Out of My Head

You try and fail to wedge your finger under the fishing net wrapped around his tail. It's cutting into his skin in multiple places, and that's why he's bleeding. It takes at least fifteen minutes to cut the net off, and he complains and wiggles the entire time. As soon as the last piece is removed, you get up and back away.

"You're free, shoo," you say, and walk back up the beach to where your little tent stands valiantly against the whipping wind.

The cold season is harsher than usual, and you almost find yourself regretting the decision to camp here. It's beautiful, though; you can't deny that. You eat a quick warm dinner, pack away the leftovers, and bundle yourself into your sleeping bag. You dream of the ocean, of the salty tide rolling in right next to your sleeping bag. You wake up with a start and find your tent is open. Not because the zip somehow gave out, but because of a large hole torn in the side. A hole that had been stoppered by the thick body of a familiar mer.

The cuts from the fishing line are healing fast, already turning into scabs. He's fast asleep with an assortment of wrappers and gnawed plastic around him. He's eaten your leftovers and half a bag of protein bars. Oat crumbs stick to his lips.

"Really?" You say. "This is what I get for helping you?"

His eyes flutter open, and he regards you for a moment before scooting over and lying on you with a groan of contentment. With his size and the fat he's stored up for winter, he's heavy. Somehow you manage to push him off to the side. He grabs you with one hand and drags you into him. You want to protest, but then you realize how toasty he is. You tuck yourself against his side, shivering in your sleeping bag.

"Don't think I'm letting you off the hook," you warn. "Tomorrow we're going to have a talk about breaking into people's tents."

When morning comes, you have another look at the hole in the tent and realize it's a little too precise to have been caused by the mer. You normally don't have run-ins with other humans thanks to how remote the beach is. You look at the hole and then at the seal mer.

"Were you protecting me?"

A capital tourney is less an open melee like the usual bouts knights attend, and more a refined selection process to join certain regiments.

And you'd finally gained enough renown, and wins, to be invited.

You'd sailed to the capital after earning your knighthood, the tabard you wear is very basic, barely even recognised as a knights regiment, and you like it that way. Your time as a squire was spent on the fringes of the nation, less time serving as a weapon fetcher and armour polisher and more active combatant, meaning your etiquette is less refined in comparison to the other knights around you, their own tabards with gilded coat of arms from noble families or designs designating them as knights of certain cities.

Yours is nothing more than coloured cloth.

The lower streets of the capital are like every other city, the closet to the docks you get the more weathered things appear. Mostly warehouses, ship yards, fisheries, and bunk houses for the sailors coming and going, occasionally main streets are more tended and patched than the others but as you begin the slow cart ride further into the city the streets gain a little more flash and glamour.

Thick cobbled streets, markets in squares dedicated to certain products or produce, brothels tucked into slim streets hung with red lanterns, taverns and halls for the common people, all standard for the few cities you'd been in for tourneys before this one.

The cart your in is filled with knights like you, independent combatants that aren't as noble or shiny as the ones on their horses far ahead of you, but unlike the refined 'proper' knights you knew the common people and enjoyed waving to the children running around the lower streets, flexing and letting the sun catch your chainmail as they call out to the knights passing by. You were a child like them once, and now your a knight, so you can only hope one of them get the courage to try to follow the same path you have and earn themselves some valour, honour, and glory.

As the precession rolls forward through the city, headed for the tourney grounds on the outskirts of the noble quarters, far above, in the royal estates the queen and crown prince are preparing for the event in their own way.

Unlike her son, the queen mother of the nation is sat on a padded bench, waiting quietly as her ladies in waiting do her makeup and pin her hair into a more appropriate style for a day overseeing a knights tourney. The crown prince however is laying sprawled on his mother's bed, boots abandoned as his wings splay out across the full breadth of the mattress, eyes closed but mouth running a mile a minute as he speaks about the noble families that had been writing to him as of late.

"-and no matter how kindly I turn them away, there is always another son, or daughter, cousin, niece or nephew for them to try and offer up to me!" A muffled thud breaks up the prince's words, "No matter how I try to make it clear I am not taking a consort or bride from their family, they will not stop…"

Before her son can continue his ranting, she cuts him off, "Shall I send a letter for you? Tell them that the crown has no need for their attempts to woo my son?" Even just sneaking a look towards her son, she knows he will look chastised and scolded despite her words being genuine, she'd happily tell the nobles of the capital to leave her son alone if he wanted, but he shakes his head and pulls himself from her bed. Wings folded neatly behind him and tail barely making a sound as it glides behind him, standing by her side at the vanity, looking down at the mating scar his mother has from his father, the obvious dragons bite always on display when she graces the public with her attendance.

