#ficlet action

[iinryer]

I feel like 43 (piggy back ride) and 49 (leaning on the other for support) would pair with each other SO well 🤗☺️

A little scene prompt game to get me writing!

[43: piggy back ride + 49: leaning on the other for support]

—

“Come on, Buck,” Eddie grits out, as loudly as he can to be heard past the mask over his face and the roar of the flames a few floors above them, “come on, four more flights, we can do it,”

Buck just lets out a pained laugh, tightening his hold across Eddie’s shoulders—he’s been losing his footing more frequently and Eddie’s getting increasingly worried that they’re not going to make it to the ground level.

Eddie has been feeding him a litany of come on let’s go you’ve got it almost there the entire descent from the collapsed 11th floor, and at this point he’s not sure whose benefit it’s for.

The next time Buck stumbles, it’s on the landing between the third and fourth floors, and it’s accompanied by a weak, “Ed-Eddie, I can’t, I—,” before he pulls Eddie with him as he’s bracing against the wall and sliding down to the floor.

Eddie crouches in front of him, grasping the sides of his head, trying to get a better look through Buck’s cracked face mask.

“Buck—Buck! Hey!” Eddie gives him a frantic shake, “Hey, look at me, bud—yeah, that’s it, let me see those eyes,”

“Eddie, I’m—,” Buck cuts himself off with a cough and a harsh swallow, pupils visibly different sizes, “I can’t, I can’t—I’m so dizzy, Eddie, I can’t,”

Adrenaline zips down Eddie’s spine, hands tingling with it where he’s holding Buck’s face, separated only by the barely-functional protective gear, “Hey. Yes you can—Yes you can! Come on, we’re so close, we can swap masks for the last few flights—,”

Predictably, Buck interrupts him with a severe look—one that’s undercut almost immediately by the weak push to Eddie’s chest and slight slur of his voice—saying, “No. No, Eddie, not a chance,”

”Buck,” Eddie tries, again, like he has every other flight since floor 11, “I’m not the one with the concussion. Please—,”

“Diaz, Buckley—what’s your status,” Bobby’s voice crackles over the radio.

Eddie takes a frustrated breath before keying his radio, “Over three-quarters down, Cap. I can get us there, but Buck’s in pretty rough shape,”

Buck glares at him weakly through the crack splitting his mask.

Eddie glares back.

“Copy,” Bobby says, strain in his voice evident even through the radio, “IC is still adamant on personnel evac, they’re not permitting new entry unless both of you are compromised, the upper floors are too unstable. But we’ve got the best of the best waiting for the two of you by the eastern stairwell door,”

“Understood,” Eddie says, “Tell Hen and Chim they’ll see us soon,”

”We’d better,” Hen chimes in.

When the channel chirps closed, the only sound Eddie can hear is his own breathing inside his respirator as the two of them look at each other. Eddie gives them to the count of five in his own head before he’s saying, “Come on, Buck, time to go,”

Eddie pulls Buck up roughly, only for his limbs to ragdoll so quickly that Eddie ends up dropping harshly on his knees to be able to throw a hand out to keep Buck’s head from hitting the railing on his way back down.

To his horror, he can see tears spring to Buck’s eyes—ones that he’s sure have nothing to do with the smoke.

“I—I can’t, Eddie, I—,” Buck’s voice trembles, fumbling to grasp at Eddie’s turnout sleeve, “it’s spinning, and it hurts so—hurts so bad I can’t see,”

Concussion symptoms: loss of motor control, dizziness, pain, mood dysregulation.

Something above them crashes and roars.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Eddie tries, dipping down to press the front of his helmet to the top of Buck’s for a frantic moment, “I’ve got you, man, okay? I’ve got you,”

“Okay,” Buck nods against him, shakily, “Okay, you’ve got me,”

It very quickly becomes clear that Buck will not be able to hold himself up enough to simply lean on Eddie like before, so Eddie reconfigures.

Despite the weak protests, he manhandles Buck forward so he’s seated on the top step off of the landing. Eddie positions himself a step down with his back to Buck’s chest, and heaves the increasingly limp form behind him onto his own back.

There’s a muffled groan over his shoulder when he hoists Buck into a better position after standing, his own body screaming in response. But stand he does, and step by step, flight by flight, they move.

Almost like a mantra or a prayer, Eddie finds himself immediately falling back into the teeth-gritting promises of I’ve got you I’ve got you I’ll get us there I’ve got you all the way to the ground floor—and they’re promises he intends to keep.

[now posted on ao3!]

[weird-an]

Billy Hargrove is an annoying punk, a troublemaker. Always loitering, speeding and Callahan even caught him driving drunk today. Jim has to work over time to bring him home.

So when Neil Hargrove promises Jim that he's "going to teach Billy a lesson", Hopper is actually delighted to hear that. This kid needs some boundaries. For his own good or he'll crash that Camaro into a tree one day.

A few days later Jim sees him at Melvald's, face all green and purple. Jesus, he thinks, Billy really doesn't learn. Picking up a fight after already getting a trouble with the police.

"Billy," he suddenly hears Steve Harrington say. "What happened?"

He sounds concerned. Jim didn't even know they were friendly now- or talking at all. He stays hidden behind a shelf. It's not his business. He stares at the cans of soup in front of him. Something is scratching the back of his head. Something is wrong here.

"I...got caught by the police," Billy mumbles, voice so low Jim can barely hear it. "On Friday, after we... hung out."

But neither Jim or Callahan put a hand on Billy. He was fine when Jim dropped him off... at home.

Shit.

His mouth turns sour. Neil Hargrove's lessons aren't what he expected. They are violence disguised as parenting. Jim wants to knock over the shelf. Or Neil Hargrove. Or himself for being so stupid.

"Fuck," Steve groans. "I wish you could have stayed."

"Me too," Billy whispers. There is a softness in his words, it seems to intimate and Jim's throat clogs up, because he should definitely not listen to this conversation.

"Billy," Steve starts carefully. "Your dad..."

"Don't," Billy snarls.

Hopper knows what Billy is doing. He has done it himself hundredth of times. Pushing people away, closing off, not letting anyone in.

Yeah. Jim is the reason that Billy's face is a bouquet of bruises. He's not going to let Billy get new ones. Its the least he can do.

Jim walks towards them. Billy notices him first, lips thinning and shoulders tensing.

"I think we need to talk," Jim says. "About what happened to your face."

"Nothing happened," Billy presses out while Steve nods next to him, hope flashing across his face. Jim wonders how long he has dealt with Billy's reluctance to talk about it.

"We all know that's not true. C'mon, let's talk about this." Jim cuts himself off, before he can let a "I'm sorry" slip, because guilt and regrets won't help anyone here.

[mirrorofliterature]

hector is out of place, out of time, completely dislocated.

once, he had a family.

it has almost been a century.

a night of revelations - of horrible, horrible revelations -

your best friend - your brother - murdered you for personal glory, left you in the dust, your wife just wrote you off, as if leaving was like you at all -

and now he has a family again?

hector does not buy it. cannot buy it, even.

he has been burned too many times before.

he had hoped, first when ernesto died, then when imelda died.

ernesto ignored him, imelda obliterated his heart.

hector does not know where he belonged -

if he ever did belong somewhere -

but he knows it is not here, in the well-kept merchant streets of the land of the dead.

he stays at imelda's place for a few days, catching his breath.

if imelda had ever loved him - she must have, once -

I'm the love of your life?

it has long since crumbled into ash.

hector does not belong here, in this neat guest room with matching furniture and pale pink walls.

once he can move without falling -

he slips away from imelda and her family.

he has survived, alone, for almost a century.

he does not need one, now.

he cannot need one.

even if his heart still bleeds -

even if he still loves a wife who has long scorned him -

it is too late. the cards have long since fallen.

hector is the rip in the photograph, the cautionary tale, the scorned forefather.

nothing has changed, except knowing that ernesto stole everything from him.

and he cannot get his family back, not anymore.

it no longer exists.

so he slips away from the rivera residence, away from the cloying pity and thick guilt, back into the underground of the underworld.

that is where he belongs: with the forgotten, his kindred.

not in a mockery of the past.

[sugarbunbie]

for my love on ice

by AG1234VL

Summary: When Yuuri is confronted with a much younger version of his husband one morning, he decides to take him to the rink.

A soft, fluffy fic with de-aged Viktor and Yuuri showing his love on ice. Roughly 1.5k words. Rated G.

Written for Yuri On Ice Gotcha For Gaza.

Thank you @lamusadelils for the donation and prompt! I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy this little fic <3

Thank you @yuri-on-ice-action for making this all possible.

[sofyachy]

Food Omens Chapter 5: The Hummus Olympics

Dubai, [Date Redacted]

“Angel, what did you do?” Crowley asked as they crouched behind a table that had been turned onto its side. Beyond the table, they could hear voices yelling, punctuated by the sounds of wet things going splat.  

“Well,” Aziraphale nervously ran his finger along the edge of the table. “In my defense, I thought it would bring peace to the Middle East.”

Crowley palmed his face.

“You,” he sighed, “thought you could single-handedly end violence to a part of the world that’s been at war for almost all of humanity’s existence.”

“I thought it would be like the Olympics, only with food!” Aziraphale cried. “‘Wouldn’t it be fun,’ I said. ‘Each of your countries – or, rather, cultures – has some form of hummus. Let’s all come together and make it a contest!’” He waved his hands dramatically as he waggled his eyebrows. “‘Let’s see who’s hummus is the best!’”

“Angel,” Crowley groaned.

“It started out peacefully enough, anyway,” Aziraphale continued. 

“And then?”

“Well, then the Americans decided to get involved. They kept insisting that their hummus was vegan.”

Crowley furrowed his brows and tried to perform the right set of calculus equations that would make that statement make sense. “But hummus is just chickpeas, olive oil, and tahini, innit? ‘S already vegan.”

“Yes, I know!” Aziraphale threw up his hands in frustration. “But they also added vegan bacon. It didn’t go over well, I’m afraid.”

Crowley leaned over and wiped a glob of hummus off the angel’s cheek with his finger.

“Is that when your Olympics turned into a battle royale?” He popped the finger into his mouth and sucked it clean.

Aziraphale closed his eyes at the sight and tried to think of world peace instead. “More or less,” he admitted. “I honestly don’t know who flipped the table first, but all the hummus has been sent airborne. It’s quite a disaster, I’m afraid.” 

He looked Crowley up and down. “How did you manage to get here without getting covered in it, anyway?”

“Must’ve been a miracle,” Crowley smirked.

“I see,” Aziraphale replied, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “And you just happened to be in the neighborhood, did you?”

At this, Crowley’s smirk broke into a wide, shit-eating grin. “Who do you think talked the Americans into bringing vegan bacon?”

“Oh, Crowley, you utter fiend!” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley barked a laugh.

Aziraphale saw a big glob of hummus fly past the table they were hiding behind. With a wave of his hand, he redirected it to land on Crowley’s face with a most undignified splat.  

“Oi!” Crowley cried, wiping the dip from his eyes.

“That must have been a miracle,” the angel commented airily. “Consider yourself thwarted.”

The demon growled, “I’ll show you a thwarting,” and smeared the hummus into Aziraphale’s hair.

“Ahhh!” Aziraphale screeched in alarm. He picked up more hummus and rubbed it onto Crowley’s shirt. 

Crowley retaliated by wiping more hummus down the angel’s neck, sliding a finger under his collar. 

Things devolved from there until the two beings were rolling on the floor, covered in hummus. Aziraphale landed on top and pinned Crowley underneath him, slightly out of breath. Without thinking, he lowered himself and licked along the demon’s jawline.

Crowley gasped. “What did you do that for?” he asked, feeling a slight panic seize him. 

“It tastes better without vegan bacon,” Aziraphale commented absently before he fully realized what position he and Crowley were in. 

“Oh,” he breathed. “Crowley…I...”

“Do it again.”

And in that moment, it was quite impossible to think of world peace.

Find more chapters on AO3

[indigosabyss]

DCST x Naruto: Senku's Reluctant Graduation

When ten-year-old Senku wandered up to him one afternoon with a hitai-ate wrapped around his arm, Ukyo nearly coughed up a lung.

"They let you graduate early?!"

Senku glowered, "They made me graduate early."

Of course everyone knew that he was on the fast track to being a paper-nin for the Research Department, so whether or not he could fight wasn't a concern. But he expected them to keep him in school for at least a little longer.

"What did you do?" Ukyo asked, teasing.

"Started charging the older kids to let me do their homework. Oh well, being a ninja gives me more access to the library. I'm over it already."

"Senku."

"What? Everything in this fucking place is restricted! I tried asking the Aburames about the way evolution interacts with chakra that they probably observed with insects and they tried to take me to court over it. Sue me for getting bored!"

Not for the first time, Ukyo considered that his association with Senku would most definitely end with him getting tried for treason one day.

"That's just how things are." He warned, all too used to following orders with minimal information and reasoning provided. This was nothing new, "Knowledge is power, and to prove victorious, we must hoard it for ourselves."

But it was probably maddening for a boy like Senku.

"It's so boring." Senku scoffed, offering no other rebuttal as he leaned moodily against the fence. He clearly knew better than to outright disagree.

