Due to some musing with a dear friend, I felt inspired to write a little bit about one of my more underutilised characters, Judas, a cultist masquerading as a priest. Though in FO AU he claims to be a Priest of Atom, I suppose this is more of a modern take on him
Her hands had been shaking when she killed him. They still shook now, Judas noted, though he was far more fascinated with the way that her trembling coaxed droplets of blood from her hands to stain the hallowed halls of the cathedral in deep crimson. He’d learned long ago blood wasn’t the bright red of fantasies. There was no beauty in that brightness. But how those earthen tones stained at pale skin, and flowed through the cracks that made her up, that was beautiful, an unholy form of kintsugi repairing the cracks of the psyche with a sinful adhesive.
But not this one. Judas could tell that this one, she couldn’t be fixed. The simple act of murder was enough to shatter her beyond repair. Terrified eyes look out from under the safe shroud of her habit, down at the body in front of her. This, he could never understand, how they could stare at something they did as if it wasn’t their own hand to commit their sin.
“Sister,” His voice has a quality of music to it, from years preaching, and speaking low and soft behind lattice partitions of confessionals forgiving sins in sweet susurrations. The woman looks to him, sudden.
“I… I killed him…”
“You did.”
“I didn’t--”
Judas’ eyes narrow, predator, as he stalks to her. The knife in her hand catches candlelight with each involuntary shiver, only increasing as their distance closes. “Didn’t what, Sister? Mean to? But you did.”
“No…”
Her voice breaks on that word. Fingers begin to loosen, only for Judas to move in swiftly behind her and hold her fist, closing her hand back around the handle slowly. “Shh… it’s alright.” There against his back, she sobs, and his free arm wraps around her waist in a twisted parody of an embrace. “To take a life… to commit such a sin… and then deny pleasure in the act. Sister, I had such high hopes for you.”
Some took to sin swiftly, as if their souls were meant to carry its weight and burden. These were the ones that Judas found favor in. The degenerate and sacrilege who had no qualms in desecration of holy spaces, in the breaking of commandments. In defying the words of God. To take a pure heart and turn it to sin, to place himself in their minds above the one holy pinnacle that should never be toppled… He was a man of many vices but that was the sweetest to indulge. This, however… was unfortunate.
She trembles under his touch, sliding in delicate movements up along her scapular to find her chin. Gentle… but undeniably firm as Judas lifts her head toward the corpse. “Look at him.” Another sob, her chin tries to wrench itself free, but his fingers dig down against her jaw in a bruising grip that leaves nowhere to go.
“Look at him!”
Those words echo through the empty church halls, loud, a chorus of winged demons in flight that swarmed above-head in a mockery of God to accuse her, and she breaks. Tears flowing free and loud to fall over Judas’ skin. Only then does he let go and pry back her habit to pet her head. “You’ve done something terrible, Sister. Something awful.”
“What-” She can barely speak through her whimpers, sniffling as her head again falls. “What do I do, father?”
Loose ends needed to be tied. She could have been accepted into the fold… But now she was nothing but a liability. His flock needed wolves, not lambs. “Will you lead us through a Hail Mary, Sister?”
Her arm is pliant, willing, as he bends it, guides it like puppet master pulling at strings. Where his voice is calm and controlled, hers wavers in fear under him. “Hail Mary, full of grace… The Lord is with thee… Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus,”
A sob leaves her throat when the knife’s edge, still held tight in her palm, is coaxed up against her throat, trailing into whimpers when Judas shushes her. “Keep going. It’s alright. God is with you.”
“Holy Mary Mother of God…” Her eyes shut tightly. The blade presses against bare flesh and tastes her blood. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death--”
The last word barely leaves her mouth as Judas’s grip tightens, and a sharpened athame point glides across her skin, cutting through as though she were simple paper. Choked sounds leave her through the blood that spills, liberal like wine, and stains her, the floor beneath her. Judas lets her go, watching as she falls unceremoniously to the floor. Her eyes are wide, and blank, staring to nothing.
