chapter 7 of my chiscara omegaverse college roommate au fic is up!
—in it, scaramouche drinks wine, drinks soup, bleeds, and kisses and kisses and kisses
E | currently 29,227 | pining, skin hunger, food as a love language, boypussy, angst and humor and comfort
Nose-blind Scaramouche acquires a roommate with supposedly unbearable pheromones, decent culinary skills, and a penchant for fucking him in bathrooms at parties. It's kind of a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, Scaramouche never makes anything easy for anyone, least of all himself.
hi senti! I'm a bit embarrassed to ask this publicly 🙈 so could you please answer this privately? (I think there's an option button for that) 🫶
anyways hmm...👉👈 may I please ask for Bingjiu noncon recs? 🙈🙈 art or fic, anything. (just hot stuff basically 🤭🙈)
While I don't ship them (bc I'm a binggeyuan and qijiu truther), it's my guilty pleasure bc their suffering is hot 😭 I like it just for the darkness and noncon papapa hate sex, basically and prefer no falling in loves between the two.
That being said, I'm in a mood rn and would like some horny noncon b9. Could you please help this pervert out? 🥺🫶
Thing is, I actually have a list of bookmarked fics but there's sm, idk which one is good. So I've come looking for recommendations instead..☺️
I could also put you on some of my fave noncon bingjiu fics/art if ur interested!
yeah that's all. thank you king and have a lovely day :) ❤️❤️
HELL YEAH I CAN
okay so this one has no archive warnings apply and not the noncon tag but the noncon vibes are. definitely there (as always with bingjiu)
Shadows can bleed - Chapter 1 - SenZen_Travers - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] (this one was recommended to me a while ago, im about halfway through it and rlly enjoying it!)
Vedaniya - ancient_moonshine - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] by the author of my favorite bingjiu work (all the corners turned, all the selves lost) yum yum i love this author so much
Cradle and Grave - ancient_moonshine - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] qijiu and bingjiu! same author again!
Turning the Tables - Prim_the_Amazing - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own]
if you're in the mood for filthy smut, no character study, no plot, i recommend you check out this one! i love prims works as well :D
Shizun's Keeper - tpfw01 - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] THREE CHEERS FOR SOMNO 🎉🎉WOOO
silk - Space_Samurai - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] A classic! and the accompanying art for it by @nakyuhm (i looove this artist as well)
caged - Space_Samurai - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] another space samurai work! you probably know their fics as theyre quite popular but i thought id link anyways
Breaking a Beast - Prim_the_Amazing - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] more prim!! yay!
more poetic than porn but i like it so on the list it goes!
white bone red torn - loachpearl - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own]
h a l y c o n - chunni - 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù [Archive of Our Own] ohh i like this one...i think ive read it a few times now
some art
The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System, svsss, MoDaoZuShi / さはん中心MXTX Log2 - pixiv
차 (@cha_201_) / X (pretty sure this is the artist who did the hardcover art!)
부채 (@Qwert021600) / X
thats all i can do for now but i got a lot more in me! you're very welcome to recommend me any art or fics!! Hope you enjoy! I selected the post privately option, so I hope you see it :0
Choke. Just think about it, seriously. Think about what choking is and imagine speaking while it’s happening. That would fuckin’ hurt, man.
Hiss. Look, it’s just not possible, okay? No matter how “evil” you want your character to seem.
Snarl. Animals snarls. The Beast from Beauty and the Beast snarls. The Hulk snarls. You know who doesn’t snarl? PEOPLE WHEN THEY’RE SPEAKING.
Shriek. Come on, 99% of the time, “shriek” is not the word you want.Let’s face it: if you put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, your reader gets the picture. Don’t bring to mind banshees and screaming toddlers.
Sneer. I’m not even going to bother explaining this one. “SNEER” ISN’T EVEN A SOUND.
Choked is not meant to be taken literally, an obstruction in the throat. It means they’re having difficultly speaking, they’re forcing the words out with difficulty. Often used when the character is convulsed in tears or laughter.
Hiss is a low, threatening whisper. Raw, guttural, vicious. It is NOT a literal hiss like an animal, it is a tone of voice that serves the same function. Someone will hiss that they’re going to cut your throat- a message from one person to the other.
Snarl is the same kind of thing. Not literal, it’s a tone of voice that serves the same function. It’s raw and gutteral like a hiss, but more savage than vicious. It’s loud, it’s showy, it’s intimidating. It’s very alpha male, big man, look at how fucking dangerous I am. I’ll take ALL of you on. Even if they’re snarling at one person in particular, nobody better back them up or they’re gonna get fucked up too.
Shriek. Come on, seriously? We’ve all heard people shriek either in fear or outrage. High pitched, loud, out of control, feminine. Men can shriek, but it’s funny and emasculating. Think angry italian women throwing pots and pans or ladies on tables who just saw a mouse.
Sneering is contempt whether it’s a facial expression or a tone of voice or both. There are a hundred different ways to sneer with your voice, but it all adds up to the same thing.
Gotta add previous tags on here, because this is gonna live rent free in my head from now on. The stars are real, constellations are not. Damn. Tags by @smoreofbabylon (if you don’t want me to put you on blast like this I’ll delete lol!)
your village practices an extreme form of banishment. to ensure those who are exiled can never return, they are gifted to the monstrous creatures of the wilderness who are all too eager to embrace them.
->briefly suggestive but not explicit. contains gore, murder, illness/vomiting, body horror, transformation, terato, dubious consent, implied mind control/mind-altering states of being. also on ao3.
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It won’t hurt, they all say, as they salt the earth behind you. From the crumbling fenceposts at the village’s edge, along streams and into valleys, zigzagging between the evergreens, they pour from burlap sacks until they fear to go any further. The Path of Banishment cuts a strange, circuitous path through the wilderness as though the road itself writhes in agony. The silence comes suddenly. No more hissing salt and crunching footsteps behind you, no birdsong to fill the void. You turn and find your escorts, dressed in the somber black of executioners, watching and waiting.
It won’t hurt, they all say, but they can’t even look you in the eye.
“It isn’t right,” you tell them. “You know it isn’t.”
“Fair’s fair. The divines turned their back on you twice,” one of them says. But he knows, even if he won’t admit it. He frowns at the salt pile at his feet. They try to pick strangers for this, people the exiled have never met before, but your village isn’t big enough to have strangers. You know him and he knows you, and he knows you didn’t do what they said you did, knows this never should’ve happened and knows there’s nothing anyone can do now.
But you want him to look at you. You want any of them to look at you. No one does anymore. They look past you, at the sky or the ground. They keep their livestock and their children away.
“You should get going,” he says quietly. “Won’t be safe after dark, not even for you.” You’re not given a lantern, a knife, a coat, anything. Those things are for humans, not for exiles. They crowd together nervously as the sun sinks behind the trees and turns to burnt gold where it trickles through the leaves.
It won’t hurt. You won’t feel it. It’s slow but it’s painless. But you aren’t numb. You feel yourself changing. You feel all the solid, certain things inside you softening. When you squeeze your skin, it sinks slow and thick like foam, holding the shape of your fingerprints. The ridge of your spine squishes like gelatin. You’ve been sick since it started, vomiting blood, black bile and the gristly bits of your own shriveled innards. Out with the old, they say. You don’t need all that anymore. New things are swelling in the empty space.
