Familiar
Having such a devoted spirit always has its risks. And rewards.
(18+ )TW: Mentions of blood, violence, rituals, animal violence, rough sex
<<@rotworld -- Rotpeach has been working very hard to keep us all well-fed this Goretober! I thought it only fair to return the favor.>>
You had already been up for an hour, the world still the first flushes before daybreak when you knew he had come. Croissants were baking in the oven, fresh tomato and basil roasting for breakfast sandwiches over the scent of coffee brewing and steamed milk. You yawned and stretched, the sudden scent of cypress as familiar and welcome to your morning as you began to prep for the day.
He had sensed early on that it made you more comfortable to hear his footsteps as he approached; the expectant smell of the wood that always followed in his wake as he came down the stairs like you did every morning. The old iron keys and jingle bells had been hung on the doors and in the hallway since before you were born. He had looked at them the first time he had let himself in and chuckled in amusement, but minded his manners all the same. Mostly.
Your family had hosted all manner of fae for generations; had been well-known, in particular, for the acquiring and keeping of house spirits.
Dryads housed themselves in the eaves of your greenhouses, nixies sat at the edge of your wells and kept careful watch over you and your cousins when you swam in the old reservoir in town. Ancestral familiars that pledged themselves to your hearths and homes. Kitchen witches, folk healers, peasant magic. All of it honored the traditions that dotted all along the topography of your family line.
Sometimes you found them, or in your case, they found you.
You did not find it any small coincidence that the day after you unearthed a trapped fox from the muddy quarry in the woods that the eaves of your balcony were covered in curls of brilliant, red ivy.
You had heard of brownies, minor elven folk that kept themselves busy in their homes of their hosts mending clothes or keeping hearthfires lit. Perhaps souring milk when displeased with an offering. You, somehow, had entreated some other sort of spirit entirely.
Your wild and beautiful forest thing appeared the night the ivy bloomed, sitting expectantly at the foot of your bed. He had been whispering something to you, something dark and old that you did not understand.
Antlered, clawed, naked; He shook a spray of russet leaves from his long hair, his scent rich with freshly turned earth and moss. Airik’s eyes shone quicksilver as he unlaced your tightened knuckles from your blanket to tenderly kiss your hands, swearing his fealty, telling you he was in your debt forever.
He asked you for your name. You told him to call you Autumn.
You were careful in your daily routine and always minded what you said. You had to. You followed the Old Rules, the verses that your grandparents made you recite at the breakfast table until you knew them all by heart. The very first one was the easiest:
Do not offer your name.
So now you had your very own house spirit.. of a sort. You lived in a one-bedroom apartment above your storefront, and so by extension his protection included the tiny bakery you had opened downstairs. Airik was no brownie or common house elf: You learned quickly that a wild thing in your home meant broken dishes, laundry pilfered away to nest animals, a constantly flooded toilet. Your meager little houseplants became a riot of blooms and growth regardless of the season. You were constantly shooing him away when you needed to use the restroom or undress, completely unabashed as he watched you go about your day, endlessly curious about the goings-on of your mundane life.
He despised fire. Flames snuffed themselves out in his presence, but he tolerated the treasured old aga cooktop that warmed your kitchen. If he were feeling particularly charitable, he would watch in wonder as you lit candles in the evenings in your little room, keeping his distance. Miraculously, they were always melted down to gnarled stubs in the morning.
Airik appeared in the kitchen as you brought out the chocolate you had prepared the night before, then cheese, sugar, and butter from your personal larder; In an age ago, these had been considered priceless, precious things. Favored offerings. You prepared a new loaf in a clean bowl. He watched your hands intently as you sprinkled flour on the counter before working the dough, kneading cheese into the proof and neatly braiding it before covering it with a clean cloth to rest. You pinched off a bit of the cheese and lay it on the counter between the two of you- he knew by now that this wasmeant for him. He snatched and snuck the morsel past his lips with quick, clawed fingertips.
