Adam = Cthulhu (ok, not really, except for the fact that he totally is) and Kris gets a haircut.
anonymous
March 17 2010, 18:17:53 UTC
Some of us can't help translating "something new" as "grossly AU...with magical sharp things". Also, this has no plot that I know of.
+x+x+
Adam's always thought humans created curiosity as a sort of germ warfare.
Because nothing was more infectious. Art, war, sex-Adam's lived through every phase and kink on the spectrum. He partied till the last Roman column came crashing down, and even that pales in comparison to the overwhelming, itching need to know. To touch in exploration rather than desire, to taste without need but with hunger, to wonder. Oh, to wonder.
Adam's gone centuries surviving on the remembered scent of wonder alone.
But he's gone longer than that being heartily, cripplingly, astonishingly bored. The Cold War left a hangover that didn't clear up till he heard Mercury sing color back into the air, but then he had to suffer through most of the eighties anyway. Immortality is amazingly fair that way. By the time the century's rolling closed, with a millenium shutting near, he's bored again.
Which is why he bothers listening to Brad in the first place.
Brad-as he is calling himself this era-is young. Ludicrously so compared to Adam, but then what isn't? He's more shadow than dark, like most of his coevals, but he's a cunning surprise regardless. From the start he approached Adam with his ambitions flaunted open, and was allowed close because of that very fact. He doesn't stay close, of course, but he stays near. Brad's got an instinct for gossip and a talent for paring choice bits to serve for Adam's amusement. So it's Brad, blithe, cunning, lovely Brad, who tells him of the bayou.
“All the usual rumors,” he says. “It's not my thing, but-meh. You might sneak a peek if you're passing through.”
Adam wasn't, but now he is. He's not curious, not yet, but he is...inclined.
The bayou is snake territory; he feels the little shadows start hissing when he steps in, just as he hears the sound freeze when they realize what is in their territory. Nothing impedes his walk; they let him pass through unchallenged. Partly it's because he hasn't reputation of poaching, but mostly because there isn't a fuck's worth they could do if he did. They or anyone, really.
It's a terribly predictable sometimes, being insurmountable.
Evening's creeping in by the time Adam finds the house. It's big, rambling, and so thickly shielded it might as well be buried thirty feet deep. That doesn't tickle Adam's interest. What he senses inside, however, does.
Like the snakes, the people inside don't challenge his entry. Unlike the snakes, they not aware of it happening. Snakes are practical; people panic. He's not in the mood to suffer through the usual blizzard of fear and praise and exorcisms. Though perhaps here he would get more praise than fear. Adam needn't peer too closely at the sooty auras and brittle eyes to know this is not a house ruled by Balance. One almost starts to sense him, her wrinkled hand momentarily tightening on the cards in her lap. Her grip on the card falters, the card slides free. For a moment, Adam toys with the notion of reaching out and flipping it over. He knows what it'll be, and the small drama pleases him. But then her mouth firms and she turns back to the table, resuming a brittle conversation with her weak-chinned companion.
Adam = (not!) Cthulhu , Kris = IDEK, Pt.2
anonymous
March 17 2010, 18:59:06 UTC
+x+x+
Here's the story: when Kris is three, his parents take him to a house in Louisiana, to a room with no window and eleven other children, and leave him there to die.
He doesn't.
Instead, he sees a man walk through the door-through a closed door-and looks at him, and the man looks back and that, that changes everything. None of the other children notice. Not even when the man kneels in front of Kris and puts a large hand on his face, his rings cool and hard against Kris' cheek.
(The rings are many and strange. They twist, ever so slightly, so gently, on Adam's fingers. Kris will spend years watching them turn, and yet never recover from that first, tickling shock of feeling silver be live on his jaw.)
He asks Kris' name (Kristopher with a K), age (five and three days), if he's scared (no) or tired (no) or hurt (no). He asks about Kris' parents (no). He asks if Kris knows where he is (no), he asks likes magic tricks (yes), and then he smiles--stupid, blind fuckers--and picks him up, an iron arm under Kris' knees, big palm flat on his back.
"Baby," he says in a voice unlike anything Kris has ever known, "you are a wonder."
So in a way his parents succeed; the monster gets Kris.
