#qliatori

Were he alone, Hugo would indulge in a moment of forbidden idleness away from prying eyes—stretch out in the sun, light a roll of smokeleaf bartered from his fellow deckhands back aboard the Boiling Brine. But he’s not alone, and there’s work to do.

There’s an older acolyte from the Siren’s Maw with him. Camille. For guidance, so the Furysworn claim, but Hugo’s not so easily fooled. Only the novices like him—the ones whose inductions to the fold were borne in force or violence—are subjected to ‘mentorship’ when about their roster tasks at the fold. It’s one of the many reasons he’d rather be aboard the Brine.

Still, she’s not bad company, as far as his minders go. She doesn’t share Hugo’s reservations about enjoying the unexpected summer day either. Stripped to the waist, her bondmark undulates across her muscles as she raises her free arm and shades her eyes, black ink a void against her brown skin. The bucket full of oysters clacks like a sack of bones where it dangles from the other.

“About halfway through the best stretch,” she says, shaking her bucket for emphasis. “We keep harvesting this good, there might be a free evening in the offing for us.”

“Seems unlikely.” Hugo looks down at his own bucket, battered pilfered metal heaped heavy with clusters of oysters. An ache thrums through his tendons in anticipation of the repetitive task of shelling them, of digging for precious Fury-black pearls beneath their slimy tongues.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I’ve got plans after sundown I intend to keep.” Camille takes a deep breath. She faces west, brushing sand from the gentle slope of her breast as she thinks. Then she turns to Hugo, eyebrows lifted in conspiratorial arches. “Follow me. I’ve got an idea.”

Inwardly, Hugo bristles at the command, but he’s learned well these past four Risings the importance of obedience to those more blessed with Xeheia’s favour than him. He flicks his fingers in silent agreement, pursing his lips at the salt-crusted state of his brown leather gloves; soon, they’ll be fit only for the scrap pile.

He follows Camille for a quarter of a turn, he guesses. His boots, necessary to avoid jagged cuts and paying unintentional salt prices during such harvests, crunch along the sand. A sea wind gusts in from the water and whips his hair, now down to mid-back and in dire need of cutting he’s yet to earn, into a frenzy, lashing at his lips and eyes. Hugo pauses to tie it back though it means breaking into a light jog to catch up with Camille by the time he’s finished.

She stops at the point where the beach curves around the sheer cliff face, the area pockmarked by tidepools before dropping off to the seafloor proper.

“Most folks don’t come this far or want to get waist-deep wet just for some oysters. They love clustering on the long stretch of rock on the opposite side. It’ll be enough to finish these and earn our keep for one day.” She runs her finger along an invisible line, pointing to the middle distance.

Hugo also doesn’t want to trudge back to the Cove in sopping clothes, wet and sticky and deeply uncomfortable, but there’s no point in voicing his objection. There never is here. He sets off towards the area Camille indicated, bucket in tow, resolved to finish this as quickly as possible.

“Hold a moment,” Camille says, lifting a hand. Hugo clenches his jaw and stops. “I’ll help a different way, this time.”

She shakes her arm until a bone-laden bracelet slides from her forearm to her wrist, draped over enough of her palm for her to curl her fingers backwards and clasp it. Camille closes her eyes as she runs her fingertips along its jagged surface. A frisson of the Fury’s magic along his newly marked skin confirms Hugo’s suspicions—it is Camille’s focus, and she’s using it to dip into communion with Xeheia.

Moments later and the pull of the Fury’s tide becomes frustratingly apparent; Hugo’s flesh and spirit surge towards it, denied and out of reach of the Watcher’s embrace due to his lack of a proper focus. Camille opens her eyes, ink-black and luminous, and Hugo hungers—not for her, but for the power she teems with.

“It’s tough to keep hold without the brine, but I can get enough hold to do…” Camille trails off, gesturing in supplication to the water.

Hugo watches as the grey waters of the Umbra retreat further from the shore, rippling backwards as though blown back by a strong storm wind. There’s a narrow gap just big enough for the two of them to fit, granting them access to underwater portion of the rocky beach—and its copious amount of oysters, as Camille promised.

“Hurry,” Camille says. The eldritch twist to her rich voice, the evidence of the Fury’s presence, sends a bullet of yearning tearing through Hugo’s core. “I can’t keep this up for long.”

Hugo steadies himself, nods, and jumps down into the gap with her. They work quickly, boots squelching in the wet seafloor sand as they strip every inch of the miniature wall, oysters clacking and pinging into the buckets in a staccato rhythm. Hugo focuses on the pervasive smell of the sea—salt, rot, fish—with every breath, trying to ignore the way his bondmark sizzles like lightning made flesh.

Once his pail overflows with his harvest, Hugo reaches high above his head to balance it on the edge of the tidepools above him, then climbs back up, careful to avoid cutting himself on the jagged edges. Camille wordlessly hoists her bucket in his direction; he takes both towards the shore as she makes her own climb out.

As soon as she joins him on the shore, she releases her focus and her grip on the Fury’s magic. It echoes through Hugo like the deep crack of a spine, punching a breath of relief and exhaustion out of him. Camille sways on her feet. He offers her an arm and a questioning eyebrow, but she shakes her head.

“Thanks be to the Fury for her storm and her sea,” Camille intones.

“Thanks be to the Fury,” Hugo echoes, his part of the call-and-response.

They make it back to the Cove without incident to deliver their bounty. True to her word, their combined harvest earns them both a reprieve from evening duties. Camille inclines her head, offers a wink when Furysworn Barbier has her broad back turned, and slinks off into the twisting tunnels of the Cove for her own pursuits. Some social engagement, no doubt. Hugo pays enough to attention to know Camille’s popular amongst her cohort of shipmates and acolytes.

As for Hugo? His plans have changed.

-----

By the time Hugo gets back outside the Cove and descends to his favourite beach, the sun sets in a dazzling display, red spilling across sky and water like blood.

Time and time again, Hugo’s presented a crux for his focus for approval, the last step in his initiation, and time and time again, Furysworn Eloi has denied him. The Fury demands sacrifice, he tells Hugo. She demands a salt price worth the taking. What sacrifice is there in the bits and trifles he’s embarrassingly brought to the Fury’s altar for consideration?

Hugo will no longer be denied.

He bears her mark, he senses her presence, and he deserves her gifts. Why else would they have bothered to bring him here at all? Xeheia is his as much as anyone’s here, and if she wants a sacrifice, a sacrifice she will get.

Secret caves and smuggler’s nooks abound around Watcher’s Cove. Hugo knows the path to his favourite by heart.

He finds the hideaway as he last left it: the lean-to constructed from pilfered driftwood, blankets appropriated from the scrap heaps to soften the ground, a rusted lantern with dimly glowing fauna scraped from the walls of the Cove. It’s salt-rotted and damp, but it’s his.

Creature comforts are not what Hugo’s in search of tonight, however. Tonight, he looks for creatures of the literal sort.

The signs are there. On a natural shelf carved into the dark grey rock of his nook, offerings of a different sort rest: a bronze coin from foreign shores stamped with a face he doesn’t recognize, a discarded triangle-shaped gold earring, and three buttons of varying sizes and shapes. Hugo’s befriended the unkindness of ravens that also call Watcher’s Cove home, and in return, they leave him bits and baubles they’ve found, including the hoop now pierced through his own ear.

He can remember the mainland books his mother read him better than he can recall the shape of her face or the colour of her favourite dress. In a flight of fancy, he named the ravens after characters in those stories, the last remnants of a different life: Reyr, Skafti, Finnur, Eldmey. One in particular, the one who leaves the trinkets, bonded to Hugo swiftly.

It’s only now Hugo’s intent sinks into his body, spreading like delayed poison. Nausea churns in his stomach, and a suspicious ache tightens in his chest, a familiar one, a pale imitation of what he felt after a different slaughter in a different place. Red and black, black and red, spreading across a distant deck.

Can he really do this?

He scoffs aloud, disgusted by his own weakness. No wonder the Fury’s found his propositions lacking. Xeheia’s influence and power are as boundless as her very Depths, Depths Hugo has only glimpsed in brief through brine-hazed ritual.

He won’t be kept from them longer. He’s no longer a shaking child with a stolen gun. He will be—is—a force to be reckoned with. On his terms.

