#I want to toss more meat to the hounds for this dog fight
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I was not expecting Starkit’s Prophecy vs Dirty Laundry to be so one-sided. Any former Voltron girlies want to argue their case for why Dirty Laundry haunts them? Or tag any big blogs to circulate it in that fandom?
#I want to toss more meat to the hounds for this dog fight#I am shocked by this turn of events#it is so funny to me#Voltron fandom grab your bayards or whatever#Voltron#klance
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POODLES IN THE WASTELAND
i jest I jest
But 👀
What about pets? Either ones companions would have or a very uncommon one that someone wouldn’t think was a good pet, BUT IS. Deathclaws you can ride like a pony, mole rats that want belly rubs, cazadore’s as cattier pigeons! What are your thoughts?
Or like, Danse or Piper or Fawkes with something hilarious Idek ignore me
Oooookay, here’s my comprehensive list of companions - ALL companions, across Fallouts 3, 4, New Vegas and 76 - and their (headcanon) choices in wasteland pets. I’ll give a little explanation for each - particularly as many of these companions are transients and don’t have the luxury of owning a home to keep pets at. Also, I feel like most of the companions, while they might not necessarily like pets, would be somewhat fond or at least respectful of the pets of the Lone Wanderer/Courier/Sole Survivor/Vault Dweller, like Dogmeat and Rex.
Bighorners
Lily Bowen: Everyone’s favorite super mutant grandma is already an experienced shepherdess in Jacobstown, and she’s more than willing to tear some night stalkers apart to keep her herd safe. If that’s not love beyond the norm for wasteland livestock, I don’t know what is. She’s probably given all of her bighorners names after the characters in the television reruns she used to watch on holotape in Vault 17, like Grace and Audrey and Lucille.
Brahmin
Raul Tejada: Actually spent a decent part of his pre-war life living on a ranch, so he knows that most brahmin don’t deserve being labeled “irritable” just because people don’t know how to read their body language. I think he’d follow wild brahmin herds around a bit on a whim and keep them from coming to any harm, especially the little ones. He gives them names like the cattle he grew up with, Corazon and Gordo and Blanca.
Rose of Sharon Cassidy: Doesn’t truck with the wild herds, but she knows that part of the success of a caravan lies with how well they treat their pack animals. All of her caravan’s brahmin have names - Penny, Magic and Sprinkles - and she’s careful to pair them up with drivers who are patient and work well with their various personalities.
Cats
Butch DeLoria: While Butch ultimately decided to leave Vault 101 behind, I don’t think he would ever truly lose his fear of radroaches after what they did to his mom. Having a little friend to warm his bunk in Rivet City and pounce on intruders would probably set his mind at ease, maybe a black tomcat with one ear named Pepper. He might even gift his mom a kitten when he next comes to visit.
Star Paladin Cross: I don’t think Cross much sees the use of an animal that doesn’t contribute to the community it lives in, like most of the Brotherhood of Steel. Cats, however, are excellent at pest control, even if the rats are bigger nowadays. I think she’d give the resident cats at the Citadel some pets in passing, and she’d smile when she has to extract playful kittens from inside her power armor frame. She’s especially fond of the cat colony’s matriarch, a scarred old tabby named Gemma.
Curie: Upon her transition into a synth body, Curie is overjoyed with most animals and their new willingness to approach her for attention. She especially loves cats because she can pick them up and better feel their fur and purring. Her favorite cat is an orange stray in Diamond City that she calls Claude.
Piper Wright: A companion for Nat when she’s out adventuring, an unbiased friend to bounce the latest opinion piece off of before going to print, and a lap-warmer for when you’re typing up the latest article about the exploits of the Minutemen - what’s not to like? The Wright family cat is a slippery, elegant calico named Sugar Bomb.
Preston Garvey: While the Minutemen forts and settlements definitely lean more toward keeping dogs around for security purposes, I think Preston likes his pets quieter and less likely to bowl you over in excitement. The one most likely to sleep with him in his bunk at Sanctuary is a grumpy gray gentleman named Anchovy.
Deathclaws
Veronica Santangelo: If anyone is crazy enough to swipe a deathclaw egg from a nest and try to hatch, rear and train a personal killing machine named Izzy, it’s Veronica. This will probably just alienate her from her Brotherhood chapter even more, but I’m sure she would take special care to make sure that her usual Mojave Wasteland haunts take a peek through a scope to see if the approaching deathclaw has a human on its back before taking a shot.
Dogs
Clover: I don’t think Clover gets out beyond Paradise Falls much, so the only animals she’s used to are the dogs the raiders bring around when passing through. She probably has favorites among the usual visitors and enjoys tossing them bits of meat when she’s allowed to get away from Eulogy and Crimson. If liberated, she’d probably get at least three of her own dogs to watch over her while she sleeps: One small dog to carry with her, a Pekingese or Pomeranian descendant named Coco, and two large dogs to follow through on intimidation and protection, a mastiff named Rock and a Doberman descendant named Roll.
Jericho: Jericho doesn’t deserve a dog but he’d probably have one around anyway to sniff out caps caches and hidden loot after he’s shot everyone in the vicinity. Some slinky beagle mix named Dewey, probably.
Fawkes: I don’t think Fawkes would be picky at all about what kind of dog he’d have. He strikes me as the type who would adopt any half-friendly mutt he ran across. I do think he would have a bit of a soft spot for friendlier mutant hounds, though, and maybe view their mutated circumstances as similar to his own. He’d also be absolutely amazing at playing fetch. Just imagine how far he could lob a stick or ball. All of his dogs would have literary names too, like Byron and Agatha and Edgar.
Craig Boone: Though he’s a bit of a prodigy at sniping, Boone knows his limitations when it comes to spotting hidden enemies on the horizon. I can see him having a hound dog at his side to find the more elusive ones and help him get rid of them faster. Maybe a bloodhound mutt named Bravo.
Cait: Doesn’t like people, but she adores dogs. Having had the life where she’s been abused, exploited and forced into slavery, she’s keenly aware that those like the ones who took advantage of her treat dogs much the same. She’s very protective of any dog she encounters and is very likely to punch you in the face if you so much as look at one wrong. She’d probably name any pup she adopted Lucky.
Hancock: Honestly, he’s just a fan of any animal that is happy to hang out with you whether you’re drunk, high, fighting raiders or patrolling downtown Boston. The Goodneighbor strays know him as the guy who always has mirelurk jerky in his pockets. His favorite is a rough-and-tumble, black-and-white spotted cattle dog descendant that he cheekily calls King George.
Robert MacCready: He’s not quick to trust dogs, but once he’s sure they’re not a threat, they’re one of the few critters around which he’ll relax completely. He’s still a little wary of them around Duncan, but any dog that’s a part of his family is more or less his son’s permanent babysitter.
Nick Valentine: Dogmeat is also basically his dog. The two have a history of working cases together, with Dogmeat just turning up whenever a trail goes cold and leading Nick to the evidence he needs to reopen his investigation. Nick doesn’t know how or why Dogmeat does it, but he’s not about to ruin a good thing.
Strong: I don’t think he would turn down a ferocious mutant hound as a friend. He’d probably feed it mole rats and call it something like Killer.
Foxes
Beckett: This former raider has a love-hate relationship with a fox that keeps going through his trash. He affectionately calls him Lil’ Bastard.
Sofia Daguerre: Having crashed back to an earth she doesn’t recognize, I think Sofia would be tickled that the foxes of Appalachia have basically stayed the same despite the bombs. I can see her leaving dinner scraps out on her porch for one that she sometimes spots in the foliage, and slowly coaxing the critter to come into the light. She names her Scarlett once she finally convinces her to eat out of her hand.
Mega sloths
Settler forager: I would not be at all surprised if this man ran into a mega sloth in the Mire and decided to try befriending it. The creature, probably surprised at this old guy’s nerve, decided to accept the handful of leaves he offered and grew slowly more fond of the guy’s persistence. It doesn’t know its name is Fergus but it does know that if a human is wearing overalls, it’s probably not a threat.
Mole rats
Deacon: Alright, hear me out. Deacon has a fondness for underdogs, and mole rats are about as underdog as they come. I think Deacon thinks these little guys are cute despite their wrinkles and buck teeth, and I think he sees the value in having a tunneling pet that likes to collect shiny things. One of his deep cover hideouts is in an old tunnel system in the northern Commonwealth, where he hangs out with a young mole rat named Henry.
Owls
Raider punk: This radio operator got wind of an abandoned nest of owlets in Appalachia early on in his career and, being the nearest to the report, decided to rescue the little guys. Now he has three owls that occasionally drop in at his camp to hoot and accept handouts: Nona, Decima and Morta. While he’s still fond of them, he’s usually disappointed that they aren’t the Mothman coming to visit.
Rad chickens
Yasmin Chowdhury: Ever the opportunistic cook, she picked up the practice of raising chickens from the settlers at Foundation and has four hens of her own: Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme. The “ladies,” as she refers to them, give her a constant stream of eggs for omelets.
Ravens
Settler wanderer: This gal has an affinity with birds, who are always on the move like her. She admires their ability to be untethered and let the wind take them far and wide. Nevertheless, she likes to scatter corn when they come close to her on the road, and formed a sort of friendship with a particularly handsome specimen that she calls Tornado.
Wolves
Old Longfellow: This guy is the epitome of the meme about dads not wanting pets and then instantly falling in love with whatever animal enters their life. He probably found an injured wolf pup in his travels around the island and took pity on it, nursing it back to health in his cabin. It’s still got a bit of a twisted paw, but follows him around and listens like any other dog and answers to the name Lamoine.
Yao guai
Porter Gage: I bet this guy adopted an orphaned bear cub and raised it by hand. Now it’s so big that even if Gage thinks he’s an easy target for other raiders due to his age, he’s much less likely to get singled out than he thinks because he has a yao guai following him around like a puppy. The bear’s name is Fuzzy Wuzzy. It has no hair.
No pets, thanks
Charon: Too likely to accidentally wind up in the line of fire.
Sergeant RL-3: Too easily corrupted by Communist influences.
Arcade Gannon: Too much time spent getting in your way.
Codsworth: Too likely to make messes.
Paladin Danse: Too many wasted resources.
X6-88: Too much of a liability.
Ada: Too easy to lose when on the move.
Solomon Hardy: Too unsanitary.
#fallout#fallout 3#fo3#fallout new vegas#fnv#fallout 4#fo4#fallout 76#fo76#fallout 3 companions#fo3 companions#fallout new vegas companions#fnv companions#fallout 4 companions#fo4 companions#fallout 76 allies#fo76 allies#this was a hell of an ask shotce#solomon hardy#ada#x6-88#paladin danse#danse#codsworth#arcade gannon#sergeant rl-3#charon#porter gage#old longfellow#settler wanderer
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Not a question but I crack ship Celegorm and Margaery because of you.
asdfhj this is such a high compliment, thank you! I was so tickled to hear this, I wrote a thing, because same, same, it’s such a good crack ship. So thank you for the inspiration!
