#had 3000 words of this just lingering in my wips

[thevikingwoman]

Saw a post on Finish your WIPs February and I was not going to do any of that, except Solas and Iwyn insisted. It was fun writing them again.

Originally started in 2021, for a kinky bingo prompt of "infidelity", here's Solas and Iwyn enjoying some art, and each other - acting on their attraction to each other after Iwyn's husband leaves.

Fandom: Dragon Age | Words: 4114 | Read on Ao3

Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Modern AU | smut Rating: Explicit. Infidelity, smut, fluff, angst, Iwyn is lonely, her husband is a bit boring, Solas is lonely too, nothing new here though, oral, piv sex, safe sex, casual relationship

Casual Fun

There is a surprising amount of rich, beautiful people at the museum. Solas knows many donors are more interested in getting their name in the brochures – or even better, in brass on the entrance pillar –but they still attend events to mingle and make sure everyone else knows they are there.

It’s still more crowded than he anticipated. The foyer is busy, a string quartet plays, and the trays of canapes and sparkling wine are quickly refilled.

The patrons of the arts, all dressed up. It doesn’t matter why people are here – the museum is free Wednesdays and Sundays, and hands out scholarships to young artists and that matters. Solas doesn’t much care about making connections or socializing, but he does care that there is money for the arts, and this is why he donates himself, of course.

It’s the opening of the A. Brenhan exhibition – a renown Orzammar artist who rarely allows his works to be shown on the surface. Solas had hoped to see the collection relatively undisturbed, and initially the throng of people had dashed his hopes. When he makes his way to the special exhibit on the second floor, he realizes he was wrong. Very few people wander the exhibit. It seems everyone is more interested in the spectacle that is themselves.

He spends some time on the charcoal sketches. It’s mostly architecture. Forgotten Thaigs and empty corridors and old houses. The story behind them is more interesting than the sketches themselves.

Most people actively browsing the gallery are in pairs or small groups. Like himself, they might have a more serious interest in the art, or simply worry about missing out. While he appreciates the peace and quiet here, he does wish he had someone to discuss the art with.

Solas moves to the next part of the exhibit, what Brenhan is most known for. Oil paintings on large canvasses, larger than Solas is tall. The kind of work you hang in museums, or maybe in mansions of some of the very rich. No matter, the artist’s fame is well deserved. Most of the paintings feature Dwarven architecture, ancient and modern both, but above them an impossible sky. Brenhan is a traditionalist, and has never left Orzammar, and doesn’t truly know what the sky looks like. The effect is eerie and unsettling, and meant to be so.

“I can’t decide if I love it, hate it, or just find it odd.”

Solas is startled by the woman next to him. He’d not noticed her, or assumed she was part of the group that moved on.

“It’s captivating nonetheless,” he offers.

“I agree. It’s one of the more interesting exhibits recently.”

He turns to her, and she is captivating too. Her dress is a shimmery white, contrasting with her tan skin and red hair piled on top of her head. Diamonds drip from her pointed ears and her green eyes sparkle. As she moves, his eyes are drawn to the high slit in her dress and her tall heels.

He quickly looks back at her face, and she smirks at him.

“Do you often attend the openings?” he asks, and realizes this is almost as cliche as do you come here often? He wanted someone to talk to, and now he wants to sink into the floor.

“Most of them, if I can.” She smiles and holds out her hand. “I’m Iwyn.”

He takes it, and she gives a firm handshake.

“Solas.”

“So, Solas, are you familiar with Brenhan’s work?”

“Some. I have not seen such an extensive collection before. From what I understand it is the most comprehensive exhibition of his works. Outside Orzammar, of course.”

“Yes, I’ve heard so too. I did see some of his work in the Museum of Modern Art in Denerim, but it was only a few. I do find his work intriguing, and a lot more impressive in person.”

“It’s the scale of it. It doesn’t translate well to a catalogue.”

Iwyn agrees and they talk more about the paintings, moving from one room to the next in the exhibit. He learns that her interest in art is recent, and he has plenty of knowledge he can share with her. Her own insights are unique and interesting still, seeing the soul and emotion of the pictures without the baggage of art study. The conversation is invigorating and easy.

Sometime later, an elven man joins them. He’s a little shorter than Solas, with a square jaw and long dark hair gathered in a bun at his neck. He leans over and kisses Iwyn on the cheek.

“Hello, dear.”

“Solas, this is my husband Halier. Halier, Solas is an art enthusiast and he’s been sharing interesting thoughts on the exhibit.”

Solas heart drops in chest and he instinctively puts space between him and Iwyn. He’s enjoyed their conversation immensely, and working to steer the conversation away from the art and towards leaving for drinks. Like a fool, he’d ignored the large diamond ring on her finger. It went with her earrings and bracelet.

Halier grunts and thrusts out his hand, and Solas can do nothing else but take it.

“Solas. I’m sure I’ve seen you before – where do you work?”

“I’m a partner at Evanuris Wealth Management.”

“Of course. I must have seen your picture in your office. I’m a partner with Lavellan, Lavellan & Sabrae Law Firm.”

“Very nice.”

Solas isn’t here to discuss business. Most days, he doesn’t hate his job, or the family business, and he’s glad it allows him to support the arts like this, but he also doesn’t want it to consume his life. He isn’t here to discuss business.

“Are you done here?” Halier directs his question at Iwyn, but does not wait for her response. “I’d like to get out of here, I have that early flight tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t mind staying a bit longer. Take the car, I’ll grab a cab.” Iwyn fishes a valet ticket out of her clutch, and lightly kisses Halier’s cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t. I have to be at the airport at 6am. Goodnight, dear.” He takes the ticket, and nods at Solas. “Solas, nice to meet you. We can discuss business at some other time, perhaps. Thank you for entertaining my wife.”

“A pleasure.”

Solas watches as Halier leaves, but his attention is soon back on Iwyn.

"My husband finds these things terribly boring,” she says. “We're donors, and he likes his name on something cultured along with the tax deduction, but that's it."

"And you don’t find these things boring?"

“I like the events, and the art. Especially with interesting company.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret that, with her sly smile and sparkling eyes and husband retreating down the stairs.

“The art is certainly better with good company.”

He closes a little of the space between them, and he wants her to forget her husband existed. Fuck.

“I’d love to look at the final part of the exhibit. Do you want to join me, Solas?”

She brushes past him, her fingers skimming his arm as she gestures towards the last room they have not explored. He’s no idea if it’s deliberate, but the heat of her sears him through his jacket.

They spend another thirty minutes, at least, taking in the final room. The art is interesting, but more and more he finds himself staring at Iwyn. She catches him, at one point, causing him to quickly avert his eyes and stumble over his words.

