#&. ' GLOWING LIKE THE METAL ON THE EDGE OF A KNIFE ! || ( headcanons. )

[worldseer]

A list of random HCs about Jason Todd because I have brainrot~

THESE ARE MY PERSONAL HEADCANONS! IF YOU DISAGREE, THAT'S FINE BUT DON'T LEAVE HATE! Headcanons are separated by catagories: Random, fluffy, angsty, and NSFW. MDNI!!!! The different colors are just to break up the hcs a bit and not look like pure walls of text-

Random:

Has tapetum lucidum after being in the pit, causing his eyes to glow green in low/no light.

Has hazel eyes, which causes them to look brown or green at certain times.

Built sturdy and more like a boxer. I refuse to believe that this man isn't wide. Getting a better diet since being adopted + Robin training + Lazarus Pit = BIG. FRIDGE OF A MAN.

Has vitiligo, hence the white streak in his hair. It just so happened to show up after being resurrected.

Known to sleep walk and talk after resurrection. If he ever sleeps at the Manor, Bruce has cameras and sensors in place to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

Mostly talks shit to the houseplants while sleepwalking.

Canonically eats fast food alot. However, he always manages to burn off the calories. And the fat just makes him bulkier.

Bisexual but he doesn't tell anyone. Not that he's trying to hide it. He just doesn't label himself.

Wears eyeliner regularly, just because he wants to. Look I just love the concept, ok?

Considering getting his ears pierced, just debating on what exact kind of piercing

Has tattoos but not many, most notably small tattoo of a flower on his wrist to honor the death of Catherine, his step-mother.

Has prominent scars: Autopsy scar (died, obvi), scar stretching from the left edge of his left cheek and then up into his hairline (from crowbar), cut in his right eyebrow (from fighting as a child), lip scar that runs from slightly above the skin of his top lip and down over his lips to his chin on his left ( also from fighting as a child). Any other "scar" he receives since resurrection often fades away due to effects from the pit. The others do not fade.

Almost as tall as Bruce, maybe shorter by about an inch at most.

Fluffy:

Has cried watching the Titanic movie. Was inconsolable for a week. Refuses to watch it ever again.

Laughs at horror films these days. Also will talk about how cuts and bullet wounds are anatomically incorrect like its casual conversation. It's one of the few activities he actively enjoys doing with Damian.

Calls Dick an old man just to spite him.

Never passes on an opportunity to tease Tim and call him a huge fucking nerd.

Loves all animals, but prefers cats. No real reason. He just always liked them more. Used to leave cans of food out for the cats to eat from as a kid.

Mostly likes Nu Metal, since it allowed him as a kid to get anger out and all the cool teens in his neighborhood blasted it a lot. But he's not picky about music. Secretly a snob for classical music though.

Strong relationship with Barbara, thinks of her as a sister he never had.

Always helps Alfred cook when he's at the Manor, and is good at it. Obviously works a knife well in cooking, but secretly prefers baking because the kitchen smells better afterwards.

As I've said before, I would not be surprised if he brings a stray home from either a shelter or the street. If he could, he'd help all the stray animals in Gotham and keep them.

Cares deeply about Tim. Tries to act like a big brother and be a good example to the best of his ability.

Not really a gamer, but he had some old consoles when he was a young kid under Bruce's care. Loved Wii Sports; boxing was his favorite. Nowadays, he doesn't play video games much. When he has time and feels like it though, he will play a game or two. Doom Eternal and Red Dead Redemption II are the top favorites after being resurrected.

Spends a good amount of time around Cass when at the Manor. They probably understand each other on almost a psychic level. They also train together a lot too to sharpen skills they both are weaker in.

Angst: (sorry for the pain)

Volunteers often at shelters and soup kitchens as a way to cope, makes him believe that he can offer comfort instead of just pain and being a burden.

Prefers to not talk out feelings after being resurrected; usually drives around to clear his head. Depending on how bad the situation is, it ranges from a few minutes to over an hour.

Loves classical literature because it was the first thing that allowed him to escape reality.

Has weird as fuck dreams, thanks to trauma and the pit. Never says anything about them to others however.

Never lets his stubble grow out too much because it makes him think he looks too much like Bruce, and he doesn't want to look like him.

Picked up smoking because what the hell are they gonna do? Kill him again? Always tries to avoid smoking around the others though, especially the members who are younger than him.

Rarely drinks. Reminds him too much of his birth father. Only does it for times when things are really bad.

Is so close to Barbara because she's one of the few who understands what it's like to be traumatized by the Joker. Often seeks her out for some comfort if his PTSD acts up again.

Hates crying, never cries in front of others unless he really trusts them. People who have seen him cry include Barbara, Dick, Alfred, and Bruce (on accident).

Grew up Catholic. Stopped believing the moment right before he died. Now has immense Catholic guilt and occasionally questions his morals a lot. (Might be self projecting but fuck it)

Zones out a lot. Happens the most during off time. If he's not doing anything, he's likely zoned out. Usually zones out when he thinks too hard about what the Lazarus Pit did to him, his death, and resurrections.

Copes in brash and self-depreciative humor. Also will make fun of others to draw attention away from his own problems.

Tried to help Catherine as much as he could, even if she wasn't the best mother to have.

NSFW: (Minors look no further!!!!)

A switch, dominant-leaning.

Softer dom, surprisingly. Sure, he can be a hard dom if he asked, but that's not what he wants. Coos sweet words while teasing.

Grunts and groans. Not vocal, but he'll talk through it sometimes. Grits his teeth if he's really into it.

"Oh, look at you on my cock. So tight and taking all of it, do you feel full? You look good when you're full of me."

He needs foreplay before subbing. Sometimes he's still wary about letting his guard down, so he needs lots of prepping and reassurance. Once he is into subbing, he's very obedient and eager to please.

Softer noises and gasps when subbing. He doesn't dare be loud, and often tries to cover up his noises. Doesn't beg often, takes what he gets without much complaint.

"Mmph- ah- hah- fuck- I'm close- I'm close baby. Can I finish?"

LOVES dirty talk, giving and receiving. He's already a bit of a cocky lil shit, so he'll tease you and talk you through it. Supportive about his dirty talk usually.

"That's it. Just like that. God- you're perfect. So fuckin' perfect- keep goin' baby, I gotcha."

Not experienced, sorry. With a combination of being bad at expressing emotions, trauma, and being busy as a vigilante, he does not get many bitches.

Has had hookups here and there, but that's all they were. He left the moment the other was all settled or asleep.

Experimental. Because he's low on experience, he's not entirely sure what he does or doesn't like.

Would not use a weapon in bed. That's a hard line. Weapons make him think of violence, and that's the last thing he wants to think about when in such a vulnerable moment.

Hates degradation, on both ends. Won't do it even if asked. The only time he'd ever get close to degrading is if you allow him to fuck while he's still working through some anger. Would apologize profusely afterwards though.

Not big on being tied up himself, but likes tying someone else up a bit. Nothing crazy besides handcuffs. Any further and he feels like he's taking advantage/being taken advantage of.

PRAISE!!! Loves to receive it, especially if he's being focused on or on the more submissive side.

A giver. He's not selfish, and feels bad if the other is not feeling good as well. Would most likely give more than he ever receives.

Not picky. As long as you are clean and consenting, he'll eat out if offered/allowed. Hair? Doesn't matter. Menstruating? Good thing he's low on iron. And you best believe that he is not stopping until you either push him away or are begging.

Thick, as expected. A little bit over 6" long. Prominent veins.

Trimmed, not shaved. Yes there is a difference.

Has a bit of a happy trail, and veins appear on v-line when hard.

Aftercare game ranges on how much he and his partner did, and their relationship. Hookups are usually left to take care of themselves and he leaves quickly. If Jason is serious about someone, he'll grab a washcloth, urge the other to use the bathroom (and maybe carry them if they're tired), and stay for cuddles.

[slothquisitor]

Candlekeep

Liv and Astarion go to Candlekeep. Featuring more complicated family dynamics, Astarion discovering he can walk on walls, and a lot of headcanon about a library city. 7.5k, Astarion x Liv.

Also on AO3.

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There had been a time once when Liv had dreamed of going to Candlekeep. It had seemed a place of beauty and mystery and knowledge. It was a place that seemed to exist only in the sparse letters she received from her brother, in the books she read about the place in some effort to feel nearer to him. She had hoped that perhaps he would send for her and perhaps she would achieve the velocity of escape, finally free of her parents and all of the pain entailed. 

But it hadn’t happened. Roland’s letters had faded into nothingness, and Liv hadn’t needed anyone to save her. She had left all on her own. And now, as she arrives to the spires and the towers, she realizes that she could have come here on her own long before now. The majesty and mystery of the place seep away just a bit, this is just another city, another place in this vast world. 

“So, what sort of welcome should we be expecting? Is Roland as insufferable as Percy?” Astarion asks as they walk along the road that borders the sea. Liv can smell the sea spray and hear the waves breaking against the shoreline in the soft glow of the moon. Her attention isn’t on the sea, but instead on the dark towers that rise up like some great leviathan. 

Candlekeep is warded against teleportation, so they had to teleport to a place near the edge of the Cloakwood and travel the rest of the way on foot. She’s grateful for the delay, for the way it drags out the waiting and the time before she sees Roland again. Over the last week and a half, they’ve exchanged nothing but a handful of sendings coordinating this trip. She has no idea what to expect. 

“Well, seeing as he invited us, I’m hoping for a warm one…but Roland is very different from Percy. Or at least he was,” she says. “I don’t really know what to expect anymore.” She had thought she’d known Percy, but it had turned out all she knew was his mask…the deception he’d used. She barely trusts herself with her perceptions of Roland now, especially since it’s been nearly ten years since she’s seen him. 

“And Roland is a member of the Avowed ?” Astarion twists the word, makes light of it. He’s been incredibly supportive of them coming to Candlekeep, but he hasn’t bothered hiding just how little he thinks of her brother. 

“Yes, he’s a scribe,” she explains. “But out here, names mean little. Everything he has in Candlekeep he hard to earn.”

Astarion shrugs. “I’m sure he’s worked very hard since abandoning you.”

She gives him a warning look. “Can you please try to be nice?”

He grins. “I’m always nice.”

It’s a familiar refrain now. He has the sharpest tongue of anyone she’s ever met, an ability to eviscerate a person in the span of a sentence. His sharp edges have dulled some, now that he doesn’t see every person he meets as a potential threat. 

“We both know that ‘nice’ for you simply involves not stabbing people.” 

He laughs. “I’m wounded, darling. You know I only stab people who deserve it.”

She stops herself from bringing up how they met and the knife he’d held to her throat. “Roland said he had something that could help us with my research, so let’s just hear him out. You don’t have to like him or get along with him, but I would really like to at least look at some of the books they have here before they kick us out for bad behavior.”

“Excuse you, I’ll have you know I have never been kicked out of any establishment.”

“Oh and the pale elf listed in the banned patron’s book at the Waning Moon was just a coincidence, was it?”

“Very much so.”

“It said the elf used the word porcine.” 

Astarion examines his nails. “It’s hardly a crime to have a good vocabulary, my dear.”

The teasing is lighthearted, and a welcome distraction as they enter the strange, black metal gates that lead into Candlekeep. Set into the metalwork is an image of a castle with flames set atop each of its towers, the gates themselves tower over them both, huge and ominous. The nearer they draw, the less this place feels like a city of scholars and far more like a fortress. 

A tall, elven man meets them at the gates. He wears flowing robes in deep purple, and his fists are carefully wrapped. He moves fluidly toward them as they approach. “Names?” he asks. 

“Uh…Liv Vires,” she answers. 

“Astarion Ancunin,” Astarion says with a slight bow and wave of his hand. 

The man nods. “You are expected. The Gatewarden’s office is just inside.” 

She exchanges a glance with Astarion who seems to be cataloging the protections and security. Once they are out of earshot he hisses, “Closed tighter than a patriar’s purse.”

“And that’s just what you can see,” she whispers, noting the way the magic of this place clings to every surface. 

In response, Astarion slips his hands into his pockets in a pantomime of innocence. Liv stifles a laugh even as she smooths her traveling cloak, hoping that despite the hours of walking she looks just as put together as Astarion does. She’s a step behind him as they enter the Gatewarden’s office. 

The Gatewarden is a sturdy, half-orc woman with pale green skin and dark, magenta hair. She’s unarmed, but that means nothing in a place full of archmages and other magical types. Her brother, Roland, stands nearby, shifting uneasily from foot to foot as they approach. 

He looks much the same as he ever did, though his brown, curly hair is longer now. He also has the sparse beginnings of a beard. His dark blue robes suit him, and despite the nervousness, he looks well. His eyes, dark like their father’s watch her as they approach the Gatewarden. 

He offers a smile and a wave as they approach, looks as if he is about to say something, but is cut off by the Gatewarden stepping forward. “Welcome, Seekers. Scribe Roland, can you confirm the identity of these visitors?”

Roland seems to stand a little straighter as if surprised by the decorum suddenly required. “Um, yes. This is my sister, Liv, and her partner, Astarion.” 

The Gatewarden looks satisfied. “And what have you brought as a contribution to the library?” 

Was she supposed to have brought something? She knows it is customary for Seekers to bring knowledge to add to Candlekeep, but Roland hadn’t mentioned it. She does have a few tomes of note pilfered from Sorcerous Sundries, but she’d rather not part with them. She’s fairly certain Astarion doesn’t want to let the Necromancy of Thay go either. 

Roland steps in. “My sister is one of the saviors of Baldur’s Gate. She has a meeting with the First Scribe to tell her story. That is her offering.”

The Gatewarden doesn’t appear impressed but nods anyway. “Very well, you both are welcome in the Court of Air. In order to enter the library, you must meet with the Keeper of the Emerald Door who is available in the morning. You may go.”

Liv cycles through a series of etiquette lessons that don’t seem to cover this situation very well, and settles on a nod and thanking the Gatewarden as they exit the office. 

None of them speak until they’re comfortably out of earshot of the office. Roland shakes his head and is the first to speak up. “Sorry, I really thought that she’d be a little less intense since you’re here on my invitation. I..uh…I trust you had a good journey.” His words are awkward, punctuated by a nervousness she wasn’t expecting. 

“It’s good to see you, Roland,” she offers with a smile. She’s not sure what to do with her hands or if she should hug or wave or something else altogether. It’s been years since she’s seen him, and it feels odd to not do something . 

It turns out to be the exact right thing to have said. Roland smiles, more genuinely this time as he exhales, shoulders relaxing. “It’s good to see you too. And you must be Astarion.” 

Astarion’s smile is strained, his tone a touch too light, too practiced to be entirely authentic. “How very nice to meet you. What were you saying about a meeting with the First Scribe?”

Roland leads them down cobblestone streets that slowly come to life as they wend their way deeper into Candlekeep. It begins to feel less like a fortress and more like a city with people and taverns and life. It’s still quieter than Neverwinter ever was, and the shift is a little jarring. 

“With what Percy told me of the nature of your research, I thought that you’d perhaps want access to the libraries here. It is typically required to present an ‘entrance-gift’ to be granted access to the library itself. However, considering your renown, and the fact that Volothamp Geddarm is the only person who has written down any of your story, I convinced the First Scribe that could be your entrance gift.”

