… no, that’s a lie. She has acknowledged his beauty before now, has seen his strength and agility, has speculated, wondered what a lover like him could achieve. But his talking and submissive behaviour made her shy away from even contemplating to ever taste him. But he isn’t submissive anymore now. He is still stalking, yes, like a big jungle cat, mysterious, mythical and dangerously appealing. He has reached his full potential. Is this what it takes to make her give in? She is confused, but the decision is already out of her hands. And his are on either side of her hips, holding her trapped against the wall he’s backed her up against. There’s no time to plan or struggle. He leans in, captures her lower lip between his and sucks it lightly. Tingles errupt like sparks of electricity in the flesh he’s caressing, then shoot down inside her body in a wave of heat. But almost immediately his lips are gone and she moans at the loss. Her request is obvious, so he attacks her mouth with his own again. She closes her eyes, abandons herself to the skillfull onslaught of his lips, teeth and tongue. Curling her arms around his shoulders, she pulls him flush against her to quench the need to feel his weight crushing her. The prominent bulge pressing into her stomach makes her heartbeat spin even more out of control. She rubs against him, a commanding move disguised as pleading. But he understands, knows her intent, her need for he feels the same. One hand sneaks under her sweater and starts exploring her breast. The other slides down the length of her thigh, lifting it in the process, and comes to rest beneath her knee, creating an impeccable cradle for his hips. Unconsciously, she’s risen to her tiptoes and is using the lepels of his jacket to keep her body elevated, her crotch in perfect alignment with his. He rocks into her and she responds in kind, then releases his mouth to moan loudly. And for the first time in her life she condemns the thickness of her jeans. She wants him closer, his hot hardness on her slippery mound. No, not enough. Inside. Sliding. Gliding. Riding. “Please!” she begs him. He freezes at the sound, stops nibbling her neck and kneading her breast. The word - until now unheard from her lips - is music to his ears. Yes, she is his. Only he can give her what she wants, what she needs. Letting go of her leg, he takes a step back and makes quick work of her zipper. With both hands he slides her pants down. No gloves, she marvels, surprised how warm and smooth his hands are. He kneels to help her out of one leg. It puts his face right in front of her crotch, though. Her wet boy shorts are taunting him, her flavor distracting him and he loses all patience. Not that he ever had much of it to begin with. It is Sara after all. He rips the offending material away, pushes her legs apart with his hands before he dives in, lickering her from top to bottom and back down again. Mine! his mind screams. She tastes like the mortal equivalent of ambrosia. Heaven. He wants to be there. Then stands faster than a lightning bolt. Before her senses have caught up with his moves, her bare is ass in his hands, he’s lifted her to the right angle and plunged into her slick depths. He groans. She gasps, only now aware that her legs have automatically wrapped around his waist and her hands are already freeing his luscious hair from its confines. She has always wanted to touch his soft-looking curls of darkness, to bury her hands in it. And now that he’s moving within her, just at the right pace, going excatly deep enough to cause maximum friction and pleasure, she grabs at his hair in ecstasy, holds onto the strands like they are the last threads holding her to this world. He claims her mouth again, ravages it, devours her with lips, teeth, tongue and cock. And just when she thinks she can take no more, that she will finally shatter, he picks up the tempo, takes her even higher. His thrusts become shorter, more powerful, almost forceful in their execution, transforming the bumping of their bodies into sweet torture. She breaks away from his mouth, desperately searching for her breath, but all she can do is moan her pleasure, her need for more... of him. “Come for me!” he commands with such authority and agression, she actually obeys what he demands of her for the first time since she’s known him. She falls apart even as she digs her nails deeper into him, satisfaction suffusing her every cell. She doesn’t wail, she doesn’t scream, she comes on a loud ‘Ahhh!’, half a gasp, half a moan, shuddering through her whole body. He smirks arrogantly, waits for her sight to refocus… on him. When it finally does, he lets himself go, plunges erratically into her. Two more thrusts and he’s there, coming, spilling his hot seed into her womb and fighting the urge