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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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These Violent Delights | Chapter Two

Summary: A High Lords meeting goes awry and you find yourself thrust into the foxes den.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 6.4k

Chapter 1 of These Violent Delights on my Masterlist

The Hewn City’s state rooms are ugly, you think as you stalk the emissary of the Night Court through the winding, narrow corridors of Hewn City. The palatial chambers had been carved into the dark stone of the mountain by the Gods of old; and the high, domed ceilings are held in place by onyx pillars decorated with twisted carvings of beasts and fornicating demi-gods that line the Gothic archways.

Lurid, ill-fated omens, you think.

Harbingers of your undoing.

The emissary appointed with escorting you is adorned in ceremonial robes; a fine damask tunic in a deep indigo silk that is almost iridescent in the artificial light. You fall into step with him as he approaches a set of gilded iron gates. Two armored sentries fall into rank as you cross the threshold of the council chambers and you offer a courteous nod to the sentry as he meets your eye.

The antechamber of The Moonstone Palace is plunged in a suffocating blue-darkness with only the silvers of silver faelight, like artificial stars, to light the faces of the High Lords. The atmosphere is oppressive and the smell of hemlock and moonflowers stain the stagnant air. For a few moments, while you’re lost in thought, the world is silent and still. Feigning peace. But there is no peace. Not here, where the eyes of every High Lord in Prythian are upon you.

Hewn City is a dark mirage. A metropolis of hedonistic desire and vulgar frivolity

It is here in the dark that you find yourself adrift; lost somewhere to the sea of time. You abandon yourself to the tide of memory. The happy recollections of your childhood; to the thought of home. Someplace far from here, where the sunlight touches your skin and the smell of salt from the coast becomes tangled in your unbound hair. Somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, where you know your mothers love and your fathers face is something more than a mere memory.

It occurs to you that this is a home that never existed.

Home had always been burning; the acrid smell of woodsmoke beckons you like a funeral pyre and your salt-cracked lips chafe and bleed in the wake of blistering winds from the violent sea. And that’s the thing about mothers, you and she exist as some wretched mirror or one another; as hatred and guilt.

You’ve been thinking of your mother a lot as of late; something in your dreams, the echoing of a coming storm. A fine line between love and hate. It is something strange and prophetic that makes your skin crawl uncomfortably from your body.

In a flurry of movement against the black you are brought back to the present as you take your place amongst the ranks of the Inner Circle.

The silhouettes of the other High Lords, that had been flickering wildly against the dark stone of the mountain, cease to move. Cease to be, as shadows envelop the room, melting into the darkness as Rhysand glides into the room his violet eyes glinting in the dark. His eyes shine with a cold violence that draws you from thought and the visions of a home long forgotten turn to ashes in your trembling hands. He’s dressed all in black and violet, his tan skin looks pallid in the low light. By his side Feyre’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in starlight against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch the scent of chamomile and moondust in the air.

It smells like Nyx you think, smiling lightly to yourself at the thought of your nephew.

A tremor of dark power ripples through the air and you feel the shift in the atmosphere when shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and his retinue of courtiers. The shield that Rhysand had already placed around the Inner Circle; made stronger in response. Night magic glitters in the air like stardust and you swear you can taste it on your tongue. That same cold rage and an essence of icy violence fortifies you against the hostility in the room and you school your expression to remain neutral when you seek out a pair of strange amber eyes in the crowd.

A gentle warmth burns though your chest and your eyes scan the crowd.

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator; resolute and obstinate. Amber eyes burn like fire glow in the dim light and each of his long strides are punctuated by the echo of boot clad feet on the marble. In this light, his face is almost ethereal. Unearthly even. Set in a painfully neutral expression as he slinks through the halls of the city below the mountains of Velaris. Eris Vanserra burns bright against the other Lords of Pryhtian; his copper hair, like burnished gold in the dim lights, and his eyes. Those fucking eyes. Haunting and evocative as he meets your gaze with a feline smirk.

It is a wicked, false thing, that glitters with malice.

He watches you with a wrathful sort of reverence. He is so very lovely, even in the pallid light. Even as his father and brothers flank his sides like a pack of hungry foxes; hungry and baying for blood.

You watch him carefully as Eris takes his seat at the foot of the large black table, he’s careful to make a show of the way he languidly reclines in his chair, rolling his shoulders back and angling his hips in such a way that the whole room is displayed to him at once.

It’s almost voyeuristic in nature.

That summons a storm within you; a violent, lonely, sort of thing, that washes over him with the force of a raging tempest down the scarcely accepted bond and his eyes, glittering and amber in the dying light, finding yours again. For a moment, Eris Vanserra sees himself through your eyes; for the first time in centuries he doesn’t hate the man staring back at him.

By his side Eris’ mother’s skin looks as though it is wreathed in fireglow against the backdrop of the twilight-- you catch her dark glassy eyes and she smiles softly at you. There is a deep sorrow there, in the depths of The Lady of Autumn's eyes, that feel kindred to you.

A shared pain, perhaps.

Turning as Rhysand and Feyre push further into the darkness of the antechamber, you are drawn from thought once more.

The rest of The Night Court look like some savage celestial army as they enter on a night-kissed breeze. Cassian and Nesta look like warriors hardened by war and ruin, all dressed in black and faces coloured with cold caution. They’re followed by the Shadowsinger, who is shrouded in dark wisps of shadow and his skin glows golden against the dark. His face is set in an unreadable expression, though, when your eyes meet a flash of recognition flashes in those hazel eyes.

Rhysand stops dead in his tracks when he regards the High Lord of Autumn.

Beron Vanserra; cruel and tyrannical, keens when he notes the flash of surprise in Rhysand’s violet gaze. His eyes simmer with a dim fire as his eyes land on you. Beron’s teeth are like crow-picked bones as he offers you a feral smile.

“We weren’t expecting you, Beron.” Feyre’s voice is distant and cold as she speaks to the High Lord and his sons.

Rhysand rises to his feet from his throne, waving his hand to the attendants, “Fetch the High Lord and his Lady a seat.”

The attendant presents Beron with a chair and he settles between Helion and the Lady of Autumn, neither Helion nor the lady seem to acknowledge each other but you can feel the shift in their demeanors as Beron’s ire sparks in his eyes. He doesn’t even spare The Lady of Autumn a glance before he moves on to inspecting his fellow High Lords.

You pay Beron no heed and instead your eyes find the Lady of Autumn as she settles into her seat beside her husband and eldest son. The Lady of Autumn is like one of Feyre’s paintings; arresting and darkly beautiful. Her romantic eyes are shaded in the colors of sunset; a warm amber that looks almost golden in the low light and her dark auburn hair glitters in the dying fireglow and her eyes-- so rich that you get lost in their glassy depths. Those haunting eyes. They’re Eris’ eyes you realize as they meet yours. Though she doesn’t linger long she gives you a soft smile before returning her gaze to her long slender fingers that twitch in her lap. They’re adorned with many gold rings and crystals that she wears like armor to fortify her against the hostile atmosphere.

You see something of yourself in her you think, looking down to your own attire. An opulent and finely boned corset, cinched so tight, that even breathing feels like a luxury and the heavy black damask that covers you in swathes of pleated fabric acts as barrier between yourself and the many eyes in the room that trail over you without care or warning.

“Nor was I expecting to be here,” Beron drawls, “But alas, it seems we have business to discuss.” Beron’s fire rages dangerously against the black. Torrid and angry, his face unflinching and cruel as he turns his gaze upon Rhysand. Something treacherous passes between the two High Lords at that moment and something in your chest begins to stir like a storm inside of you.

A warning of a coming storm.

“Rumor claims that your allegiances are elsewhere, these days.” It is your voice that counters and Beron croons. The High Lord of Autumn assesses you keenly, his gaze shifting-- from the darkness of your eyes-- down. To the sulk of your lips. Further still to the exposed slope of your shoulders and coming to rest on your chest, where the swell of your breasts spills over the corseted bodice of your gown. His eyes darken luridly as his eyes meet yours again. Beron Vanserra scrutinizes every minute detail of your dark armor; every errant hair, every nervous twitch of your jaw, every flutter of your dark lashes.

It’s disarming the smile that spreads across his handsome face and his eyes shine with a maniacal sort of joy that sparks a wave of fury that runs through you like water-- and you swear you can feel Eris’ own fiery rage in answer.

“And what would you know of my allegiances, girl?” The false smile he offered is soon replaced with a deep loathing in Beron’s eyes that practically burns through you.

In a way, it feels strangely comforting to feel his ire.

To feel anything at all that isn’t paralyzing dread or hirearth for a home to which you will never return.

Helion waves a scar-flecked hand in front of him, “Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”

The High Lord of Day glows with the radiance of the golden sun and he looks at you with such a strange mixture of boredom and curiosity that almost seems like reverence. He doesn’t dare look at The Autumn Lady in her seat though you notice the careful glances she makes towards him in those spaces between the seconds when no one is paying much heed.

“I know you met with rhe Prince of Rask.” you say and all the idle chatter in the room dies at once. “And he’s working with the Koschei, isn’t he?”

Beron opens his mouth and you brace yourself for the torrid flames of his wrath. You see the violent delight dance across Beron’s eyes and Rhysand just holds his stare. Hold it with a face like icy death. And beneath the surface you see untempered wrath as it ripples beneath his carefully curated mask. A sharp pain in your chest has you seeking out Eris at his father’s side. His face is the picture of cataclysmic rage; writhing and burning in those eyes.

To anyone else Eris Vanserra is the image of infernal rage. A righteous son to a wronged father. But to you-- all his fear comes home to you.

A warning fire.

“Never mind, we can discuss the happy news of your heir’s birth another time,” Beron smiles again at Rhysand and Feyre. It is Feyre who regards him with a snarling fury at the mention of the son she had almost died to bring into the world.

She would give her life again if only to protect him from the clutches of a tyrant like Beron. Of that you were certain.

“I believe we have business to discuss?” Beron questions again when no one responds to his taunt.

All the eyes in the room turn to you when you loose a laugh, “I didn’t realize we were in the business of discussing plans with our enemies.”

Eris Vanserra looks as though he might just vault over the table and silence you himself. His eyes smoulder in the dark and the scathing look he sends your way is enough to make you weak in the knees.

“Make no mistake girl,” Beron muses, his eyes sparking with feral delight, “I am not your enemy,”

“You are advised to keep it that way.”

In that moment you are bereft of every thought and sound in your mind as the room stills.

Rhysand and Feyre falter and look between you and The High Lord of Autumn-- and his heir.

Your mate.

Eris himself remains poised, his fingers wrapped around the arm of the chair, the wood straining under his cruel grip until his knuckles turn as pale as the sea foam that swirls atop the Sidra.

It is the Shadowsinger who rises from his seat in response, “Threaten her again, old man-- I dare you.” Azriel’s voice wraps round you like cold death and you can’t help but stare impassively as he places his body between yours and Beron. The flicker of flame is smothered by Azriel’s darkness.

Beron sits in his chair without so much as a word. Though you see the taunt in his eyes as he looks at you again. Azriel’s imposing figure still stands over you, a scarred hand that strokes languid circles into the skin of your shoulder. The bond in your chest hums violently.

“Call off your dog, Rhysand.” Eris’ voice is dangerously low as he eyes Azriel.

Rhys shrugs, smiling faintly “Very well,” he muses.

Azriel takes his seat beside you, though his scarred fingers remain fixed on the arm of your chair.

“Tell me, Azriel?” Eris laughs coldly, his voice devoid of any humor and he opens his mouth to speak, “Does it pain you knowing that both of your brothers have been given a sister as a mate?”

“And yet the Mother still deems you unworthy of a Mate -- desitined to pity fuck the spare sister.” Eris muses with a lilt of his voice when he realizes he has the upperhand.

A twinge of heat in your chest from the bond makes your scowl deepen.

Azriel blinks at first, his face twisting in rage before rising to his feet once more, barrelling over the table with an inhuman growl. Azriel grips Eris by the lapels of his emerald tunic. Coming together in flashes of flame and smoke as they struggle against one another. Eris swings a leg over Azriel’s thigh bringing them both tumbling to the floor, while the other High Lords watch on with varying degrees of amusement and frustration on their faces.

Your face heats under the scrutiny. Unable to move or speak-- your stormy facade rendered useless as the tears begin to well in your eyes.

You are a storm-- but in the face of their wrath there is naught you can do but watch and abide.

Rhysands commanding voice cuts through Azriel’s cursing and Eris’ insults. The room falls silent as the males pull away from one another. Azriel’s nose is bloodied and his hair falls around his face in messy strands. Eris’ lip is split, spilling crimson along the column of his throat. You trace the line of scarlet as the droplets stain the neckline of his white shirt. You can hear his heartbeat as it flutters wildly. His eyes meet yours and a look of resignation and shame crosses them for a moment; obscuring the perfect amber of his gaze.

Azriel wipes his blood on his leathers; wears it like armor as he turns to Eris “Something to remember me by.”

Azriel spits the words like venom at Eris whose face radiates with a dark and fiery wrath.

Feyre looks between the two males and then to you; her face softens then as she regards you. Your hands shaking wildly, and a heartbeat like an echoing war drum, the bond in your chest singing a mournful song as it rages inside you.

You look utterly devastated.

