Nowhere (1p!HetaOni x Gender Neutral!Reader x 2p!HetaOni)

GunsHots - PaRt 1

【 D4y 1, ???, Curr3n7 Tim3 L00p - ??? & (F/n) 】

Every muscle aches, twitching as they come to life. Your body echoes the beating of your heart, limbs twitching at a constant pace. You grumble, stretching, arching your back like a feline and rolling your hands and feet, your joins clicking. Your shirt lifts, so when it touches bellow, you hiss at the cold. It is as though you fell asleep on the floor.

That's maybe because I did.

You stare down at the ground; grubby grey slabs of concrete acts as the flooring, uneven and cold to the touch, zapping the warmth from your body. Sitting up, you adjust your position, placing an elbow on each knee, and rub your face over. You yawn, covering your mouth before resting your chin on your forearm. The air is cold, sending a chill down your spine. You scrunch up your face, the air thick with the scent of iron.

The ceiling is raised, cement walls crumbling with bars cutting across the half of the room to your right, blocking all escape to the doors on either side of the hall. No cell door, only a two feet parallel gap across the top of the bars. A single light bulb hung from out there, the light barely making it through into the cell. Above, like banners at a morbid birthday party, are ropes of a chain, each varying in length as they stick from the links embedded into the ceiling, old rusting cuffs barely hanging on.

"Where... Am I?" Your voice echoes around you as you squint, trying to see at the back of the room. You clear your throat, voice hoarse.

"This way." A deep voice catches your attention, coaxing your head to turn left. You are met with the sight of a broad man sat on a throne, hands laying on the arms with his feet spread apart, a stance of authority and arrogance streaming off him. Deep brown hair is slicked back, a light tan to go with his expensive outfit. Grey sat in hooded eyelids, the colour resembling steel as he scans you in a pensive state. A cream scar runs across his face. A comet trail scorched into the skin, from his left browbone to jawline. He brings his leg up, placing his leather shoe up onto his left knee. He looks to his watch, squinting through the darkness to make out the time.

"Who are," Your voice wonders. The man looks familiar, the large kink on his nose all the way down to his aggressive aura. Your brain nags at you, Deja vu riding on your senses as your chest tightens. You clear your throat, rising from the floor. "Who are you?" You repeat, and this time he has the courtesy to look in your direction. The man curls his lips into a snarl at the question.

"Alpha." You cannot place his accent. It is husky yet well pronounced, with a hint of European.

"Like the wolf or alphabet?" You jest, dusting yourself off. You grin, but when met with his gaze again, it wipes off. He glares, eyebrows deeply set, a line across his forehead.

"Guess this," he gestures to your form, "is what happens when you follow the wrong crowd." His nose twitches in agitation.

"Follow the wrong crowd?" Confusion swarms your mind as you approach his velvet bound throne cautiously. "You mean my friends?" He scowls at you. You think over your statement. The wrong crowd obviously means friends, so who else could he mean. You perk a brow, testing the waters. "The Axis?" He scrunches up his face even further.

"So, you do count them as friends." He closes his eyes and shakes his head in disappointment. He tightens his jaw, readjusting himself in the seat. "Take a seat." He gestures to thin air, pointing to the spot in front of him. You look at the empty place, before looking at him in bewilderment.

"There is no--" You stop, mouth partly open before thinning your lips. A small wooden stool is before you; something used to sit on when milking cows.