Match One; Feliciano + Ludwig

[AUCTIONEER]

"Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, welcome to Archadia's first battle arena! This is it folks, the entertainment you've all been waiting for! Before the match can officially begin let me tell you some things about our contestants and what they can do. Keep this in mind should you wish to purchase them during the auction, more details about that later on."

「Roleplaying Rules 」

Follow the basic roleplay guidelines, I doubt this needs to be said but on the off chance someone tries or makes a mistake it's better to be safe than sorry. Do not godmod, do not autohit, do not powerplay. A mistake is fine - but if it is deemed you are doing this on purpose the match will be terminated and the offender will lose. Your mutant will receive the highest punishment and you will receive a warning.

Feel free to go all out. You're able to use your powers however you wish against your opponent while keeping in mind the restrictions you've put in place. And while you are able to use them against your opponent, any action that goes against the crowd will result in your mutant being electrified. 

• Ah yes, this is a new feature created solely for this event. All mutants have a collar around their neck, this collar can not be removed without a four digit pass code. Attempting to remove the collar earns you a Level One shock. There are four levels total, none fatal. Should a mutant act out against the crowd during their fight they will receive a Level Four shock, rendering them unable to move for a few seconds due to the electrical current. So, play it safe!

You are free to refuse to fight your opponent, we as mods understand characters differ and some simply refuse to hurt another. However, the mutant who shows or states that they refuse to fight will undergo a punishment in front of the crowd. The other mutant will simply be dragged back to their cell while the other is punished, the punishment is randomized but entirely up to the moderating team.

A battle can only be won by rendering your opponent unconscious. 

March 3rd marks the end of the event and the battles! If a battle has not been completed by March 3rd the last to post will be deemed the winner.

Mutants who choose to participate and fight will get a prize by the end of the match if they are the winner.

「Punishments 」

A mutant will be stripped of all clothing save their underwear, afterwards they will be forced on their hands and knees as different kinds of candle wax is dripped onto their back and legs. The hottest wax will be reserved for last. Should they try to fight their captor they will receive a shock through the collar.

A mutant will be stripped of all clothing save their underwear and undergo a whipping. The number of lashings vary from fifteen to twenty. 

A mutant will receive five Level Four shocks. Naturally, as we don't want to kill you, each shock will happen between a two-minute interval. 


"Let the match--begin!"

[Feliciano Vargas]

He was stupid, so, so stupid. A gullible, naive moron.

What had convinced him that they'd be safe from the ever-popular mutant battles? Honest to Dio, what had possessed Feliciano and told him that today was just a chance to show off the innumerable types of mutant that existed in the Underground without forcing more timid buyers into the bowels of that hell? He should've known, should've at least suspected! It hadn't been a surprise when the guards impatiently released the lock on his cage and yanked him out, since that's how he's /always/ removed from his cell in the Underground, but he'd thought it was to go to the bathroom or something. Instead, Feliciano Guiseppe Vargas was (is) a complete idiot and hadn't understood a ritual he went through once, maybe twice a month since he'd first passed the point of no return two, almost three years ago.

One of the guards had laughed when the mutant asked where they were going, and Feliciano couldn't blame him one bit.

This Arena was well constructed; Feliciano feared its permanent use by the Underground populace. How could he stand, let alone enjoy seeing the sky when he was being beaten at the same time? Only two new guards greeted the trio as they entered the waiting room. He hadn't planned on trying to run, considering the futility of the act, but when a sleek silver collar appeared in the tallest man's hands, his revulsion overrode common sense. The Italian was already starved, beaten for sport, kept locked up like a demented criminal or a piece of forgotten trash, and paraded around like a piece of meat; a mindless pet, a piece of property in every sense of the word. Now they want to collar him in, leave a very solid sign of their supposed dominance over him?

The guards were unprepared as Feliciano roughly yanked his arms free and bolted for the door. However, that didn't hinder them for long--the Italian may have been fed fairly well the past few weeks between shared food from kind cellmates, one truly sympathetic guard smuggling food, and an embellished feeding schedule in preparation for the festival, but he was still very shy of a healthy weight and the guards were all trained to take down bigger baddies than one scrawny bait mutant.

Feliciano honestly thought getting past the doorway of the waiting room meant freedom. He was agile and fast on his feet, even if he didn't have a lot of muscle to speak of, and trying to squeeze four guards through one entryway would give him plenty of time to esca--or so he thought. Until he was quite literally tackled to the floor. Cracked ribs threatened to give in completely as two hundred pounds of angry Pyotr slammed all the air from his lungs in a painful 'fwoosh', tainted with the tang of blood. Tears stung the corners of his eyes as the brunette was dragged back, gasping uselessly for air his body refused to retain. "Stupid bastard," his captor spat, jerking the mutant's head back by his hair. The other, unrecognizable guard quickly snapped that metal band in place, snug around Feliciano's bared throat.