Cold salt spray kisses his ankles and soaks his worn-out boots as he scatters his handout. Bits of oyster, thinly sliced with the knife hanging at his hip, spread from the entrance of the cove to where Hugo sits and waits.

It could have been any of the ravens swooping in from the distant cliffs.

But of course, it’s Akkeri.

Perfect.

Hugo schools himself to stillness as Akkeri pecks at the flecks of fresh shellfish, gobbling them up in greedy tosses of his head. He was ten-and-three the first time he escaped to this nook, the first time he found the unkindness living here. Akkeri had been a fledgling too, a bold scavenger, wary of Hugo but determined to steal the bone buttons right off his shirt nonetheless.

Now, he’s even more fearless, tilting his head at a crooked angle and fixing Hugo with a gimlet eye. He lingers just out of arm’s reach. Hugo can’t catch a full breath, like his lungs are full of water.

You don’t get something for nothing. This was a lesson imparted to Hugo long before Watcher’s Cove, before creche and brine and deepest dark. The fold only heightens the stakes:

You consume, or you are consumed.

Akkeri caws, raucous and impatient. Hugo hands over the last of the oyster, a cool sliver in his palm. Stone joins the water his lungs. Tension bleeds through his chest which has nothing to do with the fresh scars across it.

Hugo pounces.

Lulled by longstanding trust, Akkeri doesn’t struggle much in his grip at first, aside from the cawing protests at his newfound confinement. But as the moments pass, he begins to thrash; Hugo’s hands tighten in a vise-like grip, barely big enough to hold him. Akkeri’s nearly the size of a hawk, and realizing the imminent danger, struggles with all his might, talons glancing and wings thrashing.

Hugo knows the feeling.

And he knows the swiftest way to end it.

Akkeri fixes Hugo with one black eye. His body’s almost hot in Hugo’s grasp, his tiny bird heart beating in frantic pulses against Hugo’s palm. It’s like the Fury herself guides Hugo’s hand to Akkeri’s neck. He calls out louder, his cries echoing off the cavernous walls.

The caws stop when Hugo twists his wrist and snaps Akkeri’s neck in a near-effortless motion. The hollow crunch echoes through Hugo’s spirit like Akkeri’s final cry throughout the cave.

In an instant, he’s a warm, dead weight in Hugo’s hand. A promise and an offering.

As Hugo reaches for the knife in his belt, his vision blurs, smearing the cavern into shades of blue and black and bleeding red. Hugo blinks hard to clear it and only then realizes he’s crying. There’s no matching pang in his heart or ache in his chest— only the traitorous shake of his chest and shoulders as sobs he can’t control hiccup through him. Only darkened speckles of stone where his tears fall.

A salt price is a salt price. Let the Fury have two this evening.

Hugo walks to the mouth of the cave where twilight spreads across the sky, Akkeri’s body cradled reverently in one hand. He kneels on the stone beside the ocean, gazing out at the salt-dark of Xeheia’s sea, and withdraws his knife from his belt.

It’s easy, too easy, to invert Akkeri’s body, his clouding eyes unseeing as they face the water. To tuck the blade against his neck and slit his throat with one firm pull. To hold him upside-down over the Fury’s altar and watch the steady flow of red as it vanishes in the sea. Smaller droplets join the waters from the tears still coursing down Hugo's cheeks.

Despite his foolish crying, his voice does not crack or waver as he declares, “Xeheia, Watcher of the Depths, accept this sacrifice given in your name. Let this salt price be a gift worthy of your blessing.”

----

The next time Hugo presents his would-be focus to Furysworn Eloi’s black, unblinking gaze, there’s no doubt in his mind of the Fury’s approval.

Long hair braided, eyes painted, and garbed from head to toe in Fury-black, Hugo presents a painting of the perfect aspiring acolyte.

The necklace he fashioned by hand drapes across his collarbones. Leather cord and punctured shells form the bulk of it, accented by long, black feathers that brush the skin of his bare chest. Akkeri’s skull, picked clean by the members of his own unkindness and the Fury’s tide, sits in the center, its weight tucked beneath the hollow of Hugo’s throat.

Eloi sneers. “Feathers? They’ll be worn down by salt and sea faster than you can ask the Fury to forgive you for your carelessness.”

Hugo inclines his head in the deference Eloi expects, even if his words don’t match. “If I have to make another, I will, and consider it her due worship.”

“Then go on. Let’s get this over with.”

Without the ceremony Hugo deserves—and with a grave trespass even for a novice—Eloi grabs at Hugo’s focus. His fingers close around the raven skull. Hugo fights down the nausea of being touched at all, let alone so intimately violated.

A heavy pause descends like the heartbeats counted between lightning and thunder. Hugo’s bondmark thrills with an electric surge as the eddies of the Depths rise within him.

Eloi gasps, releasing the skull as though burned—and he has been burned, by an errant spark of the lightning dancing along Hugo’s skin.

Because Hugo’s called to the Fury.

He cuts a striking figure in the sunrobe Jihane gifted him. Instead of selecting a bright Trinoran hue, she made her one concession to the Watcher and her chosen with the colour palette: a dark blue-grey like a brewing storm, with elaborate white embroidery at the edges of the short sleeves and decorating the hem. Circular swirls reminiscent of waves decorate both sides of the low, open vee neckline; the swell of bare, hair-dusted chest confirms Gabriel hasn’t deigned to wear anything beneath it. Continuing her downward sweep, Jihane smiles to see the midnight blue leather sandals she sent with the sunrobe on his feet, straps crossed across the tops of them and continuing halfway up his sturdy calves. A shame he’ll have to remove them for ablutions if she chooses to take this reunion indoors.

A heady thrill quakes through her at the sight. The Scion-Captain’s obedience bodes well for Jihane’s plans both personal and political. Were she a less patient woman, she’d be tempted to take him here and now.

When she lifts her gaze from Gabriel’s feet to his eyes, his arrogant grin reminds her of the challenges ahead.

“Don’t get any wild notions about all this politicking just ‘cause of an outfit.” He sweeps ringed fingers down his body in an invitation Jihane graciously accepts. “I reckon it’s only smart not to make waves… at least when I ain’t in control of them.”

Jihane decides this doesn’t merit a response. It would only be giving him the attention he craves. Instead, she turns to Tevnit, irritation writ plain in her glittering topaz eyes. Jihane retrieves another sliver of raw flesh from the lined pouch at her waist and tosses it to Tevnit, who snaps her maw shut around it with a loud clack.

Now just outside of arm’s reach, Gabriel stops, expression shrewd as he takes in Tevnit’s presence. At least he has a sense of danger.

“What is that? Some kind of pet?”

“To call Tevnit ‘pet’ is an insult. She’s a companion, of sorts. That’s the closest Achaizarian word that translates.” The companion in question stares down Gabriel, stone-still, the prelude to deciding he’s a threat. She holds up her free hand and splays the blood-stained fingers wide in a silent command to stop. “Don’t come any closer.”

The twist of Gabriel’s lips and scrunch of his bold nose signal his displeasure. She half expects him to take a step closer to spite her, and as far as Jihane’s concerned, he’d deserve the flame or claw he’d get for his trouble. But stop he does, which sets different gears turning in Jihane’s thoughts, ones wondering what other commands Xeheia’s envoy would obey.

“She gonna take my eye out if I do?”

“If I don’t beat her to it.” More tease than threat, even if Jihane’s capable when pressed.

Still, Gabriel laughs, rich and deep. “Been told I’m altogether too whole to have been a pirate this long. It would figure a—whatever she is—would take my eye out before some navy dog or piss-drunk merchant.”

“The Empire calls them dragons, like the creatures from their myths. They’re ignorant, but they’re not entirely wrong in this case. They’re flying, scaled, sun-blooded creatures, some of whom can command flame when mature, as befitting children of Rhohnas.” Jihane strokes the pale orange webbing of Tevnit’s folded wing with a gentle finger and earns a pleased trill in response, though her attention remains on Gabriel. That makes both of them, unfortunately.

“So like shadowkraken are to Xeheia. Just.” Gabriel pauses, eyeing Tevnit with curiosity and respect that seems genuine. “Smaller.”

“Exactly, Scion-Captain.” In her pleasure, Jihane rewards Gabriel with a toothy smile. The twist of hunger in his features as he beholds her fangs rewards her in turn. “Though of course, I’ve only heard of shadowkraken second-hand, and little at that. The waters of the Umbra are far from Enclave shores.”