Adam = (not!) Cthulhu , Kris = IDEK, Pt. 3
anonymous
March 17 2010, 19:14:25 UTC
+x+x+
Adam hasn't dealt with Paladins in years. It's not that he has anything against the silly bunch, (fanatical vigilantism isn't his glee of choice, but, hey, it's a free dimension) it's just they're so earnest all the time that he gets exhausted simply hearing the word. Protecting the Balance is fine and sweet, but would it kill them to brighten up the image? Adopt a catchy motto or something, or baste some glitter on the badges? And, hell, invent some badges while they're at it. They could at least update the décor; the courtyard Adam steps onto is modern but in the essence identical to every other piece of realty owned by the order he's ever visited. It could be Barcelona or Osaka or Kiev or, apparently, central Arkansas.
Adam finds it ironic, really, that humanity's champions are squatting in the Midwest.
Still, what they lack in style they overcompensate for in sheer paranoia; within moments of arrival the lawn swarms, wild-eyed novices and sterner knights knitting a loose chain around him. Adam wouldn't mind the welcome, really, it's adorable, except then the damn bells wake up and start bleating their silent, crackling warning through the compound. Kris' breathing stutters briefly against his neck and Adam cups his free hand to the child's head, tucking him more firmly into slumber. It's only the smallest wisp of power, barely more effort than what it takes to shatter the bloody noisemakers because who the hell needs an alarm that works on the psychic Richter scale?
When he looks back up there's a bright ring of-good grief-swords around him. There's also a pair of Brownings, at least three .45's, and, ah yes, the telltale glint of a far range rifle from the one of the dormitory windows. Clearly, they've been stocking the toybox since he last visited. The idea is reassuring.
“Elder, we abjure you by the Rites and Covenant of Balance to obey the covenant laid forth in honor of the old path and pacts,” starts the calmest seeming of the lot.
He doesn't get far before a familiar, sour voice saws across the greeting. “Don't bother with formalities, Ryan. They won't do a bloody thing to hold him and he enjoys theatrics too much as it is.”
“Simon,” Adam smiles. “You cut your hair."
“Quite a few times in the last twenty years,” Simon says. “What the hell do you wa-good God, is that a child?”
“Shut up,” Adam snaps automatically. “Don't wake him, he's been up most of the night.”
The skin around the magistrate's eyes tightens, though the voice stays stable. “You've picked up some new bad habits, then. You didn't do children before.”
As if he and his little gang of heroes had half a clue as to what Adam does-or did. Still, he's here for a reason.
Adam = (not!) Cthulhu , Kris = IDEK, Pt.4
anonymous
March 18 2010, 14:12:27 UTC
HEY, GUYS? GUYS. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS STORY IS ABOUT, K? 'K. That said...
+x+x+
Three days after every birthday since his fifth, Kris wakes up somewhere he's never been.
When he's six, it's Amsterdam.
When he's seven, it's Beijing.
Eight is Montparnasse, nine is Moscow. Ten is a split between Berlin and Vancouver. Eleven is Sydney.
Three days after turning twelve, Kris opens his eyes and, lo, here be dragons. They have long, bronze eyes and pale beards, and are dancing. Curious, Kris stretches his hand to press fingertips against the painted screen. The dragons do not shy.
"You know," says a voice without equal, "to see a dragon uninvited meant to be struck blind. Once upon a time."
Kris turns away from the monster (fake) in front of him to see the monster (real) behind him. Adam is sprawled comfortably in a chair, booted ankle resting on a leather covered knee. He looks lazy and brilliant, and wonderful, as he has each time Kris sees him. His expression is unreadable.
The room is elegant and austere, handsomely accented with an alcove holding a flower arrangement. A large, low lacquered table fills the center of the space. Kris rolls out of the futon, pausing briefly to wiggle his toes on the tatami mat, and pads over to the window-cum-door. The garden outside has the aura of a private treasure, exquisite with fern and moss, small trees, pale gravel and boulders.
"This is kick awesome," Kris says.
Adam laughs and rises out the chair like a shadow sliding off a wall. "Come on, wonder child, we're late for breakfast."
+x+x+
"I'm missing cartography," Kris says, swallowing. "I think."
"My regret is immeasurable."
"Just sayin'," Kris says, "Simon's going to flip out on you. He'll yell."
Adam sighs. He's not eating, but then he never does; food stopped being interesting, apparently, somewhere back in '47. "Kristopher. I realize the very idea of it is antithesis to your believed natural order but Simon matters nothing to me. I don't care if he yells."
"Ok." Kris' chopsticks pinch another slice of trout. It's called ayu and it's smocked and amazing. Almost as good as the peppery bamboo broth. "So why do you let him do it then?"
Adam's cup pauses in its ascent. (He has not, apparently, yet given up on coffee.) "Do what?"
"Yell at you."
"I don't," Adam says. "Our conversation are carried out at a harmonious indoor voice level, always."