"So, what next, kiddo?" Shisui asked, leaning next to him with twinkling eyes. Clearly he was enjoying the rare sight of Ukyo playing devil's advocate, "You just being thrown into R&D?"

Senku shrugged, "Sandaime told me to come by next week to 'receive an assignment'. So until then I'm free to do what I want."

He didn't sound as excited about the prospect as he usually is.

"Except for...?" Ukyo prompted.

Senku gave a world weary sigh, "Anything with motors. Or engines. Especially not automobiles. And especially especially no test rockets."

"Wow. No bombs or repeat stampedes within Village bounds. What hardship you must endure." Shisui sighed, grinning widely.

---

"They gave me a mentor." Senku's voice was dripping with disdain the next week.

"Anything wrong with mentors?" Ukyo asked uncertainly.

"They're all evil." Senku announced with complete certainty, "Anyways, he's meant to be overseeing my work on turning jutsus into machines, because he apparently just knows that fucking many of them, but I think he's trying to infuriate me into learning how to kick properly."

"You should already know that."

"Well, fuck you too."

[re-bon-bon-san]

Vox in Hazbin Hotel RadioStatic AU

Chapter 1, Chapter 2 Vox was frustrated. Extremely sexually frustrated.

Oh, who was he kidding. His feelings for Alastor ran much deeper than simply having the hots for him. But after ignoring it for so long and losing their friendship it had simply become too much.

And what better idea to fix your fucked up rivalry than by joining the Hazbin Hotel!?

What could go wrong?

Chapter 1 Welcome back (pesky feelings)

On the night when Vox had found out that Alastor had come back, he had laid in bed sideways, firmly hugging his blanket and fully awake, as strange realizations hit him. Val was at some sort of impromptu party. Probably banging the first guy he saw, he was sure. Not like Vox ever forbade him from doing that or even cared. His relationship with Valentino was strenuous most of the time anyway, making it open ended, which was making it easier. Especially because neither of them seemed in a hurry to commit. Certainly not when their entire business and integrity as overlords was on the line. But sometimes Vox regretted having met him. The constant arguments were getting on his nerves, Val’s tantrums and violent outbursts were only sometimes funny. Which was really strange, because Vox would say he was a pretty contained and in control man… But ever since the Radio Demon came back he had started acting exactly like Valentino did on a normal day. A volatile, hateful, violent man. And while it was probably true, he hadn’t gotten that heated since the last time he saw Alastor… It was all that man’s fault… he had ridiculed him, acted like there had been nothing between them at all, like it never mattered. Not like he would have acted less insulted being rejected, but he had to hurt his pride too and then run off.

Vox had calmed down, he had lived without him, he was focused more on business and influence and less on fighting. And yet now that Alastor was back and doing radio broadcasts, nothing of that even mattered anymore. It was like he could no longer be proud of his own work if Alastor as much as breathed in his direction. He wanted to prove himself, he wanted his acknowledgement, he wanted Alastor’s downfall! Did he want that? … That guy was an asshole, and yet he had missed him tremendously. All these long years of friendship, thrown out the window after one argument. All those times hanging out, bonding over their ideas and visions… laughing together, all the different restaurants they had visited in hell, all the different tailors. All of that… he wanted all of it… back. Vox laid his face flat on the bed and put the pillow over it, to block everything around him out. A shame it couldn’t block out his neverending, increasingly gayer getting thoughts.

He missed his voice, he missed his shenanigans, his face, his antics, his opinions, his everything, him. Not even the anger of their previous argument could overshadow it. Oh, who was he kidding! It had all always been about him. He had been inspired by him, he had admired him and it was Vox’s arrogance that had ruined it all. Alastor didn’t even have to try and he had still outdone him easily, making Vox cause a huge blackout.

It had no damn business being that hot .

Vox blamed it on having spent so many years with him for growing sentimental. He was still angry and hurt of course. But the way into the Radio Demon’s heart could not be won by those pathetic displays…

Wait… heart?

Vox groaned and gave up on sleep. He stood up groggily, pouring himself some whiskey with ice, as he lit up an LED lamp by simply ordering it to and fished out his phone…

He listened to the Radio Demon’s last broadcast. Cheery jazz music with screams of defeated overlords in the background. Warm nostalgia filled his heart and he took a big sip as he felt the nice burn of liquor make it down to his stomach. Alastor certainly knew how to elegantly demonstrate power. What was it that Vox wanted from him exactly? He couldn’t quite figure it out… If Alastor wasn’t as successful, handsome, charming and powerful Vox wouldn’t even like him! Vox was much more popular and always stayed relevant and yet… in his mind there was no one greater than this enigmatic man. More gulps followed and the Radio Demon’s velvety voice gently commented on his last song selection, having no damn business sounding so seductive.

Vox, of course, had listened to ALL of his broadcasts. Had started as a habit probably that he could not stop, then evolved into an outright addiction and now he did it to find out which new overlord had been sacked. Of course, that was all there was to it… if he felt shivers run down his back at the sound of Alastor’s voice, he paid it no mind.

His thoughts were very confusing… he needed to find out more about Alastor, where he had been for 7 years, what his plans were and whether he would be a threat to his further operations. How he could provoke him, engage with him, give him all of his attention- Yes, the radio broadcasts were helping to get him back into his old mindset when it was all fine again, the added relaxation and melancholic fondness he felt were only caused by the music, surely. 

How long had they been friends, before it had suddenly all ended one awful day? 40 years? 50 years? 

And Alastor wanted nothing to do with him, like it had all been nothing? He disappeared, making him worry his head off… Wondering if he was still alive, if it was his fault. Wanting to scream at him, wanting him back and to stay gone at the same time.

One thing was for sure, something had ignited in Vox the moment they started arguing. Something that had been buried deep and finally came out and had been festering, eating at him all these years. Why did it feel so good to be angry at Alastor? Why did he want to kick his ass and have the good old times back at the same time? His feelings and pride were hurt and yet there was angry heat in his chest, it was hard to breathe and his thoughts had been all occupied with him. And yet he felt relief.

Satan, how had he even survived these 7 years. Just barely, throwing himself into his work like a madman and having lots of distractions and connections on the side. Clearly… worth not as much, if now that Alastor was back it all seemed meaningless to him.

He finished his glass, unceremoniously pouring another one and scrolling on his phone.

Ah, there it was.

The only picture Alastor ever let another soul take of him. The only undistorted photo evidence of the man’s appearance. Vox should have been saddened by the photo of them posing together for this picture, but he could only smile. His fingers were slowly fondling his phone, moving over the picture as he took in the sight of the old photograph. Grayscale… but the day was ingrained in his memory.

More sips, more songs… he could almost picture it… sitting in Alastor’s studio like he had done before, seeing him work and in the evening they went to have dinner together. If Vox closed his eyes and just… yes, he picked the right moment, his voice came back to comment on another song and tell a short anecdote of his life… Vox felt so nice and warm, seeing Alastor in front of his inner eye, looking at him with his deep red shimmering eyes, whispering into his microphone.

And he tore his eyes wide open when he felt blood rush to his loins more quickly than he could stop himself. His first instinct was panic, the second was to blame it on the alcohol. And yet… he wanted more. He stared, open mouthed at Alastor’s picture, drinking in his sight, feeling way too hot and clouded. Oh, he felt so pathetic, but what he would GIVE to have the Radio Demon back. He was aching, pining... the heartache of the years catching up to him and his need grew even more persistent. “Fuck…”, Vox swallowed again, just like when Alastor had threatened him over the radio. He knew what Alastor did to his enemies… but couldn’t Alastor destroy him in … another way?

For the second time this evening Vox had given up on everything. His emotions were too confusing, he was too worked up and losing control. He was rock hard in his pants and Alastor’s broadcast, paired with his picture and the looming memories of him were quickly disarming him completely. Oh, he was SO glad Valentino was at a party, he didn’t need his judgment. Who the fuck needed Valentino when the Radio Demon existed? Vox bit his lip with a soft moan as he slipped a hand into his pants and pulled his member out of his pajama bottoms.

Just a quick, fucking wank and then he surely would have it out of his system… surely…

Like Alastor had been ‘out of his system’ after 7 years of absence.

He had enough sense to tell his smart lock to activate, he usually left his penthouse unlocked for Velvette or Valentino, but ooooh. Not tonight.

He quickly became breathless, panting softly as held the phone in one hand, listening to the voice vibrating through the device as his other hand glid over his dick.

He activated the phone’s bluetooth, to listen to the broadcast directly in his brain, almost as if Alastor was speaking directly into his ear.

He shivered, twitching hard in his own hand, looking over Alastor’s curves, the shapes of his arms, and legs, how his suit was made, his face, his soft fluffy ears.

He wanted to know how it all looked underneath, he knew how Alastor died and how scarred he was, yet it fascinated him. He wanted to run his hands over every scar, kiss and lick them. He wanted to feel his body against his, take him.

Oh, Alastor was a virgin, he was probably super tight and would whimper so sweetly. Precome gathered at Vox’s member as he jerked himself harder. He wanted to defeat Alastor, overpower him. He wanted Alastor to beg for forgiveness, beg for their friendship back, he wanted to tug on his antlers….

Who was he kidding? As if Alastor would ever sleep with him. Vox’s only chance was to try to be his friend again. 

If Alastor would at least hug him, hold him just once. Tell him how much he treasured all their years together.

Vox whined loudly and jizzed all over himself, squirming on the sofa, gaping like a fish out of water as his orgasm shook him to his very core.

He was lightheaded, he felt higher than on drugs, completely intoxicated. He cleaned himself on autopilot, turned off all devices, the lamp, finished his drink and walked, on extremely shaky legs back to bed, falling face first.

His entire body was vibrating, buzzing. It was all warm and tingly and sweet, almost bittersweet. So satisfied, so euphoric. He passed out in a blink, drifting off to sleep in a matter of minutes.

Vox really didn’t need the reminder on his phone that he had listened to Alastor’s broadcast before bed…

He had slept heavenly, sure, but that didn’t mean anything. He had a busy day and needed to get started.

As it was, the first thing that greeted him as he went to their shared living space was Valentino lounged all across the gigantic couch, barely dressed. He smelled like alcohol, perfume and sweat to a sickening degree. 

“Mnnhhh! Mornin’ Voxyyyy.”, he purred in a groggy voice.

Vox wasn’t sure you were supposed to feel disgust when you saw your boyfriend, but sometimes Valentino clashed a lot with his preferences. 

“I see you’ve had a productive evening, Val? Made any business deals?”

“No, hehe. But a couple friends!”, he swung his leg high, placing a heel on Vox’s chest. 

Vox flinched and then stared at it, carefully, almost reverently grabbing it and putting it back on the couch. Usually he liked such displays, but there was something about it today that irritated him.

“Val, careful! You could have hit my display.”

“Ohh, hahahaha, what’s a little scratch! You won’t die from it.”

“You know damn well they are expensive and a pain in the ass to replace. I have a fund set aside for stuff you break because it happens way too often.”

Sometimes Vox wondered if Valentino did it on purpose. He knew Valentino liked to break stuff and hurt and kill people, but the more time he spent with him, the more he started considering the possibility Valentino was out for his head. After all, he was rich and successful, betraying him by knowing so much confidential info of him, would be a piece of cake and daily life in hell. Vox had to dodge the things that had been carelessly thrown around by Val in blind rage, Val had a habit of blindly hurting people.

Vox, was an overlord, so he had no place to judge, but the horrifying things that Val did to his employee’s for seemingly little reason left an opening to think it might ever be directed to him. One of the reasons he always made sure to keep a semblance of professional distance between them.

Vox was physically stronger, but he was a bit rusty…

“Aaawwww, babyyy, come on…”, Val wrapped two of his long arms around his leg, whining like a puppy, “Can we have some morning fun, mhhh? I am still a little sore, but one more time should be fine.”

“Ah… that’s why you wanted me to come along? So I could watch…”, Vox sighed and shook his head.

“I never said you can’t join in, ehehehe. But maybe better not. His dick was bigger than yours.”

Why was he dating this man again? Ah, right. Money and power … similar goals and branch and because Val was sexy and charismatic. But that was like the minimum requirement to catch Vox’s interest.

“Cool. Take a shower, Val. And no tequila before breakfast! I am gonna be in a meeting soon.”, Vox shook him off and walked out.

So Vox had wanked off to his arch nemesis last night, there was NOTHING to panic over. That was totally normal. No, it would be STRANGE if that didn’t happen considering he’d known the goddamn Radio Demon for 70 years by now. No, they haven’t been friends for decades, but if you knew someone that long you’d either kill them or marry them. And if you wanted to do both at once, you have quite the problem. (He’d known Valentino for 50 years and his feelings for him weren’t nearly as intense, although he was A LOT easier to get along with.)

Noooo, no he wasn’t imagining their marriage. No, he wasn’t sitting in the meeting, daydreaming about kissing Alastor and going on dates. Oh, he had been Alastor’s fanboy and friend for ages, been obsessed with him. But for the first time in his life he purely craved Alastor’s affections, be it platonic or romantic. All, because he was back and the butterflies in his stomach were festering, like an unholy parasite.