“Most people who see ‘em don’t live to talk about it, and those that do, well…” Gabriel tosses his head, the end of his sleek braid brushing an exposed sliver of collarbone, then laughs. “Let’s just say we’re still tight-lipped about some things. Can’t go giving all our secrets away, no matter how keen the old girl is on cozying up to the rest of the Exiled.”

“Confirmation that shadowkraken are sacred to Xeheia is more than I knew one turn ago,” Jihane says. “How would you feel about a trade?”

Gabriel shifts his weight to one leg, arms folded across his broad, generous chest. She tries not to focus on his dayrobe riding up to mid-thigh with the motion. The smug grin returns with a heated slant, one that evokes a flutter between her legs and a roar to rival Tevnit’s in her pulse.

“You and trades. This gonna be like the last trade? ‘Cause that one worked out for both of us.”

“So you presume.”

“Didn’t hear any complaints, though that could’ve been because your thighs were clamped ‘round my ears.”

So presumptive. But Jihane enjoys taming dangerous creatures, bringing them to heel. Tevnit’s solid weight on her shoulder attests to that.

She unties the pouch at her waist and tosses it across the tiled ground of the pavilion to him. He catches it, clenching it tight in his fist, that intriguing curiosity back on his face. Without waiting for permission—to Jihane’s irritation—he opens the bag, his studded eyebrows lifting.

“Not that it’s the first time I’ve been in this position, but any particulars as to why you threw a sack of offal at me?” Jihane draws back to look at Tevnit, who trains her gaze on the bag the Scion-Captain holds. Her vertical pupils have widened with interest, though her scales are lifted from her skin, a literal bristle of agitation. With a looping snatch of song, Jihane commands her to stay put, just in case she harbours any idea of flying to snatch the bag from Gabriel’s unsuspecting grasp. Ever the opportunistic girl.

“A gift. The first step in establishing trust with sunwyrms is to hand-feed them. It’s what all of Tevnit’s stewards have done to mind her in my absence when she chooses to visit. Often, devotees of Rhohnas seek out a sunwyrm to perform this with as a ritual in the wild. It’s seen as courting Rhohnas’ favour.”

“And what makes you think I need to court Rhohnas’ favour?” Gabriel touches his fingertips to the bird skull dangling from his relic. No surprise he refuses to conceal that; Sea-Trader Melançon made a wine-induced admission that it once belonged to him. “I got more than enough favour to last this lifetime, through all seven hells, and right to the next realm.” “Is that not the entire point of your diplomatic visit? To gain Rhohnas’ favour and bring that promise back to the Watcher?” Jihane holds up a single finger and forestalls the reply Gabriel opens his mouth to give. “If nothing else, I know you’re courting my favour, your creative subversions of my advice aside. I’m curious to see what judgment Tevnit—and thereby, Rhohnas—makes of you.”

A pretty flush spreads up the tanned skin of Gabriel’s chest, making it all the way to his cheeks. Good. Jihane enjoys it when a well-placed shot strikes true, even more so when it has the Scion of a deity shuffling his feet.

The moment passes quickly, and the bluster she’s quickly beginning to associate with Xeheia’s chosen devotee rises like a storm wind. “Fine. What do I have to do?”

“Take one of the slices from the feed bag and place it upon your fingers, then slowly approach Tevnit with your palm extended. Emphasis on slowly. My beloved girl, like me, doesn’t enjoy surprises.”

“And then?”

“She’ll either eat it from your palm, which means she’s accepted you as worthy, or she’ll bite off a finger or two. But not to worry—Enclave chirurgeons are without peer. You’d likely not lose them permanently.”

She watches the emotions spin on Gabriel’s face like bits of stained glass in the toy tubes they make for children, rapid and plain to see. He studies Tevnit for a long moment then gives a decisive nod.

“Alright. I’ll do it.” No hesitation.

Jihane steadies her breathing. The anticipation sets her limbs shaking. In the interest of a fair judgment, she stills her body. The way Gabriel throws himself headlong into danger to prove himself to her, to her deity? It stokes the embers of her desire into a roaring flame.

But there’s a test to be passed, first.

Gabriel, raw meat in his palm, approaches with slow, confident steps, the leather of his gifted sandals whispering against the coloured spray of tile beneath them. Wind rustles through the fronds lining the square, cutting through the stifling heat like a cool knife. He walks like a man used to peril – not flinging himself headlong, but not holding back.

Tevnit stirs as he gets closer, scales lifting further from her skin and making her seem twice again her size. Her long neck stretches to look down at Gabriel from her perch. A gurgle emanates from Tevnit’s throat along with the smell of sulfur. Not the worst reaction, but still in precarious territory.

“Careful,” Jihane says sternly, only realizing after that she’s spoken in Trinoran.

The lightning-glow of Gabriel’s gaze meets hers without a shred of fear. He returns his attention to Tevnit, palm held out, emperor and supplicant in the same moment. Wisely, he pauses until Tevnit stops her warning rumble, then carves out the last steps to get within arm’s reach with measured deliberation, bearded chin tilted in an approximation of deference.

The tension could snap bones. Jihane registers each shift of Tevnit’s weight on her shoulder, reminding herself to keep breathing. She watches Gabriel with a threefold hunger – for the man, the sacred, and the thrill. His palm doesn’t so much as quiver as he waits for Tevnit’s choice, and in that moment, she feels righteousness about her decision to seek his aid.

She only hopes Tevnit—who speaks for Rhohnas—feels the same.

All at once, Tevnit’s sleek head swoops down, dropping Jihane’s stomach to her feet along with it, a shimmering red-orange blur. But Jihane has never looked away from difficult moments and she does not look away now. Because she doesn’t, she’s treated to a marvellous sight: Gabriel’s hand remains unmaimed. Tevnit tosses the meat back in her gullet, scales smooth and flat, then lifts her head and trumpets her pleasure. There’s a sensation like someone pressing Jihane towards the ground, then airy lightness as Tevnit takes off into the fading blue of the sunset sky, flying true as an arrow to the opening of the courtyard, where she will roam the islands to her heart’s content until she comes back to Jihane.

“So did I pass,” he says, voice thick and hot, not bothering to make it a question.

Jihane closes the gap between them and takes the bag of feed from his grasp, dropping it on the ground. She replaces it with her hands, gripping his forearms and trailing her fingers up them, avoiding the lines of sacred ink. To be the first to reach for him in greeting breaks protocol. Then again, so is the slow squeeze she gives his forearms and the soft stroke of her fingertips along his skin. It borders on scandalous.

A perilous combination of rapture, lust, and yearning fills her, scorching like a desert sun. She struggles to subdue it; the casual stroke of Gabriel’s calloused thumbs along the Maw scars covering her arms doesn’t help.

He’s proving dangerous in more ways than one.Time to start balancing the scales.

“Join me for an evening meal.”

It’s not a question.

-----

Gotta hand it to the Enclave, and to Jihane in particular—Gabriel’s eaten better these past two spans than he’s eaten in a Rising. At least when he’s at the Eye, what with supplies still coming in at a trickle compared to the old days of a full fleet. Feels like no sooner than she snapped her fingers and doled out orders to her staff than a pile of vittles appeared before them.

Not that he’s of much of a mind to eye the contents.

Contrary to Luc’s ribbing back dockside at the Squall, Gabriel knows he’s thinking with his dick instead of diplomacy. At least somewhat. Thing is? He doesn’t care.

On the opposite side of the square table, Jihane dips her clawed fingers into a fancy white bowl with six-sided red figures on the outside, matching red petals floating on the surface of what Gabriel assumes to be water. A floral fragrance wafts towards him as she shakes off the perfumed excess, then neatly wipes her hands on a vibrant green cloth beside the tray. He likes the meticulousness of her. He likes it more when he gets the chance to muss it up, which he can admit he’s angling for tonight.

When she glances up at him through her long, dark eyelashes, there’s no mistaking the look in her rose-coloured eyes for anything but flirtation, and—yeah. It’s enough to get his dick twitching between his legs. Can’t decide yet what kind of omen that is. There’s some kind of game ahead. How much he can sway it remains to be seen.

“Not hungry, Scion-Captain?” Jihane asks.