Iwyn puts a hand on his arm.

“How about getting some drinks? It seems you’ve lost interest in the art.”

“I’m looking at a different type of art, even more interesting and beautiful.”

It slips out before he can stop himself, but she just gives him a crooked smile.

“Let’s get out of there, Solas.”

-

Iwyn takes Solas to a nearby bar. There’s a risk someone would know her and her husband, of course, but she’s willing to take it. Halier already knows she was talking with him, and they’re just here to talk a little more. Maybe, she admits, she wants to more than talk. She likes his eyes on her, the intensity in them when he looks at her. She likes his voice, and the way he called her beautiful just earlier. Brazen and rebellious.

The bar is nice enough, a regular upscale bar matching the surrounding office buildings, galleries, art museum, restaurants, and symphony hall. She thinks it was featured recently in the nightlife section of the local newspaper, but she isn’t sure. Iwyn orders the featured drink, The Divine’s Night Off, with crystal grace infused gin, brown sugar syrup and Navarran orange liqueur. Solas orders a fruity pink grapefruit vodka concoction.

They make careful small talk, at first. About art, and the museum and the ballet (Solas is a fan, Iwyn isn’t) and other arts that the city offers. They carefully avoid talking about work or what Solas does for a living. It’s clear that his company and her husband’s do some business, and she doesn’t want to think about that.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the donor evenings before. We – I try to go to most of them.”

“I have been a donor for a while now, but the last two years I’ve been in Kirkwall. For work.”

Solas makes a face, and she grins. No one really likes Kirkwall, not even the people from there.

“Happy to be back in Wycome?”

“Most certainly. Kirkland is boring at best, and polluted and prejudiced at its worst. It is a relief to be back. Though I must say that I did not expect the event to be that enticing.”

His voice sends shivers down her spine.

“I’m very glad you’re here, Solas. It made my evening a lot more exciting so far.”

“So far?”

“It could become more exciting.”

“How so?”

“I’m sure you can figure it out.”

She’s bored and lonely most of the time, if she’s honest, and Solas offers something new and different. She wants his hands all over her. She wants to fuck him. There are many reasons she’s still married to Halier, but mediocre sex isn’t one of them. She never thought of meeting someone like this, flirting like this. The thrill of it is lightning in her veins, and the fact that Solas knows about her husband intensifies it.

Solas takes a sip of his drink, and traces the edge of his glass. His fingers are long and elegant.

“I would very much like to. Figure it out, I mean.”

She’s made up her mind, and she doesn’t want to wait anymore. Iwyn is out of her comfort zone, but there is something about Solas that draws her to him. She needs to know if he feels the same, and she’s no reason to hide her intentions.

“Sweet talker.”

“Iwyn, I…” He pauses, and looks serious. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“Solas,” she says, as she reaches across the table and places her hand on top of his. “I know a hotel, nearby.”

“Yes,” he replies, to the question she didn’t ask.

They pay for their drinks and slip out into the cool night. It has rained while they were at the bar, the wet sidewalk reflecting the lights from the street. Boldly, Iwyn pulls Solas close and kisses him, soft and quick. He freezes, and she’s about to apologize when he pulls her close again and kisses her back. This time there is nothing soft or gentle about it.

“We should probably find that hotel,” she mumbles when they pull apart. As much as she wants to keep him close, she also wants him naked. Solas seems to agree, nodding and taking her hand. It’s only two blocks to the hotel, and they manage without too many stops for kisses. The entrance is well lit, gold handles in the glass doors.  

She hesitates in the lobby, but only briefly. She is certain. Solas hand is at the small of her back, as if it belongs there. As if they’d checked into a hotel together a million times before.

“Can I help you?”

The human behind the counter looks very bored. It’s quite late, and the lobby is empty.

“We need a room for a night. We don’t have a reservation.”

Solas is close and she draws on the confidence in his presence. He wants to be here. She wants to be here. What they’re doing is no one else’s business.

“Sure.” The girl taps on her computer. “Nightly rate 399. Credit card and Id, please?”

“Let me,” Solas says smoothly, and she supposes he right. It’s not that she can’t pay, but it’s better it’s not her name. Some part of her doesn’t care, craves the danger of it. But she’s not quite ready to self-destruct her life.

Solas hands over his cards, and the girl dutifully enters his information into her system. She hands them two keycards. She looks too tired and underpaid to ask about their lack of luggage.

“Room 906, elevators are down and on your right. Checkout is at 11am tomorrow.”

Solas thanks her, hands Iwyn one card, and starts down the hallway. Iwyn grabs his hand.

“One moment.”

She heads to the hotel convenience store, determined and casual all at once. She looks at the little stand of toiletries – deodorants, cotton buds, razors.

“Do you have any condoms?”

The dwarf behind counter grunts, and pulls out a silver cardboard box from a cabinet behind the counter.

“19.99.”

She hands him her credit card, and puts the box in the purse when the transaction is complete. The dwarf grunts again, and fiddles with his phone.

Iwyn hurries after Solas, and puts her hand in his when she catches up.

-

They slip inside the room, and the door closes with a soft thud behind them. Iwyn pushes him against the wall, and catches his lips in an eager kiss. He slips his hand through the tall slit in her dress, caressing her skin, like he’d been wanting to all night. He kisses her neck, she gasps.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. He pulls back and really looks at her. A thought occurs to him. “Does your husband know you’re here?”

He isn’t really certain why a beautiful woman wants with him, and her husband is certainly handsome enough. If he’s part of someone’s kink he’d like to know.

“No. Does that bother you?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

Iwyn walks to the bed, and drops her dress on the floor. It pools around her feet, leaving her nude except her lace panties and tall heels. She twists off her diamond ring and drops it on the bedside table.

“He won’t know anything,” she states.

She is breathtaking. He tentatively touches her arm, her shoulder. Runs his fingers across her collar bone, and down her chest. She gasps when he cups her breast briefly, before skimming over her ribs, resting his hand on her hip. He follows with kisses, all the way down the body until he kneels before her. He frees her legs from the dress, folds it, and toss it on a chair.

“If he did know – your husband – would you be in danger?”

She laughs at this, and cuts herself off. She looks at him earnestly.

“Thank you, Solas, for asking. I wouldn’t be. He would be severely disappointed, I suppose. Just like he severely disappoints me.”

He kisses her knee.

“I will endeavor not to, in that case.”

“Very good.”

The way her voice drops when she praises him sends a bolt of arousal straight to his dick. So does the fact that she’s here, with him, while her husband has gone home alone.

He runs his hands up her legs, and kisses her lace covered sex. She gasps, a low involuntary sound, completely lovely.