She’s not used to seeing that kind of defeat on the face of her elder sister; the sister who had weathered so much, always headstrong and ardent, who had suffered every injustice with a straight face-- she hadn’t quite prepared herself for the type of sorrow that realization would bring with it.

Taking in the scene unfolding before you-- the descent into violence and the blood that pools like rubies at Eris Vanserra’s feet you loose a shaky breath. “Enough--enough” You wave your hands between Azriel and Eris.

The males both take a tentative step away from one another and further from you.

“Who shares my bed is of little concern, I assure you, My Lord,” You insist firstly, setting your shoulders straight and facing them now with all the stormy determination you can feign in that moment, “from what I’ve heard you yourself have quite curious bedfellows.”

Beron sneers and scoffs from his seat at the foot of the table at the insult. A lie, at that. If anyone does share Eris Vanserra’s bed they are a mystery to you.

“Preferring the company of hounds - or so I am told.” Azriel adds.

And in truth you and Azriel haven’t so much as locked eyes since that night in Hewn City. After the mating bond between you and Eris had made its home in your chest you hadn’t been able to think about anyone or anything else.

Just him. And those amber eyes.

“We are here because once more someone is threatening the tenuous peace we have established here,” Helion nods his head thoughtfully and Thesan, who had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal looks at you with genuine encouragement and utters his agreement. Kallias and Vivianne remain silent and imposing on the other side of the table.

“It is our duty-- our privilege-- to ensure Prythian and its people are not ravaged by war again.” You look to Kallias then, unimpressed by the needless violence that had passed but somehow enamored by your words.

“Hyburn took so much from us-- from all of us.” You say, gesturing around the table and the High Lord’s faces are all shaded in sympathy and regret for all they had lost, “and Amarantha made slaves of you all.”

You cast a glance to your sister; who had fought and died for these great men and their courts. And to Rhysand who had subjected himself to being her plaything. Something like grief flashes in those violet eyes that sparks a storm in you.

“I will not be a slave again,” You vow and you notice then how all the High Lords seem rapt withal as you speak to them, and the storm inside you rages on, “to anyone.”

The tensions around the table seem to dissipate when Helion raises a chalice and smirks fondly at you and it seems that they see you as more than a bed warmer to a dark God or the mate of some High Lord’s heir. Talons scrape menacingly along your mental shields and Rhysand’s dark presence makes itself known to you. Bed warmer? Darling you are a storm-- everyone here knows it.

A force to be reckoned with.

The rest of the meeting seems to come to pass as intended, laborious hours of negotiating and political games as you come to terms with each High Lord in turn. By the time the moon hangs in the sky like cut quartz, almost all of the High Lords have already departed, leaving only The High Lord of Spring and The Autumn Court’s entourage.

“Where did you find this one, Rhysand?” Tamlin asks, his tone measured and light.

Rhysand looks between Feyre and you smiling lightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he opens his mouth to speak.

“I heard they found her in a Hyburn cell, after the war was over.” It is Beron Vanserra’s voice that cuts in, “what was left of her anyway.”

“Perhaps we should be asking where your loyalties lie?” It’s the middle Vanserra brother that speaks. His russet curls glow warm in the dim lights and his stare is cruel and malignant as he hones in on you.

“Hyburn whore” It’s whispered, accusatory, on an inhale of breath.

They way it is uttered with an air of repulsion and venom reminds you of those stories told in human villages; of woods women named ‘witch’ by those who do not understand.

People fear what they do not understand.

It seems that Fae are no different than mere mortals in that respect.

“You’d be wise to bite your tongue, brother.” Eris’s voice is a cold echo as all thought and sound eddies out of your mind. Flashes of black and gold as the visions come back to you; those days spent cowering in the darkness of your cell, your feral anger directed at any man who came too close-- all biting fury, canines and claws, and the screams they tore from your like the howling wind over a violent sea.

A fury spreads through you, taking root in the dark caverns of your chest, slowing your heartbeat to a dull aching thud as you lose yourself to it; give yourself over to the tempest of emotion that courses through you. You try to fight it as the first ebbs of that dangerous storm embrace you. Lest you surrender yourself to the tempest; let it open you up and pour out into the world in floods of ravaging power.

It brings forth a storm the likes of which the world has never seen; a thing of ugly rage.

You were born angry, your mother had told you once.

But rage is a learned thing. Your rage. It had been your mother’s first, before that it had her mothers, and her mother before her.

It is an inherited curse; a wicked and wretched thing.

It is a storm enough to drown in.

A howling wind whips around you and for a moment you are standing at a great precipice. From the cliff’s edge, peering down at a violent sea as it coils and breaks against the jagged cliff face of some distant shore, where the world looks as though it is dappled in fireglow, the smell of woodsmoke and bonfires wafts from inland. The sea-soaked wind is so palpable that you taste its salt-kiss on your lips with the ardent fervor of the most savage lover.

There is something sacred in salt, you think.

For a moment you consider what it would feel like; to plummet into the watery abyss. How the sunlight would look as it fractures and splinters on the water's violent surface.

How it might cascade into the murky green depths. A secret held between you and the sea.

“My Lady,” It is Eris’ voice, practically feral and dripping with an aching desperation as he all but vaults around the corner of the dark wood table, parting his brothers with a rehearsed type of brutality as he claws his way to you. His commanding aura draws you closer to him and his pale hand offers a strong and comforting weight on your arm as he takes your trembling palm in his rough hold.

“You’re bleeding,” Eris says, cupping your palm into a fist with his own, applying light pressure to the wound while he assesses it. Turning it over in his tentative grasp. Through your lashes you take a moment to assess him as he towers over you. He’s tall and much broader than you remember but he moves with an inhuman grace. His nose is long and straight and his jaw strong and regal. His amber eyes linger dangerously over the hand cupped in his own. You hadn’t even realized you had stood up. Nor had you registered the blood you had drawn from your own palms until you see the crescent moons, indented in the tender flesh, like a taunt as they stain Eris’ fingertips scarlet as he presses the fabric of his handkerchief to your grazed hand.

“It’s nothing, My Lord,” You say softly, your voice low and you feel his eyes burning into yours; it is a slow, searing ache that almost feels like a kiss. A fragile thing, full of reverence and a strange tenderness. A vein of hurt throbs through you, quickly soothed by the press of his palm to yours.

Eris Vanserra holds a power over you; commands you in a way that should feel unpleasant. The knowledge that you would give yourself over to him if only he asked.

“It is only a little blood.” The words live and die on tongue, they fizzle out just as soon as they are uttered before he is calling for Rhysand -- his voice is swallowed by the din and your heartbeat echoes like a wardrum in your ears and the sound of the violet sea breaks against you and you feel your body go lax.

You wait for the dull ache as your body meets the cool marble of the floor only it never comes; instead your weight is suspended in the embrace of Eris Vanserra’s arms, you vaguely hear your name from his lips before the world turns to darkness.

You feel like lull of his heartbeat as he brings you closer against his chest.

The smell of cedar and smoked bergamot follows you into the abyss.

The room seems to come back to you like the tide; swiftly and cruelly as it materializes before you. It comes back in flashes of the dark; the oppressive pillars of dark marble that hold the domed, onyx ceiling in place, the silver fae lights like pallid stars and the visage of contorting demons and chimera’s like half formed ghosts.

“What happened?” You ask looking around the darkened council chambers; once filled with the idle chatter of courtiers and High Lord’s and their entourage now only the Inner Circle is gathered in the darkness contained between these walls.

And Eris.

He burns golden against the black.

“Well one thing is for certain,” It is Morrigan who stands over you, her shoes shine like rubies in the low light, “You know how to make a scene.” Her voice is light and jovial, laced with concern.

“You fainted,” Feyre says plainly as she sinks to her knees before you. It is then you feel Eris’ solid frame as he radiates warmth behind you, where you are propped against his chest. Your body feels foreign and unlike your own as you move, transferring your weight from his arms and into the arms of Feyre who helps you stand on uncertain feet.

“I’m sorry,” You say earnestly to both Rhysand and Feyre and turning to Eris again to mutter your thanks. He looks displeased at that. The distance between your body in his, the unfamiliarity you regard him with as if you hadn’t just allowed yourself to revel in the feel of his arms wrapped securely around you. “I’m sorry.”

“You should return to your father, My Lord.” You laugh humorlessly, using the hand that isn’t wrapped tightly around the lip of the chair to smooth a hand down the pleats of your gown reflexively.

A knock, resounding and resolute echoes through the chamber and the Inner Circle seem to bristle at the intrusion. Through the blanket of the dark a figure emerges; Keir stands tall with an air of arrogance about him as he steps into the antechamber. His hair is dark and graying and his face, though handsome, has begun to show signs of age. His eyes glitter menacingly as he finds you amongst the inner circle.

“My apologies for the intrusion, High Lord.” Keir says, his voice full of dark promise as a second figure steps from the shadow, “but it appears there is a rather urgent matter that has come to our attention.”

The rooms seems steeped in solemn silence as Beron Vanserra reveals himself through the din; dressed in fine merlot robes and embroidered with gold threads and leaves. He looks like Autumn personified. All fire and wrath as he stalks into the room.

“It appears you have been keeping secrets from me, Rhysand.” Rhys takes a step forward approaching Beron with little regard for the fury that burns behind his hazel eyes. The High Lord of Night laughs cruelly as Beron advances further into the room, seeking out his son, who reaches for you almost without thinking. His fingers flex around your forearm and push you further into Feyre as he steps in front of you both subtly.

Beron looks suspiciously between the three of you.

Beron smiles.

It is not a thing of fondness or affection-- It is dark and laden with malevolence. A whisper of amusement lights in his golden irises and Eris feels like a boy again; alone and afraid as the shadows of his fathers wrath descend upon him.

“You knew,” The High Lord of Autumn charges forward, tearing through Azriel and Cassian, as he raves. His voice is dangerously low and full of malice as he advances towards Eris. His eyes blaze against the dark as he casts his wicked gaze upon his eldest son.

“You knew,” He repeats frantically, “That whore is your mate, and you lied to me.”

Accusatory.

Without thought or care, Eris lunges forward and takes one long stride so that his body shields yours from Beron’s grasp as his fire burns vengeful and angry as it bands around Eris’s arms. The putrid smell of burned flesh brings bile rising in your throat and you feel Rhysand’s shields fortify around you and the rest of the Inner Circle in response.

You wait for someone to do something, but as is the nature of these things Rhysand is not permitted to interfere in the affairs of other courts. And whether he likes it or not, Eris is subject to his High Lord and father.

And as it stands he is a traitor to both.

Eris falls to his knees before you and you feel the bond die in your chest; his scream is something akin to dying. It sears through you, burning like fire until you feel like a phoenix rising from its own ashes as your body moves of its own volition.

“Stop, stop!” You plead with Beron advancing a pace towards him as you pull away from Feyre’s secure hold. Not even Cassian dares hold you back when you claw your way from the safety of his arms, “Please, he didn’t know.”

Beron pays you no heed as his wrath brings Eris to his knees.

“Please.” you beg, your voice aching and angry as you address the High Lord, ignoring the warnings of Azriel and Cassian, “He didn’t know.”

“W-we hid it from him.” Your lie desperately, your voice though strained comes out in violent waves of anger as Beron continues to inflict his fire upon Eris.

Your mate.

In a desperate bid to spare him you beg once more.

“Please, whatever you want, you can have it, I swear it.” And all the fire ceases.

Eris heaves a heavy breath and he collapses in a swath of burnished gold and emerald, strewn lazily against the marble. You sink to your knees beside him, his hands, though shaking, are firm against you as they grasp at the many layers of your skirts as he hoists himself up. Even on his knees he towers over you. His hair drapes like spidersilk over one side of his sculpted face as he peers down at you with dark amber eyes. Despite all the eyes in the room Eris brings a tentative hand to cup your cheek and all his remorse and grief flood down the bond that runs golden and brilliant from your body to his; as if to say no use hiding now, little fox.

Eris rises to his feet before his father who looks on with a mixture of feral delight and complete apathy as Eris’ pain subsides.

Keir retreats into the shadows and with him the air shifts; the room, once shaded in the smell of hemlock and moonflowers, is tainted with something more. Something darker. Earthy.

The smell of wildflowers; smoke-kissed juniper and foxglove, all undercut with the smell of salt and iron.

It occurs to you then that it is the smell of your mating bond.

Beron loses a dark laugh and approaches you slowly, like a predator circles its prey. Deliberate and calculating as he takes your chin in his bony fingers and commands you to look at him. His eyes are much darker than Eris’, so dark that they almost look black in this light and even in his age you admire their depths, haunting and arresting. Beron cuts an intimidating figure, you think as he flashes you a smile that is all Eris.

You sometimes forget how alike father and son are; though Eris is undoubtedly more striking; with his strange amber eyes and baring a broader physique than his father, with strong arms and shoulders and that beautiful copper hair which he had inherited from his mother.

“Anything I want?” Beron muses deathly quiet as he brings you closer to him, so close that the heat of his breath against your face causes chills to rise along the skin of your arms and neck.

“Anything, that is within my power to give.” You clarify, unwilling to be tricked into a more heinous bargain than you had prepared yourself for. Feyre protests loudly, calling your name, begging you to see reason though her pleas are useless against the thunder of your heart in your chest; like the sound of a storm rolling in from the sea.

Rhysand holds his wife by her forearms as she attempts to fight her way to your side.