Gabriel doesn’t answer, giving her a slow once-over instead. She’s dressed in all white today, a white so brilliant as to be dazzling, like the way high sun on a clear day can turn the seas beneath his ship into a gleaming expanse of fire. Unlike the short sleeves of his robe, her pleated, dressier affair is missing the sleeves… and most of the chest. He doesn’t bother to hide his leer as he admires the pillowy swell of her breasts spilling over the tops of the cups meant to hold them, twitches again thinking of burying his face in the expanse of smooth brown skin. The clear beads Gabriel’s learned denote her status sparkle where they’re woven into her long box braids, which she has pulled into a half-crown atop her head. One bare foot peeks out from where Jihane has her legs tucked beneath her. The gold lacquer on her toes matches the shade of her claws.

“Not for anything on the table right now,” he answers.

“How unfortunate for you.” Her dazzling smile does fuck all to hide the new huskiness of her voice. “My suggestion? Find a different appetite to whet. Surely you wouldn’t be so rude as to let all this go to waste.”

“Sure don’t sound like a suggestion.”

“It isn’t.”

Gabriel’s stomach, traitor that it is, betrays him with a rumble. It’s almost, almost worth it for Jihane’s laugh afterward, full lips curved in a gorgeous smile.

“I won’t have it said that I mistreat my guests. Even guests who show up with such an… interesting interpretation of how to wear a dayrobe.”

Sparrow’d made that much apparent in a catty snipe upon Gabriel’s departure, that Jihane’s gift was meant to be worn on top of different clothes, but so far, he hasn’t seen any downsides. He spots a stack of lightly charred flatbread and sets to digging in, spreading a paste made of salty Trinoran fruit with the miniature blunt knife on the tray beside it. It’s warm, delicious, and has his mouth watering even more than it already was.

Jihane doesn’t touch any of the stuff yet, which. Weird. But Gabriel likes the weight of her attention, the satisfaction in the square set of her shoulders as he starts in on a second flatbread.

“What sorts of delicacies do you enjoy at the Storm’s Eye?” Jihane asks, clawed fingers curled in a fist beneath her chin.

He swallows his current bite and then snorts. “Hmmm. Nothin’ you’d call a delicacy by your lofty standards.”

“I’ll weigh the scales on that. Answer the question.”

Her tone brooks no argument, so Gabriel begins to reply… then stops, a realization heating the back of his neck. She’s bossing him around. All but dressing him, her ‘companion’, the food, now this. And here he is, going along with it like he’s not the mortal voice of Xeheia on this plane.

“I did, didn’t I? Ain’t my fault if you don’t like the answer.”

The air between them frosts despite a fierce humidity clinging to the dusk, one which beads sweat under Gabriel’s arms and along his back. Jihane diverts her attention to the jewelry on her fingertips as though it’s the most interesting bauble in her opulent pavilion, turning them this way and that. It’s like he doesn’t even exist.

Fine. Two can play that game.

Being pissed doesn’t change the fact he’s hungry, so he keeps on eating: crispy fried balls of dough laced with seasonings, crunchy purple vegetables cut into thin strips, a savoury beige paste spread on more flatbread. Jihane finally picks out a few items for herself – the fried dough, and a few of the black and green salty fruits but whole. Between each bite she dips her hands in the cleaning water and wipes them on the cloth after. There’s a matching bowl beside Gabriel too, but he chooses to ignore it as thoroughly as Jihane ignores him.

A familiar struggle burns and tugs its way through Gabriel’s chest. Anger, yeah, and embarrassment. But it’s the kind of embarrassment that quickens his pulse as much as it heats his skin, the prelude to a fight he gets hard thinking about throwing. When he and Jihane fucked before, it was the usual sort, give or take the burns and bloodshed. Now? He’s not so sure.

Most of his experience in these games has been with Hugo, who’s always more interested in having an excuse to wreck Gabriel with his godsdamned sadistic tortures than being obeyed to the letter. Jihane, though? Disobedience is like dunking a torch in the ocean for all the good it does.

He blows air through his nose, scratches at the fresh growth of beard along his neck, then finally says, “Fish.”

Jihane turns from her throne of pillows and cushions to look at him. It’s just a look, but it’s a look. She tilts her head and raises her eyebrows ever so slightly.

“Lots and lots of fish. Fresh, fire-roasted, pickled, raw, you name it—it’s probably at the Eye. Seaweed, too. Grew it ourselves back in the Umbra and it transferred easy enough. And goats, sometimes. The tough little bastards used to be all over. We took as many of them with us as we could when we had to move.” When he sank the island at Xeheia’s behest, half mad with grief and to be sure nothing was left of the Carnage, but he ain’t getting into that story right now. "And they’re doing fine, but not enough to start slaughterin’ the seven hells out of them yet.”

The more Gabriel speaks, the more Jihane shows interest, until she’s leaning toward him across the table, a delighted smile making apples of her cheeks.

She places her hand over Gabriel’s on the table. The points of her claws kiss the pronounced veins along the back of it. “Thank you. Since I’m hopeful we’ll be allies for the foreseeable future, I want to understand you and your people, even the mundane details. As much as you’re able to divulge, of course. I understand needing to keep the mysteries sacred.” Jihane winks before releasing Gabriel’s hand, and fuck if he’s not dripping—literally—with the satisfaction of giving her what she wants.

Godsdamned inconvenient, his dick.

“What about you? There’s gotta be something you can only find here. Something special to the Enclave. Only fair for me to know.”

Jihane’s smile takes on a new brilliance, sun-bright. “I’m so glad you asked. A fresh harvest from the orchards on the far isles just arrived and brought my favourite Enclave fruit with it.” She plucks a pale blue sphere as big as Gabriel’s fist from the table, then changes her mind and rolls it to him instead.

He stops it with his palm and picks it up. It’s surprisingly heavy in his grip, and if he had smaller hands, it wouldn’t even fit in one. Gabriel gives it an experimental squeeze and finds the husk on the outside firm yet not without give. Dipping his head, he sniffs at it, but whether it’s the savoury smoke coming from the kitchens of Jihane’s estate or a lack in the fruit itself, he can’t smell anything in particular.

“Go ahead. Open it,” Jihane says. She sits up straighter on her side of the table.

Gabriel casts about for some tool or utensil and, finding nothing obvious, opts for the direct route. He tenses his biceps and bears down with his fingers, a claw-like grip on either side, pushing in and pulling apart at the same time. It resists…

Until it doesn’t.

The tension vanishes and the fruit pops apart with a wet, papery crack… and a puff of what sure as all hells looks like steam. Dark orange juice sprays across the lacquered, pale wood of the table and Gabriel’s robe, though it misses Jihane’s pristine ensemble. Glistening flesh the colour of lava fills the inside, a paler yellow membrane clinging to what looks like clusters of tiny pearls on the inside. And he wasn’t imagining things with the steam. Wisps of it drift up from the fruit, which has an intense, sweet, spiced smell now that it’s open. A brush of Gabriel’s fingers confirms the insides are warm as blood. He presses down with the pads of his thumbs and draws out more juice, thin rivulets snaking down his forearms, the liquid hot enough to raise the hair on his arms.

When he finally looks at Jihane, she’s examining her dress-like getup with irritation, though it fades as she finishes her examination. She lifts her face to lock eyes with Gabriel. Black swallows the rose gold of her irises, leaving only a thin pink ring behind.

“What is it that I’m holdin’, exactly?”

“Kliaquat. It’s a fruit that only grows here in the Enclave’s archipelago. In addition to being delicious and expensive, it’s considered sacred to Rhohnas. A testament to his duality.” After a pause, Jihane sweeps a clawed hand at him, twirling it at the wrist in a gesture even Gabriel can interpret as ‘get on with it’. “Go ahead. Enjoy.”

He studies the kliaquat in his hand. It occurs to him it could be poisonous to eat, like spinefish or bubblefish. But his gut says Jihane ain’t looking to do him in just yet. Not without her contract being signed and fulfilled, at least; Gabriel’s got a keen sense for the murderous, and while he’s sure as the Depths are dark Jihane’s gotten her hands dirty, he doesn’t think he’s a target yet.

May as well enjoy himself in the meantime.

Experimental prods confirm the juice comes from the pearls inside bursting. This is clearly a two-hand job, so Gabriel abandons half of the fruit on the table to use both. He plucks out one or two pearls afterward, squishing them between his fingers. There’s a strange satisfaction in each tepid pop. He’s sure he’s not meant to eat the outside, and having torn it in half means there’s no easy way to take a whole bite of it. That leaves scooping out the insides with his fingers.