“Sit down, please?”

She does, sitting herself on the bed behind her. Before he can lean in closer, she lifts one foot, pressing her heel against his chest.

“You’re overdressed, Solas.”

“Of course.”

He takes off his jacket, and unbuttons his shirt. Iwyn crosses her legs, and follows every move with hooded eyes. He hopes he measures up. With his chest bared he leans over her and kisses her, deep and hungry.

“Everything, Solas,” she says.

He complies, taking off his shoes and dresspants and socks and boxers. There’s no elegant way to go about it, but Iwyn is just sitting on the bed, leaning back on her elbows with a small smile on her face. She smiles wider when he’s finally naked, and he’d happily suffer a little awkwardness to put such a smile on face.

Iwyn uncrosses her legs.

“Now where were you?”

Solas slides down in front of her. “Right here, I believe.” He slides his hands up her calves, past her knees. She yields to his gentle pressure, and lets her legs fall open. He kisses the inside of her thigh, and again, his lips caressing her silken skin all the way up to her lace clad mound. He kisses the lace, and she moans deliciously when he breathes hot air against her. He draws his head back to look at her, glorious above him, and caresses her with his fingers. He slips two inside her panties, touching her slick heat. Iwyn bucks against him, his other hand firmly holding her left leg.

“More,” she growls, and he draws her panties aside, leaving her clit exposed, pink and swollen. He teases it, and rubs against the sides of it, and then he presses down on it.

“Like this? Softer? Harder?”

“Harder, softer. Alternate.”

He smiles, and does as she asks, causing her to gasp and writhe. She is alluring, her half-covered sex arousing, her wet cunt inviting. He wants to taste her, to make her scream. He keeps working his fingers, and kisses the inside of her thigh. When he reaches the top, he licks up her cunt, reveling in her taste. She moans, a deep throaty sound and he groans too. He looks up at her, her shiny red lips parted, her cheeks flushed with desire.

“More?” he asks.

“Yes, please. Now.”

“I think I’ll get rid of these first.”. He smirks at her, moving his hands across her panties. They’re pretty, but in the way. He pulls the fabric a little up, making the lace rub against her clit, and then down. She lifts her hips easily, allowing him to slide them all the way down her legs. He carefully pulls the panties over the heels of her shoes, leaving them on her feet.

He doesn’t tease this time, no matter how inviting the soft skin of thighs is, but sits right up between her legs and spreads his palms over her hips. Her legs part wide for him, and he lowers his mouth to taste her again. He licks and sucks her sensitive folds and her swollen clit.  He’s rewarded with a low moan, her head thrown back. He adds his hand, his fingers teasing her opening. Iwyn takes the opportunity to throw her leg over his shoulder. She’s wet and soft, clenching around his fingers, her juices coating his chin. Her heel digs into his back, pressing him closer to her, a beautiful counterpoint to her sweet taste.

She is all his, right here, even if it isn’t so outside this room. Not that she belongs to anyone but herself, not truly.

Solas keeps working his fingers, his tongue until she shudders around him, moaning and trashing against him. He lets her come down carefully, gently easing her out of her climax. Her leg slips to the floor and she relaxes into the bed.

“That was – very good.”

“Yes?”

“You did good,” she says again, firmer this time. His already hard cock jumps at it. He wants her and he wants her approval more. He wants to be good enough for her. He’s here with her, and her husband isn’t. He’s the one who slides his hands all the way down her legs, and gently takes off her shoes, kissing her ankles. He’s the one who crawls into bed after her when she swings legs up to stretch out on it.

He’s the one who asks her, “what can I do next?”

“Touch me,” she says. “Like you care.”

Solas is suddenly furiously angry, overcome with a need to punch Iwyn’s husband in the face the next time he meets him. He won’t, of course, and refocuses his attention on Iwyn. He just met her tonight, but he does care. He wants to touch her, to please her, right here in this downtown hotel. He also wants to talk art with her again, to get to know her better. He shoves that thought to the back of his brain. Being the one the satisfy her will have to be enough.

“I do care, Iwyn.”

She looks stunned at his earnestness, perhaps like she regrets her vulnerability. He patiently lets his fingers wander up her torso, feather-light. Iwyn recovers and smirks.

“Get on with it, then.”

He does, his hands wandering across her chest, teasing her nipples as he dips his head to kiss her. He learns what makes her moan, what makes her arch her back. Her hands are not idle either, sliding up his body, digging into his shoulders. He groans when she traces one finger up his cock, and wraps her whole hand around it. She pumps it slowly and all thoughts flee his mind, his hands randomly touching her, needing to feel her skin beneath his hands in any way he can. Iwyn sits half up, and kisses him.

“Lay back, Solas,” she says, extracting herself from under him.

He does, laying back and lets her continue to do as she pleases. Her hand is back on his cock as she grins, her other hand holding him firmly down when his hips jerk. He’s so hard it aches, and he almost can’t hold it together when moves faster, twisting her hand a little.

“I’m going to fuck you.”

“Please, please, Iwyn.” He’s ready to beg for anything, has been since he first laid his eyes on her.

She lets go of him, and finds the packet of condoms, opening one. Her nails are expertly manicured, a deep green color. The diamond bracelet glints against her wrist. She rolls the condom over his cock.

Seated above him, she drags her nails across his chest, her cunt hovering out of reach. He wants. He needs, he needs her now.

“Please,” he says again. “I need – “

She lowers herself on him, heat surrounding him, perfect and far too slow. When he moves, thrusting his hips up impatiently, she puts a hand on his chest.

“Stay still.”

Her eyes are burning, and it’s not a question. A demand. A test. He complies and grows impossible harder. Iwyn moves with agonizing slowness. His hands find their way to her waist, supporting, but not changing her pace, letting her stay in control. They’re both panting, eyes caught in each other.

Finally, Iwyn moves faster, leaning more on her weight on his chest as she collapses a little forward. He grips her hips tighter, and she nods. Now he moves with her, into her. It’s tight and hot and wonderful, and he moans her name as he throws his head back. Iwyn brings her own hand between her legs, and they both move faster, erratically. She trembles above him, glorious and beautiful, and his own orgasm takes him by surprise, intensity coursing through him.

Iwyn collapses fully on his chest, and he wraps his arms around her. She sighs and kiss his neck, as she slides off him, then tucks herself into him. Solas deals with the condom, and lets himself enjoy her warmth next to him.

"I don't normally do this," she says.

"Neither do I."

"Fucking a married woman, or engaging in one-night stands in general?"

Both. Either. He just nods, and kisses her brow. She idly caresses his shoulder. It feels far too comfortable.

