fuguestates | Crane Wife AU

There is a building near the very edge of town, an unusually large structure of three stories. The first floor is an open storefront, though it is not immediately obvious what merchandise is sold there, a beautiful, elegantly appointed space, with delicate silken hangings and lanterns hanging from the ceiling that are lit only in the evenings. During the day, the smells of food cooking fill the space, and customers pass through for mid-day meals, but there is a different kind of clientele in the evenings - for tea and conversation, to see and be seen, conversations between locals and strangers vital to the conduct of business and trade and many other things in between. The second floor seems made up of only a few private rooms. From the topmost floor, there are windows with a view of the vast rice paddies and fields that start just outside of town, stretching all the way to the dense forest at the foot of the distant mountains.

The occupants of the house are seldom seen, but often discussed. The owner was an elegant and mysterious lady, some townspeople insist, or a handsome man, or perhaps there were two women, both beauties in their own right, one pale and and one dark. Jumbled though the stories were, most people seemed to agree that since the house had been built in their town eight years ago, the weather had been favorable, the harvests had been plentiful, and the citizens had all prospered. The town had started to become more prominent, a prime destination for merchants and other visitors, some just passing through while others sought their fortunes, offering plenty of traffic and exchange within the area. Some of the older townsfolk still recalled prior years of famine and hardship, and were inclined to look on the house - if not its strange occupants - as a good omen; the younger generation saw it as a permanent fixture, a place that dispensed sweets and other treats if they were polite, or stray tantalizing glimpses of a few figures moving about on the upper floors.

Justin awakens in the evening with a pleasant sense of anticipation. Today was a rest day, and no lanterns would need to be lit, not while the moon was so bright and full in the sky. He was rather proud of what he'd made of himself in this town, choosing it for an experiment after having achieved an eighth tail and almost seven hundred years of age - first fully refining his abilities to transform into human form and maintain it flawlessly and then creating this little waystation for humans and supernatural folk to mingle in relative safety, the growing industry and prosperity of the town creating the perfect environment for strangers to pass through without remark. He was owed some indulgence for his hard work, and he knows exactly how he would like to start things off.

He sits up in his bed, the sleeves of his robe falling open around him in a billow of fine silks, revealing flawless skin, almost as luminously pale as the moon. "Stiva," he calls - not a command, but a gentle coaxing - a quietly confident plea, the sighing out of earnest desire in the two short syllables.

The tengu had been an unexpected and deeply appreciated gift, appearing in his life on the eve of his trial and staying close ever since. By now he knows he couldn't possibly do without the tengu anymore, the biting and serious wit, the fierce protectiveness and incisive commentary, the sheer pleasure of his simple presence - to say nothing of the other kinds of pleasure they had learned to bring to each other over the past few years.

Stiva had been raised to be a gift his whole life.

At this point, years later, he doesn't even question it anymore. He's not even that mad about it anymore either. He's learned that there's power to be had even when he's on his knees, neck bent, eyes hardened.

He was a tengu, the son of their region's sojobo, who had held the peace amongst the mountain townsfolk for decades. Their kind had flourished here, partially due to the fact that they served as faithful guardians and close confidants to the kyubi, a powerful clan of zenko gods. It was their tradition, a contract in fact, to select a member of their own every hundred years to personally bond to the reigning first born of the foxes. It was an agreement that had been in place a long time ago, back before humans had their greed and their steel, back when the beasts were a large as the pines are now.

So as soon as he could speak, and as soon as his magic started to flow through his veins, Stiva started learning all manner of arts and courtesies. His tongue was taught how to please (in more ways than one) and so were his hands (...in more ways than one). He could sing poetry, dance, play the shamisen and koto, and fight just as well (his black arrows never missed. And he always aimed for the throat. Otherwise, as his father would say, it's a waste of the art).

He was perfect.

Why the kyubi had chosen to settle here is a mystery but by doing so, they had rejuvenated this once dying land, turning its sour earth into blooming tilling ground abundant with rice and wheat and vegetables, its muddy waters running clear and silvery with fresh fish and iron. The humans had been astonished. Shrines were built, myths were concocted, tributes made. It was all very good entertainment at the end of the day.

Maybe foxes did have hearts after all.