It’s harder than it looks; most pearls dislodge easily from the faded yellow netting that holds them, but they’re crushed in the process. There’s a hard bit in the middle of each pearl. Seeds, most like. Probably edible. Only one sure way to find out. Gabriel aligns three fingers along the torn edge of the kliaquat, presses down, and digs in, aiming to shovel out a handful of the seeds without damaging too many. Iridescent orange-red juice flows down his forearms, mingling with the black gyre of tentacle exposed by his Enclave-approved robe. The spiced scent is cloying in its sweetness yet still mouth-watering; he’s never met a sweet he’s said no to. Or a spice, for that matter. And the steaming flesh of the fruit…

“Kinda like being three knuckles deep in guts. Either kind,” he observes aloud.

Jihane makes a noise Gabriel would bet his considerable purse was borne of shock, but she covers it with a pretty cough. There’s a predator’s sharpness in her demeanor when Gabriel glances her way, not unlike her little sunwyrm companion from earlier. He starts to regret—but only just, and only a part—opening the door for her budding depraved urges.

“An interesting description.” There’s a solid pause, and then Jihane asks, “Something you have a lot of experience in, I understand.”

Gabriel grins. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish, now, or that your Sea-Trader has convinced you we all make nice and polite robbing each other on the Fourfold. The fold’s more, huh… discerning about the kinds of violence we visit these days, but some things can only end in blood.”

“Oh, don’t mistake me, Gabriel.” Huskiness returns to Jihane’s voice. “I’m… intrigued. But right now, what I want is for you to eat. So eat.”

Gabriel wrestles down his initial spiteful urge to refuse. Might have been a time he told himself he does it because he’s still hungry, because the fruit looks delicious, but he’s older and wiser—or at least less inclined to indulge his own bullshit. But the plain fact is he likes Jihane’s attention, likes basking in her pleasure when he does as she says. Besides which, he ought to save the fighting and backtalk for the fights that matter, and he’s sure there’ll be plenty as they work out this so-called political and divine alliance.

He raises his cupped palm and parts his lips, drawing the modest handful of pearls into his mouth. Gabriel rolls them around his tongue, though there are only the vaguest hints of tart sweetness so far. Pressing them against the roof of his mouth and cheeks isn’t enough to burst them, so he opts to start chewing.

Flavour erupts along his tongue, the juice as tart and spiced as mulled wine, but with a cascade of new tastes he has no words to describe. They’re sweet, too, and as suspected yield a fibrous crunch when Gabriel gets to the center of the pearls. It should be off-putting, the fruit being a shade away from hot, but when he swallows it kindles a pleasant warmth all the way to his stomach. Almost as good as belting back a slug of fine liquor.

As soon as he finishes the first handful, he digs for more. Faster this time, more careless, to the point where juice trickles over his lips and through his beard, his hands sticky and stained the colour of rust where some of it has dried. Gabriel doesn’t even mind the bitter bits of membrane stuck in the seeds from his haste. By his third and last handful, he lets out a loud, throaty groan before he even chews the pearls. It has an addictive quality; the intensity of the flavour should leave him sated, but with only the hollowed husk and the tattered remains of the webbing left in this half of kliaquat, Gabriel only thinks about the second half.

At least until he lifts his eyes and catches sight of Jihane.

There’s hunger written plain as the stars on her face, though Gabriel knows without a doubt it’s him she’s hungry for, not the fruit, no matter how good it is. Her breasts heave up and down with each deep breath she takes. Haze fogs her eyes when she manages to lock gazes with Gabriel, though it clears in a few deliberate blinks.

“I take it you enjoy the kliaquat.”

Instead of answering right away, Gabriel takes the time to lick each of the fingers on his right hand clean, drawing them into his mouth one by one, releasing them each time with an audible pop.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, “I reckon I did.”

Jihane shifts, an elbow digging into a brilliant turquoise cushion to prop her up. “Then you won’t mind sharing with me.”

“’Course not,” Gabriel says, picking up the other half from the table and extending it to her. He frowns at the smoky plumes of Jihane’s laughter.

“Not like that. You’ll feed it to me. And properly, without mess.”

Gabriel’s frown deepens. A familiar heat prickles along the back of his neck, the equally addictive combination of anger and imminent humiliation. “I ain’t one of your servants to be ordered about, set to wash your feet and fan you with leaves and hand feed you.”

Jihane shrugs a silken, coppery shoulder, the picture of indifference. “If you consider it beneath you, then you can also consider yourself dismissed. I’m a busy woman and won’t waste time arguing with you.”

There’s a moment where it feels like Gabriel’s head has been dunked in a raging river, the roar of his blood like the rush of water filling his ears. It floods his chest, neck, and cheeks. A part of him is pissed as all seven hells.

The other part knows he’s fucked six ways to the Watcher.

“Least tell me what you mean by proper,” Gabriel mutters.

Jihane thaws again, all satisfaction. “Come over here and I will.” She then crooks a clawed finger to beckon Gabriel to her side of the table.

Is this what it’s like to deal with his mercurial moods? The winds of her temper shift nearly as quick as his own. Godsdamn.

He stands, cursing under his breath as his thighs slip against one another, making him realize just how wet he is. Whatever. He knew what he was getting into when he decided to come calling at Jihane’s palatial doorstep. Mostly.

“Kneel here beside me, then I’ll show you how to eat it correctly.”

He bares his teeth in a grimace. The way she orders him about, it’s like she’s forgetting who, what he is. He bites his tongue—literally—against telling her where to shove her imperious commands. Then, a tide of lustful shame rising in him like the dark waters of Xeheia’s holy sea, he lowers himself to one knee, then the other, taking a seat on the backs of his heels. The leather of the sandals digs into his ass, his thin robe not doing much to help blunt the pressure.

“Good.” Jihane all but purrs the word, and Gabriel loves and hates how he can feel himself swell at the praise. Worse still is the traitorous twitch of his cock when she pats his bearded cheek, the tips of her claws clicking against the rings in his ears. “Very good.”

“Just…” Gabriel huffs out an impatient breath, trying hard not to lean into her touch and debase himself more than he has already. “Just get on with it.”

“This is a task that requires patience. Best if you start summoning it now,” she says, a mix of derision and delight in her tone.

Turning from him, Jihane reaches her wide, plush arms across the table to place the remaining kliaquat half on a tray Gabriel didn’t see before. It’s ostentatiously decorated like everything in the Enclave, the base polished ivory and the handles a metallic rose gold. The utensils on it are ivory accented in yellow gold and most make sense: a bowl with high sides studded with pink gems that holds the other half of the fruit, a tiny spoon with scalloped edges, and a steel knife with a carved handle that matches the tray.

The purpose of a rectangular dish lined with several golden needles eludes Gabriel. They’re more delicate pieces than he’s used to, whether from his years of sewing or the fold’s flesh-piercers or Aurele and xyr unflinching sutures.

“The most traditional way to properly eat a kliaquat is threading the seeds on a needle and eating them one or two at a time,” Jihane explains, tapping the needles with her claws. “It’s a delicate process. Use the wrong amount of pressure or pierce it in the wrong spot and the seed bursts. If you don’t use enough force, the seed slips away from the needle and escapes you entirely.”

Gabriel’s frustration mounts just listening to the explanation, let alone trying it. “Lemme guess. That’s the way you want me to feed it to you.”

“It is. And unlike you,”—her eyes sweep down, taking in the erratic pattern of dark stains on Gabriel’s robe—“I expect my clothing to remain spotless.”

There’s a definite ‘or else’ she doesn’t say aloud, so Gabriel asks, “Or else what?”

“If you’re lucky, you won’t find out. I can assure you, the consequences will be nothing you enjoy, so if you were thinking I’d inflict you with pain as punishment, think again.”

A low laugh escapes Gabriel. “Figured me out that quick, huh?” “Watching you writhe as I sank my foreteeth into your chest, as I touched you with Rhohnas’ flame… It would have given away to the most oblivious person, and I’m far from oblivious, Scion-Captain.” She studies him, an excited light shimmering in her eyes. “Are you up to the task?”

He scoffs, then swivels at the hips to pick up the bowl holding the fruit and a needle to match. “I ain’t about to let some fruit and a needle best me after all the shit I’ve done.”

“Let’s hope your skill matches your confidence.” Jihane glances at the tray Gabriel left on the table. “Most beginners—children, usually—make use of the tray at first. It saves some face when a seed inevitably gets away from them.”