“I’m glad I did,” she says.

“As I am I.” 

They lay intwined, and he holds her. A minute. An hour. A moment. Long enough to pretend this belongs to him.

She slips away well before dawn. Home, he supposes, to her husband, or an empty bed he has left. Back to her real life.

She kisses his cheek.

"Thanks, Solas. I had a good time."

He squeezes her hand.

"Me too," he says, and he smiles, as wide and genuine as he can.

Casual fun, another man's wife.

The door clicks shut after her.

[danse-or-farkas]

TESFEST22 Day 1: Dreams

June 11th – Dreams / Bees

I lied, I had something after all! I remembered a WIP unopened for literally years that could be cleaned up enough to be postable. Its just the first chapter of something bigger that I might never finish but I can at least say I did this much. It works as an odd little standalone, a chance encounter between two characters who have never even heard of each other.

Also posted to AO3. Just slightly over 3000 words.

Farkas arrived at the hall just as the sun was starting to set, finding it oddly empty. He had no intention of doing anything other than sleep, but made the choice to at least check in with his brother and Aela before doing so.

The city was currently sat under a lingering storm, circling back and forth for weeks unable to settle. It was thick with Red Mountain ash carried far too far from Morrowind. He didn't much like it, the hair on his arms standing on end and the fur inside stood hackles raised.

Vilkas had seen these storms before on his travels, had described them himself upon his return. The air tasting like magicka and something that might have been either meat or metal, heavy and insistent against senses made sharp by the gifts of Hircine.

Athis had once recounted the history of the ash storms and their darker cousin the blight storm, Vilkas dutifully listening and Farkas entertaining a mug of good mead instead. He almost regretted it now. Almost. Vilkas was the sort to have his eyes on the past, Farkas found the present more than enough for him to care about.

The job had been less than completely successful, the bounty recovered alive but not as intact as had been requested. The captain of the guard had insisted they be brought in for interrogation, and the bandit had insisted considerably more that he would be never be taken in so long as he had hands to hold his axe. Farkas found a compromise, much to the sheer horror of the guard and the temple healers that had to bandage and salve two bleeding stumps. Farkas had at least kept the axe, along with a set of hands just in case they could be reattached. They could not. He didn't consider it a great loss. The bandit probably did.

The fire was lit, the doors unlocked, so they were not all away on duties.

He found near the whole guild assembled in the training yard, forming a half circle. All but Kodlak, and that alone was never a good omen. His absence always led to chaos.

The newest recruit was cheering, blood pouring from their nose and arms raised in the air. Athis was on the floor, the bruise around his eye already ugly and blotchy. If his eyes were not already a deep red at least one would most certainly have been now.

“Who’s next?” They bellowed, turning a swaggering full circle and issuing the challenge to all assembled.

Aela nudged Vilkas, motioning over her shoulder with just her eyes. Farkas didn't have time to duck away, his scent had caught on the wind and tipped her off to his arrival.

“I volunteer my brother.” Vilkas looked to him, a raised eyebrow and a look daring him to refuse.

Farkas swore under his breath as the crowd collectively turned. Now that his honour was at stake he had no choice, and certainly Vilkas and Aela both knew it.

Geir grinned like a fool, kicking his heel into the dust and licking his lip expectantly. Newest of the guild but with the arrogance of a seasoned Circle veteran, carrying himself like he had some great destiny to fulfil.

“I’ll give it a try.” He shrugged his travel pack off and entered the arena.

“Don’t feel too bad when I beat you down, I know how that Nord pride can get.” They were a Nord too, pale in skin, hair and eye, but their accent had a Colovian Imperial lilt to it that betrayed their birth outside Skyrim.

Farkas took his place a handful of steps apart from him, raised his sword and shifted his feet to a more defensive posture. He knew that his opponent preferred a much heavier offensive style with little regard to defence, Skjor many times calling it ‘undisciplined’ at its best.

The new recruit just flashed him a sharp smile and raised his own sword with a flourish, shooting a proud smirk to the assembled Companions.

Vilkas and Aela both rolled their eyes at him, hoping that Farkas would strike the whelp and his ego back down.

Geir struck first, Farkas shifting back with a feint before lashing out and narrowly missing.

There was another strike, the angle too high and easily deflected away by Farkas.

The pattern was easy and familiar to him, his opponent the sort to tire himself out too quickly to be a true threat.

The next strike was born of frustration, too much weight behind it. With the opportunity dragged open by his mistake Farkas caught him with the pommel of his sword right above the arch of his eyebrow, the wound flowing freely and quickly.

Geir staggered back before Farkas could press his advantage, pressing a hand to the cut and streaking his face and hair red.

He managed to back up just enough to miss the edge of Farkas’ swing, the blade whistling past him, putting him on the back foot and parrying.

With a moment of boldness Farkas took the offensive with a wide swing carrying his weight behind it, a considerable measure more control over it than his opponent. He could have sworn there was a shimmer of blue as they managed to somehow weave under the blade lightning fast, a deliberate flick of their wrist splattering his eyes and mouth with their blood.

He stumbled past his smirking opponent, heart thundering as he felt it rise in him. He turned, baring teeth a little too sharp with a snarl. It mattered little as a knee connected with his stomach and knocked the air from him, an elbow to the back of his skull knocking him to the dirt.

“I call foul.” Aela stormed in separating them, shoving Geir back hard enough he almost fell back on his rear.

Vilkas helped his brother to his feet, hissing something under his breath that Farkas couldn’t quite understand through the hunger and the need to tear at warm flesh.

“I won.” Geir pounded at his chest with his free hand and crowded into Aela’s personal space with none of the respect due to the Circle.

“By dishonourable means.” Aela had dealt with more than her share of pups that thought they had teeth sharper than hers so did not flinch nor move, fully ready to put him back down where he belonged if needed. And he certainly needed it. “Go clean yourself up.”

Geir opened his mouth to protest, drawing a sharp breath that Vilkas almost swore carried some threat with it before deciding else wise. They simply stormed off, jaw clenched and fire behind their eyes.

Farkas stumbled slightly as he was pulled upright by his brother, the taste of blood and ash and lightning still rich on his tongue. He shivered, having to take a steadying breath and push down hard on the feeling until it subsided. He had to wonder just what potion was still in his blood for it to be so rich and strange.

The rest had scattered quickly partly in disappointment, part in fear Aela might turn her wrath toward them.

The Whelps carried Athis away to be healed now that the evenings entertainment had turned sour, Aela and Vilkas staying near. Skjor had chosen to follow Geir, giving Aela a knowing look as he left. He was uncertain that the newest recruit would reign their temper in before doing something that might land them in the Dragonsreach dungeon for a week or two, and someone needed to be present before he embarrassed the whole guild.