“You were cold last night, I saw.” He pushed closer into your side, claws hovering whisper-light just centimeters above your waist. “I can grow more ivy outside your walls, to catch the coming frost. My furs are very warm.” His touch lingered over your back, close enough to warm, but not to touch. “You don’t have to be cold ever again.”
You thought a moment before answering. Anything, everything you said was under scrutiny. You had become much more eloquent since Airik had bound himself to your household out of necessity.
You gave him a sidelong glance. “I’d be warmer if I could still use my fireplace, you know.” He waved his hand as if he had taken no part whatsoever in its destruction, a minor annoyance. You thought of the mantle now, the chimney choked with bright red leaves, stones, and all manner of forest bracken. He seemed pleased with himself when you saw it, and had laughed.
You pulled the tray of croissants from the oven, drizzled honey over thick pieces of buttered toast before arranging them in the cases out front. Airik helped you turn the lights on, flipped chairs off of tables before assembling them with clean tablecloths. He looked almost normal now- a man in a sweater appropriate for the weather with faded jeans and sneakers. If one was particularly perceptive, they could perhaps note the sharpness of his nails, the tips of his teeth. Not that anyone got too close, anyhow. The table closest to the counter- to you -and furthest from the door was his favored place in the shop. He merely glamoured himself as it meant he could stay closer to you. The pot of chamomile that you set upon his table never wilted, never needed watering.
Airik offered a companionable silence most mornings, and you were grateful for the help. Wordlessly, you warmed up a scone in the oven, covering it with thick, clotted cream and honey. You passed it over to him on one of your thrifted china plates and instantly the shop door jingled with your first customer of the day- he was pleased.
Do not thank them.
The morning passed with a few more people wandering in from the strip mall outside, the day running sleepy and long in the slow tourist season. Airik suddenly moved to sit closer to the door, folding up utensils in napkins- he adored the fat, old tomcat that came to sun himself on your windowsill in the late afternoon. You set out pain au chocolate and turkey and bruschetta sandwiches in the case. The door jingled open.
A vintage muscle car sat outside, shiny and an impressive forest green in the watery sunlight. A man stood at the door on his phone in a plush cardigan, comfortable slacks and scrutinized the space. He walked over to the counter, pointed at one of the chocolate croissants, and placed his card onto the counter before turning to lean onto the case and continuing his conversation. He gnawed off a bite from the croissant before taking his card from you and barely acknowledging you for the entire exchange. The man hung up the call, suddenly turning to you with his face pinched.
“What even is this?” He opened the paper bag, ripping open the remainder of his croissant like a wound and sniffed the contents in disdain. “The patisserie by Weyer in Obelos uses Ambrosiac chocolate. The authentic stuff. Not magicked.”
You sucked in a wary breath at the mention of it, Obelos. Your family stayed as far away as possible from the city. Your town had been close enough to benefit from the advances made at the academy, but distant enough to be safe. You knew what went on there. You all did.
“What are you trying to do to me?” He accused. It’s a credible threat. Shopkeeps with lesser principles did it all the time.
You find your voice in your fear. “I don’t charm my food. It’s chocolate with orange, a little bit of ginger. An old family recipe,” you offer, unsettled by the sudden confrontation. There are only four other people in the shop, but they boldly turn to stare and your face began to heat. “I’m sorry you don’t like it, sir. Please have that one on me and whatever else you would like to try.” Airik stood from his seat from behind the disgruntled man, his eyes a flash of patina, burnished silver. He's frowning.
“I don’t want anything from here. Made with village magic.” You gasp audibly at the insult. Belligerent customers are few and far in between here. You’re stuck to the spot in shock as the man continues his tirade, making a show of snatching a napkin to spit into and wipe his mouth. “My daughter goes to Weyer, top of her class. I know these things.”
You sucked in a breath, tried with every ounce of your being to radiate patience, to exude diplomacy. “Sir, I already told you. I don’t enchant my food-“
Thunk.