“It’s like I said. I don’t need help. You’ll get your fruit without the mess you hate so much.”

Jihane smiles like a trap being sprung. “Then get to it, Gabriel.”

The bowl fits neatly in his hand, its weight solid with the kliaquat resting in it. The needle’s not a dainty piece of shit, but it still feels irritatingly thin and small in his grip for the task at hand. He hasn’t spent most of his life making his clothes and carving scrimshaw and wood for his dexterity to be bested by one godsdamned piece of fruit.

The first pearl he tries to thread on the needle bursts, leaving nothing but wilted topaz flesh clinging to the seed inside. There’s so much juice inside such a tiny pearl; dots of it fleck Gabriel’s freckled forearm and the back of his opposite hand, but thankfully, he’s far enough away from Jihane that it misses her clothing.

“You could still use the tray,” Jihane says.

“Yeah, well, in case you ain’t already noticed, I’m a stubborn asshole. I don’t need it.”

Gabriel slows down, nudging a pearl with the sharp tip of the needle. He doesn’t want it flying every which way and landing on Jihane. Embarrassing, to end the game so soon. He angles the needle downward, about where he judges the midpoint between the edge of the pearl and the seed itself, then thrusts it inward with what he thinks to be sufficient pressure and a steady hand.

The devious son of a bitch still shoots out of the bowl. Thankfully, it lands on a nearby section of tiles, bursting upon impact. His cheeks heat again, pulse quickening with his frustration and the expectant gaze of Jihane on him.

“This is the most hull-licking, bilge-pissing, barnacle-fucking, foolish bleedin’—” Gabriel says, the rest of his words swallowed in a heavy sigh. The notion of tossing the whole bowl across Jihane’s fancy courtyard seems more appealing by the heartbeat.

“Such inventive language. Swears, I assume. Not ones I’m familiar with.”

“Don’t imagine you would be. They ain’t exactly commonplace, and much of a dirty conniving bastard as your Sea-Trader is, his language is cleaner than the rest of him.” Gabriel frowns at the cracked and split husk of fruit in the bowl in his hand, needle at the ready. He reckons he’s got it this next time. “Plus, it’s a particular gift of mine.”

“I’d recommend keeping a civil tongue when you address me. The way you speak of the Sea-Trader? I wouldn’t tolerate it.”

“He gives as good as he gets, believe you me. And anyway, he ain’t here.”

Gabriel places the tip of the needle against the seed and pushes it through in a single thrust. He whoops with delight, though he’s careful to keep his hand even. He lifts it from the bowl to examine his handiwork. In the fading light, the gold of the needle looks like treasure preserved in amber where it penetrates the seed. For a moment, he thinks about popping into his mouth, but Jihane’s expectant look quashes that impulse before it truly gets underway.

“Well done. Now feed it to me, and be careful not to injure me. It will end our game along with mess.”

“Just full of demands, aren’t you? Anything else, Mistress?” Gabriel asks, using the Trinoran word he’s heard Jihane’s staff tack on the end of every sentence and before each use of her name.

Jihane’s eyebrows raise to the elegant, oiled baby hairs at her hairline. Her surprise melts into the kind of expression that makes Gabriel’s heart twist and cock throb: delight with the promise of some inventive cruelty.

“I see you’ve a gift for other parts of language too.” Her searching gaze sends a hot prickle across his skin. “Since you’re so eager to please, I can certainly give you another task.” Jihane flutters her lashes, the bold sweep of gold eye paint glittering as she does. “You can thank me for the privilege of allowing you to feed me before we begin.”

Thank her? For assigning him some tedious, ass-backward work? He opens his mouth to tell her exactly what he’s going to thank her for… and stops when Jihane reaches up and rests her sharp claw against his lips in a shushing motion.

“You’re doing so well, Scion-Captain. Don’t ruin it in a rash moment,” Jihane says, eyes hooded. “Or do. It would please me as much to send you away and deny you as it would to keep going. What happens next depends entirely on you.” She removes her hand and rests it across the curve of her belly, bronzed claws splayed against the white of her clothing, recumbent in the pile of tasseled pillows as she waits.

He hates the way his heart pounds behind his ribs, the way his inner thighs slip against each other in his arousal. Gabriel’s still got the threaded seed and needle in hand as he weathers the hot rush of emotions—fury, lust, shame, desire. He sucks in a deep lungful of air, nose flaring.

“Thank you,” he grits out, face burning, “for lettin’ me feed you.”

“Almost. You’re forgetting the word you and your clever tongue picked up.”

Watcher take him to his watery fucking grave and spare him this humiliation. Gabriel vows to redouble his arguments when they get back to the political part of their negotiating.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

She beams at him, bright as the sun and warm as she claims the fire of her god is, and he’ll be buried inland if it doesn’t feel good to be the reason for it. “Perfect. Now, let’s begin.”

Jihane parts her full lips, the tip of her pink tongue and fangs visible as she waits. Gabriel’s lungs seize for a treacherous moment, cock pulsing at the image. Still, if he’s going to do a job, he’s going to do it well. He lifts the needle to her mouth and slips it inside, the topaz pearl resting on her tongue. Jihane closes her lips around the needle and gazes up at him, rose-gold eyes swallowed by her pupils. It takes him a second to realize she’s not going to draw back herself, so Gabriel keeps an even hand and slides the needle from her mouth, now freed of its juicy seed.

He watches in silence as she works the seed around her mouth, jaw moving as she bites down and hums in pleasure. Gabriel can relate. Just looking at the kliaquat’s flesh gets him hungry all over. Seeing her enjoy herself… Now he’s got two reasons for the spit flooding his mouth.

“There’s always the chance it was beginner’s luck. Again.”

“Luck’s for the Chance and the wildcards who follow them. But sure, I’ll do it again.”

This time, it’s much easier to get one of the seeds on the needle; the trick is going for the ones held in place by the membrane, that way they don’t fly off like hatches unbattened. Gabriel lifts it straight out then offers it to Jihane, threading it through her lips like an offering, clenching as she closes her eyes and waits for the needle to withdraw. Gabriel watches her throat work as she finally swallows the seed. A bead of orange-red juice lingers at the dip in her upper lip. “Well done, well done.” The praise burns like a quarterdeck covered in tar in Gabriel’s gut, quick and dangerous. She crooks her finger at him. “Lean down.”

The beginnings of a heady fog stir in Gabriel, clouding his normal urges to fight back. Not enough to dull his curiosity, though. He’s not sure if it’s pain or pleasure awaiting him at the end of her imaginary leash, but he’s keen to find out, so he leans down, belly clenched to brace himself. Jihane grips his shoulder and uses it as leverage to close the gap, and then her mouth is on his, warm and spiced and intoxicating. She parts his lips with her tongue in a mirror of his work with the needle, bestowing on him a deep kiss that redoubles the ache between his legs. What with his hands full, he can’t grab her by the ample hips and pull her closer as he’d like. But Gabriel’s still got his mouth. He groans and kisses back—tonguing at the tips of her fangs, licking the juice from her lip as the kiss breaks, then huffing out a frustrated breath when Jihane pulls back.

“Didn’t take you for the teasing kind.” “Teasing? If I were in the mood to, hmm. How does the expression go? Play with my food,” she lets a languorous pause fill the air as she looks him up and down, “You’d know it. That was a well-earned reward. I’m sure you’ll hear many rumors about me in your time here, most of which aren’t worth the breath spent to voice them. The one where I’m accused of being overgenerous to the point of bribery when people do as I bid?” She smiles, slow and decadent. “That has some degree of truth to it.”

“Reckon I’ll be the judge on whether the reward is generous enough for the task,” Gabriel retorts, smirking. “I’m used to my ship havin’ a belly full of treasure from all across the Fourfold. And folks can get… creative with their offerings when Xeheia’s crew boards their vessels.”

Jihane tosses her head back with a throaty laugh, generous breasts and belly shaking with each peal. She shoves at Gabriel’s thigh with her foot, a teasing push lacking the force to get him truly off balance. “See, I believe this is one reason we get along so well. Both of us are used to people signing their lives away to please us. I look forward to seeing such offerings for myself when you accept my contract.”

“Who said anything about accepting your contract? I still ain’t finished my talks with the Conflagration. And it’s more than a Rising before the weather will allow passage along the straits you wanna travel. A lot could happen between now and then.”