THEY MADE HIM OUT OF STEEL AND PERFECT IMPERFECTION. THEY FORGOT TO TURN THE LIGHT ON BEHIND HIS EYES. they’re empty. they’re cold. they’re something forgotten and lost
LOST. Where are you going, boy? Following like a dog because there’s nothing else out there for you -- there was never anything for you. Cold-pressed, cookie cutter carved to fit a mould, left out in the sun to rot when your shape wasn’t needed.
Those flickers of humanity in his chest are nothing but tired psychotropic placebo making him think he could be something he’s not.
CAN YOU EVEN FEEL IT WHEN HE TOUCHES YOU?
CAN YOU EVEN FEEL IT WHEN YOU HOLD HIM CLOSE?
CAN YOU EVEN FEEL IT WHEN YOU FALL DOWN TO YOUR KNEES AND THE SUNLIGHT REFUSES TO SOAK INTO YOUR SKIN?
All this freedom and love sits there in his mouth tasteless, he salivates, he chews, he wants to pick it clean to bones but where, where is the taste of it...
Where did they put the rest of him when they cut away the excess?
Some late night musing with my Sad Dad Zephyr, borrowing @ohmdo‘s Druncle. He’s a good man who gives light to Zephyr’s life. Thank you for some cathartic and heartfelt musing between them
THE OCEAN IS VAST. AN ENDLESS TEMPTRESS SINGING SIREN SONG THAT CALLS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT IN SOFT SUSURRATION OF HER VOICE. IT HAS CALLED TO HIM FOR YEARS AND BLINDLY HE HAD FOLLOWED THE SOUND UNTIL HE WAS PULLED TO THE SHORE AND THE SONG GREW distant. Quieter. Like nothing more than whispers carried on the carriages of seafoam.
But some nights, he can hear her as if she'd never been gone. Even in his home (a word he never thought he'd use again), with his children sleeping soundly in their beds, he hears her. The sweet voice on the water in a language he's forgotten begging him to find her...
He knows where she is. He remembers burying her. But the sea steals her voice to lure him to its depths, and the night makes him too weak to resist.
Zephyr moves silently. Each creaking floorboard was laid out in a map behind his eyes -- he never woke his children or the Duchess that rested beside them. Though the door is louder to unlock, nothing stirs. Part of him is grateful. Part of him wishes someone would notice he's leaving, so he couldn't.
Sea salt air blows sharp and crisp through the port town of Kingsport. The haphazard alleyways make wind whistle and scream out echoing sounds. That breeze only blows harder as Zephyr makes his tired journey towards the docks, sweetly named 'Zephside', a name that makes him pause again for a moment to remember that this is home and this is safety... Still, his feet carry him.
Too early for even the fishermen to greet him at the docks. It's rare to see the skeletal structures mooring boats turned to ghost town. And there, he finds her. NOT THE VOICE, BUT THE POOR ECHO OF HER, BARING HER NAME. VESSEL THAT CUTS THROUGH THE OCEAN’S EMBRACE SHARP AS BLADES AND BARES SAILS IN THE PUREST WHITE THE WASTES CAN OFFER. LUCY.
His calloused hands are making quick work of the knots that keep her tied down like she’s some beast not allowed to roam free without her master when he comes. “Zeph.”
Zephyr shrieks.
He stands in front of him like a darkened predator, panther muscle coiled tight into the shape of man. No features to betray emotion -- Kingsport’s sentinel in his welded tower now watching him instead of the town. No eyes to see him but he can feel their gaze stronger than anything. “Druncle.” Zephyr’s own voice is a hushed whisper. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” His tongue is still barbed and hooked like a sailor’s.
“I saw you coming down.” A man of so few words, but still Zephyr can feel himself heat up embarrassed. “What are you doing out here?”
“Early morning sailing.” Zephyr sounds annoyed that he has to explain himself -- it’s all for show.
“It’s four am.”
