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The first time they came to meet him, the dwelling nearby sat empty and dark, and they stood in the crossroads as the night drew closer around them. Above, the stars sprayed out across the sky, but the moon was absent—a good night for waiting.
It wasn’t long before they heard footsteps on the road.
They saw him long before he saw them. His magic alone was visible, banked as it was, folded tightly into the depths of him. (It was hidden, yes, held in the depths of him, but still he had come.)
He came up the road slowly, watchful of his surroundings. Even so, it wasn’t until he was nearly on top of them that he spotted them, stumbling—not quite halting—and then slowly coming on again.
They smiled at him, an invitation and a warning.
When he continued walking, eyes on theirs, they allowed their magic to reach out to his. Allowed it to reach out, thread through the folds and crevices of his, and coax it into—not quite a blossom, not yet. Say rather… say rather that it was blooming, slowly. No longer simple potential, but potential with intent.
He felt the change. That was obvious in the way he shifted; a hitch in his breath as he came forward, an attention behind his eyes as he focused on them. When he came close, they tilted their head (an invitation, not a summons) and he fell in behind—beside—them as they ascended the mountain. This first time—especially this first time—it had to be his choice. They had made an offering. Had seen him collecting the eggs they had altered and heard his magic whispering to the eggs and duck alike.
They wished to see what would happen to his control and his folded-in secrets once offered the chance to loose his bonds. In order for that to happen, he would need to choose to follow. They waited for him, but they offered neither hand nor gesture until they reached the top.
At the top, they turned and held out their hand. An invitation. When he took it (without even a moment of hesitation) they pulled him into a kiss. Imagined all the ways they could slake his appetites and knew by his shaken inspiration of breath that he had understood.
They kissed him, greedy, their teeth on his lips and then his chin and then his throat. Their magic reaching for his. (The blaze that burst out in him as he tilted his head back and offered his throat to them. The moan that came after, as they allowed their magic, entwined with his, to disrobe him.) When once they had removed all the cloth that had been on him, they stepped back to take stock of his form, shivering slightly with the breeze or excitement. He did the same, though they looked much the same as they had in the crossroad, a human with a generous covering of hair, with sharp teeth and two lovely tails.
He seemed delighted with the unfamiliarity, reaching out his other hand to trace his fingers over their wrist, and then their chest. They allowed him to explore for another moment while they considered their options. When he trailed his fingers back down their arm and across their palm, they stepped back in towards him. Grinned, baring their teeth, and thought about the menu of delights they would like to offer him.
From the way he hesitated, and then swallowed, he had heard. From the way he lifted his gaze to meet theirs, and then licked his lips (nerves?) and stepped to meet them, he was interested as well.
They kissed him again, licking into him, drawing him into them. Touched him, light brushes and firmer strokes, every point of contact inviting him closer, offering him more. (Not drawing him in, not yet. Letting him choose. Waiting for him to choose to fall into them. Waiting to catch him when he chose.)
~
The final time they came, they remained hidden. They watched him walk up the hill and pause at the summit. Watched him stand, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Watched him wait. And wait. Curled their two tails over their paws as they sat. (No need to turn themself into something resembling a human tonight. Not for this.)
When he shivered and a tendril of magic curled down his stone arm and warmed it, they sat and watched him and thought of the last new moon. Of sitting up here and waiting and then sensing his magic as it flashed up into the night. (They had known it must be in protection of somebody else, but to come up here to their place carrying the stone arm he’d gotten through that folly was insulting.) They sat and they watched, their tails curled around them and they turned over his transgressions in their mind as they did.
They sat, and they watched, and they thought of how he had accepted the gift of the duck and her eggs. How he had accepted everything they had offered here each new moon. How he had offered himself in return, only to withdraw that gift in order to open his magic at last for someone else entirely, on a night he should have been coming up the hill to meet them.
How when he came, this new moon, he had come with the result of that attempt to save his friend still upon him and reeking of the Dark Kings’ magic.
Before he gave up, they stood and made their way off the hill ahead of him.
When he came out to the henhouse in the morning light and found their duck dead on the ground, he made no acknowledgement save a tightening of his lips as he picked up the body.
So he understood. So they were even.
They turned tail. With their tails out behind them they walked away from him and his incomprehensible human choices. Back to the woods, where people made sense and appreciated a gift when they had been given it.