Dmitri, the youngest guard in the bunch, happily turned on the small device in his hands.

Every muscle in Feliciano's body seized up and he collapsed, trying and failing to scream as every nerve in his body jolted and spazzed with the half million volts tearing through him. The assault only lasted a few seconds, but was a few seconds too long as he trembled and coughed, fingers clawing at the collar around his neck. Another, weaker shock tore through him at the action, and one of the guards kicked the small brunette. "Oi, quit it," the tall man grunted, ignoring his coworkers' sniggers. "You have a match to fight."

The man only earned a few weak half-sobs for his trouble. The Italian still trembled as his nerves tried to calm down and his still-healing body creaked threateningly at the abuse. He'd hardly had any time to heal after his disastrous match against "Boneman Matthias", so staying still wasn't a problem, walking was only a challenge if he refused to be careful or he was too desperate to care. He could hardly breathe now, let alone stand on his own and half a chance in a fight.

No one could expect an actual fight out of him though. Not just yet. When Feliciano had stopped struggling, Pyotr and the really tall guard dragged him to his feet and supported most of the meager weight themselves. "You're a pathetic one, aren't you?" The mutant was asked. Had he enough strength, he might've taken a leaf from his brother, Lovino's book and bitten the older man, protective gear or not. Unfortunately--or fortunately, since biting the guard would've just earned him a beating--the Italian had barely enough mind to keep his trembling legs underneath him.

"Hey, bait. Try to last longer than fifteen minutes."

All Feliciano could manage was a quiet "shut up" before two large doors were hefted open and he was unceremoniously shoved into this new Arena. (The lack of the stench of blood was almost disconcerting) The brunette managed to keep from falling flat on his face, but only barely.

When he looked up and saw his opponent, though, the brunette kinda wished he had. Wished he'd passed out after that first shock and this was all just some kind of bad dream. Ludwig, too-nice-for-his-own-good Ludwig, stood at the other side of the sand-filled ring, wearing that flabbergasted look Feliciano hadn't seen since school. The really, really confused one that was adorable in every situation but this one. Because really, Ludwig, showing an expression like that in a place like this...

How could Feliciano be so stupid.

"Let the match begin!"

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

The sooner the festival ended, the better. Ludwig had grown sick to death of the parade of visitors past his cell, and more than ever before he felt like an animal in a zoo, constantly on display. Although nobody could ever find any true privacy in the Underground, when the guards weren't making their rounds or when the occupants of the cells across the way were sleeping, a mutant could enjoy a brief bit of solitude. The endless stream of guests had ruined that. Ludwig hadn't had a moment's peace. The visitors had been an interesting diversion for a few hours at best. But the people he actually wouldn't mind seeing (Feliciano and Gilbert, namely) had been replaced with staring strangers. So now, he spent his days sitting away from the bars in a corner of the cell and his nights catching a few hours of restless sleep, constantly waking with the unsettling feeling that he was being watched. Dark circles had grown under his eyes and his mood had turned dark as well. But as drained and angry as he felt, Ludwig didn't forget what he had been taught, and when the guards came to take him from his cell in handcuffs, he went willingly. The German had known there would be fights: that was the main draw of the Underground, after all, aside from the auctions, and the latter happened with far less frequency. Even if this was a festival, Ludwig decided, he wasn't going to put on a show. Nobody would buy him, and a flashy fire display in the new Arena built just for the festival wouldn't change that. He'd run his usual routine of knocking someone out with heat, go back to his cell, and count the days until this whole mess ended. Yawning, Ludwig paid no mind where he was being led, and only glanced at the cages, searching for a familiar face and finding none. The waiting rooms of the new arena were nearly identical to those of the regular one, and the German ignored that too. His tired apathy only broke when he suddenly felt something cold and hard lock firmly around his neck. Automatically, he reached for it, and the guard nearest to him grabbed his handcuff chain. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he advised with a smirk. Ludwig shot the guard a cold glare, jerked his hands free, and gripped the device. He had a split second to register that the apparatus was a loop of metal before the muscles and nerves in his fingers and arm seized up. Yanking his other arm down with a gasp, he managed to wrench his tightened fingers off the device with the cuffs, but pain buzzed raw inside his arm, and his right hand was shaking. "This is a shock collar!" he spat, he anger in his voice colored with a hint of horror. As a mutant Ludwig had been taught that he wasn't quite human, that he wasn't worth the gentle treatment afforded to humans, but never in his life had he been forced to wear a collar before. "I warned you," the guard muttered back, shaking his head. "They shock you if you try to pull them off." Ludwig ground his teeth together, "Thank you for educating me about that in a timely fashion." His words dripped with bitter sarcasm, but the guard laughed it off. "Not my fault you didn't listen," he shrugged. "I heard you were supposed to be smart, too." Briefly, Ludwig entertained a dream of violence. He wouldn't even need the fire; even handcuffed, he could punch hard enough to knock out a few teeth. But he'd be punished, and he still had that damn collar on -- or worse, they'd take it out on someone he cared about, someone who didn't deserve it. Along with the sizzling pain in his arm, the anger in his blood drained slowly away. The guards seemed to realize this, and one of them stepped forward and removed his handcuffs as Ludwig stood still, before turning him to face what was unmistakably a door. "Don't forget, you'll be rewarded if you give them a good show," one of the guards advised. The door into the arena opened and a pair of hands slammed into his back, sending the blond stumbling onto the sand. Ludwig caught himself, managed not to fall, then straightened up and looked around. The dirt here was fresh, and the air didn't smell stale -- and it didn't take Ludwig long to figure out why. The arena opened to the sky, and for a moment he stood transfixed. The day was clear, with just a few clouds marring the perfect blue expanse. The lingering anger about the collar and the nerves he always felt before a fight fled, and for a moment, Ludwig simply enjoyed the fresh air. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. The door across the arena opened, and someone stumbled onto the sands, and in an instant Ludwig's hopes broke apart. No. They couldn't force him to do this, they couldn't. He stared bewildered as Feliciano pulled himself up from the dirt and met his eyes. After a moment, Ludwig took a step back, and gave his head the faintest of shakes. Feliciano was his friend, his unlikely protector when he'd arrived at Weeds, his confidant, his sidekick, the one person he'd been able to rely on during some of the most difficult and lonely years of his life. They looked after each other. Feliciano cheered Ludwig up, and Ludwig won fights so that Feliciano had something to eat. He'd even spent the last few weeks before the festival patching the other man up after a disastrous arena match with that Dane who could manipulate his bones. Feli had been dragged back to the cell bruised and bloody, and Ludwig had washed his wounds and bandaged him and fed him and kept him warm. The Italian hadn't even healed yet: Ludwig could see his handiwork visibly. Who threw an injured mutant into an arena against their friend? Ludwig shook his head more firmly now, his confusion and shock slipping straight back into anger. "No," he insisted firmly, "no, I'm not going to fight you. I refuse. No."  He didn't even think he was capable of hurting Feliciano.  It would be like forcing the wrong ends of magnets together: it simply wasn't possible. Word Count: 1074 Tags: Feliciano Vargas Notes: --