He had been dreaming of defeating, hurting, even killing Alastor for 7 years… How did things suddenly change that drastically!? He saw him when he came back and that was it… and now he couldn’t stop thinking about him. Had he secretly thought all these compromising things about him in secret and now that he was back Vox could no longer hold back his true feelings? And his anger issues came from the abandonment and he didn’t actually want him dead? “Mr. Vox? Mr. Vox, are you listening?” “Oh, I am sorry… I had a long night. Can you repeat your last sentence?”, he put on his polite customer service voice.

When Vox was back from the meeting a couple hours later, Val… seemed in a very strange mood. Namely he threw Vox against the wall and started aggressively making out with him. The TV demon played along for a while and then pushed him aside, lifting a brow. “Don’t tell me, you are still drunk? … Don’t you have like… work to do?” Valentino slowly sunk to his knees, looking up at Vox like an excited, very lewd puppy. “We could squeeze in a quickie. I am still hungover though, open your pants.” “Booooooooooooys I brooought food. Bahahahahahaha, are you gonna bang in the living room again, with everyone seeing!?”

Vox shook his head, heading over to Velvette to see what she had gotten. “He is running from his responsibilities again, is what he is doing…” “VOOOOOOOXY, COME OOOOON. I will be good, comeeeee on. I didn’t mean it with the dick comment. It sure is nice, but he was not dating material.” “I am not jealous, Tino, we already established we are okay with it.” The moth demon stood slowly up again, towering over them, furrowing his thin brows and crossing his arms. “Yeeeeaaah? Why are you angry at me still?” “Because you’re annoying…”, Vox threw him a yogurt package, that ended up right in the middle of the moth’s face, made him stumble and fall backwards onto the couch, “Oh shit, I am sorry.”

He wasn’t. 

Vox already read the first article about himself and the power outage, subsequently realizing how much attention he had generated for the Radio Demon. Well, even if he had kind of failed the showdown, bad publicity was still publicity. This was the best way to get Alastor’s attention. And damn if he didn’t enjoy it. But he wanted more, he needed all of it… If he wasn’t careful, he might fuck everything up. Alastor was right on one thing. He wasn’t nearly as physically powerful and independent as Alastor. How did he do it? Where would he learn it?

Sir Pentious failed his task to infiltrate their quarters… well, to be expected of someone as unremarkable as him. Hmmm, what if he skipped the middle man and went there himself? (No one could be trusted to be loyal in hell after all.)

Of course, to spy on Alastor and find out all his secrets and conquer him.

Not seduce him, no, not at all.

After all, how dare Alastor turn all of his attention to some sanctimonious brats and barely even focus on radio broadcasts? Except, if he found something with much more potential in the long run. Something worth exploiting. Vox definitely had to see that. Or did he? Would he really dare do that? Possibly ruin his reputation to get back at his archenemy/friend/crush (whatever)? Absolutely. Everything be damned, this was the opportunity of his life. He just wasn’t sure if he could actually do it. It was such a big step, so risky, so different to what he usually did. And there was no guarantee it would all work. He had to prepare carefully for the operation and explain it to his allies.

Damn that Louisiana yerk.

Vox had thought he had successfully survived the second day of going crazy over Alastor, as he stepped into his penthouse, completely drained from the day’s activities. He didn’t expect to be turned, tripped up to fall against the bed and then pinned down. Val was peering hungrily at him with a wide mouthed grin. “Baaaaabyyyy!”, he leered at him, “I gotchu a present!” “For fucks sake, Valentino. Can you not do that like normal people?” “No. Ehe…”, the moth demon gently lifted himself off the bed and reached down into a bag to retrieve a little box, “I remember you wanted to buy one of those new models, but weren’t sure which one. I gave them your technical specifications and they got the best one!” Ah, one of the gadgets Vox wanted to get, but forgot due to the excitement of the last days. He grinned at how observant Valentino was and through how much trouble he had gone to get it. “Awww… really? For me? I gotta test if that’s some good shit.”

“I am not dumb. I checked!” “Are you?”, Vox chuckled, opening the box and staring curiously at it, then putting it on the floor, “Anyway who cares.” Valentino was about to get offended, but Vox simply pulled him into his arms, giving him a little kiss: “Thaaaank you so much.” “Oh yeah, you better thank me.”, Valentino climbed further into the bed, following with more kisses, expecting to be coddled up real soon.

It wasn’t all bad, otherwise Vox would have stopped trying quickly. But he had his doubts. Sometimes he didn’t even want to call Valentino his boyfriend but his ‘forced acquaintance’ , even ‘his job’ . Great. If something ever happened to Vox, he wasn’t sure Valentino would even bat an eye, except for all the stress of running the company. … 

But sometimes Vox just ignored that feeling. … It was nice to feel wanted. To have someone to hold and tell your problems to. Even if he and Valentino… seemed to just be biding their time, using favors. If they both were aware of it, it didn’t matter, right?

[allbluedepths]

end of an era

(General | One Piece Live Action | Shanks/Mihawk | 867 words)

Summary: One drink couldn’t hurt, Mihawk had said. But one drink had swiftly turned into many, and soon enough, the beach was in full swing again with celebration. However, Shanks had grown oddly quiet beside him as the hours ticked on, his cheers sincere but muted all the same. (Or, what it's like when the new generation finally appears.)

Notes: OPLA has taken over my brain — in particular, these two, so a short first ficlet was in order. While this scene is definitely cheerier in canon, I wanted to explore writing these two for the first time and the feeling of realizing you're no longer the new generation of pirates.

Read here on AO3 or below!

One drink couldn’t hurt, Mihawk had said. But one drink had swiftly turned into many, and soon enough, the beach was in full swing again with celebration.

The Red-Haired Pirates were known for many things, certainly including their ability to celebrate. Their energy hadn't waned, yesterday’s hangovers be damned. Their stock of drinks, as infinite as ever, persevered as well.

(His lip had curled at the sight of one of his favorite reds nestled in the back of the ship’s stash, the bottle clearly left untouched.)

Raucous yelling had racketed across the beach, bottles of all types raised up and clinked together in celebration.

“To the new era of pirates!”

“To Luffy!”

“To Anchor!”

All sorts of cheers had filled the air throughout the hours, all jubilant and warm in the face of their friend's accomplishment. But Shanks had grown oddly quiet beside him as the hours ticked on, his cheers sincere but muted all the same.

It wasn’t the hangover. Shanks had been at the heart of the cheers as the celebration had kicked off, determined to make sure everyone knew just how proud he was. But something had hit him, crept up on him like the shadows sprawling across the beach, until it was just the two of them sequestered alone and quiet in the captain's hammock.

As the sky grew darker, the cacophony of noise around them faded out into clusters of conversation, and for some, sleep. But Shanks wasn’t asleep. He could sense that, not even needing to glance over to check.

(If he did, just to take in the face he had seen less and less over the years, that was irrelevant.)

He was still, oddly still for such a restless man, but even that had tempered with age, he supposed. An age that was showing far more than usual, with how an oddly solemn expression sat on Shanks’ face, his bottle only loosely hanging from his hand.

Their shared quiet finally broke as the sun began to fade underneath the waves of the horizon, Shanks' voice barely above a murmur. “So, the new generation is finally here, huh.”

With a quiet huff, Mihawk spoke, “You did bet your arm on it.”

“Not sure if all those years feels longer or shorter than I expected,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Hard to tell when you’re running in circles.”

In the bright light of day, Shanks would have simply huffed and cracked a joke before blustering onwards, too smoothly for almost anyone to notice. But the shadows of sunset was exposing, and Mihawk saw him for what he really was: lost, and doubting, even if just for a moment.

Many would have laughed to hear the pirate captain say such a thing. He was an emperor of all things, one of the most prominent and feared men across all the seas, a force to be reckoned with.

But Mihawk wouldn’t. He knew otherwise. They poked, prodded, and danced around it, but didn’t press. Not all the way, not enough to matter. They had only really ever talked about it once, barely breathed louder than a whisper, after a long day of duels and far, far too much liquor. 

Of Shanks, far too world-weary for his age, even for a pirate. Of all the choices he had made, wondering if they were the right ones after all. Of how he worried he was wasting the life he had been given.

(It had been the only time Mihawk had even breathed a hair of the thought of was there more beyond his goal to be the world’s greatest swordsman. Of what came after it.

They were both running in circles, after all.)

“It simply means we’ll keep running into each other.”

A glint of surprise shone in Shanks’ eyes as they flickered towards him, but Mihawk's gaze remained steady.

Their change in paths was coming, he could feel it. It wouldn’t be too soon — they’d have to fight for it, after all — but soon enough. Their time was nowhere near coming to a close, but they wouldn’t be the only ones in the spotlight.

And maybe then they could be side-by-side. But for now, he would content himself with their occasional intersections as they waited and watched what wasn’t theirs go by.

A cheeky grin, half honest and half teasing, flickered across the other man’s face. “One more duel?”

“You already know my answer, Red.”

That time had passed. They couldn’t go back, not now.

(But maybe one day, his mind whispered, once their paths had truly changed and they had a freedom he could scarcely imagine. Maybe then.)

“I could be persuaded to stay the night, however,” he said, in a tone he knew that belied just how little persuasion the other man would truly have to do.

The solemn gleam in his eyes didn’t leave, not entirely, but the quirk of a smile on the edge of his lips was enough in itself.

As Shanks relaxed into his side, the last embers of the sunset shimmering around them, Mihawk was silently thankful their circular paths still crossed like this.

(And hopefully, no matter what shape they took in the future, they still would.)

[crystallinecardinal]

They are never leaving the desert.

It isn’t just because they once lived there. It isn’t just because they once died there.

The desert holds memories, and no matter what, the two of them always seem to remember it, falling back into old habits. It’s the way Scar willingly offers him his own lifeforce, a reversal of the past without the stakes. It’s the way Grian tries to warn him of danger, despite the fact they are no longer allies. It’s the way they’re stuck together, tied by fate and shared wounds. It’s the way Grian mistakenly shouts Scar’s name to the wrong person, as if he’s about to lose him again, only to take it back as a force of habit. It’s the way Scar sings songs to him and apologizes for the blood on his hands, echoes of a past long gone. It’s the way they become traitors to each other, with hesitancy or with none. It’s the way Grian repeats the phrase “I’m sorry, Scar” over three lives. It’s the way Scar falls to Grian’s hands. It’s the way Grian comes crashing down. It’s echoes of the past, a friendship molded in desert sand.

Echoes, because history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes. They find themselves locked in a cycle where they meet, they have their little dance, and then they fall. There is no way to return to the past, and yet it still grips them both. Why does it do so?

They couldn’t escape each other even if they wanted to. Despite everything, a string of fate still connects them both. They are soulbound, whether they like it or not, and thus, perpetually stuck in the desert, even if surrounded by the most green trees.

If the songbirds sing for them, (perhaps the ravens, too,) then over the course of four separate lives, they sing the same tune. Scar welcomes it, as if it's a fond memory, and Grian refuses it, screaming into the void. It could've been anyone else— in one life, he’d prefer someone like BigB, but in a worst case scenario, it could've been even the likes of Martyn he was stuck with, who wanted him dead the most. He doesn’t understand why he does, but he sees the hints of violet hues in his eyes when they whisper. He can only assume why.

It just had to be Scar, instead. The Watchers must be laughing, gazing upon their fallen protégé.

If the Watchers were gods, they should have been divine. Instead, they play tricks. In a past long gone, they make Grian’s wings striped browns, like that of the burrowing owl. They tease him with the knowledge of the birds and the desert, they tie the string of fate between him and Scar. They tease him again, wings black as the night, an omen of death. He always manages to kill those he cares for. Over and over again, he apologizes.

Being tied to the cacti means guilt, always pricking at him when he least expects it. The cycle continues to repeat, and Grian’s light falters. In truth, Grian belongs to the stars and the void. Once upon a time, a fallen Watcher and a human meet. The god kills the mortal. The god owes the mortal.

The ravens sing. They fortell a curse. Grian doesn't listen. He goes on with sword in hand (he goes on with bare fists), and he kills for Scar (he kills Scar). A fallen god, synonymous with destruction. A mortal, wrapped in flowers. Suddenly, the mortals seem more divine.

In more recent lives, it remains the same. Always, the same song and dance. All that changes is how much they let it affect them. Regardless, the string remains tied.

The poppies and lilacs await unattended. The desert sands remain a memory, too close and too far. They are doomed to repeat this, over and over again, chasing what's lost.

Or did it ever really leave?

[antebunny]

Only Children

Barbara has been the last Bat in Gotham for two weeks when her surveillance finds Jason. It is a long-forgotten but somehow still operating security camera in a grainy corner of Gotham that tips her off. Settling in for another long day in, ironically, the Jason Wayne Gotham Public Library, founded almost ten years ago, Barbara immediately receives a notification that one of her searches found a match.

Usually she keeps her day work separate from her night work, for both security and personal mental health reasons. Lately she’s been slipping. For the past two weeks, her mind has slowly been consumed by a burning call to find them find them find them bring them home.

“Please be real,” Barbara says to anyone, any higher power listening. Her laptop itches in her lap as she abandons her desk in the library and heads to a back room, where she can conducts her investigations with more secrecy. 

The stale air of the back room greets her with a swirl of dust as the door slams shut behind her. Barbara wheels herself to the low desk and boots up the desktop. If this notification is a trap from someone who knows or suspects her identity, she wants her personal laptop safe. From the desktop, she opens the surveillance footage that tipped off one of her automatic searches. 