There is no pain but there is the primal sense of violation. Pressure and presence where there should be none, strange shapes bulging and shifting beneath your skin. Something is hollowing you out, carving recklessly through muscle, organ and bone. You can’t see it but you know. You cough into your palm and find a puddle of scarlet, a shredded chunk of lung. That bright spark of fear in your chest is gradually smothered in gauzy exhaustion and inexplicable calm but you cling to it as long as you can.
“It wasn’t right,” you say.
He shuts his eyes. “Even if it wasn’t,” he says, “nothing to be done about it now.”
And then you hear the dragging. The slow, slimy glide. Something heavy and enormous slithers disturbs the underbrush, its sluggish motions making sick, suckling sounds. Your escorts fall back behind their line of salt, hands trembling as they reach for daggers and torches. As if that would be enough.
You see a hand first sliding along the trunk of a tree. Fingers joined by translucent, webbed membranes. A trail of pale, cloudy slime dribbling down the bark, sticky strings left behind when the thing moves closer. Long arms and bare shoulders. A nearly-human torso that descends into a gargantuan worm-like bulk rippling with blunt tendrils and delicate, lace-like membranes. Half-lidded eyes and a clinging veil-like caul that resembles damp hair. And the shell, of course, the great spiral its oozing body exudes from. Your back tingles looking at it, as though an instinct you have never felt before aches with envy.
You recognize the stripes on the shell; the unique textures and striation patterns down a tapered, masculine chest; the coy tilt of the head and deceptively sweet smile. This is Nuuldra, the one who changed you. Here to claim his prize.
“This is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you,” he drawls. He glances from you to your escorts, his smile dampening. “You’re early. Too early. It’s only been five days.”
“The severity of the crime makes things different,” one of your escorts says, his fist trembling around a dagger handle.
“Hm. Right. The crime,” Nuuldra says, chuckling. His laughter is a choked, drowning sound. “Still. That’s not how things are done. They don’t even have a shell yet.”
“Not our problem,” your escort insists.
You don’t see it happen. You feel air rush past your face, hear the dull impact like a punch, but it’s just a blur to your eyes. Nuuldra hasn’t moved. He doesn’t need to. He can reach all the way across the clearing, past you, and over the salt with one of his predatory limbs. It’s a thin tentacle with a hole at the end like a long, fleshy tube, and it’s lodged in the stomach of the man who spoke last. His mouth is still open. The venom acts so quickly he doesn’t even get the chance to scream before every muscle in his body locks up and he crumples to the forest floor. The others scatter. For all their bravado, they know better than to pick a fight with an ylgan.
The tentacle loosens, thickening from its thin tautness, when Nuuldra slithers closer. It makes you nervous looking at it. That’s the first time you’ve seen the killing limb but it looks no different from the other one.
“It’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ll have them, too, soon.” Nuuldra pauses as he passes you. He’s larger and taller than a human man, peering down at you from beneath the scalloped flaps of his hair-membrane. “You’re developing well. You already smell right. Aren’t you uncomfortable in those things?” Things, he says with a confused tilt of the head, gesturing to your clothes. Your tight frown and silence makes him smile wryly. “Still angry with me, then.”
“I hate you as much as I hate them,” you mutter.
He hums, disapproving, and keeps moving. You’re dismayed that you can smell him, too, and that you think he smells good. Earthy. Musky. Virile. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted. “Doesn’t seem right that I get half the blame,” he says.
“You did this to me.”
“Your people let me do this to you.”
“You didn’t have to,” you insist.
“No. But I saw something I wanted, so I took it,” he admits easily. He stops before he reaches the salt. You don’t see the look on his face but his posture, suddenly stiff and upright, emanates anger. “I wish the others had stayed. This was meant to be a lesson. Maybe they’ll understand when they find you. I know the changed are nothing to you but they’re everything to us. You won’t make this mistake again.” He wrenches his predatory limb from the man’s abdomen and then drives it into his flesh again with the same blurry force and speed. You hear guts churning; see blood gush and splash. He does it again, and again, and again, each puncture more violent than the last. The man is still alive as Nuuldra pulverizes his intestines and snaps his ribs one by one, staring wide-eyed at the sky. His mouth is still open but no sound comes out.
You turn away. You feel sick. More than that, you’re hungry. Saliva pools in your mouth and the stench of blood is stronger than it should be. “We’re everything to you?” you echo. “You don’t even give us a choice.”
“Go on. Get it all off your chest,” Nuuldra says. He sounds amused and it makes the empty, grieving ache in your chest even worse. Maybe he can tell. Maybe mourning is a scent you give off now. The wretched, sickening noises stop and you hear him moving closer. “Let me see your mantle.” You flinch when his fingers graze your shoulder, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks, his tone gentler than before. “It feels tight and uncomfortable, like there’s a knot inside. I can help.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” you say hoarsely. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry but it’s real now. Your tears are thick like sludge and heavy when they bead on your chin. “It isn’t fair. I didn’t do it.”
“I know. I know,” Nuuldra says patiently. He inches closer, curling himself around you. He feels smooth and sticky and you’re torn between revulsion and familiarity, a desperate need to feel him against your skin. Nobody has touched you since the change. No embraces from people you thought loved you. No gentle squeeze of the shoulder to reassure you it would be okay. You tremble when Nuuldra strokes your cheek, wiping your tears away and smearing his own ooze along your jaw instead.
“They said it wouldn’t hurt. You said that, too.”
“I know. I’m sorry. My venom can’t dull that kind of pain.” He leans in and presses his lips to your forehead, then to your brow, then your fluttering lashes. He trails kisses down to the corner of your lips and he looks hurt when you pull away.
“I’ll never forgive you,” you say.
You see a guilty look flicker across his features, words forming on his lips, but he changes his mind and looks away. You know. You both know. The change will take this, too. Nothing human will survive. Nuuldra places his hand on your back and pushes gently, guiding you to move with him deeper into the forest. You follow because you have nowhere else to go.
He brings you to the cave where it happened. You freeze at the entrance. Nuuldra strokes a hand up and down your spine and you shiver when you feel it more deeply than you expect. His fingers sink in. Bone bends and ripples beneath his touch. He makes a soft, humming sound that you feel as much as you hear, something you think is meant to be soothing. “Not going to hurt you,” he murmurs.
“You already did,” you say.
There are grooves in the ground where countless ylgan’s comings and goings have worn their favored trail into solid stone. Nuuldra follows it, his slippery bulk settling into the same indentation. The path goes all the way into a small cavern with a high ceiling. A rock formation sprouts through the center like a thick, gray tree. There are chains driven through the stone. Manacles laying limp on the floor crusted with old blood. You stop again and Nuuldra makes the same tranquil vibrations, rubbing your arm this time.
This is where you saw him for the first time. He was just shifting shadows in the space between glowing moss, darkness that hummed in quiet contemplation as he circled you. You didn’t see his predatory limb unfurl from under his shell but you felt when its needle tip struck your chest. It wasn’t the killing limb. It was the changing one. The strike was quick but it lingered, and you screamed as it throbbed and undulated, pumping metamorphosis into your veins. He hadn’t stayed. He wasn’t meant to. You’re supposed to have time to get your affairs in order, to say your goodbyes. Even exiles are permitted back to the village one last time until their shell starts to show.
“I wanted you to stay,” you whisper.