by worldie for lena

[Feliciano Vargas]

For a moment, all that existed was the blublueblue of Ludwig's eyes. A moment that stretched on half an eternity. It wasn't a nice moment, though, not at all. The wind blew against their skin, tugging lightly at the frayed edges of their clothes as the two friends stared at one another. The sky had nothing on Ludwig's eyes on a good day--he wished this were the case today, as well. Instead of warm blue that never failed to draw a smile out of the Italian, the blonde's eyes were darkened with agitation and disbelief.

Feliciano's frown darkened as Ludwig slowly shook his head, backing away a step. The actions stabbed a shard of ice in the brunette's gut. Even though they were being pitted against one another for the amusement of the cruel humans filling the Arena seats, to see his best friend backing away from him with such an angry look on his face hurt him more than he'd like to admit. It should make him happy that the other didn't want to do as he was told, and it would, but at the same time... Hesitation had no place here. Amber eyes risked a quick glance over towards the referee, where the stern-faced woman stood in the same protective gear as the quartet of guards flanking her at either side. They didn't look ready to make a move just yet, but that didn't mean the group would stay passive for long. Feliciano had to move, now. Before--

"No."

A flinch tore through the brunette's frame at that quiet word. Ludwig, no, don't--

"No, I'm not going to fight you. I refuse. No."

The statement was soft, hard to hear beneath the sounds of the crowd for anyone without Feliciano's sharp hearing. However, as he turned his gaze back on Ludwig, he could easily see his conviction from where he stood. It would be easy for the guards to realize what the German had said, and take action.

It was hard to hurry over the loose sand. Back in the underground Arena, the sandy floor was decades old, and packed hard from millions of feet tromping over it and countless sprays of blood and other bodily fluids sinking into the ground. Every few matches, the top few inches were torn up with tools to make the surface softer. That didn't mean there wasn't a hard, level surface beneath to balance upon, make it easier to walk. This Arena was new, brand new; the sand was freshly laid and stained with nothing, making his trek over to Ludwig that much more difficult. However, he had a mission.

Save Ludwig from his own mistake.

When he stumbled in front of the blonde, Feliciano didn't try to be gentle as he grabbed the front of Ludwig's shirt and yanked him down to the Italian's level--the movement jarred still-splinted forearms and he hissed at the sharp spike of pain, but he didn't loosen his hold. "Luddi, don't say that," he muttered, softly bumping his head against the German's. "The guards will hear you, and you'll get in trouble, ve."