Last night, 4:34 am. West Murray Road. A southbound van (white, no license plate) pulls to the curb. People dressed in all-black clothing spill out of the east-facing doors. There are no distinct features amongst any of them, save for one. He is wearing a white workout shirt, stained deep brownish red in too many places to count, and ripped jeans. The footage is incredibly blurry and grainy due to the time of night and the quality of the camera, but the man’s arms are behind his back in an awkward position which indicates that they are being forcibly kept there. Two of the people wearing black press close to his sides, adding credence to this theory. 

Over his head is a black bag. 

Barbara isn’t one for fits of emotion, but the past few months are driving her to extremes. She pauses the video. Breathes in. “Please be real,” she repeats. “Please.”

A mantra that reveals her worst fears: if she’s hoping that this kidnapped, endangered individual is one of the Bats, what’s the worst-case scenario? 

4:35 am. The hooded man suddenly drops to the ground and rolls backward. His arms flash to the sky. They contort out of something bright and silver. Dislocated joint, Barbara thinks while the horrible, fearful hope mounts. His hands slide around his neck until they find something. A moment later, the bag is off his head. His feet are carrying him backwards. 

But the people in black are coming. And the man’s blind, backwards flight has carried him into a brick wall on the opposite side of West Murray Road. His head scans the street. His eyes find the camera, which the people in black missed, and for one dreadful moment Barbara’s surveillance footage has a perfect 480p view of his face. This is the moment that flagged the searches currently running on every camera that Barbara has access to. 

Jason’s mouth makes the very distinct shape of the letter O. The people in black pile on him like wolves on a wounded deer. He goes down fighting. 

4:54 am. The people wearing black drag him across the street and disappear into a building on the east side. 

“Oh God. Oh my God.” Barbara pauses the footage and allows herself twenty-three seconds of resting her face in her hands and just breathing. Then she gets to work. 

The basic problem is as follows: Barbara has no idea who has Jason. 

The building on West Murray Road is an abandoned liquor store; Barbara can find no sign of legal use since 2019. She can, however, find a long history of mysterious white vans dropping off mysterious customers at that very spot, for at least a year. Clearly, it’s an organized crime group that has Jason. But most Rouges of Gotham are leaders of organized crime groups, including Jason. Red Hood’s band of merry men are slowly falling apart with the sudden disappearance of their leader, but that’s the least of Barbara’s worries. Hell, even the Bats fall under the category of “organized crime.” 

The underlying problem is that Barbara has absolutely no support. She is the last Bat left in Gotham since Jason disappeared. Before that, it was Barbara, Steph and Jason. Steph disappeared on an ill-fated solo rescue mission to save Cass. Right now the best Barbara can hope for is that she’s still alive. 

If Barbara runs a rescue operation now, it’ll be blind, alone and chair-bound. If she fails, she will be exposing the last remaining hidden member of Gotham’s Bats–Oracle–to the criminal world. To date no one has come looking for Oracle, which means none of the Bats have given her up. 

She doesn’t know who has Jason, what state Jason is in, or what obstacles she can expect to face. These are the exact reasons why she and Jason told Steph not to rescue Cass just yet. Now the situation is even worse: Barbara is the last one left free, the last one still in Gotham. 

But what other choice does Barbara have? 

--

Izzy stumbles upon the package on a dismal Sunday afternoon. It’s a black box large enough to hold a pair of shoes, resting in a suspiciously-colored puddle on the side of the street. The surface is shiny, and when Izzy pokes it, she can’t tell what the material is. Izzy turns the box over, ignoring the suspicious liquid running down the sides. It’s not poisonous. Probably. There’s a button built into the bottom side of the box. Immediately, Izzy is suspicious; nothing this nice sticks around the Bowery for very long. 

Against her better instincts, Izzy presses the button. She leans back as the lines appear along the sides of the box and it hisses open. Inside the box is mostly empty, save for a small pile of cash in $20 bills, and a tiny metal something.

“I have a job offer for you,” says a mechanized voice.

Izzy grabs the cash and kicks the box away. Heart pounding, she stands up, backs up, and watches in morbid fascination as the box bumps harmlessly against the curb. That’s good, right? There’s no person, just a voice and an empty box which is far enough from Izzy that she could probably run away if gas starts coming out of it or something. She turns over the wad of USD in her hand. Maybe it’s coated in a poisonous substance. Anything could happen in Gotham, and Batman hasn’t been seen in months. The villains are getting bolder and bolder. 

“It’s just cash,” says the mechanized voice. Whatever filter that voice is using makes it clear that the voice belongs to real person, but also obscures any identifying features. 

Izzy’s head jerks up from the cash. She narrows her eyes at the box. “Are you watching me?”

“Yes,” says the voice, refreshingly honestly. “It’s just upfront cash. If you take the job, there’s a lot more on the other side.”

The thing is. Just because Izzy knows better doesn’t mean that she doesn’t need money. 

“What’s the job?”

“Let’s take this inside,” requests the voice.

Izzy glances up and down the street. On one side is an abandoned dock house where Izzy spends too much of her time. On the other side are a couple of run-down buildings which may have real stores or may have fronts for less-than-legal businesses. Who’s to say. 

“What’s the job?” Izzy repeats. She approaches the box again, lying innocuously open on a cracked Gotham curb. Gingerly, she reaches into the box and picks out the tiny metal thing. When she puts it in her ear, the mechanized voice speaks up again.

“Delivery,” says the voice succinctly. It is much quieter in her ear. Izzy supposes this is one way of making sure no one is eavesdropping. 

“What’s the catch?”

“It’s dangerous,” the voice says promptly, continuing the trend of suspicious honesty. Izzy sincerely hopes that this honesty is not a cover-up for a worse truth. “Both the handling and the drop-off.”

“How much you offering?”

“Ten thousand grand.”

$10,000 just for an errand. Izzy thinks she might be sick. Surely this is too good to be true. Really, she just needs some medical bills covered. The problem is that she doesn’t yet know how much money she’ll need. If she tells this mystery person, maybe she can get all her expenses covered rather than get $10,000 in cash. On the other hand, that’ll hand her identity over to this person. Who has already admitted to watching her. Ah, screw it.

Izzy picks up the empty box. She brushes her hair in front of her shoulders, so that it covers the earpiece. “Can you cover medical bills or does it have to be in cash?” 

Familiar Gotham sewage smells follow Izzy onto the next street. She hears the very faint sound of typing from the earpiece. So there really is someone on the other end.

“I can get someone to lend a hand.” 

Izzy squeezes her eyes shut and pictures it. Every inch of stress that’s been weighing her down, every worry, down the drain, wiped away. It’s ridiculous. This is Gotham. Even it it wasn’t, it’s too good to be true. Izzy knows better than this. She had her dumb teenage years but this would be the stupidest thing she’s ever done. 

It is an unusually warm November day, but Izzy pulls her fuschia sweater in tight. “What do you need me to do?”

--

Brian doesn’t believe in second chances or coincidences. Nevertheless, he’s taking this thankless, illegal guard duty grunt work because he’s fully out of options. They say his employer doesn’t give second chances. It’s also awfully coincidental that this off-the-books guard duty has him loitering outside some run-down storefront off West Murray Road. He used to live on this street, though much further north. 

“What d’ya think we’re guardin?’” Asks Rocky, Brian’s fellow guard who named himself after the movie. 

“None of our business.” Brian throws some sort of pebble at Rocky, who only looks at him in some mixture of boredom and disgust. 

“Heard someone screamin’ last night,” Rocky continues. 

“Shut the fuck up and don’t ask questions if you wanna live,” says Brian, keenly aware of how Rocky’s voice echoes through the abandoned street. West Murray Road doesn’t get much love from Gothamites, and even less at night. The most entertainment Brian has seen all this time is two rats fighting. 

“Alright, calm your tits, I’m just bored as hell, man,” Rocky defends. “Nothing interesting ever happens–”

“Hey.”

Both Brian and Rocky jerk out of their distracted, half-asleep slouches. There’s a woman with a purple(? Pink? Red?) sweater standing right in front of the door they’re supposed to be guarding. She’s wearing a mask, but that’s pretty normal. It’s Covid-19 season, after all. They fail to look down and see the small package at her feet. Their attention instead falls to the black box in her hands. 

“I have a delivery?” The woman motions with the box in her hands. 

Rocky and Brian both jerk back, hands fumbling for weapons while they attempt to get a clearer picture in the near total darkness. 

“This some kinda joke?” Brian snaps. 

“Uh.” The woman backs up a step. Maybe Rocky took out his gun. “Listen, I–”

BANG.

A horrible, indescribable scent slams into Brian’s nose so hard it shoots all the way into his skull and rattles his brain around. Vaguely, his eyes observe the woman adjusting another mask, a gas mask, under her K95 mask as he collapses to the sidewalk. Then he blacks out. 

Barbara is moving her drones before the two guards hit the ground. 

[tennessoui]

would it be annoying or fun for y’all if I were to write a “choose your own adventure”/“vote on what happens to the characters next” fic vía tumblr polls?🫣🤔

[dragons-bones]

there is something truly, deeply hilarious about writing out a Fallen London ficlet by hand

using an ink called

Nostalgic Honey

[practically-an-x-man]

Chameleon (Warren Burgess x Kestrel)

Summary: Kestrel is forced to become the thing everyone expects them to be

Tags: action, angst, mentions of guns, betrayal/double-crossing, emotional hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3k

____

"Don't move."

Before Kendra could blink, there was something cold pressed to the back of her neck. She couldn't see the gun, nor the person that held it, but every muscle in her body locked up in fear. Beside her, Kestrel and Warren both bristled, but neither moved an inch.

"Inside." the same rough voice demanded, and Kendra caught the briefest glimpse at a hand waved at the building ahead of them. The barrel of the gun was cold and firm against the base of her skull. Kendra took careful, shuffling steps forward. She didn't want to make any sudden movements, not when she was just one twitch away from... well, from not making it home.

"It'll be okay." Kestrel mumbled from her right, speaking so softly Kendra almost didn't catch the words, "Follow what they say. We'll figure something out."

That got a gun swung in Kestrel's direction, and their hands flew up in immediate surrender.

"What was that?"

They must have spoken in Chimeric. Kendra could understand it like English, just like any other fairy language, but to the others it probably sounded like tongues.

"Just- just a prayer." Kestrel stammered, cringing away from the gun, "I'm sorry. I'm- I'm scared."

"Tsh." their adversary scoffed, but let the issue drop. Kestrel's posture stayed guarded even after he looked away, but the fear in their dark eyes was quickly replaced with stern focus, rapid thought. Kendra wished she knew that they were thinking, but even that expression alone was enough to set her at ease. A plan was in the works.

The three of them were led inside. There was only one person, only one gun, but Warren and Kestrel walked just as woodenly as Kendra herself. Kestrel didn't speak another word, in Chimeric or any other language.

The building was some sort of warehouse. Kendra couldn't make out the details without turning her head - and she didn't dare turn her head - but she could hear animalistic hoots and screeches coming from somewhere down the hall.

They took a left, down another hall and into a wider room, where they were greeted by four more people in crisp dark suits. And four more guns, which were quickly trained on Warren and Kestrel.

"Cuff them." one woman said, apparently the leader of the bunch. The man behind Kendra shifted, and the gun disappeared briefly from its spot at the base of her skull. She still didn't dare move, even as handcuffs were briskly clamped around her wrists. She finally dared to turn her head, just a little, and found Warren and Kestrel in the same position. They both wore the same expression - deep thought, but undercut with a budding glimmer of fear.

"And keep an eye on that one," the woman continued, nudging her gun in Kestrel's direction, "Shapeshifter."

That made the guns even stranger. These new adversaries were clearly also in the magical trade - they'd recognized Kestrel as a shapeshifter, which meant they'd been watching closely for a while, and ordinary people wouldn't have noticed the mission at all. Most people couldn't see magical creatures without something to help them - Warren used milk from a magical cow, Kendra was fairykind, and Kestrel was already a magical creature themself.

But most people in the magical trade didn't use guns, or any other modern weapons. Magic and technology didn't always mix. Fablehaven didn't even have a cordless phone, and Dale's truck (the only car ever used past the driveway) had to be decades old. Kendra wasn't very familiar with guns to begin with, but she imagined these either had to be incredibly risky, or carefully enchanted so they weren't. Either way, that made them dangerous.

As soon as the cuffs were clamped around Kestrel's wrists, a high cackle burst out of their throat. Kendra's head snapped to the side, just in time to see Kestrel's form fold inwards. The cuffs hit the floor with a metallic clank, and they shifted back to human just a moment later.

Several guns clicked in unison. The woman in the front lifted her hand, silently commanding her soldiers to lower their weapons. There was a sharp, dangerous look on Kestrel's face, carved into their angular features. It was confusing. And a little frightening.

"Oh, good one!" they laughed. It hardly even sounded like their voice - too wicked, too baleful, like they were telling a joke and nobody else had figured out the punchline. They clapped their hands together, barking out the same barbed laugh. As they spoke, their form began to shift again, becoming someone unfamiliar. Only Kestrel's eyes, so dark there was no separation between iris and pupil, did not change.