A bargain offered of your own volition cannot be undone or unmade.

All that’s left to do is come to terms.

Beron smiles again, a saccharine smile that turns your stomach as his free hand cups your hip harshly, his brows rise in question and you realize how he’s looking right through you to his son who stands defeated behind you.

“And if I want you?” You swallow hard as his hand on your hip tightens to a bruising grip.

The High Lord of Night protests and a dark ripple of power separates you and Beron, you stumble backwards until you’re pressed up against the dark wood table as it cuts into the backs of your thighs. Beron laughs playfully and raises his hands in mock surrender to Rhysand. Keir smiles with a sense of sick satisfaction as Beron nods for Eris to join him.

Eris joins his father on the side of the room and Beron inspects him in carefully; scrutinizes every furrow of his brow or the tick of his jaw as charred flesh gives way to pale unblemished skin.

Beron claps a hand over his son's shoulder and offers his half-hearted explanation.

Filling his ear with poison.

“Your mate has deceived you, my son; she is yours by right,” Beron preens like an over-satisfied cat, offering a wave of his hand as he gestures to you, “Is she not?”

Eris swallows thickly and through the bond you can feel his wrath as it burns silent and deadly through you. His fire burns ferocious and wild. Dark and untamed. It ignites a similar storm in the pit of your stomach as Eris regards you with feigned malice much to the appeasement of his father.

His gaze, once soft and vulnerable, is cold and predatory as he takes his time to trail over the swell of your chest and the curve of your hips like a hungry animal.

“She is,” His voice is sharp-edged as he nods impassively to his father, the glimpses of his true self now little more than a trick in the light as he adorns his facade like a suit or armor to spare him his father’s fire.

“You mean to claim her?” Eris questions pointedly. Eris’ eyes move around the room with a careful, almost pensive, precision.

He can’t pretend that he doesn’t want it. Some primal, territorial part of him wants it more than anything. It’s animalistic and carnal.

Wholly perverse.

He wants you, terribly; he aches for you in a way that he has never ached for anything.

And you want him.

But not like this.

Not as a pretty pawn to bring him to heel.

“She will do well in Autumn,” Beron says in lieu of an answer.

Rhysand and Feyre stand firm against the hostility in the room even as Beron approaches them once more. “An alliance between our two most ancient and noble courts,” Beron says in a celebratory manner, his arms outstretched in a show of arrogance, “made strong by the oaths that you will swear to my son and my court.”

“Very well, High Lord.” You acquiesce and Beron smiles as his words hit their mark

You swear that Eris could burn the city to ash then and something in him cools then under your watchful gaze; it burns blue under the surface and you can see it tempering to a cold unmoving stare cast in his father’s direction.

It’s grotesque, the anger that runs hot in his veins that sears its kiss into the place where your body and his are joined.

You seethe. A raging tempest that comes off of you in violent waves of temper that threaten to swallow the room whole. And Beron Vanserra with it. It is almost enough to bring you to your knees before him as your skin burns under his rising fury.

Your eyes meet the strange amber eyes of Eris Vanserra at his father’s side and you think then, that you will happily suffer his fire if burning always feels so profound.

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris x reader #eris vanserra #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #pro eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #eris vandaddy

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fluorescentbalaclava · 2 months

Text

training season's over

Chapter 2: Charlie Foxtrot

Summary:

Charlie Foxtrot / CF / cluster fuck Chaotic situation with all plans disintegrating in all directions.

TF141/female reader

spy reader, forced bonding, slow burn, slow build, militar inaccuracies, sugestive language, language, canon typical violence, second chance

previous: chapter one "Ground Zero"

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Everything felt relatively normal...for one month. You tried to avoid Ghost to the best of your capabilities, considering that he ( allegedly ) lived on the floor above yours. Awkward lift rides occurred but weren't so frequent.

After spending three weeks in your new home, you were called back. The task wasn’t hard at all, just to pose as a sniper while a small team of rookies conducted a RIF on a Konni base, which apparently held some important cargo that soon was going to be on the move. Your duty was to back up the team in case things got hairy and to observe the strength, deployment, preparedness, determination, and other tactical data of the target for a future raid.

You packed up only the necessary, as it was a short affair, and once you were ready to leave, you double checked all the entries on the flat, to make sure it was all locked. Once in the hallway you pressed the down button in the lift, and you weren't surprised at all when you saw Ghost going down as well, you just sigh to yourself, standing next to him as the door closed behind you. Does this man live in this lift?

"Going somewhere?" He asked, checking you from the corner of his eyes.

"With some friends for the weekend" You answered nonchalantly, looking up as the lift went down. Just one more floor.

"I see," He answered, leaving it there. The door opened and you basically sprinted your way out of the building.

After taking a nap both on the transfer and the plane to the safe house close to the target, you were all equipped and ready to go. Your face mask leaving only your eyes uncovered, your hair in a bun, your dark blue uniform on and the case where you kept your sniper rifle hanging from your back. Your station chief gave the team their assignments before leaving. The scouting team had weapons free order, while you were given weapons hold order, only engage when engaged.

The recce team were in motorcycles, the idea was doing a hit and run, and see what the Konni soldiers used to fight back, and how many were visible. You were dropped midway by them, and you walked to your position. The warehouse was surrounded by fields, some wind turbines could be seen in the distance, and you made your way to an abandoned watchtower that was the perfect sniper nest.

"Sage to Control. I'm in position, I have visual." You said as you settled down on your stomach on the floor of the dome of the top of the tower.

"Copy, Sage. Control to Delta team. Delta, you're clear to engage." The voice on your comm answered.

After the order was given, you could see through your scope three motorcycles from the Delta team, each one with two people on them, one driving and the other shooting, quickly approaching the place.

"Delta-1 to Control. Control, we have contact." The voice came through the comm followed by the sound of shooting, and you could see through the scope the whole scene.

"Control to Sage. What do you see?"

"Six armed personnel. Automatic weapons...they don't seem very prepared." You said as you zoomed in on the scope, and you could tell everyone there was caught by surprise, unorganized men rushing to shoot back, no heavy weaponry in sight. They sure are disorganized for people guarding an important cargo.

After a few more minutes of combat, two hurt Konni soldiers, and with no changes in the defences, the team was called back to retreat.

"Control, how reliable was the intel? These poor bastards couldn't even defend themselves against an angry dog" You said as you kept looking at the warehouse, everyone looked as if they were angrily talking to each other, clearly still on edge.

"It was a tip, reliable source so we thought it was worth a check. I'll tell Delta to pick you up on their way back”.

"Thank you very much" You said as you stood up to start disassembling your rifle, carefully putting it back to its case, and hanging it in your back.

As you came out from the tower, you were greeted by a very heavy and unexpected hit on the face and when you felt something warm and salty in your mouth, mixed with the sharp pain that made your head hurt and left you stunned, you were pretty sure it broke your nose. Your mask was starting to get wet with blood, as you fell on your back on the floor, and when you focused your sight you saw a big figure towering over you, with a knife. You quickly kicked it on the stomach, a deep grunt was heard, and they answered with a cut on your leg that made you hiss in pain, but you used the same leg to kick their arm, throwing the knife across the room, hitting one of the walls. The figure was already charging at you again when a shot impacted on the wall of the tower, prompting the figure to quickly flee to the woods.

"Motherfucker...fucking shit, fuck" You took off your mask, whimpering at the pain. You spit a mix of saliva and blood to the floor, as you tried to clean your mouth with the back of your hand, which made you wince in pain as you accidentally brushed your nose.

"Jesus Christ, Sage, what the hell was that?" The man that you only recognized as Delta-1 approached you quickly, lowering his gun, looking down at you at the floor.

"Do I look like I fucking know?" You shot back, glaring up at him. This was not the first time you got punched in the nose, however it was the only time where you got it broken, and the pain was making you dizzy.

"They left their knife," Delta-2 said, picking up the stray knife from the floor close to the wall. Nothing remarkable about it, just an average hunting knife.

"Come here, mate" Delta-1 said, letting his gun go from his hands and hang behind him, as he crouched over and carefully helped you up from the floor. Your head was killing you, and the cut on your leg wasn't as terrible but you felt it with each step.

Two days later, you were dropped in the corner of your building. Gauze wrapped around your nose, and some packing stuffed inside it to provide support while it heals. If you thought a broken nose was bad, it was because you haven't heard about the recovery of a broken nose. You felt like it was constantly stuffy and you couldn't do anything about it, your head hurt very often, and you could only breathe through your mouth, making it dry and your lips constantly chapped. Additionally, you were given a three-week medical leave, with no strenuous activities or heavy lifting, and some purple was starting to show under your eyes. You entered the building, bag in your back, and you lazily walked to the lift. As you were waiting, you heard heavy footsteps behind you. Jesus Christ, have I not suffered enough?

“Morning" You heard that husky voice you were familiar with behind you.

"Hey" You answered back, doing very little to hide the contempt in your voice. And as the lift opened its doors, you entered, followed by Ghost.

There were some minutes of silence, which made you believe that he wasn't going to try to be a smartass, but then...

"What happened to your nose?" He suddenly said, looking down at you.

"Rhinoplasty" You answered flatly, shrugging.

"It looks the same to me" He answered in a matter-of-factly tone.

"That's because the swelling needs to go down" You answer in the same tone.

"You're limping" He poked again, still looking down at you.

"Got fucked." You answered once again, nonchalantly, and if you were looking you could see him arching a brow under his mask at the blunt answer.

"With a broken nose?"

"Don't tell my doctor" You said as you reached your floor, exiting the lift.

Once inside your flat you locked the door behind you before laying on your couch and basically passing out on it, without even bothering to change your clothes. You already knew that Ghost knew. If he didn't know who you were exactly already, he for sure was close to it after today.

For now, you just hoped he would spare you for the night, as you slowly started to drift asleep on your couch.

You don't know how much time has passed before loud knocks at your door woke you up. You grunted as you got up from the couch, and you went to your desk and looked in the drawer for your handgun...you were surprised to see that it wasn’t there. Someone was here. You were so tired that you didn't even check.

Your body tensed, as you went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife, the second-best option. You held the knife on your back, slowly opening the door.

Bucket hat = Price

You froze as you stared up at him, and when you lowered your gaze you noticed how he was carrying your gun.

"Think very well about your next actions, kid" He warned you, taking the safety off your gun. Why does everyone in that damned unit have the same husky voices?

You were a fighter, but you weren't stupid. So, you moved the hand off your back, and handed him the knife.

"Atta girl" He said as he stepped back, making a gesture with his head indicating you to step out of your flat. "Let's go for a walk.”

The next hour or so was kind of confusing. He got you into a car, putting a bag over your head, making you flinch when it touched your nose. Then, at some point in the ride, you felt a sharp pain on your neck, then everything went dark, as you heard a distant female voice talking.

When you felt yourself slowly regaining consciousness and getting back to your senses, you blinked a few times, trying to clear your blurry vision. You looked around a bare grey room, a table in front of you, a blinding light hanging over it and Price sitting across it. Behind him, a blonde woman standing against the wall, looking at you as well. You tried to move, but both your feet and hands were tied up.

"Easy, girl. Try to focus" You blinked a few more times, taking a few deep breaths, your mouth felt dry. "You are slippery and hard to find, I give you that" He added, as you tried to concentrate on him.

"Where am I?" You managed to mutter, but your words came out a bit slurred.

"Don't worry 'bout that for now..." He answered before he started. "I can't begin to explain the pain in my ass you've been these months. The higher commands have been chewing my ear off bitching about how we spent taxpayers’ money to purchase the intel from some contracting company that magically got to it first. It could have been a coincidence, yes. One time? Sure. Two times? Maybe. But seventeen fucking operations frustrated in the span of 8 months? Someone was on us."

You started to be able to see his image more clearly and the haze you were in started to wear off. You were in an interrogation room...and the camera was off. Off the records, bad sign.

"So, we started to look back, every detail, every camera, every mistake we made, anything we could find. A shadow in the middle of the smoke in shitty quality footage of some warehouse, which led us to multiple street cameras, until we saw the same figure getting in an unregistered car. The unregistered car led us to some tax haven in God knows which island, and then back to our old friends from KorTac, but your profile didn't match anyone we knew from there before...but we got a solid lead a couple of months ago and we went with it. And three days ago, we managed to confirm it by pulling some contacts, and dropping some fake tips...I'm sorry about your nose by the way, my hand slipped, and I punched harder than I was expecting to."

“Son of a bitch..." You muttered under your breath.

"When Captain Price showed me the footage, I ran your face through facial recognition..." The blonde woman that has been silent since you woke up suddenly said, before handling Price a tablet. You were sure it was the voice you heard on the car as you blacked out. "...and imagine my surprise when I saw that on our database."

You turned your attention back at Price in front of you as he showed you the screen of the device. You saw a much younger picture of yourself, when you first enlisted, and then the word "Corporal" followed by your full name.

"I spoke to your old sergeant, and he said amazing things about you. He was happy to hear about you again. He remarked on your exceptional performance and leadership abilities. And of course, he started boasting about your good records in basic and advanced individual training, and he said how excited he was for you to take the test and pass the SAS selection, and how he was even planning to write you a recommendation letter..."

You lowered your gaze; you already knew this story.