Nuuldra slithers in front of you, his hands on your jaw tilting your chin. He examines your face with a soft and pensive expression. You don’t know if he’s looking for a lie or just seeing you, savoring you, for the first time. “Did you?” he asks.
You nod and then you choke on a sob. Foamy blood and strings of flesh dribble from the corners of your mouth and Nuuldra is quick to kiss you, parting your lips with his tongue. He wants it, you realize, shivering in both disgust and relief. His thumbs gently press into your softening jaw, encouraging you to open your mouth wider, to let him in. His tongue is long and strangely textured, ridged and almost sharp as it laps at your gums and behind your teeth. He swallows what’s left of your humanity greedily and you cling to him, your fingers sinking into his soft shoulders, desperate to matter to someone again.
You feel his hand slip into your shirt, smoothing along your spine again. There’s a wet spot halfway down, a place that feels open and exposed. It doesn’t hurt when he touches it but it does feel strange and unpleasant. Invasive, like he’s in your ribs. You whimper into his mouth and he pulls back, reddened strings of thick, slime-like saliva connecting your lips.
“That’s your mantle,” he says. “That’s where your shell will start to grow.” He’s gentle when he strokes the spot, tender in a way that drags another sob out of you.
“I hate you,” you tell him, your voice hoarse and thin. He cradles your head against his chest and you sink into it, feeling his flesh dip beneath you like it’s inviting you inside. He is soft and moist and the gentlest thing you’ve known in days. “Is it going to hurt?” you whisper.
“Not like this,” he promises. “Nothing will ever hurt like this again.”
You don’t believe him. It will hurt in a way even his venom can’t fix when you vomit up the last of your organs and your skin sloughs off and the first bony protrusions of your shell start to spiral outward.
But maybe it won’t. Maybe you won’t care anymore. Maybe everything will melt into bliss and you will look at him with the same tender adoration you find in his eyes. That scares you in the same dull, smothered way everything else does. Nuuldra’s soothing hum sounds sad, you think. It’s not the kind of noise that should carry tone or convey emotion but you hear it anyway, or maybe you smell his cloying pity. Not guilt. Not regret. He isn’t sorry and you appreciate, at least, that he won’t lie and say that he is. You don’t fight him when he draws you into another kiss and you lose yourself to it, needing warmth and touch in the same darkness where you first started this unbearably slow second birth that feels like death.
He must smell your grief because he wraps around you like he wants to consume you, sliding as far out of his shell as he can and cradling you in the indent you leave in his chest. It’s not enough to make up for everything. Nothing ever will be. But he stays this time and he doesn’t let go even as he trembles with the force of your weeping and you start to believe that you are wanted again.
you're extremely dedicated to your high-pressure job as an event planner for humans and monsters. your coworker approaches you with a mutually beneficial proposal for stress relief.
->suggestive but not explicit. contains mentioned hard vore, mystery meat, implied feral behavior, D/s dynamic, bondage, coworker relationship. also on ao3.
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The bride-to-be wants lacquer lilies. She’s shy about asking, mentions it off-handedly during a phone call and assures you it’s not a big deal, really, not a problem if you can’t find any.
But you can, and you will. For a week straight, you live and breathe these flowers, tracking down reputable suppliers and reliable transport companies who can get the full shipment all the way from the Deepwoods, researching the necessary care procedure to ensure every blossom maintains its glossy, pearlescent shine. You have nightmares about them arriving too late, or wilted, or not at all, stressed out of your mind at the thought of failing to deliver a flawless experience.
The venue is secured; a mountain resort. The catering is taken care of; a sumptuous three-course menu with vegetarian and aetheric options. Color swatches, fabric samples and mock garlands have been examined and exchanged until you found the perfect shades to accentuate everything from the courtyard where vows will be exchanged to the stately banquet hall. But if you can’t find these flowers, what’s the point of any of it? You keep your clients updated on the hunt and ever-shifting logistics. One of them is delighted by every snippet. The other is rapidly losing patience.
That is, you assume, the reason that he storms into the Raintree Event Planning offices like a miniature hurricane, shredding carpet, flinging filing cabinets through walls and blowing out the windows on his warpath to the third floor. Security isn’t quick enough to catch him and radios an alert that gives you a generous thirty seconds to find cover. Vitis is at your desk in thirty-five, tapping his claws on the edge to immediately pry your attention from the grasp of your computer screen.
“Bathroom,” he orders. His voice is steady but firm with urgency. The half of his face uncovered by his thick, dark hair stares with extra eyes, all narrowed in sharp focus. “Now,” he insists.
You’re still reeling from the alarm, locked in aimless fight-or-flight without a direction to do either. You’ve got twenty tabs of lacquer lilies crammed into your web browser and nothing else on your mind. You stammer some confused noises, “oh, but, uh,” that he ignores as he yanks your chair back from your desk while you’re still in it.
“Up. There we go,” he says smoothly, walking you briskly out of your office and down the hall.
His strength catches you off guard sometimes. Vitis is unquestionably charming, his movements graceful, his build tall and slender, but he doesn’t look like he should be able to casually toss aside the rubble and overturned furniture in your path one-handed. He’s “compressed,” as he puts it, extra limbs and chitin-armored bulk magically conjured away for convenience so he can fit comfortably in the office. He only keeps a couple things uncovered: his weaving hands, near-human except for their protective plating, unusual length and clawed tips, and his eyes.
“But I’m not done,” you say.
“I’ll bring you right back,” he assures you, guiding you forward with a hand at your back. He pauses just long enough at each room lining the hall to beckon your coworkers out of their flimsy hiding spots, herding everyone into the bathroom instead. “Don’t worry. This won’t take long,” he says, offering a smile before he webs the door shut.
You have no idea what happens in that hallway, only that the building shakes for several more terrifying minutes and it sounds like a tornado rips by. The bathroom door quivers in its frame but Vitis’ golden thread keeps it firmly on its hinges. Eventually, it all stops. The storm clears. The winds dissipate. You catch the muffled end of an amicable conversation. Vitis is using that particular voice he deploys for your more difficult clients, a balance of perfect, unruffled calm, charisma and unarguable authority. “Asserting dominance,” your coworkers call this, and it’s only kind of a joke. There’s a reason your boss only deals with Vitis through email.
“How does he do that?” goes the gossip, as usual. You don’t have cataclysmic, office-destroying incidents every day but Raintree’s clientele are wealthy, eccentric and very demanding. Trouble of some kind is frequent. Vitis deserves hazard pay for all the disastrous situations he’s defused with nothing but intense eye contact and an assertive demeanor.
“Do you think it’s magic? Some kind of aura that compels people?”
“No, that’s not a thing for arakhivins.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not magic. They’re just…like that. Y’know. ‘Spider and the fly’ stuff.”
You hear the telltale whisper of thickly bundled thread shearing apart. Vitis’ webs are nearly indestructible but the claws on his weaving hands can swipe through with unsettling ease. You find him snipping the last few clinging strands as he tugs the bathroom door open. His hair’s a bit ruffled and unruly but otherwise, he’s as unflappable as ever.
“We’re clear,” he announces, smiling, and steps aside to let everyone out. You wait until everyone else is gone, still collecting yourself. Vitis stops you before you can walk by, catching your shoulder. “That wasn’t your fault,” he says, like some kind of mindreader. You shrug and glance at the floor. Vitis touches your chin, just a light tap that lasts long enough to lift your gaze again. “Look at me. That was not your fault,” he repeats, the four eyes you can see boring into you. “Now repeat it.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” you mutter.