The below takes place in the most AU of AUs, oh my god, where logic does. not. apply. Also I wrote this on my phone and it likely has a million grammatical errors. Despite that, I hope you like it all the same! Thank you so much for this ask!
“Ser Celegorm, we are so pleased to have you back at court.”
“We?”
His crooked grin might look sleazy or cruel or presumptuous on another man. Margaery did not usually care for men like that, and by all accounts she should not like Celegorm Snow. But his grins looked sweet, and for as much as they called him a wild wolf, Margaery only saw an eager hound.
She didn’t answer his insinuation, though, turning her head demurely away and holding our her hand. He took her arm so gently, and they began to take a turn around the gardens of the Red Keep, away from the chatter but still within the sight of Queen Sansa and her retinue. Margaery had enjoyed her time in court, but she was pretty sure she enjoyed it when Ser Celegorm was around more. He knew it too, and delighted in it. She would let him have that ego stroke, so long as he continued to please.
As long as he took her on his hunts, and complimented how she styled her hair, and tossed her flowers at tourneys- as long as he never stopped blushing when Margaery teased him about crowning Mira Queen of Love and Beauty instead of her.
Ser Celegorm was not so bold these days, only crowning the queen, as was expected. He didn’t accidentally draw her away from their chaperones when showing her wildlife and plants, as he had in the early days of their courtly acquaintance, or pick so many fights, with Loras or anyone else; besides Ser Caranthir, that was.
Time has tempered him, Margaery thought as he said, “Has anything exciting happened since I left court, my lady?”
“Nothing of particular note, Ser, besides Master Maglor’s newest song consuming every harp in the city. And you? Any tales from your most recent quest.”
He bit his lip and tossed his head back and forth, limitlessly open, endlessly expressive.
“No,” Ser Celegorm muttered, “No good ones, nothing I want to recount.”
Margaery squeezed his arm softly, and they kept walking.
She could not imagine him in battle as the other knights described him. Bloody and cruel and efficient. But just because she could not imagine the sweet hound sleeping at the fireplace with meat on his maw, did not mean she was ignorant of how that dog hunted. Margaery knew he was good at it, too, and had been for a long time.
Ser Celegorm’s gentility, his kindness, his consideration… they were hard won. They did not seem to be skills that came naturally to him, and she had watched him become better at them over the years at court. Margaery admired that, as someone whose talents were also hard won and long practiced.
“Well,” she said looking up at him from under her lashes, “we are glad you are back with us. I know King Curufin and Queen Sansa both missed you.”
And, oh, wasn’t Margaery interested in his brilliant, bared-teeth smile at the mention of the king and queen, how fond he was of them, and them him. She couldn’t tell if Ser Celegorm loved Queen Sansa- his kinswoman, at least understandable- or King Curufin- incomprehensible- more, some days, so familiar and fond and proud he was when speaking to His Grace.
“King Curufin,” he said, another thing he had become better at, referring to the king by title, “actually spoke to me earlier about something I want your opinion on.”
“Oh?” Margaery asked, raising an eyebrow. Could this be the long anticipated Kingsguard appointment everyone had been waiting for?
“There is a, uh, a question. About Rosby. House Rosby. Which is basically dead and with no successor, between illness and the war. Apparently there is no good answer to who gets the castle and lands. The closest are some Freys, and His Grace doesn’t want to reward them after everything that’s happened. He’s um… well, King Curufin has said that he might- really, what he wants is to reward- It’s weird, but he’s said… he’s said that, that I can have Rosby, and be lord there. If I want.”
Margaret’s eyes widened but she tried not to show too much shock.
“Ser Celegorm, that is wonderful,” she implored as they slowed to a halt next to the yellow roses. “Are you to be legitimized?”
“In a manner,” he said, sounding slightly faint. “Cur- His Grace has been saying he would for years but I would never, never bother Robb like that, another Stark running around. Especially from the older brother’s line. But if I... if I accept his Rosby offer, I could take another name, a better name. A real name. Which is what I wanted to ask you, if you had any thoughts on what... what I might call myself. I thought about ‘Snowsby’ but that might be too on the nose.”
Margaery giggled a little.
Yes, that would be rather silly.
To think, though, Ser Snow raised up to lordhood! Why it sounded wondrous- Margaery could barely stop smiling at the prospect- but also... not ridiculous, no. Ser Snow was capable and clever in his own right, but she could not imagine him going over accounts and keeping a house.
He’d need help.
“You should worry about finding yourself a lady first,” Margaery told him, an odd pang in her chest, “Then ask her what her name aught to be.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Celegorm said earnestly and Margaery was cut clean through.
Her mouth dropped slightly open, and Ser Celegorm’s burning grey eyes never left her. He was waiting. Waiting for... a yes or no? Was that what this was, a proposal? Margaery could almost for two reasons.
One, she would never stop being astounded by his simple, clear, upfront way of doing things, when her life had been little more than subtlety and murky meanings and hidden things.
Two, she was Margaery Tyrell and he was Celegorm Snow. She was meant to wed a king and he was meant to fight as a hedgeknight until he died. She was meant to rule a keep as big as a town and he would never own property. She was meant to wed a man she could hopefully influence and he would be hopeful to wed at all.
Except his name was no longer Snow, and there were no more kings to marry. Except he had a keep and her marriage prospects dwindled each year. Except, except, except...
Five years ago it would be unimaginable. Her father would not have heard of it, none but either the king or the finest great lord would do for Margaery. And he was a bastard. Her father was dead, though, and there were no more unmarried great lords, and Celegorm was not a bastard. In the legal since at least. And he had a keep.
A keep, a name, and a sweet smile.
How much lesser could Margaery go, and could it still be much more than she ever expected.
He wa shifting, his state faltering. She’d been quiet for too long, probably. But he waited. Celegorm waited for her answer.
Margaery looked away, and for some reason there were tears in her eyes and a smile coming to her face.
“Well,” Margaery said, tugging him along. He obediently followed. “‘Snowsby’ is right out. We will have to think on this, but I think I can draft a few good options by tomorrow, when you can take your proposal to Their Graces. You must ask Queen Sansa for my hand, though”
She had barely registered the odd noise that came from Ser Celegorm’s throat before she was tossed in the air. The world spun around Margaery, but she was not scared, and she had to laugh.
Her feet did not touch the ground again when the spinning stopped, instead she was nestled in Celegorm’s arms, his sharp-toothed grin inches from her face.
“I knew you liked me,” he said fiercely, and Margaery could not stop laughing.
She didn’t think she would for a long time.
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The Partnership
Hell: Late Neolithic Period
They’re laughing at her. This is the thought that echoes in the demon’s mind as she makes her way down the halls of Hell’s infamous Manufacturing Department. She is somebody now–freshly promoted just over every other shitstain in the Pit, perhaps, but rank is rank all the same–and by all rights these dungeon trolls should be groveling at her feet as they do for the other procurement personnel. Except that they do not fall to their knees, no, they slap them with laughter. She cannot blame them. They all know why she is here.
Nybbas has thrust her atop a burning hill of shit and bade her build a kingdom from the ashes while the flames still rage. It is a fools’ errand, and one he means for her to fail. Her superior has set her up only to take the fall for him. Given the insurmountable task, that is precisely what the entire Monarchia expects will happen–Quotas missed, contracts lost, and someone’s head must inevitably go on the chopping block–but Mara refuses to accept her likely fate without a fight. She always has felt some masochistic drive to find a silver lining, after all, and what sparkles through the coals is the large swath of Nybbas’ territory that she now, technically, controls. Mismanaged and neglected for countless millennia, it is a veritable desert of overgrown crossroads and yet…perhaps, with enough hard work and a healthy dose of ingenuity, there is a sliver of a chance.
But she cannot do it alone, she knows this. To hold fast to even the faintest hope she requires a lieutenant; a partner to watch her back, guard her meager territory, and facilitate her contracts. Given her circumstances, however, it is not a promising proposition–she has already been turned down by every capable soldier this side of the Pit. Hence, she has ventured here, to the racks, vying for some freshly carved scrap of a damned soul that is ignorant enough of the ways of Hell to sign their own death warrant. Most demons churned from the bowels of the Pit are quickly claimed for the legions of far more powerful commanders than she, but maybe she will stumble at last upon a stroke of luck. She’s about due for some.
“You there,” She says to the first torturer in the row as she draws to a halt, gaze settling upon his blade as he draws it down the belly of some poor fuck on his rack. “–Where do they keep the unclaimed? I…” Her words trail off, and suddenly Mara feels as small and lost as she must surely look.
Not often someone gets lost around the racks. Technically, no one much comes down here unless they’re strung up. It truly is a terrible place to be. That’s the point of it, after all. To one who has survived the Pit, of course, it feels half like home, but demons are made to be most comfortable in discomfort.
The old demon is up to his sleeves in metaphysical blood when he hears the voice behind him. Not that he appears bothered; he finishes his slice, blade tinged in red. “Y’don’t want them,” he says, attention on his work. “They’re all paranoid. Sadistic. More like hellhounds than competent soldiers.” The thing on the rack splutters and pleas. The noise is interrupting his conversation, so he sinks his blade into its lungs. Now, all it does is hiss, and he turns to look at Mara. “I’d know,” he adds. “I made them that way.”
The younger demon nods, swallowing thickly. She took her turn here years ago, just like the rest, forced to toil in the Pit after what remained of the human blight on her soul had been cut away. A distant past, perhaps, but it is not something easily forgotten. Leaving the racks behind had seemed a step up at the time, though servitude under Nybbas is not altogether incomparable. She was not made to be a soldier or a torturer–not in the sense that this demon was. Some were simply meant for sales. Hell is nothing if not a grand machine, and every cog has their part to play.
Her eyes settle not upon the poor, decrepit soul writhing in agony on the rack, but rather on the creature attached to the hand doling it out with such practiced ease that he almost seems bored. He’s old. Ancient, if the power wafting off of his true form is any indication–easily a relic from a time when Hell was not so crowded as it is now. Most of the demons who are old enough to remember such times sit comfortably atop the hierarchy–leaders; respected and feared–and yet this one seems content to do the same dirty work as the fresh grunts. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” Mara admits, and then his words play again in her mind.
“–You made them that way?” The crossroads demon echoes absently, gaze shifting back to the thing wheezing and hissing on the rack. There is not exactly a standard protocol where torture in Hell is concerned–suffering is suffering and each soul requires a unique touch to divest it of human weakness–but in the end the goal of the Manufacturing Department is to produce as many viable demons from the souls procured as possible. “It seems a waste of raw material…”
And suddenly, something occurs to her. A spark, but it is enough.