"Last time Charles heard you guys across the quad."
"Well." Adam shrugs. His jacket ripples. "Harmony's a bitch."
Adam = (not!) Cthulhu , Kris = IDEK, Pt.5
anonymous
March 18 2010, 19:39:41 UTC
+x+x+
Adam is not involved.
For better or worse, he's always been one step removed from the noise. It's not neutrality exactly; he's warred and raged and once had a city crumble in payment for his grief. But he is not a part of the picture, not like some. His wars, his oaths and loyalties, are private.
He stays...apart.
He has nothing against the laws of Balance; he never protested when they were first forged or during any of the wars fought on that covenant's behalf. But he has never written himself into the histories of those battles and debates, never raised his voice to defend or condemn. The Balance draws peaceful lines between those born of Dark and those born mortal; it is the milk sustaining millennia of coexistence has been measured, the scale deciding the price of each side's transgression. He respects the work. Sometimes he even admires it.
But that doesn't stop Adam from viewing it as child's play.
It's why his "fights" with Simon will always be loud, and colorful--and futile. No matter the will power or good intentions, the Paladins will never have the means to stand against the old, old, old things. They will never have a power to match the scope of their mission; they will never be at a true Balance because they have no power equal to the task, a "fair fight" will always be out their reach. He will never be within the Paladins' reach. He will never be an enemy because they've no chance to harm or insult him, and he will never be an ally because he will forever be too strong, too old to be trusted.
He wonders, idly, if they tell Kris this. If they remind him of what make of creature saved his life and stalks it in return. They must speak carefully if they do, because Kris (still) looks at him with the same unvarnished openness he owned as a child.
That's what it comes down to in the end, Adam thinks, watching Kris navigate his way around a doomed snow cone, children and monsters. The latter names the former, the former sets the rules. No real symmetry, no fair chances, no win-wins.
It's so very, very pointle--
His nose is cold.
Adam blinks, his throat suffused with the scent of grape and his skin utterly unprepared for the feel of Kris' palm.
"Sorry, sorry. I was trying to give you a taste and, um, missed. Let me just, darn it," Kris rocks back on his heels, paper bowl of shaved ice in one hand, crumpled napkin in the other. "You've some stuff on your--geez, who told you to be tall? I can't reach."
Children and monsters, Adam thinks, lowering himself.
Re: Adam = (not!) Cthulhu , Kris = IDEK, Pt.5onlyeffyMarch 18 2010, 21:29:40 UTC
ok well this is just fabulous. i'm srs. this is my new fave kradam fic fic rn. i've never tracked a thread in the kinkmeme before but imma be tracking this one. gimme more plz
+x+x+
Adam's always thought humans created curiosity as a sort of germ warfare.
Because nothing was more infectious. Art, war, sex-Adam's lived through every phase and kink on the spectrum. He partied till the last Roman column came crashing down, and even that pales in comparison to the overwhelming, itching need to know. To touch in exploration rather than desire, to taste without need but with hunger, to wonder. Oh, to wonder.
Adam's gone centuries surviving on the remembered scent of wonder alone.
But he's gone longer than that being heartily, cripplingly, astonishingly bored. The Cold War left a hangover that didn't clear up till he heard Mercury sing color back into the air, but then he had to suffer through most of the eighties anyway. Immortality is amazingly fair that way. By the time the century's rolling closed, with a millenium shutting near, he's bored again.
Which is why he bothers listening to Brad in the first place.
Brad-as he is calling himself this era-is young. Ludicrously so compared to Adam, but then what isn't? He's more shadow than dark, like most of his coevals, but he's a cunning surprise regardless. From the start he approached Adam with his ambitions flaunted open, and was allowed close because of that very fact. He doesn't stay close, of course, but he stays near. Brad's got an instinct for gossip and a talent for paring choice bits to serve for Adam's amusement. So it's Brad, blithe, cunning, lovely Brad, who tells him of the bayou.
“All the usual rumors,” he says. “It's not my thing, but-meh. You might sneak a peek if you're passing through.”
Adam wasn't, but now he is. He's not curious, not yet, but he is...inclined.
The bayou is snake territory; he feels the little shadows start hissing when he steps in, just as he hears the sound freeze when they realize what is in their territory. Nothing impedes his walk; they let him pass through unchallenged. Partly it's because he hasn't reputation of poaching, but mostly because there isn't a fuck's worth they could do if he did. They or anyone, really.
It's a terribly predictable sometimes, being insurmountable.