"And how shocked he was when he learnt you put your 28 days’ notice after two months of signing your contract." He then swiped his finger, showing the scan of your formal letter of resignation, to which you looked away. I already saw that bloody paper before . “Is that when you joined KorTac?"

"I wanted more liberties, not being tied up for four years" You said in an attempt to put on a nonchalant tone.

"Are you sure that’s the reason?" The woman said from behind Price, to which he turned around, and the woman nodded at him.

He then swiped again on his tablet, revealing a photo of your parents. You felt how your whole body went stiff, as you felt yourself immediately getting sick, bile threatening to go all the way up to your throat.

"Cunts" You manage after some minutes, trying to desperately free your hands from the handcuffs to the chair, the sound of metal clicks echoing through the silent room. "Leave them out of this.”

"We are not planning to hurt them." The woman spoke again, but it did little to calm down your growing anxiety. "We were worried that since you're officially MIA in KorTac's records, that they would try to...tie other loose ends" She said as she swiped through more pictures of your parents and judging by the looks of it, they have been under surveillance for weeks.

You felt nauseous, you haven’t even thought about that. Once you joined, you tried to leave all your old friendships back home, and keep the contact to your parents at minimum, since you couldn't just cut them off completely. It was easy to blame not having signal while on the move.

"They're actually very nice people but imagine my surprise when I was informed that they think you're still in the army" You started to feel like you were about to have a panic attack. All your lies catching up to you at once.

"I...W-We needed the money..." You answered after a few minutes of struggling to the strength to talk, your voice still came out strained.

“And…?” The woman said, and by the look in her eyes, you could tell she already knew the answer.

“KorTac had someone in the army, they would contact the recruits with the best performances to work for them. They showed me what they could pay me, if I joined…my parents are not young anymore, and they need money for the mortgage, bills, healthcare…I just wanted them to have a good life…I wanted to have a good life.”

"There you go, kid. Doesn't it feel nice to say the truth for once?" Price said, putting the tablet on the table and returning his attention to you. "The boys are with them right now, playing along with your lies...for now. They're going to move them to a safe house, until we can find another place for them to settle."

"Why...?" You looked between both Price and the woman. Why protect them? What's the trick?

"Your parents are not to blame for the things you've done. Legally, you should be prosecuted for high treason, and you'd get at least 7 years. And how do you think your parents react when we tell them their daughter, who they thought was serving in the army, is in prison?" Low blow. You just stared up at him, clenching your jaw. "However, Kate and I discussed your situation before bringing you here..."

“You have potential, kid" She said from behind him, still leaning against the wall.

"What is this? Some kind of intervention?" You said looking between them, anxious and confused in equal measure.

"We can always just send you to prison, if you don't want to hear us" He said, crossing his arms, and you just leaned back to your seat, staying quiet and listening, your body still tense. "That's what I thought."

"We could use a person of your abilities...and your experience." Kate said again, still glancing over you.

I'm fucked, I'm so fucked, so, so, so...

"What's the catch?" You asked, still looking at them.

"Instead of spending time in prison, like you should, you'd serve in the army again" Price started explaining again. "You'd get an ankle monitor, you can't leave the base unless someone from the team is with you or for deployment, you'd serve for 5 years, and you would be demoted, from your fancy sergeant title in KorTac back to corporal."

"So like parole?"

"Sort of" Kate answered.

"And if you break any of the terms of the agreement, you'd go straight to jail, no third chance" Price added. Both were just staring at you.

"Truth be told, you know too much. You're a liability for them and for us, however we could be more...understanding. Can you say the same about your friends back at KorTac?" Kate added, making you lower your gaze, contemplating her words.

Your leg was shaking under the table, and you bit your lip, still looking down. Your life's work goes down the drain, but at the same time you were getting a second chance, besides going back to the army would mean you'd stop lying to your parents. This is the worst day of my life.

"Would I still get paid?" You asked looking up, meeting their gazes again. The question made Price sigh.

"Yes, you would. But while on duty, your accounts will be controlled by your commanding officer, and any purchases or transfers must be authorized by him" Kate explained, making a gesture with her head pointing at Price.

You stayed quiet for a few minutes, contemplating. Not that you had many options, jail or the army. But you still stopped to try and put yourself together to meditate and try to get a thought out of the mess your head was.

"Can I talk to my parents?" You asked in a small voice, looking nervously between the both of them. Price looked back at Laswell, and she nodded.

You felt your heart beating in your ears, your hands shaking and your palms sweating. You haven't spoken to them in months with the excuse of being in deployment, it always made you nervous. They were proud of you when you joined, praising you for following your dreams. It broke your heart a little to see the glint of sadness when you explained how you couldn’t frequently talk to them, but they still supported you.

So lost in your thoughts you didn't even hear what Price said before he put the phone on speaker.

"Darling...?" You heard your mother on the other side of the phone.

You felt some tears forming in your arms, as a smile appeared in your face, your demeanour visibly softening.

"Hi, mom" You answered as clearly as you could with the knot on your throat, trying not to worry her.

"Hey, love, I'm so glad to hear you. How are you?" She said, her voice sounding worried but slightly relieved to hear you. "Is everything alright? When we saw three soldiers on the door, we thought the worst.”

The lump on your throat felt tighter, and you bit your lip trying to control yourself at the thought of your parents thinking that you were dead at first.

"Yeah, everything is alright, mom. Those are my...colleagues" You explained while looking at Price.

"They told us they're going to move us, that we should leave the house for a few months, that they will pay for a new place for a bit. What's wrong? Are you in trouble?"

Ah, mom, I'm in deep shit.

"It's for security. We just got back from deployment, and we bumped into some...dangerous people, I told them it wasn't necessary but they insisted on relocating you for a bit, everything is going to be alright, just do as they say, everything will be fine, it's just for prevention...army things as you always say" You said with a soft smile, looking at the phone. "Maybe they could even get you a place with a heater that actually works."

That made your mom chuckle, and her tone audibly was more relaxed, and it made you chuckle too, which prompted some tears to fall down your cheeks.

"Well, you're not wrong, maybe a change of air would be nice..." She added. "Did you get hurt?"

"Just a broken nose, that's why I didn't go there, had to stay for a check-up, but I'll be fine" You answered, just to hesitantly add. "Are...are my colleagues treating you and dad okay?"

"Please tell me what the doctor says...and yes, dear, your friends are lovely. We were having tea while we waited for you to call" That confused you, and you looked up at Price who had a small smile on the corner of his lips. "Johnny and Kyle are very sweet, but uh..." and then she added whispering "...is the man in the mask your colleague as well?"

You glared at Price, and he was visibly trying to hide his smile. Of course he sent Ghost.

"Yes, mom, he is... he's just a... little shy" Your unsure answer made Price chuckle softly.

"Your father invited them for a barbecue later on," She added, sounding excited.

"Of course he did..." You said with a sigh, closing your eyes. "Mom, I need to go now, yeah? I'll call you as soon as I can, please do as they say, okay?" You said as you looked at both Kate and Price.

"Alright, sweetheart. Tell me what the doctor says later, we are so glad you're alright" You smiled again, looking back at the phone. "Your father and I are very proud of you. We love you.”

You couldn't do anything to wipe your tears as your hands were still handcuffed.

"Thank you...I love you too...Bye, mom, I will call later, I promise" You answered in a soft voice, still trying not to give away how upset you were.

"Alright, love, bye-bye" She said one last time, before the sounds gave away that she must have passed the phone back to someone, to which Price turned off the speaker and put the phone back on his ear, standing up and leaving the room for some minutes. Kate walked over you and wiped some of your tears quite gently with a handkerchief, and you felt so defeated that you just let her.

After a few more minutes, Price walked back into the room, phone back in his pocket.

"Your parents are packing to go to the safehouse. Nothing out of the ordinary in the perimeter, and the guys will keep them safe." He said, his hands behind his back as he looked down at you. "Do you have your answer, kid?"

"I'm in"

next chapter: Chapter three "Foxtrot Oscar"

if you like it leave me some kudos or suggestions on ao3! <3

#call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #soap cod #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mwii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #john price x reader #john price

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accidental-king · 1 month

Text

BURYING THE NOT QUITE DEAD: A DISCO ELYSIUM FANFIC

My take on the events after the game featuring a multi-fic HarryKim slowburn. I'm also just a sucker for case fics. This is just a snippet from Chapter 1 but I actually have several chapters written. I'll be posting them on AO3 eventually but I'd like to run it by some beta readers first. Feel free to DM me if you're interested!

SHIVERS - As the sun begins to lower over Jamrock, the dome of an old silk mill shines like brass in the golden light. It's not difficult to see a time in which masses of workers filed in and out of its entrances, and the motor lorries lined up along its western wing to collect their wares. Miles upon miles of lustrous textiles to be shipped across oceans and isolas to glide across the skin and furnishings of those few who can afford it. The Revacholiere will never be one of those people.

The long and blocky building projects off of either side of the dome like a russet brick ladybird, splitting its chitinous hide and stretching its wings between half-demolished tenements and modern high rises alike. Its masonry tells tales of a time before the deathblow. A time when even the utilitarian still showed a thread of residual vanity in the form of granite steps, sharp stone arches, and molded concrete cornerstones. Original varve clay brick, brown like dried autumn leaves, sit in contrast to newer, coppery replacements, highlighting the scars of war and neglect in cracks, blotches and even an entire end of one wing. Always visible like a reality you can't unsee.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - It has been a Police Precinct longer now than it was ever a Silk Mill but its old purpose still lingers in the bones of its columns, trusses, and long abandoned smoke stacks.

INLAND EMPIRE - It’s all that you have left.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the North?

SHIVERS - A peninsula. A district left abandoned by its surrounding infrastructure. Bombed out ruins and mountains of shipping crates slowly turning red. The harbor has been locked up tight since shots rang out in the square. Blood and heavy fuel oil paint an old mosaic red and hang in the air like a fog that dares to challenge the sunlight. Motor lorries still sit abandoned in the circle, where you left them. A bookstore is no better now than your last visit, and a hostel is now empty of guests minus a few lucky souls who now grieve their lost brothers in the Union booth.

INLAND EMPIRE - It was your home for the past week.

CONCEPTUALIZATION - It is your birthplace. Born of a drug and drink deluge, on a floor covered in a lifetime of mistakes.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - An islet of crumbling concrete and steel. The wind whistles through water reeds and swathes of tiny white petals that push through the last spring snow. Ashes of a fire long gone out blow out into the sea to be swallowed like the memories of the cause that built it. Its only resident is gone now, taken away for medical treatment and for a prison sentence that will see him to his final days.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the south?

SHIVERS - An apartment building. Mostly stone, though partially the ivy and wisteria that have done their part to claim it in an attempt to reach the heavens. They are a part of one another now; inseparable without either coming to ruin. Inside, a marriage has been strengthened thanks to an unusual discovery made by an unusual officer of the RCM. Husband and wife embrace as they look over the colorful image between them.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - A wind whips down the long stretch of Boogie Street that barely contains the buildings and crowds on either side. Neon signs illuminate dark windows that are rattled by the music within. Lively chatter fills the air both inside and out. A young woman walks out with her lover in hand. She presses close to his side to fight against the chill of the spring air as her dark brunette curls whip about her face. The man flashes a charismatic smile and he pulls her in closer to lead her away to a shiny white lacquer motor carriage parked just off the main street. They each know something the other does not.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the south?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the east?

SHIVERS - Seemingly endless blocks of brutalist apartment buildings that tower over the residences that survived the revolution 43 years ago. The whole district lies in a millennium old riverbed, leaving it forever in shadow of Jamrock to its west, the GRIH to its north, Grand Couron to its east. Grand Couron and the Old South district maintain their borders with two of La Delta’s canals.

INLAND EMPIRE - A mark of constant probability. Everyone of Revachol West is just one bad couple of weeks away from moving to the Eminent Domain or the Burnt Out Quarter.

SHIVERS - Across the water, a woman in a satin robe sits with her elderly dog, surrounded by shining white marble as she peers out her 11th story window. The glass leaves the evening in an emerald tint. She would have the Eminent Domain wiped from the face of the Earth if it meant sparing her view. The canal and a financial cushion are all that separates her from the proles.

And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La rivière Espérance and Revachol East

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s inside this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s to the West?

SHIVERS - A home you will never see again. Trees and underbrush devoured the old hospital and surrounding buildings of the Pox long before you even had a chance to remember it. Stray vagrants find their way through the bombed out ruins, shuffling past abandoned wire bed frames and rusted carts of broken tare. There is nothing left to be found here but a little bit of shelter from the wind. But the Valley of Dogs lurks nearby and most know never to stay unless they’re entirely out of options. This place will likely never be safe again.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - What’s in this building?

SHIVERS - As day begins to fade and the lights begin to slowly begin to blink on across the city, multi-story factory windows will slowly transition from the concealing darkness to exposing illumination of what is no longer the East Insulindic Textiles Company. The loading docs have now become the motor pool for the 41st Precinct of the Revachol Citizens Militia. An old Coupris 40 whirs past a vehicle of a similar model and one of a decidedly newer model as it turns into the garage for the evening. Both MCs it passed do not belong to the 41st.

Inside the building proper, a stern looking man in a well tailored uniform walks toward the elevator at a brisk pace. His left breast is heavily decorated in medals and ribbons. One from the Suzerain, three from the Commune, most from the Moralist International. He bears the weight of the whole city on his shoulders but he carries it with an air of pride and authority. He’s heard tell of some strange happenings and without seeing it for himself, he’s not sure he believes it.