"No, I will endeavour to be more clear with this particular family." Adjusting the heavy gold bracers he'd chosen for today, double checking the fastenings, "I think a letter from the Queen Mother of the nation may be a touch too far… this time at least."

As his father and mother still hold the regency, he cannot afford to insult or ostracise the current noble families. At least not till his position as king is secure, he has high hopes for this tourney, there are spaces he needs filled and knights that need removing from the palace guard, so many moving parts to change and switch out before he takes the throne.

And so little time to do it all.

The carriage they ride in has an open top, a display of the capitals safety and respect the crown has from the people. Far overhead the roar of his father can be heard as well, the shape of the massive silver blue dragon, a well known part of the capitals skyline.

It's not jealousy that makes Xander glare up at the passing shadow his father casts, it's something much harder to explain, envy and jealousy are part of it but there is anger, a quiet resentment, and the long simmering pride of a dragon pushed into a semi human form. Looking away from the glimmer of his father's wings, the capital swims past in familiar fashion.

He and his mother reach the tourney grounds early to greet the royal knights and wish them well, a standard he had implemented with the new Lord Marshal, of which is currently fussing over his bride to be in the reserved box below the royal stand.

Cute.

The long hall for knights is loud, squires run to and fro, serfs chase items and there are simply too many different types of people, far too many to keep track of the actual division of monsters to human knights.

For you however, this is familiar, like the forward camps of your days as a squire, so you simply snag a free hand and get your chainmail latched and secure before handling the rest of your armour and weapons. The roaster for your particular style of swordplay is short, only eight of you made it to this level of display, and from the looks of your competitors, you can tell why. Three of the eight are peacock hybrids and the other four are mixed bird hybrids or harpies that seem like they only chose to compete in this bracket, due to not being chosen for the aerial round.

Not that it changes what you're here for, it's victory or bust for you.

Skipping the last of your armour and favouring a quick rush to the tourney grounds, you hardly care as the royal precession passes by, too enamoured by getting to see the area you will be fighting in. Doing a quick check of the grounds before jogging around the perimeter, taking in where there are dips, rises, and stones peaking from the terrain, everything you can see is an advantage or hazard you need to work around, knowing them now will help when your match comes up.

Looking up at the stands you can already see the gathered nobles in your mind, they'll sit and clap when appropriate. Not like the tourney you're used to, where common folk cheer and scream for the winning knights of the event.

Standing in the centre of the grounds you feel a little sad, you can't show boat here, can't win your bout and pull your tabard off and fling it into the crowd to some cute face watching as you conquer your opponent. The walls of the grounds are too high for you to climb and sit on as you get a handkerchief or two tied around your belts, it's all proper conduct and ethical standards for knights of the capital, huffing loudly as you adjust the ties of your leather breastplate, casting a wayward glance towards the Marshals box and royal stand, you're caught off guard by the flash of colourful scale and horn.

The purple and blues perfectly accented with gold embellishments that glint under the sun, as you squint and try to see more clearly, the owner of said horns and scales turns to look down into the tourney grounds.

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

TRULY alarming. Initial pounding, yes, startling, but this !!! And I will say that despite a softening of my attitude to Kurt because Curtis, I think this, Kurt's shielding also after the little almost flirty moment of him calling us cute would have had me changing my mind. I was almost considering it last chapter, but these are each significant in their own right.

And specifically with the games?

This is something I'm constantly in awe at with how you're rationing out the narrative of this story with us, and the game scene is a prime example. These segments are succinct, but you're dispensing them with this insane architectural precision! Giving just enough to convey what you want, but allllllways leaving us wanting more in a good way. (Painful, but good.) The fact that they're playing games, and it's been many games - different games, and we gather probably many of each - means that they're enjoying the time doing so. We've seen Kurt be impatient and taciturn, so the fact that he's so willing/at ease playing, and you haven't imbued any impatience here really shows us without telling us where they are, and you're just BLOODY BRILLIANT for it.

I hope you know that.

It's so clear you're being very intentional with this story, and your efforts are appreciated.