Once Vilkas was certain Farkas was well his mood shifted, concern melting away to brotherly contempt.

“What in Shors name was that?” He stood up tall, folding his arms across his chest.

“I got sucker punched by that dishonourable bastard and that's all you’ve got to say?” He hadn't been expecting sympathy, only some restraint. Vilkas was perpetually short on both when it came to his dearest brother.

“All I’ve got to say?” Vilkas scoffed. “I should be dragging your bed back to the Whelp quarters after that. Swap that skyforge steel for wood.”

“That bad?” That stung, Farkas drawing a whistling breath through his teeth and almost taking it seriously.

“It was bad.” Aela snorted a laugh. “Worry not. We can drown your sorrows, forget your losses and remember the victories.”

“We got a fresh batch of mead in, few ills can’t be soothed by a good honey brew.”

“I hear that.” Farkas smiled broadly, getting a near matching one from Vilkas.

“You’ll not be hearing the end of this for a while.”

They returned to the hall, mood lifted and in a surprisingly great mood for a man beaten into the ground.

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Farkas was pleasantly warm, well fed and more than well filled with mead. The Markarth Bronze always had such a nice afterglow to it, slow and molten in his veins and in his head, leaving his thoughts delightfully clouded. It had paired well with the slab of roasted pork Tilma had served, Farkas’ portion just the slightest bit more generous at the expense of Geir, and not unnoticed too from the way the recruit had watched him every time he though he wasn't looking.

He found his bed easily, kicking off his boots and finding no energy or will left for anything else. Sleeping in his armour was now a problem for the sober Farkas yet to be.

Face down in his pillow sleep took him quickly. He would have been out cold until long after dawn had been and gone if not for the chill wind that stirred him to consciousness. He had thought through a sleep addled mind that the inn had left its doors open, as had once happened in Winterhold on a particularly awful job. It returned quickly that he was home, deep enough underground that no breeze could ever reach him.

Without opening his eyes he took a shallow breath, scenting the air. Old and stale, wrong, damp, heavy with salt. It wasn't even the familiar salt of sweat and blood, it was more like the stagnant salt marsh of Morthal without the rich earth beneath.

Awareness and sobriety came too easily, Farkas on his feet and reaching for the spare candle and striking stone he kept near to his bed. Even late into the night Tilma kept a few lanterns burning in the hall, a trickle of light under his door enough to navigate by and now starkly absent.

He got a spark, just enough that the candle sputtered to life with a too pale light. The dark retreated a little, but not near as much as it should have. The corners of the room stayed inky black, textured and heavy, and Farkas was almost certain, watching.

His door opened not to Jorrvaskr, but to a stone floored corridor illuminated by pale orbs floating in the near dark like anglerfish. Something unseen fluttered nearby, the sound most certainly living but like no bird nor bat he had ever encountered.

He raised his light high, something small and chattering retreating away from him and dropping the thing it had been gnawing on. He approached, tapping it with his foot. A book, small and unmarked, leatherbound and oddly shiny.

He crouched low, sweeping it up swiftly without taking his eyes off the way ahead for any danger. It was oddly stiff to the touch, considerably heavier than its size suggested.

He tried to shake it open onto a random page and found them stuck together, only the first page free and blank. After rattling it a few times it seemed it didn't want to cooperate.

He made the mistake of trying to turn the page with the hand holding his candle. He snapped away from it with a hiss, throwing the candle doing so, sucking on the pad his thumb to stop the bleeding. The pages were razor thin glass etched with words in some shifting language unreadable, and Farkas was quite certain there was a hint of aggressive intelligence there. It fell hard, landing flat soundlessly. Farkas kicked it away, a splash telling him there was deep water in the gloom and that he ought to watch his step.

The candle rolled away from him, the dark coiling up around the flame and choking it.

“I expected more.” The voice rolled down the corridor, accented and smooth.

Farkas reached to where his blade should have been on his back, a well practised move. So well practised Oblivion did not protest when the image he pressed on that thinner reality shifted just slightly to accommodate.

The stranger raised their hand with a flourish as they approached, casting a pale light that did little but illuminate the gold of their mask.

“You brought me here?” Farkas took a step toward them, a flicker of reflection and the turn of his stance suggesting he was carrying some kind of blade. No blade Farkas had ever seen writhed and squirmed, but he had heard stories of the Dunmer making weapons from flesh and bone.

They drew a breath to speak, then paused, tilting their head ever so slightly as if only now really seeing Farkas.

“Grohiik sunvaar.” The man hissed, words carrying a resonance Farkas swore he recognised, clearly irritated at what thing they had seen in him. “I call for kin and get this instead.”

“What did you call me?” Farkas knew an insult in any language. He also knew what to do with someone bold enough to think they could speak ill of him and keep all of their teeth inside their face.

“In your inelegant tongue, werewolf. A half made thing cursed by Hircine.”

“Better a wolf than a coward hiding in the dark.”

“I am no coward, and you are not who I called.” He pulled his hand close to his chest, lightning coiling ready to be thrown.

Farkas moved at the last moment, crossing the space at a sprint with his sword ready.

Their blades met, a foolish move on both their parts. If their swords were real they would have destroyed the edge of both. Farkas knew Eorland could fix his, the stranger might have a harder time reforging whatever monstrosity they wielded.

If not for Miraak’s mask Farkas would have immediately headbutted him. He instead stopped to consider it for almost a half second before doing it anyway. Miraak had just enough time to see his fate coming, and not enough to do anything about it.

Farkas struck hard enough that his sight grew blurry, stumbling backward and falling on his rear.

Miraak swore in dragontongue, tearing the mask from his face as blood streamed from his now very crooked nose. He cursed Mora for putting that bastard wolf in his presence, wondering if it was some twisted joke. The last time his master had shown him even a passing interest was two centuries prior, when Miraak had been quite entertained by the Bloodmoon hunts and Azura’s pet fumbling their way through them. This felt like a pointed message, a lesson about paying more attention to werewolves than the pursuit of knowledge.

He stood up, clutching his broken nose and failing to even slow the tide pouring between his fingers. With a wet crunch and a howl of pain he twisted it back into shape.

He took several deep breathes through clenched teeth, drawing up healing magic to dull the pain and speed the recover.

With his guard lowered he didn’t see Farkas rise to his feet too, and he had no defence when Farkas ran his blade through him.

Miraak stumbled back, Farkas barely having time to swear when they took a deep breath and shouted.

