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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [mature]  now tragedy, that's funny; kharon
    #1
    You ever touch anyone like you touched her—especially her—ever again and you will have me to answer to, you understand? I don’t give two shits that you think you’re a changed man. If I catch wind of you laying a finger on someone, that finger is coming straight off.

    Something dark and wicked flickered to life in silver eyes, lips spreading into a sick, twisted grin. Part of him wanted to answer that threat with a laugh steeped in shadows and blood, wanted to croon at Woolf to try, egg him on, push him to make good on that sexy, snarly little promise. Woolf all but dared the monster in him to shake off iron chains, to break his leash and take what was his. Something delicate and lovely and still unfinished, there was so much canvas left, so much lovely, lickable brown skin that still ached for his attention and hated itself for the aching.

    He could take her so much higher. And drag her so much deeper. Oh, not today. Let things marinate a little longer, let them stew in their own delicious juices all they wanted. She had long since developed a taste for his particular brand of wickedness. And they’d barely scratched the surface.


    Kerberos jolted awake, heart racing, breath coming fast as silver eyes searched the darkness surrounding him. Sleeping, he’d been sleeping. It was just a dream. Just a weird little dream, and maybe if he told himself as much enough times, it would fade back into the dark where it belonged. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, felt out the edges of his mind and worked his way inward, fingers brushing along shiny metal surfaces, walls and doors so thick they drowned out the screams locked away behind strict, precise little labels iron nameplates that hid the truth of who he was even from him.

    Syrine.
    Wallace.
    Kerberos.

    He had tortured her, broken her, his sweet baby sister with sad doe eyes, made her believe the world rained on her forever because she was bad, because she made the clouds cry. He'd taunted and tormented her for the sick thrill of it, not just for their daddy’s approval. No matter what he told himself so he could sleep better at night. Not a product of his twisted raising, but a sick little monster at heart, written in his blood, in the marrow of his iron bones.

    He could still hear her sobbing when it rained. And it fed something in him, fed the beast locked away behind that third door. So easy to hide behind shining armor painted bright colors on his skin, but anyone with the right kind of power could see through his disguise. Even if it had been good enough to fool even him for a while.

    How could he have forgotten? Hadn’t wanted to remember, he guessed, wanted to lock it all away like he could start anew. So fucking naive.

    But baby sister was hardly his only victim. He could still see the way Lacey’d crumpled in on herself the second he showed up, even if it was just a dream. Could still hear the way she’d accidentally bared her soul for him, calling herself worthless, reminding him just who’d fucking taught her that. Him. He’d taken the brash, bold, sassy child she’d been and crushed her beneath iron hooves, taken over her body and twisted her mind until she was his. And then he’d come right back and played her body like the glorious instrument it was, showed her how it should have been the first time.

    Until all she wanted was to be his.

    He traced the letters of her name, with the same quiet affection and appreciation he used to trace the lace that adorned her hips, her hindquarters. His glorious work of art. He still craved that delicate loveliness, still ached for the need in her perfect brown eyes, and he had no fucking right to touch her. No fucking right to need her jagged perfection pressed against him, prickling the iron of his hide, but he’d shaped her to fit just right against him, hadn’t he? Never expected the thought of her cradled in someone else’s arms to pierce his goddamn chest like knives from all sides, shining gleaming metal aiming straight for his stupid heart.

    What the fuck was wrong with him? He hadn’t so much as wanted anyone but her since they’d made Kali, hadn’t touched anyone but her. Hadn’t even fucking realized it either, and that was the weirdest part. Oh, he’d mouthed off and flirted some but only as a default setting of his personality, never in an attempt to actually fucking get anywhere with anyone.

    Was he fucking broken?

    And now, with that goddamn dream, furious claws scratched at the shining metal surface of that third cage, iron claws screaming as they carved gouges into the door, iron chains shaking and rattling as a piece of him fought to break free, buried so deeply he’d almost forgotten it existed.

    He stood outside that last door, tracing the letters of his name and drowning in memories. The iron beast with three heads, all bound in metal and locked away tight, but no matter how many layers of iron muffled the snarls he could still hear it. All it had taken was one little reminder, one snarled warning to wake up the sleeping monster and make him desperate to come out and play. Slip the leash and take what was his, taste, bite, fuck, it barely mattered, carve and mangle and mark so savagely, so beautifully, an elegance to the sharp and jagged nature of his craft. And he didn’t want just anyone.