Airik whistles, long and low. The sound carries over the silence until you hear it again.
Thunk. Thunk-thunk.
The window darkens, a cloud settling onto the street outside, in one spot in particular. You jump when the man rushes out the door and slams it behind himself, causing the glass to rattle. Your rusted old bells clatter onto the floor.
A cry pierces overhead, another echoing off the street in sharp report. Then a million of them; a din, soon a chorus. A rock suddenly embeds itself into the hood of the car with an audible crunch of metal. He placed his hands on his head, face flushed with anger. The rock quivers, then screams. The shrieking outside reaches a crescendo.
Not a rock, you realize.
Birds of all plumage and sizes hail themselves over the man’s car. He fumbled his keys out of his pocket just in time before getting in, avoiding a shrike as it dove toward his head. The windshield cracks in several places. One bird managed to wrench itself into the space of his raised sunroof and sprayed blood onto the man’s whitened face in the cab, squawking and scrabbling to get free. He's yelling something, undershirt dampened with sweat. Another slammed into his side-view mirror and shattered it completely. Screams erupt from a few of the shop’s patrons as you watch on helplessly.
Airik watched from his table with his hands in his pockets. You run over to him. “Please. Stop.” You whisper tightly and grab his sleeve. “I feel safe. I’m not scared of him.”
He takes you in his arms, pulls you close and continues to watch the spectacle from over your head. “I’m not satisfied yet.”
He could have chosen a swarm of hornets. Grown vines thick with poisonous thorns that could puncture through leather seats. But he chose birds. Because you liked them.
The car’s engine roars to life, and it backs up, squealing again before the tires roll screaming down the avenue. The street becomes unsettlingly quiet. There is blood on the sidewalk outside, mangled feathers strewn about in the street. One patron quickly finishes their affairs and leaves. The others linger for a moment longer, took pictures on their phones, the sun setting quiet over the wood floor. Airik runs interference, smiling and waylaying any questions directed toward you before gently shooing any last minute onlookers out the door. By the time you lock up after the last person leaves, you’re exhausted.
The acrid smell of something being left in the oven for too long reaches your nostrils and you rush into the kitchen. Huffing in frustration, you take the blackened dough from the hot rack and throw it into the sink.
“You didn’t have to do that.” Your familiar is smiling, shrugging his shoulders like nothing particularly remarkable happened. “You don’t owe me anything,” you clumsily amend. The smile on his lips is decidedly coy; he let you have that one.
“You’re very welcome,” Airik purrs.
You’re still overwhelmed as you mop and clean the shop as best as you can. Airik helps, following you back into the kitchen as you wash your hands and set out flour to begin to prep dough for tomorrow. You hoped nobody posted pictures of what happened, shared what disasters your shop could host. You felt as if you’d aged a hundred years by the time you were done, eager to just take a bath and crawl into bed.
Something clattered to the street outside; something else pounds on the window. You groan. You already know what it is.
Afamiliar sportscar sat halfway onto the sidewalk, rusted and tarnished as it it had been left out in the rain for a decade. The man from before, his cardigan soiled with dirt and blood scrambled to the shop door and rattles the window with his fists, smearing the glass. He tries the doorknob, hands too slick with filth to gain purchase. His eyes quickly search out and peer at you and Airik through the glass.
“Make it stop,” he begged, eyes wide and white. “I’m so sorry. I was an asshole. I will buy something every day. I’ll buy everything. Anything. Just please make it stop.”
Airik smiles. Antlers begin to unfurl from his scalp, a crown of bone. A mantle of dark umber and ochre spreads across his shoulders, a pelt from all manner of beasts down his back. His hair is a dark tangle that spills over his shoulders; there is more over his chest, his muscular arms and legs. You know he is naked underneath. The scent of pine fills the air and you lick your lips. You both walk closer to the door.