“…A waste of your talent.” She looks up at the other demon–really looks at him–and she can see it as clearly as the discontentment written on a human soul come to call at the crossroads. He may be overqualified tenfold, but he is directionless; passing time waiting for something that will never find him here in the wretched squalor of the Pit.
It is as futile a notion as reaching for the stars, but she reminds herself that even if they remain firmly swirling through the Heavens one will get a nice view, a good stretch, and perhaps even a low-hanging apple for the effort. “I…I have a proposition for you,” She ventures, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips, “How do you feel about a challenge?”
He smirks, and Mara wonders if it’s not the first time someone so low in the hierarchy has dared so much as to speak to him, let alone offer him a proposition. “A challenge?” he says, throwing her words back at her with a mocking note. “Ain’t that a little above your paygrade?”
“Isn’t carving duty a little below yours?” Mara retorts without missing a beat. In truth, he is not wrong. It is practically unheard of for someone like her to have ever been promoted to command in the first place–she’s certain the other demon knows as well as she does that it is only a technical mantle, so that when the Monarchia rains down punishment for Nybbas’ failure he will have her to offer up as a scapegoat. Still, rank is rank, and as long as she’s got a slippery grip on this rung there is still half a chance to hold fast…perhaps one day to climb. Let go, and she will be lucky not to find herself strapped to one of these racks again. It is nothing if not tremendous motivation to succeed.
The old one rips the innards out of the thing on the racks, tosses them to the ground with a wet slap. The soul’s eyes go cold and blind and that’s his cue; he steps away. After all, breaking things is easy. Taking things to the very brink of collapse and then pulling away right before they shattered…that required a little more finesse. Task complete, he turns all of his attention to the demon in front of him now. “You’re Nybbas’s bitch, right?” No need to mince words down here. “I like your grit, but you don’t got anything to offer me.”
She takes a small step back as a tangle of entrails drops unceremoniously to the floor, blood and ichor splattering her toes. The gore does not perturb her, but she will need to shed this host before venturing back to the sales floor lest Nybbas’ hounds catch the scent of fresh meat upon her. It is of little consequence–the younger demon has never possessed one long enough to grow attached; that is a custom reserved for those who have achieved success.
“Best you not let Nybbas hear you call me that,” She warns, “–He will take the comparison as an insult to his dogs.” This is not news to any demon who knows of her superior or his two ferocious hellhounds. There is a flicker of defeat in her eyes when the older demon seems to turn her down, but there is too much riding on this chance and she wills it away quickly. “That was not a ‘no’,” She points out hopefully, clearly not ready to give up. “It is true, I haven’t much to offer. Yet. But I will. If you help me, I will. In the meantime, it costs you nothing to step away from this…” She waves a hand absently at the mutilated soul, “…The Damned will still be here. How many eons have you stood tethered to these same racks; trying to find some new way to hack on these same tired souls? If you pledge service to me I will have leave to take you Topside; to the mortal realm…to a territory that has not known what it is to fear a demon in over a thousand years. Yours could be the face in their nightmares. I won’t lie to you, the work will be long and grueling, but you are not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you?” Her gaze flicks to the bloodsoaked hands in question, “Take a chance on me, that is all I ask. Let me show you what I can do. You have nothing to lose if I fail, but if I succeed you have everything to gain. We are not so different, you and I. We have nowhere to go but up.”
“Topside, huh?”
Clearly, she has his attention. “Topside,” She confirms with a nod. Short of a formal summons, the only way a Pit demon goes Topside is in the service of a salesman.
Mara can feel him sizing her up, deciding perhaps whether or not to devour her on the spot. She has no doubt that he could. He glances away, considers it for only a second, and then he finally says, casually, “Alright. I’ll pledge five years Topside to you. Then we’ll reconsider.”
Her eyes go wide when the old demon nonchalantly pledges five years to her. He’s teasing me, she thinks at first, but then it becomes obvious that he’s serious and it is all she can do to stand there dumbly before him. And then, before she even realizes it, she’s laughing. Five years is not much, but for her conundrum it is ironically more than necessary. “We only have three,” she tells him, any trace of amusement quickly fading.
Three years to turn around a territory that has not been quota compliant for centuries. The demon steps over the pile of entrails at her feet, poking a finger at the other demon’s chest as she peers up at him, “I make you this promise–It will not be easy; you are going to work harder than you have ever worked, we will struggle, we will not rest, and I don’t care if I have to suck every cock in the territory to do it, I am going to get the contracts I need…and in three years time you will stand by my side as I throw a sales report in Nybbas’ face that will make his head spin. I will not fail, I swear it. I won’t forget who helped me do it. And you–” She doesn’t even know his name, “–You will not regret taking a chance on me.” She rolls up onto her toes to press a chaste kiss to the old demon’s lips, sealing their business contract. “Get your things. We have so much work to do.”
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Whumptober 2020 No.5
On The Run/Failed Escape/Rescue CW: Nonconsensual touching, impalement(?)/gore, torture, violence, implied amputation.
All he knew was that every part of him hurt. Arms, legs, the brand- all of the burns. His eyes... Nearly naked save for the cloak the man had given him, Jason clung tight to it and held it to his body. The man hadn’t even given him a name yet, but Jason was sure he worked for his father. One of the rangers that scouted the wilds and patrolled their borders. He smelled like one, cloak saturated with the scents of fresh earth and pine. Branches whipped past them and smacked flesh, leaving it red and raw, irritated. They both would rather the sting of poison ivy than the hands and wrath of the men shouting after them in their wake. “You’re going to have to run.” The gruff, breathless voice of his ‘hero’ panted. Jason’s response was a jagged, pitiful croak. A protest. How could he expect him to run? he’d been stuck to a table for days, chained, wounded horribly- he could barely see, and one of his arms....He only had one hand, now. Even if he could run, he certainly couldn’t fight. He swore he felt the man swallow. “...to hide, then,” He rasped. “I can’t outrun them.” They’d made quick work of his horse. That’d been one of the first things he made sure Jason knew. Arrows had made the poor thing useless, scoring holes through the bones nd ligaments of delicate legs. “I can’t,” Jason croaked back at him in a whimper. “You’re going to have to.” They’d been on the run for two days. His sight was barely beginning to return, and the wounds he bore were all still fresh. How they’d managed to go undetected even for that long was a feat, but it was over now. The baying of hunting hounds carried with the shouts and thundering of hooves through the woods behind them. Jason shouted and clutched tight to the man when he felt him stumble, scratchy foliage dragging against them both. Sunlight diffused under thicker branches. “I’m- it’s a ravine,” He told him quietly. “I’m going to try my best. Don’t move. Please, don’t....” Jason had nothing to say. He curled up in the fetal position and felt that cloak drape over him, then heard the rustle of branches. He was tossing a few over the boy’s prone frame. Blinded, even Jason knew it wouldn’t be enough. His savior did, too. The man hissed expletives and prayers one after the other, the sound of unsheathing metal ringing in their ears. Then the fading of heavy bootsteps. Jason trembled. The dogs and horses. The bandits. Everything sounded closer, closer, and closer, until he was sure they were on top of him. Then came the shout of his savior. Then clangs, metallic and loud. More shouting. Fighting in the clearing while Jason prayed, too. And then someone’s fist wrapped around one of the hiding boy’s antlers, a victorious laugh in his ears as he was hoisted into the air, trying to balance on the toes of one foot and struggle at the same time. The sounds of the fighting off just a small distance still carried on, but it faded as everything else happened up close. The man that had a glove around an antler put his other hand around the front of his throat, Jason’s back to a chest that stank like blood. He thrashed, teeth grit and bared, and he tossed his head- someone grabbed his kicking legs, but it didn’t stop one of his antlers from sinking into the hot squish of an eye socket. The man holding onto his head shouted and stumbled back empty-handed, leaving Jason to land hard on his back with his ankles in some other bandit’s grasp. Blood ran down the bone of an antler and down his hair, down his forehead. It seeped into already-blinded eyes. He screamed for them to let go, to get off, but there was no way he could do more than push himself up onto one of his elbows, being dragged through the dirt by his legs. “He won’t get to try that again,” Came the same voice that’d found him, the same voice that’d shouted when he’d lost an eye moments ago. He sounded labored, pained-- but so, so angry. That dangerous, quiet fury that made many a man capable of anything. Jason wanted to vomit. He started to scream and thrash again when he found out what he’d planned on doing, something rough and sharp bit into the root of the offending antler, digging into his scalp. The sawing motions rattled his brain, and more blood, this time his own, ran down his face as he screeched. The weight of that one antler was lost as the bone landed on the forest floor, Jason a sobbing mess that choked and hiccupped on his own tears. He couldn’t even hear the fighting of the man that’d found him. They would take him back to camp, surely, hand him right back to Tarsun or execute him in the middle of their stronghold. Send his head back to his father. Misery and pain swallowed him up, so much so that it caught him by surprise when the sound of a blade cut through the air and through the midsection of the man at his legs. The one that’d just made the young faun an antler lighter dropped his hold on his head, leaving him in bloody dirt and mud. His reaction time wasn’t enough to save him. Jason heard the blade sink into meat, heard the angry, startled gurgle of a man that didn’t get a chance to properly defend himself. Jason didn’t know what was happening. He just knew he was dropped- again, bleeding- again, and that the woods had gone silent. Turning his head up at who’d killed his attackers, and hoping it was the man from before, the voice that answered his silent, desperate questions left him at least some degree soothed. “Aye, I’m...” Not okay. Not fine. “Alive,” The man answered, but he didn’t sound well.
@havebruises
#on the run#failed escape#rescue#whumptober2020#whumpee#jason#oc#this one doesn't feel that good#sorry folks :/#@the one whole person that follows me tbh#less disappointment#noncon touching#torture#blood#fighting#gore#sort of
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Hawke’s Mabari
I finally get to post the gorgeous art @lethendralis-paints made for this fic! I’m so excited to be posting the first chapter of my first actual fic in two years!!
1.
Fenris’ consciousness ticked him awake, alerting him to something, but his mind didn’t tell him what it was. Fenris groaned and rolled onto his back, wincing, shielding his eyes with an arm. Sunlight was streaming through the holes in his ceiling.
There it was again—the noise, a barely audible scratching and faint banging coming from outside of his room.
Yawning, he sat up, swung his feet to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and then picked his leathers off the floor, shook them out, slid into the leggings and shrugged into his tunic, not bothering to fasten the clasps. The noise didn’t sound dangerous. It was probably being made by a cat or a rat.
Still yawning, he made his way down the stairs and stumbled through his gloomy greatroom, still not awake enough to see. The scratching was coming from his front door. It was insistent and repetitive—scratch, scratch… scratch, scratch—as if whoever was making the noise was pausing to listen.