“Like you mean it.”
You swallow the lump in your throat and try again. “It wasn’t my fault.” Your face feels hot. It’s exhilarating to be the target of his commanding presence. It always leaves you feeling a little lightheaded when he gets close like this and orders you around.
Vitis hums low in approval and guides you back down the hall to your office, his touch lingering at your elbow. It helps. It takes some of the heaviness from your shoulders, the tightness from your limbs. For the minute it takes to walk back and get settled at your computer again, you’re not worried about shuttle schedules, light and sound engineers, or lacquer lilies. You just drift in the comfortable surf of your briefly tranquil mind.
Vitis stands beside your desk for a moment longer, his gaze soft and contemplative. He looks like he wants to ask you something. He starts to. Opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearing his throat. “Let me know if you need anything,” he says instead. You’re still riding the same relaxing high for a while after that, staring dazedly at pictures of shiny, gold-edged flower petals with a sense of absolute inner peace.
*
The wedding is absolutely perfect.
You’re not in attendance but you are sent pictures during every stage of setup. The crystal lights and sparkling aurora-spun drapery are strategically placed to accentuate but not overwhelm, lending an ethereal quality to the banquet hall. A stone arch is assembled at the end of the aisle according to tempesta tradition: the couple will walk through individually first to speak their vows, but then they will shatter it so they can go together through its shattered ruins. They are meant to do this by conjuring a small vortex but the bride is human. She gets a sledgehammer instead, and the scandalized gasps turned proud whooping from her tempesta in-laws is immortalized in a video recording.
And the lacquer lilies, of course, are stunningly beautiful. They are the stars of the floral arrangements on each table in the banquet hall, a trail of candied blossoms spiraling along the side of a beautiful wedding cake. A generous donation is made to Raintree from the groom’s family to rebuild and renovate the office, and you receive an effusive (and slightly apologetic) letter a week later with a check for a ludicrous amount of money. Vitis invites you out to celebrate. You could go somewhere fancy but there’s a comfier place you prefer when you want to relax, a half-step up from an all night diner with picnic blanket-patterned tablecloths and dog-themed versions of classical art on the walls.
The waitress mistakes you for a couple. You don’t correct her and neither does he. You’ve been dancing around each other for years now and it doesn’t seem likely to stop.
“I saw that,” Vitis says. His tone, sharp but playful, makes your pulse pick up.
“Saw what?” you ask coyly.
“Put it down. Up here, where I can see it.”
You let out a long sigh and set your phone on the table beside your napkin. “I’m just checking.”
“Emails can’t run from your inbox once they’re in there, I promise.” He nibbles at his appetizer, little steak tartare-like blobs stuffed in crunchy, translucent seed casings from something that grows in the Deepwoods. The meat is raw, oozing a trickle of red juice that he licks from the corner of his mouth. On the menu, the dish is marked with a little tooth symbol. An instinct appeaser; something created to satisfy the primal cravings of those trying to live alongside what would otherwise be prey. Vitis catches you staring when his fangs pierce the shell.
“Does it bother you?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Of course not.”
“You’re looking at me very intently.”
“Just…curious, I guess.”
He smiles. “Just ask. We’ve known each other long enough that you should know I don’t mind.”
You know he doesn’t. Vitis is very open, startlingly so with how reserved he seems. When he asks for his annual summer week-or-so off, he doesn’t beat around the bush with vagueness and euphemisms. “I need time off for the breeding season,” he’ll say, matter-of-fact and devoid of shame. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, of course, but it always gets him some stunned silence or choked, startled noises. Once a week, somebody steps a little too far into his office and gets stuck in some webbing, and his smile is sharp and satisfied while he cuts them loose with meticulous, almost teasing slowness. He brings his own lunch and it’s always raw and fleshy and sparsely seasoned with something stiff on the outside and thick, oozing juice in the middle.
“You eat a lot of stuff like that. I wondered what it’s supposed to mimic,” you say. “The outer layer seems a lot, uh. Crunchier than human skin would be.”
He looks pleased. “There’s that attention to detail, hm? I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before. It’s supposed to feel like biting into a chenealle, exoskeleton and all.”
“Chenealle, like…”
“Like Chloia from HR, yes,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If you’ve ever wondered why she avoids me like the plague, that’s why. Chenealles were our preferred prey once. They still are, of course, for some of us.” He says it so casually you think you misheard him, reaching for his glass. The water inside is mineral-enriched, small rounded stones speckling the bottom, a dried leaf floating on the top.
“She thinks you’re going to eat her?” you ask, incredulous.
“I doubt she thinks that. It’s mostly instinct. She’s probably more worried about me talking her into something inconvenient.”
Spider-and-the-fly stuff, as they say in the office. Arakhivins are infamous for it. They’re so freakishly charismatic and relentlessly assertive that they can talk almost anyone into almost anything. Rumor has it that was part of their hunting strategy, once upon a time. Their webs are too shiny and obvious. They’d have to sweet talk their prey into getting closer.
“That never seems to scare you,” he muses.
You shrug. “You’re my friend, and I know how much you do to appease your instincts. I trust you.”
Vitis studies you for a moment in silence. He thanks the waitress absently when she comes to take his plate but his attention is fixed on you. This is the way you sometimes catch him staring when he drops by your office. He lingers in the doorway, four eyes flicking up and down examining your face, your hunched position, the little frown your mouth screws into while you’re focused. That look usually comes with a gentle scolding about your awful posture or how many minutes of your lunchbreak you’re losing, and then a command.
Stand up. Stretch. We’re going to the break room. Don’t argue. Things like that. Things that make your heart beat faster because of the steel edge of his voice and the look in his eyes and the way he’s always handling you, always holding your shoulder or splaying his hand on your back.
Your meals come out at the same time. Vitis has a formidable appetite but he doesn’t even glance at his food. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
There it is; the voice. That seductive, indulgent tone with commanding sharpness at the edges. You nod stiffly, swallowing.
“What do you do to destress after work?”
“Oh, uh. I don’t know. Watch something, sometimes,” you say, averting your gaze. No wonder people cave so quickly when he looks at them. Four eyes at once feels like a lot of attention and it’s only half of them.
“Like what?” he asks.
“Just, you know. Whatever’s on.”
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap back up to his face. He’s not smiling. He doesn’t look angry, just intense. Attentive. Like nothing and nobody else exists but you.
“Did you lie to me just now?” he asks. You try to answer but your tongue isn’t working and your thoughts are melting. You’re embarrassed. What’s wrong with you? This happens all the time at the office, too, like when you went weak in the knees the time he escorted you into the bathroom. He’s not even doing anything, not touching you, just looking and talking and that’s enough to make you feel empty-headed. “I think you did,” he says. “I don’t think you know how to relax. I understand. That’s why I started at Raintree, too. I like to plan and micromanage. I like being in control.”
You fumble for your utensils. You need something to keep you anchored to reality. Vitis watches you push things around on your plate for a moment before your eyes meet again.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about this for a while,” he says. “It was never the right time or place, and I wasn’t sure if you would be interested. It requires absolute mutual trust.”
“I trust you,” you remind him.
