#pre polyamory

Tomorrow was presentation day. And your pretty bird hadn’t been able to get up the Gauntlet fully even once during training. It would bug you if you didn’t know better, after all- what bird couldn’t fly?

So no, you weren’t worried about her. Violet would soar up the Gauntlet, through the chimney and over the ramp, and she would most certainly impress the dragons. After all, she’d caught your eye hadn’t she? And gods above, you couldn’t wait to watch her fly.

But she was getting in her head, foolishly, so- loyal dog that you are- it’s your task to bring her back down to earth. To center and ground her, to make sure she’s relaxed and ready for the challenge at hand.

Which is why you had stuffed her pretty mouth full of your thick fingers, to make sure she wouldn’t catch unwanted attention with her wailing as you devoured her pretty cunt in the light of the moon.

“Pl-pl’s-” She can barely speak around your fingers, pressing down mercilessly on her tongue and forcing her saliva to spill out onto her chin. Naturally, this drives you to abandon her delicious cunt on the precipice of her orgasm so you can lave your tongue over her face, scooping up the drool she was wasting. Fuck, she tasted so good.

“None of that, luv.” You croon, leaving her face wetter than it was before as she sobs and shudders at the tantalizing release you had left just out of reach. Fuck, she looked so pretty like this, needy and wanting, aching for you. For your mouth, your fingers, your everything.

Even now her hips were jerking desperately up against the space between your clothed abdomen and her slick cunt. “If you want somethin’ you just got to ask for it.”

Your smirk is mean, and your accent slips for her as you grin like a wild beast, snarling and slobbering over your pretty bird like she was something delectable to devour. Which is true. And she glares up at you with tears clumping her eyelashes together, your saliva drying on her cheek, and her chest heaving with pure need.

“Le’ me c’m.” She demands around your fingers, glowering up at you, and you smile widely— as though you hadn’t just spent the last hour edging her over and over and over in the empty rotunda where the cadet’s had all gathered that first day. You can’t help yourself when another frustrated tear slips out, swiping your tongue over her cheek to make sure that salty goodness didn’t go to waste. It wouldn’t do for her hound to be thirsty; now would it?

“What’s ’at?” You ask innocently, tilting your head a bit in faux confusion. “Couldn’ quite hear you.”

A spark of pain goes through your hand, and you moan noisily, hips jerking towards her thighs in one rough thrust when she fucking bites your fingers. Hesitantly at first, then harder at your reaction, until you can see the blood peeking past her teeth.

“Fuckin’ hell, such a perfect bird.” You moan, and the gods of this world must look upon you with favour to let you have this pretty bird yanking on your leash. You press your fingers a little deeper in her mouth, forcing them past her teeth, watching her gag around them as your other hand releases her thigh to push into her clenching cunt. “So good, all for me. Beautiful, powerful, delicious.”

The words are almost slurred with deliberate desire and hunger, and you abandon the game you’d been playing in order to reward her ferociousness by pummelling her sweet spot with two crooked fingers. Your thumb presses down on her clit, and you’re panting above her, eyes bright as you admire her moaning and writhing, bucking to get even more of you inside her.

A third finger joins the party between her thighs, and your other hand pushes down on her tongue until her jaw is open enough for you to lean over, gathering saliva in your mouth. She jolts when you spit down her throat, and her eyes roll as her cunt clenched down around your fingers. Her thighs shake violently, and her back arches until her nipples brush against your shirt while she cum’s hard.

You can feel something cold trickling over your scalp, and you force your eyes away from your Pretty Bird to scan your surroundings. It was your responsibility to keep her safe, especially now when she was so deliciously vulnerable. For you. Because of you. You had done so well as her loyal hound, helping her cum nice and hard before her challenge.

Shaking the thought from your head, your gaze eventually lands on a particularly shadowed spot, on the far side of the courtyard. One-two-three shapes. Three. Three intruders who had witnessed your Pretty Bird falling to pieces under your hands. She’s still riding it out, so you’re diligent in keeping your fingers moving. You did this. You brought her to her first peak, and you’d give her a second, and maybe a third if she was good. Who were you kidding, she was perfect.