to close his eyes as his orgams takes him. He wants her to see what she does to him. But she sees more than he bargained for: the killer in him. And Jake’s death by his hands. She pushes him away with all her strength. He is too surprised to hold onto her. She lands on her feet and immediately brandishes the Witchblade. A second later she runs him through with it in sword form. “You bastard!” she screams, disgust, anger and hurt marring her beautiful features. “You killed Jake!” “Bitch!” he hisses right back. She’s not supposed to kill her protector. Yet she twists the sword, hurting him badly in vengeance. He doesn’t voice his pain, but she can see it in his eyes. Yet there’s no sympathy left for this monster in front of her. And there’s only one way to get permanently rid of him. She pulls the blade back and before he can even defend himself, she swings it and severs his head. Shocked and angry, she falls to her knees in desperation. The loss is too crippling. And seeing his still, headless body, she crawls away in disgust. She’s choking, weeping, exhausted, can barely see her surroundings, but somehow she makes it to the couch on her hands and knees. She buries herself in it, seeking comfort in the cold leather as she wails, cries herself to sleep. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
He is ashamed, shocked and furious, feels pity for his first clone, is dismayed by what the second -the Black Dragon- has done, but nothing compares to the horror and jealousy the memories of his third bring.
Still his rage cannot reign free, evaporates as soon as it is born because SHE takes precedence above all else.
He wakes up from his stasis, with her grieving cries echoing in his mind, calling for him.
“Sara.” he breathes. Her name is laced with concern, empathy, need, love and protectiveness.
Blindly he reaches out for her, but his hands only encounter the glass walls of his prison. It doesn’t matter. He is a man with only one goal in his mind and nothing can hold him (back) now. The dragon ring on his right hand anticipates his next move and envelops his fist in a protective, metal glove before its bearer punches through the chamber that is no longer unbreakable.
A moment later the dark-haired man is out, shaking the pieces of glass from his hair and clothes. Finally he is free. But his two clones aren’t. He steps up to their stasis chambers and lays his hands against the glass, noticing that the Black Dragon’s head is reattached.
“Thank you, my brothers.” he says.
He’ll return to free them later. His first priority is Sara.
He runs upstairs, following the link he’s always had with her, and soon finds his beheaded third clone and her in Iron’s den.
Ian, gently and slowly, lifts her into his arms, not wanting to disturb her because he knows she needs this. This healing sleep against grief and exhaustion, as well as the comfort of his embrace and love.
He carries her to his quarters. Not surprisingly, they’re locked up, but it is no obstacle for the dragon ring and the Witchblade. They work in tandem, emitting an energy blast that lets the wielder and her real protector in. He thanks both objects of power with a nod of reverence while he gently lowers his precious cargo onto his bed. Surprisingly, it looks freshly made, no wrinkles, no dust. He reminds himself to thank the maid later.
First things first.
He turns to his drawers and pulls out shorts and a t-shirt. He takes off the rest of Sara’s clothes, trying hard to ignore her naked form, before he dresses her in his. It is no small feat, the desire to look upon her naked beauty, what is rightfully his, is overwhelming. Still he resists. There will be time later to drink her in and worship what has been denied since their last lifetime. She doesn’t need his lust right now. She needs his comfort.
He kisses her forehead, then lays down behind her and pulls her closer into the safety of his arms. She molds to his length, unconsciously mirroring moves from pasts long buried in oblivion. He smiles in ackowledgment, with Excalibur upon her Witchblade, he starts telling and reminding her what has happened in past lifetimes and in this, when they first met and what happened after. The entwined objects of power provide the pictures to his words.
Ian had been following Sara for a few nights now, keeping her and her friend Maria safe from harm when they snuck out at night to have some fun. He’d never approached them, but Marias’s challenge tonight drew him in like a protector to his wielder, even though Sara was not in the possession of the Witchblade (yet).
“Kiss the next guy that comes around the corner!”
“Eww! With my luck, it’ll be an old, smelly pervert.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “Chicken!”
Sara was many things, but not that. Still…
“And if it’s a girl?”