Vitis smiles just a little, a twitch at the corner of his mouth that he quickly smooths away. “You remember that I go back to the Deepwoods every few years?” he asks quietly.
You know. He’s told you before. Told you right away, in fact, the first time you sat with him for lunch, the only person undeterred by the crispy, squelching atrocity he’d decimated in a matter of minutes. “Just so you know,” he’d started, wiping the red from his mouth on a napkin.
He wasn’t shy, exactly, but he was even more reserved then. Cautious, you think, trying not to get his hopes up about making friends. Everyone’s warmed up to him since then but you were the first, even after he told you.
“Do you know what that means, for us to go back?” he’d asked. “It’s still the dark ages. The laws are very different. For me, it’s appeasement. It’s very easy for someone to say that, of course, and you don’t have to believe me. But I do it so I can come back here and live the way I want, not the way my instincts demand. I hope to wean myself off of it someday.”
You had blinked at him, a little shocked. You had no idea what to say and the silence was bothering you and so was the way he kept carefully adjusting his hair like he was hoping he could hide both sets of his eyes somehow, so the first thing out of your mouth was the first thing that came to mind. Work, of course. Something to do with a client at the time. “So do you know Atelier Autumnwine?” you’d asked, and you watched all of his eyes blink, several out of unison. “You know, the, uh. The brand? It’s a Deepwoods brand. Formalwear. It’s just, I’ve never met anyone from there before and it’s hard to find pictures of their products, and I’ve got this company holiday party I’m trying to put together for a client and his wife said something about a new evening gown—”
He’d started smiling. Small and unsure at first, then wider. Grateful. You’ve brought your food over to sit next to him every day since.
“I know you trust me,” he says fondly. “I appreciate it, and I trust you, too.” His tone dips back down into that darker, more demanding place. “Have you ever thought about trying bondage?”
You nearly choke on your food. You’re getting that pleasantly buzzed feeling again, the tingling sensation down your spine. “Have I ever tried…?” you echo, stalling. Parroting as if you need clarification when what you really need is a minute for your mind to stop reeling.
“Bondage,” he repeats. He smiles, tilts his head slightly. God, he’s pretty, you think deliriously. Vitis is so, so pretty with his sharp features and long, silky hair swept behind one ear, his eyes a stunning shade of glistening red like rubies. “Do you know much about that…?” He purrs your name after a brief pause like he knows that’ll do the most damage. He says it like it’s dessert, savoring the shape of it on his tongue.
“Oh. Uh. Yeah, I’ve. I’ve heard of that, a little,” you say.
“A little?” he asks.
He’s enjoying this, you think, watching him watch you. He likes it when you squirm. “I know it’s a thing.” You add, because he’s looking and you don’t feel like you’re capable of hiding anything, “I know it’s, um, an arakhivin thing, too.”
“Is that right?” he purrs. Mercifully, he does not press you on how, precisely, you know that and what videos you may or may not have seen. “It’s true, many of us enjoy it. You could say we’re natural riggers. It’s an especially satisfying form of appeasement. My favorite, in fact, although I don’t indulge as often as I’d like. I haven’t been able to find a regular partner. It’s a vulnerable position to put someone in and I understand that.”
He doesn’t ask yet. He’s giving you time to think it over. He lets you breathe without pinning you down with his stare, averting his attention briefly to cut into his food. More appeasement; lumps of tender meat swimming in chunky red sauce, the whole thing enclosed in a macabre arrangement of stiff vegetables trimmed to resemble a ribcage.
Is that meant to be human? you wonder idly. Maybe that should bother you more than it does. But Vitis has never scared you, not even when you think about him roaming the gloom of the Deepwoods unfurled in his true form. You’ve had dreams you can never admit to, fantasies of being there, of being chased, held down, coiled in the silken embrace of his webs so you can’t run or fight back. Having no stress, no worries, no obligations; just him. Just his voice and his touch. There’s no one else you trust to take you to that blissful, thoughtless place and bring you back safely.
“How would it work?” you ask.
Your pulse picks up on instinct when Vitis’ gaze finds yours again. It feels like all that sharpness and dominance was slowly building, like he was easing you into this before and now, with your tentative interest, he’s fully settled into the role. “It can work however you’d like,” he says, syrupy sweet, tempting you closer. “I’d ask you what you want beforehand: soft or firm. If you don’t know, I’ll choose for you. I’d weave new ropes according to your—or my—specifications. Soft and delicate. Hard and unyielding. Somewhere in the middle, if that’s what we want.” He holds out a hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. “Give me your hand,” he orders.
You do, barely even thinking about it. Your quick obedience earns a satisfied smile and a nod of acknowledgement, a whispered, “Very good,” that makes you feel things you should not be feeling in a family restaurant. He folds his fingers over yours.
“I like to test ropes this way,” he explains, his other hand encircling your wrist and squeezing, firm but gentle, anchoring. “I can alter my silk in various ways until we find a texture you like. Then I’ll tie your wrists. See how you do with just your hands tied.”
“Just my hands?” you echo. Your face heats at how disappointed you sound, but Vitis sighs like you’re the cutest thing he’s ever seen and strokes your wrist with the dull curve of his thumb claw.
“Yes, just your wrists to start. I won’t be compressed. Some people panic seeing me and not being able to move their hands. Those are your instincts. I won’t be offended. It just means we find other ways to play. Maybe I tie a pattern over your skin instead.” He traces a zigzag pattern into your skin and you shudder imagining it. Naked. Swathed in silk. Gilded in delicate patterns like a living canvas, kneeling straight-backed and very still for his weaving hands to caress.
“And if I don’t panic?” you ask, your voice quieter and a little strained.
Vitis’s gaze travels up your wrist to your throat. You hope he’s imagining it, too. Thinking of how you would look wearing nothing but what he provides, a precious possession. “Then I tie your legs. And wait. And see how you feel,” he murmurs. “Then I bring you into my web and do as I please.”
You are not even the slightest bit aware of the waitress approaching, slowing, then abruptly altering trajectory to check on a different table, frightened off by something you don’t see. Or maybe it’s something you do see; maybe your instincts are confused and it has the opposite effect. Vitis strokes your wrist like he’s petting an endearing animal and then pulls away.
“The food’s going to get cold,” he says. “We can talk about it some more later, if you’d like. But we don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. I’d like to talk about it,” you say quickly, flustered when he glances your way again with an appreciative smile. “I’ll let you know if anything changes. But I think…I think I’d like it. I’ve actually thought about it before—”
Your mouth snaps shut too late. Vitis is staring with an expression of pleasant surprise, lips slightly parted, all four eyes a little wide before they narrow again, arched in distinct delight. “Really?” he asks. He sounds calm and collected as usual but you’re starting to recognize what heat and desire looks like on his face. “You’ve thought about being bound before? By me?” You nod shyly. “Being in my web?”
“A little,” you say, struggling to hold his gaze. “Maybe, you know. Not necessarily walking into it but ending up there anyway. However it happens.”
Vitis suddenly shifts in his seat. He clears his throat and turns away, covering his mouth with one of his hands. You see his fang peeking out, nibbling on the hardened edge of his claw. Oh, you think. You’re making him lose his cool. You love it when he’s in control but it turns out you like this, too, the clench of his jaw and the way he only looks at you in the corner of his eye like anything more will make him lunge across the table and start tying you up right here in front of everyone.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he asks, smirking behind his fingers. “You’re going to make me work for it, I can tell. You’ll probably wriggle and complain after you can’t get to your phone for an hour.”