You were going to treat her right, give the watchers the blessing of laying sight on her before you tore those filthy eyes from their skulls. You would gouge them out and serve them on a platter for your pretty Violet, rip their tongues from their mouths so they could never dream of sharing this perfect moment with any other. Maybe you’d even let them live. Maybe.

One figure tilts its head, and the other two draw back, and you track their path scurrying across the courtyard, darting through thick shadows until they vanished inside. No matter. You’d find them.

Your Pretty Bird catches your attention once more, whining and whimpering as you bring her overstimulated cunt to another peak.

“Wha’s at, luv?” You ask it like she could even answer, cooing down at her. “You’ve gotta speak up if y’ wanna be heard, Pretty Bird.”

Bending down to catch a nipple between your teeth rewards you with another shuddering moan, and you look up again to lock eyes with the figure. “Y’ve go’ an audience, luv.”

Your accent thickens, and Violet’s body tenses. You pull your fingers from her mouth as she tries to jerk up to see, putting them in your mouth to savour the taste of her spit. Your fingers grind against the sweet spot inside her, and her eyes roll as soon as she spots the shadow, cumming hard for the second time.

Bloody violent screaming marked the last few minutes hours before you closed your eyes, shucking off the mortal coil and discarding your earthly form for the final time.

Wind, wet humid air, and pretty hazel eyes mark your return. A ragged inhale wrenches through your lungs, and a melodic voice asks, “Are you okay?”

An angel, sent from heaven, directed to guide you past the pearly gates. Didn’t you know you were damned to hell? And it takes you a moment before you remember how to speak, stammering and stumbling through the words, a thick accent coiling over your tongue like black oil.

And you see it right away. Almost instantaneously, you spot the little head tilt, the imperceptible furrow of a brow as this tiny thing tries to place your accent.

“Jus’ a bit winded, go on luv.” You excuse, straining a smile and nodding her on. You’re in a line of people, all climbing up a massive set of stairs, and you fall into line easily.

Your first action after dying is falling into line behind her.

It must be fate, mustn’t it? And it’s only solidified in the back of your head when this little creature swaps a boot with another, rattling off something about grip. You’d like to grip her properly, round the hips and hunched over her back like the filthy dog you are. Really, who could blame you? It’s been so long since you’ve met anyone soft enough to help someone else survive.

You take to this lovely flower like a dog to water. She comes up to half your chest, and your twice as wide as she is, all thick bulk and muscle, a body honed into weapon over years of training. She has the body you used to dream of having, slight and thin, and your hands could fit nearly around her waist if she’d let you. Especially over that leather corset that cinched her in just so.

Keeping an ear out for the voices around you, it doesn’t take long to understand why she’d tilted her head like a curious bird at your voice. All these people had the same accent, with only the slightest differences between them. If you were the chatty kind, you’d rattle off something cheesy, like ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore’.

You’re not the chatty kind.

At the top of the stairs, you meet the man who’d rock your world. Who you’d one day let in between your thighs, who you’d teach how to fuck you good and proper. Who you’d fuck, good and proper, and who you’d teach when to lie down and take it like a good boy. After all, who says dogs can’t teach? You’d spent so long learning how to obey, isn’t it your turn to pass on a few lessons?

But for now, he’s just a man. One with a swirling tattoo creeping up his jaw and dark eyes and dark hair, who narrows his eyes at your little flower once the word ‘Sorrengail’ sneaks out the lips of the woman in front of you.

It takes you a split second to decide you’ll be the one to kill this man, this danger to the first creature who’d treated a beast like you with kindness in decades a long time. Didn’t he know not to threaten a rabid dog’s master?