There’s something poetic about the idea that one must add to the knowledge of the library in order to participate in the learning taking place here. “That makes sense. It’s fine with me.”

“But perhaps one should have asked first,” Astarion says, words honeyed but laced with something sharper: a warning. 

Rather than responding to Astarion, Roland ushers their evening along. “I thought we could get some dinner together. And then you have a room waiting for you at The House of Rest.”

“The House of Rest? An entire city of the best and brightest in Faerûn, and that’s the name you give your inn?” Astarion scoffs. 

Liv offers Roland a smile. “That’ll be lovely, I really appreciate you making those arrangements.”

They have an awkward meal, where conversation starts and stops and never does more than skim the surface of small talk. Roland deposits them at the House of Rest, and then promises to meet them in the morning. Liv allows the young tielfing woman at the counter to show her and Astarion to their room, tells her that it will be just lovely, and then as soon as the door is shut, she casts the spell to their own home.

Astarion remains quiet until they are inside, letting out a sigh that sounds like relief. “I thought that dinner was never going to end. Well, is he everything you expected?”

Liv has worked so hard to keep expectations out of this, to not get her own hopes up. But still, she can’t seem to not want things to be different, to be better than they are with her family. “It was fine. I’m sure we’ll get more comfortable as we talk more.”

Astarion shrugs. “Well, we’re here as long as you need, though there doesn’t seem much to do here beyond research. I might die of boredom.”

“You’re not a little interested in the reading material? In getting access to the library?” she asks, walking into their bedroom and sitting at her desk to remove her shoes. 

“Of course, I’m interested, my dear. I’m just not sure how much I love that you’re having to pay our way in with the story of our little adventure,” Astarion replies, undoing the buttons of his doublet.

“I’m sure they’re just wanting a history, an accounting of it all for their archives.”

“He should have asked you first.”

“I really don’t mind.”

Astarion pauses his undressing and narrows his eyes at her. “You never do! That’s not the issue. He should have asked first. He hasn’t seen you in years and the first thing he does is promise your time and your story to someone else.”

“To get us access to the library,” she says as she stands, a strange sort of defensiveness rising inside of her. Astarion doesn’t know Roland…but then does she?

“It’s alright that you don’t want to think poorly of him, but I have no reservations in that regard. I’m sure he did what he believed to be helpful, but Liv…just because you don’t mind doing something doesn’t mean it’s alright.”

“If it gets us access to the library, closer to answers for you and Karlach…it’s worth it to me.”

He shakes his head as he steps close, hand resting on her waist, his words are quiet, almost resigned. “That’s not the point, Liv.”

They let the conversation drop. 

***

In the morning, Roland meets them in the foyer of the House of Rest. Astarion insists on accompanying her to the meeting though she told him he didn’t need to. She casts a cloud of magical darkness to protect him from the sun for the first leg of the journey through the Court of Air, but soon enough they enter the high-ceilinged halls of the inner keep she’s able to dismiss it. 

Roland introduces them to a gnomish woman of indeterminate age who sits at a desk, her quill scratching across the surface of her parchment by magic alone. 

“First Scribe Heliena, may I introduce my sister, Liv and her partner, Astarion. Saviors of Baldur’s Gate.” The titles feel heavy most days, but there’s something about hearing them fall from her brother’s tongue that makes them feel almost impossible.

The First Scribe smiles at her. “Welcome to Candlekeep. If you’d like to stay, Scribe Roland, you may make yourself useful.”

Roland nods and sits at a small desk tucked in the corner, pulling out golden instruments and parchment and quills with a practiced air that tells her he’s done this before. She wonders what tales he’s heard and how hers will stack up. 

“I understand you have quite the tale. Would you consent to a zone of truth for the telling?”

Ever since learning that their story will be the price of entry here, Liv has considered what she can and should tell, the pieces of it most relevant for the history books, the things she should keep to herself. The parts of the story that are not hers to share. She can feel Astarion watching her carefully, the way his shoulders tense. There are some parts of his story he’d rather not have in the history books too. 

“I consent, but there are some aspects of the tale I won’t be sharing since they’re not mine to tell. I hope you understand.”

The First Scribe watches her with sharp eyes but nods once after exchanging a look with Roland. “Good enough. Please take a seat.” She gestures to the soft chairs in front of her desk, and she and Astarion sit across from her. Roland approaches carefully, sets down a small golden sphere. 

“This will record your story, and allow us to play it back for accuracy,” Roland explains as he presses down on the top of the sphere. It begins to levitate, bouncing slightly as it opens up. Roland retreats away to the desk in the corner, a stopwatch in hand.  

Then, magic fills the air, a golden circle of light that blooms in the center of the room before spreading out like a wave. Liv lets it wash over her and doesn’t put up a fight.

“You may begin.”

She starts at the beginning with the nautiloid, the tadpoles inserted in their eyes, barreling through Avernus and crashing on the Sword Coast. She doesn’t delve into everything, every twist and turn of those first weeks by the river. She says nothing of Astarion’s past. She reduces their friends to their best traits, and leaves out the hurt and the pain and the fear. This is a story about heroes after all. 

There are other things she doesn’t tell. She doesn’t share the Emperor’s true identity. She doesn’t talk about Ansur. She doesn’t mention the diabolist that got them to the Hells just that they had managed it. She doesn’t talk much about Shadowheart how they defied Shar, and doesn’t mention her parents or where they went after. She doesn’t talk about Minsc’s turn as the Stone Lord or about Orin’s doppelgangers. She is careful when she speaks about the Crown, says it was destroyed rather than simply fished out of the Chionthar and then returned to Mystra. Some things shouldn’t be sought after. 

But she unflinchingly explains her decision, letting Orpheus transform and then running him through with his own sword. The world should know the sacrifice that was made, and that it was not hers. She’s called a hero, but she did not make the heroic choice in the end. It is knowledge she will always carry. She knows the limit of her goodness in ways others don’t. But even here, she cannot find it in herself to regret it. She simply mourns that there was no other way. 

Astarion sits silent, but alert through her story, simply watching the quill that dances across the parchment while the First Scribe listens. She glances towards her brother a few times, but he is unreadable, strictly professional, eyes never leaving his parchment. She supposes this is neater than having to tell the story again even if it is impersonal. 

When it is done, Liv feels tired and wrung out. The First Scribe smiles. “Thank you for your contribution to the library.”

Roland approaches slowly, taps the top of the sphere, and snatches it out of the air before handing it to the First Scribe along with the notes he’d taken. Liv only catches a glimpse, but it appears to be timestamps and different parts of her story, broken down into sections. 

The First Scribe produces a pass that they can give the Keeper of the Emerald door, granting them access to the library at large. And then they are dismissed. 

Astarion hangs close, as if aware of just how much this telling has drained her. “So, now that we’ve jumped through all the requisite hoops, are you going to tell us what it is you thought would help us with Liv’s research?” 

Roland smiles. “Come with me.”

He leads them through more labyrinthine hallways, and Liv loses track of where they are. A part of her stops caring anyway. She wishes she could ask for a moment alone, some time to catch her breath. It’s been nearly three months since the defeat of the Netherbrain, and she thought she was fine. But the bone-deep exhaustion she felt near the end of their adventure has somehow crept back in with this telling, and she just needs a moment. But she won’t get it, not without drawing undue attention anyway. So she just follows her brother. 

Roland pauses outside of a door. “They’ve been waiting all morning to meet you.”

Liv glances at Astarion and then back at her brother. “Who has?”

Roland smiles broadly as he opens the door. “Your cohort.” She stares at her brother in disbelief. Did he put together a research team? For her?

***

Astarion doesn’t like Candlekeep. He had expected that a city full of scholars and libraries would be rather interesting to experience, solitary even. Candlekeep isn’t like that. In fact, there always seems to be someone around, someone keeping an eye on him. 

At first, he takes it as a point of pride that he looks dangerous enough to warrant such attention. It is a surprise to be watched not for his beauty but for the suspicion of chaos. But as the days wear on, he realizes that it’s far less to do with him and far more to do with the fact that the denizens of Candlekeep are just fucking nosy. 

The nicest thing he can say about the place is that he can travel much of it freely during the daylight hours. Sunlight can cause plenty of damage to fragile books and scrolls, so much of the library doesn’t have windows by design. It is nice to be able to move about the populace during normal hours. It’s almost possible to pretend he’s not a spawn here. Or it would be if, in the spirit of finding a cure for his condition, Roland hadn’t recruited a gaggle of scholars who spend their days asking him asinine questions and watching him with banal contemplation. 

It was entertaining at first, and a sort of novelty. While not all of them fit the tired trope of inexperienced and socially awkward scholar, it’s still fun to poke back at them as they pester him with questions. They ask him the most ridiculous things about blood and the sanguine hunger. They have him do tasks and then drink blood only to do the same tasks again, looking for differences in speed or movement. There seems to be no shortage of people interested in helping with his condition, but sometimes he wonders if they’re actually interested in helping him or simply interested in observing strange phenomena.

The scholars, the cohort , Roland calls them, were his gift to his sister. The best and brightest members of the Avowed at Liv’s beck and call. If there are answers to be found here, they will find them. So Astarion puts up with their questions and the way they watch him. It’s only for a tenday anyway, no Seekers are permitted to stay longer. 

He doesn’t exactly appreciate feeling like a fucking experiment, but one afternoon a scholar named…something…it starts with a G, probably? Anyway, the scholar asks, “I read that vampires and their spawn can scale walls. Is that true?”

“What do you mean, scale walls?” he asks with a huff of frustration. How is this supposed to help him walk in the sunlight?

“Like…walk right up a wall.”

“That’s ridiculous.” He never once saw Cazador do anything of the sort, and he certainly hasn’t tried. Walking up walls. They cannot be serious.

The scholar tucks a strand of hair behind their ear. “Um…have you tried though?”

Astarion sips from the wine he’d been drinking simply to give him something to do with his hands and sets it down on the table as he stands. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” It’s not. Not by a long shot, but it’s hard to remember that when he’s about to attempt walking up a fucking wall. 

He places his foot against the stone wall of the room he’s been meeting the scholars in, and then, feeling like he’s about to end up on his ass sighs deeply and tries to bring his other foot up. The world…shifts. He is standing on the wall as if it is the floor. He takes several more steps forward in wonder. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” he screeches as he stomps along the wall, walking on it as if it is the ground itself. Two hundred years he’s been able to do this and he’s finding out now ? He can hear Cazador’s laughter in his head. 

“Get out!” The scholars stare at him in disbelief, but he’s not interested in an audience right now. He bares his fangs and snarls in their direction. “I said, get out!” 

***

“I’ve got it from here,” Liv assures Glenna and the other scholars who had come to find her. Apparently, after discovering he can walk up walls, Astarion had kicked the scholars out of the room. She’s not sure what they expected his reaction to be to something like that, but it’s clear they were surprised that he wasn’t simply thrilled with the knowledge. They’d rushed to where she and Roland were studying down in the archives, and she’d immediately abandoned her work. 

“Will you tell him we’re sorry? He seemed really upset.”

Liv nods. “I will.” She waits for the group to disperse down the hall, and then she knocks on the door before stepping inside. 

The room is seemingly empty as she enters. It’s cozy like many of the rooms here at Candlekeep. A fire crackles in the far end, and there are comfortable chairs scattered throughout for reading and studying. There are scrolls and books and parchment abandoned on tables and chairs, left behind by the scholars in their rush to leave following Astarion’s outburst. 

“If you’re here to tell me to apologize, I don’t want to hear it.” Astarion’s voice sounds far away, and she glances up at the ceiling, where he hangs, looking as though he is walking on the ceiling just like it’s the ground. 

“I don’t think you owe anyone an apology,” she says. And she means it. 

“Really?” He’s half-obscured by shadows, arms folded. 

She sighs. “Really. But I would like to know what you’re doing on the ceiling.”

He paces along the ceiling like he’s trying to break a hole in the stone. “I could apparently always do this.” There’s a hint of panic in his voice, a frustration she’s not quite sure how to combat. Astarion’s past is an abyss, a dark and twisting thing that seems to always follow them. Some days he falls back into it, and it takes days to claw himself back out. The path forward for him isn’t always clear…isn’t always linear. She’s sure it’ll get easier with time, but it doesn’t always feel like it is getting easier. 

“Well, it is a little on the nose, isn’t it?” she says, keeping her tone light.

He freezes. “Why do you say that?”

“A vampire on the ceiling…” she teases.

“If you compare me to a bat, I will throw a dagger at you.” There’s no rancor in the words, he’s even smiling a bit. 

“If the shoe fits…” 

He huffs a bit but begins making his way back to the ground. He looks tired, haunted. She’s pretty sure he’s counting down the days until they leave Candlekeep. She stays where she’s standing, letting him decide how close he wants to be. He approaches slowly, face drawn.

“I always knew that Cazador kept our true potential from us. That’s why he wouldn’t let us feed on ‘thinking creatures’. But to be reminded of it…like this…with an audience…I…” His words drop away as he approaches her, he stops a few feet short of her. 

“It felt like a weakness anyone could exploit,” she says, and he finally, finally meets her gaze. His crimson eyes are dark like bruises in the gloom of the room. 

“Sometimes I wish you didn’t see me so clearly,” he looks away, towards the crackling fire. 

She steps close, but not quite touching him, in case he doesn’t want her to. But he just looks at her and doesn’t move away. She moves slowly, reaching up to cup his cheek. His eyes fall shut as he leans into her touch. 

“We can stop at any time, you know. We can leave Candlekeep, go somewhere else.” They’ve only been granted the customary tenday stay of all Seekers, and she’s toyed with asking for more but hasn’t yet. She knows now that she won’t. 

“We don’t need to leave. I just need the afternoon off of being a science experiment, I think,” Astarion says. “Go back to your research. I’ll just…hang around.”

It’s a dumb joke, and it’s not that funny, but hearing him joke about this fills her with relief. “You know, you could send your siblings a no context sending spell, ‘Guess what? You can walk on walls. Hope the Underdark doesn’t suck! Bye!’.”

That startles an authentic laugh out of him. “Can you imagine? Petras would be too stupid to figure out what was even happening, he’d forget what I said.”

And the abyss has been averted. 

***

Candlekeep suits Liv, Astarion thinks. They’re relaxing comfortably in the reading room that’s become the little headquarters of the cohort that Roland built. A few of the scholars are still in the room, but he and Liv have retreated to the nook at the far end, sitting opposite each other on the comfortable bench. 

He’s supposed to be reading, taking notes of anything helpful in the book she’d handed him, but he can’t seem to focus. 

This is Liv’s element. She has five books stacked beside her and another two open in front of her while she takes notes as she reads. The candlelight isn’t strong enough in this corner, so she’s summoned her own light, and it bobs lazily around her, casting her in golden hues. Her dark hair is loose, tossed over her shoulder. She looks different from the Avowed, more comfortable and casual in her sweaters and jackets than their blue robes, but no less fitting in this place. She is beautiful and confident. More sure of herself here than he’s ever seen.

For all his dislike of the place and way he feels ill at ease…Liv is…at home. She thrives amongst these people talking about books and spells and theories. She’d make a good scholar. She’d be an asset here. 