They should have been dead, Farkas had never seen a man refuse to die with a sword sheathed front to back in them, and for the mistake of assuming what he fought was entirely mortal he took the full brunt of an Unrelenting Force to the skull. The last thing he saw was those black eyes so full of quiet rage before being thrown. Had he been physically present there would have been little left of his skull intact, less so what was inside.

Miraak grasped at the hilt, dislodging the length of skyforged steel from his chest awkwardly. With each pull he had to grip farther along the length of the blade, gouging his fingers more than once, finally freeing himself from it and letting it fall to the floor with none of the care or reverence a blade of that calibre typically deserved.

He took a rattling breath, insides burning but vaguely held together by his pact and the pressure of Oblivion upon it. In one hand he pulled at the light spell snuffing it out, with the other pulling at the threads of his ritual. With a clenched fist he severed the coiled layers of intention and invocation meant to bring the Dragonborn to him, the glyphs scored into the stone floor burning green and extinguishing in a cascading pattern inwards.

Farkas was already on his back with ears ringing so loudly it had struck him blind, suddenly falling as if into water and dragged down into the sea of Oblivion. He struggled, flailing as he sank, taking a deep breath and getting a chest full of cold liquid entirely without flavour or texture.

He emerged coughing into his quarters, tangled in his sheets but otherwise entirely unscathed.

For a long moment he searched for danger, by sight and then scent, finding nothing but the familiar and comforting. As his heart slowed and calm thought returned he tentatively put the whole experience down as just having been a dream. He gripped at his now crumpled bed sheets, letting a breath free, a sudden sting of pain and the scent of blood catching his attention. Just faintly by the light coming in under his door he could see three deep cuts running across his thumb, already healing but darkened as if tattooed. Alongside the blood was just the slightest hint of salt water, ink, and something like spent magicka.

[storiesofsvu]

Random from the fanfic ask game: 4, 8, 17, 26, 43, 67, 78, 85, 90

4. What is the plot bunny you’ve been carrying around the longest? Bonus question: do you ever wonder why you haven’t written iy yet and experience deep existential dread?

LOL. Okay, so the STORY that’s been floating around longest is Unexpected Circumstances (sonny x reader) which i put on hiatus like a year ago. I was going to pick it up then realized it was going in a similar direction of another fic, which ended up going a different way anyways lol.

Otherwise i think it’s probably the parent trap au! With barba & Nevada….i have basically nothing for it but it’s there, lingering, making me try to figure it out lol.

8. What’s your relationship with constructive criticism and feedback like? Do you seek it out? How well do you take it?

Without feedback, there would be no fics in this world. (I believe). Feedback is what motivates us writers, comments are what’s keeps us going, it shows us people are actually reading it, and enjoying the content we’re putting out. I don’t think I’ve ever received *constructive* criticism? Like, i’ve gotten anon hate that was all “oh boo, your stories suck. You write the girls so ooc.” Shit, and during classified affairs i got one that was all “oh, great, you’re writing toxic relationships now” and my reply was “uh…yeah…thats kinda the POINT, keep reading, you’ll understand” lol. So i think i handle it well? But i havent really gotten any at this point.

17. What’s the fave line you’ve ever written?

Either the “i put a fucking bow on it, didn’t i?”

Or the line where Gallagher’s bragging about assaulting Rita and yn (Rita’s wife) comes in hot all “i know for a fact my dick is bigger than yours, and unlike you, i know how to use it.”

26. Do you like to wwrite one shots or series? And why?

I prefer series. It gives more time to establish dynamics, explore relationships and helps me keep the writing motivation going, knowing people are waiting for the next ch. i like to tell full stories. One shots i always end up either doing straight pwp, or they end up WAY too long with backgrounds of the characters, how they’re involved and the like. BUT, i do like little fluffy drabble one shots. And i like to keep them going to keep my writing skills up to par, like, i can easily jump around from fandom to fandom and genre to genre, it’s also how i break in a new character.

43. How did writing change you?

It helped me harness all the creativity and fantasy daydream i kept coming up with into something actually tangible. It helps focus me when there’s nothing else to do, keeps my brain active. It’s also brought me a very large circle of good friends all over the world, and introduced me to my girlfriend.

67. When have you felt the least confident in your writing?

Going back and reading the super old stuff, like, i just cringe at some of the shit i wrote. ESP some of the longer stories that i know i could do a WORLD of better on, but don’t want to rewrite them lolol. Also those times when you have a REALLY good idea fleshed out in your head and it just wont transfer to paper very well, then you say fuck it and post it anyways? And then just….always regret…esp when it’s part of a mini series or collection.

78. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

Good god. Ending things is almost as hard as titling them for me. Ch’s at least i can cut off a little bit more abruptly cause there’s a continuation of the story, each individual ch doesn’t need a beg, mid and end, i can just cut to black. One shots you always need to wrap up all the lose ends and UGH, ive had 1500 word stories end up 3000 just because i can’t end it lolol

85. What would be on a moodboard for your current wips?

Lol. I made moodboards for both of them! The Nanny, is obvi, cute, adorably dressed kids, manhattan, rita & raf.

90.do you notice your own voice in your writing style?

Yes. Unless y/n is a lawyer or politician, she very much has my vernacular. And obviously i put a lot of cursing into my fics, whether the narration or from the other characters, but like…some of them do canonologically swear, and other ones would if the show had a higher rating.

I think as long as i have a good wrap on the characters from shows, that i do a good job making their voices/vernacular heard in my fics.

Thanks for asking!! 😊

[notwhelmedyet]

ficlet: The Rite of Deceptibrand

this is a scene snatched from my current WIP, because you don’t need to read that to enjoy this scene of Deadlock’s initiation into the Decepticons. Also because I’m shameless about cross-promotion.

Gen, 3000 words, PG, bit of violence & a lot of political rhetoric.

Deadlock crept down the halls of the undergrid, checking over his shoulder to ensure he had not been followed. He had been to the rallies before, to stand at the edge of the crowd and hear Megatron's words for himself. But today was different. Today Lord Megatron had spoken to him. He had known Deadlock by his old name and he'd cast it to the dust, offering him a new life where he would be needed and where his talents could fight for good. He'd touched his cheek and asked Deadlock for his loyalty. He'd already had it. Deadlock had expected to linger on the sidelines, a footsoldier for Lord Megatron's revolution against everything he hated - the government, the police, the functionists, the mode-creation separatists. Megatron apparently wanted him at the front of the charge.

Pride surged in his spark as Deadlock checked the path for the mark of paint that indicated the correct turn. They had dispersed after Megatron had gathered his recruits. It was dangerous to conduct business close to the surface. Even with the Senate dead, the skies still swarmed with spies. Megatron was a wanted mech and to join with him was to brand yourself a terrorist in the eyes of the government. So he had given directions for the recruits to disperse and travel into the undergrid, to meet again for their initiation.