“You’re stalling, you coward!” Her friend laughed at her.
“I’m not!” Sara retorted, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Stalling? Or a coward?” Maria taunted.
Ian grinned in his hiding place.
“Neither. But you have to swear you won’t make me go on a double date ever again.” Sara bargained.
“What if nobody shows up?” Sara asked after a few seconds, which felt like an eternity to her. “How long do we wait?”
“Are you stalling again?”
“No, I just don’t want to freeze my ass off.”
“Well, I guess you better make it a hot kiss then.”
“Ha ha ha. Very funny, Buzani.” Sara turned back to peek around the corner, but collided with a tall, lanky figure shrouded in black.
“Whoops. Sorry.” she apologized and looked up into his face.
She couldn’t see much in the dim light of a faraway streetlamp, except his shoulder-longish, curly hair framing his face and partially obscuring his big - and what she assumed - dark eyes. He looked cute, yet not fully grown into his almost adult face. Maybe this wouldn’t be chore after all.
Drawing a deep breath, Sara rose on to her tiptoes while reaching for his rollneck to draw him down to her level. Angling her head a little, she closed her eyes and put a kiss on his mouth. Her lips collided with soft, plump flesh. Stunned, she breathed an ‘ohh!’, and her lower lip ghosted over his, planting it safely in her mouth. Out of reflex she sucked on it, savoring the taste of mint and lime.
She wanted more, so much more.
Stepping closer, she pressed herself against him and he gasped into her, momentarily stunned and unprepared. She was delighted, felt feminine and embolded enough to show him what she liked in a kiss. So she let go of his lip and plunged her tongue into his mouth, touching his, tempting him to play.He couldn’t resist and let her lead, but followed eagerly. Forgetting his inexperience, he pulled her closer in need, smashing her breasts against his chest. Another new experience, another pleasant shock, shooting right down between his legs.
And she felt him coming to life against her stomach.
She gasped and pulled away.
“I’m sorry.” they said in unison, breathing heavily.
Then she sprinted back around the corner to meet her friend and flee in embarrassment, leaving him standing there, starstruck, eyes shining with pleasure and the first stirrings of love, whispering her name in reverence.
The scene switches to a room she is all too familiar with.
Teen Ian stood with his back to the fireplace, arms behind him while Irons sat enthroned in his wooden chair in front of him.
King and servant.
She doesn’t like the pictures she sees.
“Where have you been?”
“Around.” the boy answered defiantly.
The scene changes again, yet Ian is the same.
He hung in chains - bolted probably somewhere in the ceiling - arms stretched above his head. Irons held a black whip which looked smeared with dark liquid.
“Who is the wielder?”
Ian didn’t answer.
The older man walked behind him. Ian’s back was almost flayed, but the Iron man didn’t care and made the leather collide with tender flesh again. The boy hissed in agony, but let out no other sound.
“Where is she?” Irons repeated the question again and again.
And still young Ian never revealed anything.
Times moves again.
Ian is a little older, taller and shadows of a beard mark his cheeks and jaw. Late teens, she thinks, but it’s not important.
The young man stood in front of a glass case which held the Witchblade prisoner.
The weapon was in its glove form, muttering unintelligble things. But Ian seemed to understand it and shook his head in protest, panick filling his eyes.
The blade didn’t care and jumped out of its glass confinement to wrap itself around the boy’s right hand. He froze, cocked his head as if listening, but for all intents and purposes he looked spaced out.
Excalibur, he mouthed.
Suddenly the Witchblade flung itself back into the case, repairing the damage that would’ve incriminated it.
Ian fell unconscious to the floor just as Irons rushed in through the door and to his side. He shook the boy a few times, but when he didn’t respond, he called for Immo. And while he was waiting for the doctor, he noticed a ring on Ian’s right hand he’d never seen before.
A dragon with two blue stones as eyes. The same color of gems he’d seen on the Witchblade. He looked to the case. It was unbroken, but the big red stone seemed to be watching.
“What have you done?” Irons whispered horrified while turning back to his protégé. He wasn’t sure who he had adressed the question to.