Jihane’s amusement writes itself on her features, her smugness a mirror to Gabriel’s own. She curves her foot inward and trails the ball along the outside of his thigh, venturing upward until it's tucked beneath his gifted robe. Her toes brush the crease where his leg meets his hip. Gabriel shudders at the delicate touch, then flushes and contemplates abandoning the whole kliaquat exercise, tugging her foot a handspan higher, and demonstrating his capability to turn the tables.

It must show on his face somehow because Jihane drops her foot and gives a sultry laugh. “You will. Of that I do not doubt, Scion-Captain. Now carry on before I lose my patience.”

Right. Gabriel had the bowl and needle in a white-knuckle grip if the tension in his joints is anything to go by. “Alright, alright. Time to see if you’re as generous as you claim.”

Gabriel pierces a third seed, albeit messily; tiny droplets of juice cling to the pinch of his thumb and forefinger. He feeds it to Jihane without incident, though she doesn’t seem inclined to offer one of the aforementioned rewards since it’s imperfect. By the fourth, he’s got the hang of it again. Jihane glows with satisfaction after she swallows the mouthful of fruit.

Turns out, she’s as good as her word. The more seeds he feeds her properly, the more she rewards him. It doesn’t make the task any less godsdamned tedious by nature, but it certainly makes it leagues more enjoyable. For the price of three unruptured pearls painstakingly placed on her tongue, he earns a second; Gabriel can taste the tartness of his own efforts as Jihane licks into his mouth, slow and deliberate. Several more seeds prove the price for more kisses—except Jihane leans in and places these on his taut nipples, tonguing at flesh and metal alike through the robe and leaving new stains in her wake.

“Not fair,” Gabriel grunts, tensing his thighs together in a bid to relieve the ache between them.

“Everything is fair when it’s my home, my game, and my rules.” Aside from her swollen lips, Jihane looks pristine and unaffected. “Keep going. I’m not finished, so neither are you.”

Impatient as all seven hells, Gabriel decides he can speed this up. He eases the needle through one seed then uses the edge of the bowl to push it further down the needle, carefully making room for a second. The second pearl joins the first, and when he lifts it to Jihane’s mouth, she smiles before closing her lips around the needle. She takes her time enjoying them, though by now they must be cool; her lashes flutter, and after she swallows, she lets out a pleased little sigh.

“Very good. You’re catching on so quickly.” With a cat-like smile, Jihane leans forward and places one hand in the valley of his chest, all five tips of her ornate claws nestled together on the skin the robe exposes. She beams up at him, radiating warmth like the galley stove during a winter storm, then drags her fingers down his chest and stomach, hard enough for him to feel the promise of pain but not hard enough to rip the cloth. The way he’s kneeling means she can’t get them where Gabriel really wants them, though even the brush of them across his lap has his cock throbbing and nerves tingling. “Do that again. Three, this time.”

Watcher help him, he doesn’t think twice about questioning it. In his haste, Gabriel misjudges the spot on the first seed; it bounces out of the bowl and off the top of Jihane’s foot, rolling down a groove in the pavilion tiles. A damning drop of orange juice quivers on the top of it. She arches a thick brow at him. “What did I say about patience? That was a close call.”

That does it. Gabriel sets the bowl and needle down, earning him a deeper glare from Jihane. He takes her delicate foot in both hands, one palm against her ankle with fingers wrapped around it to steady it, the other palm against her sole; her foot’s small enough that Gabriel could cover it completely and then some, if he wanted.

Instead, he bends down, back curved, and lifts it to his mouth. Clearly, Jihane doesn’t have much of a problem with this gesture, considering she could kick his teeth in if she took sincere issue. He locks eyes with her over the top of her foot. A delicate set of golden bangles in the interlocking shapes of leaves around her ankle tinkles like windchimes.

“Sorry, Mistress,” he says, overwrought for theatrics sake. Gabriel presses his lips to the top of her foot in a chaste kiss, inhaling deep to enjoy the perfume drifting from her soft skin. He deepens the kiss, teasing at the tracery of veins beneath his lips with the tip of his tongue. A faint hint of tartness confirms he’s gotten to the offending juice. “Won’t happen again,” he says before carefully placing her foot back on its ruby-red pillow.

Jihane’s breath comes deep, breasts straining against the nacreous white fabric of her dress. “And here I discover another one of your ‘talents’: making an apology sound like insolence.”

“Given that I ain’t in the habit of making apologies at all, I can’t see why you’re complaining.”

“My only complaint is you dallying with the task I set you.”

Gabriel smirks, then picks up the bowl and needle. Only a small pocket of seeds remains in the kliaquat. Almost done.

He intends to keep his wits about him, threading seeds three at a time to hurry along the task. But Jihane keeps her gaze on his, sure and steady, stoking the fire in his belly until the molten tension threatens to overflow. She can’t hide her own impatience. Gabriel notices how she draws back first from the needle, not bothering to wait for him to do it, and how she spends less time savouring the pearls.

By the time he finishes, Gabriel’s fingers are stained again, digits a rusty, shimmering orange from all the juices. A shallow pool of kliaquat juice covers the bottom of his fancy bowl, but true to his word, not a drop has gotten on Jihane’s outfit.

Jihane sits up, tucking both legs beneath her. “Here. Let me help clean you.”

Before Gabriel can do a godsdamn thing about it, Jihane takes his free hand in her burning one and brings it to her mouth. She runs her tongue along the curve of his thumb, licking it clean of juice with slow passes. When she gets to his fingers, she takes his pointer finger into her mouth entire, sucking on it in steady pulses; Gabriel’s heart pounds in tandem with Jihane’s attentions as he imagines those same attentions on his cock. She pulls away with syrupy slowness, her long lashes a false veil of demureness over her heated gaze.

He wants to say something, anything. He’s not the kind to get rendered speechless by more gentle diversions, no matter how gorgeous the person bestowing them. Gabriel squares up, taking a deep lungful of breath and intending to give his mouth free rein.

Except Jihane curls her tongue around his middle finger, paying special attention to the calluses on the underside; the silk of her tongue against the rough skin has him shivering where he keels. She kisses her way down to the juice-stained ring, then works her tongue around every golden crevice of the signet; her fangs dig in on either side of his knuckle as she commits to the task. Gabriel moans, the sharp prick of drawn blood and the warm softness of her mouth too much for him to hold back.

He barely registers her cleaning his remaining fingers. It’s hard to focus with the roar of desire washing out almost everything else. The roar becomes a bone-shattering clap of thunder when Gabriel sees Jihane’s just as affected. There’s the tell-tale holy glow to her eyes and scars, and a thin plume of smoke escapes her nose with every exhale.

Fuck it. Gabriel abandons the bowl and chucks it to the ground. Too hard, judging by the delicate crack and wet splash. Jihane hisses a word in Trinoran that must be a swear, but that’s all she gets out before Gabriel frames her heart-shaped face in his hands and pulls it closer. He noses at the divot above Jihane’s upper lip and inhales deep, groaning as he chases the holy smoke of her breath. Jihane wraps her clawed fingers around his wrists and squeezes, but if it’s meant to discourage him, it doesn’t, especially not with a moan—and more smoke—slipping between her painted lips.

It’s a cross between unfamiliar spices—cloves, cinnamon—and the familiar smells of a ship set to the flame, wood burning and crackling as it sinks to the Depths. Gabriel presses his lips to hers and kisses her like she’s a breath of air after diving in freshwater, desperate for the taste of her, grunting and squeezing his thighs together when Jihane gasps a mouthful of smoke into his. She releases one of his wrists to place her hand at the back of his head, pushing him down to her neck and redirecting his efforts. Gabriel’s all too happy to oblige, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, left drenched between the thighs twice over at the sultry groan it elicits from her.

All too soon, Jihane pulls back and keeps Gabriel at a distance with a hand on his chest, her own breath coming heavy.

“Fetch me another kliaquat.” Gabriel gropes for spoken language, words temporarily stolen. “Really? We’re still on that? Ain’t I done enough by now?”

Were it not the cause of some particular suffering on his part, he’d admire the way her expression changes in an instant, cool and imperious, eyes aglow with her god’s fire. “Do not make me ask again, Gabriel.”

He heaves an irritated sigh but does as she asks. His long reach means he only has to twist his torso and lean a bit to reach the table, rolling a pale blue fruit into his palm with his fingers and bringing it to Jihane.