One of the scholars approaches them, and Liv pauses her reading to converse in soft tones. He barely follows the conversation, and is instead struck by her patience, her knowledge. The scholar retreats with a smile, with purpose. Gods, she belongs here , doesn’t she?

“You’re staring,” she accuses, attention back on her book. 

“You’d make a good Avowed,” he says, words snatched out, quiet. 

Liv looks up at him and then smiles softly. “I think that’s a compliment.”

“You’re good at all of this.” He says instead of the question he really means to ask. Would she want to stay here, forever? He could…learn to like it if she did. He’s not sure it’s even an option, but if she wants this…well, they’d figure it out, he supposes. 

She nods, but her eyes are searching his, clearly trying to find whatever has inspired this line of conversation. “I do enjoy it, but the crime rate is a little low here for my liking.”

“Really?” 

She smiles softly. “Why don’t you pick the city we’re going to next?”

He’s surprised by how relieving it is to hear that. He doesn’t show it. Simply nods and turns his attention back to his book. “I will.”

***

“You already know the answer to your problem,” Roland says one late afternoon as Liv continues to pore over dusty tomes and fragile scrolls. Their time is running out here in Candlekeep. They only have another two days, and while Liv has learned so much, she still isn’t closer to an answer…to a cure. “It would solve both the problems, really.”

“Oh?” She looks at her brother. She has been coming at their problem from every angle she can. She has studied the tadpoles to see what it was that had kept the sunlight from hurting him. She has learned more than she believed possible about vampires, their origins, and blood curses. She has even, without admitting to Gale, looked into the divine, to resurrection and creation and she has plenty of theories but still no answers. 

He gives her a knowing look. “A Wish spell, Liv.”

She sighs. It’s a dangerous spell to learn, and even then…she knows the risks and she’d take them, but some part of her is holding out hope for a true cure…something to help more than just Astarion. “I know. I’m hoping for…more?”

“More than a Wish spell? Many wizards have fallen in pursuit of less, Liv.”

She says nothing. 

“What does it matter anyway? Even if you cure his condition , he’ll still outlive you.” Roland’s words are unyielding. She knows he doesn’t mean it in meanness…that this is just logic and practicality, but it hurts all the same. 

She and Astarion haven’t talked about just how much time they will or will not have. Cure or not, he will outlive her. It’s hard to say how long she will have, her proximity to and use of magic will likely extend her life, but for how long she is uncertain. But they will have time. Plenty of it if that’s what they both want. Their relationship is still new enough that talk of forever, of promises beyond right now feel too premature. 

“Even if I wasn’t in love with him I’d want to find a cure,” she says, as she shifts books around. “He wants to walk in the sun again, feel alive. He deserves that.”

The silence that follows drags on long enough that she looks up at her brother. He is simply staring at her as if she is someone he hasn’t seen in a long time. “What is it?” she asks. 

“You’re… you’re just like her…you know.”

Brelia. It might be the best compliment she’s ever received. She’s been fastidiously avoiding this particular conversation, happy enough to just spend time with Roland. Though they have avoided all talk of their family, save for Percy, since her arrival. But now that he’s brought it up…she can’t seem to stop herself from asking the question that’s haunted her for years. 

“Why did you stop writing?” 

The room is still; the silence deafening. “Because I wanted you to stop writing me.”

The fact that it’s the truth or that she’s imagined much worse answers than this doesn’t stop the words from landing like blows. It doesn’t stop the sting of them. She doesn’t know what to say. “Oh.” It’s all she can manage. 

She still hasn’t learned not to bet on losing dogs. She cannot help but hope when it comes to her family. She winds up betrayed every time because somehow, it always comes down to this: they did not want her. Not even Roland. 

“When I came here, I wanted to be someone else. Escape from everything that had happened. Your letters were just a reminder…a connection back to our family. It was selfish, but it worked. And time passed and I got better, but then…it had been so long, and I didn’t know how to talk to you. I didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me anyway.”

She swallows hard, forcing the tears not to fall. “I always wanted to hear from you.”

He can’t seem to meet her eyes. “I….I told myself for so long that not reaching out to you was about protecting myself…about keeping our parents at a distance. But I think it had a hell of a lot more to do with the guilt. I left you alone in that house.”

“You got yourself out and didn’t look back. I find it hard to fault you for that.”

He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “I don’t. If our roles were reversed…would you have left me?” 

She wouldn’t have. She would have gotten them both out or stayed and fought together. “I…” her words falter.

“I know the answer, even if you’re too kind to say it.”

“We were all victims, Roland. I think doing what we had to survive…it’s okay. I don’t blame you; I blame them.”

She has always known that she was not the only victim of that house, of her parents. She has always known that her siblings suffered in different ways, but suffered still the same. Their parents are cut out, absent from their lives, but the legacy of pain remains. They had tried to twist and break them, pit them against each other, make them rivals, and Liv cannot think of a better revenge than finding love and family in what remains of it anyway. She forgives Roland completely and Percy too. 

Roland nods. “I missed you.”

It is such a relief to hear those words. “I missed you too.”

And it’s a start.

***

The tavern here isn’t crowded, but their corner is busy, filled with scribes and researchers they’ve met during their time here, all come to bid them goodbye. They have not found many answers here, just more questions. Liv insists they’ve found better questions, and she seems to believe that they’ve made some headway and found some direction for a cure for both him and Karlach. Which is nice, but Astarion wishes they had more to show for it. They’ve certainly put in the hours studying. 

Liv sits at the far end of the table, locked in some sort of debate about conjuration theory, and he’s trying not to count down the minutes until they finally get to leave Candlekeep. He sits in the corner, a bit apart from the group. They’re a smart bunch and mostly leave him be, which he is grateful for. He’s spent more than enough time in their company, and while there might even be some of them he genuinely likes, they’re leaving once night falls and he’s not really sure what the point of this send-off is anyway. Except that Liv is smiling and laughing and seems…happy. She’s been happy here. 

Roland sits down beside him. Astarion has avoided Roland where possible. He’s glad that Liv has forgiven her brothers and found a way forward, but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to forget that they could have helped her and didn’t. It is perhaps ungenerous of him, considering his own history, but they were not compelled. They were not threatened with pain or death. They had choices. And rather than protecting her or saving her, they’d left her or used her. Percy for his own reasons, and Roland for his.

Roland spends a long time looking at his drink before he speaks. “Listen, I’m under no illusions. You don’t trust me.”

Astarion simply smiles. “Well someone should be skeptical, it certainly won’t be Liv.”

“You should know, she and I…we talked. Or started to anyway. We’re fine now.”

“How nice for you,” Astarion replies. He doesn’t give a shit if Liv wants to forgive and move on, but it doesn’t mean he has to. 

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” Roland says. 

“And why should I? You’re not as bad as Percy. He used her while you simply abandoned her, but don’t expect me to praise you for giving her the time of day now your parents are removed from the picture.”

“You don’t know what it was like we didn’t have a choice-”

He will not be lectured by Liv’s brother about suffering. “No. I’ve known far worse, and you did have choices. You chose to leave. You chose to turn a blind eye when as an adult you knew what your parents were doing to a child. You’re ten years older than her. You chose to not help. I know what it’s like to truly have no choices…and you…you could have changed everything for her. Do not talk to me about choices. You made plenty.”

“My sister and I…we did the best we could to protect her.”

“And it was still woefully inadequate and yet…she forgives you anyway. Do not forget what a gift that is,” he takes a big drink of his wine. It’s awful. 

“I’m grateful she found someone like you,” Roland says, finally. 

“Devilishly good-looking?” he quips without joy or humor. 

Roland shakes his head. “Someone who will fight for her. She deserves that.”

He told her once that she deserved far better than she’d gotten. He’d meant it then even without knowing everything he does now. Her childhood was a constellation of pain. A gilded cage. It’s a cosmic unfairness he cannot right, so he just has to settle for holding people responsible when Liv won’t. 

Perhaps there is some part of him that hates this so much because her brothers made the selfish choices and he very nearly did too. If Liv hadn’t been there to pull him back from the fucking abyss…he would have made the selfish choice. He doesn’t like thinking about who he was…what he almost became. 

There’s a lot he could say, inroads he could make, but he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he simply says, “She deserves everything.” And he means it. 

***

The sun hangs low in the sky, and Liv and Roland walk along Candlekeep’s battlements. She’s already said every other goodbye and thanked the scholars and friends they’ve made during their stay. Their help will be invaluable as she keeps searching for answers, for a cure, for a miracle. But this is the goodbye she’s been dreading the most. 

“Well, it’s official, your boyfriend doesn’t like me,” Roland says with a slight smile as they walk, the stone echoing beneath their footfalls.

“I prefer partner…boyfriend makes me feel like I’m fifteen or something,” Liv replies. 

“Your partner hates me.” 

Liv shakes her head. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Roland laughs. “He does though. Percy said he was prickly and mean, but I didn’t quite believe that.”

Liv shrugs. “He’s nicer to you than he is to Percy.”

“Really?”

“They tolerate each other,” she says with a shrug. It doesn’t much bother her. Her own feelings about her family are complicated as is. She’s not about to tell Astarion how to feel about her brothers. 

“Glad to know it could be worse.”

“We’re never going to be one big happy family.” And as she says it, she knows it’s true. Sometimes your family is simply your partner and your two brothers who barely get along. And it’s still better than anything before because at least this time it’s true. “I’m glad to have you back though. I’m glad to have this. The rest of it will work out or not.” 

Roland approaches the stone wall of the battlement, rests his palms against the stone, and stares out into the sea. “I’ve been trying so hard not to put any expectations on this. On you, especially. But I just…I want us to be a big happy family. How stupid is that?” 

“It’s not stupid, Roland,” Liv says, joining him at the wall. 

“I don’t even know what family is supposed to look like. They took that from us.” His voice is so angry, so bitter, so at odds with everything she’s seen from her brother this trip. She wonders where this was days ago. Why now? Why is he finally vulnerable just as she’s about to leave?

“We can make it our own, you know. Whatever we want this to be it can be. I just want something true. We’ve had enough lies and obfuscation for a lifetime.” She only wants family if she’s getting something real from him. She doesn’t want obligation or duty or any of the things she’s been loaded up with her whole life. She’s fine with it being hard and messy, but it has to be honest. 

“Let’s start small then. Monthly family dinner. Me and you and Percy. What do you think?”

All of them together? It sounds…right. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He steps closer to her, a bit awkward and unsure, but pushing through anyway. He drapes his arm across her shoulders, and together they watch the sun dip below the line of the horizon. 

“Where are you headed next?” he asks. 

“Astarion’s found a job for us to do in Amn. And then, I think we’re due for a visit with some friends.” 

“That sounds…really nice.”

She pulls away so she can look up at her brother. “I’ll miss you, Roland. I’ve really enjoyed spending time with you here. You’ve got an incredible life surrounded by good people. I’m so glad you invited us here.”

His dark eyes are wet with unshed tears. “Do you know how incredible you are? I should have said so before…when you told your story to the First Scribe…I couldn’t believe it. All those things you did. You saved the world. I’m so fucking proud of you.” 

The words take her by surprise. Feel suddenly too big to hold. “Thank you,” she says as she hugs her brother. She remembers what Percy said, that after Brelia died they all broke in their own ways, but that Roland had broken further away. It must have been relieving to break down far away from their family, but it had to be isolating too. She wonders if they’re reclaiming back a piece of that today too. 

“Come on, we shouldn’t keep Astarion waiting,” Roland says. And she casts one last glance toward the sea, trying to commit every bit of this moment to memory. Because at least for this moment, she feels whole.   

[jonesdada]

important note: fp can sing ! he would sing back up for the fredheads and he has sung for most of his life. it started whenever he was in choir in church when he would go with his mother as a kid, and he’s stuck with it his whole life. on top of that, as we have seen, he can also play guitar. most of the sunnyside trailer park can tell if he’s in a good or bad mood depending on just what songs he’s singing / playing that night from fleetwood mac’s rumours album. 

[q-quadrum]

Firstly, I would like to apologize for reposting this post the second time ;m;

(I’m still new to reposting and other stuff functions on Tumblr)

Salutations, Madness Combat community!

May I present to you a fanfiction that I’ve made based on this lovely person’s idea?

Usually I will just continue my day, but this idea you give immediately prepares me my broken fingers to write this stuff.

It took me 2 days to finish this bad boi

Hope you have a good day, especially to you @roselily2006 <3, and sorry if my writing is not that good ^^"

---------------------------------------------------

CW: Blood, Lots of blood, Derealization, and A bit hint of cannibalism there

It all started with a hearty laugh coming from a conversation between two people inside of a small restaurant business Somewhere in Nevada, filling the atmosphere with happiness in the air.

Two grunts, Sanford and Deimos were sitting on one of the 2 person’s table while chatting and joking about everything that they like.

Sanford was basically sipping his glass of cold water while holding his giggle of laughter and listening to Deimos’ jokes.

“Wait- uh- so basically,” he cleared his throat, putting the half-glass down. “The agents that chased you, you shoot them down, and one of it basically-“ He wheezes, his right hand holds the edge of his table, “- hit his head bY THE POLE THAT HE PASSED AWAY?!” Then he laughs.

Deimos had done laughing on his part, keeping his composure up from bursting into another laugh.

“Yeah shit, right? That poor guy went limp soon after!” He smiles widely, revealing his sharp teeth to Sanford, as the man hung his head low due to the laughing.

What Deimos’ know is that they were getting a mission to retrieve and revive their other friend, Hank.

Yeah, and that one might be an obvious reasons Deimos could feel that something is wrong.

Somehow, them being in a restaurant ordering some random shit didn’t make sense.

Again, everything didn’t make any sense; and it starts to scare him.

Maybe he went black out a little throughout the mission and came back to his consciousness in front of Sanford, hence why they were at a restaurant talking any shits that could laugh onto while on the way of ordering something in the restaurant.

Wait a minute,

Where did this conversation even start?

He has to check something. He look around before leans forward, causing Sanford to jump a little.

"Umm Sanford?"

"Hmm? Yes, Dei?"

"..shouldn't we have revive Hank right now?"

…

“Shouldn’t we,… shouldn’t we all were fighting The Auditor?”He added.

Deimos didn't know how Sanford look at him right behind those shades, but he could see a small glimpse of tinted red glow staring right at his soul.

That’s not the how usual hazel eye colour look like, right?

Sanford swishes his right arm in the air, getting it to Deimos’ attention." relax Dei, Hank would be later. For now, let's enjoy our date! See what's on the menu, my eyes are now looking at these pages filled with ice-creams section over here,"

He cheers, it was obvious he was trying to change to another subject," So, what kind of flavoured ice-cream you want? There's banana chocolate, cotton candy and ooh~ there's this new flavour that you always wanted to try; Raspberry Burst! You always speculate that it would taste like Grunt's blood and craving to taste it, am I right? Maybe we should order that one?" he chuckles.

Deimos gulped his saliva in his throat. He feels a metallic feeling in his mouth when his partner mentions the taste.

But he could see that ‘Sanford’ who’s in front of him is panicking. Called it.

Something isn’t right.

He could feel that he was in his real world, but at the same time he could feel he wasn’t in his real ‘real’ world. Having a hearty date with the most loved man that he wanted? This is too good to be true.