"That,” He looks the man in the face with a smile from some primordial dawn. “Is not up to me,” He drawls.
The door swings open of its own accord, the man lurching forward to land at your feet. Something shrieks and slams itself into the concrete where he had been moments before. A magpie. You both scream.
He is in tears, moaning and blubbering. “Gods above. Please.”
Terrified, you look between him and Airik who returns your gaze fondly. You think of the wild, the wood, and the old ways. The man was an ass, but this was a curse. You’d need equal recompense. Blood had already been shed for your favor; you had to demand blood in turn.
“I- I can’t.” You turn to Airik and he frowns. Either you’d make the choice, or he would. You know which option would be far worse.
You walked forward and placed a hand consolingly onto the man’s brow, dampened with sweat. You sigh, and there is a hiss akin to a match being struck, your index finger becoming alit with an unearthly light. “You are arrogant,” you say to the man before you snuff your finger onto his forehead, burning a mark onto his flesh as he screams. You cauterize a glowing semicircle of embers, daubing a quick dot before drawing downward over his left brow as he wailed. You're unpracticed, but the binding holds fast.
Village magic, in the old days, meant survival.
It protected peasants from those more powerful than them. From people with more means and influence, people like him that filled cities like Obelos. This, too, was a time-honored family tradition.
“Plant a bulb in a pot, and tend to it. Every day, you must feed it a drop of blood and-“ You feel Airik come to stand right behind you, breathing as if in ecstasy. Your face began to heat. “-And your own seed. Every single day, without fail.”
The man does not move, his knuckles turning white where he gripped at his knees. You had an inkling of what curse your familiar must have put upon him, but you did not expect this level of obedience, for him to willingly endure this much pain. Whatever he had experienced in the last few hours must have been horrific. His eyes roll back into his skull as you continue.
“You must raise the creature that grows therein. It must thrive, must not come to any harm until it matures and will keep the curse at bay. Perhaps then you can learn compassion; Only then can I be satisfied.” The burns on the man’s head evaporate as soon as you finish speaking, but you know he can still feel them.
Airik retrieved the magpie’s corpse from the darkened sidewalk outside. Some of the streetlights had shattered, glass glittering on the asphalt. There is nobody to bear witness to this ritual, to his true form.
The creature you call Airik dips a claw into its gaping beak before returning to the man, drawing a sigil in dead blood onto his forehead. “Thou wilt do as thou hast been bid.” He grinned. “Or it all returns. Tenfold.”
The man scrambles to his feet on shaking legs, running out to his car and screeching away for a final time. The front door swungvshut, bells clattering as you hear the lock slide into place. The lights flicker, dim, then go out entirely. The air is filled with static, the smell of burnt flesh. You taste blood. You turn around in a huff.
“Airik.” Your voice is tired, and you rubbed the bridge of your nose as you sighed. “Look at this mess. And you know I hate doing things like that. Why would you-“
Your chin is gently tilted upward, met with warm lips, flesh as sweet as honey. He whispers your name- your real one -over your face. His fingertips ghost over your jaw, your lips. “I am your vested patron. I will protect you, always.” He smiled against your lips. “And I agree to your terms.”
You stiffen in shock. In a panic, you tried to rack your brain to understand what he meant, where you had let your defenses down. How? How-
You held your breath when you remembered your words to the cursed man, the sigil you had burned onto his forehead: ‘Only then can I be satisfied’. Airik’s curse, your blessing; the man had merely been a tool, a conduit. And you had agreed to it.
Do not accept their gifts.
Airik takes your hands within his, his antlered head hanging over you expectantly. “N-no. That’s not what I meant!”
“You know as well as I that what has been signed has been sealed.” He began pawing at your clothes in the dark, his body swaying as he pushed you into the kitchen. “We have a witness and a living contract. That was rather clever.” Your apron is untied and dropped to the floor.