Across the precinct, in the East wing, tucked into the far end of the first floor an eclectic group of men sit inside a dimly lit Lazareth. Three surround one in a way not too dissimilar from how the interviewee had been earlier in the day.

What’s to the North?

What’s to the South?

What’s to the East?

What’s to the West?

What’s in this building?

Shudder and blink

YOU - A violent shudder passes down your spine and you find yourself suddenly aware that you have been staring off into the ether for about 3 minutes. You are one with your body once more.

PRECINCT 41 - The Lazareth Office of Dr. Nix Gottlieb is small despite the size of the precinct that it maintains. Cabinets and shelves line just about every surface in some manner or capacity. And each and every surface was crammed packed with medical supplies, specimens, and piles upon piles of folders and textbooks. There isn’t much space to move, let alone work. The center of the room is dominated by a surgical table that is currently sporting a flimsy pad that serves as a cushion for your injured ass.

INLAND EMPIRE - This is the closest thing to private healthcare you’ve seen in years.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Your bullet riddled leg has already been looked over. You’d managed to pull your stitches and partially reopen the injury during your little jaunt about Martinaise and the islet.

PAIN THRESHOLD - You wish you’d been unconscious like the first time you got sewn up. Gottlieb is quick and efficient but he’s merciless in the empathy department. In other words, you cried. And your leg still hurts like a bitch.

EMPATHY - Kim radiated pride and relief behind his subdued expression when the doctor had complimented his work.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - [legendary: failure] He’s just glad it wasn’t worse.

NIX GOTTLIEB - The doctor is a bespeckled elderly man, dressed in civilian clothes, a dark, woven turtle neck covered by a brown blazer that stopped fitting him in the shoulders about 10 years ago. His forehead and brow are permanently creased by stress and a deep look of concentration. His brow deepens when you shake yourself out of the thought. “Welcome back, Detective.”

RHETORIC - That was sarcasm. He doesn’t care.

PERCEPTION [smell] - On his breath, mingled with the scent of Tioumoutiri cigarettes, you catch a whiff of peppermint schnapps.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - If we play our cards right, maybe he’ll share a belt.

VOLITION - We’ve been clean this week. Don’t fuck this up now.

NIX GOTTLIEB - He scratches at his wispy white hair and beard as he speaks over his shoulder at two other men. “And how long would you say these episodes tend to last?”

KIM KITSURAGI - Your partner of the last seven days looks between you and the blue notebook in his hands, occasionally flipping through its pages. He still stands in his field attire; Orange nylon bomber jacket zipped up to his collar, white crew shirt hidden beneath it, brown aviation mechanic pants tucked neatly into his black boots, and his brown leather driving gloves.

KIM KITSURAGI - He thumbs over a couple of pages before answering, “Anywhere between a few seconds to several minutes. This… is one of his longer episodes.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Wait! Has he been taking notes on you?

LOGIC - [medium: Failure] Of course not. We’ve already established that this is his method of working through his thoughts. This is likely a method of recall for him.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - A lean blonde man in a tailored suit looks over you from where he stands, with fascination glittering in his hazel eyes. You saw a similar light when you spoke with him in front of the defunct Feld R&D when he spoke of their pre-revolution efforts. He was also one of the only ones in the fishing village who stood up for you against your partners onslaught of insults.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - This man is a special consultant taken onto the Major Crimes Unit in C-Wing. His well-traveled knowledge and personable demeanor has lent itself invaluably to the task force.

AUTHORITY - /Your/ task force.

INLAND EMPIRE - Not anymore. You’ll be lucky if they’ll even let you back into the field as a patrol officer, given the circumstances.

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - “And what do you experience during these… lapses, Harry?”

HALF LIGHT - Don’t. This is a trap.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

+1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 This sounds insane

[VOLITION: legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -1 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -1 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - Really? Anything else?

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Nope.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

RHETORIC [challenging - Failure] What spills forth is a vomited spew of half finished sentences, aborted gestures, and some words you’re pretty sure you’re misusing. You throw in some apologies and self-depreciation for good measure like a dog half-heartedly trying to bury its own shit.

NIX GOTTLIEB - “Try again. But in Vacholian this time.” His arms cross and his fingers drum impatiently on his bicep.

[RHETORIC - challenging] Explain the skill set

[VOLITION - legendary] “The city speaks to me sometimes.”

+1 Revelation in the church +1 She loves you -3 This sounds insane

[DRAMA - godly] Convince them your thoughts are normal (lie)

-1 Kim is here -1 Butcher doctor -3 You’re already insane

“A real shit show of internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.” [continue]

Really? Anything else?

YOU - “Just a real shit show of an internal monologue that drowns out the world around me.”

KIM KITSURAGI - “It’s inconvenient at times, but he often comes through with concepts and ideas I never would have considered. Unorthodox as it may be, it was invaluable to the investigation.”

DRAMA - [Medium: Success] He means it, sire.

EMPATHY - He’s concerned about your well being, but he also doesn’t want to see you misrepresented in the eyes of these men.

+1 Morale

#disco elysium #fanfic #my art #my writing #harry du bois #do not repost #post martinaise #slow burn #kim kitsuragi #harry x kim #harrykim

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hexonthepeach · 9 months

Text

a gentle tongue breaketh the bone | 0: prologue

pairing: fem hybrid fox omega!reader/hybrid Alpha!nct 127

tags: reverse harem, non-traditional omegaverse hybrid! cyberpunk au, pack dynamics, polyamory, slowburn/slowbuild, angst & hurt/comfort, heavy content warnings inc. torture, graphic violence, suicidal ideation, explicit sexual content

summary: the year is 2127. decades of eugenics and warfare have led to the rise of designated populations: the ruler Alphas and their rare, prized omegas sequestered from the Beta population. in the aftermath of the War of the Two Tigers, New Goryeo ushers in an Imperial dynasty determined not by birthright but by the alliance of the Syndicate's clancorps to choose the best pack of your generation. you are destined to take your place within the Imperial harem as a queen, and–perhaps–Imperatrix herself

but you have a secret, written into your skin and bones–one that could easily kill you, depending on who finds it out

ten years ago you chose your Alpha and their pack in a fateful meeting

now, you must make them choose you

[masterlist & glossary] [read on AO3]

It was always your mother's plan to escape the Dome when flood season began.

You think, maybe, the heavens had taken her prayers far too literally.

The rain had begun the moment you'd stepped foot on your commandeered fishing boat–forced to steer into the mist towards the neon skies so far off, away from the slums built up against the Dome’s seawall.

She’d guided your control on the craft rather than steer, barking orders at you over the buffet of waves. Over and over again she's told you the plan–the destination. The standard issue wrist agent with your seasonal background blinks with the coordinates she'd encrypted into it.

It hadn't been the first indication that she knew she might have to abandon you.

You wanted to be home. In two days you were supposed to attend your confirmation–the Imperial robes laid out in ceremony in your quarters, adjustments made up until the end.

They'd taken special care to incorporate your grandmother's engagement gown into the design, hand-embroidering yards of silk and transparent tulle to mimic the tail you had yet to fully grow. Your ears were just beginning to migrate, covered in hair in the awkward transition from the side of your skull to where a fox's should be.

This was supposed to be your moment. You were to be a Queen, finally allowed the freedom and company you’d been promised for so long.

Instead of a debut you're faced with a century’s storm, your hands torn to bleeding from hanging onto the rust-and-barnacle coated bars of an ancient fire escape as gale force winds try to tear you off.

A new gust of wind blasts you weightless as an NSMR autodyne explodes into view. Its searchlight darts from the abandoned boat smashed by the waves below to skitter across the decimated side of a neighboring building, swinging inevitably towards your mother’s feet as they disappear above.

"Hurry!" You hear her shout.

"Wait!" you scream out but it may as well be a whisper. Adrenaline propels you up–up–up–light cutting through the horizontal sheet of rain towards you, just as you're gripped and pulled into the nearest broken window.

"Down," your mother yells, pushing you to the floor. You lay prone against broken glass and debris, clinging to her arm as the bluish eye of the aircraft appears outside.

Mannequins are illuminated a ghostly white, green lasers criss-crossing their eyeless faces. When the searchlight passes, you both flatten against the wall, eyes shut against the dust from the tail rotor.

It feels like an eternity before the thunder of the aerodyne's blades recede, the ancient department store dark once more.

"We can't stop moving," your mother says, checking the sky before dragging your exhausted body up to your feet. "They'll be back soon."

"Where can we go?" you shout, terror making you combative. "We're trapped here. We should just turn ourselves–"

Her hand strikes your cheek hard, ringing your head. "If you go back, you die," she repeats for the thousandth time. "No matter what happens, you run."

And then she's rushing off again, leaving you nodding at her back as she heads deeper into the abandoned floor, a blur even after you've wiped the tears into your soaked windbreaker.

Deeper inside the building the screaming winds are replaced by the echo of water streaming down from points above, into an open space where escalators disappear into the darkness below. The grid is offline, but solar powered striplights outline the floors, shadowed by nature overtaking them. The central atrium is a veritable jungle, waterfalls from the leaking roof splashing on dinner-plate size leaves and hanging vines.

It's strange to consider that this place was once inhabited and purposeful; now it's a neglected cemetery stripped of everything valuable. The signs have been extinguished for half a century. Eerily dark storefronts like caverns encircle a central tunnel leading to the flooded waterline below.

"Do you hear that?" Your mother tilts her head, and your fox ears follow suit, perking forward. You grip the railing to peer into the chasm, seeing nothing but a deep void surrounded by concentric rings of blue fading into purple.

"It sounds like a river," you say.

"It's an old subway station.” She ignores your querying look, bringing up a map on her agent. “We're elevated enough to access a line that's not submerged. It's dangerous, but it's safer than being out there. We just need to find an emergency exit–"

"Wait," you interrupt, tilting your chin up as you look out from under your hood. A pulsing sound, like a heartbeat, grows louder, approaching. For a moment, you fail to understand the change in texture on the ceiling, a lightening of the green-black like the sun has emerged.

Then the thick, translucent layer fractures like ice, caving in.

The flooded rooftop's water appears to freeze in midair, refracting into a million rainbows from the searchlight of the autodyne hovering above it.

The illusion shatters as the break widens, a sinkhole in the sky.

There's no escape this close to the deluge of water and debris collapsing from two floors above. You're thrust against the guardrail as it buckles, plummeting into the darkness below with a scream that's engulfed by the roaring water long before you reach the bottom.

Breaking the surface is surreal. Your eyes remain open as you're plunged deep into the black depths feet-first, twisting your body to land with as little surface area as possible, immediately fighting to find up once the shock recedes.

A horrible cascade of broken sections of rooftop sink around you, trails leading from the silver plane above. You follow, lungs burning, almost losing your entire breath at the whump of impact as something huge and heavy hits, pushing you down.

Every muscle burns as you swim, swim, swim to the edge of the concrete block–climbing up and over until it's beneath you. The vacuum left in its wake sucks you down, but you keep kicking until you're free, finding the remains of an escalator to cling to and pull yourself up, using the thick roots entwined around its broken handrail.

You’re out of the worst here–just the patter of water broken by plantlife filling your mouth and nose as you cry out for your mother.

She's nowhere to be seen, or heard.

Something else answers your call.

A white light appears overhead, shadows scattering. The gusts from the hovering autodyne blow down, blinding you as the water is pulled into heavy chop.

"This is a NSMR rescue, stay where you are–" A robotic voice orders, distorted by the chamber.

You duck down underwater. This time you can see the horrible debris field beneath you, lit stark by the slanting rays of light.

The mossy bottom is closer than you imagined, brought near by a fresh layer of translucent plasticine and concrete. Air bubbles roil up, and you scan any of them for her–

–there, amidst the moon-like rubble, a white hand emerges along with a fall of dark hair.

You don't think, you act–taking a deep breath and diving back down. You’re tugged by an underwater current sucking you into it until you can grab onto a length of rebar from the section of roof keeping your mother trapped in the deep.

What you thought was just her hair is also a ruddy cloud seeping from a laceration across her forehead. Her mouth is ajar, spewing bubbles.

You have hope still, seeing that blood flow and that air.

All you need to do is get her out and force the water out of her lungs. She’s all you have left in this world, and though you’d resented her for ripping you from the comfort of your life you can’t imagine returning to it without her.

And so you work to free her, the seconds ticking down in your mind. There’s no give when you pull her arm. You crawl beside her, using your back and burning legs to push with all your might against the slab pinning her body.

You feel the slightest movement behind you, adrenaline powering your efforts to widen the gap as you readjust and push again, tugging on her clothing to try and loosen her.

It’s such a struggle that you don’t register the shadow of death falling over you both.

Suddenly there's something–someone–in the water, between you and the light.

You turn to see nothing that makes sense, darkness smothering you as an arm wraps around your neck and arm and pulls you up. You have to stifle the urge to scream, instead fighting back–clawing and twisting like a dying fish as your rescuer struggles to hold onto you.

Your immature frame is no match for an adult, male captor–not as you're pulled free and dragged towards the surface, hand splayed towards the blurring image of your mother's dying body.

There's only animal instinct driving you when you let water gush into your mouth, opening it underwater to bite, hard, into the pale flash of wrist encircling your chest.