Already, the sounds from the crowds had changed--this was one of the most aggressive moves Feliciano had ever made in one of these organized fights. The regular customers were murmuring to one another, surprise coloring each word. He ignored them, one hand lifting to cup the blonde's chin in case he tried to pull or turn away. "Listen to me, Ludwig. The punishments they have for not fighting are painful. They're degrading, harsh, and awful. I don't want you to suffer through that." He swallowed thickly, worry blatant all over his face. "I don't want to fight you either, I hate having to tell you this, but... to avoid the punishments, we have to fight, ve."

The guards were eyeing them distastefully--something had to happen now.

"Luddi, please. You have to hit me, o-or throw a fireball, or something."

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

The excited hum of the voices of spectators continued to fill the arena, but the guards standing around the circumference and the scowling referee didn't move, and Ludwig wondered if he had spoken loudly enough. He'd never refused to fight before, although he knew very well that it remained an option even in the regular fights, although the punishment for refusing a fight could be even more severe than the fight itself. In this case, however, Ludwig had firmly made up his mind. Feliciano wasn't in any shape to fight; the German had no idea whether or not the man's bones had even healed completely, which made the anger in his chest burn fiercer. He understood that whoever organized the fights had probably known the extent of Feliciano's injuries, and had thrown him in the matches anyways. Opening his mouth again to repeat himself a little louder, Ludwig stalled when the other man began to hurry across the loose sand, stumbling for purchase. Ludwig steeled himself for a scolding; it was to be expected with his declaration. But instead, his friend seized the front of his shirt and yanked him down with what sounded like an angry hiss. Alarmed, Ludwig had no time to react when the lecture actually did arrive. He kept silent, suffering the words, all the while listening to the buzz of chatter surrounding them growing even more frenzied. He could only imagine what this might look like from a spectator's point of view; a glance out of the corner of his eyes revealed that the referee was watching them with a suspicious squint but had so far not left her post. It was difficult to meet the look in Feliciano's eyes, but the other man had him by the chin, forehead to forehead, and he couldn't exactly twist away. He could feel his temper running along a knife edge. Maybe the walls of the arena were flammable, he mused. That might scare people away, and show them exactly what he thought about being forced to fight against his closest friend. But if he tried something that rash, that stupid, they might bring out the guns, and he hadn't forgotten about the collar around his neck, that stupid metal marker for their subhuman status. Maybe he could melt it off and throw the red-hot liquid in their face before they pressed the button that shocked him. But as Ludwig drew a slow, angry breath, he realized that destroying everything wouldn't work. Maybe he couldn't be punished, but Feliciano would, and even if this match hadn't been set up on purpose, their current conversation made it clear that they weren't enemies. Ludwig wished his friend had been gifted with a more dangerous power, one that he could use for offense rather than defensively, one that hurt other people more than it hurt him. "You haven't healed," Ludwig muttered angrily through clenched teeth. "I don't care if I get in trouble or if the punishments are painful or degrading, I'm not going to hurt you more." He'd been trained to fight and obey, and going against that training was making him uncomfortable. And he could tell that their time was running out; there would be no chance to plan something like a feint or a believable throw of the match. Ludwig suspected that perhaps the only reason the guards hadn't intervened yet was because the audience found Feli's unusual move so interesting. His reluctance to hurt his friend overrode his desire to win, even his proclivity to fight. He couldn't do nothing, but Ludwig wouldn't use the fire if he didn't have to. Even if that was the whole reason he was here right now. Instead, he gave the other man a solid shove, not hard enough to knock him to the ground, but forceful enough to move him well aside. There, that's the start of a fight, at least. Immediately afterwards, Ludwig remembered the damage Feliciano's ribs had suffered during his previous match and the guilt returned to his eyes. Had he just made things worse? Would this even be enough? He didn't want Feliciano to hate him, and he didn't make a move against the other man after that, prowling back and forth and trying to come up with a solution that didn't end with either one or both of them dead. Word Count: 727 Tags: Feliciano Vargas Notes: --

by worldie for lena

[Feliciano Vargas]

The heat radiating from Ludwig was far beyond the normal, comforting warmth that Feliciano was used to; that he associated with the blonde. No, just like he could see the agitation in narrowed blue eyes, he could feel it as well in the hot flesh hidden beneath the shirt bunched in one fist, the chin he had loosely gripped with the other. Slim fingers started to hurt from the temperature alone; that slight pain was nothing compared to the ache in his chest at the sight of Ludwig in such an angry, conflicted state. His heart broke a little at the grumbled words Ludwig practically spat at him with a tense jaw. Feliciano knew how bad a shape he was in even now--it was difficult to make a loose fist, tugging at barely healed muscle and drawing a deep throbbing from still-broken bone trying so hard to knit itself together. But that didn't matter. "Ve, but you're not hurt, Luddi," he tried to explain. Amber eyes stared imploringly into the blonde's, trying so hard to convince the man to listen to reason, to understand what Feliciano had to say. "I can handle the punishments, I've taken them plenty of times before, so--"