"Really commanding the room," they continued, shaking out their limbs as they finished the shift into their new form, "Now that's the sort of ambush that would make my kind jealous! Getting the jump on a changeling, there's a feat!"

"What kind of trick is this?" the woman hissed, hackles raised. She didn't know what to think, any more than Kendra did. The floor was officially Kestrel's... whatever that meant.

"Exactly the kind of trick you're imagining," Kestrel supplied, taking a slow step forward. That got the guards' guns trained on them anew, but they didn't so much as blink. Kestrel grinned. "Don't overthink it, honey."

"You're betraying them for us?"

Kendra expected a flinch. Even just a flicker. Kestrel hated any mention of betrayal, she knew that. They'd been accused of it too many times in their life. Mistrust was the norm, even when they'd done nothing wrong. They clung to loyalty like a starving dog with a bone, growling at any hand that drew near.

But their expression didn't waver. Their eyes stayed hard and unforgiving, even as their gaze flicked over Kendra and Warren in turn.

"To keep my head?" they hissed, "I'd betray anyone."

She felt awful for doubting them, even for a moment. But if this was an act... it was an awfully good act. Kestrel's usual demeanor, their mannerisms, even the smallest familiarities like the set of their posture, had vanished without a trace. If she hadn't seen them shift right before her eyes, she'd have thought it was someone else entirely.

"And what's in it for us? Who's to say we don't just shoot you here?" the woman shot back, cocking her gun and aiming it for Kestrel's temple. They tilted their head, a familiar and contemplative gesture that briefly took them out of the line of fire. The woman shifted her aim, keeping her shot steady.

"I know their secrets. And more. Anything you could possibly want to know about the magical world. The secret preserves..." they drawled, seamlessly regaining control of the situation. Kendra suppressed a shudder. It was like they'd flipped a switch somewhere within them, turned that little bulb of Kestrel off like a light and let everything that crept through the shadows show their faces instead.

"Kestrel, don't-" Kendra's voice came out shocked, hoarse with emotion. She wasn't even sure what to say- she just needed to see something, even the smallest crack in their facade, anything to prove Kestrel was still on their side.

Sharp eyes, cold and black as oil, found her own. Kendra's throat went dry. She could see now why Vanessa had so many stories about changelings, and how they'd all ended in permanent scars. She could understand, if only for the moment, why she told those stories with so much venom in her voice. This was terrifying.

A rough hand grabbed hers, squeezing so tight it almost hurt. Warren. He still had faith that this was all an act. She imagined he always would. He'd seen the best in Kestrel since the day they met.

At least, that was what Kestrel had said.

"Fine," the woman said, and waved a hand boredly at the two of them, "Shoot them."

"Don't." Kestrel's voice was a hair too sharp, a hair too brisk, and it almost sounded like panic. It was the first thing resembling a break in their act, and Kendra wasn't even positive it was real. She might have imagined it.

The woman raised a hand, something vaguely smug crossing her face. It was like watching a game of chess, each player attempting to catch the other in a corner.

"Hm. Still care, changeling?"

Kestrel laughed, another too-sharp bark that sounded almost painful. Kendra shuddered.

"You should know by now that we don't have souls," they remarked, almost conversational, "But they have information. The girl is blessed by fairies. The other is a member of the Knights of the Dawn. I've brought you a resource, and a valuable one at that. You'd be a fool to waste it."

"It makes a good point." one of the other guards added, his gun dipping just a millimeter. Kestrel grinned. Their teeth were a little too sharp.

"I have a charm," they added, dark eyes flicking between the leader and her guards, "Sends them to sleep. Impossible to resist. Perfectly dormant until you have use for them. Two lives in trade for my own... and I'll go on my way."

Warren's grip tightened on Kendra's hand. Now she wasn't sure even he still believed in the act.

"Fine. Get on with it."

Kestrel bobbed their head once, then began to speak.

Kendra expected another message in Chimeric. If this really was an act... that was how she'd know, she thought. That was how Kestrel would get the rest of the plan passed on, since none of the others knew how to speak it. Even Warren knew a little Chimeric, though he'd learned the organic way.

But her brain didn't process the words as English. All she caught was fractured syllables, something slippery-sounding that reminded her more of rushing water than actual speech. This wasn't a message. Kestrel really was casting a charm.

She didn't feel sleepy... yet. But she didn't know how the charm would work. Would she feel it when it happened? Or would it just... happen, like being placed under anesthesia? Would she know? Or would she just blink out, and wake up in a prison cell?

The leader of the guards toppled over. One by one, the rest of them followed.

Kestrel's unfamiliar form melted away in a heartbeat, and they shuddered so hard they nearly fell over.

"Oh my God, I feel like I just ate a bucket of worms," they said, their voice wavering with every word. Their dark eyes were flooded with emotion, even as they crouched by the nearest guard and snagged a handcuff key from his pocket. "That was... horrible."

"You were acting?" Kendra couldn't help but ask. She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. Hurt flashed across Kestrel's face, there and gone like a bolt of lightning.

"Something like that. Just... call it Method acting." they said, speaking too fast as they hustled to unlock Kendra's handcuffs, "Please tell me you didn't believe it."

"I mean..." Kendra sighed, "A little."

That made Kestrel flinch again, zapped by the same sudden bolt of hurt. Kendra shook her head.

"But-" she tried to correct, "It wouldn't have worked if I didn't believe it. They wouldn't have bought it."

As soon as they had the cuffs unlocked, Kestrel was pulling her into a brisk, tight hug. Their whole body was trembling. It sounded like they couldn't quite take in a full breath. They seemed... rattled.

"You don't know how much I wanted to break. I wanted to give you a signal," they muttered, still speaking just a little too fast, "But I was afraid they would pick up on it. I had to let them think that I... that I really didn't care. I'm sorry, Kendra- I'm so sorry."

"No, it's- you're a good actor."

"Anyone would be a good actor if that's what it took to get a gun away from the people they love." Kestrel argued, releasing her from the hug and already moving to unlock Warren's handcuffs.

Kendra didn't think that was quite true. There was acting. There was good acting. There was even the kind of desperate acting Kestrel was describing, where any slip-up meant death for themself or the people they loved. She was sure the pressure made things more convincing, since convincing was the only way forward.

But what Kestrel did was on another level. They'd become someone else entirely, at least for those few minutes. They'd become someone who didn't care, someone who only ever looked out for themself, someone who'd toss anything and anyone under the bus to spare their own life.

They'd become exactly the person everyone else expected them to be. The changeling. The threat.

And then they dropped the act. Or... found their way back. Kendra wasn't entirely sure which. Was Kestrel the default, the person they were when they weren't even trying? Or did they have to fight to restrain that other side?

When she finally pulled herself out of her thoughts, she found Kestrel holding Warren in a tight embrace. They were still trembling all over, looking just as shaken-up as Kendra felt. Warren was mumbling something to them, speaking so softly Kendra had to strain to hear the words.

"Hey, it's okay. You did what you had to. You kept us safe."

"I thought they were going to shoot you. I thought... I thought I was going to slip."

"They didn't. You didn't. We're okay."

Kestrel let out a deep sigh, looking there was a lot more they wanted to say. But their eyes flicked down to the guards, still slumped and unconscious on the floor, and they frowned. A moment later, they'd slipped out of Warren's arms.

"C'mon," they said, their voice still thick with emotion, "The charm won't hold very long. We should get out of here before they wake up."

Before Warren or Kendra could respond, Kestrel was taking fast strides across the floor. Their posture was stern, guarded, each step strict and precise like they thought they might fall apart otherwise. Kendra had never seen someone so... hollowed. Whatever they'd done to keep up that illusion, to make it so utterly airtight, it must have scared them just as much as it had Kendra. They looked like they were about two steps from breaking down entirely.

"Kes! Hey- hang on!" Warren called, jogging to catch up. Kendra was only a step behind. Kestrel didn't slow down, walking fast with their arms wrapped around their torso.

"I don't have the energy to hold this charm much longer- and on five people. We have to-"

"Okay, fine, we'll keep moving, just listen," he said, finally catching up and grabbing Kestrel's hand before they could get out of reach again. Their step faltered, just for a moment, and their midnight eyes landed on Warren's face. He offered them a faint smile. "Hey. You know I'd help you find your way back, right? I always will."

"Not if you got shot." Kestrel muttered, ducking his eyes and speeding up. Warren could hold them in place if he tried, Kendra realized. He was twice their size, and strong. But he just jogged a little faster, matching their pace. It seemed like Kestrel was trying to outrun their emotions - trying and failing, really. Kendra could barely keep pace.

"You wouldn't let me get shot, Kes."

"You're right. I wouldn't. But I wasn't really..."

"You were. I could see it. Right here." He let go of their hand there, but only to reach up and touch his fingers to a scar at the hollow of their throat. It was faint, faded, pale against Kestrel's copper-toned skin. But... thinking back, Kendra could remember the same scar on that other form. It was a detail so small, Kestrel probably didn't even realize they'd kept it. Kendra certainly hadn't.

Kestrel's step slowed, dropping from a dead run to merely a brisk walk, and their fingers whispered over their throat. Their eyes were still wide with conflict, but their expression was almost contemplative.

"Do you remember where you got that one?"

"Ghana. Four years ago." Kestrel answered, almost distantly, "Sassabonsam caught me with its claws. Felt like a fishhook."

"Right. We were fine, sweetheart. I knew we were fine." Warren echoed again, "Don't give me the 'what if' game. You're alright. I'd help you back if you weren't. You know that."

Kestrel stopped. Sighed. Nodded.

"I know that. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just... trust yourself the way I trust you. Please."

"That's impossible." Kestrel muttered, though for the first time Kendra caught the faintest hint of a smile on their face, "I'm starting to think you'd jump off a cliff if I told you it was the right way forward."

"Well, you've never led me off any cliffs that weren't the right way forward..." Warren pointed out, baring them a cheeky smile. Kestrel scoffed and shook their head, but leaned in to knock their shoulder against his.

"...Thanks." they said, "I'll... I'll try."

They began moving again, firing a quick glance back at the room they'd left behind. They looked a little steadier now, at least. Their pace was still fast, posture still guarded, but it wasn't the same scramble to escape it had been before. They looked like they'd finally fallen back into place after being knocked off-kilter.

"Kestrel?" Kendra found herself asking, drawing their dark eyes over to her as they jogged ahead. She almost balked there. They'd finally started to settle back into themself, she could see that, and she didn't want to uproot everything all over again.

But if she didn't ask it, it would just weave through her mind until it choked her. If she didn't ask, she'd be wondering, and wondering would lead to hesitating, and she didn't want to hesitate in trusting Kestrel. They were family, if not by blood.

"Back there- you said it was Method acting, but what was that? Really?"

"It was..." Kestrel sighed, trailing off for a moment as they struggled to find words, "It was who I would've been. Who I almost was."

Then they took in a sharper breath, drawing their spine straight. They met Kendra's eyes, their expression steady.

"But it's not who I am."

[helianthus21]

accompanying fic to this fanart in the Early Adoption AU by the amazing @nalivaa who wondered what would happen if rival mafiosi exploited the weakness Vin's cute little brother posed and kidnapped him,,,,

The mafia business is a lawless one but there are some rules, unspoken or not, that you just have to adhere to. 

Such as, Never rat out your friends.

Or, Don’t start a fight you cannot win.

And perhaps the most important one in Milanese circles: You are not to touch a hair on the head of Vincenzo Cassano's little brother.

Like with most rules, they get established after the transgression has already been committed, even if just once. And the poor sons of bitches who tried are example enough to deter any madmen from even trying to copy them, even though, or rather because all but one of them did not live to tell the tale.

Having such a reputation is a relief to Vincenzo, though he has regrets about the way it was built up. Not because of what he had to do to get there – he doesn’t give two fucks about the poor suckers who became victims of his wrath – but because of what Han-seo had been forced to endure. 

Han-seo should’ve never gotten dragged into this. He should not even be a blip on the radar of any mafia members. Unfortunately, no matter how careful Vincenzo thought he was in keeping Han-seo's existence a secret from the mafia circles, trying to keep hidden someone who is such an essential part of your life is something of a herculean effort. 

He still remembers, all too vividly, the numbing fear he'd felt back then, when Luca had approached him and told him that his brother was gone. Taken. Fear that had quickly transformed into white-hot rage: he would kill everyone who had dared lay a finger on Han-seo, and everyone who got in his way would burn to cinder.

Without waiting for Luca or any of the other guys Luca had been trying to rally as reinforcement, he'd taken his Father's precious Cadillac and sped to the location he'd been told.

Apparently they'd demanded ransom – an insane amount at that – as well as some land Don Fabio had appropriated but Vincenzo couldn’t care less about any demands, let alone about fulfilling them. All he would fulfill that night was the blood-thirsty need for revenge that raged inside him.

They had taken Han-seo. 

They were going to pay.

When Vincenzo arrived at the scene, there were four armed men guarding the entrance to the warehouse that held Han-seo captive. As a rule, it is foolish to take on four armed men single-handedly. The four armed men seemed to think so too, which must have been why they did not even lift a brow (or move a trigger finger) when they saw Vincenzo approaching. 