Your teeth are sharper than most, your hybrid's jaw even stronger. You can feel the bone crunch as you choke.

You have a moment of blissful relief, suspended, before your oxygen-starved brain tries to breathe in one last time. The delicious taste on your tongue is washed away by brick-heavy, icy water.

And then you drown.

Dying feels strangely calm, in the face of everything else. Your vision goes red-to-black as you're swept deeper, that riptide current of an underground river dragging you away.

One last glimpse of your mother is captured in your mind's eye, as if a hallucination: her arm outstretched towards you, eyes open and unreflecting, beckoning you into the dark.

And beside her, something inhuman–monstrous–reaching to embrace you in her stead.

Blue-violet light seeps between your eyelids, your ears muffled.

You're drowning again–this time in air as you vomit up the fluid in your lungs. Your body is wracked again, and again, by its will to survive.

Gloved hands hold your face to the side, tugging wet strands of hair away and pressing against your pulled-back ears. It takes you a long time to realize that you’re being soothed like you were a child, this time by a stranger.

You can't help but cry, disoriented.

"Eomma, eomma," you repeat when you can speak, voice burnt away from choking.

"She's alive," someone says, handheld light arcing over your blinking eyes. “Good, less paperwork.”

“Shut up,” the person holding you says, voice bitter. “I need you on patrol in case he comes back.”

“He was fine before you shot at him–”

“I’m not worried about him.”

Your chest hurts so much, cold and stabbing with each breath. Your mouth tastes like you've sucked mud from a copper coin. Something other than bile burns your nostrils. It's a new scent–not the mildew and construction smell of the mall but frighteningly natural.

You've only recently come into your designation, you have yet to build your canid scent memory, but this is something utterly alien to you–green and citrus and–

"She'll make it,” the other man says.

The man holding you cradles you, rubbing your back as you splutter up what feels like another lungful. "Can you hear me, ____?"

At the sound of your name you twitch against his hold, kicking until he lets you go.

Run, she’d said. She’d told you to run.

You scramble in a layer of loam and dead leaves until you’re at the edge of the light, at the lip of the moss-coated pit. The water has already receded a few feet below, dark and calm.

"She's gone," the man grabs onto your shoulders to keep you from throwing yourself back in. "I'm sorry. We'll bring her home too, I promise."

You sob wordlessly, body folding into a circle as reality crashes down on you again along with the fierce pain flaring in your right shoulder, radiating into your skull and spine.

"I need to treat her. Arm with boosters and stay alert."

"He couldn't have attacked her. He did life support. It had to be an accident–" The man standing over you has a scratchy voice, deeper and more threatening as he protests the accusation.

"I don't care. If the kid doesn't bleed out she's at risk for bacterial infection. I have to treat her. You keep an eye out for Suh and dose him again on sight or I'll–"

"Or what, Moon? Last time I checked, Lee was in charge."

The man holding you trembles with rage. "Or I report this incident."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You know what the penalty is for going feral. And no anti-shift? At all? Just shut up and follow orders for once."

The other man goes silent, dropping the light to the ground and moving away from you both.

Your rescuer gently repositions you in his lap, exposing your neck and face to his scrutiny. At this angle you can see he has a serious but kind face, military haircut and NSMR name badge visible in the floodlight. Moon.

"Am I dying?" you croak out, raising your hand up to grip his vest as he rummages through a field kit.

"Not even close. But I need you to be a good girl and hold still. It's going to hurt."

"No," you say, eyes welling with tears. "Just let me go. I can't go back."

"Be strong for me, alright?" He holds your hand with his left in a textured glove, pouring something on your cheek. Suddenly you're burning alive from the outside in.

Even with your ruined voice, you're able to shriek.

The sound pierces the building, echoes disappearing into the static of flowing water. The fire in your skin rages with each new wash of antiseptic, the bottle emptied over you.

"Good girl," Moon soothes, his hand still in yours as he dabs away what feels like pure flame. He carefully unloosens your vise-like grip, setting you down to pull more supplies out.

"The worst part is over. We're going to bandage you up now. I may have to do stitches but I'll give you something for the pain first, okay? You're very brave–"

Tick-tick-tick.

You barely register his words, ears flicking towards the source of the sound–something rumbling overhead. Your gaze follows a moment too late as the shadow falls down from the thick foliage, shaking the ground when it hits.

"Fuck, Na–" Moon lets out a muffled yell as something huge descends on you both.

"No!" You croak, watching the medic swept bodily into the brush.

Bright flashes illuminate something terrifyingly large, moving at an otherworldly speed as it disappears into the leaves. More shots are fired, from another angle–somewhere overhead. The underbrush explodes with the return of the monster.

If the attacking creature was angry before now it's frenzied, rushing forward to swipe over you at the other man. You can't help but curl into a ball, afraid of the white flash of teeth and claws passing by overhead. Loam peppers your raised arms as you protect your fragile body.

And then, quiet. The breathing of the creature is inches from your nose–ribs expanding under an ocean of dark fur, as it stalks forward.

You brace for your end, knowing you can't stay quiet if he attacks you next.

"Stop. It's me." The other man shouts, voice changing pitch as he moves back. The gun clatters from his hand against a hard floor. "We're helping her."

The monster doesn't follow, crouched over you and snarling. You can see the flattened ears and broad-skulled profile of a large cat–not some jimseung hybrid form like in the war archive footage but fully animal, eyes slitted in rage.

The red tufts of tranquilizer darts emerge from its heaving side and neck. It doesn't appear to be going down anytime soon, roaring a final warning before turning its attention to its true prey.

You.

Instinct has you frozen, whimpering softly as that giant skull bends down to push your shoulder–testing if you're alive. You stay limp, shivering involuntarily. There's a hot chuff of breath on your exposed neck, and then the horrible sandpaper rasp of a tongue dragged across it, revealing wounds you hadn't even known were there.

There’s no way to stop from crying out at the new sting, the sound weak with the lack of energy left in your body.

Miraculously, the predator pulls away, giant form cringing. Through the slits in your closed eyes you watch it favor its right paw, licking at something shining in the LED’s glow.

"Dose him again." Moon's voice is a croak, the brush swaying a few meters away. You can’t help but be grateful he’s still alive.

“It could kill him.”

"I don't care." Moon says, exhausted. You hear a louder rustle as he drags himself back, the clicks of an ammo check and the cocking of a gun making your anxiety spike.

The cat snarls in his direction, collapsing beside you.

"Look. He's not hurting her," Na says. "He's protecting her."

You have no idea what's happening but the cat has settled beside you, choosing to lick your exposed forearm guarding your head. That warmth seeps into your frozen skin, threading deep into your pain-wracked limbs.

For reasons yet unknown to you, your body relaxes, tension easing by degrees as the animal that is your true self realizes there's no danger. Something else is making you act against any rational instinct, a hazily recognized similarity infusing your senses.

Protection. Home. Safety.

That green scent, bright with each rattling inhalation.

It's coming from him.

Agony and grief fade away, just background noise, as you move carefully to look up. The huge cat stills, mouth open. His amber eyes are mostly pupil with the infusion of drugs, unreactive to the bright glow of the lamp.

That alien gaze looks into you, something recognizable trapped within. You raise your hand, nails black with dirt and blood, quivering with the effort to stay calm.

His inky nose twitches forward, sniffing.

It feels like the answer to a question you hadn’t even asked when he pushes forward to rub against your offered touch, whiskers scratching your open palm.

The cat’s face rolls against your hand, dragging a hot lip and the edge of a thumb-sized fang to your wrist. You trace the dense fur over his dry nose up to the ridge of his forehead. Here the hide is softer, lighter and a different shade of black where rosette spots emerge.

You watch his eyes close in a vaguely human expression of pleasure. He makes a deep sound, that same rumble you’d heard before, minus aggression.

"Careful–" Moon warns.

"I'm fine," you say–knowing by the hollowness in your heart that you aren't, will never be.

At least this is within your control. Like a vignette from one of your leather-bound fairy tale books: the maid and the beast who’d decided it was better to serve her than eat her by some enchantment.

What enchantment? Something your mother had instructed in all those obtuse lessons about their methods of control–an easy thing that seems so hard to grasp with the pain and fear thundering within you.

When everything else fails, put them to sleep.

"You can sleep now, okay? Please sleep,” you urge the cat.

His purr seems to be an affirmation; he collapses in slow-motion, swaying a little as if fighting to the end. His head comes to rest beside yours, steam rising in the light with his breath–each more shallow than the last.

"Did you see that?"

The cat wakes at the voice, lip curling to expose yellow-white teeth again. A slow blink meets you eye to eye as you stroke his browline, soothing him into quiescence with the lightest of touches.

"We have a much bigger problem," Moon says, suddenly behind you. "I'm sorry, princess."

Something sharp pierces your neck, but you’re too tired to fight–too focused on staying quiet so the beast doesn’t stir.

There's a snarl but no movement besides the twitch of a paw, claws extending.

"Please . . ."

"What?" You have a glimpse of Moon's bloodied face. By the stinging in your own jaw you're a casualty of this encounter, too.

"Please . . . don't hurt him," you plead.

"No," Moon says, glancing at the body beside you. "We won't hurt anyone."

The other man appears over his shoulder, blurred by the sedative–eyes reflecting green in the dim.

"If you want to protect him, you'll keep quiet." The stranger says.

"Stop–" Moon says.

"You tell anyone and he dies, do you understand?" You know he's speaking to you, something flaring inside your belly. You can’t let anything happen to him–not your beast.

Your beast.

You nod, tears streaming from your cracked eyelids.

"Good girl," he says.

Movement in the corner of your eye surprises you, distantly aware of a rush of heat in the chill of the dank space. Your head lolls to the side, unable to register what you’re seeing–a drastic change in the hulking form before the floodlight is snuffed out.

His profile is burnt into your vision like an old photo negative, human shoulder dipping with each exhale, and a hand that was once a paw curled next to your own, as if reaching to hold it.

[next]

#agtbtb #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct 127 fic #nct 127 fanfic #nct 127 omegaverse #nct 127 cyberpunk au #nct 127 imagines #nct fic #nct imagines

77 notes · View notes

undreaming-fanfiction · 1 year

Text

Made In Your Image (1)

Did you need a mythology Steddie AU? Probably not. Did I write one anyway? Heck yeah.

The monster's lair was menacingly quiet, full of moving water reflections and prolonged shadows. No one who came in lived to tell the tale, or so the townsfolk said. It was fitting - the cave was home to ruins of an ancient temple, long crumbled and abandoned, the god it had been dedicated to long gone. It was a forgotten place, or had been. Now people avoided it, whispering about a creature of nightmares that made its nest there.

The young man wasn't deterred. He was sent here for a reason and he could not afford to disappoint the ones who told him where to go, what to do. He pushed past the narrow entrance to the cave and took in the humid air, touched the moss on the walls. It was strangely comforting, almost soft. He assumed it would be soft, that's what his parents told him it felt like.

The cave was deep and surprisingly warm. There were hot springs that the priests of the forgotten god used for cleansing and many rituals, now frowned upon - but what wasn't these days, he thought. That was the issue with him, he had too many thoughts, not enough thoughts, a walking contradiction - but not living, not fully.

His steps resonated in the natural dome and he looked up at the opening above him. The sky looked so far away from here, even though he'd seen it only a minutes before. It seemed unreachable and distant, almost sneering at him. He sneered back. It was strangely calming, to be hidden from everything and everyone for a few brief moments.

Well, almost everyone.

"And so they send another poor soul." The drawl was exaggerated, almost lazy. It echoed off the cavern walls and the visitor struggled to identify the direction it came from. Not for long though - a robed figure stepped on the crumbled altar, appearing larger than life. "What was your crime, pretty boy? Did you kiss the wrong girl? Disappoint your parents? Why do they want you gone?"

The young man frowned, taking a step forward. "I was sent here to retrieve an item," he said. "A girl had it when she disappeared. It was a ring, family heirloom."

There was a chuckle as the figure jumped off the altar and the young man couldn't help but notice how normal it seemed, almost human if it wasn't for the movement around its head. "I remember her. Light hair, freckles. Promised to a much older man. She sought me out on her own, you know. Wanted to disappear."

A thin ray of sunshine illuminated the cavern and the visitor could finally see that some of the shapes around the room were not columns and ruins - they were statues. Disturbingly lifelike and frozen mid-movement, they stared towards the main altar. Unblinking, unmoving, closer to him than any human in the town was. He moved forward, reaching out to the statue near the monster.

"That's far enough," the monster said, its voice low, threatening. "Don't you know the stories? Has no one told you of the cursed man with the gaze that can turn anything living into stone?"

But the young man wasn't stopping. He walked directly in front of the monster, step by step, and how ironic it was that it was the monster who froze in fear, who was suddenly backed against one of the few standing walls. "I'm not afraid," he said, staring directly at the figure.

"Do you really want to die so badly?!" spat out the creature, turning so its eyes wouldn't fall on the unfortunate man. "Let me tell you something, here is where they send people to die, but it doesn't have to be like that. It never had to! So whatever you did, whatever you need-"

A hand reached towards him and pulled back the cape, revealing a writhing nest of snakes on the monster's head. The visitor took it all in, the black eyes, the pale skin with smooth patches of scales. The heads of the serpents turned to him and hissed, but the dark eyes were wide, frightened, and where the visitor expected defiance, there was only numbness. Acceptance.