It’s when the person at a roll of paper asks your name that you flounder. Not visibly- gods no- but it’s enough to give you pause before you tentatively offer up a name on a platter. Later you’ll realize how grave this decision was, how important, but for now you flicker between a few aliases before landing on your most recent.

It costs you another moment to mimic the accent of the people around you. To flatten out the consonants, to curl your r’s and pronounce all your letter’s, instead of slinging half pronounced words that are good enough for you. Better to fit in until you can plot the lay of the land.

Hopping up onto the stone parapet pulls you away from your little flower too soon, but you can’t risk catching attention so soon. Especially not from the narrowing inky eyes of the man who matched your height but not your broad bulk. Crossing is easy; even when the wind picks up and buffets your light pack when did you pick up a pack slung over your shoulders.

The woman in front of you starts to slip, and you don’t even think before you grab her by the arm and stabilize her. It wouldn’t do for your flower to lose a boot.

“Watch yourself.” You grunt, nodding her forward and following at an even distance. You can distantly hear the words spoken by the tattooed man behind you and it has you looking over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes at the edges of the vowels that scrape against your ears like rust before your flower hops up after you.

It isn’t until you reach the other side, turning to watch her fluttering across the parapet that you realize this is no flower. No, this creature flying across the stone from a threat who came up to your chin, you’ll find pleasure in ripping his spine through his back and twisting it into knots, and grabbing him by the balls is more than a flower. No, only birds could fly like that, and birds had such a merciless presence under their harmless appearance. Violet Sorrengail was no flower, she was a pitohui. Her wings may be clipped, pinned to her sides and trapped, but she was no less dangerous for it.

Your pretty bird.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had caught the eye of a hound. She had offered a scrap of kindness, and gained the attentions of a slavering beast, one who’d rip through tendon and sinew to serve her every whim. You were hers now.

The Gauntlet. A daunting name for an impressively formidable climbing wall. The name brought memories back of childhood games on shiny-squeaky gymnasium floors.

This isn’t like that. No, this isn’t like that at all. No cones line a makeshift corridor, and no children are running gleefully back and forth in an attempt to score points for a game you can’t quite remember anymore. Instead you stand alongside a squad of young adults, too young, who collectively shit themselves at the sight of their next trial.

You, in another life, might’ve been afraid too. But here? In this life? You are a mutt, and when a hound’s master says jump, your duty isn’t to say ‘how high’, it’s to leap with unadulterated faith in the authority holding your leash.

You hold no affection for the Navarre government that sends children to its death, college kids, you think to yourself. In another life, these walking corpses would be studying and drinking. Maybe, in another life, you would be too.

As it stands, your Pretty Bird is determined to fly, and your duty as her mutt is to ensure she can stretch those pretty wings of hers and soar through the deceptively clear skies. Hic sunt dracones.

When your signalled to go, you leap like a dog. Hands thick with callouses that have migrated from the side of your trigger finger to fill out the palms of your hands latch onto rock and wood. You are no graceful dancer, or elegant acrobat. Every move is functional, particular, without energy wasted on petty frills and beauty. You clamber, efficient, clean, sophisticated.

You’ve almost reached the top when you hear it. The shrill cry of your Pretty Bird. Your head darts back, sparing half a moment to pinpoint her location before you’re on the move. Hands wrap around the emergency ropes, stabilizing yourself as you descend twice as quickly as you rose.

“Eyes on me, Pretty Bird.” You grunt, landing with a thunk next to Violet, still reaching for the fallen body of a nameless girl. There’s devastation written on her face.

A shout of your name rises to you, but you spare no thought for the instructor who attempts to scold you from the ground. You may be a hound, but hounds are loyal to their masters and no one else.

“Violet.” You snap, harsh enough to drag wide pretty eyes towards your face. “Keep moving.”

The nameless girl, Audrie or Annie, or some other name you never cared to catch, is gone already. But Violet isn’t. A thick hand, scarred and calloused, wraps around pale thin fingers. “Keep climbing.”

Your Pretty Bird nods, hesitantly, still rattled, but she moves.