Your phone! You forgot about your emails entirely. Vitis is faster, you know that, but he waits until your hand’s outstretched to grab it, pinning it over your phone on the table. The casual display of his strength and reflexes sets your already frazzled brain on fire.
“You’ll just have to make me behave, then,” you murmur.
Neither of you have finished your food but he flags down the waitress to ask for the check and takeout boxes. Vitis strokes the back of your hand affectionately while he waits and promises you, “I absolutely will.”
to the mistralians, humans are fascinating and precious treasures worth fighting over. you've just changed hands again but this will not be like what came before.
->explicit. contains mild gore, owner-pet dynamic, dehumanization, past abuse, implied conditioning, possessiveness, feral behavior, power imbalance, dubious consent (due to power imbalance). also on ao3.
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It’s dusk when you first lay eyes on each other. The sun sets behind him, threading gold along the edge of his silhouette. His hair is streaked with white and black, the same striking pattern that colors his wings. Blood flecks his face and ruffled feathers. His hands are still dripping red but the talons on his feet are even more horrid, so thoroughly drenched with carnage and bits of flesh that he leaves thin red prints where he steps. His wings are only half-folded, held at his sides. He isn’t here to stay. His magnificently long tail feathers puddle at his feet in a serpentine coil, sticky with clumped, bloody dirt.
You look at him; rogueish, scruffy, scars slashed and dotted and criss-crossing all over his face and torso. He looks at you; pristine, flowing robes and heavy jewelry, adorned with pearl strings, gemstones and clinging bands of gold. You are both struck by realization in the same moment, mirroring one another’s shock.
“My name is Firith,” he tells you. The words come slowly, as though he is still uncertain of them. He didn’t expect to introduce himself to anyone, you realize. He thought no one would be here.
“He lost?” you whisper.
Firith doesn’t answer. There’s no need. You can see him. His formidable stature, significantly broader and more muscular than most mistralians. The blood on his talons and smeared across his lips. His plumage, disheveled but intact, and countless scars.There are no gaping wounds, no feathers shedding as he examines you. This is someone who has just departed the skyring in victory, head held high, and he’s come for his spoils. You’re standing in front of Garashi’s hut, the door wide open behind you. Surely he can see the treasures just past your shoulders, but he’s not looking at the art, the priceless antiquities, the precious stones polished to a shine. He’s looking at you.
You step aside, letting him pass. His gaze follows. He doesn’t move. “Is there something specific you wanted?” you ask quietly, hoping against hope that he will not say what you know he is about to say. Sometimes it works that way. Sometimes the mistralians, the young and hotheaded ones especially, pick fights over territory and treasures. Sometimes the victor takes everything but sometimes they choose something simple, sentimental, and not particularly valuable, to deal one final killing blow to the loser’s pride. This could be that. You want it to be that.
But Firith’s gaze never leaves yours and you know it isn’t. “Not really,” he says. Slow and contemplative again. His wings flex and flutter slightly as he eyes you up and down. “I didn’t plan to fight him. He was boasting in the marketplace and spoke ill of someone I know. I didn’t expect him to have much.”
His freshest wounds, the ones still oozing, are shallow. Defensive cuts to his thick, feathered arms and bare shoulders, hardly any on his chest. All the other scars and scratches are older. It wasn’t even close, you realize.
“Is he still alive?” you ask.
Firith’s piercing gaze flicks back and forth across your face, scrutinizing. “I don’t know. I didn’t care to stay,” he says. He takes a step closer. “I want whatever will upset him most to lose. I think that’s you.”
You want to argue, to lie, but there would be no point. He can see how you’re dressed. You’re here, in the heart of Garashi’s territory, pristinely clean and perfumed with that subtle mistralian scent of wild mountain air and the bite of pine. “He’ll ask for a rematch,” you tell him. “Probably more trouble than you’re looking for.” You’re guessing. Garashi is headstrong, arrogant and fiercely possessive of his accumulated riches, but as long as he’s had you, he’s never lost.
You take another step and Firith’s hand wraps around your forearm, pulling you to a stop. “Then I’ll humble him again,” he says.
Firith’s territory is far, far away. Normally, the victor’s spoils are transported by subordinate members of their flock. Small items are carried by hand while larger, heavier treasures are stowed inside palanquin-like boxes lifted by two or four mistralians at a time. You are the latter, unsurprised to be herded into a sturdy wooden carriage under Firith’s watchful eye, but you’re shocked when he joins with his flock and takes up one end of the carrying poles. It’s a cramped and nervewracking ride despite how steadily they try to hold you. The winds are harsh so high up. You’re too nervous to sleep even as the last drops of gold in the sky are snuffed out by night, still wide awake by the time you feel a slow descent and then a slow, careful landing.
The top hatch of the transport box opens. Firith peers down at you pensively, like he’s not sure what to do with a human. That surprises you. You were sure he’d have some already. “Come. You should have a look around,” he says, stepping away. You climb out of the box, tugging your long robes out behind you. Your first glance around steals your breath.
Garashi’s territory seems quaint compared to this. You’re above the mountains. You can see their undulating ridges and snowy peaks poking through a swirling mist of churning clouds. A palatial residence is built across a floating island chain, joined by narrow arched bridges that look more decorative than functional. Everything looks delicate, needle-like spires and jeweled domes jutting even higher skyward on thin stilts of stone. It’s bustling, you realize, faintly surprised to see so many mistralians flying past, more like a city than a private territory.
You’re standing in a spacious courtyard, surrounded by flowering trees strung with luminescent crystals that give off a gentle blue glow. There are more mistralians here, ladling water from a shallow pool over their feathers and relaxing in the grass beneath the moon. They notice you slowly. The closest ones see you emerge from the box and whisper wide-eyed and fascinated. Word travels in a slow ripple outward and soon a small crowd has gathered to stare. Several of them are bold enough to approach, even with Firith standing right there with a scowl and his arms crossed over his chest. They’re all smaller than him and completely unafraid.
“A human?” one marvels. She takes your hands, examining your fingers and wrists, the multitude of rings and bracelets. “Garashi had a human?”
“I was just as surprised,” Firith says, still watching you. He’s barely looked away since you met and it’s making you nervous. “Can you feed and bathe them for me?”
You’re surprised he asks instead of demanding. You’re even more surprised when the other mistralians scoff in response. “You’re being ridiculous. You really can’t do it yourself? What, afraid they’ll bite?”
“Just do it,” he mutters, his wings flicking indignantly. He leaves you there with his subordinates who briefly watch him leave shaking their heads before their attention shifts to you.
“Poor thing looks terrified.”
“I would be, too, if I’d been stuck with Garashi.”
“Come here, sweetling, let’s get you a nice hot bath! Why don’t the rest of you handle the food? Let’s try not to overwhelm them.” You’re ushered through the nearest doorway.
The air heats and dampens, filled with a faintly floral-scented haze, as you find yourself in some sort of bathhouse. Stone stairs and gentle slopes sink into an enormous basin that spans the entire hall. There are winged statues and tiled murals along the walls and flowers growing on the vines wrapped around slender columns. The mistralian who brought you here hums to herself as she lights the candles scattered throughout the chamber. You undress while you wait for her to return, easily unwrapping your robes but you struggle with the jewelry. There’s so much and your hands are shaking, struggling to get at the small, delicate clasps.