“Coming,” he called, and the noise stopped. He cracked open the door and peeked blearily out.
Hawke’s massive mabari, Maric, pushed the gap wider and forced his way inside, and then turned and grinned, panting with its tongue hanging out.
Fenris examined the outside of his door. There were new, deep claw marks through greying wood and peeling paint.
Ruefully, he shut it and turned to the dog, curious. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Seeing the mabari without Hawke was unusual. The war hound barely ever went visiting; he was always either sleeping in front of Hawke’s fireplace or with Hawke. Maric was wearing kit, too. He had his armor and backpack on.
The mabari barked happily and jumped up. Fenris jerked away as the beast’s huge jaws clomped together near his cheek in greeting.
The dog took off, scrambling through Fenris’ mansion and into his room, scattering tiles and bits of mushroom. Fenris followed at a slower pace, and found the hound sitting by his armour, pawing and nosing it, his tail wagging.
“You want me to dress? To come with you?” Fenris asked, staring. “What is this about?”
The dog barked a sharp affirmative to each question, his tongue lolling out happily.
“All right, let me wash.” Fenris was fully awake. A visit without Hawke was strange enough, but having the dog invite him out had never happened before. He snatched a towel from the floor and strode to his bath.
After a quick scrub, the dog watched approvingly while he strapped on his armour, and then led the way to Fenris’ kitchen where he inspected and restocked the warrior’s pack. At the dog’s insistence, the confused elf kept adding bread and cheese and smoked meat and vegetables and apples until there was nothing left on his shelves.
At Fenris’ weapon rack, the mabari picked out a greatsword. Fenris didn’t object; he was mystified but fully engaged; each new demand was like a piece to a puzzle he had to solve. The sword was one of his favorites, a gift from Hawke, but he couldn’t help teasing a little. “Not an axe or a maul?”
The dog barked at him crossly. Fenris hooked the greatsword on his back, burning with curiosity, and followed the war hound to his next task, gathering every skin he had and filling one with fresh water.
When Fenris was properly outfitted, the mabari led the way out of the mansion and took off toward Lowtown at speed, circling back to snap at Fenris’ heels.
“I cannot run here,” Fenris admonished him. “An elf running in Hightown gets stopped by the guard.” It was true, but not exactly fair; anyone not nobly dressed stood a chance of being stopped in Hightown. Fenris knew some of the guard, notable members of the unit, but not all. He kept his head down. The dog whined impatiently but fell into step beside him.
To humor him Fenris loped down the stairs and through parts of Lowtown, only slowing to a walk in the markets. The mabari led the way to Darktown, and they ran through it together.
“Why didn’t we go through Hawke’s cellar... if we were coming here?” Fenris asked between breaths. “Surely Hawke would have... let you use the key?” The dog grumbled at him and tossed his head—no. They kept running until Fenris saw the familiar lanterns at the door of Anders’ clinic. They were lit. The mabari headed straight for the mage’s doors.
“Here?” Fenris asked incredulously, slowing to a walk. Finding out whatever the dog had planned suddenly became a lot less appealing. The war hound sensed his reluctance and woofed impatiently, jumping at the door until Fenris opened it.
Unsurprisingly, Anders was healing. The people Anders shared his space with gave Fenris wary, shadowed looks, no doubt remembering the fight the two of them had last time he had come. Anders’ patient was a surly human who had an arm in a makeshift splint and looked like a sailor.
Anders looked up and his eyes narrowed. “Fenris? Are you hurt?”
“No,” Fenris answered shortly.
“Then what—?”
Fenris gestured at the dog sitting next to him who was drooling and wagging his tail. “This was his idea.”
The mabari huffed in agreement. Anders’ staff was leaning nearby against a wall. Maric clamped it in his jaws and brought it to Anders, dropping it on the ground at his feet.
“What—no! I don’t want to play fetch or whatever, especially not with my staff!” Anders angrily seized his weapon, scowling at the slobber on it. “I’m busy and you’re in the way! Bad dog! Sit!”
The mabari’s ears flattened and his hackles rose. He snarled and barked back, spit flying and canines flashing. The healer recoiled.
Although he was tempted by the idea of seeing Anders bitten for rudeness, Fenris thought he’d better step between them. There were only a few patients in the clinic, as far as he could tell.
“We can wait. Right?” he asked the dog, holding his hands up soothingly. “You knew he might be working.”
The mabari growled. He stalked stiff-legged to a nearby cooking fire and lay down, staring pointedly at Anders.
Fenris followed him, easing his pack off his shoulders and setting it down beside the war hound. He returned to Anders and helped the mage remove the splint from the injured man. The man hissed and cursed as the healer reset the bone.
“What’s this about?” Anders sent a sidelong scowl at the dog.
Anders’ poor humor was mostly due to fatigue, Fenris saw. There were bags under the mage’s eyes. He looked unkempt and frazzled; some of his hair was flying loose, and his stubble was patchy, too long in some places. “A trip out of town, I think. He made me put together two days worth of supplies.”
“Two days? No.” Anders cast, his hands glowing with blue-white light. “No way. I can’t be gone that long.”
“You could use the break. You look like something spat up by a demon.” Fenris took a quick look at the mage’s shelves. “You are running low on reagents. Come along to gather some herbs.”
“That’s at most an afternoon’s worth of work, not two days! There’s always a risk of chokedamp after it rains, and three ships from Antiva docked this morning. I need to be here.”
“Aye, it means the pox, it does,” the sailor added helpfully, bending and stretching his arm.
“There are other healers in Kirkwall. Circumstance might make the Order allow Gallows mages to use their powers as the Maker intended.” Fenris suggested glibly.
The mage’s scowl deepened. “Don’t start,” he snapped.
“Many thanks, healer.” the sailor’s sour expression lightened into a smile. He slapped three silvers onto the cot before Anders could object, picked up his coat and left. Anders collected the coins with a sigh.
Fenris followed Anders to the next patient, a stout warrior with a lacerated lip and a black eye. He leaned his back against the cot, folded his arms and stared at the floor. There had to be some way to get Anders to agree to come.
“I could forgive some of your gambling debts,” Fenris offered. Anders ignored him. Reluctantly, Fenris added another bribe. “I’ll help process the herbs—cut up elfroot, powder embrium, boil spindleweed...”
Anders considered his proposal, holding the woman’s cut together and healing it.
“If we’re going to be gone for two days, you have to come help in the clinic for two days.”
“Anders—” Fenris warned.
“No pregnancies, I promise, I’ll deal with them,” Anders reassured hastily. “Help me make up salves for the brothels, do the laundry, pull the odd arrow, maybe a bladder stone.”
“Kidney stones too?” asked the warrior hopefully. “I don’t want to pass another one of those.”
“You might prefer it to my searching through your innards. I’m not a mage or a surgeon.” Fenris informed her darkly, and she blanched. He tried to think of a way out. “I have to work. I can’t be here for the entire day.”
“You probably won’t have another,” Anders soothed the woman, patting her shoulder. “There’s one left and it’s small, it most likely will never come out. Eat less cheese.”
To Fenris he insisted, “You spend most of your time drinking and moping. Two full days, unless you get work, or no deal.”
Kaffas.
“Done,” Fenris sighed resignedly. “I’ll douse the lanterns. We’re leaving as soon as you’re finished.”
He shook his head. Two whole days in the clinic, in the healer’s company.
It was Anders’ educated opinion that Fenris was capable of far more than Danarius had intended, and since he was a mage and Anders, he didn’t listen to Fenris’ objections.
For his part, Fenris knew little or nothing about how he had been created—only that Danarius had meant him to be a weapon—and had to admit he didn’t know what his full abilities could be. He was always becoming more attuned to his tattoos. He also had trouble looking into the desperate eyes of Anders’ patients and their families. His solution, so far, had been to avoid Anders and the clinic.
Hawke’s mabari was lying by the fire smiling at him approvingly with his tongue lolling out.
Fenris gave him a black look and mouthed, “You owe me.” The dog shut his mouth and stopped panting.
Together they went through Anders’ kit while the mage finished his work. As usual, Anders had no rations. There wasn’t a scrap of food in the clinic to pack. Fenris added hunger as another source of the mage’s foul temper. Fenris usually took care of victuals when they went with Hawke; they were a team and shared a tent, Hawke preferring the company of his better-humored friends to either of theirs. Anders had charge of their tent, a hand-held crossbow and extra blankets, and Fenris took care of their food, water, and cookware.
When the last patient had been ushered out the door, Anders picked up the tent and slung it on his back. The three of them set off for Lowtown, Hawke’s mabari leading the way.
“What are we doing?” Anders grumbled. “Are we actually going to follow the dog wherever he decides to go?”
The war hound stopped in the Lowtown market outside a butcher’s window. Sausage links lay in baskets behind the counter. The stall smelled of smoke and herbs. It was heavenly, and Fenris’ mouth began to water.
“Why are we here?” Anders leaned against the wall of the building. He scoffed when the dog pointed with his nose at a hanging carcass of a druffalo. “You can’t be serious.”
“You are carrying it.” Fenris told the dog.
The butcher appeared from the darkness at the back of the shop, wiping bloody hands on his apron. “What’ll ye have?”
The war hound peered up into Fenris’ eyes and cocked his head expectantly.
Sighing, Fenris began to guess. “Flank? Ribs? Haunch?” The dog barked. “Haunch. How much?”
The butcher leaned his elbows on the counter, sneering, looking him up and down. “Five silver.”
“That’s outrageous. That price is robbery.” Anders stepped into the butcher’s view. “It’s because he’s an elf, isn’t it?”
“It’s all right, Anders, I have the money.” Fenris muttered. He kept his eyes down and dug into his coin pouch.
“That’s not the point. How’s the hand, Moritz? One silver, thirty copper.”
“Oh, healer. I didn’t see you there.” Moritz’ tone became polite. Fenris noticed a long scar across the man’s palm when he patted the side of the carcass. “This ‘ere was meadow raised, came from a farm in the Marches. Three silver, eighty copper.”
“The forced march to Kirkwall was obviously too much for her. There’s no fat on her and you’re a thankless reprobate,” Anders snapped. “Two silver, ten copper.”
The butcher stared at him incredulously. “’Ere, listen, perhaps the cut isn’t for ye. It’s for the dog, yah? I’ve got offal and ends. Pigs’ ears and feet, fat, heart, brain, lung, liver, bones, beaks, and butt holes. Nug bits. Rat and pigeon too, naught but skin and best for soup. I’ll show ye.” He started to set baskets and trays onto the counter. Maric jumped up and barked with delight.