Deadlock turned another corner and met with a stony-faced mech, Decepticon sigil worn over his spark in a badge of purple. The mech nodded in greeting and held out his hands. "No weapons are allowed in the initiation chamber."

Deadlock nodded his understanding. The unsworn soldiers were not yet trusted. He disarmed himself slowly, a smile playing about his lips as he pulled smaller and smaller guns from increasingly improbable hiding places. Deadlock raised his arms to allow himself to be scanned, then passed through the doorway under the auspices of two huge mining types.

The room was dark, lit from above with a purple glow of light filtering from some chamber above them. There was a great dais at the front of the room with a solid platform of solid metal at the back. A great hammer sat on the platform, Lord Megatron standing beside with his hand resting on the handle. He saw Deadlock enter and nodded, a slow and nearly imperceptible acknowledgement. Deadlock nodded back, unsure what level of reverence was appropriate. The fighters of the pit treated Megatron as a Lord, but his writing spoke of the end of such hierarchies. His speeches spoke of the inevitable but regrettable need for hierarchies in militarized revolt. Deadlock turned to stand with the other recruits, standing silently in anxious anticipation. They shifted silently such that none of them brushed shoulders as Deadlock slotted into place. There were two medics in the room, he noticed, standing just beneath the platform, medic sigils painted on their backs.

Deadlock did not bother to study the mechs around him-he knew them or knew of them. They were the recruits of his city, his resistance, his underworld. They knew him as well, leaving him a bit more space than the other waiting mechs. Deadlock had never set out to make his fellow Decepticons fear him. He'd merely done what he did best. He didn't need the money anymore. Sometimes he could kill just for him, a little bit of vengeance here and there. Rodion hadn't been a safe place to work at a Relinquishment Clinic for many years. And if you worked for the Senate, or for the new upstart 'Prime'...you deserved what was coming to you.

One of the medics moved through the crowd to approach Deadlock, waving him closer. "Lord Megatron requests your presence," the medic said, pointing over to the dais. Deadlock looked up, startled, and found Megatron still staring, considering him. Deadlock dipped his head again in acknowledgement and walked over. He did not see stairs of any sort up onto the platform, but Megatron was a tall mech and would not have needed them to ascend onto the platform. Deadlock slowed a moment, aware of the eyes on his back. He'd always hated an audience. But he took two steps and leapt, landing lightly on the dais in front of his Lord.

Megatron regarded him somberly. "Someone would have offered you assistance."

Deadlock chuckled. "I take care of myself." Then he caught himself, back-talking his general before he'd even been accepted into his army. Deadlock cringed.

Megatron merely nodded. "You will adjust. We are not merely building a movement or an army, Deadlock. We are building a new way of life for our people. One in which we build each other stronger. It is not enough to be individually strong, or we will all crumble."

Deadlock regarded Megatron for a moment. He is always on, isn't he? Megatron spoke as he wrote. Not at all what Drift had imagined when he'd watched those pit fight recordings. "What do you want of me, Lord Megatron?" He asked. The wince that crossed Megatron's face at the honorific was nigh imperceptible.

"I have asked all of you here to swear yourselves to the Decepticon cause," Megatron, raising a hand to his own chest and the badge that rested there. "And to take part in the Rite of Deceptibrand. The ceremony is intimate and requires both loyalty and courage. I find that recruits often need an example to give them the strength to continue. I would have you as that example."

Deadlock cocked his head. "You don't think I might need an example?"

"I don't think you fear anything, any longer," Megatron said, letting his hand rest on Deadlock's shoulder.

Deadlock looked to the hand on his shoulder, then back to Megatron, unknown feelings curling in his core. He hadn't...Megatron wasn't wrong. Besides the anger, there hadn't been much to feel lately. Deadlock had felt himself drowning in the anger, clawing at him like his addiction used to. But there was no one to trust, and thus no one to worry for. There was nothing left saving, some days. He had latched onto Megatron's words when he read them because they spoke of a hope that couldn't be extinguished, a rage that couldn't be quenched. To forsake resistance to nihilism and apathy was the greatest betrayal, Megatron had written, because that was a fighter choosing to snuff out a fire before it could burn their oppressors. Loyalty and hope were drugs Deadlock had not yet tasted, but he yearned for them, craved them in his very spark.

"I'll do it," he said.

Megatron lifted his hand from Deadlock's shoulder and turned towards the crowd, picking up the thread of his speech as if he'd never left off. It was nothing he had not heard before, read before. He'd been devouring Megatron's writings, new and old. But to hear it from only a few feet away gave it a deeper resonance.

"They tell us the Senate is dead and, with it, the oppressions we would fight against. But we killed the Senate. We knew they were dead when we stood amongst their scattered corpses. And we will know the oppression of Functionism is over when we have stood upon its shattered corpse. When there is no sense of what it had been, when we have forgotten what it was like to live in its shadow. We will not yield to those who have lived always in privilege. Who pantomime understanding now only because they fear our rage. Because that rage is poised like a dagger to their necks. We are strong because we are angry. Because we are unyielding. Because we, and they, know that we will stop for nothing less than justice," Megatron thundered.

He lifted in his hand a Decepticon badge. "This is a symbol. It is a thing to which we give weight. In itself it is nothing. A small piece of metal, hammered flat, stamped to shape. The shape? A face, a nameless face that could be any one of us and yet is none of us. We are not pledging fealty to some Prime, to some god, to some nameless thing. We are pledging fealty to us, to our loyalty to each other. You give the Decepticons their worth. You give this symbol its weight. And what weight will you give it? Because I will ask of you to pledge your life. Your body. Your spark. Everything you can give to justice, because no one else can give it for you. Do you pledge this?"

A roar rose up from the crowd, shaking the walls around them. Megatron lowered his fist, still clutching the badge in his hand. "Then today you will all become Decepticons, not just in name, but in action. Deadlock and I will perform the ritual first. Then the medics will assist each of you through it."

Megatron turned to him and laid his hand over Deadlock's chest. "Please, open."

A voice, an echo, a chorus of medics in stark white rooms leveled that same command, spat it back at Deadlock in his mind. But Megatron was not a clinic doctor and this was not an order. It was a request. Deadlock let his chestplates unfold, spark bared to his lord. Megatron kept his hand there, washed blue in the glow of Drift's spark.