“Oh, here,” she says. She’s careful not to cut you with her claws while she fiddles with your bands and necklaces. “Hm. Looks like Garashi’s tastes alright. A bit much for my liking, but I bet Firith likes it. He’s old-fashioned.” She’s careless with the jewelry, letting most of it clatter to the floor, although she’s more delicate with a select few bracelets and one of the rings. “Red’s his favorite color,” she says, grinning at you like there’s a joke you’re missing. Her smile wanes when you just stand there silently, waiting for her to finish. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know.”
They always say that. You simply nod and she frowns. Her wings are speckled white and brown, little dots and crescents at the tips.
“I’m Hikal,” she says, a bit more subdued. “What’s your name?”
“Firith didn’t name me yet,” you say.
Her mouth opens. No sound comes out. She closes it, her frown deepening. “Alright, well. Is there something you’d like to be called?”
You don’t answer. The water looks pleasant, crystal-clear and letting off steam as it gleams in the candlelight. Hikal touches your arm and gently guides you towards the water. She’s handling you like you’re made of glass. You keep an eye on her.
“This is all wrong. Humans are meant to be treasured. I hope Firith broke his wings,” she mutters viciously. Her tone frightens you and she clears her throat, softening her voice again. “Come on. I’ll take care of you.”
They always say that, too.
Hikal takes you to the back of the chamber where a waterfall pours from an opening in the ceiling. Garashi didn’t have anything so grand in his hut but you understand what’s expected of you. You wash carefully, especially attentive of your wrists and neck where Garashi’s scent is strongest. She brings you back to the bath then, leading you into the shallow end. That’s when Firith returns, the weight of his gaze making you sink nervously into the water. He keeps stealing glances as he strips the dirtied clothes he wore to fight in, watching you from the waterfall as he rinses his hair and preens his wings.
“Firith,” Hikal calls, watching emotions flicker across your face. “Come find me later. We need to talk about something.”
“Very well,” he says.
“Go easy,” she insists. You can tell she’s reluctant to leave but she sighs and gives you a reassuring smile before she walks away.
Firith doesn’t approach right away. He’s wary again, the same way he was when he first brought you here. When he steps out from under the waterfall, his tail feathers trail drag behind him like the train of a gown. They’re clean and beautiful again, glossy obsidian. He looked frightening and war-like before when you first met but there is something beautiful beneath the blood and grime. He comes into the bath slowly. His wings flutter and flap gently, stretched out like—
That’s strange, you think. Like he’s trying to impress you. Like you’re his equal, worthy of pursuit and not just conquest, and he intends to win you over.
“Hello, human,” he says.
So you are ‘human.’ No name at all. That’s happened before. You bow your head. Your brows furrow when he bows back.
“You may have heard of me before,” he says, sounding almost sheepish. You have not but it would be rude to say so. “Firith of Moonrise. That’s what the territory is called. I’m not sure why.”
“Is that not the name you chose?” you ask politely.
“No,” he says. “It was called that when I came to power, and I didn’t see any point in changing the name.”
“That’s your right, to name what’s yours.”
Firith’s eyes narrow like he’s just noticed something odd about you. You squirm beneath his attention. You wish he’d look at something else. “I don’t care for all that. I don’t care for much in the way of leadership,” he admits, shrugging with his wings. “I leave that to others. I’m simply their champion. I prefer it that way.”
You nod slowly. None of this matters. But he’s quiet again, just looking at you, so you take the opportunity to inch closer. Reluctantly, you make your way to him until he’s close enough to touch. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling cords of muscle, gnarled scar tissue, and a quickened pulse beneath your palms.
“Would you like to sit down?” you ask, nodding to the edge of the bath behind him. “I can serve you.” Your hands drift lower. You watch his expression carefully for any sign of aggression. He’s difficult to read. Even at rest, his default expression appears tense and solemn. You don’t see it coming when he suddenly seizes you, stiffening in his grasp. He places you against the edge of the bath instead, seating you on cool, damp tile with your legs dangling in the water. He rests his hands on either side of your body, looming over you even like this. His wings are splayed open again, arched upward. Perhaps he’s thinking of someone specific, wanting to play out a fantasy.
“Your name?” he says, his voice low and coarsened with arousal.
Is this a trick question? You swallow hard and shake your head helplessly. “You haven’t told me yet,” you say.
He runs his claw down the middle of your chest, starting at your throat and sliding down slowly. You’re certain he’s going to hurt you but he never does. “What were you called before Garashi had you?” he asks.
“Warbler,” you say. A bird name. Divine. You had been beloved, permitted to dance, sing and walk the forest whenever you liked. A fresh flower was tucked behind your ear every morning. You try not to think about it anymore. Those days are long gone. Garashi tore that one’s throat out and the entire forest became his.
“Warbler,” Firith repeats. “I can call you that, if you’d like.”
You would, more than anything, but you have to be careful. Sometimes they ask you what you want only so they know what to deprive you of.
“Hikal thinks I’m oblivious. I’m not always the most observant, I suppose. But I know you don’t trust me yet.” He touches your shoulder. Pushes, gently. He wants you on your back so you go without a fight, tensing slightly at how cold the tiles feel against your skin. “That’s alright. I’ll show you. I’m nothing like Garashi.”
They always, always say they are nothing like the ones that come before but you nod. You try to relax. You close your eyes but they open again in shock when you feel him kiss your knee. He’s touching you, massaging your legs as he draws them apart. He trails his lips along your inner thigh, fleeting and tender kisses that make you tremble. When is he going to bite? He’s nipping so gently, he’ll never break the skin that way. He looks up at you as he settles between your legs, reaching up to cup your backside. His breath warms the flesh between your legs. Surely he wouldn’t, you think.
He smirks like he heard your doubts. His wings settle, folding down from their stiff posturing, but his feathers are still puffed and prickling like he’s about to show off. Why? For who? No part of you is prepared to feel the warm, firm press of his tongue at the apex of your thighs and it makes you yelp. No bite, you realize belatedly. No pain, no teeth. Just his tongue, and then his lips when he presses a kiss to your flesh. His gaze goes half-lidded and he is watching you more intently than ever as he starts to suck.
Your back arches off the tile. You’re keenly aware that you shouldn’t do it, that you should lie still and not make demands even involuntarily, but you can’t make yourself stop. Is this what it feels like for those you’ve served? You had no idea. It makes no sense that he can do this so skillfully, that he chooses to, that he can make you tremble and whimper in mere moments. He swirls his tongue, moans against your arousal, and that alone almost sends you over the edge. All the while, his hands squeeze and grope, sensually caressing everything he can reach and keeping you captive in this pleasure.
“That’s it. Sing for me,” he murmurs, unable to part from you long enough to speak clearly. He keeps licking and suckling, half the words slurred against your skin. “You’re my treasure now, Warbler. I take very good care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”
You don’t last long. You can’t, when everything is so new and overwhelming. You’re trembling under him when Firith keeps going, his lips wrapped around you as he swallows your pleasure and licks you clean. When he pulls away, he’s panting. He surges out of the water further and you would be afraid if you weren’t still reeling from your orgasm. It would be easy for him to pin you down and hurt you. Instead, he straddles your legs and arches over you, and you realize he’s panting. One hand lands heavily beside your head and the other strokes himself rapidly. All you can see is him above you, the curtain of his long, damp hair and his eyes fixed on your face.