The butcher wrapped and tied the mabari’s purchases neatly in waxed paper and hemp string, and Fenris loaded them into the dog’s backpack. With the money he saved, he bought the three of them a smoked sausage each, and at other stalls, some sack, and pastries for the road. The war hound held an end of his sausage to the ground with a paw and tore off chunks, devouring it.
“I don’t feel so bad about losing to you at cards now. Do you always have to pay so much?” Anders bit the end off his link.
Fenris shrugged, his mouth full. Prices could be higher for elves. Some shopkeepers made a show of not wanting elven business and charged double or triple, and no one stopped them. Merrill had a sweet way about her, so she didn’t have to pay as much, but Fenris paid what was asked. Neither money nor the opinions of human merchants meant much to him, and he didn’t like haggling. If he couldn’t buy what he wanted, he usually stole it; it made up the difference. “Thank you for leaping to my defense.”
“It was unjust.” Anders took another bite. “That Moritz has some gall. He cut himself so badly last spring I nearly had to amputate. I spent an hour and two bottles of lyrium reconnecting nerves, and this is his thanks?”
Fenris shrugged again. The right to haphazardly interfere with a man’s livelihood might be a bit much to expect. He also had a suspicion druffalo meat might be more expensive than Anders supposed—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the healer eat it—but kept his peace. They’d be fighting soon enough. There was no reason to begin so soon over something so inconsequential.
Hawke’s dog paused at the north gate and waited by the fountain until Fenris had filled the water skins. They followed the mabari into the wilds and it soon became clear that Maric was heading for the Wounded Coast.
Fenris was glad he had come. The weather was fine; a cool breeze was sweeping from the ocean.
He had been right about the mage; Anders needed a rest. The mage straightened, his step quickened, and he looked ahead eagerly, smiling. The weight of his concerns seemed to fall away. “Should we be going by ourselves? I don’t fancy running into bandits.”
“We will scout, but I do not think we need to worry. We walked every path and cave with Hawke a week ago. There was nothing. There has not been much since that gang with the mabari hounds, and we killed the only dragon.”
“That’s true, and we have a hound with us who can smell out any threat.” Anders reached out and petted the dog.
The mabari leaned into his hand and woofed an agreement. He ran ahead of them on the path and off it, crashing through the scrubby brush, doubling back, sniffing the ground, leading them farther into the hills. They ambled after him. The dog was looking for something, and his manner got more urgent.
“I wonder what we are doing here.” Anders paused and leaned on his staff, watching the dog search.
Fenris hummed and nodded, offering the skin of wine he’d bought. Anders took it. Even though the healer couldn’t get drunk, he still liked the taste of alcohol.
They walked for most of the day, back and forth all over the coast. Hawke’s mabari paused often and howled. He was expecting something, but nothing happened.
Fenris killed a rabbit; Anders made them stop when he saw herbs he needed.
Eventually they got to a clearing as far up into the hills as they could get; they could see for miles in every direction. Anders’ bag was full of spindleweed and elfroot.
The hound sniffed through the clearing slowly in a wide circle, and then sat in the middle of it, dejected. He threw back his head and howled mournfully.
Anders found a rock and sat. “It appears we’re at the end of our journey. It’s a pity.”
Fenris climbed a prominence and looked around. He did not know what he was looking for, but he hoped his keen elven eyesight might serve the dog and see something, nonetheless. It seemed a shame that after so much effort, the poor animal would not be able to carry out his goal, whatever it was. The mabari chuffed sadly between howls, ears drooping.
It had been noon by the time they had set out, and now the sun was dropping in the sky. Fenris was about to step down from the rock and begin setting up camp when there was a low, angry, rumbling growl from underbrush.
He crouched and put his hand on the haft of his sword. There was something massive near them. He could see its hulking shape in the bush, but not what it was. He and Anders looked at each other.
Anders was still sitting, appearing unconcerned, smiling. The tips of his fingers winked white with a cold spell. The mabari let out a surprised, joyful bark and a welcoming whine, and his muzzle split into a wide, panting smile.
A huge war hound crept from the scrub. Her hackles were standing, and her teeth were bared in a ferocious snarl.
She was fearsome, larger than Hawke’s hound, and much meaner looking; her body was taut and rippled with muscle. A long, deep, badly-healing wound ran from the top of her head down to her jowl; whatever had made it had taken an eye. Her ears were nicked and flattened close to her skull. She growled and gathered herself threateningly, head low and tail raised, poised to spring at one of them.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely,” Anders grinned.
Maric huffed in agreement and scrambled to meet her, whining. She snapped at him angrily and he danced away from her, circling, insistent, trying to smell her. She snarled at him but Fenris could tell she was softening. Hawke’s dog was being very polite; his head and ears were down. He got his way and they sniffed each other’s bums and then she let him put his nose close to hers.
“A female?” Fenris let out the breath he was holding and stood straight. “Is this why you brought us all the way up here? So you could go on a date?”
Anders chuckled, and then he laughed and stood, leaning on his staff. “They’re well past dating.”
The war hounds looked at him. Maric’s expression was hopeful and he leaned forward, his tail wagging. The female mabari stance was less open. She kept her head down and her tail up like a standard, glaring at Anders.
“I was wondering why you wanted me along. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” Anders laughed again. “They’re fine. They’re all healthy and growing well. Congratulations.”
#fic#writing#my writing#lethendralis paints#gorgeous art by lethendralis-paints#i finally wrote it#yay#hawke's mabari
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Adjustments
“Living together has been interesting,” I continue to draw the end of my fork across the table, tracing small patterns across the faux wood print as if I held a brush across a canvas. I couldn't look at her, not out of shame but because I struggled to put the thought together. “It’s been nice, don’t get me wrong, I just have had to make some.... adjustments?”
Mari takes a long sip from her coffee keeping her eyes on me. She still didn’t trust him and she had good reason. I wish I held that same level of skepticism before jumping headfirst into whatever this was.
“Well, you know about my abilities...” I hesitate, my green eyes habitually scanning the room for anyone who might have overheard. “They can be inconvenient but for the most part they haven’t really affected me unless, ya’know, I want them too or a deal goes bad... Well... His works differently”
“How so?”
“Maybe it’s... well I don’t know. He’s still Lucci but... Well he’s a cat. Like constantly. ”
Mari isn’t quite sure how to react.
“Like okay. For example, I like meat but it’s not really an everyday staple for me. The one day I forgot to grab chicken at the store I came home to a dead animal gutted and skinned on our kitchen island.” I laugh at the memory but Mari seems significantly more concerned. “It explained the ice chests of ribs in the basement but for a while, I thought there’d been a mass homicide! Also he is always sleeping? And if there’s a feather that floats across the floor, well it’s instinctual I’m sure, but he would kill me if I told you more!”
The concept was so absurd that I couldn’t help but grin.
“But what if he does?” Mari voice was harsh, in contrast, scolding and at the moment sounded more mature than she should have. No longer was she the bubbly 19yr intern I’d come to see as my baby sister, but an angry motherly entity of a woman. “Aren’t you worried. Things are fine now but what if gets bored with you or you learn too much? What then?”
I shrug. Of course, the thought had occurred to me but I’d long dismissed that particular fear. Why?
“I trust him. I know how foolish that sounds but I do.” Mari looks unconvinced but she bites her tongue. “He’s not going to hurt me.”
She brings the cup to her lips, taking a long drag of the hot liquid. I can see a thousand doubts aflame in her eyes.
She sets down her tea and glances her watch, “I need to go, I’ll see you later Doctor.”
“Mari wait,” I plead but she’s thrown down a few bills for her meal and hurried out of the cafe by the time I’d grabbed my bags.
I knew why she was angry. Truth be told, had I stood in her shoes I would have been just as skeptical. It would have been hypocritical of me to be upset at her, but I was hurt nonetheless.
Was this how it was going to be? I was close enough to Mari that she gave voice to her fears but the others? I did my best to ignore the looks I got from my colleagues. To shrug off the off-hand comment and turn a blind eye to the glares. As long as we were together I would always be the devil who lead a fox into the hen house.
I’d lost track of the rumors, that spread through the sterile hallways and cluttered offices, each much less flattering than the one before it.
-----------
The walk home was agonizingly quiet without her. I’d only known Mari for a little over three months but our talks had become such an integral part of my routine I mourned her absence. She was one of the few people out here that I could even consider calling a friend.
I appreciated her concern but why was she fighting me like this?
I move automatically, sliding the key into the lock and shouldering my way into the small home. It’s dark save for a small lamp in the corner that he, the source of my drama, was using to read.
Lucci doesn’t move, his long fingers hovering at the corner of the book ready to turn the page. His eyes soft as he follows the lines. “No Mari today?”
I swallow back the urge to question how he would have known I walked alone tonight. Even when us girls would travel together, knowing he was inside, Mari would separate long before either of us could see the front door.
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Any other day I would have taken the time to put away my coat but today I was satisfied enough with tossing it across the nearest end table.
Arya whines dramatically as she pads across the room, her long brown muzzle finding its way to my palm to solicit attention. “Hi baby girl,” I coo stroking the dog across her velvetine head, “Has she been out yet?”
He grunts softly which I take as a yes and with a tired sigh, I allow myself to sink into the plush sofa. My hound happily jumping up beside me and settling at my side, her head resting across my thigh as she enjoyed the soft methodical strokes down her neck and back.
I can feel his gaze on me but I’m careful to avoid looking directly into his dark eyes. I was struggling to hide my grief but maybe if I prolonged the inevitable long enough my heartache would work itself out. I knew I had horrible poker face and was certain that just from one look I would lose all self restraint.
This was fine. I was happy. Moments like this brought me joy. Just a girl with her dog in a happy little home she’d made with her boyfriend. What more could I ask for. I was happy-
... But I was hurt.
I quickly dab away a traitorous tears as it fell. I wasn’t sure when the tears had started and was desperate to make it stop.
His movements are slow, controlled, as he quietly crosses the distance between us. The dog giving an annoyed snort before jumping down and retreating out of the room. The dog shared Mari’s reservations about him. Was I wrong?
I can feel his warm touch resting gently where her head had once rested. His other palm coming to rest across my reddened cheeks. Thumbing away another stubborn tear. I still can’t look at him like this but I’m relieved he’s not pushing answers out of me. His silent affection was comforting enough.
“How can I help?”
I shake my head softly, biting at the corner of my lip.
I can hear his soft exhale as he settles at my side, gently pulling me against his chest as if I was a small doll in his hands. My face buried into his shoulder, surrounded by the comforting scent of cologne and brandy. Was this wrong? For the first time since I could remember, I felt so safe and warm. I felt loved?
Wasn’t that enough? My mind raced in circles, quietly analyzing every aspect of our relationship. I was happy. Why couldn’t she see that? I didn’t want to give up this feeling but I didn’t want to lose my only friend either.