Underestimation, Vincenzo had long since understood, was man’s greatest downfall, right next to pride.

That was why, when Vincenzo raised his gun, aimed, and shot the nearest guy right between his eyes, it took them a second to even process what was happening.

A second too long.

A second enough for Vincenzo. Taking advantage of their delay in action, he shot off two more bullets. One hit Goon Number Two in the heart, the other one missed by a hair's breadth and got Goon Number Three at the shoulder instead. By then, Vincenzo was close enough that some of his blood splattered on his hands.

Number Three and Four had caught themselves enough to coordinate each other: taking off in different directions, they tried their luck by coming at Vincenzo from different angles at once. But Vincenzo didn't hesitate for a moment. He let out another shot to his left, didn’t even stop to check if he'd hit home before whipping around again, anticipating Number Four pouncing on him. 

That was his second mistake.

"Guns are a long-distance weapon, stupido!" Vincenzo commented as he dodged Goon Number Four's attack, grabbed him by the wrist to kick the gun from his grip and spun him around to use as a shield just in time for when Goon Number Three recovered and fired off his own shot in their direction.

Vincenzo pushed a limp Goon Number Four on him and shot Goon Number Three in the aorta.

There was no time to lose. 

"Where is he?"

With the weight of Goon Number Four squarely over his chest and bleeding out, Goon Number Three glared at him. "Testa di cazzo!"

Unimpressed, Vincenzo pushed his foot down on the hole in his leg and repeated his question, voice raised over the man's scream of pain. "Where. Is. He."

"Third door down the corridor to the left."

Expression impassive, Vincenzo nodded. "Keys. And I'll make it quick for you."

From his pocket, the man pulled out the keys to the warehouse and handed them to him

As promised, Vincenzo blew his brains right out.

Vincenzo took a moment to reload his gun. This time, he had every intention of going in with a plan. A more solid one, maybe find a way to see how everyone was positioned around the room before entering or such.

Until he heard Han-seo’s voice.

“Hyu–”

It went muffled at the end, like someone pressed a hand to his mouth to silence him. 

Someone put a hand on him. 

And silenced him.

And Vincenzo saw red.

What happened next is a blur to Vincenzo to this day. He knows that he bullied his way inside, somehow, that at one point he lost his gun – someone must’ve kicked it from his grip – so that he’d have nothing but his fists and whatever he could leverage from his surroundings. He doesn’t know exactly how he fought against all of Han-seo’s captors and came up on top, all he can say is that there were four more dead men, and three gravely injured, once he was done with them. 

What he remembers, though, all too clearly, is standing in that room, gun still firm in his hand like an extension of himself, and looking for his brother in the midst of all that grime and death. 

Han-seo was standing, staring, wide-eyed. 

Some blood had splattered on his face and clothes when Vincenzo had shot the man who’d been holding Han-seo in the cruel attempt to use him as a shield. It had been, perhaps, the scariest moment for Vincenzo in this whole mess. In his entire life thus far, perhaps: the risk he had to take when he aimed with Han-seo so close to his target. But he’d hit home, hit the man in the shoulder, not enough to kill, but enough to make him stumble away from Han-seo. Then, he followed up with another bullet, to his thigh this time, just to keep him from running.

Han-seo had tumbled to the ground, hands and knees breaking his fall. Wincing, Vincenzo took a look at the stone floor. That must have hurt, he thought, and rage flared up once more at that. “Han-seo,” he rasped, taking a step towards him. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

There was a mirror, just behind Han-seo, a little to the left, and it caught Vincenzo’s eye the moment he moved. It was leaning against the wall, an old thing, with cracks at the upper left corner and dust sticking to the rest of it, distorting Vincenzo’s reflection into a grotesque form, like a specter. Blood was splattered all across his suit. Blood sullied the white of his collar. His own blood dripped sluggishly down a cut on his cheek, and blood stuck to his hands: the blood of the people he killed to get here.

He looked like–

He looked like a monster.

He couldn’t look Han-seo in the eyes, wouldn’t bear to see fear reflected in them: fear of his own brother.

“Hy- hyung?”

Han-seo’s voice sounded so thin, so shaky, and this made Vincenzo seek his gaze after all. His feet brought him the rest of the way to him, closing the distance. He dropped to his knees before his brother. Han-seo was still wearing the same jacket he’d been wearing when Vincenzo had dropped him off at school that morning. An ugly atrocity of brightly colored patterns reminiscent of eighties fashion that Han-seo had zoned in on at the mall and absolutely insisted on. He was the same boy from that morning, yet ages had passed behind his eyes. 

Taking care not to touch Han-seo directly, he examined the handcuffs that chafed the skin around his wrists. Bastardos, he thought. To do that to a child! Don Fabio had clear rules about never involving women and children in their work, never harming the innocent and he demanded from his men to abide by this law religiously. 

These men were worse than trash for putting Han-seo through this hell. 

With practiced ease, Vincenzo unlocked the cuffs with a safety pin, careful not to let the metal scrape against Han-seo’s skin any more. They fell to the floor with a clang.

Throughout it all, he felt Han-seo's eyes on him, and the urge to hide his face, to shield Han-seo’s eyes from all this grew by the second. He dreaded to know what Han-seo was thinking now, how the picture of his big brother had, undoubtedly, changed irrevocably. He never wanted Han-seo to see this side of him.

Instead of meeting Han-seo's eyes, Vincenzo focused on his hands: the scratches on his wrist were an angry red, and Vincenzo reached out, then, by instinct, but he caught himself before his hands (the hands of a killer) could meet bare skin, and gripped Han-seo by the arm instead, as though the fabric of his jacket was barrier enough from his tainting touch. Instead, his bloody hands sullied that damn jacket, pink mixing with red, but despite the disgust at himself, Vincenzo needed to make sure he was real, solid. That he was fine.

“Hanseo-yah,” he whispered. 

Han-seo stared at him. 

His knees were bleeding, and Vincenzo was partly to blame for that. There was a cut on his right cheek, smaller than the one Vincenzo sported, yet enough to make his heart constrict at the sight. 

Almost more incriminating, tears were welling in his eyes. When one spilled over, Vincenzo reached out a hand to his left cheek, by instinct, to wipe it away with his thumb. “Han-seo,” he whispered again. “I’m sorry.” 

Horrified by the way his touch left a stain of red on Han-seo’s face, he wanted to draw back, but Han-seo was faster. Like a dam breaking, more tears spilled from his eyes and he launched himself at Vincenzo, scraped knees hitting the cold hard floor once more and it was all Vincenzo could do to catch him in his arms as Han-seo began to cry for real.

For a moment, Vincenzo was too stunned to do more. 

Wasn’t he scared of him? Wasn’t he horrified?

“Hyung!” Han-seo got out between sobs. “They– they…”

They hurt him. 

Any other thought flew out the window, as Vincenzo’s heart flared with the feeling that had risen in him since the first time he’d laid eyes on Han-seo, when Vincenzo had sworn to protect him, that small boy that got left behind just like Vincenzo himself had been left behind.

Vincenzo pulled Han-seo closer, tightened his hold on him, so tight it might almost hurt. “It’s okay.”

“I was so scared!”

“It’s okay, I’m here now.”

“They hurt me.”

“I know.” Vincenzo swallowed. He pushed down another wave of nauseating rage. “I’m sorry.”

“Hyung.”

“You’re alright,” Vincenzo promised  “I’m here now. You’re okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.” One of his hands rubbed back and forth soothingly across his back. “By my first father’s grave, I swear this. Anyone who tries, I’ll…”

He’ll pay them back tenfold, and his currency is pain. He’ll make them feel every second of blinding fear he’d felt for Han-seo since the moment he realized he was missing. Every second that Han-seo was scared, that he had to live in a world where he wasn’t safe, where Vincenzo had failed him. 

Eyes drifting, he caught another glance at the mirror. 

He looked awful.

Like a killer.

Like a monster. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to be near Han-seo. His innocent, carefree dongsaeng had been pulled into this world, his world, and he was the one to blame. He couldn’t stand to touch him with his filthy hands, hands full of blood. 

But as he loosened his grip to draw back, Han-seo only clung to him more tightly.

“Hyung, please!” Han-seo wailed. “Please stay.”

Stunned, Vincenzo didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured. “I’ll keep you safe, from now on. I promise.”

While Vincenzo was wearing the blood of his enemies, the blood on Han-seo  was mostly his own. His knees. His cheek. His wrists were full of scratches from where he had likely pulled against his too tight restraints. He must’ve been so scared. 

Vincenzo would kill them all again, would shoot another load of bullets in their bodies. Make it hurt this time, draw it out, for what they put Han-seo through. For every drop of blood they drew from him, he’d draw a hundred, for every tear that fell from his eyes, he’d tear off a limb. 

He doesn’t know how long they stayed like this, how long until Luca arrived with the cavalry. But when their medic tried to rip them apart to treat their injuries, Han-seo wailed even louder than before. 

"Han-seo," Vincenzo chided carefully, not letting go either. "You need to let them have a look at you."

"No, I'm fine, I just–" he sniffed, and Vincenzo's heart melted. 

He didn’t spend more than a furtive second wondering what Father’s men will think of him now, seeing him fold so easily for this kid. That was less important. More important was to keep Han-seo close, to reassure himself that he was here, that he was fine. He hadn’t been able to breathe since he found out Han-seo had been captured, and now he finally could. He closed his eyes, took in the vague smell of candy and Han-seo’s strawberry shampoo and, most damningly, the iron smell of blood that now clung to his little brother. Instinctively, Vincenzo hugged him a little tighter.

“You’re alright.” He couldn’t in all sincerity tell anymore if the reassurance was for Han-seo’s or his own sake.

Now that he knew that Han-seo was largely unharmed, the thing he most abhorred about this day was the fear these men put Han-seo through. The fear that shook his world view, burst the bubble that his world was a safe one. The fear that stripped him of the belief that as long as his brother was around, things would go alright, that he’d never let any harm come his way. 

Because he had been there, and harm had still found Han-seo.

In the worst way, Vincenzo had failed. If something worse had happened to Han-seo, he’d never have forgiven himself…

In the end it was Luca who managed to dislodge Han-seo’s iron hold on Vincenzo.

“Han-seo,” he’d addressed the boy directly. “We really need to have a look at the both of you. Your hyung doesn’t look so good himself…”

Immediately, Han-seo drew back to look Vincenzo over. There was a determined look in his watery eyes fighting to overthrow the state of distress he was obviously still in, his cheeks marked with tear tracks. Vincenzo reached out to wipe them away but the sight of blood on his hands made him waver.

He wanted to drop his hand to his side, but Han-seo was faster.

"Hyung, your hands!" His brother caught them between his smaller ones, the same delicate fingers that had pieced together a toy car at the breakfast table this morning brushing over Vincenzo’s bruised knuckles, where skin had ripped open when he’d punched his way through Han-seo’s captors. More blood transferred from Vincenzo onto Han-seo’s skin, and his stomach lurched at the sight, urge to pull back growing exponentially but Han-seo was insistent. “You need a band-aid!”

And in front of the eyes of his Father’s most trusted men, their medic and the corpses of their enemies, Han-seo reached into his pants’ pocket, pulled out a strip of dinosaur-themed bandaid and, very gently, stuck it right across Vincenzo’s knuckles.

Wide-eyed, Vincenzo stared at him. A small smile brightened Han-seo’s miserable face as he examined his handiwork and Vincenzo remembered what he had said to Han-seo, on that fateful day when Han-seo was hand-delivered to his doorstep by an uncaring former brother.

Let's just take care of one another from now on.

Han-seo never failed to save Vincenzo right back, it seemed.

*

He let the man go, the one who had used Han-seo as a shield. Someone needs to live to tell the tale. The tale of what happened when you dared to mess with Vincenzo Cassano's little brother. 

The saying doesn’t specify for how long that person should be allowed to live, however. But Vincenzo was a patient man when he wanted to be. He liked to play with his food.That man was how Vincenzo earned the title of the gatto sazio, but that's another story yet to tell.

[maraleestuff]

The Moment of Truth - My Rewrite

(A fic idea that won’t leave me alone. Features Merthur endgame but divorce first ://)

So there was Big Set Up for a Magic Reveal in 01x10, that never really amounted to anything. Will knew that Merlin could probably end the issue with Kanen before anyone could be hurt, and Hunith saw that Merlin was preparing to do what it would take to protect Ealdor, even at the cost of himself. Pre-battle, he even alluded to the potential moment. As we recall, Will took the fall as sorcerer after taking a crossbow bolt/ arrow for Arthur.

But what if things had gone differently?

At the end of one of Arthur’s speeches, and Will had been outspoken, he paced up to Merlin. He wouldn’t reveal Merlin’s magic in front of everyone, never that, but he’s still mad. “There isn’t hope, Merlin,” Will says, unaware or uncaring that Arthur is still in earshot. “Your Prince will lead all of us to our deaths.”

“He’s trying to help—“

“But it won’t be enough,” Will retorts. “You know there’s only one way to win this battle. But first, you need to stop living a lie.” It’s not fair—even Will knows this—but he’s angry that his friend had to leave, that his friend plays servant to a spoilt prince.

And he can see it in Merlin’s eyes, the way he looks at Arthur—like the man is everything, destiny and honor personified. (He can see how this love hurts his friend, too.)

