#FURYINCHAINS ⸻ a highly selective, slow-paced, independent blog for zoya from path to nowhere. inspirations are taken from cyberpunk 2077, john wick, sin city, blade runner, ghost in the shell. cherished and loved by joo, she / her, androgynous, established feb '25.

current verses: path to nowhere, cyberpunk 2077

conquering the world with: @s-099

a study on a storm made flesh, a force unbroken. power coils beneath her complexion, traced in every breath, in every command. she is steel sharpened by loss, a whisper of mercy buried beneath the weight of her crown. they call her cold, cruel ⸻ too fierce, too proud. she shall let them. the winds do not ask for permission to howl. the dragon does not seek approval to burn. she is wrath. she is fury. she is the storm, and the storm bows to no one.

rain was merciless in its savage form: it beat against the windows in ragged fists, following the thunder that cared not about being silent. but inside... inside it was worse. a smirk curled at the corner of her mouth, turning to the other upon words meant to cause effect escaped. her posture was half-shadow and half-ritual, with the storm lighting her from behind. ❝ you say it like it's a punishment... and i like that. ❞ her stride commenced, not towards the other, but around. ❝ it's funny, however... all the brilliant minds, all the capable hands, and yet fate ties you to me. is it irony, do you think? or mercy? ❞ her digits lifted, hovered, albeit never quite touching for her restraint was a vice made of velvet. ❝ of course... if i'm the idiot you claim... what does that make the woman who keeps choosing to be near me? ❞

the syndicate was splintering, she knew. smaller gangs were rising ( they were weeds through concrete ), drunk on their own fleeting power ⸻ there were whispers in alleyways, rumours blooming behind locked doors, and she knew it was only a matter of time until drastic measures would have to be taken. no wonder, however, that they had been kept apart and the echo of her not being there in every room was an aching shape carved into every doorway left unopened. the ache had grown beneath her complexion, vine with thorns that were invasive enough to make her blood feel hot in all the wrong places.

she had waited, regardless. with scorn, with cigarette smoke curling from her tiers, curses held in place by lipstick. she had waited whilst the syndicate unraveled at the seams, whilst lies fermented in every corner of their crumbling city. she had waited whilst those beneath them clashed like dogs starved too long, each one too hungry to know better than to bite. like sin wrapped in silk, her vocals arrived in waves, and her response was no other than a soft and bitter laugh. ❝ miss me much, i see. ❞ the kiss was abrupt and greedy, but she noted the tremble of someone who had waited too long for something forbidden. ninety-nine's mouth crashed into hers, a prayer forgotten and found again, sweet and reckless and aching. and zoya... zoya, in utter and madly response, took the kiss. she claimed it as hers, not in return but in recompense. she took it with teeth and tongue, with a craving that reflected the fury of her soul. and it was with that intensity that she turned them around and pinned her against the wall.

her hands, no longer gloved in dark leather, slipped behind to settle against her lower back, making her bend, making her press inhumanely against her. only to feel the curvature of defined muscles, the swell of forbidden, the warmth of vice and divine. she kissed her back like it was punishment. like she wanted her to feel how long she had been denied. her mourth dragged itself, with tiers parting just wide enough to draw a gasp, with teeth grazing her lower tier until it swelled, turning her into a fruit bitten too hard. her digits fanned out against ninety-nine's waist, holding her firmly, possessively [ ... ] until they moved further down, behind her thigh, to lift her leg in pursuance of circling her waist. and fuck, if it did not feel absolutely delightful to feel her warmth more.

her wound was carved just beneath the collarbone, throbbed in pulses, a beat of a too-sensual drum mixed with treacherous and unforgiving mania. it had sliced through her attire with all the grace of a drunk sculptor with a vendetta: the crimson stain had spread ( unwelcome and theatrical ), blooming beneath the fabric, with a particularly melodramatic rose. she was lying back, faintly reclined on a medical cot that creaked with the subtle sound of a potential betrayal. a soft bandage lay askew across her décolletage, uselessly soaked and every breath flared the pain ⸻ her sighs, however, were far too languid to admit discomfort. she was halfway bewtixt martyr and muse, wounded, yes, but devastatingly so.

there was a pause at the commentary, however. a long, soul-searching pause whilst zoya blinked once, twice; very slowly, as though recalibrating her entire understanding of language and humanity. but eventually, a silvery laugh escaped her tiers and she found the strength that once swept away to lean forward. ❝ so, an expert? have i been wounded in the heart, or simply in the bosom of... huh, science? ❞ a smirk tiptoed upon lineaments otherwise hinting at pain, her stance rigid, but dauntingly attracted to the other. ❝ do you offer home visits? or is the boobologist seductress package extra? ❞

━━ EDIT 2 ?? ∞

the legion's headquarters stood as a looming monolith against the fractured skyline, its darkened corridors steeped in naught but secrets, in savagery, in the implacable heartbeat of survival. silence was rarely ever just silence ⸻ it was a whisper of impending bloodshed, the murmur before a blade found its mark, the stillness before the tempest. for zoya, however, that night, the shadows clung to her as if silk to the walls they were, the dim fluorescents glinting in lazy intervals whilst she moved through the hushed corridors, the cadence of her steps regular, wanton. her presence demanded attention even when she was alone, the click of her heels against the cold, lifeless floor a rhythm that belonged only to her. she could hear the murmurs of legion officers in the distance, but none dared to intercept her path. they knew there was something far more pressing simmering beneath her complexion.