“Thank you,” My voice is quiet, soft and muffled as I press my body closer into his embrace. “Thank you for being here for me.”
XxX
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Grief ( Part 2 )
{{ TW: Misgendering/Deadnaming }}
“Th’tribe calls. I will retuhn lateah, Sajanavaa.”
The sharp glint of crimson catches the corner of C’tolemy’s eyes and he can’t help a faint smile, knowing it is fairly late and the Uyagir had been half-dozing, half-asleep regardless. Dressed fully in the dark leathers of his traditional tribe scouting attire, he gives the man a faint smile and wanders in close—leaning over the bed and covers to press a kiss to those dark lips, murmuring soft words of affection between the both of them.
“Be safe.”
“I will.”
He circles along the edge of the bed to the other side, pressing a kiss to the open mouth of a very snoring Dunrai—nuzzling in against the man’s cheek to whisper those same soft words of affection he’d given Ayanga. The Dazkar wouldn’t wake up, he never did, but it didn’t feel right to leave without telling them both he’d be back later even if only one heard him. He pulled away from Dunrai and pivoted, heading out of their bedroom—up the stairs and out of their home with sure steps.
It wasn’t until he closed the door behind him and engaged the locks with their appropriate security system that he felt a very real, very human chill ride up his spine.
Traveling to Ala Gannha was routine for him these days, a well woven spell to teleport him to the aetheryte waiting in the center of the tribe. He waved to the fellow Shadewalkers, kin to him to be awake in the middle of the night while the Daywalkers slept easy. His duties were done in order, as they always had been; check the ration piles, send out scouting parties, send out hunting parties, meet with the Council and the Chieftess in discussion of coming Holi, train the warrior ton that needed his aid and see to the newborn cubs. He had always been enthusiastic with his involvement in the tribe and no was no different. Once his duties had been completed—his golden eyes found the twinkling night sky, moon overhead and nodded. It was time.
The Seeker gave the guard most familiar with his ��routine’ vanishings from the tribe a tip of his chin and the woman nodded, pretending abruptly like he was never there as he escaped from view and into the night. Traveling across the desert sand was easy and welcome—the familiar sting of chilled air in bone enough to keep his nerves from going awry.
This was worth it. All he had to do was remind himself.
. . .
The final slap of skin on stone and a grunt of effort ended with this bulky man on his knees but successfully having climbed the cliff-face hiding the beauty known as the Arms of Meed; a suspended platform floating in the middle of a lake with a tree having grown in the middle of it. Home to the heart of despondent Fists of Rhalgr and a hiding place for the Coeurl when none were supposed to find them.
Waiting for him in the center of the largest platform was C’sah; his birth mother by blood and the very same woman that had abandoned him and gave over his training to a monster in more than just name. Deep golden eyes shone with equal parts pride and plain disgust as she watched her dau—son, vault over the edge of the cliff and onto the edge of the platform. He was beautiful as she was, agile like she was, smart like she was—but he had the blood of Ankobia in him and that is what made her turn her nose up in disgust.
<“C’aziza.”>
<“I will not stand here and be insulted.”> C’sah draws in a sharp breath, brows furrowing—of all of the ungrateful... <“I have little time or patience for your games. C’tolemy, nothing more, nothing less.”>
The older woman exhales slowly, patting down the flames of her growing temper and nods. <“My apologies, C’tolemy. You called me to discu—”>
<”Why do you want me to be the next Dead Witch?”>
C’sah bristles again, taking a longer moment to truly tamper down that building plume of aggression skittering along the base of her spine. Not only was her daughter ugly as sin, while beautiful at the same time, she had lost all of her manners during her grieving from C’ajnee. That just won’t do, she had invested so much time and energy into training this woman to be the perfect replacement for Dead Witch and she’d be damned if she’d let her own experiment ruin it.
<”You are the only one that can handle the immense power that comes with this burden. It is not an easy burden to bear to see, hear, taste, smell and feel the dead—but you can do it. You walk closer to death—more so than I. You’d be a better Witch than I ever was.”>
<”And if I do not want to be this?”>
<”It will find its way to the next person that can carry the weight. And then the next and the next and the next. The easiest way to control who uses such power is to pass it on with our children—so the ones before can teach them what they need to know to wield this responsibly.”> The older woman gestures to the entirety of the Seeker before her. <”You already taste death intimately. It would not be too far of a reach to taste it all.”>
C’tolemy grimaces, the prospect of holding more power doing nothing to convince him to want this. Power was never the goal, never a desire—he wants peace. He wants understanding. He wants a family and just enough strength to protect what he has. Nothing more, nothing less. C’sah sees the grimace, her small ears pressing back into her hair.
<”Do not tell me you want for little?”>
He merely shrugs, <”I will not be found wanting. I have all I need. That which I want is nothing you offer.”>
Anger bursts like a crag in her heart, aggravation tinging the tone in which she speaks as she glares at the man in front of her. <”Don’t tell me the tribe has filled your head with nonsense about how wanting will do nothing but bring you tragedy!? That is nothing but brainwashing to keep you from wanting goals! A life! What you deserve! What you were BORN to do!”>
Tired golden eyes rest on his mother, giving her a crooked edge of a smile. <”It was the tribe that dug the grave and Kushal that filled it. If you want to blame anyone, blame the man you gave me to.”>
C’sah bit at her bottom lip, curling her claws inward to seat into the meat of her palm. <”C’ajnee was supposed to train you.”>
<”Kushal did exactly as you asked him to. He trained me every single day to toss aside every single want I could have had in my body, mind and soul. I was trained to listen to commands. Trained to be good. Trained to be the best. The perfect hunting hound—a wolf in the night. I don’t care about my well being. I don’t care about my future. I don’t care about anything but obeying orders to their fullest and protecting what is mine.”>
Everything about that statement had done nothing but make her elated beyond normal measures—all of it, until that final bit of his sentence. That made her stare at him in confusion, tilting her head.
<”What is yours?”>
C’tolemy’s crooked smile shifts to a small smile, the look of madness in his eyes taking over as he falls into emotions too strong to hold back. <”That’s right. What is mine. People. Things. Hopes and dreams. Emotions. What belongs to me, what I’ve taken in blood and sweat and tears and clawed onto with a shredded heart and little sense—What is mine.”>
No. This wasn’t how this was supposed to be. C’aziza was supposed to have zero ambition, no survival instincts outside of orders given and complete, utter surrender to those that gave her orders. There was to be no want but the want to please. No wants. No dreams. No hopes. No desire to fight back or rebel. Nothing but a rigid, mindless dog.
C’ajnee had failed her.
Clicking her tongue, she spreads her hands out before him. <”You can continue to protect what is yours. I want none of it.”>
That jostles a laugh from deep inside of his chest, unhinged and shuddering. <”You lie just like Kushal did. He must have gotten it from you. You have nothing I want, Witch. You’ve proved that to me.”>
He turns on his heel and prepares to vault back over the broken bridge to the cliff-face.
<”Wait!”>
A pause.
<”What if… What if I can give you back what you lost?”>
Just one last time.
<”What… What if I can give you C’ajnee?”>
[ Part 1 ]
#ffxiv#ffxiv writing#my writing#c'tolemy#c'sah#c'ajnee#ayanga#dunrai#at what /point/ does it reach pathological mourning?#what would you do to get back what was stolen from you?#how far would you go?
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Can we get a 3, 6, and 10 for the Winter Soldier please? Gotta get that Soft Torture Crave™
Drag ‘em, rabid dogs, and care-taking for Bucky + forced to watch for Steve. I’m more than happy to! This can be read as a continuation of this, for the lovely @aylwyyn228.
trigger warnings: forced nudity, mutilation, blood, broken bones, needles, violence against animals (I made it brief; I don’t like it either)
Rollins drags Bucky into the cell adjacent to Steve’s. No, not Bucky. The Winter Soldier.
Like a magnet, Steve’s entire body is pulled towards his friend when he sees him. He throws himself against the reinforced glass that separates their cells.
“Bucky,” he says. His breath fogs a circle of steam over the glass.
The Soldier’s head snaps to Steve. Recognition flickers over his face. Perhaps this is Bucky after all.
Rollins has got Bucky by the hair, hauling him backwards. His prosthetic arm has been removed, and his hand is still healing from where Rumlow sheared his fingers off.
He grips his remaining fingers–thumb to middle–around Rollins’ wrist. He thrashes his body and kicks his legs, but Rollins is bigger. Concrete drags and scrapes the backs of his thighs, his bare buttocks.
“Why does he have to be naked for this?” Steve asks Rumlow when he enters his cell.
Rumlow shrugs. “Aesthetic?”
“Last I checked, the Nazi aesthetic is Hugo Boss.”
That gets a laugh out of Rumlow. He tosses a plastic case at Steve. “You’ll need this.”
Steve turns it over in his hands. It’s a medkit. Inside are suture needles, surgical thread, gauze, disinfectant. A needle with a syringe full of pale yellow liquid. What the…
Steve looks up to question it, but Rumlow has already left the room. Rollins, too, is nowhere to be seen and Bucky is a heap on the concrete floor, breathing heavily.
“Are you okay?” Steve asks through the glass.
“Yeah.” Bucky leans up onto his elbow, then stands. He doesn’t face Steve, he faces the door. Bracing himself. “Look, just because I recognize you doesn’t mean I remember you.”
Steve’s heart clenches, a rubber band snapped tight around the organ.
“I’m Steve,” he sighs. “I’m your best friend.”
Bucky’s eyes slide over to him, calculating and cold. Steve has seen that look before, but only when Bucky is behind a sniper rifle.
“Then where the hell have you been?”
Steve doesn’t get a chance to answer. There’s a clamor down the hall. The sound of dogs barking. Bucky’s eyes return to the door, his jaw flexing tightly. Whatever’s coming for him, he’s frightened of it.
“If you really are my friend…” he says slowly. The cell door unlocks. Bucky squares up. “…Then I’m real sorry for what you’re about to see.”
Dogs. Rabid dogs.
Six or seven of them rush into the room. Jaws snapping, saliva foaming. Steve is startled by the sight of them. By so many of them charging straight for Bucky.
And Steve watches, open-mouthed and horrified, as the hounds descend.
Bucky grabs the first one by the throat and tosses it against the concrete wall. But while he flings the first dog away, the second clamps its jaws around Bucky’s knee. It thrashes its head back and forth. Something snaps in Bucky’s leg.
Bucky cries out in pain and kicks it off. His knee buckles, ringed with a deep red crescent of bites.
That’s all he can manage to fight off. Another dog leaps and catches him in the face. Bucky is knocked to the floor, howling and struggling to get the beast off him. The remaining three dogs each grab a limb, tugging and fighting for a piece of him.