"I'm not afraid," repeated the young man and the monster could finally see him clearly too - his features exactly measured, smooth. He was perfect, almost too perfect, and ghostly pale too. No, not pale. Exactly as he was supposed to be, as a marble statue. The sculptor must have been a true artist, he managed to convey so much in the visitor's body - softness and firmness, intertwined.

The monster shook its head and laughed. "Good one. Can't turn you into stone when you already are made from it." It leaned against the wall and sighed, closing its eyes. Its voice was hollow as its shoulders sagged down, abandoning all fight. "Well, I expected this sooner or later. Did they make you specifically to get rid of me? I wouldn't be surprised. That town has a well of dirty secrets and most of them end up here. With me."

The statue stood still, eyeing the snakes that retreated, now comfortingly licking the creature's face, nuzzling its cheeks. "I...no?" he stammered, raising his hands. Its hands? Who knew. "I told you, I'm here for the ring."

A bitter chuckle ripped from the monster's throat. "I find it hard to believe anyone would be stupid and cruel enough to send you here for something so unimportant. The ring wasn't a family heirloom, but it wasn't cheap - I know because she told me. She didn't have much, but she took the ring with her."

"So...it's here?" the statue said and his voice was so hopeful, so bright that the monster flinched. "If it's here, please just let me take it and I will leave you alone."

The snakes swayed from side to side as the creature shook its head again, looking into the marble eyes with something akin to sympathy. "There is no ring. Not anymore. The girl took it with her when she left - it seemed expensive enough to pay for a place on a ship. Where, I don't know, I didn't ask. I'm sorry."

The statue blinked in surprise, taking a step back. "But..." he turned towards the girl's likeness, set in stone. It looked so much like her, with the clothes his parents described, the rich, curly hair, even the satchel that went missing the night of her disappearance. "What is this? What..."

"Well, you might as well know," shrugged the creature and pushed itself off the wall. Its steps were light and fast and he gestured at the marble statue to follow him deeper into the cavern, towards piles of chipped pieces of stone and dust. There were boulders there, a single glance told the visitor that they fell from the top of the mountain over the cavern. There were cracks in the ceiling, but the monster didn't seem to care for the danger. It reached behind one of the half-formed stones and retrieved a wooden box. He placed it in the visitor's hands. "My secrets don't really matter at this point, when you come back, they will know how to get rid of me...and all of my sheep should be safe at this point, so there is no reason to lie anymore. Open it."

The smooth, milky white fingers pushed the lid open and the statue's perfect brow furrowed in confusion. "Are these...?"

"My tools," smiled the creature and revealed sharp canines in its mouth. It reached out, ran a finger gingerly over the chisel. "None of these," it pointed towards the stone figures in the main body of the cavern, "are real. I made them."

The unnaturally beautiful face turned towards him, swallowing, trying to find words. The creature watched his throat work, marvelled at the beauty - such a human thing to do, from someone who wasn't human. "I told you. This is where they send people to die. It is such a convenient thing, really. Send people here for the most mundane tasks, for the most ridiculous tasks - retrieve several of the monster's scales, bring back a pebble from the monster's layer - and hope they disappear. I don't know who started the rumor that a simple look from me will turn anyone into stone, but at some point everyone accepted it as a fact. They wanted to believe I was a monster for so long I decided to give them what they wanted...and do some good in the process." Its voice was low and bitter and the statue closed the lid on the tools, gave the box back to its owner. The creature's fingers grasped the box as a lifeline, stroking the symbol engraved in the wood before carefully placing it on the ground. "I know it's hard to believe when you look at me, but I'm not the monster here," he told the pale figure. "I might look monstrous, but I don't send my sons and daughters to face certain death because they refuse to obey, I don't get out of inconvenient marriages by sending someone who loves me to their doom."

The statue turned around, studying the figures in the cavern. Beautiful in its presumed death, preserved as a warning for any and all men who would invade the monster's privacy. "So...you made all of these?" he whispered reverently, touching the chin of a small girl, barely ten, frozen in time with her careless smile. "All of these people were sent to you to die and you...you saved them? Where are they?"

"I don't really ask," smiled the creature and patted the head of the stone child gently, moving between his creations with surprising ease. The robe hid most of his body, but the visitor could tell he was tall and lithe, with slender fingers and features so animated, so alive. "Some come to me as a way to escape everything, unhappy marriages, pressure from their families, poverty, suffering. Some of them don't want to believe their families or loved ones would do something so horrible to them. They usually figure it out when they leave and their families refuse to believe they actually saw me, no matter how many items from my cavern they bring. Then they come back and most of them decide to leave this nest of snakes behind. Pun intended. They stay for a few days, for me to keep a piece of them here, to cover their tracks. Some talk to me, tell me what they're running away from - parents who never wanted children, cruel step-parents, being traded like cattle for family fortunes...the list is too long. When I have their likeness down enough, they leave. Some of them go to other islands, others join family members in other towns. Sometimes they tell me more but I try not to remember. If someone finds me, if they finally figure out that what they're afraid of is a lie...well. I could put them all in danger. The only thing I remember are their faces."

The visitor slumped down next to the child's statue, let out a shaky breath. "Of course it would be like that," he laughed, but there was a sharp edge to his voice that the monster found way too familiar. "Of course they would send me to you."

The monster came closer and, after a second of hesitation, grasped the cool, firm shoulder. It didn't know if it would bring any comfort, if anything even could comfort the living marble, but he'd seen the look on his face too many times. "I'm sorry."

The statue shook his head, his face still twisted into a painful smirk. "Don't be. I'm not surprised, you know. I was wondering what they would do with the string of disappointments - would they send me away? I could return. Toss me in the sea? I can't swim or float, but I think I could survive at the bottom of the ocean. They can't just shatter me, not since the priests breathed life into me, so that would be disrespecting the gods. But sending me to you to benefit another noble family?" The word "noble" was spat out with such venom the monster flinched. "Such an elegant solution."

"Imagine how pissed off they will be when you come back," the creature smiled, then grasped the marble shoulder tighter. "Hey, let's sit by the fire. The draft is getting to me."

The creature's actual lair was surprisingly human. There was a makeshift bed with covers, a fireplace, a number of well-loved books. There were tiny statues too, carved with amazing precision. The statue took in the bits and pieces of the owner's personality. "How do you even get food here? Or the books?" he asked, touching a wooden plate.

The monster crawled onto the bed and stretched. Its snakes did too, one of them even yawned. "Oh, that's the most messed up part. For all the hatred and fear, the town still needs me. There are some healing herbs in this cavern. My group of friends," it stroked one of the snakes curling on its shoulders, "is what this whole town relies on for venom. Also antidotes. So sometimes they leave me notes asking for things, I respond with my price...and there are of course those whose dirty secrets are here, with me. They try to ease their conscience by sending small...gifts. Food, mostly. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Sure is. But also good. I was worried you could be starving with...all of this." The statue sat on the ground next to the bed. When he noticed the monster gesturing towards the chair, he snickered. "Do you know how much marble weighs? You want to keep your chair, I presume."

"Fair point," the monster grinned, then rested its chin in palm. "You are a surprising one, though. I've never met anyone who'd be concerned about my living arrangements."

The statue shrugged. "It's what's driving my parents mad, but I just can't help it. I care. I want to see people cared for." He bit his lip, glancing at the creature. "It's kind of funny. My parents are one of the richest families on the island, you know. They wanted perfection, so they paid for it. Just like for anything else. They paid the sculptor, the priests...they ordered what they wanted, a heritage. But something must have gone wrong, or maybe they didn't know what they were getting into, that money couldn't solve everything."

One of the snakes hissed and the creature stroked its head, calming it down. "Are you telling me they consider you imperfect, pretty boy? Can't imagine why. You're a sight to die for."

The visitor chuckled and stretched his legs on the ground. "So everyone tells me. Not that I had any choice in it, but I was told the sculptor was the best. But no, I think the gods played a joke on my parents. Turns out statues are beautiful to look at, but not so much when they look back at you and question you. Why am I like this? What do you want me to be like? Why should I care for you and not for others? What is just enough and what is too much?" He sighed, running fingers through that perfect hair. The gods' blessing made something impossible into reality. The marble flowed like real hair, then settled into a perfect wave over his forehead. "I tried, you know. I tried, but they wanted me to know everything from the start, said it was in the contract, but I just...I had questions. I wanted to learn. I wanted to understand. And they hated it. So now they mostly leave me alone, let me help around the town. Carry the heavy things, do what humans can't. And they despise it so much. Their perfect son, doing manual work like a commoner. They like that word. Commoner."

"Sounds to me you're more human than they are," smiled the monster and watched the statue with fondness. "I'm not exactly the best role model here, but you should know...this is what humans are supposed to do. Help each other. Question things. It's a shame your parents disagree, but that isn't on you."

The statue looked up, interested. "Do you...know a lot about humans?"

"Since I look like this, you mean?" The smile was a bit strained now, but still present. The monster leaned towards him and crooked his finger, gesturing for him to come closer. "Let me tell you a secret. I am human." Seeing the shocked expression on the statue's face, it snorted in laughter, leaned back. "Hard to believe, right? To be fair, I don't know what exactly I am now. But I sure was born human."

"B-but..." the statue stammered, eyes darting between the slit pupils, the snake heads watching him with disdain. "You don't look like the others."

The monster took to calming the snake heads again, stroking their chins until they stopped hissing at his visitor. "That's one way to put it. Most people would just say a monster. A freak. A disgusting creature."

"Is that what they call you?" The sentence was whispered and pained, so pained it shot directly through the monster's heart. "Maybe I don't know enough, but I...I don't think any of these things. You just look different to me. Interesting." After a brief pause, the statue moved closer to the bed and tapped on the monster's leg since it was looking down, blinking rapidly. "I never asked - what is your name?"

The creature let out a wet, ugly sound. Almost a sob, but it quickly wiped at its eyes. "You...you want to know my name?" it laughed, throwing its head back. "You really are special, you know. To this town, I'm just it. I don't even deserve to be considered a person in their eyes. And you...you actually care enough to ask me who I am?"

"I do." The statue reached out and grabbed the monster's hand, squeezing it as gently as it could muster. It was still firm and cold, but the monster couldn't remember the last time anyone touched its hand, not accidentally, not fleeting touches to say thank you. "I know what you mean, I am also...it," the marble lips admitted. "I am not like them, but unlike you, I wasn't born, I was made. I don't need to breathe, they just instructed me to...I don't sleep, I don't eat, bleed. But was still given a name, one that feels cold. But then the town changed it, they...carved it into something that feels like me. I'm Steve." His fingers ran circles over the scaly skin, comforting the monster. "And I know what it feels like to live without a name. So please, tell me yours. You don't need to be the monster, the freak. You don't need to be it. Not with me."

The monster took a shaky breath, trying to get its breathing under control but failing. The marble fingers wiped away his tears, so gentle, gentler than any human hand had ever been with...him. Not it. Him.

The slit pupils met the marble ones. "Eddie," he said, testing the nearly forgotten word on his tongue. "I am Eddie."

#steddie #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlet #stranger things #stranger things au #strangerthings #stranger things mythology au #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddie is inspired by the story of medusa #steve is inspired by the the story of golem

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smidgen-of-hotboy · 23 days

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Our Angel of Brahma, pt. i

I rewrote the original piece that started this au. There are some new details added in and some grammar mistakes finally corrected. @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @ananxiousgenz @gwenlena @demonic-panini @the-private-eye

SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING BEGINS. TIRED VOICE: Some say, that the Legend isn't true. Some say that it's a bedtime story that a mother made up to put her children to sleep so they would be less distressed in the morning when she didn't come home. At least one person believes that he built the Hanataba Clinic. We don’t know everything. But here is what we do know: SOUND: PAPER SHUFFLING ACROSS TILE FLOOR. TIRED VOICE: A young revolutionary infiltrated New Kinshasa and got to the Reactor Core of the floating city and the Guardian Angel System. He pulled the Reactor and started a ten-minute countdown destabilizing the city's gravity field. A lone constable arrived first on the scene and fought revolutionary. He was stabbed to death. The revolutionary then put the Reactor back in place, restabilizing New Kinshasa, putting the Guardian Angel System back online, and was stormed by several more Constables. He made a speech to the city and to the planet of Brahma. Promising that if he came this close to knocking the city out of the sky, then he would someday come back to finish the job. (DEEP SIGH) New Kinshasa never fell on us that day. A curfew was instilled and one by one, friends and family members were dragged out of their beds, lined up shoulder to shoulder, and killed in the dead of night. We never see them again. We don't get to bury our dead. The Guardian Angel System is meant to protect them from us. It is meant to teach us a lesson. It is meant to be the key to preventing another Galactic Civil War. There are whispers that the Solar Planets call it a war crime. There is only person who stood up and threatened to end it all. Only one person who dared defy New Kinshasa. Our Angel of Brahma. He gave us hope. And we soared with him, we rallied in the streets, we rioted for days, we starved ourselves in protest. The Dome Wardens stopped showing up to their shifts, forcing the Constables to stretch themselves so thin to monitor Brahma’s storms. People like my father were organizing how to get aid to those who would need it most in case things turned further South. We were in it for the long haul. We sat outside the shuttle station heading to New Kinshasa and body blocked the Constables from leaving. And we waited. And waited. And waited. And he never came back. Vanished, like the mother who tucked her children into bed a final time and waited outside their home to be taken away. Like the husband who pressed a bruising kiss against his spouse's mouth a final time as they were pried apart. Our Angel vanished. Twenty years have passed. No one dares to breathe the name in public or else the System will shoot you down on the spot. The historians have already started to erase our revolution. The Constables say that they caught him ages ago and locked him up somewhere off-planet where no one will ever find him. Dark Matters classified all of Brahman and New Kinshasan history before the War, and slapped the label "Class-X Radical" on everything that came after it. They all want us to forgive, and forget. But I refuse. I refuse to let go. And I refuse to believe any of that. Our Angel would not abandon us so quickly. I choose to believe that he is alive, that Peter Nureyev is alive. I choose to believe that he will come back to us and either liberate Brahma or obliterate us trying like he swore he would. I choose to believe that they never caught him, and they never will, and he will return. I choose to believe... (DEEP BREATH) I just hope that whoever this recording reaches, it isn't too late. And if he's out there... Peter Nureyev, whoever you may be, wherever you are, I believe in you. Don't give up hope in us, please. SOUND: COMMS BEEPS. RECORDING ENDS.