“That’s fucking morning, isn’t it?”
“Zeph.”
Sighing, the ghoul can only rub at his eyes under his glasses. Of course he would press, his words had the same effect as a gloved hand gripping tight his shoulder. Fuck. “I just wanted some fucking air, Druncle, Jesus Christ. Is that a fucking crime?”
There’s silence between them for a long time. It hangs in the air delicate as lace and just as intricate, everything unsaid louder than the things that are. To Zephyr’s surprise, it’s Druncle that breaks it.
“It was just a dream.”
“It wasn’t a fucking dream.” Zephyr’s tongue cracks like an angry whip, cutting and loud, tearing that lace to shreds with its tone. “If it was a fucking dream then why the fuck can I still hear her?”
“You can’t.” Warm leather reaches out to rest against his shoulder. “She’s not out there.”
“I KNOW.”
The act is done before it’s realised. An angry hand snakes serpentine and strikes with all the venom to kill, cracking bone and knuckle against Druncle’s wrist to hit him away. Violence makes the space between them thick, tense, treading water and loosing the strength to stay afloat. And then it sinks away when Zephyr hugs at his stomach. “Fuck...”
They move like dancers, practised, precise. The way Zephyr falls and Druncle’s arms open to catch him, holding him tight against his chest in that trust and ache. “I know...” Zephyr repeats, but it’s a broken thing, wavering at its edges. Druncle shushes him as he draws him in closer, he doesn’t listen. “I know she’s not... I know that but I-- Fuck. I miss her. I miss her.”
“I know.”
Two old soldiers, on decks of boats they once sailed, with children dead and buried finding solace in each other. The only sound between them is the ocean lapping at the side of the boat like children’s hands, gasping for the side and trying to pull their way up to familiar forms. Their cadence could almost be mistaken for childish whispers. It calls to Zephyr, urges him like a siren lures ships to crash against the rocks and sink. But Druncle makes himself a lighthouse that guides his path.
Druncle shifts, rubs his hands warm and grounding against Zephyr’s shoulders. “Let’s go home.” he says, but its meaning runs deeper, much deeper.
Some musing about one of my characters. Warning for implied sexual abuse under the cut.
Some men had black holes in their eyes, but he had nothing. Absence. The lack of him permeated every part of his being.
Not a man. Not human. Nothing more than a loyal hound given shape, perfect obedience personified into poor imitation of the world around him.
“He doesn’t need to feel. He just needs to find them and bring them back.”
Why fix something broken if it can still do its job? Why make something human when you never needed it in the first place.
He follows orders without question or objection because he has none of either. They tell him “bring them back, alive, don’t hurt them” and he does. They tell him “take them out, every one of them, make it painful” and he does. They tell him “on your knees, open your mouth, don’t make noise” and he does.
What is a man without want? Nothing at all. And he wanted nothing. Felt nothing. Was nothing.
#11 “I’m going to take care of you, okay?” Crossroads :3
As you wish ♥
He never came into the clinic.It was a golden rule for him, a universal truth, a sacred and unspoken fact. He never came into the clinic.
So it was a shock for Abby, looking up from her stack of paperwork that idled away her lazy afternoon, to see Misled lead in Cross, her face more grim than usual. It was easy to see why -- Cross' gait stumbled with each step, a hand was pressed hard and firm against his side in vain attempt to keep the blood flowing out between his fingers.
She jumps to her feet instantly, hand covering her mouth, too shocked at first to react until Misled clears her throat and forces her attention back to here and now. Her mind races while she helps her coworker lay Cross down on one of the beds. Misled looks to her expectantly. She knows what to do, but having Abby give the orders will keep her mind clear.
Abby returns the gaze with wide eyes. "... IV. Get an IV. Something to steralize and sew up the wound. Um... and gloves? We need gloves? For sanitation. I think."
Cross' cleaner hand takes Abby's wrist. His voice is as smooth and calm as it always is, despite him bleeding out right in front of her. "Abigail. Breathe."