Evening's creeping in by the time Adam finds the house. It's big, rambling, and so thickly shielded it might as well be buried thirty feet deep. That doesn't tickle Adam's interest. What he senses inside, however, does.
Like the snakes, the people inside don't challenge his entry. Unlike the snakes, they not aware of it happening. Snakes are practical; people panic. He's not in the mood to suffer through the usual blizzard of fear and praise and exorcisms. Though perhaps here he would get more praise than fear. Adam needn't peer too closely at the sooty auras and brittle eyes to know this is not a house ruled by Balance. One almost starts to sense him, her wrinkled hand momentarily tightening on the cards in her lap. Her grip on the card falters, the card slides free. For a moment, Adam toys with the notion of reaching out and flipping it over. He knows what it'll be, and the small drama pleases him. But then her mouth firms and she turns back to the table, resuming a brittle conversation with her weak-chinned companion.
Adam goes downstairs.
To where they put the children.
+x+x+
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Here's the story: when Kris is three, his parents take him to a house in Louisiana, to a room with no window and eleven other children, and leave him there to die.
He doesn't.
Instead, he sees a man walk through the door-through a closed door-and looks at him, and the man looks back and that, that changes everything. None of the other children notice. Not even when the man kneels in front of Kris and puts a large hand on his face, his rings cool and hard against Kris' cheek.
(The rings are many and strange. They twist, ever so slightly, so gently, on Adam's fingers. Kris will spend years watching them turn, and yet never recover from that first, tickling shock of feeling silver be live on his jaw.)
He asks Kris' name (Kristopher with a K), age (five and three days), if he's scared (no) or tired (no) or hurt (no). He asks about Kris' parents (no). He asks if Kris knows where he is (no), he asks likes magic tricks (yes), and then he smiles--stupid, blind fuckers--and picks him up, an iron arm under Kris' knees, big palm flat on his back.
"Baby," he says in a voice unlike anything Kris has ever known, "you are a wonder."
So in a way his parents succeed; the monster gets Kris.
Thing is, Kris gets the monster too.
+x+x+
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Adam hasn't dealt with Paladins in years. It's not that he has anything against the silly bunch, (fanatical vigilantism isn't his glee of choice, but, hey, it's a free dimension) it's just they're so earnest all the time that he gets exhausted simply hearing the word. Protecting the Balance is fine and sweet, but would it kill them to brighten up the image? Adopt a catchy motto or something, or baste some glitter on the badges? And, hell, invent some badges while they're at it. They could at least update the décor; the courtyard Adam steps onto is modern but in the essence identical to every other piece of realty owned by the order he's ever visited. It could be Barcelona or Osaka or Kiev or, apparently, central Arkansas.
Adam finds it ironic, really, that humanity's champions are squatting in the Midwest.
Still, what they lack in style they overcompensate for in sheer paranoia; within moments of arrival the lawn swarms, wild-eyed novices and sterner knights knitting a loose chain around him. Adam wouldn't mind the welcome, really, it's adorable, except then the damn bells wake up and start bleating their silent, crackling warning through the compound. Kris' breathing stutters briefly against his neck and Adam cups his free hand to the child's head, tucking him more firmly into slumber. It's only the smallest wisp of power, barely more effort than what it takes to shatter the bloody noisemakers because who the hell needs an alarm that works on the psychic Richter scale?
When he looks back up there's a bright ring of-good grief-swords around him. There's also a pair of Brownings, at least three .45's, and, ah yes, the telltale glint of a far range rifle from the one of the dormitory windows. Clearly, they've been stocking the toybox since he last visited. The idea is reassuring.
“Elder, we abjure you by the Rites and Covenant of Balance to obey the covenant laid forth in honor of the old path and pacts,” starts the calmest seeming of the lot.
He doesn't get far before a familiar, sour voice saws across the greeting. “Don't bother with formalities, Ryan. They won't do a bloody thing to hold him and he enjoys theatrics too much as it is.”
“Simon,” Adam smiles. “You cut your hair."
“Quite a few times in the last twenty years,” Simon says. “What the hell do you wa-good God, is that a child?”
“Shut up,” Adam snaps automatically. “Don't wake him, he's been up most of the night.”
The skin around the magistrate's eyes tightens, though the voice stays stable. “You've picked up some new bad habits, then. You didn't do children before.”
As if he and his little gang of heroes had half a clue as to what Adam does-or did. Still, he's here for a reason.
A small, tow-headed, sleepy reason.
Adam says, "Let's make a deal."
+x+x+
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Can't wait for more. <3
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+x+x+
Three days after every birthday since his fifth, Kris wakes up somewhere he's never been.