her digits trailed absently over the frigid metal of the door before her. zoya pushed it open without a sound, stepping inside with the ease of an umbra slipping through the fissures. ninety-nine was resposing at the edge of her bed, hunched slightly forward, crimson spheres barely lifting whilst the door shut behind zoya with a finality that echoed. ❝ pretending that today is not important... aren't we? ❞ her coat was reposed on the chair nearby, still damp from the rain that had battered the city earlier, and her claws ( those infamous, blackened weapons of hers ) were removed, rested loosely upon the coat.

she smiled for a moment, pushing herself to cross the distance betwixt them, moving with the ease of a huntress who already knew her prey would not run ⸻ not from her. she lowered before her ( a prince of sorts, before the king ) and she reached out, digits brushing against the edge of ninety-nine's jaw, the touch featherlight, teasing, yet undeniable in its claim. ❝ your birthday. should be commemorated. ❞ zoya let the moment breathe before finally reaching into the folds of her leather pants and pulling out something wrapped in a simple, black cloth. she held it out, gaze unreadable. a blade: sleek, wickedly curved, polished to perfection. not just any blade, but one that bore the markings of the legion ⸻ one that belonged to someone who would not be needing it anymore. ❝ a gift. ❞ a murmur, tilting her head. ❝ from me to you. ❞

she leaned in then, until their foreheads nearly touched, until she could feel the heat radiating from the woman before her. ❝ happy birthday, little beast. ❞ she whispered, voice a breath. ❝ another year of survival. another year of proving them wrong. ❞ it was then, after a moment, that she stole a kiss: a featherlight brush of tiers, but lingering enough to desire more. ❝ and i couldn't be prouder of you. ❞

unprompted ask ⸻ always accepting “ you’ll get cold , “ ninety-nine began , pulling her own jacket away from her shoulders in favour of laying it atop zoya’s. the rain was relentless and there was a chilling bite to the wind, something even Zoya was powerless to avoid, especially considering the way she dressed. ninety-nine was the same in that regard, ignoring the possibility of getting sick. clawed hands lingered for a moment , clutching the edges of the jacket & holding them with hesitation to close the zip around zoya’s waist . “ looking hot is great but getting sick for it is pointless . “ ninety-nine scoffed , finally zipping the jacket up and taking a single step back . her attention met the other’s gaze , blackened fingers lifting to rake through her own tresses in an attempt to unstick the strands from her face . // hesitates bc she’s looking at the abs 😩😩😩😩 ( @s-099 )

the weight of a jacket settled against her shoulders, heavy with the lingering warmth of its owner ⸻ the scent clung to it, faint embers of gunpowder, the ghost of steel, the quiet and unstated steadiness of the one who had draped it over her. she inhaled, unintentionally, allowing the scent to settle in her, behind the webs of her ribcage, inside the coffer of her sentiments. her gaze shimmered, naught with surprise, but with emotional responses that she wanted not to show, wanted not to reveal. the hesitation in the hands that lingered at the edges of the fabric did not go unnoticed, nor did the way those clawed digits fumbled, caught betwixt instinct and an unfamiliar tenderness as she reached for the zipper. the moment was almost too domestic, too intimate for warriors carved from blood and fire... but zoya let it happen.

she allowed the act, permitted the touch, albeit her very nature warred against being tended to, against the notion that she was fragile and breakable. it was not pity, however, nor a statement of weakness. a scoff escaped then, the barest trace of amusement. she tilted her head, watching as ninety-nine took a step back, the distance betwixt them punctuated by the sound of rain striking the ground in symphony. there was something absurdly endearing about the way she pushed damp strands from her lineaments, digits dragging through porcelain tresses as though this entire thing was just another matter of practicality. she was damn beautiful, in all her feral glory.

a lie so frail, so brittle, so delicate. a lie so clear like crystalline water. a lie that nearly broke zoya's composure. a sound produced in the coffins of his throat in response, aware of all the signs that refuted her words: embers of mania still burned behind spheres of humanity, digits curled so tightly as though meant to tear, spine taut as a bowstring. she dared not to answer right away, aware that her own kaleidoscope of emotions would tear her apart. words were insignificant, anyway ⸻ they were too small to carry the weight of all she wished to say. she had seen it before the way the rage devoured ninety-nine, piece by piece. she had watched that precious, fractured humanity slip through calloused digits like grains of sand, swallowed by immeasurable cruelty. and damn, how she had loathed it. not her ( it was never her ) but the wretched injustice of it. the tragedy of a girl molded into a weapon, forced to wield herself against the world without mercy.

❝ your body says otherwise... ❞ her vocals were barely whispered, her own heart a fragile thread pulled taut, trembling beneath the weight of things left unsaid. fear seemed to crawl, a fear that she knew intimately. it was a quiet and gnawing thing, a serpent coiled in the dark, whispering that mayhap it was time. that it was the moment control would slip for good. that mayhap she was close to unmaking what little humanity she had left [ ... ] and the very thought alone nearly brought her fully to her knees, a gravity that she could never, ever, fight back. ❝ and i can't let this happen again... ❞

&. rivals (to lovers?) sentence starters. " i'm the asshole? what does that make you then? " ( @s-099 )

it rained, mayhap aggressively. a natural performance not always prone to be so gifted, but provoked by forces that drove her kind. protected under the shelter of the legion's quarter, she dared to repose and find peace in moments like those: moments where the sound was reduced to droplets tiptoing onto the pavement, onto the debris of loss and of conquests. a sigh exhaled, with a hand carding through the sand of her porcelain hair. if only peace was granted... if only wars were no longer the primary source of her existence... mayhap solitude and loss were not holding hands with her.