Flesh tears open. His hamstrings rip. Steve catches a flash of startling white bone.
He can’t watch. He has to do something. Steve picks up the metal cot in his room and hurls it against the glass. It cracks, but not enough to burst through. So Steve rams it again and again until he can throw his body through and shatter the glass.
The moment he crashes through into the cell, all dogs turn their attention to Steve. He likes dogs, loves them even, and snapping their necks feels like sacrilege.
At least it’s fast. At least they won’t feel pain.
The remaining dog has Bucky by the ankle, and drags him away from Steve when he approaches. It snarls around the joint, whips its head back and forth once, to establish that this meat is his.
Steve snaps its neck too.
The guilt is worth it to save Bucky.
—
The Soldier doesn’t often black out from pain, but this time he does. When he comes to, the man, Steve, is squeezing the bubbles from a syringe.
His hands are shaking. Tears streak down face, forming clean tracks through the splatter of blood. He’s pulled the Soldier’s head and shoulders into his lap, his body a protective hunch over the Soldier’s.
Maybe this man really is his friend. That would be…nice. The Soldier doesn’t have any friends.
“Have you ever treated rabies before?” he gurgles. That one dog, the big black one, it got him in the face. Ripped open a hole in his cheek. The Soldier can press the tip of his tongue straight through.
Steve shakes his head. He rubs his cheek against his shoulder. Still crying.
“That’s rabies immune globulin,” he explains. “Administer a bit at a time, as close to the bites as possible.”
The Soldier glances down his ravaged body. There’s a bite on his knee, at each ankle, on his forearm, his face. He only hopes there is enough.
“Start with the knee. Then my face. Don’t be afraid to get the needle in deep.” He swallows. “There’s no cure once the infection settles in.”
Steve nods. He does as he’s told, hands shaking.
“The other vials in the medkit, those are for later. You’ll need to give me one tomorrow…if they let you stay in here.”
A prediction flashes over the Soldier’s synapses. A bad omen. Maybe they want him to get rabies. Maybe they want him to kill Steve, rabid and out of his mind. For some reason, he can’t bear the thought.
Steve rests a hand over the Soldier’s shoulder, squeezes it comfortingly. He dabs disinfectant over the wounds and though the chemical stings, the Soldier is grateful. So grateful that tears prick his eyes.
He allows himself to sag into Steve’s lap. He allows Steve to wrap his wounds with gauze and stroke the blood-damp hair from his brow. The Soldier closes his eyes. Though his whole body burns and throbs, this is the best he can remember feeling.
Ever.
“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve says, using that strange name again. “I’ll take care of you, now.”
#torture tuesday#hydra trash party#whump bucky barnes#whump steve rogers#rabid dogs#forced to watch#violence against animals#animal violence#the dog dies#I'm so sorry I wrote myself into a corner and had to do it#thank you so much anons#I hope finals went well!#Anonymous#stucky
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So Sandor doesn't care about kings and mighty lords and stuff like that, but is possible that there's some kind of begrudging respect in him for Sansa's powerful family? Ned, Young Wolf, Blackfish and Jon, too (hopefully, they'll meet in the future) - all those guys are awesome and I'd like to think that Sandor agrees with that.
Hey sorry it took so long to get back to you. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed and it took more time than I thought.
Respect? Errrrr, don’t hate me, but… no, not yet if we’re talking about what’s published so far, but we have reason to hope in the future. The major block to recognizing traits worth respecting in individuals, let alone a whole family, is that deeply ingrained cynicism dancing up to the edge of nihilism. The world is shit, the system is shit, and people are divided into either butchers or meat. Most of the time he sounds like a smug, know-it-all teenager that stands on the sidelines pointing out everything that confirms his bias. Yes, he has some buried idealism wayyyyyyyyy down in there, but it’s not as if they were equally-matched forces duking it out inside him for every word and deed. It’s a worldview that has served him by making him feel strong and invulnerable. There’s just no good reason at the start to dredge up those dreams of childhood, which he associates with vulnerability and helplessness. It’s a security blanket. Think of how hard it is to change someone’s mind about politics or religion. The only way that usually happens is if someone has a lived experience that challenges their current beliefs. Even then it can be a long process of wrestling with the new idea while it competes for brain real estate with the old idea.
For him to even entertain the idea that someone could actually walk the walk of a real hero, a true knight, or lady, he needs to see what they’re made of with his own eyes. His goal post is so far down the field, he actually makes it near impossible for anyone to live up to, which only confirms his bias. Robb and Ned are definitely not the ones who make a dent in that. Maybe he’ll reflect back on them in future books with fairer assessments, but not in the books so far. He’s not impressed with a righteous cause or reputation anymore than wealth or titles.
Specifics under the cut.
The WF training yard is his first interaction with Robb. Not that Sandor respects Joffrey’s boasting and jackass calls for live steel, but he’s not impressed by Robb’s “courage” with this nerf bat training in an adult supervised safe zone either. He even takes a swing himself, just because Robb is so very easily goaded.
The burned man looked at Robb. “How old are you, boy?”
“Fourteen,” Robb said.
“I killed a man at twelve. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword.”
Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded. He turned on Ser Rodrik. “Let me do it. I can beat him.”
At this point, Sandor probably thinks Robb and the Starks are just more of the same self-congratulatory nobility that he’s used to. Maybe not as dysfunctional and ruthless as the Lannisters, but still part of the same system. Like Sansa, he probably thought Ned was a bit of a naive fool that got in way over his head. He believes what passes for honor and righteousness are just fancy clothes people dress themselves in or it’s a fool’s tin armor. It would be inevitable that the latter would get themselves eaten alive. Only people like him that have The Truth™️ figured out survive. It takes Sansa’s lived example right in front of his face to take a chip out of those ideas.
She has it in her to be a real deal true lady, despite his first impression that she’s just empty-headed and superficial. After Ned’s execution and Sansa is forced to look at her father’s tarred head, she’s determined to look without seeing. She shows enormous strength of will to not give Joffrey one iota of the reaction he desires. When he taunts her some more, she bites back: “Maybe my brother will give me your head.” I won’t glamorize her murder-suicide thoughts, but I think witnessing this scene shows Sandor that innocence, compassion, and vulnerability can go hand in hand with real strength and courage. Just because awful people hurt her does not mean she is weak. It just might move that goal post a tiny bit closer in that even a sometimes superficial, imperfect, childish young girl can still conduct herself in such a way. It’s still a long way from reconciling what he’s just seen with near a whole lifetime of cynicism. It’s a start though!
When he smiled, she knew he was mocking her. “Your brother is a traitor too, you know.” He turned Septa Mordane’s head back around. “I remember your brother from Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword. Didn’t you, dog?”
“Did I?” the Hound replied. “I don’t recall.”
Sandor probably did say that back in early AGOT when he didn’t gaf and would crack jokes like that to amuse himself as much as Joffrey; however, it seems as though he’s regretting and distancing himself from that bit of immature ridicule for her sake, not so much Robb’s. But let’s be real. He’s not always respectful toward Sansa from this point forward, but he’s staying in the conversation. He’s still fighting the ideas she’s challenging him with. It’s only by his actions, not words, that we see him starting to test those waters by making different choices. He wants to be proven wrong deep down, but he’s going kicking and screaming the whole way.
The other Stark he’s spent a significant amount of time with is Arya.
“I’m not a boy! But Mycah was. He was a butcher’s boy and you killed him. Jory said you cut him near in half, and he never even had a sword.” She could feel them looking at her now, the women and the children and the men who called themselves the knights of the hollow hill. “Who’s this now?” someone asked.
The Hound answered. “Seven hells. The little sister. The brat who tossed Joff’s pretty sword in the river.” He gave a bark of laughter. “Don’t you know you’re dead?”
“No, you’re dead,” she threw back at him.
Against all odds, Arya is alive. The little girl that bested Joffrey with a “wooden sword” no less and made a mockery “Lion’s Tooth,” a tale that probably amused him as much as it did Renly. He’s not meaning “brat” in a truly insulting way here, but that he’s genuinely surprised she’s survived this long and that she must really be tough as nails. The Wolf Bitch nickname he gives her follows that same line. And he seems to appreciate it when she’s bluntly honest. I think he does respect aspects of Arya because he can certainly relate to being an angry, scrappy kid. This is up to a point, because he’s very annoyed that she is relentless in reminding him about his accountability in Mycah’s death. Through their journey, he is mostly focused on how helping her serves his needs.
If this Young Wolf has the wits the gods gave a toad, he’ll make me a lordling and beg me to enter his service. He needs me, though he may not know it yet. Maybe I’ll even kill Gregor for him, he’d like that.“
“He’ll never take you,” she spat back. “Not you.”
“Then I’ll take as much gold as I can carry, laugh in his face, and ride off. If he doesn’t take me, he’d be wise to kill me, but he won’t. Too much his father’s son, from what I hear. Fine with me. Either way I win. And so do you, she-wolf.
Eh, I’m not seeing respect for Robb or Ned here, grudging or otherwise. Sandor is still not getting it yet, though his intentions are to find a way to get back to KL and rescue Sansa. All this wishful thinking aside, he wants to look like a big hero, but do so by cynically playing on Robb’s sense of honor as a wedge in the door. He wants it both ways. To be a true knight in Sansa’s eyes, while keeping his security blanket right where it is.
It’s really at his death scene where Sandor confesses to the point of overly taking responsibility and feeling remorse for even the things he didn’t do, that he really connects with his best self. No more bullshit. He’s thoroughly stripped down and vulnerable and finally open to someone like the Elder Brother coming along. If we’re judging by the gravedigger’s humility and quiet, humble service, Sandor has learned quite a bit about respect for others. Respect for people he would have one considered weak for their pious, peaceful life. Stranger’s refusal to be turned into a plow horse or be gelded means he’s not meant to remain there nor will he abandon all of his personality. He will return to the story, but I think directing his anger and biting criticism to individuals that truly deserve it.
So I do have a lot of hope for the future though, because he does seem like a displaced Northerner and that can’t be for nothing. I would be neat if he gets to meet some remaining members of Sansa’s family and hopefully they won’t try to kill him on sight. There’s still the Saltpans matter to clear up. I lean toward that Sandor will actually become part of this family one day, so I think at that point there’d be some honest to goodness mutual respect, not just grudging. :)
#Anonymous#sandor clegane#respect#twow spec#sandor clegane meta#sorry it took so long#I'm getting caught up now
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Good bye
Sort of Sequel to Hello
This is the first part of the end basically. Also, remember when I said stuff get’s sadder... Yeah, I’m not joking.
“I will follow you like Toy Soldiers” - Toy Soldiers
I got too excited and just decided to post this tonight
tagging: @royslittleharper @guns-n-lilies @daisyboobear @nightwing-rules @coffee-randomness
We were all young, so young. Filled with dreams and excitement. We thought we could change the world. We thought we were invincible.
