Out of My Head

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

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.

🥺👉🏻👈🏻 I love how protective he is 🥹

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

Oh me, oh my, it sure is getting tense in here 🤭

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

You lift the glass and sniff it. It tingles in your nostrils. You peek up and find the Legate watching, as he has been. You put your lips to the brim and make yourself drink. The taste alone makes you wince and you quickly recoil.

You dab your lips with your knuckles and slowly draw your hand back, catching sight of your dirty fingernails. Everything about you doesn’t belong here. You drop your hand and once more ponder the depths of the alcohol.

“Too strong?” He asks. “I could mix something up. Or I have wine.”

You flinch and shake your head. “Don’t mean to waste it– August.”

His name scrapes your tongue each time you say it. It’s like a child saying a curse word in front of their parents. You drink again, scrunching up your face as you gulp tightly.

“If you don’t like it, you don’t need to drink it.” He says.

You bite your lip and shift your weight between your feet. Your legs ache horribly from the day behind you as your head spins at the night ahead.

“I wouldn’t…” you begin and your stomach growls loudly. Your chest burns with the dregs of the sour alcohol. You shake your head. “Apologies.”

“None needed,” he steps around and takes the glass from you, thick fingers brushing over yours. He drains it in a single motion and puts the glass down. “You need food.”

You ball up your fists and press them to your side. You push your shoulders up. “I…” you reach into your jacket pocket. “Okay.”

You take out the tin of peanuts and lift the edge of the lid. He sighs. He catches your hand and squeezes.

“Peanuts?” He says.

You look up at him, blinking wide. “It’s… what I have.”

“Right,” he clings to you a moment then lets go. “It’ll take a while to have something proper brought up. A snack for now.”

He turns and crosses the room. You watch him press the button beneath a sleek round speaker installed in the wall. He speaks into it. “Food. Now.”

He lets go and turns back. You hold the lid under the can and pinch a peanut between your fingers. You slip it in your mouth and chew slowly as you’ve trained yourself to do. Something tickles your hip.

You look down as Lupa sniffs at you. You reach for another nut and pause. You peer up at the Legate as he looms, pacing slowly.

“Is she allowed, noble–August?”

He tilts his head and shrugs. “She does as she likes. Peanuts won’t hurt.”

You offer her a nut and she takes it between her front teeth. It’s a silly sight to see her take it so daintily in her large fangs.

“You’re generous. She eats better than most and you’re sharing your nuts.” He muses.

You rock and look down at the canister. “I didn’t think…”

“You may sit. You must be tired.” He insists.

You take it as an order. You sit on the edge of the settee. Lupa follows and rests her head on your lap.

“You said you were digging.”

“Yes, sir. August.” You say as you have a nut then put the lid back on and clutch the can.

“In the drought land?”

“Yes.”

He runs his fingers along his stubbly cheek. His features are stoic and forged in precision. Clefted chin, thick nose, dark brows and mustache, square jaw, and the bluest eyes you’ve seen.

He continues to walk around, even, balanced, patient steps. His hands slip into his pants pockets then out again. He turns and removes his jacket, draping it over the back of the cushioned chair nearest to him. He turns and traces along his lower lip thoughtfully.

“How long were you in that camp?” He asks.

You swelter under his question and gaze. You tuck away the can of peanuts, the few left rattling in the tin. “I’m… I’m not sure. I was in another. Before.”

“Where?” He asks.

You swallow dryly. “I don’t know that either. Apologies.”

“And how old are you?”

You look at the wall. Lupa turns her head and nuzzles your hand. You open it and let her rub herself on your palm. You scratch under her chin.

“In my twenties, maybe. I think.” You answer quietly.

His eyes stay on you. You swear, he hasn’t looked anywhere else. Lupa groans and hops up next to you on the couch. You jolt in surprise as she forces herself over you and lays across your lap.

The Legate chuckles. That noise is startling. It’s like a rumble of thunder. He comes close and reaches to pet her back.

“She usually doesn’t introduce herself with anything less than teeth. She gets her manners from me.” He strokes her thick fur. “She smells something on you.” 

He bends as he pets her more firmly, his fingers combing through her fur. He curls down her side and his fingertips brush your dirty shirt peeking out from under the open jacket. He pauses and pinches the fabric.

He hums. “We’ll deal with that too.”

He pulls back and stands at full height. He hesitates then pivots and sits next to you, just where Lupa’s tail wags against him. He stares you down and you shrink back and focus on the black fur as you pet the dog.

“I’d still like to know your name.” He says as he stretches his arm across the back of the couch.

Your hand freezes then shakes. You stop it as you pull it back to fold over your chest with your other. For a moment, you can’t breathe. 8E15. The numbers repeat in your head.

“Why will you not say?” He asks.

You squeeze your hands until they throb. You release them then tug on the torn collar of your jacket. You point to the sewn patch with your number.

He clucks. “I won’t call you that.”

You let go of the fabric. “I can’t tell you. I… this is the name they gave me.”

He exhales through his nose. You keep your head down as you await his fury. You twitch as you feel something behind your neck. His fingers delve beneath your bent collar and pet along your nape.

“I’ll have to come up with something.” He says as he continues to touch you. Your spine goes rigid as you fight against the tremor spreading through you. “Venus would suit you, I think.”

Lupa lifts her head up to poke your chin with her nose. You drop your hands into her fur. She’s the most comfort you’ve had in a long time.

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

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.