Now this whole Kurt and you and Virion moment is verrrrry intriguing. I'm so

jfaoj;oadsj

There's just an intimacy that was developed there between Virion and this human. There are still questions I have about their initial encounters (in a good way) and so much more that I crave for/from them (in a good way).

And I'll just flounce/huff away now, finally experiencing this as everyone else is now. I was too spoiled in getting to read so many chapters in succession without having to wait, and now that is my blessed curse.

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

Log Date 53499Willow5

Subjects stabilizing companionship. No outbursts or conflicts observed. Biometric data balanced with signs of pheromonal compatibility. No mating behaviors. Further enrichment introduced to enclosure.

You stare at Kurt. Your eyes narrow. There’s no way. He can’t.

“Do you have any fives?”

“Goddamnit,” you huff under your breath, handing the cards over the table.

A small smirk quirks at his lips before vanishing—smug asshole. He’s wiping the floor with you. You can never win. Not checkers, not hangman, not go fish. He’s good at every game you come up with.

“Don’t pout like that,” he gruffs, tucking the cards into his hand and putting all four on the table in a pile. “You’re cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

You swallow. Shifting in your seat, you shuffle the cards in your hands. Trying to focus on the numbers. Not the way his comment plucks at something longing inside you. The next one you need to make a set—that’s what matters. Your eyes flick up to Kurt, his attention solely on you. His brow quirks.

“Do you have any sevens?” you ask.

Before he can respond, a loud bang rattles the window. You jump.

A creature stands outside, their voice garbled as they gesture with long appendages. Their teeth gnash with saliva. All the while, they continue to pound on the glass.

Your eyes dart over the surface, sure the force will be enough to cause cracks. Your pulse pounds in your ears, in time with each strike. You start to lean away, bracing for the moment when the alien will break through.

Kurt’s cards scatter over the table. His solid form shielding you as he steps in front. Widening his stance, his arms hang at his sides. His fists clench and unclench readying for action. Yet you still peek around him.

“I hope he doesn’t try to get one,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?” Kurt’s asks, glancing over his shoulder with a bewildered pinch to his expression.

The keeper door hisses open. Virion glides into your habitat, their hand gesturing for calm. Your alien walks toward the window as others of their kind intervene without.

Are you alright?

“We’re fine,” you direct toward Virion as they stand between you both and the scene outside. “Are they going to be able to, you know?”

Kurt shoots you another searching look, his brow furrowed.

Virion’s head swings from one side to the other. You breathe in relief. Your head nods in acknowledgment. The thought of some human unknowingly sent to live with that kind of…fervor. A shudder quakes down your spine.

Virion approaches. Their hand lifting. And you just know that they aim to place it upon your head and stroke over your hair. To offer comfort.

But before they can get too close, Kurt blocks the way. “You can leave.”

Virion stops short, staring down at Kurt with an indecipherable expression. Cool and calm ever present but rigid. Their gaze finds you, still seated at your table. Cards flicking and shuffling in your hands.

Does he speak for you?

They blink slow as they wait for your response. Hand cradled against their chest, ready to extend once again for the contact you expect.

You drop the cards, stand, and tug on Kurt. He steps aside. His jaw tics, a heavy breath flaring his nostrils. He doesn’t step far. His shoulder stays in your way.

“They probably need to make sure we’re calm now,” you say under your breath to him. “Let them perform their checks and then they can go. They’re just doing their job.”

“Yeah,” he huffs in response, arms crossing over his chest and bulging his muscles. A quick look cast over his shoulder toward you. “Keeping us here. Making us a spectacle.” His eyes narrow in a glare. “They’re not fucking touching me.”

Your lips part. Not for breath but in searching for something more to say. Any placation for Kurt gone with an exhale. You’re blank.

May I inspect you?

You turn your gaze back to Virion. Your alien holds out their hand.

Kurt growls in the back of his throat. A grumbling comment he spits out, “it would be better if they just left us alone.”

You hesitate with that statement, mulling it over in your mind. Would it? Without the interaction with Virion, would it be better?

You skirt around the man who would be your protector. Strong resolve in the answer formed in your mind—no.

Your hand finds Virion’s. They guide you a distance away, toward the glass. Kurt stays planted in place, glower affixed just as firmly.

Have you told him about our connection?

Their hand lifts to your head. A brush of it over your hair. A cooed praise that rolls in their throat. Chirps and chittering words follow. You don’t think you’ll ever understand them. Though you find you don’t mind. Your head shakes back and forth in response. Their gaze brightens.