He has to play along.

Deimos beamed with a smile,” Yeah, sure. Go on, order it up! Gonna take my phone a while for,.. you know, write my reviews about the stuff.” He fakes his toothy grin, but that doesn’t alarm the suspicion to the latter.

“Alright, sure man. Hey waiter!” Sanford whistles out for a waiter in the restaurant.

He tapped his fingers onto the table to signal them to come and take out their order. The waiter came to their table and Sanford orders what they have plan to order earlier.

As Sanford’s eyes now focusing on the grunt waiter in front of them, Deimos slowly pick up a small pocket knife instead of his phone from his back pocket.

And as Sanford casually turns back to look at him, Deimos immediately lunged forward, stabbing Sanford towards his neck.

“Dei, mo-,” He spits out good amount of blood from his mouth, Deimos could see that red, possessive eyes under his shades very well now.

“Gotcha, you fake bastard!” he angrily whispers as he shoves the knife a more deeper into Sanford’s throat.

He gurgles. “Y-you ..ungrateful-!”

Everything suddenly fades out. The waiter in front of them, the customers around them, the restaurant itself, everything fades to nothing but an empty white space, with only Sanford and Deimos still on each other’s table seats.

“You think I’m that stupid you little shit?!” Deimos shouted.

Sanford didn’t say any words as he continues to stare at Deimos. His face contorts in anger. Then he disintegrates into thin air, loosening Deimos’ knife grip on his neck.

Deimos vision slowly clouded with white light as it hurting his eyes, an ominous voice laughs hard-heartedly in his head,

“You silly bastard,…” Sanford’s voice replays over and over again, Deimos could feel his muscled shoulders embracing him with that sweaty familiar warmth.

.

.

.

.

.

He could open his eyes at last as he finally snaps back to reality,…

… with his hand covered in blood from his lover's bleeding nose.

What?

He looks down on his feet, then trails forwards to a person’s body limping in front of him.

His eyes widen.

Fuck, he was too late to get out of the trance.

And by his own hands, his friend was battered to half-dead on the ground. His breath was hitched, and he was holding his right hip, covered in blood and guts were coming out of it.

Deimos realized that’s not the worse that he had done while he got controlled. He notices that there’s a large chunk of Sanford’s right shoulder’s meat got bitten out voraciously. Examines back to himself, he notices his mouth was bleed with blood as well, and he could feel there is a chewing small metallic stuff inside of his mouth, and it tastes bitter, like a sticky clay.

Grunt’s Blood.

So that’s where the taste comes from.

Fuck.

He looked at his surroundings.

Hank?

Their corpse was beside his friend’s lap, probably was used as an attempt to preventing himself from getting hurt. Most of the parts of their body was either ripped off along with a large bite mark on parts of some of it.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t work as well.

He fell onto his knees.

There's a sound of someone clapping their hands, footsteps getting closer to him.

"Never expected for you to be this violent towards your so-called comrades, you defected clone." they chuckle behind him.

He heard that wispy, sly voice before.

"Dee-mos, isn’t it? Great job for resisting my possession. " A black, warm hand resting on his shoulder.

Deimos turns around, getting a closer look to the figure behind him. Their body seems to have no mass as they move towards him in a serpent-like movement, leaving black-coloured fire trail behind them. Their flaming red-eyes fixated on his poor bloody appearance.

He knows the figure very well. They always met during his time in A.A.H.W.

The changes that there’s now a halo on their forehead, cracked and syncing with its former holder.

The Auditor open their non-existent mouth, revealing red sharp teeth, and smile.

"Unfortunately for you, you're late for the party." They lean in to his face. “Too late, to be exact.”

---------------------------------------------------

Extra stuff I wanted to add before end the post:

The summary:

Deimos basically was sent deep into his mind, with projected Sanford made by Auditor to keep him contained.

In my kind of headcanon: usually cloned grunts would resist the possession since they were not even fully sentient to begin with, plus they didn't have any attachments to everything really. But for Deimos, that's a whole another story.

Maybe it's just because he's built different.

<333

[u-jin]

PART I: Headcanons

           1 // It feels as if light, the very thing he bends and morphs, pulls away from him as he descends into the city like a plague, a wraith spreading and sinking into every foul piece of land and chunk of flesh he can tear at. Or perhaps, instead, he wills it away, the flashes in his direction revealing walls painted red, misery falling endlessly in his trail. He hides from his shame, protects himself while devouring others. This is not what he set out to do, but it’s what he has to in order to survive, the mental box he’s pushed himself into, the model son he was raised to be designed in bullets and knife wounds. Self care makes the mind kill it’s darlings, his favorite parts of humanity and empathy pushed underwater until they stopped gasping for air leaving only the parts of him that can survive, only the parts that can persevere -- and so his teeth are sharper, so his fingernails become weapons, his face never wet with tears but instead soaked in blood.

Why else would they call him a monster?

          2 // At night his muscles twitch and ache in sync with the pain in his chest, stood in his bathroom mirror with smudged glamour and horrid eyes – humanity, and disdain for his humanity. Who is this person in the reflection? Weak, and caked with dirt, hideous, with weighted skin under dull eyes that look pitifully vengeful? At night he stalks the streets and devours prey to avoid the man he shares his living space with, the one who glares at him through the framed glass in his bathroom, the sleepless beast that feels everything he ignores, drunk and full of nightmares, regurgitating all the buried demons so that he can work and spit and jeer and kill. The man who cowers under sheets and stares at blinking clocks is human, disgustingly so, and he rots and rots until he hunts again. He does not cry, but seethes, and then he pulls himself together, all intoxicated and wild, the character, the jester, the mercenary. He plants his hands on the cold porcelain edges of his sink, locks eyes with the reflection he sees, and laughs as if mad.           3 // Why create something beautiful just for the sake of making it monstrous? Innocence and childhood not even things of memory, only blood over blood over blood -- family is not something he covets, not anymore, not since he stopped wearing pull ups and claimed his first life. Not since he’s tasted blood. Now the memory of his parents is tinged sour, the idea of family nothing but another invisible chain around his neck, the weight suffocating, the subject too sore

 Most things are easy to bury, but the banging coming from the trunk sounds so much louder when you know who’s inside.

PART ii: Sample Paragraph: TW // gore, blood, mutilation (vague)

MILLIONS SQUARE was awash with neons and precious metals; silvers, blood, gold, filth, and decay lining the streets of the wealthy and the robbed -- the poor man’s gamble poured out onto sleek cobblestone with the clicking of expensive shoes or scabbed, barefoot soles. Then comes Ujin in poor taste; sharpened and faded nails adorned like small knives, loaded guns and all black clothes, but so damn pretty. He’s giddy with it, pupil’s thin like slits and iris’ melted red and savory. He comes hungering for a thrill, starving and ready to pick flesh from between his teeth. Who else can gamble in his place? Who can tear into holy wounds and sinner’s pockets more steadily then the executioner, more bloodthirsty than man? He’s made of one part desire and two parts insanity, a mere shadow of a person, indistinguishable; a patron saint of switchblade fights. Where he walks tendrils follow, where he hovers cities fall, men die, like Death himself with silver-dressed fingers and throat.

The cards are laid out on the table one by one and he watches with sly, sharpened eyes, wisps licking under the table, stretched like elongated shadows around the other patron’s feet. Do they see it yet? His poker face is that of a smile, always stationary and wide like the cat that caught the canary, teeth bright and shining luminescent, glowing in the dark. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose, because even missteps on his way to victory end with his hands and pockets full; it’s because he’s a cheater -- filthy and unstoppable, a liar for sport. His fingers roll chips back and forth, back and forth, eyes finding the other players, the sweat of their brows, the shifting of their pupils. The mounted lights feel brighter, burning hot as if center stage, their cards suddenly feel like a worse hand, or perhaps, a better one -- no... a trick of the light. 

Two folds and a flush, a look of indignation and he breaks out into laugh, deep and crackling in his core. He will continue to win until he grows bored, until fists fly and the casino breaks out in security, until batons are swung and blood spatters the floors and ceilings of such flashy poverty. He will continue to win until there’s no one left to play, until his pockets overflow with plastic coins that he doesn’t exchange for currency, clicking and jangling, sliding between fingers and clattering to the concrete. Ujin stuffs himself full on the feeling of victory, gorges on the other’s suffering and the widened eyes of desperate men starving for just a taste of what he holds in spades. For now he soaks in the gasps and the furrowed brows of lesser men, the feeling of a meal for their families or a safe ride home from this church of agony caught tight in his gluttonous grasp.

His hands slam onto the velvet of the poker table, body leaning heavily with a joker’s grin and a jester’s laugh, teeth sharpened and stained the color of bloomed roses he says, “Again.”

Then he’s walking the streets at night, his gun adorned on his pointer finger, spinning carelessly as he explores the furthest gutters with a name burning a hole in his pocket. Impetuous as he walks among the poisonous field of the city’s most vibrant flora, it’s most tempting and dangerous wildlife in the form of Renegades and rogues, all vying for the most useless of all things: survival.

Divinity is not something that welcomes them, the afterlife not promising the demons and devilmen any reprieve -- as if this hell on Earth could be any better, as if it could be worse. A Machivellian thief, a pessimist of a killer -- perhaps he’s doing them a mercy. A horrible thought. If he plagued himself with the idea that he was sending scattered filth to a quick and painless “better place” he isn’t sure he’d be able to bear picking up a gun again -- a knife, however…

His steps halt, head turned, curious. He hears shuffling in the depths of the alleyway, “Hiding?” He’s made of heat, of pumping blood and a slow simmering pot, a maelstrom devouring, destroying only for the sake of destruction. His spine is bent, hunched, as if he’s hiding as well, “I’m good at games.” It comes sharp and low, almost a dark playfulness buried in it. Black hair hangs long enough in front of his forehead that it shadows his eyes, the usual thinness of his pupils blown large as if euphoric. Power, what he coveted in spades, spilled forth from those full pockets as a man shakes and trembles behind mountains of trash. Familiar are the Greek Gods to what mercy looks like from a devil, what kindness means when received from a wooden horse, a face that appears both warm and friendly, handsome and charming, but cracks in two with the hunger of his posture, the shape of a spine that is not merely human, cracking open to something disgusting, something terrifying, falling out and bleeding onto itself -- it’s an illusion, of course, something of his design, a mutation created to be seen by only one person at a time.

                                        AND WHAT AN ILLUSION IT IS.

He makes himself something he is not, he makes himself an evolving mass, a thing of nightmares because no freedom from pain is quick, not from him. If he’s a monster then this city is hell, this city is what grows and breeds things like himself. He wants to see the man suffer, but as he grows more horrid still his vision goes dark, his trigger hand grows hungry, and just as he reaches his peak (fifty feet tall, open wounds cracking into voids of gore and featureless faces, he’s greeted with a scream of terror) he sees black and the sound of a bullet rings loudly.

For a moment, the world is bright, flashing near blinding behind his eyes and when it clears there’s nothing, the darkness too dense, his eyes not yet adjusted to the depth of this blackness. Luckily he doesn’t need light to see it, the image seared into the backs of his eyelids, the makeshift image of the empty sockets, the stickiness of a liquified brain seeping out of a cracked skull, pouring damp and harsh against the pavement. He makes his own gore, manifests the warm feeling of adrenaline. His hands don’t shake anymore, but his fingers clutch tighter to the gun, the cocked trigger and the feel of steel in his hands. He doesn’t linger long, the silence following the bullet broken only by a whistled tune, the first movement he makes the pursing of lips, eyes blindly staring down at what is surely a mangled body, before he turns, the gun slowly beginning to revolve around his pointer finger once again.

From the end of an alleyway, an onlooker sees the disappearing silhouette of what can only be a man; the only thing clearly visible is the embroidered symbol glowing bright red on the back of his jacket; a cat with it’s teeth sunk into the throat of a snake.

[lgbtfalloutwinterholiday]

[fic] Veronica Santangelo/Christine Royce

Happy Holidays!

Here is @nomette ‘s submission for @ffferris with Veronica and Christine.

Pairing:  Veronica Santangelo/Christine Royce Summary:  Veronica & Christine have a happy holiday together, can be set during any time (like past, in-game, or post-game), bonus if you want to throw in other characters also having a good time but no need to feel obligated to do that, & bonus for incorporating trans headcanons. Word Count: 2,542 Rating: Safe for work

It’s the 24th of December, and the Lucky 38 smells of tamales, pine needles and a mysterious mix of fruit that Raul’s been boiling for hours. Veronica and Arcade must have tracked down every package of Dandy Boy Apples in the Commonwealth to make this drink, but she doesn’t mind. It’s the holidays. Arcade’s put up some kind of weird candelabra he calls a menorah, and there’s a pile of presents sitting in the Rec Room and a bunch of lumpy stockings nailed to the walls, courtesy of Lily’s knitting needles. The V on Veronica’s stocking looks kind of like a U, but she’s not going to complain, not when Christine’s stocking is hanging next to hers.

Veronica pauses in the doorway to the rec room and leans against the doorway, enjoying the moment. Cass and Boone are playing pool, Rex is sprawled out on the floor, and the Courier and Christine are hanging spent bullet casings on the Christmas tree. Christine’s hair has just cleared two inches, and it sits in a little fuzzy lump on top of her head. Veronica feels a little kick of delight every time she looks at her. She can’t believe she’s gotten so lucky.  Christine didn’t come back from the Sierra Madre the same- she barely talks now, and her hair has only just begun to grow back out, and her scars- but she’s still Christine, and Veronica still loves her, every piece.

“You going to come help?” the Courier asks.  She’s a skinny, half-feral little thing who doesn’t talk much and doesn’t like to sleep in the same place more than once. Veronica’s always finding her asleep in random corners of the casino, her little hammock dangling between chairs or casino tables. Veronica doubts she’s seen two decades, but Benny’s bullet knocked half the memories out of her head, so there’s no way to know.

“I carried that thing halfway across the wasteland,” Veronica says. “I think I’ve done my bit.”

“But it’s fun,” the Courier says, puzzled. “Boone’s showing me how to identify the different kind of bullet casings. This is a .38, see?” She holds up a mangled piece of metal, beaming.

“Good job, kid,” Boone says.

“I’m more of a Power Fist kind of girl,” Veronica says, flexing to show off her weapon. The Courier contemplates Veronica, then glances back at the tree.

“We could put it on top,” she says, sounding kind of dubious. Christine makes a muffled snorting sound and bursts into laughter.

“No way,” Veronica says, wrapping a protective hand around her power fist.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Christine manages between giggles. “You have to admit, it would match the tree.” The tree- a scraggly looking young pine Veronica dragged all the way from the mountains near Jacobstown- is covered in bullets casings and caution tape. Several glowing bottles of Nuka-Cola Quantum have been wedged between the branches. The tree looks like it’s ready to come to life and stage an uprising against humankind.

“I don’t know,” Cass says thoughtfully, and smirks around the rim of her glass of whiskey. “I think it would look pretty good with Boone’s beret on top.”

“No,” Boone says.

“It is colorful,” the Courier says thoughtfully.

“No,” says Boone, and Veronica takes advantage of the distraction to slip away.