His words twisted into a startled, pained grunt as Ludwig's hands shoved hard at his chest, pushing him back. His grip, weak as it was, easily broke and he nearly fell flat on his back as he stumbled away. The push wasn't enough to knock the air from his lungs, but still he sucked in half a lungful of air in another quiet hiss, automatically wrapping his arm around his ribs. He forced himself to stay calm, eyes shutting a moment as he concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and regular, for fear of making his ribs hurt more. When this sort of thing happened over the past month or so, between hurting himself or getting shoved around by the guards, Ludwig was the one murmuring to breathe steady, no deep breaths. Ludwig kept him calm when his nerves trembled with pain. Ludwig kept him close and let him cry when torn muscles left him unable to even hold a spoon properly. Ludwig kept him grounded when all he wanted to do was shut down and escape.

He had to keep himself calm now. There was no room to cry. It was either Ludwig hurt him, or Ludwig gets hurt.

The breeze clawing at his clothes and hair should be cold. He should be shivering. However, the warmth radiating from Ludwig was already so strong it was overpowering what bits of this harsh winter could reach them. Feliciano opened his eyes to watch, helplessly, as the angry German paced back and forth in short, quick steps--three feet one way, then turn around to pace the other. Ludwig was watching him, too, obviously conflicted. "I'm not going to fight you," "I'm not going to hurt you more," he had said, but the tension in his body said otherwise. Ludwig always felt more comfortable following orders than disobeying them; Feliciano understood why, had heard choked stories of a childhood with cold parents who only offered affection when one did as they were told, only truly accepted by the elder child they despised, eventually shoved away by what should have been an adoring older brother, left all on his own with nothing but the scraps of he worked non-stop for. It wasn't any different at Weeds, only instead of affection one was rewarded with awards, approval, and better treatment. More leniency. As much as Ludwig didn't want to fight, he couldn't entirely fight off his friend's words, either.

Feliciano knew how badly it hurt to say "no". To refuse to do as his brother said, what the teachers and attendants at the Academy ordered, earning beatings from disgruntled guards who's commands are spurned. That was fine, though. Feliciano chose to say no; he could handle the pain he was given, he deserved the pain he was given, because to say no is to deny what most consider the natural order, and humans always try to destroy what they cannot understand.

Ludwig didn't need to suffer that pain, too.

When the blonde refused to move any closer, Feliciano frowned at him. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded, making sure to be loud enough for the guards to hear, for the crowd to hear. "You said it yourself plenty of times before, ve--I'm tougher than I look! It's going to take more than that, Ludwig!" It was sickening, having to push at his friend like this. Try and force him to do something he didn't want to do. However, that was all they could do, now. This was the only way Feliciano could protect his best friend, the man who now worked tirelessly to keep him fed, warm, happy. Ludwig put so much effort in trying to take care of Feliciano; he owed this man the world. That wasn't something he could give, though, not where he stood now. He could protect him from the guards; keep Ludwig safe from the lashes, the jeers of the crowd as they cried out for his blood and bones upon the sand. Even if he had to be so underhanded as force Ludwig against his own wishes in order to do so.

Were he a more strong-willed man, Feliciano might be able to egg Ludwig on properly; taunt him, anger him, try to make him lash out. It would lose him a friend to abuse the German so crudely, but to keep his friend safe, it'd be worth it. However, Feliciano is not that kind of person--he can't sit there and yell how cowardly Ludwig was if he couldn't even hit a wounded man. That wasn't a fault, it was a virtue in this dark, disgusting place. Mercy was nothing to mock, especially in such a personal area. It was by Ludwig's mercy he was even well enough to stand on his own, in a twisted way; though Ludwig liked to keep to his rules, his morals were strong, and taking care of an injured friend meant so much more than stupid orders by bullies. The fact that Ludwig would work himself up into such an angry frenzy over something like this would be heart-warming if it didn't mean the blonde would face the sadistic tendencies of the guards instead.

Feliciano steeled his nerves. "Don't just pace like that!" Amber eyes blazed with a determination of their own. He would get Ludwig to fight, he'd play his usual game of cat-and-mouse like he did in any of these stupid fights. He'd happily take the punishments on himself. Anything to keep his best friend out of harm's way. "Hit me! Burn me! Don't just stand there! If you want this to end, Ludwig, you have to do something!"