When he's six, it's Amsterdam.
When he's seven, it's Beijing.
Eight is Montparnasse, nine is Moscow. Ten is a split between Berlin and Vancouver. Eleven is Sydney.
Three days after turning twelve, Kris opens his eyes and, lo, here be dragons. They have long, bronze eyes and pale beards, and are dancing. Curious, Kris stretches his hand to press fingertips against the painted screen. The dragons do not shy.
"You know," says a voice without equal, "to see a dragon uninvited meant to be struck blind. Once upon a time."
Kris turns away from the monster (fake) in front of him to see the monster (real) behind him. Adam is sprawled comfortably in a chair, booted ankle resting on a leather covered knee. He looks lazy and brilliant, and wonderful, as he has each time Kris sees him. His expression is unreadable.
The room is elegant and austere, handsomely accented with an alcove holding a flower arrangement. A large, low lacquered table fills the center of the space. Kris rolls out of the futon, pausing briefly to wiggle his toes on the tatami mat, and pads over to the window-cum-door. The garden outside has the aura of a private treasure, exquisite with fern and moss, small trees, pale gravel and boulders.
"This is kick awesome," Kris says.
Adam laughs and rises out the chair like a shadow sliding off a wall. "Come on, wonder child, we're late for breakfast."
+x+x+
"I'm missing cartography," Kris says, swallowing. "I think."
"My regret is immeasurable."
"Just sayin'," Kris says, "Simon's going to flip out on you. He'll yell."
Adam sighs. He's not eating, but then he never does; food stopped being interesting, apparently, somewhere back in '47. "Kristopher. I realize the very idea of it is antithesis to your believed natural order but Simon matters nothing to me. I don't care if he yells."
"Ok." Kris' chopsticks pinch another slice of trout. It's called ayu and it's smocked and amazing. Almost as good as the peppery bamboo broth. "So why do you let him do it then?"
Adam's cup pauses in its ascent. (He has not, apparently, yet given up on coffee.) "Do what?"
"Yell at you."
"I don't," Adam says. "Our conversation are carried out at a harmonious indoor voice level, always."
"Last time Charles heard you guys across the quad."
"Well." Adam shrugs. His jacket ripples. "Harmony's a bitch."
+x+x+
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(srsly, this is awesome. amazing writing. it's so gooooood.)
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+x+x+
Adam is not involved.
For better or worse, he's always been one step removed from the noise. It's not neutrality exactly; he's warred and raged and once had a city crumble in payment for his grief. But he is not a part of the picture, not like some. His wars, his oaths and loyalties, are private.
He stays...apart.
He has nothing against the laws of Balance; he never protested when they were first forged or during any of the wars fought on that covenant's behalf. But he has never written himself into the histories of those battles and debates, never raised his voice to defend or condemn. The Balance draws peaceful lines between those born of Dark and those born mortal; it is the milk sustaining millennia of coexistence has been measured, the scale deciding the price of each side's transgression. He respects the work. Sometimes he even admires it.
But that doesn't stop Adam from viewing it as child's play.
It's why his "fights" with Simon will always be loud, and colorful--and futile. No matter the will power or good intentions, the Paladins will never have the means to stand against the old, old, old things. They will never have a power to match the scope of their mission; they will never be at a true Balance because they have no power equal to the task, a "fair fight" will always be out their reach. He will never be within the Paladins' reach. He will never be an enemy because they've no chance to harm or insult him, and he will never be an ally because he will forever be too strong, too old to be trusted.
He wonders, idly, if they tell Kris this. If they remind him of what make of creature saved his life and stalks it in return. They must speak carefully if they do, because Kris (still) looks at him with the same unvarnished openness he owned as a child.
That's what it comes down to in the end, Adam thinks, watching Kris navigate his way around a doomed snow cone, children and monsters. The latter names the former, the former sets the rules. No real symmetry, no fair chances, no win-wins.
It's so very, very pointle--
His nose is cold.
Adam blinks, his throat suffused with the scent of grape and his skin utterly unprepared for the feel of Kris' palm.
"Sorry, sorry. I was trying to give you a taste and, um, missed. Let me just, darn it," Kris rocks back on his heels, paper bowl of shaved ice in one hand, crumpled napkin in the other. "You've some stuff on your--geez, who told you to be tall? I can't reach."
Children and monsters, Adam thinks, lowering himself.
+x+x+
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i'm srs. this is my new fave kradam fic fic rn. i've never tracked a thread in the kinkmeme before but imma be tracking this one.
gimme more plz
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I have no idea what is going on but I will continue reading :)
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