Arcade and Raul are in the kitchen, along with a alrge pot of what Raul calls “ponche” and an even larger pot of tamales. Rex is sprawled out in front of the oven, keeping an eye on the large chunk of Brahmin which has been roasting since this morning. He catches sight of Veronica and whimpers and wags his tail.

“Don’t listen to that faker, we’ve been giving him scraps all day,” Arcade says cheerfully.

“When are you going to give me scraps?” Veronica asks, and imitates Rex’s mournful face. Arcade gestures to the stove.

“There’s unmashed potatoes, refried beans, apple pie, carrot cake, Cass’s jalapeño cornbread, Cass’s go-blind eggnog, and ponche. Knock yourself out.”

“Unmashed potatoes?”

“Well, I haven’t mashed them yet,” Arcade says. “I’ve been busy with the tamales.” He and Raul have made what looks like about a million tamales to Veronica, and they’re only partway through the huge tub of masa. There’s a whole assembly line on the table- masa, leaves, stewed brahmin, chickpeas. Raul looks up from his current tamale and grins.

“You wanna eat, mija? You better work. Those tamales aren’t going to fold themselves.”

“Oh-fine!” Veronica says. It’s this or get robbed of her power fist, she supposes, and she’s always liked mashing potatoes. Halfway through mashing, she feels a warm pair of arms around her waist, and looks back to find Christine, her head leaning against the small of Veronica’s back.

“Hey there,” Veronica says happily. “You come to bust me out of this life of labor?”

“Nope,” Christine says, and stands on her tiptoes to peer over Veronica’s shoulder. She’s so small. Back in the day, Veronica used to pick her up and cart her around the bunker at every possible opportunity.

“Hmmm,” Christine says, and sneaks a bit of potato onto her finger and licks it off. A small smile sneaks onto her face, and Veronica can’t help but blush. She’d mash a hundred potatoes just to see that smile. She leans over and plants a kiss on Christine’s cheek, and Christine flushes and ducks away, smiling.

Neither Raul nor Arcade say anything; Raul is engrossed enough in his tamales that Veronica doubts he’s even noticed, but Arcade gives her a wink. It’s nice to be among friends. Christine settles down next to the Raul at the table and pokes at one of the finished tamales.

“So, how do you make one of these?” she asks Raul.

“Well, you start with the leaf…” Raul begins.

It takes them another two hours to get through all the tamales, and everyone is hungry by the time they sit down at the table and start serving food. Lily has a custom-made seat just for her, an early Christmas present from Raul and Boone to allow her to sit at the table with them. Veronica, Christine and Arcade are on the right side, Boone, Cass and Raul on the left. The Courier sits at the head of the table, food already piled on her plate.

“You want to say grace, mija?” Raul asks the Courier.

“Grace?” she asks, a little line appearing between her eyebrows.

“It’s traditional to thank God before eating a big meal,” Arcade explains.

“Uh, sure,” the Courier says. She clasps her hands together, then begins to speak. “Thank you Hestia, Goddess of the Hearth, for growing the crops, and thank you Hermes for my good luck, and thank you Hades for my life. I promise to kill a legionnaire in your name before the New Year, thank you, amen.”

“Fascinating,” Arcade says, and gets elbowed by Christine. The courier is a little weird, but so is Arcade, and he doesn’t have the excuse of being a teenaged ex-slave. “Uh, amen,” he says hastily. Cass looks like she’s trying real hard not to laugh. Boone lifts his glass and grins.

“To killing legionnaires,” he says, and everyone around the table echoes the sentiment. They clink glasses, and everyone digs in. Raul’s punch is fruity and sweet, with a faint hint of sunset sarsaparilla, almost almost worth the trouble it took Christine and Veronica to find twenty boxes of Dandy Boy Apples. There’s a mountain of tamales, some heinously spicy cornbread, moonshine, apple pie, pinto beans stewed with molerat, carrot cake, eggnog, roasted brahmin, gravy, and mashed potatoes.  

Back at the Brotherhood, they mostly ate variations on carrots and potato, since they couldn’t get much to grow around the bunker. Fried potato, mashed potato, boiled potato, potato soup, potato salad- every potato and then some. Veronica skips the mashed potato and goes for the cornbread and roasted brahmin, and sees Christine do the same next to her. They grin at each other, and Christine serves Veronica a slice of pie.

“What’s in this?” Arcade asks, shoving a piece into his mouth. “I thought Raul used all the apple in his ponche.”

“Mutfruit,” Cass says matter-of-factly. “Some other stuff too, but I don’t kiss and tell.”

It’s quiet for a while as everyone stuffs their face. At first, the Courier had to be bullied into eating with a fork instead of with her hands, but she came around after Veronica pointed out that if you carry a fork and knife with you, you can also use them as back-up weapons. The Brahmin is spicy and savory, with a crisp outside and a juicy inside, and it vanishes as fast as people can cut pieces free. Everyone has at least one of Raul’s tamales, and Boone has three. The man puts away food like a refrigerator.

Afterwards, when they’re all full enough to burst, one of the securitrons comes in and clears the plates, and Rex finally gets his plate of scraps.

“I feel like the casino is going to collapse under my weight,” Cass says, groaning.

“Could that happen?” the Courier asks. She doesn’t look worried, only curious. Veronica supposes that once you’ve been shot through the head, a little building collapse probably doesn’t sound too bad.

“Probably not,” Arcade says hastily. He starts in on an explanation of how architecture works, but Veronica doesn’t hear any of it, because Christine has reached out under the table and taken her hand. One by one, she laces their fingers together. They used to do this back at the dining table in the hall, but back then it was one part bravado and one part fear. Veronica isn’t scared anymore. It doesn’t matter if anyone sees.

But she doesn’t need to show them. It’s enough that she and Christine know. Christine runs her thumb gently over the edge of Veronica’s hand, and they stay there like that, smiling, together at last. Dinner conversation turns from mutfruit to apples to weird things they’ve eaten, and Cass disgusts them all with tales of some truly dubious liquor. She and Boone are well on their way to being smashed, which bodes poorly for the midnight fireworks they promised the courier.

Only the Courier’s excited demand to get them all to the Christmas Tree for presents dislodges them from the table. Veronica and Christine walk, hand in hand, to the rec room, followed by a slightly staggering Boone and a very staggering Arcade, who got stuck supporting him. The debate about the star has been settled by ED-E nesting on top of the tree like a very strange bird.

Veronica settles onto the couch, and Christine settles onto her lap. Christine is light, a pleasant weight, and she grins when Veronica sneaks a kiss onto the side of her face. The Courier, oblivious to the people watching her, tears into her first present. It’s a framed piece of paper- nothing more than a contract, really. The Courier isn’t very good at reading. She looks at the paper, her lips moving as she tries to sound out the words.

Arcade, ever thoughtful, underlined the relevant part.

“... the undersigned Ca-Can-tra-ta,” the Courier says, frowning. “Cantrata. What does that mean?”

“Veronica and I did some research,” Arcade says. By research, he means that they broke into a privately owned building, but no one needs to know that. The man at the front desk of the Mojave Express deserves it for being so unhelpful, anyway, and it’s not like they stole anything valuable. “We looked up the records from when you were hired, and found what you signed as. It’s your name. Cantrata. I think it comes from Cantare, to sing.”

The courier looks at the paper, then at Arcade.

“My name,” she says, and repeats it. “Cantrata.” A strange look crosses her face. “I used to sing,” she says to herself,  then gets up and launches herself at him. Arcade wraps his arms around her and pats her back.

“Hey, I helped,” Veronica says, and Arcade gestures for her to join in the hug. The three of them squish awkwardly together on the couch, and for a moment Veronica is on the verge of having a real Christmas feeling.

“Thank you!” Cantrata says, and wiggles out of the hug. “I got you something too!” Whatever it is, it’s apparently too big to fit under the tree, because Cantrata runs out of the room. There’s a loud clunk, and then she comes back hauling a huge power fist painted entirely in teal and pink.

“It sets off explosives when you punch people,” she says solemnly, and hands it to Veronica.

“Uh,” Veronica says, and picks it up. One side has a yellow warning sign on it. The other side has Veronica’s full name written on it in beautiful pink calligraphy, complete with a little heart dotting the i. There’s little rhinestones around the cuff. The courier must have hired someone to bling it out.

“It’s beautiful,” Veronica says solemnly, and Cantrata grins.

“Open your next present,” she says.

There’s a matching dress.

Veronica’s final haul is a power fist from Cantrata and a dress from Arcade and Cass, a new waist pouch from Boone, a blanket from Raul, a lumpy sweater from Lily, and one more thing. After the festivities have died down, Veronica and Christine go back to their room and shut the door.

Christine’s presents come in two colorful little bags. The first one is light.  Veronica lifts it out to find a cute little bra and underwear set. There’s not very much of it.

“You can wear it under your dress,” Christine says, flushing.

The second pair is a set of shoes, likely looted from some vault. They’re a little dusty, but they fit well. Veronica slips her feet into them, and remembers. Back when she and Christine were kids in the bunker, it was a common game to talk about what you’d do when you left. No one ever left, of course, but it was fun to pretend that you would. Some kids wanted to be ranchers, some wanted to be singers, some wanted to be gamblers or rangers or deathclaw tamers. Veronica wanted to be a princess. She wanted to have a pretty dress, and live in a colorful, safe place where they never had to eat potatoes or worry about raiders. She wanted someone to love her, not for what she could do for them, but for who she was.

“A glass slipper, for my princess,” Christine says, smiling.

“I could be in rags, and you’d still make me feel like a queen, Christine,” Veronica says, and crosses the room. Christine’s hands are so small in her own. “But the pretty dress sure helps.”

“You were a princess when we were in a hole in the ground,” Christine whispers. “But you finally made it to your tower. Merry Christmas.”

On the roof, Boone, Cass and Raul are drunkenly shooting off fireworks. The sound rings through the air. Outside the window, sparks rain down over the strip in showers of gold and green, but Veronica only has eyes for Christine. Their lips brush, and for a single perfect moment, the world is exactly as Veronica has always dreamed.

[daggersandsparks]

try and take it

{{ another from the AU!verse headcanons with @ratherxintense }} ❝ Abandon hope all ye who enter here. ❞ She muttered under her breath as she stared up the hill. She was met with a disbelieving stare from her companion. She shrugged casually, and instead patted the side of the eyebot. She could feel the warm metal through her gloves, and the warmth under her hand soothed her.

She wasn't afraid of the Legionaries themselves, she had to remind herself as they stepped forward. It was only the idea of being dragged back to the capital. The heavy weight of the collar she'd once worn and what it meant. Ownership. Someone thinking they could do whatever they wanted with her.  Judging from their leering faces, these men likely thought they could find that in her if Caesar had no need of her skills.

She matched their looks with a calm, hateful disdain. Each one getting the cold hate that flooded her. She made it a point to connect with each of them as she walked. Daring them to say something to her. Some caught that gaze with surprise, so unused to such sharpness on a woman. Some hid their expressions better. She could tell which were the recruits; they were the first to look away. She couldn't look at the women in the camp though. Guilt would well up in her, and that didn't serve her right now.

There was a sickening mix of fear and hatred and stubborn defiance brewing in her gut and as they reached the top of the hill. Reached the tent of the mighty Caesar. She swallowed the scoff that came to her lips at the mere thought of this man's greatness. A God would have no need of a Courier.

The knife tucked into the back of her waistband itched, reminded that she wasn't entirely defenseless here. ED-E proved that as well. She wondered if she should have tried to bring in a gun with her as well. But that might have been too much trouble. ❝ Your companions must wait out here. ❞ The Praetorian guard told her. It was the first time her expression of casual arrogance faltered. She caught the fear and turned it merely into a disapproving frown. She should take it as a lack of confidence on his part. That was how she choose to do so, at least. She nodded and turned to them.

❝ You heard the man. Stay out here. ❞ She said, giving a small shrug. She didn't miss the concerned look her words were met with. She flashed a cocky grin and didn't wait for a response before she disappeared into the tent. "I'll be back."

Her steps were a measured, solid pace to keep the illusion of confidence. This wasn't the first time she had played this game before. She lived this. The balance of projecting just enough competence to avoid being taken advantage of and passivity to not seem an outright threat. The second part her hatred was trying to ruin, and that she would have to keep an eye on.

She stood before the leader of the Legion, flanked on either side by his guards. And her husband. Vulpes Inculta. Her gaze settled on him first, trying to assess if he had lied to her for a moment before turning her attention to Caesar. 

❝ Courier Six of the Mojave Express, as summoned. ❞ She told him, her tone playful, with a mock respect she wasn’t sure if her’d catch, extending one arm dramatically, a small bow as she gave her non-introduction.

❝ So I finally get to meet the Courier who's accomplished so much in so little time. That is why I summoned you here, right? ❞ The expression on the man's face was arrogance, but his next words were nearly flattery as he spoke. Detailing what her accomplishments were. She barely listened when it listed them off, waiting for him to get to the real reason why she was there. ❝ When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that. The question is... Are you ready to get started? ❞

❝ Just let me deal with Benny and I'll be on my way." She had to keep her tone casual, on the edge of amused, despite the bitterness that boiled under the words. She didn't want to deal with him at all. She felt the weight of her husband's eyes on her at her words.

❝ Benny is my prisoner. You don't ‘deal with him‘ unless you've dealt with me. Don't worry, you'll get the Platinum Chip he was carrying. And then you'll use it like I tell you to. ❞ To her credit, her lip only curled for a second before she erased it from her face, instead giving him a thoughtful, noncommittal hum as he continued to speak. This time she took a look at Vulpes, his expression was hard, and she could nearly sense the scolding under the skin. She repressed the smirk as well. as Caesar finished talking.

She paused, her attention back to the Leader. ❝ What do you want me to do? ❞

And so she was given her task. One not far from what Mr. House had expected. The Platinum Chip was pressed into her hand and she gave another small bow of her head before she made her way out of the tent and down the hill to do what she was supposed to. Her weapons reassured her, though she knew they wouldn't be in her hands for long.

She just had to choose which man she was going to listen to. Threats from both sides. A laser from one of the Protections hit her in the shoulder. A bullet in her outer thigh. She entered the heart of the Bunker, her options weighing on her mind, and she made her choice. She would have to deal with the consequences later.

She didn't wait around to see how things played out underneath. She left the bunker, already pulling out a RadAway to begin purging the radiation that she'd had to deal with. She'd already soaked up too much before she'd arrived. She stepped out of the ground and into the presence of the Legionaries with the needle already in her vein. She moved towards the door before she was stopped by the Guard.

❝ You carried out Caesar's will, but I must confiscate your equipment again. ❞ She let out a huff of frustration, letting the RadAway do its job, flexing her arm for a moment after the needle was out and she tossed it aside. She pulled out her weapons, piece by piece, leaving the knife at her back once again, and nodded at her companion to do the same.

She still didn't like it, but she marched her way back up the hill and with barely a wave of instruction, entered the tent alone once more. She didn't even have to say anything to him as she walked up, he began speaking without prompting, the air of someone who was used to be worshiped. This time her frown didn't hide itself. The pain of the wounds she had received were already driving her anger along.