We would like to perform an attachment test soon. Would you be willing to comply?

“What’re they saying?” Kurt asks with a huff.

You ignore both. Thoughts snagging on the phrasing—attachment test. Attachment to whom?

You nod regardless. Trepidation pulses in your chest. Virion won’t go far. They’ll come back eventually. It’s just a test. Or maybe Kurt? You wouldn’t want to be here alone. Not again. It’s been so nice to have constant company—no matter how surly he may be.

Three cycles. Will that be enough time?

Your lips part without an answer. Because what does that mean? Three days for what? The test? To prepare? Though Virion has never been very transparent with explanations, questions buzz through your head. But then they coo something soft, a treat offered in their fingers.

You accept. Mouth full as you reply, “I guess.”

“How do you know what they’re saying?” Kurt calls over, his eyes narrowed and flashing between the two of you. “They teach you their language?”

“Not exactly,” you reply with a hum, glancing toward him in your periphery. “It’s like—”

Stop.

You trip over the thought. Virion chitters something, tilting your head back toward them.

He will not understand.

“What’s happening?” Kurt asks, finally making his move. His hand wraps around your wrist, a tug drawing you away from your keeper. “What’re they doing?” His voice drops low, only for you to hear.

You can’t figure out what to say. How to explain with Virion on one side and Kurt on the other.

Your brow tilts. Kurt’s glare landing solely on your alien. His lips lifting in distaste.

Kurt’s teeth click. “You done here?” The subtlest of shifts placing him between you and Virion.

Virion’s eyes narrow. The closest you’ve ever seen a reaction akin to outright displeasure. They step back and retreat toward the door without another glance.

“Why do you act like that?” you ask, letting space fill between you and Kurt. “They’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“Except for kidnapping you and placing you in their zoo, you mean?” Kurt bites back. “I don’t trust them.”

A flare of irritation fills you with fiery heat. It licks at your belly as you retort, “well, what else do we have?” You gesture to the enclosure around you. “There’s no way out. We’re here whether we like it or not. We might as well make the best of it.”

Kurt doesn’t respond. The sharpness of his stare cutting as he sizes you up in a new light. He huffs and turns, leaving you to wander through the trees of your space. Lost among the branches until you’re alone.

You turn back toward the window. The crowd gathers without. You sit and watch them pass, tears blurring your vision.

Next Part

"She will smell of wild berries. She will be cloaked in dignity but not at the cost of kindness. Her pride in her people will inspire great loyalty."

"Both descriptive and yet, not helpful," Curtis grumbles under his breath.

"I will know her," the Creature promises.

Curtis nods in acceptance.

The morning of your arrival at the palace you make sure to dress appropriately. It's none of the finery you'll be wearing when you greet the king, but it is suitable to a lady of your status.

Conrad and his men are on higher alert because of this change as well. They're keeping you and your horse in a protective circle with Conrad in the lead.

The courtyard around the palace is bustling with activity with the arrivals of parties from every duchy. What staff there is seem well versed in their work and it makes you wonder if King Everett is actually the merciful sort who doesn't harm servants. At the very least, you hope that is the truth of his nature.

Conrad stays by your side as Tanya, the woman who seems in charge of things, tells your party where the carts for the tithes are going. The horses are left with a one-armed man with bright red hair and a small boy who, given the shared hair color, is likely to be his son. It breaks your heart to see young children having to work, but that seems to be the way of things.

Another little boy cuts through the crowd carrying a bucket of water, quite likely for the horses. He trips and the water sprays out, splashing your skirts, and you let out a yelp in surprise.

Immediately the little boy is crying and apologizing and it breaks your heart.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," you reassure him, taking his hands in yours. "It was an accident and it's just water."

"Dirty water," he sniffles. "The other pretty lady threatened to throw me in the dungeon."

"Well I'm not her, and I promise you that you're going to be okay."

"Timmy?" Tanya's voice calls out as she rushes over. "Timmy, are you okay?"

"Yes, Mama," he answers.

"You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, Mama. I was just scared. But the pretty lady promises I'm not in trouble."

"Well she's right," Tanya smiles. "So long as you go and refill the water bucket. We've got a lot of horses to take care of."

"Yes, Mama!" he beams as he grabs the bucket and runs back.