    He wanted her.

    Maybe Kirby should throw himself into the depths of the ocean. Wasn’t like he’d drown, wasn’t like he could, but he could lose himself in a trench so deep it took him years to crawl back out and make his way back to land. Maybe by then she’d have moved on, without his constant presence to remind her of what he was, what he’d made himself forget.

    He ruined everything for her. And if he let himself, he’d just keep ruining any chance she managed to find at happiness. Even in a goddamn dream, he still managed to fuck everything up for her, and she deserved so goddamn much better. He wasn’t safe for her. And he sure as fuck wasn’t good for her.

    What if the monster inside him managed to slip its chains while she was near enough to catch her scent? Or worse still, what if one of the kids was around. Gods, he’d hurt his sister, what if he hurt his kids? Were they safe? Was Kali? Would it drift back to sleep, or would he hear it whispering sick little demands deep in his head, starved for chaos after years of behaving? Touch her, taste her, hurt her, twist her until she was just as broken as her mother? Or would it just focus on Lacey, on ruining anything good in her life he’d left untouched thus far, until the only thing she had left to turn to was the iron monster hiding beneath his shining skin?

    He should leave. They’d be safer without him.
    Bite my shiny metal ass.
    Reply
    #2
    kharon

    oh baby, I have not been kind

    Dad!

    He touched him, his mind-whisper strained. Dad had gone to a place in his head that Kharon had never seen him disappear to, and he pressed his nose to Dad's metal shoulder in earnest. Fear gripped his chest hard, exhausted grey eyes wide and studying his dad closely.

    He couldn't tell how real any of it was for Dad, if it was just dreaming or if he really was this person he thought he was. Kharon could remember things from when he'd been so little, unintentionally listening into Mom's thoughts and memories as she relived what she'd been through.

    Yet even still, at the sight of his Dad on their island, he was nothing but thrilled, so proud to trot up to him and preen for him, show him how beautiful he'd made his babies. Even from the start, even through her history with him, he'd been proud to be from Kerberos. To be so beautiful and magnificent like his perfect dad. Even through that first glimpse of him through her thoughts, doing bad things, all Kharon saw was how perfect Dad was. And he wanted to be just like him.

    Dad. It was just a dream.

    He nuzzled Dad's neck, rubbing his cheek on him. It was just a dream. Mom didn't love anyone but them and Reilly and Badden. Just them. Or well, she would if she were alive still somewhere, somehow.

    They had always been an affectionate family, and there was nothing out of the ordinary when he pressed little peck kisses over Dad's nape in comfort. Just a dream. She hasn't seen that guy in a long time. She also, obviously, wasn't human. But the depiction of them through Dad's dream had been pretty damn spot-on. Of course it would be, though. Dad knew everything about her, exactly how she'd look in some other body.

    Perhaps a nightmare rather than a dream though, based on Dad's reaction.

    I love you. I'm here. Talk to me.
    Don't go to that dark place again.

    I wish I could scrape away the dirt that's on my mind

    Quotes are speech. Italics are telepathy
    Reply
    #3
    Kirby had wandered so deep inside his own mind that he barely heard the echo of Kharon’s mind voice calling for him. The beast roared in its cage, shaking the walls, and Kirby traced the edge of the handle with his fingertips, hand drawn to the handle like they were magnetized. Dread clenched his abdomen tight, made his heart pound in his chest, and he hardly felt the soft kisses Kharon pressed to his neck, the way he rubbed his cheek against him in quiet, soothing affection. Fingers gripped the handle, tightening reflexively as they wrapped around it, and he tried to stop himself from opening the damn door.

    But it was no use.

    The monster he’d locked away three years ago stared at him as the door swung open, almost of its own accord. A wicked, hungry smile met him from the center head, a smirk that invited him in, coaxed him to step into the cage and reach out and touch, take what belonged to him, embrace what he’d locked away so long ago. The face to the left snarled with rage and frustration, a silent flash of gleaming white teeth and an aggressive chomp, fangs clicking shut and eyes narrowing with suspicion. And the third set of eyes on the right stared at him with cold intelligence in their depths, weighing him, taking his measure.

    The slow, toothy grin that spread across its face sent chills through him. Those eyes saw all the way into him, knew him the way no one else ever had. He wanted to pull away, wanted to jerk back and slam the door and pretend there was nothing monstrous about him, nothing dark and hungry inside him ready to reach out and devour the light he’d stolen and cultivated since he met his son.