Another jump and Sara finds herself watching the proceedings in Immo’s lab.
The same Ian is strapped to a gurney, still blissfully out.
“The ring?” Irons demanded.
“It cannot be removed.” Immo held an X-Ray against the light, pointing to tendrils of the ring embedded in Ian’s skin and bones.
“Then cut off his finger!” Irons replied coldly.
The doctor was not fazed. “The skin on his hand is invulnerable.”
Irons grimaced, his displeasure mounting.
The secene changes so quickly it doesn’t seem like much time has passed.
Ian was sealed into a human sized glass container. It stood upright and looked like a cryo-chamber from sci-fi movies.
Knowing Irons, it’s probably excactly what it seems.
The man himself turned to Immo. “Wake number one and two. One will become my bodyguard. Prepare two for the Black Dragon project.”
The dreamvision and time shift again.
Ian looks like she knows him right now, but she’s knows it’s clone number one, standing in front of the infamous fireplace.
“Bring me the Witchblade.” Irons ordered from aside. “Don’t fail this time.”
Ian looked to the left, seemingly piercing Irons with his eyes. “No!” he said determinedly.
And it’s clear he’s denied the order and ignored the rebuke for more failure.
“Very well.” Irons said and came towards him, a syringe in his hands. Ian stepped back in defence.
“Ian!” Kenneth called and a second version of Nottingham appeared.
“Hold him!” Irons ordered.
In one swift move the first Ian is trapped, betrayal written across his features. Kenneth didn’t care. He quickly stuck the needle into Ian’s neck, releasing the tranquilizer right into the blood stream. And it didn’t take long for him to lose consciousness and sack in his brother’s arms.
“Bring him to Immo.” were Iron’s words before he left the room.
The remaining Ian hefted the unconscious man over his shoulders.
And for the first time Sara sees the Black Dragon tattoo.
Another change in scenery.
The Black Dragon entered Immo’s lab and put the Ian he had carried into a cryo-chamber right next to the orginal Ian with the dragon ring.
“You can go now, Ian.” Immo asked him not too subtly. And as he did as he was told his eyes swept over the cryo-chambers. There were four of them, but only one was unoccupied.
Time changes, the place doesn’t and there are still three chambers occupied.
But there is a slight change.
The Black Dragon was confined again, an ugly, bloodcrusted scar marring his smooth neck. Next to him, clone number one slept, but the original Ian right beside him opened his eyes.
“Sara.” he whispered and punched through the glass, never caring about the blood escaping the skin of his arm.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to. The skin absorbed the red liquid as the wounds healed immediately. He turned to the other chambers, containing his clones, and laid his hands against each surface.
“Thank you, my brothers.”
He’ll come for them later.
He turned around, running upstairs, found Sara and the headless clone. She slept, but he didn’t care. He picked her up and brought her to his rooms, trying hard not to notice that she was half naked. He striped off the rest of her clothes before dressing her in a long t-shirt and a pair of fresh boxers and tucked her in to his bed carefully, reverently. Then lay down beside her, spooning against her body.
They visions have arrived in the present and plunge back into the past, into other lives, suddenly coming in quick sucsession.
Different versions of Ian kneeling in front of different Saras, pledging their sword, Excalibur and undying devotion to her. Each Sara accepted, and most of them sealed the pledge by making love to their protectors, their guardians.
It is the way it’s meant to be.
And Irons had tried to twist it.
As Sara realizes this, a weight is lifted off her shoulder. Her attraction to Ian, her need of him is no sickness.
They belong together.
Their connection is sacred.
And her relief finally releases her from the visions. She wakes to the sight of her Witchblade and his Excalibur entwined, the tendrils of both objects of power wrapped around their hands.
The gems are glowing happily, sparkling red and blue.
And so does the original Ian.
Or not. I might write a smutty epilogue for Sara and the real Ian. After all Sara got to have sex with evilIan, so she deserves some sweet lovingmaking with the original. And no doubt about it the real Ian deserves it, too.