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

Feliciano’s cracked ribs hadn’t healed yet, that much became instantly clear. Ludwig flinched as the other man curled up against himself, wrapping his arms protectively over his wounded chest. The shove had been too much. He should have known that, dammit. But he’d only made things worse. Ludwig had to draw deep from his reserves of self-control to keep himself from running over and apologizing. The cries from the spectators had gotten louder, more frenzied, and the blond abruptly realized he’d set in motion something he could no longer control. The audience now expected a fight; they wanted to see blood. If they didn’t get their match, they’d be screaming just as raucously during the punishment. Pacing, an animal trapped in a corner, Ludwig did his best to tune out the roar of the crowd, the image of his suffering friend, everything. He could still feel stress buzzing through his veins and could hear his own nervous breathing, but he needed to think carefully now and that required shutting out distractions, including how he felt about what he had to do. So. If he refused to fight, he would be punished. He didn’t care about that, but Feli had made it clear that he was dead-set on preventing that from happening. And that meant they had to fight. By all rights, Feli should have been in an infirmary bed, not in the arena, but regardless, his ability didn’t allow him to inflict any damage. Logically, Ludwig had to be the one to throw the punches, and the one to win. If he did win, he’d get rewarded, and he’d be able to pass that reward onto Feliciano directly. But… that still involved rendering his closest friend unconscious. “What are you waiting for?” Ludwig shut his eyes. Would… would Feliciano even forgive him for something like that? If he asked the man verbally, he felt certain he’d get a reassuring nod, but being beaten into the ground changed a man’s thoughts. If neither he nor Feli were bought anytime soon he’d be able to fix him up further, repair whatever damage he did, but their continued cohabitation wasn’t a guarantee. The brunette knew Ludwig didn’t want to hurt him… Opening his eyes again, Ludwig looked at his friend, searching. If he didn’t move soon— “You said it yourself plenty of times before, ve — I’m tougher than I look! It’s going to take more than that, Ludwig!” “Be quiet!” he shot back, struggling to keep himself calm. God, he didn’t want to do this. He desperately wanted a different solution, one that ended with the two of them walking out unhurt. He wanted to punch the guards instead, or turn their beloved sick entertainment back on the spectators. With how angry he felt, at being pinned in such a helpless situation, being trained to follow every order he was given and then shoved into a fight with his closest friend, Ludwig might have been able to reduce the entire arena to charcoal and ashes. But none of those solutions had a guaranteed result. Only one remained that did. Feliciano was screaming at him again, angrier and more desperate and loud enough to lift his voice over the din of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig saw the referee leave her post, advancing towards them. Grinding his teeth, the German sank hard to one knee, slamming his open hand into the dirt. Flames spilled out from underneath his fingers and spread like lightning, tracing around him and Feliciano in a wide red-hot circle in the sand before shooting upwards six feet into the air to form a solid wall of blazing yellow and orange. Neither the guards nor the referee would be able to pass through that, Ludwig knew, but he quickly whirled around on Feliciano, the flames roaring at both their backs. “Don’t touch them,” he commanded, walking forward. Despite the heat from the fiery cage, he felt cold, and his eyes were stinging. He kept his voice low, so that only Feliciano could hear him. “I won’t allow you to get burned for my sake.” He tried to keep his voice steady, so that his friend knew he’d decided on a plan, but proved difficult. Even his hands were shaking, but he clasped his friend gently on the shoulder. No emotions here. Just do what had to be done. He’d win extra food and some bandages. Yes. He’d ask for that specifically. It would be okay. It would be alright. He just, he just had to— “Hold still,” he urged the other man quietly, and drew his arm back, his hand squeezed tight into a fist, his muscles taut. "I'll...I promise I'll fix you up after. I'm so sorry—" He didn't allow himself to finish. The punch hit the smaller man square in the stomach, and Ludwig felt him bend back with the force of it, although he kept a strong hold on Feli’s shoulder. One well-placed punch. He’d knocked people unconscious with that alone before. It had to be enough here. Feliciano had been hurt, he was weak and in pain. Ludwig’s eyes widened a little but he forced himself to keep thinking logically. It had to have worked. He wouldn’t need to hit him again. Word Count: 905 Tags: Feliciano Vargas Notes: my muse is breaking fff

by worldie for lena

[Feliciano Vargas]

From this distance, it was more than easy for Feliciano to see the torn, increasingly agitated expression on his friend's face. The two sides warring in the man's mind, an open book of pain, rebellion, and the other's penchant for obedience. It was so obvious, so blatant on the other's face as he clenched his eyes shut, unable to look him in the eye as Feliciano shouted at him.

The Italian hated the people who dared pit him against the blonde. Never had he thought he'd come to actually hate someone, despise them to his very core. He might've come close with Lovino as a child (and an indirect manner Gilbert as well, for the pain he'd put Ludwig through nearly a decade ago), but he knew now that emotions back then were much more fleeting and finicky than they are now. This hot, burning sensation churning in his chest was honest, and more forceful than he'd expected. Feliciano honestly despised the people who had set up this match, and he had no knowledge of who the people even were.

However, he hated himself all the more for forcibly dragging up this conflict in Ludwig, this emotional torment he bet would affect the blonde for ages past this point. Hated himself for being selfish enough to choose manipulating his friend into a one-sided fight rather than risk the chance of Ludwig's resentment once the other felt the pain of a whip splitting his skin, over and over and over again. Self-loathing is a more potent bllade than hatred could ever be.