You didn’t know much about contracts, or even summoning. Airik came and was bound to you of his own free will. The simple ward you had put onto the cursed man was anything but sophisticated, something to soften the blow of a hex. Even then you had relied on Airik to make it truly take hold. A grave mistake.
The back door slammed open, yawned toward the beckoning wood. You’re quickly dipped and swept up into strong arms as he strode through the door, into the night.
He’d never done anything like this before. He was too powerful to be bound solely to your home, but you never knew he could take you from it. You sucked in a breath in panic. The contract.
“Airik. I’m tired. I want to go back.” You try to reason. Your fingers tangle into the mantle about his shoulders and his grip on you tightens. “You know I don’t cast spells very often. I need to rest.”
“Ah, but you were magnificent. It comes naturally to you. I've always known.” He moved at inhuman speed through the dark, rushing by trees and shadows and nocturnal animals as they began to rise through the nightfall. His voice drops to an expectant whisper. “Truly, tonight is special. We must celebrate.”
He suddenly stopped. Your eyes adjust to the dark as he lay you down in the grass, at the base of a tree. This was his domain; the dirge of seasons and a creature of the wood. You had been keeping a lion as a housecat, and you could feel his raw power as the forest began to respond to his return around you.
Your wrist is taken, pinned over your head while he laces his fingers in your other hand to press into the earth beside your head. “There is so much I want to show you.” His lips crush into yours. Something heady, intoxicating flows into your mind, washes languid over your thoughts. You’re dizzy with lust as Airik whispers against you. “You’ve made me wait for so long.”
His lips kiss and push their way down your body, your clothes undone and pulled from you until cold air graces over your bare skin. You don’t get a single word out before Airik dips his head to mouth hungrily at your sex, hands gripping from beneath your thighs to spread you wider to him. Everywhere he touches you feels warm and tingles, radiating through you and settling into your belly. His long, deft fingers dip into your entrance as his tongue runs a hot stripe over your flesh, your hands fisting over his antlers, his hair. Tears stream down your face from the onslaught.
You breathlessly cry out his name you arch your back and climax, wetness spreading between you two as you buck your hips up into his greedy lips. You’re still whimpering when you come down from your high, where he turns his head to suckle your thigh and bites. You feel a stream of blood run down your skin before he licks over the wound.
Airik crawls back over you, his mantle sheltering over your body as his wide hips press against you, spreading you wider in welcome. You gladly give him berth as he grinds against your sex, the flesh still sensitive. Your caution, the Old Rules, everything flees your thoughts completely as you beg and cry for him to fill you.
He is ancient, a primordial creature, wearing the mantle of a man if only for your sake. He pushes himself inside you in a single, rapturous stroke; ruts you into the grass all the same. His fingers return to interlocking with yours as your thighs slap together. He moves back onto his knees, leaning over you as he watches you keen and cry out for him in awe. You feel yourself climbing toward your peak again.
The canopy of leaves over you rustles and shudders, a howl sounds in the distance. His hips snap into yours as he lathes his tongue over your throat, moving to kiss you desperately. His teeth nip at your parted lips, harder than you realize, drawing blood. Airik's hands cradle the back of your head, the small of your back, skin pressed hot and sweaty against yours, fluids mingling. This was an act of worship.
You cum with a hoarse cry, writhing beneath Airik as his arms tighten around you as he shakes against you. Everything turns tight, hot; you realize the inhuman noises filling the space come from the both of you, crying out your passions into the night.
You both fall into one another on the forest floor, smeared in grassand dirt an blood. You move to kiss his throat, and his arms pull you in closer, pulling his cloak over you.
Your eyes are heavy as he kisses over lids, pulling you back down even as you try to sit up.
"We can't stay out here." Your protest sounds weak, even to you. "I'm not ready for tomorrow morning." You feel the rumble in his chest, the stirrings of a chuckle. You both know very well that you are not opening the bakery tomorrow.
"Hmm," he murmurs, noncommittally. "I'm not satisfied, yet."