❝ I felt the ground shake a while ago. I'll take that as a sign you got the job done. ❞ She paused for a moment at his words, seeing the smug smile on his face, but nodded. Mindless obedience was what he was used to, wasn't it? ❝ There are rewards for doing as I command. Today, your reward is vengeance. You get to decide how Benny dies. Go to Benny, let him know what you've decided. My Praetorians will perform the execution - unless you want to perform it yourself. ❞

The last bit had almost held a mocking tone. As if he didn't believe that she would want to kill the man that had killed her and dragged her back into this.

❝ Thank you, Caesar. ❞ She didn't want to thank him for the vengeance she deserved, that she had every right to. But she knew that she had to.

❝ Consider it the first of many bestowments. ❞ More arrogance that she ignored. She didn't hesitate to walk over to the Chairman kneeling there with his arms bound, letting her anger finally make its way unto her face.

❝ So baby, what did you find down there? ❞ Benny asked as she stepped towards him, standing above him. He was a fool if he thought he could call her 'baby'. She heard the steps behind her, and she knew who it was who had come to watch.

❝ None of your business. It's time for you to die. ❞ There was venom in her words.

❝ I see. And how's that gonna happen? ❞ He asked and she hummed at him, squatting down to his level to stare at him. She wanted to see his expression.

❝ You know, I could shoot you right here. Or there's the arena, and then there's crucifixion. ❞ She hummed for a moment as if considering it.

❝ Or you could let me go, baby. ❞ He suggested an almost hopeful tone to her voice. She sneered at him.

❝ I don't like being called baby. ❞ She hissed and stood abruptly. Her smile was almost feral as the idea popped into her head.

She turned abruptly to the one she knew had followed her. To Vulpes. Her husband. Why not make this a show. He already underestimated her too. Why not show how foolish that was while she was at it. She walked up to him in a couple short, quick steps and she held out a hand.

❝ Give me your knife. ❞ It wasn't a question. And his expression was one of confusion. He hesitated a moment before he pulled it out. He held it for a moment longer before pressing the handle into her palm. Her smile widened. Already burning with anger, she considered for a moment turning his own blade on him and freeing herself from that. But she knew it meant death. And she knew it wasn't him she hated. ❝ Why thank you. ❞

She dug into the pouch at her hip and pulled out two more items that she'd need. She bit down on the blade as she held out the forceps, bringing the  lighter - Benny’s Lighter - to the metal clamps. She waited until they began to glow red. She could feel the heat of it through her gloves. She knew that she'd feel the burn by the end, but that didn't matter.

Meeting eyes with Vulpes at the sight of the glow, she caught his look. His confusion was still there, but there was an undercurrent there. Something she didn't take the time to analyze. She smiled around the knife and turned, dropping his lighter at Benny's feet. She pulled the knife out of her mouth.

Vulpes had followed her for this as well and she sent him another glance. Her voice was sickly sweet as she spoke. ❝ Hold him if he starts squirming on me, won't you? ❞

He nodded, his expression still questioning. What a husband-wife activity this was going to be. She chuckled at that.

She pressed the heel of her boot into Benny's groin, and he groaned in pain as she leaned forward, putting her face even with his. ❝ Maybe if things had been different, I would've been kinder. ❞

His expression was already contorted with pain when he opened his mouth, his eyes focused more on the knife in her hand the forceps and she took that moment to reach into his mouth and grab hold of his tongue with that hand. She adjusted her grip to clamp down with the burning hot forceps and pull it to stick out of his mouth.

He screamed. A blood-curdling sound as the flesh bubbled under the heat. He tried to jerk away, but she kept her grip firm. Vulpes, to her gratitude, did as she'd asked and grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place with a knee in his back and one hand on his head to keep it still.

Tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Part of her wanted to pull the forceps back, give him a second's reprieve, before doing it again. But she didn't have time for that. She adjusted her grip. Maybe she should have heated the knife as well.

Ah well.

She tugged his tongue out of his mouth further and set about her task. The knife cut into the soft flesh of his tongue. His screaming rose an octave as she drove her blade into it, moving slowly, drawing it out. His scream turned to a gurgling noise as the blood poured out of the wound. The forceps tore at the skin, helping her progress.

He probably didn't even feel them at this point. She wondered briefly at what moment that pain went away.

The knife blade came sliced through the other side and she stood with his tongue in her hand. She gave a satisfied hum, removing her boot and straightening out a bit. She wiped the blood off on her coat and held it out for Vulpes. Her smug grin was still feral as she looked at him. ❝ Thank you. ❞

Another moment where he hesitated before he took it. She glanced down at Benny, the blood pouring out of his mouth. He looked dizzy and on the verge of passing out. She frowned. That would not do. Not at all. She reached into her pouch again and pulled out a stimpak. Grabbing his head with the hand still holding his tongue in forceps, she opened his mouth and inserted the needle onto the remnants of his tongue. Not the whole thing, of course.

The stimpak would do nothing for the pain, but she didn't want him dying from the wound. Once it began to work, she grinned at him. He had regained enough of himself to spit in her face and she only smiled, patting him gently on the cheek. This time she stood and stepped away from him entirely.

❝ Now he can be crucified. ❞ She said, connecting with her husband's gaze and finding an underlying heat that made her shiver. She wasn't going to think on it then. She moved her gaze to the Praetorian guard nearby instead, who nodded at her words and moved to Benny to do as instructed.

She used the rest of the stimpak on her arm, healing her earlier wounds. She turned back towards the main part of the tent, dropping the forceps and holding onto Benny's tongue. For a moment she considered what to do with it. She didn't need a trophy from him. She glanced at the Legion mongrel nearby and stepped towards it, holding out the tongue. It took the treat eagerly from her fingers, quickly devouring the Chairman's tongue.

She finally walked back over to Caesar, wiping the blood from her face. She grinned at him and said nothing.

❝ You took a ruthless approach with Benny. I admire that. ❞ Caesar said, a pleased expression on her face that sent anger through her. She didn't want him pleased with her actions. She paused for a moment before she spoke.

❝ If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared. ❞ She quoted, a sick sincerity in her words. She tended to follow those words as best she could.

❝ Machiavelli. You surprise me. ❞ She shouldn't be surprised that he hadn't expected her to know the philosopher.

She gave a shrug to the comment, and then let him continue to speak, telling her what her next task was. Killing Mr. House. She wasn't opposed to that in the least. He had already blackmailed her into coming here, into dealing with the Legion. He'd blackmailed her with the knowledge of her marriage, and that wasn't something she wanted anyone to know.

Vulpes' presence already made it impossible, but she hoped to keep it between the two of them. She wasn't doing it for him, but she kept that carefully to herself. There wasn't any need to anger him over it. So she agreed and left. She stopped by Benny's cross before she met with her companions and had them follow her out of Caesar's camp.

[saxspielercaderface]

Fic: A Chosen’s Choice

Characters: Gregorovic, Gregorovic’s Chosen, Sliske

Summary: How the giggling Sliskean standing on the Heart’s entry platform came to be.

Notes: Headcanoning the heck out of things, now, but hey, I had this idea and had to write it. Going off the idea that, for a short while after Gregorovic’s transformation, a little sliver of humanity hung on and he actually tried to resist Sliske’s control and influence (though it eventually gave out because munchies). More weird romance, creepy Sliske (complete with implications of memory alteration), and attempts to make a murder harlequin into a slightly sympathetic character. A lot of this is based on @zorialdiamond-blog‘s headcanons with some of my own thrown in there.

Once blue skies had clouded.

Once fresh forest air had turned sour.

A once arable land had fouled in the wake of an encroaching darkness that whispered through needled fangs and hungered for blood.

With it came war, fear, and death.

So too came those who would ward it off for as long as they could: fighters, spies, couriers, and anyone else who would give a hand to help.

A small tent stood on the outskirts of a camp, isolated. The smell of antiseptic and injury wafted through the flaps, and the silhouettes of cots and supply cabinets could be seen within, lit by an oil lamp - an oddly homey glow for such a clinical place.

Weathered, aged hands dipped into a bowl of water, scrubbing themselves clean from the day’s final procedure. A courier, knife wound to the left pectoral. A simple suturing.

Tools were cleaned and reorganized, everything put back in its proper place. Bandages folded, salves and ointments re-shelved. Surgical instruments sterilized and stored.

The last instrument left out was the scalpel. It was always the scalpel.

It sat on its tray for a minute, scrutinized by its owner. A nightly ritual of remembering and attempted understanding and regretting.

How skillfully such instruments were used to carve out sickness and make way for healing. How easily they could just as well be used to cause pain.

Finally, Dr. Caroline Ivanov plucked the scalpel from its resting place and slid it into the nearby sterilizer. A wonderful little contraption invented by her husb...invented by the late Dr. Gregorovic Ivanov, it consisted of a heat-proofed box filled with tiny metal beads, into which instruments and tools could be stuck. A runic heat source beneath the box provided the intense temperatures needed to kill any and all microbes attached, leaving the instruments as clean as possible.

She brushed a graying strand of hair from her eyes, tucked it back under her headband, and scowled at the contraption.

Microbes could be killed.

Memories, however, were made of far sterner stuff.

Darkened rooms, poorly lit work tables.

Notes strewn about, written in an increasingly frantic doctor’s scrawl.

Tools left unorganized, soiled.

Cages.

Blood.

Desperation.

Madness.

“You’ve gone too far this time. I won’t let you do this to yourself any longer.”

“My love, please. Try to understand. I have no other choice…”

“I can’t...I can’t do this anymore!”

“Then leave.”

And she had.

Or, at least, she had tried to.

She had tried to wash her hands of everything she had done at his side and in his name. Yet, like a cancer long since metastasized, all she could do now to ease her turmoil was palliative.

A return to the creed she had devoted herself to so many years ago - do no harm - had been her latest attempt.

Sighing, she finally removed the scalpel from the sterilizer, set it down on a fresh tray to cool, and finally undid her headband, letting the tangled mess of hair fall back into place. She would need to comb it again sometime, and soon too. At this rate, it would no doubt mat together if she didn’t do anything.

I should just do it now, she thought, and hope that no more patients come knocking at this hour.

She sat by the oil lamp, pulling out a small metal comb from one of the many pockets on her person, and began to work through the stubborn mass. Though hygiene was health out here, appearances were often pushed to the backburner. As long as you were clean, it didn’t matter if you had an uneven, hastily shaved buzz cut like most of the fighters or a well-oiled pompadour like the chef who worked the mess hall on the other side of camp.

Grimacing, she tugged through a particularly gnarled tangle, the comb coming away with several strands of hair attached.

Sighing hotly, she tossed the comb over her shoulder, listening to the muffled tink it made against the floor of her medical tent.

Then, she just listened to the sounds of the nearby camp.

The crackling of the bonfire that had been set.

The far away chatter of the fighters as they discussed an upcoming operation.

The rustling of the bushes nearby.

The creak of wood-on-metal, interlaced with a low hiss of steam.

The slight chattering and grinding of gears.

The very human mumbles and whimpers of pain.

Sitting up, she stole a glance over her shoulder. The comb lay just under the open tent flap, yet beyond that was nothing but shadow and foliage.

Shadow and foliage that seemed to move and shift, as if someone was there, disturbing it.

A patient?

Slowly, she stood and edged through the tent flap, picking up and pocketing her comb as she passed.

“Hello?”

There was no response.

“Hello?” she tried again, stepping further out into the night. “I’m a doctor. If you are injured, please, show yourself. I may be able to help.”

A few moments of relative silence. Then, more rustling, and a reedy, high-pitched voice finally answered.

“Ahahehehe...I doubt you can help me.”

“Do you?” Placing her hands on her hips, she leaned forward, trying to get a better look at the speaker. She thought she could make out a huddled shape at the base of a nearby oak, but the low light thrown by her oil lamp failed to reach it. “I reversed advanced ghastrisis in no less than seven patients in the last week alone. Give me anything on that caliber, and I can most certainly help.”

The rustling grew louder, mingled with manic chuckles that pricked at the back of her neck, and she took a reflexive step back into the tent, wondering if she should call for help. Anything she might have said, however, died in her throat as the huddled shape drew closer and began to untangle itself.

Limbs - long, lanky, and clawed like some terrible insect’s - reached out of the bushes, pulling a torso and head along behind them. The shape swayed, the grinding and hissing and clanking from earlier coming from within its body as it loomed over her, no less than eight feet tall.

Details were shadowed, obscured. But, the outline, serrated and gangly, was enough to freeze the blood in her veins.

“I doubt that,” it hissed. “Caroline.”

She screamed.

Stumbled.

Scrambled back into her tent, casting around for anything to protect herself.

“CAROLINE!”

Its shriek was met by her own as she glanced back and saw the edges of the creature clawing its way into the tent.

“CAROLINE, WAIT! AHEHEEHEEHEE!”

That shriek was closer.

Her hand met the handle of the oil lamp.

She whirled around, swinging.

There was a split second that the creature’s face was fully illuminated by the lamp.

A pale, near featureless mask, holes marking where eyes should have been.

Teeth like scalpels set in a mockery of a smile.

A crown of spikes, like some opulent, over-designed court jester might have worn.

A split second for her to take the terrible rictus in, rimmed by orange and yellow fire.

And then the lamp impacted, shattering.

The creature tumbled back with a cry, the light now extinguished, and she vaulted over the nearest table, snatching up the scalpel from its tray and brandishing it before her.

“Come any closer, I dare you!” she roared, gauging the distance to the tent flap. This creature was too fast, the flap too far away. She wouldn’t make it if the thing decided to charge again.

A claw thunked down on the far table as it pulled itself upright, brushing charred fabric from its shoulder. It cackled again, the sound like a petri dish being dragged across metal.

“Oh Caroline. My love, my heart. It was I who pushed you away. Not the other way around.”

Her hand shook, the scalpel flickering with what little light remained in the tent.

There was only one person in the world who had ever talked to her that way.

There was only one person she knew that had that voice. That rhythm. That tendency to laugh as he spoke.

And, he was dead.

“Who are you?!?”

The creature, neglecting to answer, stood again, mask scanning over its surroundings. Its eyes - what passed for them, anyway - came to rest on the sterilizer, the heat source beneath which still gave off a slight glow.

“You kept this after all this time?” The creature’s hands came to rest on the sides of the sterilizer, turning it this way and that. “But it’s so old! I made it out of scraps that time we were-”

“When we were working in Avarrocka...NO! He’s dead. He’s been dead for years - he’s gone!” She shook and shook, disbelief clanging around between her ears.

“Yesssss,” the creature hissed, though the sound was more pained than aggressive, and it gave her pause. “He is gone. Very, very gone. But he’s not quite dead. Not anymore, at least.”

The glow from the sterilizer illuminated the creature’s mask from below. Inorganic, polished, and as white as a bleached skull. Yet, there was something about the set of the fabricated cheekbones. The point to the chin and the swooping curve of the jawline. The curl of marble beneath the eye holes that imitated the dark circles that had been there since the first day she had met him.

Him.

She shook her head - it couldn’t have been.

But, the truth was staring her in the face, and the name fell from her mouth.

“Gregorovic?”

The creature nodded slowly.

“Gone, but not dead,” he said simply, folding his claws in front of him, each finger over the one below.

Just as he used to do when greeting patients.