The crowd's anxious excitement was mere static noise in his ears compared to the anguish on his best friend's face. Every subtle wrinkle of that wretched expression spoke loudly to him, moreso than the plethora of voices raising meaningless cacophony in his ears. There was such rage in those blue eyes, the kinds of which he'd never expected to see in the other. This was a situation he'd never, not even in his worst dreams, imagined he'd be with Ludwig, though. He couldn't begin to guess what was charging through that lightning-quick mind, but as much as he hoped those thoughts would end in a plan to end this fight the way Feliciano wished it would (relatively painless to the both of them, where neither of them end up tied to a stand and made a proper example of), he really couldn't be sure. He almost didn't notice the short conversation between the guards, he was so busy staring at Ludwig, and even then he hadn't caught the actual words. Just quiet, harsh words before the referee began stepping their way. Her movement flickered in the edge of his vision and he instinctively twisted away to glance at her.

The area in front of him burst into flames.

A quiet sound of shock escaped him, the heat assaulting his body even as he took a step back. Despite knowing Ludwig's power, his powerfully masterful manipulation of fire, Feliciano had never seen it used like this. In small bursts, yes, where Ludwig heated pots, pans, and ovens for cooking, or enveloping his hands as he worked with red-hot materials to create interesting sculptures in school. Even his latest attempts to manipulate the flames themselves in attempts to re-create some of the beautiful shapes Gilbert was capable of with ice (a feat Ludwig found more difficult than his elder brother, if some of the frustrated expressions he could see on the blonde during and after these experiments). However, this was borderline offensive; meant to keep the two separated from the guards stationed inside the Arena. Were Feliciano less familiar with the blonde, perhaps Ludwig would use this ability to trap his opponent close to him, to...hurt the other.

"Don't touch them."

The brunette turned around once more, a confused frown adorning his expression. Ludwig had, at least for the moment, lost that conflicted expression on his face. There was that usual, commanding expression, in its place. Feliciano wasn't sure if that was better or worse. "I won't allow you to get burned for my sake," he reiterated with that same expression, stepping towards him.

There wasn't much Feliciano wasn't willing to do for his friend, to be honest. He'd never put into the thoughts the extent of his desire to protect the other, but he knew there wasn't much he wouldn't do. However, why on Earth would he approach and then burn himself on a wall of fire? All he'd do is hurt himself; it wouldn't help Ludwig or himself in the long run. "Don't worry, Luddi, I won't--"

A too-hot hand settled firmly upon his shoulder, effectively cutting the Italian off as he hissed a little. Even through his thin shirt, the touch hurt. He couldn't bring himself to shrug the touch off, considering the trembling of the appendage and the look in Ludwig's eyes. The temperature was probably a byproduct of creating and maintaining the flames raging around them, but that did little to ease the growing apprehension in him. Ludwig looked tormented behind his attempted projection of calm, his usual expression. The schooled expression belied the tenseness of his stance, and the tightening grip upon a thin shoulder. It was all explained in a moment, though, as the blonde continued. "Hold still," the other implored, muscles growing taut as he clenched his other hand into a fist. "I'll...I promise I'll fix you up after. I'm so sorry--"

Pain exploded in Feliciano's torso. The blonde slammed his fist up into his diaphragm, forcing the air from his lungs and his ribs into themselves. A harsh gasp escaped him in the process, shock and sharp pain rattling around in his disoriented mind as he tried to catch up with the events. He wrapped his hands tightly around the blonde's arm, fingers scrambling against the fabric and flesh under his touch.

Ludwig punched him.

Ludwig punched him in the gut.

He couldn't breathe.

No much how he struggled, air wouldn't settle into his lungs. His body wasn't responding to him. Feliciano was trapped in his own body, unable to control a thing as he fought for breath. Despite Ludwig's grip on him, the Italian eventually collapsed to his knees, still clawing at the blonde as he wheezed unsuccessfully. Tears beaded in his eyes, vision splotted with black dots. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, the Italian knew he was hyperventilating, but the forefront of his thoughts were dedicated solely to the pain shooting white-hot lightning inside him with every trembling movement. His arms hurt from his mindless movements, his chest burned with every struggle for one inhale, one gasp of air to settle him back on solid ground.

He couldn't breathe. Everything hurt.