- Found recording of a tired middle-aged Revolutionary who hasn't given up hope yet. The abandoned storage unit the recording was found in was full of mostly junk. The unit belonged to an art collector, but why would they have owned so much junk? And where/when did they come into possession of the comms? I found the comms in a shoe box wrapped up in paper with a note, written in a language (?) or code (?) I do not recognize. Filling the empty space of the box were pamphlets again, written in some code I can’t decipher. Along with this recording (found on an old model comms) was a second recording of the same tired-voiced Revolutionary singing a song. When the comms was rewound back to the earliest recording it crashed. TO DO LIST: 1) Find someone to refurbish the comms, 2) who is the Revolutionary in the recordings?, 3) WHO IS PETER NUREYEV?

Calypso scribbles her final notes down before tossing her pen aside. She leans back in her office chair and massages her neck. After several dry months of no current events and no interesting enough historical columns picked up by any Solar Newspaper, she was running out of options.

She scrapped together whatever creds she could spare and bought an abandoned storage unit on Mars hoping that it would turn up something good enough. According to the company selling it, the original owner was an art collector who traveled the galaxy far and wide. They used the unit to store things that were important to them, and planned on selling off someday. The collector never got around to any of this though having died six months back from a sudden heart attack. Goddess rest their soul, Calypso placed a bid, and thought at the time she scored big.

Turns out, most of the paintings they were withholding were either fakes or reproductions. Many of the cardboard boxes that she was promised would be chock-full of ancient artifacts were stuffed full of ancient Earthen crystal glass swans. So many swans. So many, Calypso didn’t know what a swan was until she did, and quite frankly wished she could go back to a time BS– Before Swans.

After opening the seventh box of glass swans (who in right their mind needs that many swans?), she had concluded this “investment” to be a bust.

She still had that standing offer from Mercury Spectacular Sci-Fi Publishing. Calypso didn’t write fiction, but she did write a more thoughtful article on Mister Mercury’s mansion above Mars than the last five. Color the man easy to impress because he coaxed her to give it a shot. Contact my agent in a week with whatever you got. And she tried, she really tried this time, but the best she came up with started with It was a dark and stormy night and ended with Their deaths were estimated to have occurred around three in the morning. Mister Mercury’s publishing agency did respond back to her email, and they did start off with a compliment, but that was already more than enough to convince Calypso that she did not need to be a fiction writer. She closed the email and hasn’t opened it since. Ignorance is bliss they always say. Maybe if she groveled enough they would reconsider and give her a second shot. Maybe her writing was bad enough that they took pity on her and offered her a chance to join them and she was the idiot to not keep reading.

That’s when she opened the eighth box. A shoebox for old work boots. Inside were pamphlets written in code and a note wrapped around an old comms. Which brings everything back up to now.

New Kinshasa. Brahma. Guardian Angel System. Reactor core.

The Angel of Brahma.

“Peter Nureyev…” She grows incredibly tense waiting for something terrible to happen. Maybe the G.A.S. would strike her down just like the Revolutionary said it would. Nothing happens. And nothing will. The Solar Planets do call the G.A.S. a war crime. They do detest it and they do not condone its use. But no one’s done anything about it. No one except Peter Nureyev.

Calypso chews on her thumb while tapping a finger against her notes. 3) Who is Peter Nureyev? She knows just about as much about Brahma and New Kinshasa as the average person. Which is virtually nothing. But if this recording is real, and the Revolutionary real, and Peter Nureyev real, then she now knows a lot more than the average person.

“Fuck.” With no better story to tell, and no better history to research, Calypso leans back over her desk and jots down everything she thought she knew about Brahma.

#ask to be tagged or removed #surprisingly did not get done with this at 2am #but rather 1230am #go me.#the penumbra podcast #the penumbra fanfic #private eye's keys go jingle jangle #a hotboy's writing #our angel of brahma #i let calypso say fuck bc juno cant <3 #and also bc i love making characters swear. thats the part of me i put into them <333

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staticspaces · 11 months

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#abandoned #abandoned houses #abandoned homes #abandoned places #abandoned buildings #abandoned geodesic dome #abandoned geodesic domes #geodesic dome #geodesic domes #forgotten places #forgotten #forgotten buildings #urbex #urban exploring #urban exploration #bandos

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2t2r · 11 years

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6 incroyables endroits abandonnés de Floride

Nouvel article publié sur https://www.2tout2rien.fr/incroyables-endroits-abandonnes-de-floride/

6 incroyables endroits abandonnés de Floride

#abandon #Colony Plaza #fantome #Floride #fusee #Home Dome #maison #Marine Stadium #Miami #ovni #parc #stade #UFO #urbex #USA #architecture #voyage

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caperingcryptid · 8 months

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Sometimes, Pigeon

Sometimes I look at pigeons With their blank and empty eyes Their dark and mottled feathers Their sweet and mournful cries

Sometimes I look at pigeons and I think of all they've lost. They once were all our friends, you know. They used to be our pets. They were our dearest messengers something that we forget.

They are silly little birds, yet we call them "rats with wings". We wronged them, we shunned them. We tossed them out like things.

Sometimes I wish to hold one. To bring them to my home. Sometimes I wish to kiss them atop their little domes.

"I've not forgotten," I'd tell them then. "You sweet, abandoned things."

"I love your darling little waddles. I love your blank and empty eyes. I love your dark and mottled feathers and sweet and mournful cries."

Sometimes I look at pigeons The sweet, abandoned things. I hope they know that someone loves them and listens to them sing.

#poems #poetry #original poetry #pigeons #i just think pigeons deserve more appreciation #they're dumb and i love them

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dark-elf-writes · 11 months

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How did Venomous Naruto get so much longer so quickly?!?

Yes! Wave is a Probation, only in this case Sasuke doesn't try to save Naruto and he doesn't do the folding big Shuriken thing against Zabuza with Naruto, causing both Kakashi and Naruto to get hurt a lot. After the Ice Mirrior Dome breaks, where Sasuke has been put in a death like state anyway, Sakura crys over his body and starts yelling at Naruto who is visibly bleeding but still standing saying it should be Naruto who is dead instead.

Sakura loses her ability to ever be a shinobi after the Wave mission and Sasuke is going back to the academy until Naruto makes Chunnin, when Oro/the Sannin will take over his training and Kakashi can train Sasuke on a new team, but if Sasuke still fails the team test he is a Forever Genin apprenticed to Kakashi to master his Sharingan.

Because it lives in my head rent free and I have not been able to think of anything other than this sunshine boy with fangs and only a few bites keeping him from taking out his enemies.

Tbh I might split the au at the formation/first test of Team Seven because I love both ideas so much. And with it being the size it is already an au of an au isnt that bad.

Under a read more because this got away from me tbh.

But absolutely I love that. Naruto tries to get Sasuke to work with him but he yet again doesn’t which means that he has to find a different way to save Kakashi only to get what would be a sure kill blow on anyone else but instead Awakens The Demon™️ and Naru stomps Zabuza into the fucking ground fox style until Haku pulls him out of there. Naruto hits the ground having lost a lot of blood and severely chakra depleted because demon. Kakashi very nearly fucking drowned and also took a fair number of hits that could have been avoided. Still as hurt as he is he doesn’t trust either Sasuke or Sakura to carry Naruto so the rest of the trip to wave is spent with a very obviously injured Kakashi carrying Naruto while Tazuna looks between Team Seven like “oh shit not only am I going to die but at least one of these kids is going to as well.”

Naruto kind of wakes up that first night actually in wave enough to show that he’s clearly scared and just barely keeping it together because he’s not in a safe enough place to break yet. Kakashi gets some food into him before he passes back out then drags his other little genin out for the lecture to end all lectures.

He tells them if he thought he could safely get them all back to the village right now they would be abandoning this mission and going the fuck home immediately. He tells them that they nearly got two of their teammates killed by refusing to grow up and work together. He tells then that anyone who wasn’t Naruto that got those injuries would have died and if if Kakashi had been able to get out of the water prison on his own without drowning they still would have been returning home with a dead child in tow. He tells them that if they can’t get their shit together before the mission ends he’s sending their asses back to the academy because if they’re going to keep acting like children on the field they should be with the children where they can’t get someone killed.

He sends them to bed, as far away from where Naruto is sleeping off his chakra exhaustion as he can considering the size of the house they’re sharing. Tazuna at least seems to understand as he rearranges some things to make sure Kakashi has easy access to all of his students even with the added distance. He thinks that will be the end of it.

For any usual Shinobi graduate it would be the end of it. A dressing down of that severity from a commanding officer in the field and a very real threat that their careers would be back to square one in the most humiliating of ways? That should be enough to get through the thickest of skulls to drive home the point that what they did was wrong and should never ever be repeated.

Only it is.

Only when he’s facing off with Zabuza he hears Naruto screaming for Sasuke to “just fucking listen to me dammit!” Before his so recently injured student so screaming for real.

He sees out of the corner of his eye, like the swordsman had intentionally cleared his mist to give him a front row seat to his own failures, as Sasuke sees the wave of senbon coming right for the both of them for Naruto’s kneeling and half conscious form already so full of needles clearly unable to catch his breath enough to see the danger coming his way and dodges away leaving Naruto to take more.

He’s sure Zabuza is laughing at him as he growls low in his chest. Sure that the gods themselves are laughing at him too.

So he calls in the pack and splits them.

He sees Uhei drag Naruto out of the way of another attack just in time for him to come to. Sees Sasuke pull away from Bisuke with two newly formed sharingan narrowed ably to jump straight into an attack. He sees the choking red hatefilled Chakra cover Naruto as he screams in rage.

He doesn’t see much after that. Focused on ending his fight as fast as possible to get to his students.

It doesn’t make shoving his Chidori through a child’s chest feel any better. It doesn’t make Naruto’s second shriek hurt any less.

The fight is over by the time he lays Haku’s broken body on the ground. Before Zabuza makes his last stand against his former employer. Before Naruto is able to release the Kyuubi’s chakra surrounding him. Before his ninken can report on the state of the kids. It is over.

Kakashi manages to get an arm around Naruto’s waist before he hits the ground as that chakra fades with his shock. Manages to haul him close to his own body as the kid bares his dripping fangs, coated with venom in Naruto’s rage, at the group of men. He can feel how much the kid is shaking. He wonders how he’s still standing.

“Sasuke!” Sakura shrieks, shaking her teammate. Bisuke tries to nudge her away. Tries tot elk he that the pup is hurt but will still live tries to—

“This is your fault!” she screams at him with hate in her eyes. No. Not at him.

At Naruto.

“It should have been you!”

Even with Zabuza fighting at the other end of the bridge. Even with the approaching feet of the rest of the village. Even with the roaring waves below infuriated that the blood of one of their own was spilled. The words were loud enough that Naruto flinched.

Enough.

Kakashi has had enough.

“Shut up!” he snapped, settling Naruto on a clear-ish portion of the bridge and signaled Bull and Pakkun to watch over him. Bull settled at the boy’s side while Pakkun wormed his way into Naruto’s lap, sliding under shock numbed hands and pressing close to his already healed chest to provide some comfort.

He turns on the other two, grateful for his mask so Sakura can’t see him baring his own fangs in irritation, and hits his knees for a quick check over his student that tells him everything he already knew.

“Sasuke is fine.” He growls, and sure enough a moment later the Uchiha gasps and coughs, curling around himself a little as he blinks up at the two of them with dark eyes once again.

Kakshi wants to shake him. To shake them both.

He doesn’t.

Kakashi takes a deep breath. Takes another when Uhei leans against his side.

“It will be my recommendation when we return that you both go back to the academy,” He says at last, eyes narrowed on the two of them. (He’ll never forget their faces. Wouldn’t even if he had taken the time to cover his sharingan) “With what the mission reports will show… I’m not sure if they will take that suggestion or if they will refute you both in the spot.”

Two stunned faces looked back at him. He didn’t let his glare waver. Didn’t let them squirm away from his disappointment as he wrapped Sasuke’s injuries with careful hands before standing again.

The fight was over.

The curse of Team Seven had struck yet again.

#the elf talks #naruto #venomous naruto #venomous Naruto: the breaking of team seven

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