“What-” she lowered the scalpel slightly, grip faltering, “-happened to you? Where have you been? Why are you here?!? Why-”

The creature hissed again and shivered violently, wood and metal rattling against each other in an unsettling cacophony. Caroline stifled a second scream as the mask’s mouth opened in full - when lit from below, those teeth were no less utterly terrifying.

Hissing petered off into wheezing chuckles, and the creature backed up a step, huddling back down into a spindly, spiky ball of limbs.

“Hehehehee...the hunger, Caroline. It gnaws at me.”

“What? W...what are you talking about?!?” she stammered, shaking her head again, furiously.

“Too many questions at once, dear, slow down. Please, slow down. Your voice, your fear, is so very enticing. It calls me - makes my stomach growl and churn. But please, don’t fear. Just ask...and I will answer...oh, I’m so sorry...so sorry…” It’s - his - voice quieted, quavering, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him. He sounded worried, frightened even, like a child running away from a nightmare.

It might have been a ruse - a trap meant to lure prey in like some carnivorous plant bearing honey for an insect. Yet, she lowered her scalpel and stepped forward, composing herself.

“Maybe just start with why my dead-but-not-anymore husband is now an eight foot tall, masked, jester construct,” she said softly.

“So...you do believe me?” The mask raised and tilted to the side, and she could have sworn that the mouth curled a bit in a smile, the porcelain flowing like slightly molten glass.

The voice.

The face.

The mannerisms.

The memories.

It was him, she was sure of that now.

“I think...I think I do believe you, Gregorovic.”

An almost happy-sounding rattle filled the tent. Yet, the corners of her mouth didn’t even twitch in response.

“I believe you,” she continued. “But I still want answers. So, start talking.”

The rattling ceased, the mask’s smile drooping back into its normal set. After a moment, the creature - Gregorovic - sighed and began to speak.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake, Caroline. Such a terrible mistake. Aheehee...a terrible mistake to top off the terrible, terrible path I chose to follow. And this,” he lifted his claws, framing his mask with both hands, “is my punishment. ‘The monster within is displayed without,’ he said. And he’s right. He was always right.”

Who is ‘he?’ she wondered. And she wanted to ask, but another question took its place before she could.

“Why are you here, then? If you’re really the monster you appear to be - and I’m not disagreeing with you, by the way - why come and find me? To, what, apologize? To say ‘oh, I’m sorry for dragging you - my wife who had stayed by my side for, honestly, longer than she should have - into this entire mess and then driving you away before making you believe I had finally died from my own insane experiments?!?’”

She didn’t notice her voice had risen to a sobbing wail until her eyes started to sting from the tears welling up there.

But, she wasn’t done.

“Or maybe ‘I’m sorry for suddenly turning up, years later, in the body of some spider-harlequin no less, and scaring the living daylights out of you?’ OR, MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, ‘I’M SORRY FOR BEING THE REASON OUR SON RAN AWAY? THE REASON HE HATES US NOW?!?’”

Gregorovic curled further in on himself, mask turning away.

“I tried to talk to him, you know,” Caroline continued, voice thick, tears now streaking her cheeks. “I found Carson after you drove me away - tried to patch things up. And you know what? He wouldn’t even look at me.”

Her grip on the scalpel tightened painfully, metal digging into her skin.

“He. Wouldn’t. Even. LOOK. AT. ME!”

With a cry, she flung the scalpel across the tent, and it whacked into a cluster of shelved supplies with a strident clatter. Her knees hit the ground, her face in her hands.

She wept.

Wept for a son estranged, a husband lost, and a life near-irredeemable.

She wept for what felt like hours.

Something shuffled closer and closer, the sound barely audible beneath her sobs.

“Caroline. My love. My heart.” A voice, familiar yet too high, too thin, spoke in her ear. A hand rested on her shoulder - she felt the claws, yet she didn’t flinch away. “I know that no apology I could come up with would ever make up for...aheehee...the things I’ve done. The things I made you do. Caroline.” Slowly, a second hand stroked her hair, oddly gentle for something so obviously made for evisceration. “Carol. I don’t have much time. Not much time until the monster without is the only thing left...but I had to come back. Had to get away from, heheheh, him, to see you again, even if all you do is look upon me with fear and disgust. To hear your voice again, even if all you do is rebuke me.”

A thought cut through her sobs, and she wiped her eyes, sniffling, focusing on it.

There’s that ‘him’ again…

He’s scared of ‘him,’ I can hear it.

He’s scared.

But...

Blinking back tears, she focused on the mask just inches from her face, placing her hand on his cheek.

“I don’t forgive you. I can’t. I don’t have the right to forgive you in the first place, even if I wanted to.”

Gregorovic rumbled in acceptance.

“But,” she continued. “If I can try and turn my life around, you can, too. You came here, to me, after all. Monster or not, no one is beyond at least a bit of healing.” Joints rattled and hissed, and she placed a hand over that terrible mouth to stop him from protesting what she knew, deep in her bones, was true. “We are doctors. Healing is our trade. The only difference is that, now, you’re my patient.”

Careful to avoid the spiked collar and crown that threatened to scratch her arms, she drew the creature, her husband, into a tentative hug. Slowly, carefully, and shakily, he returned it.

“We’re going to get through this,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “We are. I just know it. And we’re going to do it right this time. No more murders. No more dissections. None of that.”

There was no response to her promise besides a tightening of the arms around her and a low hiss that might’ve been a sob.

They stayed like that until the glow from the heat source beneath the sterilizer finally flickered out, leaving them with only the paltry moonlight from outside.

His hand had gone back to stroking her hair - the motion was familiar, comforting. At least until his claws managed to tangle themselves up in the mess.

“Oh dear, aheeheehehehe…” He tugged slightly, trying to free himself, but to no avail.

“Ow! No, just hang on, I’ll get it.” Caroline, stifling a chuckle at the situation, took her comb out of her pocket and began to work Gregorovic’s claws out of her hair. He tried to help, picking at her tangles with his other hand, but they were obviously not designed for precision or dexterity.

Designed.

Someone designed him, she thought. Plucked him from his human body and stuck him in this...thing.

Was it this ‘him’ he keeps talking about? The one he ran away from?

“Gregorovic,” she began, the name rolling off her tongue with some resistance. It had been so long, after all. “Who is this…’he’...you keep mentioning?”

A cold wind wafted through the tent, and Gregorovic shivered, hand finally coming free from Caroline’s hair.

“He is...heh...not someone you want to meet.”

“Oh, I’d very much like to meet him, dear. I’d like to crack his chest open and see if he even has a heart. He might call you a monster, and he might be right. But, the pot is calling the kettle black in this case.” Gregorovic twitched again, shaking his head.

“Caroline-”

He was interrupted, however, by a low chuckle that was very much not his.

The wind shook the tent walls again, shadows warping, stretching, and flickering in time to a new voice that hissed above their heads.

“Oho, it certainly is! It most certainly is.”

The shadows swirled, becoming corporeal and coalescing into a tall, weedy, and hooded figure that stood before the tent flap. Like mist, the darkness fell to the ground, revealing gray skin, silken robes, and a pair of piercing yellow eyes.

At the sight of the newcomer, Gregorovic stood, mantling over Caroline protectively. It might’ve been the lack of light, but she could’ve sworn that the shadows - other shadows, separate from the ones that had brought the new figure into the tent - were doing so as well, points of glowing green flickering almost comfortingly.

If the figure was discouraged by the display, he didn’t show it.

“Gregorovic,” he began, striding easily across the tent, fingers steepled. “Dear, dear Gregorovic. Greg. Greggie. Greggie, Greggie, Greggie. Did you really think you could escape me, Greggie?”

With the shadows hissing and swirling around her, she couldn’t quite tell what Gregorovic’s response to the figure’s taunting was. She could tell, however, that whatever he said wasn’t the least bit friendly.

“Stop it, Greggie.” The figure sighed, eyes narrowing. “You made a deal, and you made it of your own free will. You are mine. But, it’s not my fault you decided to go AWOL and put your un-life at risk.”

Caroline’s breath caught in her throat.

I’ve made a terrible mistake, Caroline. Such a terrible mistake.

“You...what? Gregorovic, tell me he’s lying. Please tell me you didn’t go so far as to sell your soul for a cure-” She trailed off when, instead of saying something - anything - to assuage her concerns, Gregorovic just remained silent, joints rattling.

The figure tutted, shaking his head.

“Oh no, Caroline,” he crooned, turning to face her directly. Though the shadows curled more tightly around her, he strode closer and closer, hands clasped. At this distance, he radiated a certain elegance and charisma - an infectious aura that drew her attention like a magnet. Yet, she could see something ugly and, dare she say, snake-like coiled beneath that facade, and it made her stomach roll uncomfortably. “May I call you ‘Carol?’”

She felt her brow furrow. No one called her that but her husband, and only very rarely to boot. To hear the monster that warped him into the creature standing above her use the name so carelessly poked and prodded at something deep in her core - something that very much wanted to snatch the nearest sharp object and drive it between those horrid yellow eyes.

“You can call me ‘Caroline,’” she spat. “You silk-trimmed, heartless serpent.”

A smile split the figure’s face, yet it didn’t even remotely reach his eyes.

“Fiery, a counterpoint to your husband’s chilly indifference to the sanctity of lives other than his own. Very well, Caroline. You want to know the truth? Your husband sold himself - every last bit - to me in exchange for eternal life, for freedom from his incurable sickness. I, being the honest businessman I am, granted him his wish, and-”

Gregorovic shrieked, interrupting him.

“You turned me into a monster, Sliske!”

There was a sharp, deafening clatter and a rush of searing shadow that forced Caroline’s eyes shut. When she opened them again, the protective shadows and Gregorovic had been flung sidelong into the nearby operating table.

He lay tangled in his own and his shadow’s limbs, wailing in what might’ve been pain from the IV stand that had skewered through the side of his chest, pinning him in place.

“Gregorovic!” she cried, standing and making a move to help him. Her attempt was cut short, however, by a hand latching itself around the back of her neck.

Fingers dug into her carotid arteries, and her vision fuzzed, disorientation and dizziness stalling any resistance she would have otherwise been able to put up. A second hand grasped her chin, keeping her in place with the implicit threat of cervical dislocation.

“As I was saying,” Sliske hissed into her ear. “I granted his wish. Yet, he’s tried again and again to go back on our deal. Oh, he accepted his fate at first, but a little itch of humanity still remained. And it’s been such a hard itch to scratch out.

“Resisting the hunger that, if satiated, would sustain his eternal life. Attempting to break free from my control, trying to play the game by himself instead of being a good little pawn. And, the crowning act of disobedience, coming here to find you, the final remnant of the life he once lived.”

Caroline huffed, blinking hard to fight her vertigo. If she could just break free, somehow, and reach the supply shelf…

The extra scalpels.

“I’ve considered the various punishments I should level on him, but perhaps you could help me decide, Caroline. What will it be? Dismemberment? Freezing his joints? Or, perhaps, loosening them? Or,” his hands tightened, claws piercing her flesh. She felt blood trickle down her neck, soaking into her tunic. “Perhaps seeing you, his dear wife, be torn apart right here and now will be enough to convince him to come quietly.”

“NO!” Gregorovic clawed at the metal entrapping him, sending sparks flashing into the air with a screeching cacophony.

The hand on her neck loosened, blood flooding back into Caroline’s brain.

Now’s my chance!

With a cry that might’ve belonged to one of the warriors in the nearby camp, she drove her elbow into Sliske’s stomach as hard as she could and tore herself away from his claws.

A mad scramble.

An inhuman roar followed her.

Hands closed around the handles of as many scalpels as she could grab.

She spun.

Stabbed.

Blades sunk through silk and flesh where Sliske’s heart should have been, and she pushed him back, a victorious grimace stretching her face.

It fell, however, when Sliske barely even flinched.

He glanced almost pityingly between her and the scalpels sprouting from his chest before yanking them all out at once with an audible squelch. Black, iridescent ichor covered the blades and dripped from the wound, yet whatever it was sublimed shortly after hitting the air, the wound knitting itself back together.

He didn’t wince, gasp, or show any signs of pain.

He just chuckled. Smiled.

“I commend you for trying, dear Caroline. I really do,” he sighed, turning the scalpels over in his hands. “But, I think you’ll find that pawns like yourself can do nothing against the hands that move them. Observe!”

The smile lunged.

Steel flashed, then plunged.

She fell back against the shelves, clutching the laceration across her abdomen with one hand, the hole in her chest with the other.

Blood flowed, her apron stained with growing rosettes.

Air hissed between her fingers.

A lung had been punctured.

She thought she saw Gregorovic thrash about, thought she heard him shriek and scream, but her ever-blurring vision was soon blocked by those sulfuric eyes drawing ever closer.

“Thank you for your input, Caroline,” Sliske whispered, placing a hand on her cheek. “This will be a fitting punishment for dear Greggie.”

She coughed, and Sliske’s face was flecked with blood. Humming, he removed his hand to wipe the droplets from his skin and continued.

“However...I’m feeling oddly charitable on this lovely night, and am prepared to offer you the chance of a lifetime.” His smile grew, lips pulling back over serrated teeth. “I won’t punish Greggie, and I shall heal you as I healed him. The only thing I ask of you is that you serve me unquestioningly.”

“Wh...why?” she wheezed, hands shaking.

“You have fight in you, and Greggie’s complete devotion,” he replied simply. “I can use that. And, think about it! You’ll get to be with your husband again. Forever. We both win.”

Her vision tunneled, her time almost up.

“So, what will it be?” Sliske held out his hand, beckoning her to take it. “Tick tock, tick tock, my dear.”

Her head lolled to the side, and she saw Gregorovic shaking his head frantically.

Gregorovic…

I’m…

No. You’ve suffered enough - I won’t let this snake hurt you any longer. I promise.

She flopped her head back forward, and slowly placed her own bloodied hand in his.

“I-I accept,” she gasped.

A smile.

A laugh.

“As you wish, dear Carol.”

Shadows flickered.

Pain ebbed.

Then, everything faded to black.

***

He saw the blood.

Saw Sliske looming over her.

Saw the shadow spell wind around her, melting and reforming her skin, stopping and restarting her heart, killing and resurrecting her all at once.

Then, he saw Sliske step back.

And he saw her rise to her feet.

Mottled, almost gangrenous skin.

Hopelessly tangled hair a dull, dead gray.

A smile too wide, too fake.

Caroline....my love, my heart.

The sight twisted the itch of humanity inside him - the bit of him that he had refused to renounce, the bit of him that had held back the hunger and kept him from consuming.

It twisted the itch, pulled it apart, and tamped it down until it was little more than a tickle.

Easier to ignore, but still there.

“Welcome to your new life, Carol,” Sliske said with a grand flourish of his hands. “Well, your new undeath, to be more accurate.”

She giggled.

Curtsied.

“And I shall un-live to serve, Sliske.”

Gregorovic grabbed and slashed at the stand that speared through his chest once more, finally snapping it in two. With a garbled cry, he eased himself off and up, swaying back to his feet, his conjured shadows melting away.

I don’t have much strength left, aheeheheh, but Caroline...she’s safe now.

The tickle poked at his mind. Goaded him on.