Turning to you Tanya's smile softens. "Thank you for not being angry with him."

"Accidents happen," you shake your head. "Still, I should get myself and to my quarters so I can let this dry up."

Entering the wing meant for the ladies of the palace, you grimace at a familiar voice chiding her servants. Marianne, daughter of Duke Snyder. As vicious and ruthless as her father. She was a favorite of Queen Yelena and was set to marry the oldest prince.

But with King Everett taking over, slaying the old king and his sons, banning Queen Yelena to a tower in the castle, those plans had to be thrown out. You'd give her the mercy of thinking she's upset at having years of planning go to waste, but given her treatment of you, your late mother, your father, you let yourself think of her as a demon in human form.

Most of the rooms are already taken over by other ladies of the court and their servants but you manage to find a smaller one that's the perfect size for you and a guard or two. You probably could have brought along one of the servants from home, but it was a long, dangerous trip and couldn't ask any of the ladies who worked for you to go with, especially in disguise.

Freshening up and changing into a more appropriate dress, you can hear the quiet sobs of the lady in the room next to you. Part of you wants to go over and comfort her. This is a very dangerous time to be a Lady. The new king is no doubt in search of a bride, but his reputation for bloody warfare, carnage even, against the former royals does not bode well for a good life. To be forced into the bed of that man is a scary thought indeed. And that's if he doesn't decide to outright kill you for being of noble birth.

As you're finishing up, a pronouncement is made in the wing that tomorrow would be dedicated to the giving of tithes and oaths. Until then, food would be provided in the dining room, though the King will remain in his rooms.

You're certain there will be very little sleep, if any, for the ladies tonight.

In the King's Quarters, Curtis is pacing. His inner creature is practically feral because he knows you've arrived today. The creature swears it can smell you, though Curtis has his doubts.

She is here! the creature thinks. Our mate is waiting for us! She needs to be claimed!

"If we go to her like this, if we move too fast, we could hurt her, scare her," Curtis warns. "Our mate is not to be harmed, even by us!"

The creature begrudgingly calms itself in agreement.

When they sleep, I want to find her.

"So long as we don't wake her up. You'll need to be in charge and your visage is meant to inspire fear."

I'll be careful. Won't wake her. Just want a scent.

"With any luck, she's the one Tanya told us about. The one who comforted Timmy instead of scolding him."

The Great Glen would not approve of the angry one.

"Fair. But for now, we need to calm down. It's going to be a long, boring day tomorrow."

After we find her.

"After we find her."

In the dead of night, Curtis and the creature take advantage of the cloudy night and slink through the windows. In his human form, Curtis wouldn't dare try to scale the walls of the castle, but the creature has the strength, the dexterity, the claws to make simple work of climbing towards the wing where the women are staying.

As they get closer, the scent of wild berries becomes stronger and his mouth salivates, hoping you taste as sweet as you smell.

Can't taste yet, Curtis reminds the creature.

The creature grumbles under its breath but agrees.

When they reach the window to your room, they almost whimper from how sweet you smell. Wild berries, honey, hints of creme. They could eat you out all day. He purrs as he looks over your soft, plush form. He takes a deep, slow breath, savoring everything.

The guard by your door stirs and the creature quickly, quietly, carefully goes back out the window. They'd hoped for more time, but it was probably for the best they left when they did given how hard they are.

Back inside his quarters, Curtis takes control again and fists his erection with fervor.

Should save for mate, the creature objects.

"If I don't cum I'm not going to be able to hold back next time I see her. Remember, we can't scare or hurt her."

She'll look even prettier with our cubs in her belly.

The mental image is enough to push Curtis over the edge and he cums all over his stomach with a grunt.

Previous--Next

“Back,” he commands gently. You doubt he is the same way with his men.

The dog obeys but keeps her nose slightly over the back of the seat. You try not to be obvious as you observe the path of the vehicle. The gates that open before the bumper and the uniformed men guarding them.

Then there’s the house. A mansion. Not the boxy crumbling facade of the colony barracks but a lavish exterior with lush hedges shaped and trimmed and ornaments in the vein of Roman art. It’s like a dream, something that no longer exists, but you know it can only be a nightmare.

The Legate undoes his seatbelt as the vehicle draws to a stop. You look over but not at him. His door opens from the outside and he’s greeted by a man with an optio’s badge. The soldier keeps his eyes averted as The Legate does not move.

“Her first. She is a lady.” He insists.