Jennifer sighed as she looked around at the large white building. She came here too often. Being a psychiatrist meant going where people needed her. With her specialty being with super powered kids places like this. Places there they locked up powered people, she frequently came to help.
But today she wasn’t here for work.
-------
“Oh, there’s my team, got to go beat the baddie” Turning Dark giggled flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder “See you later Kid Flash” Skipping over to her team Dream rolled her hazel eyes.
“When are you guys just going to fucking make out and get it over with” the dark haired girl asked inspecting one of the many knives she hid under her long dark coat. Jennifer had ofteren wondered how heavey that jacket was considering her teammate always seemed to have an endless suply of sharp things. Their blonde friend let out a gasp dramatically putting her hand over her heart.
“Whatever do you mean Dream!” The pretty blonde girl asked smiling at her own private joke, “It’s all in jest, besides...” she faltered as Artemis walked in “He has his eyes on someone else. Not to mention I’m WAY too good for him”
Jennifer, known as Falcon back then, smiled at her two teammates. The blonde, Dark was endlessly flirting with anyone who would talk to her. However, she had a small place in her heart for the red-haired speedster who had saved her from the mob boss who had tried to use her powers for evil.
Next to her Dream rolled her eyes putting away the last of her weapons. She was a foul-mouthed girl who said it like it was no matter who she was offending. She tended to offend a lot of people.
As Dark ran off to make sure her hair looked good before their mission. Falcom laughed shaking her head “Does she realize your power is directly linked to people’s emotions?” Dream shrugged
“I think she just forgets. Moron.”
----
Those were the days. Filled with laughter and joy. The three of them just helping eachother and learing where they belonged.
Before the girls Jennifer had never quite felt like she had fit in. She had never good at that hero life. Too connected with the people around her. She cared too much.
Yet that was how she had met those two.
Dark being brainwashed to kill and Dream pickpocketing to make ends meat.
She had talked the girls into using their powers for good and in return, they taught her how to belong in a world that was just too magical for this mortal girl.
As she walked the halls of this large establishment filled with such people. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Many of these people locked up behind those steel doors were so dangerous to others that they may never see the light of day again.
While some…
Some were more a danger to themselves than anyone else.
--------
“Did you really just throw your phone at Dinah?” Jennifer asked pure horror written on her face. The rest of the Young Justice members stood in equal shock.
“What? She was pissing me off.” Dark said folding her arms over her chest, “Because of this stupid debriefing we missed the party on the boardwalk.”
“You threw your phone at her because we couldn't go to that party?” Wally asked, “I don’t see why you care it’s just a bunch of jocks and stuff.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter to you but…”
“You want to be one of those vapid brainless bitches?” Dream said, more of a statement than a question.
“No! I want to go to a real party, with real kids our own age.”
“Well…” Wally paused looking around for a moment, “I could sneak you out.”
“Really!?!” Dark asked
“Sure.”
“Can we?” she turned to her two friends. Falcon shrugged why should she stop the girl? They had the rest of the night off anyway. Besides a little normal fun might be good.
“Sounds like fun.”
“You’re not getting me in any of those fucking slutty outfits you have, but I’m down.”
----
They were too young. No matter how powerful they had been. They were being exploited for the greater good.
But what had that greater good done? It had left three girl’s lives destroyed.
Some would argue that a girl like Dark could never be anything but a killer with her powers yet Jennifer had seen more. She had seen a girl who just wanted to be normal. Just wanted to go to school with other kids. Go to parties, meet boys, maybe fall in love.
Being with girls like Dark and Dream who had spent their whole lives running from people who would use her powers made Jennifer realize that there were kids out there who didn’t have the life she had.
A normal life where your biggest concern was passing a test or that your friends would think you were a freak for taking college classes at 12.
While her friends had to worry about whether it was morally right to make someone so happy they give you everything they own.
Or that people would think you were a freak because your best friend was a hound from hell.
-----
He stood there holding her by her hair. Blood dripping from her nose as she looked up with half closed eyes. She was in pain, she was going to die if he kept this up. And Falcon couldn’t do anything about it.
“Please,” she begged, her whole body unable to move after enduring her own beatdown, “you said it was me you wanted.”
He shook his head “You weren’t good enough, none of you were good enough. Honestly, you shouldn’t even be heroes. And here’s why” He pulled out a gun and shoot Dream in the head. No finesse, no second thought. Falcon watched in horror as one of best friends die before her eyes.
He tossed her limp body aside as if it was nothing but a bag of trash he’s eye never wavering from Falcon’s “I always liked guns, quick and to the point. Why waste time goofing around, giving monologs when you can just pull and trigger and be done with it.” He leaned down toward Falcon so close she could smell his breath sour and sickly, “Now go home pretty little one, and know, you were too weak to save your friend.”
-----
She was playing pretend. She thought if she put on a mask and ran with the big kids she could be a hero too. So many times she had been proven wrong. Shown that this wasn’t her life yet she had kept going, kept fighting, kept trying to prove her worth.
Until it didn’t matter anymore.
----
“Where’s Dream?” Wally asked scanning the room as the two girls stood in the Young Justice HQ in stunned silence. Pulling herself together, barely, Falcon pushed her way through them walking up to Kaldur. Taking off her mask she hands it to him. For a moment Aqualad's eyes flicker to Robin who stands in stunned silence.
“I quite,” Jennifer said looking straight into the team leader’s eyes.
“WHAT!” Wally said next to him M’gan took a few steps closer to her reaching out. She knew, she already knew the pain the girl was going through as tears formed in the martian's eyes.
"Falcon?” Robin took a step closer to his friend but she couldn’t face him, she couldn’t face anyone.
“She’s dead… oh, my GOD! She’s dead!” Dark’s voice cut through the confusion. Everyone turned to the blonde. She looked around the room, her eyes so dark they could kill. “That maniac killed her!” darkness swirled around her as the sound of her hellhound let out a snarl curling her ready for a fight. “I’m going to find him and rip his limbs one by one from his body until he’s sorry he killed Dream” as her voice grew deeper and deeper echoing the snarls of her dog, eyes glowing blood red. Dark mist slowly enveloping them, “And not even the pits of hell will save that man from the wrath I will bring down on him.”
“Dark wait...” Wally said yelled running toward her. But even the speedster was too late, she had already disappeared.
It was too much for Jennifer. The world seemed to be tilting, spinning. It felt so warm, suffocating. She was going to throw up.
“Falcom wait!” she heard as she bolted from the room. Everything seemed to be closing in on her. The walls, the floors, she had to get out, get away. She didn't’ even know where she was going until she locked herself in a closet. Falling to the floor clutching her chest as her body racked with sobs.
“Fa… Jennifer? Come out… Jen?” Dick’s voice was saying on the other side of the door, “Please just open up… talk to me”
---
So I quite, it really wasn’t for me. That kind of hero work. I found something else, helping people one at a time. Counseling teen heroes like Gigi and anyone else who isn’t sure how to fit in this world with their powers.
Trying to help kids who suffer like I did.
The way Dark did.
We spend weeks trying to find her. Hunting her down after the death of our friend. But when we found her it was too late.
-----
“I found her” Kid Flash said over the intercom. Falcon turned Robin’s motorcycle toward where he was. While she told them she had quite, given up the costume she had put it on one more time to find her friend. Not giving up until Dark was back to safety.
The sight that greeted them wasn’t one that they had expected. Bodies lay in tatters around the girl. The air was so thick with the smell of blood Jennifer almost gagged. Dark's blonde hair streaked with the sticky crimson blood as she sat in the center of the carnage. She was softly whispering to one of the men stroking his face.
“Oh my god” Kid Flash whispered next to Falcon as he looked over the carnage. It was like something from a nightmare.
“Stacy?” Falcon asked hoping the sound of her own name would bring her friend back. A flicker, the blonde looked up at her old teammate. However, her blue eyes had a vacant look to them, as if looking right through the brunette as she walked closer.
Falcon’s hand was outstretched as if approaching a wounded animal, unsure what the broken girl in front of her would do. “Stacy?” she asked again, “It’s me… it’s Jen,” slowly she took off her mask.
“They all die” the girl whispered, “they all die.” She kept whispering over and over again. Her once bright blue eyes were dead to all the world not seeing anything.
“I’m here, Stacy I’m here,” Falcom said gently taking her friend’s hands in her own.
“They all die,” the blonde said again slowly laying her head on Falcon’s chest “my dog, Dream, Falcon,” She turned to Kid Flash, “You…”
------
Jan looked through the small window into the stake white room. Stacy, the once great Dark, sat on the bed. Staring at the white wall opposite from her. Her once bright eyes, always so full of life, were now dead. Jennifer opened the door slowly walking in. “Hey Stacey, how are you doing?”
“They all die,” the pale-haired girl whispered rocking back and forth slightly clutching a small stuffed dog Plastic-Girl had gotten her. Her head slowly turned toward Jen, looking right through her former teammate “They all die”
Somedays Jennifer could get some coherent words out of the girl. Some days she would talk about her food or the sunshine. But some days (most days) were like today, she was stuck in a loop.
Jennifer sat with her for about an hour gently talking to her about how the team was doing and about her life. How her sister had joined the hero world. She was worried for her but she knew her sister had to make her own choices. (Jennifer may have threatened Dick to keep an eye on her.)
Stacy didn’t say much just looking vacant as she rubbed her thumb over the small stuffed dog.
Finally, Jennifer left taking one last look at the stark white room where her friend sat. She helped kids who didn’t have anyone else. Tried to make them feel normal, comfortable in their own skin. Keep them sane in this crazy world.
She did this because there was one girl she could never help.
"Have you gone in?" Jennifer asked glancing at Wally as she left the building. The red haired boy was leaning against the wall of the building tapping the sole of his sneaker against the brick. Letting out a long sigh he shook his head.
"I know it's selfish but I don't want to remember her like that... like how we found her." He laughed scratching the back of his head, "I want to remember her as the girl who threw her phone at Dinah when she had told her to grow up."
Jennifer laughed at the memory, "she told me later she wasn't even that mad, she had just wanted to throw something at someone... see what would happen"
Wally laughed, long and hard. "She was so strange sometimes!"
"Yeah," Jennifer said nodding.
Wally's smile melted slowly as he glanced at the setting sun, it was getting late and Artemis was waiting for him. This was going to be one of his last nights with her before things... changed. Yet here he was, looking back at the past.
"Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we hadn't had her join the team"
Jennifer sighed, "I spend every day trying to never forget."
#Jennifer#Feathers#Kid Flash#Kid flash fanfic#dick grayson#Dick Grayson fanfic#dark#dream#Stacy#my fic#my writing#hello fic
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