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

His friend hadn't seen it coming. Ludwig had seen that much in Feliciano's eyes when he'd approached him, and aside from the flames reflected in the other man's eyes, nothing had shown there, not an inkling of suspicion or understanding had appeared until a moment before, when he'd seized the other by the shoulder and drawn his arm back for the strike. Feliciano had hissed in pain then, but not from anticipation; maybe his grip on the other's shoulder had been too tight. Ludwig didn't know. But none of that mattered. Feliciano had barely understood what his fate would be and Ludwig had followed through, and now his best friend was struggling to stay standing, gasping helplessly for air. "It's okay," Ludwig heard himself mutter, over the muted sounds of his friend's choked breaths and the quiet roar of the fire. This had been the plan, hadn't it? He'd been told to fight, not by the guards or the crowds, even, but by his friend. Hit me, Feliciano had commanded, burn me. The words, the conviction in Feliciano's voice, all of that had sliced through Ludwig's half-formed schemes like a cleaver, and he'd followed the orders through. He had done something: he'd set a vast circle of the arena on fire to keep the guards away from them and he'd punched Feliciano. His friend. Who still hadn't managed to draw a breath, who had tears of pain in his eyes, who was clawing at his arm with desperate fingers. This is what you told me to do. When the other man's legs gave out, Ludwig sank with him to the sand, still holding a tight grip on his shoulder. This is what you wanted. Feliciano had gone pale and his gaze had turned glassy and void but he fought for consciousness and for air. Ludwig let his fist uncurl, palm resting against the other man's wounded stomach. He shouldn't have done this. Feliciano hadn't wanted him to get whipped -- so what? How was this conclusion any better? At least if he'd refused to fight, his best friend might have escaped unhurt -- and he had needed that too, a respite from the pain and the beatings he regularly won in the arena. Ludwig had hardly ever been hurt and he'd walked through the door today completely whole yet he'd still listened when Feliciano had ordered him to fight. Like he hadn't known that this would be the end result, or he'd been too stupid or naive to face that truth. Nothing else could have come out of this, nothing: he could have been punished for refusing to fight or he could have won. And he'd blindly obeyed the loudest order shouted at him and made the wrong choice. His friend's current agony was all his fault. "Feli," he choked out, his voice suddenly thick with guilt and his eyes stinging from sweat or tears, he couldn't tell, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean... you're going to be fine, you'll be okay." He didn't dare pull the other man into any kind of hug; Feliciano needed space to breath -- but he reined in the fires he'd started, letting some of the cool fresh air settle onto the sands of the arena. Blindly follow orders, Ludwig berated himself silently, that's all you do. Maybe that was all he was good for, carrying out decisions that other people had made, even if they went against what he wanted, what he believed. Had he really lost so much of his own willpower that he couldn't even stand up to his closest friend when said friend had ordered Ludwig to hurt him? He could pull strings in the Underground and sneak food and bandages to the needy mutants behind the backs of the guards and abuse his rare position as a winning fighter for all it was worth, but he apparently couldn't disobey a direct order. Hopeless. Useless. There was nothing more he could do, nothing but dwell on his own failures and hold his friend steady until Feliciano recovered or passed out, whichever came. Word Count: 687 Tags: Feliciano Vargas Notes: —

by worldie for lena

[Feliciano Vargas]

The longer he struggled for air, the harder it was to get his chest to expand and contract. The longer he fought to breathe, the more his chest hurt. That pain quickly became the sole constant in his existence. That white-hot agony radiated from his torso, sharp points all along the healing fractures in his right side as his struggles bent and tore at the healing bone in an attempt to separate it. It pooled there, a growing sense of tightness systematically working to keep his lungs stiff and constricted--his own body trapping his lungs in place and refusing to let them do their job.

This was a kind of mutiny Feliciano had never experienced before.

The world was beginning to blur around the edges, confined as it was to the tattered fabric of Ludwig's shirt and the pale expanse of his skin. A choked sound managed to claw its way out his throat, matching the desperate way slim fingers dug into his friend's arm with the ferocity of Feliciano's "fight" response. Those scrambling fingers, combined with the large hands supporting him with one tight grip on his shoulder and the other pressed firmly against his torso, were the only thing keeping the Italian upright; weight fully slumped against the other man. That pressure only worsened his condition--panic was quickly taking full control of his mind and whipping it into a whirlwind. What happened when people couldn't breathe? Do people survive not being able to breathe?? Is he going to die?!

No matter how hard he tried, with no air filling his lungs and none left in there to exhale, he couldn't speak. He couldn't vent any of this building wave of fear: he only struggled more, perspiration beading at his forehead, upper lip, and neck as he fought against the loud ringing in his ears and swimming vision. Beneath that obnoxious, constant sound assaulting his eardrums, there was the deep rumble of Ludwig's voice, garbled and intelligible. Feliciano tried to drag his eyes to Ludwig's face, fading vision be damned, to "read" what the German had to say, but his limbs weren't responding anymore. His head felt too heavy to lift, chin thumping against his breastbone with every struggled, useless heave of his chest.

His body felt so heavy, now. Even the roar of the fire was gone, now; completely overrun by the pulsating rings in his ears. The world quickly faded to black, finally leaving Feliciano in familiar territory. The sweep of unconsciousness dragged over him like a dark blanket, smothering down his instinctive urge to struggle and leaving him hanging limply in his opponent's grasp.

---

I think that's it for me o/`