    He almost managed to do it, too, to turn away and shut the door and walk away. Maybe. He told himself he would’ve, but maybe it didn’t matter. She hasn’t seen that guy in a long time. Pieces of himself snapped back together, and silver eyes sharpened, sharp teeth bared as he realized what that meant.

    She had seen him. He wasn’t just a dream, he was real, and he wanted Kerberos’s Lacey.

    Well too fucking bad.
    She belonged to him.

    And he would delight in reminding her of that fact, until neither of them could stand. Mmm, give her a sexy little knife so she could carve patterns in his skin too, make the iron that made up his surface pliable so she could mark him as hers, show the whole fucking world who he belonged to, hand her the leash to his inner monster and give himself over to her in turn. His goddamn Lacey, and if anyone thought otherwise he’d fucking show them how wrong they were, leave them bleeding on the ground at her glorious feet, a macabre gift wrapped in a bloodstained bow, an offering for his jagged, razor-sharp goddess.

    I love you. I'm here. Talk to me.

    What good were words though, when he so desperately craved the hunt, his body itching to move, to chase, to seek out his goddess and reclaim her. Mmm, but for their magnificent son, he tried, fighting the primal place that had swallowed him down to try and give the words his boy needed.

    We. Will. Find. Her. His nose burned for a trace of her scent in the air, his skin ached to be coated in it, to bathe himself in her essence and mingle their scents and mark each other, press home into his skin until he drove away that broken look in her angel eyes. She. Was. His. And he’d damn well make her believe it.

    Some small, rational part of him tried to remind him all he ever did was break her, ruin things for her, make everything worse until there was no repairing it. But a possessive snarl drowned it out, and he clambered to feet that itched to be canine, a ripple running through the iron of his skin to resettle it, muscles a little sharper, more pronounced, face sharpening infinitesimally. We Find Her.
    Bite my shiny metal ass.
    Reply
    #4
    kharon

    oh baby, I have not been kind

    Dad? he asked, tensing up as Dad seemed not to even feel his gentle affection or hear his thoughts, ignoring him. Dad? Dad, please come back. Come talk to me. Wake up.

    He froze and fell silent, watching through his dad's mind, seeing the three heads. Awe and fear held him captive, leaning uselessly into his dad though it never stirred him from this place he'd gone to. And his reaction to Mom's friend was new, confusing. Even still, it sparked a secret flare of hope in him. All she'd ever wanted was Dad. All Kharon had ever wanted was their happiness. That was better if it were them together, but it had never seemed possible. Dad thought she was hot, but wasn't into her the way she'd been into him.

    Dad? he tried again in a soft whisper, flinching in caution as Dad's attention slid to him. We. Will. Find. Her. Kharon's heart raced and he stared back with wide eyes, nodded silently. Was it safe for Dad to be like this? Should he be fighting to bring him back from it? But he promised they'd find Mom, and they needed to. So maybe he could try to bring him back from it later, after she was home.

    Did that make him a bad son?

    Dad stood, subtle details of his body sharpening, gleaming. He looked.. He kinda looked like a weapon, maybe. Deadly, at the very least. Kharon's heart raced and he sidled warily closer, brushing his lips over Dad's shoulder and watching up in his face. Would Dad still let him? Was his dad gone now and replaced by this thing inside him?

    We Find Her.

    "Okay, Daddy," he whispered, holding his head low and his wings tight to his body. His silver eyes were on his dad's face, watching for some sign that it was still him, that Kharon was still his son and he'd still love him.

    I wish I could scrape away the dirt that's on my mind

    Quotes are speech. Italics are telepathy
    Reply
    #5
    Kerberos huffed out a breath, drew his son’s scent in through his nose and watched the way the boy pressed against him, brushed a kiss to his shoulder, watched him with new wariness in his eyes. Mmm. It felt good, striking fear into a heart, and something deep in him thrilled at the scent of it, at the way the boy shrank in on himself, keeping those magnificent wings tight to his body. Except. That was his blood, and his blood should stand tall.

    He blew out another breath and nudged his son’s shoulder, dragged his lips along the boy’s neck in turn. Affection, reassurance, he could do those. Reached, though, to nudge beneath his boy’s chin, push his head up where it belonged. Tall. Strong. Confident. You are Mine. We are magnificent. We do not cower. They would find his woman, his boy’s mother. They would bring her home. Or the world would burn to the ground.
    Bite my shiny metal ass.
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