It doesn’t take long. He growls, hips straining, cock pulsing in his fist as he cums thick white ropes over your chest. His wings shiver and he tilts his head back. He moans when one last spurt lands on your collarbones, splattering on your neck. He reaches out, his breathing still labored, and drags his fingers through his own mess. He traces a ring around your throat and smiles to himself, satisfied with his marking.
“You finally relaxed,” he murmurs.
You did. You didn’t even notice. Your shoulders aren’t drawn in anymore. You stopped waiting for something violent to happen. Now that he says it, you tense up again, and that makes him chuckle and shake his head.
“One more rinse, then dinner. I let the others pick but they want to dote on you. They’ll probably make anything you want.” He slips back into the bath but he keeps his upper body raised out, folding his arms on the edge and resting his chin on top. He watches you as you catch your breath. His stare still makes you nervous but not as much as before. He can look all he wants, you think, if this is how things will be. “I hope you’ll like it here, Warbler,” he says quietly. “I had no idea I’d come back with a human. I’ll do the best I can for you.”
His head starts to droop slowly, eyes fluttering shut. He’s nodding off. You watch, entranced by the subtle movement of his chest as his breathing slows, the way his wings fold against his back. He really is pretty, you think. It’s a daring thing to do but you reach out and push some of his hair out of his face, tucking his streaked locks behind his ear. He stirs only a little and then settles again.
He could still be lying. This could all change tomorrow. But this reminds you a little of times before Garashi. You try not to get your hopes up. For now, at least, you sink into the warm water and curl against Firith’s side.
Someone yells outside.
You clamor out of the water, unwilling to be caught off guard. You see the shapes of mistralians through the mist beyond the archways. Is there a fight? Here, outside the skyring? That can’t be right. A figure lunges forward, pushing past the crowd and into the bathhouse. You heart stops when your eyes meet Garashi’s.
He looks terrible. His stunning gold plumage is a bloody wreck, whole swaths of his body ripped featherless. His wings sag and twitch like they’re in pain. He’s been hastily bandaged, gauze and reddened wrappings covering his limbs, his torso, his exposed abdomen. He looks at your discarded jewelry; your robes strewn across the floor; your bare skin, no doubt smelling that he’s been erased. Then he looks down at the bath and Firith, fast asleep. You have seen him hateful and furious before, but the wrath in his eyes now is a new and terrifying thing.
“You’re all he took?” Garashi says, laughing quietly in disbelief. “Just you? Nothing else? Ridiculous. He thinks I’m a fledgling and need to be taught a lesson.”
Your ears are ringing. You are suddenly frigidly cold, all the warmth and relief of the bath drained from your body. You think of that lonely hut where he keeps you, where there is no one but him, where the days are spent catering to his every whim until he is bored and sated, only to start anew the next sunrise.
“Wake him up. I want a rematch. Now. You’re not his yet, not really. It’s barely been a day—”
You are not thinking when you throw yourself at him. There is nothing in your head but raw, screaming fear and hate. You will not go back. You don’t know what will happen to you here but you will never, ever go back. You shriek like they do in the skyring, fighting with your blunt human nails and your weak human teeth. You’re nothing compared to Garashi, no stronger than a chick freshly hatched, but you claw and bite with strength and viciousness you’d forgotten you had.
You won’t go. He can’t make you. He will never have you again. You will do anything to stay here in a land that got to keep its name, with a victor who does not care to rule. Garashi swipes his claws across your face and it feels like hot knives but you don’t care. You squeeze your eyes shut to keep the blood out and fight, and fight, and fight.
You don’t win. You knew you wouldn’t. You land heavily on your back and everything hurts, all the wind knocked out of your lungs. Blinking the red from your eyes, you see Garashi staggering over you, shaking with anger. He’s bleeding again. The bandages around his chest have unraveled and there’s a mark there, thin, weeping lines of human nails dragging straight up. A chunk of skin is gone from his neck. He’s thinking of killing you. He’s thinking of opening your throat right here in the bathhouse, surrendering his most prized possession just to soothe his pride.
“Garashi,” Firith says. You’ve never heard his voice that rough and cold, more of a growl. You didn’t hear him get out of the water but he’s here now, kneeling beside you. Garashi looks at you both with wide eyes and gritted teeth. Firith doesn’t return the favor, so unthreatened that he turns his back to him, sheltering you with his wings. “You should’ve woken me. I do the fighting around here,” he says quietly. His words come out strained, like he’s trying to speak softly but can’t quite manage it. He rubs his thumb over the slashes across your face, wiping the blood from above your eyes.
You try to cling to Firith. You’re dizzy, adrenaline waning. Your fingers rake down his chest uselessly. “I won’t go,” you sob. “I won’t. I don’t care if you lose. I won’t ever go back.”
Firith wraps his arms around you and cradles you against his chest. He strokes your back until your shivering and sniffling stops and then he straightens his posture, looking back over his shoulder. “You can go,” he says. “I accept. We’ll do it tomorrow.” There’s a pause. His grip on you tightens. “Or we can do it now. Why wait? Why bother with the skyring when you puts your hands on my human. I’m sure the elders will understand when your bones come raining down—”
A snarl. Fear disguised as indignation. Then the flutter of wings and a cold gust of air that Firith turns to shield you from. The bathhouse falls quiet again, save for the gentle slosh and trickle of water. Firith looks down at you, frowning as gently traces the cuts on your face.
“Let’s take care of this now. It might scar.”
You hope it does. Then you’ll match. You’ll look like his. The idea settles something restless in you. That wouldn’t be the worst thing, being his. Firith stands slowly, keeping you in his arms. He looks at you fondly, stroking your cheek. You don’t mind his staring after all, you decide. You’re not used to it but you’ll adjust. It’s almost nice. When he carries you like this and looks at you like the only thing in the world that matters, it almost makes you feel like a precious treasure.
The curtains were blue because everything in the room was carefully colour coordinated, reinforcing the character’s stylish and controlled characterisation. The curtains were blue because everything in the room was a different colour, reinforcing the character’s eclectic and globe-trotting personality. The curtains were blue because the character is elsewhere established to hate the colour blue, subtextually implying that their deceased spouse was responsible for that decoration choice.
The curtains were blue because throughout their filmography the director consistently uses cool tones to mark moments of distance between characters. The curtains were blue to tie the events in that room into the broader oceanic motif of this particular novel. The curtains were blue because the assonance evoked a contrast with the following stanza of the poem.
Even the curtains looked expensive: floor to ceiling velvet drapes, in a flawless royal blue. She tucked the saucer up on the windowsill and tied back faded blue curtains with a loop of string. The narrow blinds were the same navy blue as the pinstripe suit of the man who served eviction notice that sent them to this office.
The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of comfort in that place. The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of grief in that place.
The curtains were blue as an allusion to the contemporary joke about literary criticism, an extension of the author’s autocritical approach that will be further discussed in section seven.
One of the most incorrect ideas people heard from Tolkien and then just kept repeating without stopping to actually think about it is the whole idea that "evil cannot create anything new, only copy and corrupt".
Give it 1 minute. You can probably think of examples that completely disprove this.