He’s angry that Merlin—his Merlin—isn’t quite the same anymore, that his best friend isn’t the one who returned to Ealdor. Because Camelot changed him. Arthur fucking Pendragon changed him.

Will storms away, ignoring Merlin’s call after him, and only stops when he rounds a nearby house. When he glances back, guilt fills him at Merlin’s sad, troubled look. Will tries to ignore the way Arthur is looking at Merlin; if Will didn’t know any better, he’d say the Prince is worried.

- - -

Later, before the coming battle, Merlin’s fingers tremble as he puts on a vambrace.

By now, he’s had about half a year of experience putting armor on Arthur—but it’s awkward and almost ill-fitting on himself. Arthur stands nearby, putting on his own armor with expert ease; a soldier and a knight, prepared for battle.

But Merlin feels nothing but a certain numbness, Will’s voice echoing in his mind. There’s only one way they can prevail against Kanen—at least, without anymore death.

He knows he needs to act. But can he risk it? Can he bear to have Arthur look at him like a monster? To be executed, or exiled? Can he bear to hope?

“Here,” Arthur says, drawing Merlin from his thoughts, as he helps Merlin with his vambrace. Merlin’s fumbling fingers hadn’t been getting anywhere.

“Thanks.” Merlin’s mouth is too dry, and he feels moments from being unable to simply breathe. He’s too nervous to make a comment about Arthur helping him for a change.

“Look,” Merlin starts, when he’s able to find his voice, “whatever happens out there, I don’t want you to think any less of me.”

“It’s alright to be scared,” Arthur says, surprisingly soft. “Even the most seasoned of warriors dread battle. And you’re not a knight, you’re a—“

“A servant?” Merlin asks. With Will’s distrust of Arthur on his mind, the reminder of his station, compared to Arthur, burns all the more.

“A civilian,” Arthur states. “You aren’t a soldier.”

“I know.” Merlin was supposed to protect Arthur, but he had no training, but for being Arthur’s training dummy and a smuggled book of spells.

Merlin takes a deep breath, securing his sheath on his waist. Gwen had gifted him a sword, but it’s weight was unfamiliar. He’d need to use it, until—

“Merlin,” Arthur says, shuffling with his own sword belt, expression pensive—Merlin knows him well enough by now to know that he was unsure about what he was going to say. It’s so unlike him that Merlin pauses, frowning. “What your friend said, what did he mean by that?”

Merlin’s stomach drops. But he feigns ignorance. “By what?”

“About living a lie?”

Merlin opens his mouth, but Morgana is suddenly shoving open the front door. “They’re coming, across the river.”

“We’ll head out, at once,” Arthur says. When the door closes, Arthur looks back at Merlin expectantly, a furrow in his brow.

“Whatever I have to do, remember that we’re in Essetir, not Camelot.”

Merlin leaves before Arthur can respond.

- - -

The plan goes perfectly—until everything goes wrong.

Will stands at Merlin’s side, as he conjures a storm and friend and foe alike are thrown in chaos. The battle is over quickly, then, and Arthur storms up to them, a thunderous expression.

“I’m the sorcerer,” Merlin says, heart pounding. Simple words for such a pivotal moment.

Arthur opens his mouth, fury and hurt in his face, but Will steps forward, too. “This isn’t Camelot,” Will says, at Merlin’s side. “Merlin can’t be punished by it’s laws.”

And then, before Arthur can respond, magic rings around Merlin like alarm bells, as the last vestiges of Kanen’s men attack. Kanen, stirring on the battlefield, raises a crossbow at Arthur’s back.

“No!” Merlin surges forward, around Arthur, flicking the arrow aside like a fly. Time is slowed, like molasses, or maybe it’s Merlin who’s moving faster—he’s never learned the difference.

When time rights itself, he’s in the thick of it, parrying the sword of a bandit. Behind him, somewhere, is the clink of Arthur’s armor and Will shouting.

Someone pushes Merlin aside; a whistle of an arrow, a sickening thwack as it hits someone.

Merlin looks around frantically and pales. Will, his best friend, a brother, staggers back, an arrow protruding from his chest.

“No. No!” Merlin’s ears ring. Suddenly, Merlin is on his feet, fury in his veins—he shoves Kanen and his men back, a yell burning his throat.

He doesn’t stop to watch them fall.

“Will!” Merlin kneels at Will’s side, hands hovering. There’s so much blood. Will’s breath a wheeze. Merlin’s studied a couple of healing spells, but nothing for this. Gaius is the Physician.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“Just hang on, just try to breathe,” Merlin tries to soothe, and he rambles more, but he isn’t totally sure what he’s saying.

Someone helps him get Will inside his house, on a table, but Merlin isn’t sure who. He doesn’t stop to glance. Arthur says something, but Merlin doesn’t hear it. Footsteps fade, and he’s alone with Will, his hand oddly cold, as Will wheezes for breath, tears in his eyes.

Merlin’s own eyes blur, but he ignores them.

“You’re a good man, Merlin,” Will gasps. Merlin grips his hand, unable to breathe—not because he dreads his secret being revealed, because, suddenly, he’s faced with a world where Will is gone. Not an old friend, in a distant village, just—gone.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin murmurs. “I don’t know how to heal you. I don’t—I can’t—“

“It’s okay,” Will says, weakly grasping Merlin back. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I was wrong about Arthur, you know. I don’t think I’ll ever really like him, but I see the way you two look at each other.”

“What?”

Will laughs, winces. “You’ve always been a decent judge of character, I think. If you see the King in him, then it must be in there…deep, deep down. And if he hurts you, I will haunt him till the end of his days.”

Merlin laughs wetly. His tears mix with the growing red stain. His hand is on Will’s chest, trying in vain to stem the flow, but Merlin can feel the life draining from Will. Not the blood, metaphorically, but with his magic; he can feel it drain, but he doesn’t know how to mend it.

“It’s been boring here, without you,” Will says.

“I’m sorry I had to go.” A part of Merlin will always feel that way, no matter of pratly princes and talking dragons. He’ll always miss goofing around with his magic or spear fishing or playing pranks with Will. The way you miss your childhood home that you can never truly return to.

Will starts gasping harshly. It isn’t far now.

“Merlin, Merlin, I’m scared—“

“I know. I’m here. I’m here.”

“I don’t want to die—I don’t want to be alone—“

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Merlin grasps Will’s hand, tightly.

The world stops when Will stops breathing. And though sobs catch in Merlin’s chest, though he can feel grief like a dark winter storm, for a brief instant, he is grateful.

Will isn’t in pain anymore.

- - -

Merlin doesn’t remember much of the preparations for the funerals—for Will, for Matthew, for all those who fell in battle.

He knows he’s the one who helps carry Will to the pyre. Merlin arranges Will’s grip around his father’s sword, leaves his woven leather bracelet in Will’s fingers. Gwen, Morgana, and his mother squeeze his shoulder, or murmur condolences—someone strokes his hair. He thinks Arthur is somewhere there, on the periphery, but Merlin can’t face that right now.

When the flames burn, all Merlin can hear is Will’s panicked voice. He stays, stays, stays, until the embers are cold, tears dried on his cheeks, dried blood and grime on his hands.

At some point, he kneels, fiddling with the grass at his knees.

A shadow eventually falls over him, or, maybe, it’s been there for awhile.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, armor clanking as he sits down. In the edge of Merlin’s vision, he reaches out a hand, hesitates, and drops it on his thigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Merlin says. It’s one thing to know it’s not his fault—not everything is under his control, even with magic—but there is still this insidious voice.

If he had acted sooner, no one would’ve had to die. Will would still be alive.

“He—“ Arthur pauses, wets his lips. “He knew about…it, didn’t he?”

Merlin blinks, head feeling a little foggy. “It?”

“Your magic,” Arthur says, the moment Merlin had been dreading. Merlin feels very little now that it’s upon him.

“Yes.”

“He was trying to get you to stop the battle.”

“Something like that,” Merlin sighs. “Even I don’t know fully what I’m capable of.”

Supposedly the most powerful sorcerer to walk the Earth—but he couldn’t heal his friend.

“You seemed capable enough,” Arthur says. “That storm you conjured. I think some of Kanen’s men almost shat themselves.” Arthur pauses, glancing at Merlin, and Merlin realizes he’s trying to make a joke. Not to make light of his grief, but to help.

Merlin blinks, and a warm tear falls down his cheek without thought. “But not powerful enough. I felt Will’s life but I didn’t even know the first thing about healing him.”

Arthur’s hand warms Merlin’s shoulder, steadying him. “I…I can’t pretend to know the first thing about magic. But I know you. You did everything you could. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

“It’s almost dark, Merlin. We should head inside. You can finish up my dinner.”

“How generous,” Merlin says wryly, but he doesn’t want to move just yet. “I can’t yet. I promised…” Merlin swallows. More tears fall. “I promised I wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“We won’t leave you alone either,” Arthur says, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder.

“We?”

“We,” Morgana says behind Merlin. When he turns around, she has two blankets: one she lays on the grass, the other she drapes around Merlin and Arthur’s shoulders. Gwen and Hunith trail behind her with steaming bowls of stew and a couple of candles.

“We,” Gwen confirms, handing out the bowls.

The four of them huddle together under the single blanket, while Hunith smiles solemnly.

“Try not to stay out too long,” Hunith says. She strokes Merlin’s hair, and smiles gratefully at Gwen, Morgana, and Arthur. “It gets cold after dark.”

Hunith plants an indulgent kiss on Merlin’s brow before heading back inside.

“You guys really don’t have to do this,” Merlin tells them.

“We do,” Morgana says. “You’ve been there for all of us. Even if one of us”—she sends a stink eye to Arthur—“doesn’t always acknowledge it.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Gwen adds.

“I promise, Merlin,” Arthur says. “Now, one of the best ways to keep someone alive is to tell their stories. So, tell us about Will. If you’d like.”

So Merlin does.

[greypetrel]

22 for aisling for au prompts :3

At first I thought about her as a rogue. Then I thought that she would have been funny as a Warrior with a two-handed giant sword, Fenris style. Only, she’s SMOL. If you look at her from behind, she’s a huge sword with legs.

I died from my own laughter and ascended to the next world at the idea, so of course I went with that.

Jokes aside, I think so many things would change for her. She'd be much elfier, and much surer of herself and... Let's say she won't stop yelling left and right that oh no the Herald thing? It's a lie, I'm not, please stop. So, something very very VERY early on!

Tis the prompt list

Discombobulate

22. The MC as a different class (mage/warrior/rogue)

The crowd cheered around them when the proposition got expressed aloud, and Aisling could observe how the Commander frowned hard at the dwarf.

“What? It would be good for morale, Curly, you heard them!”

“It’s highly unproper, and we don’t have time to lose with-”

She was in Haven since a week, alone and suspected of having murdered the Divine through a magical explosion she had no idea how could she have casted, since she wasn’t a mage… And with some magical scar on her hand that glowed in the dark and itched like crazy. Not enough time to fully adapt to her new environment, but plenty to understand that shemlen were a little too fussy with the concept of propriety and personal space… and now, apparently, something that she wasn’t exactly eager to discover whether it was concern over her gender, her race or her stature. Because when she had gone to the smith, Harrit, to discuss about her equipment for the upcoming mission in the Hinterlands, she had seen her request for her weapon of choice refused. After insisting that she knew what she was asking, she was useless with a bow and arrows thank you very much, and slightly less so with daggers as they somehow all assumed she would have been, and still it hadn’t been enough to have the sword she wanted, she had marched straight to the Commander to perorate her request and know what weird thing she had to do to have a goddamn sword in this place. Sadly for her, the Commander had taken a good look at her, up and down, and asked if she was sure about what she was asking.

It had been excuse enough, apparently, for the dwarf -Varric- to barge right in and propose that Cullen proved her in the training ground.

After three councils she was -somehow- asked to participate in, it had been pretty clear that the Commander didn’t exactly like her. Everything she tried to say, he was there to counter it, point out how unorthodox her method were, how little knowledge she had over the real situation of the Inquisition. He was right on how little of the Inquisition and the shemlen world she knew, of course, she listened to her mother enough to had a vague idea of what it meant leading a group of people, but this Inquisition was hardly comparable to their clan. Still, it tasted a little like he was competing… And Aisling was all for bringing a competition in a field that was more favourable. She was there against her will, and she wasn’t staying just to be the emotional punching ball of the first Templar around. If he wanted to compete, that was fine with her: he wasn’t the first human to underestimate her just because she was short, he wouldn’t have been the last.

If this was a way to have less humans to underestimate her for her physical appearance, and at the same time scratch an itch and maybe peg the Commander down a little, who was she to refuse?

“Afraid of losing, Commander?” She chirped amiably, with a smile in the man’s direction.

He turned, and this time he frowned at her as well, as someone in the crowd ooh-ed at her provocation. Good.

“Hardly so. But it’s past my duties to provide you with some physical exercise. I have recruits to train, and we can’t waste any more resources for you.”

Another ooh from the crowd.

“Oh, it’s hardly a waste of time and resources. A trained Templar, the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall and now Commander of the forces of the mighty Inquisition against a lonely wood female elf that barely reaches your collarbone? If you want to flatter me, you could invite me to dinner, first.”