"Don't tell me to breathe! You're hurt!"
"I'll heal."
Misled, disinterested in their conversation, moves around the clinic to gather supplies, leaving the two to speak. Abby moves to curl her fingers around the bottom of Cross' mask, barely manages to lift it before his grip tightens. "Leave it."
"I want to see you."
"Leave it."
"Cross..."
"Abigail, please."
Emotion is so rare in his voice that she can't argue against the soft tone of desperation. She sighs and lets go, as his own hold releases. "What happened to you?"
"Some raiders were getting too close. I went to wipe them out. Didn't expect them to get so close."
"You didn't know they'd come to the Slog though? Why did you put yourself in danger like that?"
"I was looking after you. I couldn't take the risk you might be hurt..." Cross' voice trails to nothing when Misled returns, holding out gloves to Abby. She frowns as she slips them onto her hands.
"From now on, I'll be taking care of you, okay? Just... Hang in there."
“Well, did I?”The crease of Druncle’s brow tightens from his position, half sat and tensed to move to his feet. Though his mask conceals all features, Lucien knows him well enough to tell the expressions he makes.Under them, Kingsport is quiet. Perhaps it can tell its mayor is away, and is content to curl and rest at his feet. “You’re still injured,” Lucien says slowly. His fingertips trace the outline of a sniper rifle carefully, feeling the cool metal beneath them. Such a well maintained and cared for piece of equipment – and he’d expect no less from Druncle’s safety net. If it were ever to fall apart… it’s a reality he doesn’t dwell on.“No, but–”“Exactly. No but.” Finally, he turns to look over his shoulder. “I know you’re restless. But you were hurt, quite badly. If you insist on taking mercenary work still, bed rest is your consequence”He sees that brow crease further. Wrinkles in fabric so simple and yet so telling – a man like Druncle wore his emotions and laid them bare in soft, subtle ways. It was this honesty in someone so obscured that drew Lucien to him in the first place. Moth to flame, waiting to be burned up.Though he’d only ever been warmed.“I can’t lay around doing nothing” Druncle grumbles“You could sleep, dearest”“That sounds worse than nothing”“Druncle…” Soft nicknames were Lucien’s language. My dear creates intimacy where there is none. Dearest was reserved for those who truly could touch him. But names, they were so familiar, required a depth of intimacy he never meant to allow himself. A loosening of his heart he’d spent years hardening and placing behind barrier and bar. Druncle reached through them all as if it were water in his path. Vulnerability seeps into his normally guarded tone. “It’s only for a few more days. And I won’t leave your side”Silence falls. Lucien watches as panther muscle uncoils slow, relaxes itself, and lays itself down to rest again, and he relaxes in turn, with him. “Only until tomorrow”“Stubborn old fool…” But he smiles at that, something true and genuine, saved only for him@ohmdo
The ship you're currently dying over + things you said when I was crying in your arms
All my ships are with OCs rn LOL so here’s a little senseless drabble with my Lucien and @ohmdo‘s Druncle – a quiet and grateful thank you for helping me through a rough day
“Who am I?”
Druncle’s head tilts, chin rolling against the top of Lucien’s head. “What do you mean?” He asks gently. “You’re you”
“What does that mean?” Dampness begins to spread against Druncle’s chest, warm. He doesn’t comment on it. “Even I don’t know who that is. How can you say that with such conviction?”
“You’re yourself. That’s all you have to be.”“I don’t–” His voice breaks, hands digging into fabric in tight, wrinkled fistfuls that pull close to the only warmth and comfort he can find in this moment, in any moment for a long time. “I don’t know how…”
Dark arms tighten around him, hold him near to Druncle’s core, his heart that Lucien can hear beating beneath strengthened muscle and bone. A gloved hand runs through his curls, shushing, easing.
“Lucien.”
It’s all he says, and yet it’s enough to make Lucien break into hushed sobs, shaking in those arms that shelter him from the world around him. He’s held there without words.