The man’s eyes flick to you and his gaze narrows before retreating. “Apologies, Noble Legate–”

“What was that?” Legate Augustus seizes the man’s jaw with his large hand. “What was that look you gave her?”

“Noble Legate, I did not–”

“No, I saw it. I did not miss the way your brow moved. How you judged. Her? You do not know her.” He squeezes so that the man squirms. “I do not ask you to judge. I command you to obey without thought.”

You quickly look down and stare at your hands as you grip them together even tighter. Lupa lets out a low growl behind you. The Legate’s weight leaves the car and the man grunts, his body hitting the ground with a thump.

“Optio, you have earned a new assignment. I hear the drought land requires further oversight.”

“Noble Legate,” the man pleads.

“Do not make me send you to the south.” The Legate warns and the man grunts again, the impact of something blunt forcing his breath from his chest.

The door closes and a shadow moves around the vehicle. The door on your side opens and you wince. You bring your clasped hands up.

“Noble Legate,” you see the sigil on the ring on his hairy knuckle. “Forgive my inaction.”

“Do not. You do not require my forgiveness.” He reaches to undo your seatbelt. “Come.”

He offers his hand. You don’t hesitate, even as your mind and body fracture in fear. You put your hand in his and he helps you step down.

“Bos,” he booms as he signals with his other hand.

Another man appears. Another optio, this one with a ribbon next to his badge. He opens the hatch to let out Lupa. The dog comes to your side sniffs your loose hand.

“I’ve had a long day. As you have.” The Legate waves you forward, clinging to you as he falls into step. “Rest is in order.”

“As you bid, Noble Legate. I will heed.” You can barely speak. Lupa licks your palm.

“She senses your unease. I unsettle you.” He says.

You swallow. “Noble Legate, I only… abide my rank.”

“Forget that.” He demands. “If you were still a pleb, you would remain in the colony.”

His words confuse you. If that is not what you are, then what are you? What is his intent? You know better than to think it could be anything good.

“Understood, Noble Legate.”

He exhales as you approach a set of curved steps that stretch before a set of double doors. Immunes stand at the top and open the door as the Legate guides you upward. He squeezes your hand.

“I have told you what to call me.” He says.

You trip over your toes. You steady yourself as he turns to catch your other shoulder. You stare at his jacket.

“And I’ve told you to look at me,” he warns.

Your brain is on fire. Every instinct is wailing in alert. You have to listen but you can’t. It’s all wrong.

You slowly lift your head and look at him. “I apologise… Au… gust.”

His head tilts and his blue eyes linger on yours. He lets go of your shoulder and gently brushes his knuckles along your chin. “That is good.”

He slowly angles his hand around to cup your chin. You tremble and he once more squeezes your hand. “I have not hurt you and do not mean to. No need to be afraid.” He drops his hand but keeps yours in his other. “Lupa likes you. I can rarely deny her what she wants.”

He turns and drags you along. You don’t let yourself fall behind. Lupa is close, rubbing her head into her head. You pet her, if only to calm yourself.

The Legate leads you up the centre staircase which divides two curving arms around the edge of the foyer. Everything about this place is a startling contrast to the colony’s desolate degradation. It makes you sick to your stomach.

He leads you up to the second floor and along a hallway. Lupa slips ahead of you as you turn the corner and stops at a set of doors at the very end. When you catch up, The Legate opens the right door. He lets go of your hand and trails his touch up your arm, nudging you inside.

The room is as immaculate as the rest of this place. Above the large mouth of a marble fireplace is a portrait of the man behind you. Stoic, stern, all-seeing. The furniture is polished and perfect. The carpet ivory with a deep crimson pattern.

The walls are lined with tall arched windows, one a set of glass doors that open out onto a stone balcony. Across from the fireplace is another door; thick, white wood. You assume there must be a bedroom or something behind it.

The Legate shuts the door and strides around the room. Lupa sits on your feet as you hug yourself and sway. You glance over at the sharp and sudden clink of glass. Legate Augustus pours amber liquor from a decanter into crystal glasses. He puts the cap in place and sets down the square bodied vessel.

“Come and drink. It will help you.” He says. “Lupa can sense your energy.”

You swallow. “Yes, Noble– August.” You correct yourself and cross the room. He holds out a glass and you reach for it. He doesn’t let go right away, clinging to it until you look at him in the face. “Thank you.” You say.