“I have much better things to do.” He squinted at her, irritated, in the same expression he had for the greenest recruits that spoke back to his instructions.

“I am a big girl, I can take it.” She smiled wider, keeping her voice kind and stepping forward, steps light and airy. “Come on, Commander, it will only take five minutes. It would do some good for all the recruits to see a duel between two warriors, don’t you think?”

“She’s right, Curly.” The dwarf -Varric- insisted, as he turned to the elf and winked mischievously at her. “It will be a good example, or are you too old to take a pretty elf?”

Aisling smiled at her newly found ally for the afternoon, and turned back to Cullen, nodding to her side invitingly and waiting for his answer. He was still there, arms crossed and glaring. From what she saw of him in the former days, when she had been training alone against a dummy, that was the expression that either preceded him admitting defeat, or him sending the unfortunate recruit to clean the latrines.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” She kept on smiling at him. “Unless you want me to.” She hoped she wasn’t destined to clean the latrines, after all.

After a full, tense minute, and a side glance to someone in the crowd Aisling couldn’t distinguish, the Commander exhaled loudly, grunting a “Fine.” That sent the crowd cheering around them.

“One match alone, no rebounds, and I don’t want to hear a complaint on the weapons you’re assigned for training ever again.” He grumbled, gesturing to his field assistant -a stout woman in a Templar armour Aisling didn’t remember the name of- to get inside the tend he usually stood in front of.

“Fine for me. And if I win?” She asked, innocently enough as she observed the crowd making more space for them, opening up in a wide circle around them.

“What?”

“If you win, I will accept any weapon you and the lovely Seeker deem me reliable enough to wield without emitting a syllable. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, Mythal be my witness, cross my heart.” She crossed her heart with her right index, left palm up in the air most solemnly as she stepped back a couple of steps in the snow. “What if I win?”

Cullen rolled his eyes at her. “Name your wish.”

“If I win, you’ll have to say in Council, in front of Sister Woodpecker-”

“Sister Nightingale.”

“Whatever. In front of Leliana, Seeker Pentaghast and Ambassador Montilyet, that I am right and the wisest, prettiest elf in the compound.”

“Are we really-”

“We are. And you will tell everyone you hear calling me so, that I am not the Herald of Andraste.”

The crowd fell silent at that. Cullen finally stopped glaring at her like she was giving him a headache, and stared at her not understanding where this came from. She didn’t explain herself any further, just contracted her eyebrows up and waited. Miss Templar -Elyse? Elizabeth? Lizzy?- returned back with two training poles, which she gave to her first.

“Thank you.” She nodded to her, with a smile. “So?” She prodded the Commander, slipping one foot behind her and getting in position, the stick held loosely in one hand and the other bent behind her back. She contracted her toes, feeling the terrain under them. Beaten earth, compact from being stepped upon so many times and soaked with snow and humidity. Not the best terrain ever, but it would hopefully offer something to grip upon for her bare feet. A small advantage that her adversary, if he took the bet, wouldn’t have.

He took some more time to answer, clearly studying her with half-lidded eyes. In the end, tho, he sighed and shifted in position as well, nodding to her without taking his eyes away from her.

“Fine.” He finally said, bending his knees twice and swinging the pole in front of him a couple of time, to get used to its weight.

Before he could start, Varric spoke again, announcing loudly the epic duel between Commander Rutherford and the gem of Clan Lavellan -Aisling was grateful that he caught on the Herald of Andraste thing. Camaraderie between prisoners, she guessed. Not real friendship, but it wasn’t a bad starting point if they needed to fight together. He was still speaking, but she didn’t listen to what he had to say: studying her adversary was more important, right now. Way more important, if she wanted to win this thing. And she wanted to.

Being kept there was bad enough, but if the mark on her hand really was the key to repair the big jagged vortex that opened up the sky, she needed to stay. Her mother taught her as such. She may not have inherited her talent with magic and her capability as a somniari, but she was her mother’s daughter: proud and capable and not turning her back to her duty. She had been taught well. And she had been taught well enough as to not blindly accept a bunch of humans to use her as their religious figurehead to convince the Chantry to approve of their organization. She could agree with what they were doing, but she was a Dalish warrior, she bore the Vallaslin of Mythal, she was the firstborn of the Keeper, sister of her First, and she would not bend her knee to a foreign faith. Absolutely no, and she needed at least one other voice to perorate aloud she wasn’t sent by their Maker.

She needed a victory, and she needed this victory.

So, she stood in position, careful to hold her staff in a way she saw the other soldiers around using and was unfamiliar to her, and studied her adversary. Bigger than her, taller with a full head and heavy with muscle. Armoured, but since she never once saw him without it, he was used to its weight, and he would have not been sensible to direct hits. He was a little taller than the average, she noticed, meaning he was used to enemies smaller than him. She needed all the advantage she could get.

“Ladies first.” He nodded to her, a sharp look in his eyes that hinted that he was studying her as well.

“What a gentleman.” She smiled again.

She lounged forward, swinging the bottom of the staff in an upward circle. He parried easily enough, with a clack of wood. She stepped back and tried again, aiming at his shin with the bottom of the pole, and as soon as he parried, at his opposite shoulder with the up.

Parry, parry, movements fluid and easy, automatic.

She circled around him, retreating a couple of steps, and he circled back to keep facing her. Some murmuring around the crowd, but she paid them no mind. She had to learn about her adversary to win this, and she needed to learn it quick.

She snapped forward again, keeping her movement basic enough not to pose a real challenge and not to be too “foreign” to put him on guard. Not really. He was a Templar, he shouldn’t be used to fight against Dalish, and that was, hopefully, the path to her victory. She just needed to have an educated guess on how much similar in fighting he was to the Templars she fought back home, in the Marches. None of them had known what to do with her, but she had been at her full advantage, in the woods she trained in, with her sword in her hands, not a light training stick that weighted nothing at all and the battlefield severely limited by a cheering crowd of soldiers.

They kept it on, she attacking by the book, probing him, and Cullen answering hit for hit, lightly and effortlessly, as he was playing. He was, in a sense, not engaging if she didn’t, not lunging forward. Trying to study her or tire her out, most likely. Too much at ease, she decided, to be holding back. He wasn’t attacking on purpose, and she could play with it.

She frowned and pouted at him, too visible not to be noticed, and saw him raise one eyebrow at her. She said nothing and sped up the rhythm, quickening her steps and her attacks, but never straining away from basics. Left and right, up and down step back and swing in a wide circle, let him duck down and- ah.

His knees were a little stiff, he ducked at the very last minute. She could work with it.

But before… She kept it on, huffing more and more often as they swung around each other, the clacks of wood becoming a syncopated rhythm that filled the open circle. She didn’t hold back too much, not really, and hit him with strength. He could be left thinking she couldn’t endure this too much. After all, she was small and lithe for human standards, and most of them didn’t know how to distinguish a buff elf from a thin one, if her asking for a greatsword caused so much fuss. Different muscular structure, maybe, or simple ignorance. In any case, it played in her favour.

After ten minutes, then, she grunted aloud and did a too wide movement, getting it wrong mostly on purpose. She wasn’t used to such a wide grip, after all: it mattered little. Cullen took the opening -the bait- and slipped his staff between hers and her body, quickly inclining it so he positively hooked her. To his advantage, he was quicker than her reflexes could let go of the staff: he levered her and used her own weapon to unbalance her, making her roll and fall back in the ground on her back.

He was a little slower to come and point his pole to her throat: she expected to be unbalanced, the mistake was done on purpose. She batted the stick away with her own weapon, with one hand, and swung the other end to hit his shin with the other hand.

The crowd cheered, as Cullen stepped back quickly, hissing something through his breath, and she quickly rolled on her side and on her feet, crouching down low and wielding the staff on her back, close to her arm.

A more familiar grip, and the low position could give her some advantage more. Namely, that it was something not doable if you wear heavy, metal armour.

“Get up.” He invited her, breath a little ragged.

“I’m right where I want to be, thank you.” She quipped back, with a polite nod. “Your old joints can’t reach down here, perhaps?”

He huffed in annoyance, but weirdly enough, the next hit was stronger and less precise than before. As if-

She swung around, ducking under his hit and his arm with a quick cartwheel. Wielding her weapon -considerably lighter than what she was used to- with just one hand, let the other free to assist in the maneuver, and as she rolled back to position, she could turn on herself and swing the pole right at his back with both hands, hardly.

It clanged against the metal of his cuirass, but he stepped forward and turned back quickly enough, coming back to face her. He was good, she had to admit. Better than she thought at first and better than she faced before leaving the clan. And yet, there was something stiff in his movement, his reactions came all some seconds behind, as if he was tired. An opening. She just needed to-

The duel became more serious, with both of them, now, putting more effort into it, surer about how their adversary moved. Aisling kept ducking and running around him, taking advantage of being smaller, lighter and more agile, as Cullen put more strength into his hits. She wasn’t in any armour, and he indeed just needed one good hit, and knew which points to aim at. He just had to catch her, first, which she put all her efforts to prevent.

The crowd cheered aloud when the Commander stepped sideways, anticipating the elf’s next movement, and lounged at her. A good hit, but still a little slower, and not taking advantage of the bare feet. Aisling snapped her staff behind her, planting the bottom in the soft ground. It didn’t go much deeper, the dirt was too cold and half-frozen for it, but it was enough to allow her to bend her back backward and slip right under the lunge, holding up with her toes gripping the terrain and sustaining her weight on the training pole.

She smiled, looking at the hit that would have caught her, 10 cm up her nose: it started as a tease, but she was indeed having fun with it. It had been a while since she last sparred with such a capable adversary, and she relied in it. Alas, she had something she really wanted at stake, and he was right in saying the recruits needed their Commander to train them more than she needed a good sparring partner.

As he retreated the stick, with a grunt of annoyance, she rolled back up and quickly engaged him back again. She moved her pole up and then down, with strength enough that he was forced to step back as he parried.

She put some more strength into her hits, and he was taken aback, at first. It lasted little, but it put them in a rhythm enough, with him now stepping backward and her attacking and going forward.

As she parried one hit, she moved her weight on her left foot and kicked his knee in the side, hard, with the right. She grunted in pain – the boot was studded with metal, she hadn’t thought about it, but it was enough to have him stagger minutely.

Enough for her to, ignoring the dull pain on the bridge of her foot, try the same move he did at the start: hook her pole with his and move it sideway, to lever herself up and-

“You’re not heavy enough to flip me over.” He remarked, annoyed.

“I’m not trying to flip you over.”

She informed him, as she pushed on the centre of his weapon, sent him stepping back and put enough distance between them to jump right on the cross of their weapons, her full weight and the force of the jump leaning heavily on him.

He was left surprised, and with two choices: let go of his weapon and make her fall, but with now both weapons at her disposal, or grab on and try to counter. He staggered back and didn’t let go, and the force of her jump and her weight was, apparently, enough to sent him fall back.

The crowd cheered aloud, as Aisling fell right on the Commander’s chest, sitting down heavily to pin him to the ground, slipping her pole free and lean it on his throat. She ignored the dull pain on her knees and shins, where she landed.

“Dead.” She announced, with a satisfied grin.

The crowd kept cheering around them, and she caught her breath, not moving from where she was

“You’re dead as well.” He rebuked, looking up at her.

“What?”

Something pressed in her back, right where her kidney was, and when she turned around, she could see he was pointing a dagger right there. A fatal wound, if it was a real fight: she would have sliced his throat, but he would have stabbed her in her back, in a point that would have had her bleeding to her death if no healer was around.

She blinked twice, surprised.

“You never said anything about second weapons.” He pointed out when she turned to look at him, some glint in his eyes that on a person with less of a stick up their ass could also have been mistaken for amusement.

“I didn’t peg you for one who fights dirty, Commander.” She admitted, still smiling at him.

“Your bad, 10 years in Kirkwall have that effect.”

“Heard it’s a bit of a shithole, indeed.”

He snorted, not fully laughing. They both lowered their weapons, and when Aisling finally got back to her feet, she offered him a hand to haul him up. They smiled and nodded at each other, begrudgingly recognizing some mutual respect as Varric called it a draw and the crowd kept congratulating.

“So.” Cullen told her, after some minutes of batting dirt away from their clothes. “No Herald of Andraste for you, I see?”

“Thank you.” She blinked twice, surprised he got the hint. “And I’ll stop complaining about training weapons.”

It wasn’t that big of a concession, and she could step forward to him. Her mother would have frowned at her, and at her giving anything to a human. Surely her mother would have marched right off that village, and she will not be happy of her being kept there. Her mother wasn’t there, tho, and she’s never been the fondest elf towards human.

Her mother wasn’t there, tho. Her mother was never shown respect as Aisling was, with loud pats on her shoulders by recruits and soldiers she didn’t know the name of, congratulating on her. Her mother wasn’t there, when the Commander bid the smith to provide Lady Lavellan -not the Herald!- of whatever weapon she requested.

“Let her fall under the weight of a greatsword, if she so chooses.” He commented, begrudgingly still but holding a hint more of respect than he had before.

She smiled at him and nodded. “Ready for a rebound whenever you’d like.”

Maybe her time amongst humans wouldn’t have been so bad as she had thought at first.