He barely felt his hands reach for his glaives, yet he heard them uncurl and saw the glinting blades at his sides.

She’s safe...and I DON’T HAVE TO HOLD BACK!

He charged, blades spinning, his warbling battlecry piercing the air.

The world turned over, solid shadows pummeling him from all sides.

His back hit the ground.

His glaives clattered somewhere out of reach.

A boot crashed into his chest.

“AHA! Good show, Greggie, good show.” Sliske leaned over him, Gregorovic’s wooden frame creaking under the weight of his heel. “You haven’t eaten lately, have you? Well, you’ve never eaten, ever.”

His master was right; he had resisted, despite the gnawing hunger and his ever waning strength.

“You need to eat soon, Greggie. You wouldn’t want your wife’s sacrifice go to waste, now would you?”

As if on cue, Carol knelt down next to him, patting him on the shoulder with another tinkling giggle.

“Don’t worry, dear!” she cooed, that strange smile still there as if stretched by unseeable fingers. “I’ll help you eat.” She leaned in close and whispered to where his ear might have been. “The camp nearby. It’s practically a buffet. Warriors. Couriers. Even a chef. How tasty that one must be...”

He shivered, hunger rising.

If he could, he would have drooled at the thought.

Eat.

Devour.

The bodies. The souls.

Everything.

Sate.

Feed.

CONSUME.

Sliske stepped off him, and he rolled over, scuttling out of the tent on all fours.

His eyes found the camp - the remains of a bonfire still smoking. Beyond that, tents.

He could smell them, the occupants, and his mask cracked open, tongue lolling out over his teeth. The scent of their souls, his own hunger, and the promise of strength drew him in.

And he followed.

Feasted.

***

Once unblemished stone had been stained with veins of anima.

Once quiet air had clogged with shouts and the clang of weapons.

A once empty cavern had become populated in the wake of four armies that sang their deities’ praises and hungered for power.

With them, of course, came war, strife, and death.

So too came those who sought to turn the tide in their faction’s favor.

Carol practically danced in place on her platform, humming to herself in time with the sounds of battle around her.

She flipped a matted lock back over her shoulder, waving cheerfully at the young elf across the platform from her after watching a Serenist ingression force fall to her husband’s troops.

Her husband.

What was left of her heart skipped a beat at the thought.

Elves, demons, and ancient warriors could be killed.

Memories, however, were made of far sterner stuff.

She had been injured.

Her husband, pinned by metal.

Someone had attacked them.

But then, Sliske had come.

He had saved them. Given them new lives.

He saved me. Redeemed me. Greggie, too.

He’s done so much for the two of us.

Because of him, Greggie and I can be together, forever.

Aheeheehee!

Waving over a scouting wight to take her place, she skipped off the platform and hefted a fallen elf onto her shoulder, continuing up to the Necropolis despite their struggles.

Together in undeath, he said. And he’s right! He’s always right...

[jonesdada]

"HAIL TO THE KING!” || 2x08: FP’s Speech & Jughead

All day. All day I’ve been trying to figure out how the hell I was going to properly convey my emotions, my thoughts on the matter. This episode gave me more FP than I have had all season, and my mental state, in all honesty, was not ready for it. I waited with baited breath from the second I saw the promo, and I could not have been prepared. I wasn’t. So here it goes. The only way I could imagine to express my thoughts? By analyzing the speech, picking a part every moment and everything he meant in each line.

It’s a wild ride.

“I’ve been in and out of the serpents since I was younger than my son, and it’s been a wild ride. Good times, bad times. Through it all, the serpents stuck by my side while most other people turned their backs on me — “ 

It comes clear to our attention that FP did not have the best home life, regardless of the fact that his school life was somewhat of a breeze. While he was being a star football player, he was also being a serpent at the young age of 16. While he was among the most popular, in a band, he was also homeless and living where ever he could. Despite this, he says in 1x07 that it was the best days of his life. He was top of the food chain when it came to school, regardless of how it was outside. And the serpents, you can presume, has never once made FP feel the way he did when he was at home. When he was with Fred. Hell, you can presume that they’ve never made him feel the way other’s did with their hatred. Not just his family and other loved ones, but himself included. 

It’s also important to make note of how the camera panned, who it seemed to move to as he says it. It moves to Betty and Alice, but most importantly the latter. While we have, quite frankly, no fucking idea what it was the two of them went through, it’d be impossible to write off Alice’s importance to FP. So much of how FP deals with the things he cannot handle is with anger. He’s a man who feels everything, feels far too much, and doesn’t want to. He’s always combated that with anger, with turning many emotions into one. I’ve always mentioned how important it is when he has his outbursts, and how so many of them come after the mentioning of Gladys. He’s never matched that anger, never matched that emotional outburst. The closest, however, is Alice. We may not know what the hell happened, but we do know that whatever it is? It was catastrophic for Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Second.

It’s also important to remember Fred Andrews in a situation like this. I didn’t know on if I should have put him here or in the family section, but God. I can only talk about the Fred and FP situation so many times. In the end of the day? There’s no one in this world who FP feels more turned against than Fred Andrews. Possibly not even Gladys.

“My own family included.” 

Ah, yes. Here it comes. The classic FP Jones motif. And, it’s even better this time around because what’s the “betrayal”  pulling at each and every heart string at this moment? His son. His pride, his joy, his entire world. But while this is true, let’s talk about the other family for the moment. Jughead will have his time at the end of this, and it will take up far more than anything else, presumably. 

We can assume FP lost his mother before he was kicked out of his house by his father, being told to go straight to Hell. It’s very possible that this was the first thing for him to go through to really shift his viewpoint, to make him see the world as black and white. A father is never supposed to be on the outside, never supposed to be the one that damns you straight to Hell. In FP’s case, he was. In FP’s case, he was only the first.

Then you come full circle. You come to where FP had his back turned on by the love of his life and their daughter. Is this logical? Absolutely not. Is this fair? Not even slightly. But FP has never been anything near logical nor fair. He’s always been a man who sees the world as those with you or against you, and once you turn your back once? It’s done until proven otherwise. In FP’s eyes, he gave his family every last thing he had. He drowned himself to keep them treading, to try and keep them afloat. In the end, it didn’t even matter.

Except for Jughead. But that’s something for later.

“The letter of the law says that I can’t be here in the Serpent Den. That I can’t associate with my friends, my real family. My blood! But I’ve been thinking about that. And it’ll be a cold day in Hell before a Snake lets a Pig tell him what to do!” 

It’s something I’ve mentioned time and time again. FP’s a leader. He’s a father. He’s a king. The Serpents have always, and will always be an image of the family that he cannot taint. They will always be the family that he was meant for, the family that he can only bring up, not down. He knows they need him, he knows they need him as much as he needs them. Because FP was born for something far greater than to be a foreman for a construction company. He was born to be something greater than a waiter at Pop’s. When it comes to the Serpents? FP is law. He is the glue that keeps everyone together, that keeps everything working. He keeps them in line, he keeps them straight, he keeps them tidy. His domain, his law, his kingdom. 

The serpents have been the family he could never have from day one. 

With that being said, he was ready to leave it all. The way that his head cocks when he says the part of, “I’ve been thinking about that,” it’s the same way he does when he lies to Keller in 1x12 about the planning up the ransom for Jason Blossom. FP was ready to be on the straight and narrow, the legal side of it all. For his son, he was about to turn his back on the only people who’s always had his. Which is what makes it all the more heartbreaking. 

“North Side wants me out of this gang? Well, they better bring a coffin, cause FP Jones isn’t retiring! I am NOT going gently into that good night! I am here to STAY! So bring the fire!”

It’s important to note what the meaning of this reference is, and what it has always been used for. It’s used for a battle cry, it’s used for a call for action. The symbolism, the meaning behind it? Fighting death. And that’s exactly what FP is proving cannot happen. The death of the serpents, the death of the king, the death of the prodigal son. The death of innocence. FP is at a crossroads, and he’s needing to go down many of the options. He needs to protect and lead the serpents, he needs to protect and lead his own son in the road of his life. He needs to protect himself, fix the wrongs he’s done in his own life. And FP knows better than anyone: he can’t do that on the outside. 

When he’s not wearing his leather jacket, when he’s outside of the Wyrm? He’s nothing, he’s powerless. And at this moment? He has spent months this way. He has spent months having the least amount of rights, the least amount of power possible. He’s not a good man, he’s not an innocent man, but he’s also not a man meant to be powerless. His reputation, his influence is far too great. And while he was gone? Signs of crumbling already began to be present in the infrastructure of his kingdom. He can’t do that to them again. Especially with his son being involved.

Which brings us to the end of the speech, and to the hardest part of the episode. 

“I know about the snake charmer, and the delivery you did, and the debt you owe her. It was the one thing, son, the one thing I asked you not to do. I’m in, you’re out. Penny’s my problem now. You broke my heart, Jughead.”

This is a FP we have never seen. 

This is a FP that he never thought he would be. This is a man who’s heart has been broken by the most important person in his life. This? Is the hardest thing that FP has ever gone through, and the agony is written all over his face. It was never Jughead’s job to do the disky things to save him, that was the job of a father. He was in jail, partially for confessing to a crime he didn’t completely commit, for one reason  — to protect his son. That’s the only reason that has ever mattered for any and everything FP does. Regardless of where the serpents lie, regardless of where the rest of his family lies? Jughead comes first, and he always has, and he always will. 

And for the first time in FP’s life, he has no idea how he’s going to get his son out of this. He has no idea how he’s going to get his son out of trouble. For the first time in his life, he looks at his son and he feels absolute fear. For his future, for his safety, for his present. For the first time in his life, he’s felt as if he’s truly damned his son to hell, just like his old man did to him. 

But despite all of this. Despite the pain, despite the heartbreak, despite the agony... His son still shines the brightest of any star he’s ever seen. His son still has every important heart string, still calls all the shots when it comes to his loyalty and love. So he holds him as close as he can, he kisses his forehead, he reminds him of that, regardless of how awful it feels. 

And then he takes a drink. Because the show must go on. Because he has people to catch up with, and he has a role to play. And he can’t do that while breaking down, while struggling to pick up all the pieces that his absence left. That’s for the next day, and then the next, and then the next. But hail to the king, tonight. 

[jonesdada]

A FUN REMINDER BEFORE THE EPISODE TOMORROW: 

Regardless of IF you want to forget it: FP Jones is not an innocent man.

With that being said, he is NOT, and will NEVER be a guiltless one. 

FP Jones cleaned up a crime scene. He didn’t kidnap Jason, but he DID clean up a crime scene. He DID obstruct justice. He DID dump a body into a river, burn evidence, and cover up tracks for Clifford Blossom. We don’t know what he possibly did those things for, because it’s canon that Jughead’s life was not on the line UNTIL FP was arrested, but regardless of motive, he still did it. You could argue that he was always doing it to save his son, to keep his gang clean, and to be honest, that’s what I argue. That’s what I believe. But regardless of these things, he still did illegal things and he DID prolong the danger of Clifford Blossom thanks to obstruction of justice. 

HOWEVER, ONCE AGAIN, HE IS NOT GUILTLESS!

Regardless of if you want to forget it, there is more than enough in the show to come to the conclusion that FP didn’t even know about Jason being in the basement. With the way that the Whyte Wyrm is set up, how would he? Regardless of if he owns the bar, his office is on the second floor. That means there’s two sets of stairs between them, and one whole floor between. We know FP has been suffering with alcoholism by this point. We know there’s chances that even if he heard something, he may have thought he was merely losing it. 

The very thing that could be seen the most as unidentifiable proof? The second you see his face, once Joaquin walks in. Considering he had to text Joaquin, there’s a possibility of anywhere between five minutes to an hour that he stood there, mouth agape, looking at the dead body. This isn’t just fear, confusion, or panic. This is genuine agony. This is genuine pain. The same could be said for when he sets the car on fire, the way his face showcases all the features of remorse, guilt, pain. 

Now, I could talk for hours about why I believe he feels so strongly when it comes to his part in the death of Jason Blossom, but at the end of the day it is merely headcanons, so I leave you with this. Please remember, despite all else, Forsythe WAS Jason in high school. He was the BMOC, the guy with musical abilities ( ie: the Fredheads ), the man who singlehandedly defeated the Baxter High Ravens. He was the Golden Boy, just as Jason, just as Archie. He had a chance to get Jason out, to do what he was never able to do so. Ultimately, he failed, and in his failures brought on one of the most traumatic jobs of his life. 

So don’t sugar coat him, don’t vilify him. He’s fucked up, he’s not innocent, and he’s not perfect. He is a grey area, always has been and always will be. Love him for that, and remember that when you’re watching the episode and seeing how the world interacts with him. It’ll help. Thank you. 

[jonesdada]

in light of recent news, i need everyone to know that FP most certainly stomps onto a table to be taller than SP when he scolds him. 

shout out to @brassloyalty for helping me come to this realization.

[jonesdada]

Yes hi, Becks Jones III, Riverdale Register. My question is for FP Jones ... When and how did you come to acquire reading glasses? Does being a Serpent include health care? Did you track someone down with the same prescription as you and steal them? When and how did you have your eyes tested between your stints in jail and work as a Serpent king / father / alcoholic?

TIME FOR A HEADCANON DUMP ! 

First of all, thank you J Bad III. I had honestly forgotten I hadn’t really spoken on the reading glasses situation, and even though I gave you a brief little tidbit about it via Discord, here’s it in full glory for all the viewers at home! 

Considering the fact that we now know FP was homeless for a bit in high school, I think it’s safe to bet that he was probably couch surfing for quite some time. However, I’ve always played him with a strong attachment to the Wyrm, and I’ve always got the feeling that he has an office on the second floor. Hell, I’ve always gotten the feeling that he spent most nights up there, ever since Jughead left. Since these things have come to light, I’ve sort of deduced that there’s a very real possibility of him living up there in that office during high school. 

How that plays into everything, is that I don’t exactly see the office as having the best light. It’s probably mostly from lamps, a tall one in the corner and then one he keeps right on his desk. It’s not the best lighting, but considering the fact his being sober is up for grabs at most points, not much more is comfortable for him to deal with. As a teenager, when he lived up there, he probably didn’t ask for much. Despite needing a better environment to keep up with school work, he wouldn’t ask for one. He took what he could get, and the idea of being a nuisance? Made it to where he wouldn’t ask. Most nights, FP was probably at libraries until late, but sometimes projects had to go past operating hours. So, he would have to work upstairs, away from all the commotion, and in little light. 

Eventually, this took a toll on his eyesight when it comes to reading. When you combine this with his four years in the Army, the late nights he would stay up, trying to read after lights out, and everything in between? His eyes were suffering by the time he got out, and he was lucky enough to be able to qualify for the VA health insurance, thanks to his impoverished status. 

So, he’s had the glasses throughout the rest of his life. He probably needs a new prescription, but he has no money and no motivation to spend it on them. Still, they get him through what they have to and he probably hasn’t bought a new pair in…. at least four or five years, thanks to being laid off by Fred. They’re falling apart, coming nearly undone at the screws but he makes due with them, sometimes going back and forth with a pair bought at Dollar General. 

[jonesdada]

IMPORTANT HEADCANON:

fp is a lazy ass son of a bitch. 

carry on.