She plucks it from his grasp, then lifts it to eye level, considering. It looks for all the world like a gem in its setting, perched in the cage of her golden claws. Jihane glances between Gabriel and the kliaquat, her icy expression melting into an amused grin.

“This was going to be another reward, but since you’ve decided to be difficult…”

With no warning, Jihane wields her claws like knives against the firm husk of the fruit and splits it in half—right above her spotless dress.

Instinct drives Gabriel forward, lunging from his kneel to cup his hands beneath Jihane’s. Mercifully, the iridescent juice seems to have missed the white, though flecks of it decorate the tops of her breasts and cheeks. Juice from the split pearls flows from the seam in the fruit, dripping into the cup Gabriel’s made of his hands.

There’s a problem, though. There’s also juice running down Jihane’s fingers in tiny rivulets from where she’s split the fruit. He can chart the course of it plain as day – it’ll drip from her forearms to her clothing before long. Except if he moves his hand, there’s going to be a stain whether he likes it or not.

He’s still got his mouth.

Gabriel hunches and starts lapping at Jihane’s wrists and fingers, chasing every drop of juice he can find. He outlines the sharp golden curve of her claws, the deep lines of her palms, the pulse point of her wrist with his tongue, his aim speed rather than seduction. Still, he’s not fast enough. By the time he finishes with her right hand, there’s juice streaming down her left forearm, following the runnels left by the scars of the Maw.

He switches hands and licks those too. He traces the webbing of scars with his tongue, warm kliaquat juice tinting every swallow. It occurs to him too late that he's lapping at her holy mark like a shipcat at a dish of cream, that maybe it might not be welcome. But as his tongue meets the point where her pulse and her scars intersect on the inside of her wrist, Jihane moans, low and urgent. Not unwelcome, then.

Gabriel’s sucking the juice from Jihane’s jeweled claws when she tosses half of the kliaquat aside in a careless flick. His lungs seize, worried all his work will have been for nothing, but the luxurious white fabric remains clean. Deciding he’s better safe than sorry, Gabriel places his mouth to the point where his wrists meet and tilts the makeshift bowl of his hands, slurping up the remnants of the juice before it can dribble through his fingers. When he looks up through his lashes at her, she moans softly, then lifts the remaining half of the fruit to his mouth.

“Eat.”

Watcher avert her all-seeing eye, Gabriel doesn’t hesitate.

Keeping his hands cupped beneath it, Gabriel descends on the fruit with lips and tongue and teeth, driven by multiple scorching heats: Jihane’s gaze, the ache of his cock, the pounding in his chest. He sucks seeds into his mouth, popping them with his tongue, one of his several thirsts quenched by the flood of spiced juice. Gabriel stays as careful as he can, taking seeds between his teeth, licking them out of their nestled pockets.

He stays careful all the way until Jihane slides her palm beneath his robe and up his inner thigh, only coming to a stop when the heel of her hand rests against his cock. With this angle, her claws rest dangerously close to his hole, and when she starts to rub her palm back and forth against him, each pass brings a delicious prick of pain against tender skin.

It wipes the conscious thought from his mind.

He devours the kliaquat like he needs it to live, rutting his hips against Jihane’s hand at the same time. Gabriel doesn’t bother separating seed and membrane; bitter pith and vibrant seeds mingle, barely chewed, swallowed whole. Juice covers his mouth and courses through his beard and down his neck, but he doesn’t care, his world narrowed to Jihane’s hand on his dick and her gaze on him as he eats from the palm of her hand.

It’s against her hand that he comes, moaning around a mouthful of seeds, cock pulsing as she rakes her claws through the soaked hair at the apex of his thighs. He barely manages to swallow before a moan escapes him, thighs clamped around Jihane’s hand as he rides out the aftershocks.

Dizzy, breathless, it takes him several long moments to look down.

He’s finished this half of the fruit… but dark orange splatters cover the white of Jihane’s dress. The pattern puts him in the mind of wounds, of bloodshed. Shame comes hot on the heels of his peak—at eating from her hand like an animal, at failing her task, at wanting to succeed in the first place, at feeling ready for a second climax no sooner than the first ended, at wanting to ply his tongue between her legs and satisfy a different hunger.

Jihane glances down, disappointment mingling with traces of lust on her features. She shakes her head softly, then pats Gabriel’s cheek with the same hand she had between his legs; he can smell his arousal on her fingers along with a metallic hint that might be his blood. “Now thank me, Scion-Captain, for the gift of pleasure I just gave you. By name, please.”

His pride puts up a valiant fight, but what with his defenses storm-battered and hole still clenching in the aftershocks, it loses. “Thank you, Jihane.” Jihane strokes his cheekbone with her thumb, anointing him with his own release. Then she holds her hand in front of his mouth expectantly, wrist loose and fingers draped low. By the time he finishes licking it clean of the most personal kind of salt price, his cheeks are burning and he’s hard all over again from the luxurious, shameful pleasure of it all.

For a foggy moment, Gabriel’s certain she won’t hold the stains against him. But even with his wits addled, there’s finality in the lingering kiss Jihane places on his twice-stained lips.

“For a first attempt, you did well. But I did warn you there’d be consequences for failure.” She stands, bearing regal, as though her dress and skin weren’t covered in kliaquat juice. “I need to change before my next engagement now, which means our time together is at an end. But I’ll have Sidqi come by to show you out, once you’ve had time to… collect yourself.” She gives his cheek a final, condescending pat, then winks. “I’ll see you at the Conflagration two days hence.”

All Gabriel can do is watch her, stunned, as she leaves, head high and hips swaying, her bare feet padding against the tiles of the pavilion. He watches until she vanishes into the west entrance to her estate, then surveys the damage around him: slick thighs, aching cock, stained clothes, discarded fruit, broken ceramic.

Fuck him six ways through all seven hells. Jihane may have won this round. But next time, next time…

One of the things I love about making playlists is how sometimes they’ll surprise you. For Vidakai’s picks, I knew I wanted a certain amount of etherealness, sharpness, and chaos—I definitely got those. But what surprised me was the amount of softness present in the songs that resonated with me for them.

vehemence by purity ring I was hoping that a song by purity ring would fit for Vidakai, not only because I love the group but because their poetic, weird, melodic sound resonates with my concept of Vidakai. vehemence ended up being a perfect fit in my mind for a mortal, Xeheia and Zadar worshipping Vidakai. While the lyrics do have some piece references that fit nicely, what works for me more is the sense of divine yearning in this song. This is a song for a Vidakai from a very, very long time ago in complete thrall to Xeheia and all her incomprehensible power. There’s the longing to be rewarded for their devotion (if we are brave enough, she’ll take my anger up) intermingled with this sense of prophesized, impending doom (Do you think that you could ever fly/In the twinkling of your burning eye/To the forest of your fervent youth/Where began the end of all we knew?) There’s such an otherworldly atmosphere to this mood and mixed with the holy references, obvious zealotry and passion, and transcendent euphoria of being witnessed by a being you love and that is several orders of magnitudes beyond your comprehension, it felt like a great fit.

Why did I not do this sooner? Criteria met, necessary forms are sent already, plans in place, lots of information in hand. Fingers crossed for reasonable wait times and an affordable quote for the parts not covered by healthcare. I feel so fucking fortunate to have stumbled upon my current doctor who helps with The Trans Stuff (TM) because she's awesome.

But after that like... oh my god. The sheer euphoric bliss I feel thinking of the after. Wearing whatever shirt I want 1) in the correct size instead of two up 2) without the perma transmasc shoulder hunch 3) and not constantly tugging and adjusting all hours of the day. No more binder ever, especially no more awkward post shower binder where you're never dry enough no matter how long you wait to put it on! The sick chest piece I will get tattooed there in the 3-year-plan future. Looking in the mirror again instead of relentlessly dodging them all if I'm not fully clothed. Being shirtless in appropriate places. Being shirtless at the beach in particular, preferably with my partner and an alcoholic beverage and a sunset. My mid-size trans ass wearing muscle tanks like its going out of style. Being able to maybe one day to explore more feminine gender expression in the spirit of gender fuckery and self-actualization without it being a crippling hit to my mental health, or without feeling like someone's going to come out of the woodwork and call me a pretender or aggressively misgender me (obligatory sidebar to note medical transition is not necessary to be trans in any way, this is simply reflecting on my own thoughts and experiences).