Megatron spoke again, voice raised to be heard by the audience. But not the booming oratory that had carried him earlier. "I would take from your spark a piece of the casing that keeps it safe. I would take this thing, most precious to you, that you could form it into a sign of your commitment to our movement. I would do this even though it will hurt. I would do this even though it will make you vulnerable. I would do this for those reasons and for one more."

Megatron let his own chest casing unfold, revealing a spark glowing green. Deadlock froze, transfixed. He'd never seen anyone else's spark before and it was...beautiful. But there, right to the left of the core of his spark, Megatron was missing a narrow slot of metal, cut from that which ought never be cut. Megatron reached down with his other hand to take Deadlock by the wrist and lift Deadlock's hand to hold over his own spark. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the waves of energy beat against the palm of his hand. "We all have suffered, we have all lost to the tyranny of the system that stands. The differences in our suffering gives us strength, the multitudes of our adaptations gives us cunning that they will never have. But this is one suffering we will share, one sacrifice we will all make. We will never be able to understand all the pains of our comrades, but this one shared core, this one hurt, we will all have in common."

Deadlock blinked up at Megatron, the crowd watching them suddenly so far away. There was nothing but the pulse of Megatron's spark on the air on his palm and the knowledge of how close Megatron's own hand stood to his spark, fragile and waiting.

"May I?" Megatron asked.

"Yes," Deadlock said, unsure of what he was expected to say but certain in his answer.

Megatron lowered Deadlock's hand and took a laser scalpel from the shelf beside him. Leaning closer, he whispered in Deadlock's audial, "Cross your arms behind your back and hold tight. It will hurt a great deal, but less than you're expecting." Then he lifted the scalpel to Drift's spark and cut.

It was like fire, it was like nothing Drift had ever experienced. His spark reared back from the intrusion and he jolted once in pain, unable to hold himself still. But Megatron's hand was back on his shoulder, a unmovable force that held him still as the blade made a cut parallel to the first and then freed the casing fragment. Megatron cupped his hands around the fragile thing and lifted it from Deadlock's chest, exposing a slot of Deadlock's spark to the air and leaving him breathless with the pain and emotions he could not describe. Megatron put the fragment into Drift's hand and it was warm, still warm from his chest as he curled his fingers around it.

"You've made it through the first test," Megatron said, a smile on his lips. "You can seal away your spark now." He did the same, frame closing over that green light and leaving them again illuminated only by the lights above. "Now walk to the forge and take up the hammer. Strike the plating until it glows."

Deadlock took a shaky step forward, then straightened his back. He was being watched. He was Deadlock, not Drift. In three long strides he was at the platform and took up the hammer, setting the rectangle of plating down reluctantly. The hammer was heavy, unwieldy in his hand. He raised it above his head and struck. Sparks lit against the fragment along with a crack of heat. Clearly not just a hammer, a source of heat. Deadlock struck against the plating again, watching the sparks dance across the platform in its aftermath. He struck again and then again, letting a rhythm build in his haphazard strikes.

Behind him, Megatron spoke again. "I named you Deadlock. But you forge yourself. I cannot make you into a Decepticon, because only you can do that. You forge yourself anew."

The plating lit to red and then began to glow. Megatron stepped up and thrust a form onto the plating, molding it into the shape of the Decepticon sigil. He lifted the form by the handle and pressed the glowing brand against Drift's plating, branding it onto his frame.

It burned. Oh, it certainly burned. But it paled in comparison to the pain from before and Drift snarled in triumph. Megatron stepped away and Deadlock was complete. Megatron touched his fingers to the surface of the brand, already cooling to take up the purple color Deadlock was so familiar with. "And with this let no one question your loyalty or your devotion because you are Decepticon."

Deadlock let the hammer fall to the platform and stepped to the edge of the dais. He wanted to scream, he wanted to say some speech, mangle his words into something inspirational, he wanted to roar at the crowd in incoherent joy. Instead, he just let his hand linger on the brand on his chest and then raised his hand above his head. The hush broke into a roar, the crowd stomping their feet and hollering. Deadlock let himself be guided to the side of the dais as the rest of the initiates began the rite. The medics circulated through the crowd, opening chests and quickly cutting out slots of spark casings. Some mechs shuddered, some yelled, some's optics overheated and sparked. The first of the initiates was led up onto the platform and given the hammer to make his own badge. Deadlock watched the crowd.

He had never felt whole in this frame before. He'd settled in, certainly. He'd made use of it. Over time he'd made peace with Chasma's frame, easier now that he was out of Dead End and away from people that had recognized the frame and had shunned him for stepping out in a dead bot's body. He'd replaced it in bits and pieces over the years, upgrading parts when he was injured. Never made any big changes, even once he could afford it; it just felt wrong when he was living on borrowed time. But this badge, this was his and only his.

As Megatron stepped forwards to brand the next initiate, Deadlock caught movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the recruits, near the side of the hall. A laser scalpel in his hands, ripped away from the attending medic. The recruit hefted the scalpel and then raised his arm to throw.

Deadlock threw his body in the path of the blade, catching it through the palm of his hand in a hot blaze of pain, catching it out of the air from where it would have struck Megatron in the optic. Deadlock pounced on the assassin. One knee to the chest, an elbow to his neck as Deadlock ripped the scalpel out of his hand with his teeth and pressed it to the base of the assassin's jaw. Deadlock panted, energon spattering on the floor around them. Arm trembling as he resisted the urge to kill this traitor immediately, to snarl and show Lord Megatron that he was something less than a person and incapable of control.

A presence stepped behind him, and Megatron said, "You can kill him, Deadlock. There is no information he can give us."

Deadlock's captive squealed under him but that didn't stop Deadlock from stabbing the blade through his helm. The body tightened and grinned, maniacal. Deadlock watched until its plating dulled to grey and fell limp under his hands, then pushed himself back to his feet and turned to face his lord. "Megatron, sir," he said.

Megatron touched a finger to the back of Deadlock's hand and frowned. "There was no need, Deadlock. He would not have hurt me."

Deadlock shrugged. "I couldn't risk that."

"Thank you." Megatron looked around and waved the medic over. "He would not have attacked unless he had contacts outside. We will have the enforcers on our doorstep. Once this is patched, can you join the guard at the door? We cannot stop the ceremony partway through."

"I can go now," Deadlock said.

"After," Megatron insisted. "You'll do me more good with a gun in each hand." He turned to return to the dais as the medic took Deadlock's hand to apply the patch. "You have already proven yourself, Deadlock, you do not need to impress me."

Deadlock watched him go with hunger in his optics, sure as sparks that that was absolutely what he would devote himself towards doing. Forged anew into something Lord Megatron would respect. He eyed the door where his guns and the imminent threat of intruders awaited. First day as a Decepticon and life was already looking more exciting.