He comes into the room like a flash of lightening, with all the grace and violence of such terrible light. His wings - there were four of them, the cause of a mutation that some see as an omen and others, a blessing - flutter and stretch behind him, granting every one of his motions a breath of lightness and grace.

He lifts his signature red mask by its long beak up over the dark wave of his hair and bows. "You called?" he say, voice pitched low with respect but still sharp around the edges, as if he were grinding the sounds out against his back teeth. He never could hide that, even if he tried his best to smooth it over with a terse smile.

"Well, I do prefer waking up with you to the alternative," he replies, reaching out one slender, graceful hand languidly and stroking it against the nape of Stiva's bent neck briefly before withdrawing again, utterly heedless of the way his clothing shifts around him, giving not a single thought to modesty or the chill of the evening. He can hear the staff - a mixed group, of made up of trusted locals and less mundane folk alike - moving about downstairs, lighting the lanterns and preparing for the evening crowd, which was usually a similarly mixed affair. He prided himself on preparing and maintaining this careful neutral ground - of encouraging subtle good will between two different worlds, providing a place for the curious and open-minded to mingle.

"Come closer, little bird," he murmurs, a gentle but specific hunger in his tone, offering out his hand expectantly. "What have you been doing all day?"

He obeys, moving close enough to touch, and settles onto his knees, wings folding and tucking behind him. His eyes are bright and searching, pausing momentarily on the way the candlelight in the room flickers across Justin's bare shoulder.

The nickname makes suck in a deep breath. He wouldn't admit it, but he loved it.

"I was out running patrol on our main streets this afternoon," he replies, his voice a steady rumble, like distant thunder. He turns his cheek just so that the palm of Justin's outstretched hand presses against the pale skin of his jaw. They fit perfectly. "Then, I paid a visit to our plantations. The gyokuro leaves are coming in nicely this season, which is good news for us. Though," he clicks his tongue, "there were some...financial disagreements with the farmhands. I dealt with that of course."

"So diligent," he murmurs, curling his fingers to stroke gently against the soft skin along the underside of Stiva's jawline. Usually protected and hidden by his customary mask, he always relished in being one of the few to be allowed to take such liberties, gazing into Stiva's eyes with an almost smugly satisfied air, his touch welcomed and even expected, no matter how much the prickly tengu tried to hide it.

"Perhaps the people we most need to have words with are the overseers," he observes idly, shifting almost restlessly on his bed, blankets sliding down off of him. "This isn't the first time you've had to deal with such things, and spring is coming soon." He stretches both his arms up over his head and then falls back against the pillow again in a pool of silk and cotten embroidery, every line of his body, already almost completely bared to the waist, an invitation.

"It's not efficient for you to have to deal with such things so often, little bird, effective though you may be. Not when what I want most is to have you near me."

Stiva preens, a little cooing sound in the back of his throat when Justin's fingertips flutter over his skin. The tip of his wings tremble.

He steadies his breath. It's been so many years now, so many of these kinds of encounters between them. It should be a reliable expectation now, like the seasons. But Stiva still finds himself deeply awestruck at being able to touch Justin back in such a way, to be able to even allowed to see him in such a state. Had he been anyone else, they'd have taken a cleaver to his fingers and placed a curse upon his bloodline for even thinking he was deserving of such a privilege.

"If that was your desire, you should have said so," he responds, easing himself onto the bed in careful motions, like a piece of paper being delicately folded in the hands of a master. His tone is warm, a shy murmur of sound, despite his words being somewhat disrespectful.

He laughs softly, his eyes fixed on Stiva's movements as he obeys Justin's childishly self-indulgent whimsy. "You would get tired of my saying so long before my desires were likely to change, little bird," he replies, softly affectionate, holding out graceful hands expectantly for Stiva's, clearly intent on drawing him closer against him on the bed. Justin is in a female form today, one he'd practiced and refined over several centuries, maintaining a careful core of timeless beauty even as times and fashions changed with the passing decades. Despite Stiva being fully and formidably clothed and Justin's seemingly vulnerable nakedness, there is no doubting who holds the power in this room, on whose words the other's pleasure rested.

"Come touch me, Stiva," he invites outright, as if taking his words to heart. "See if you can find any fault in my work today."

"I suppose you're right," he responds with a little huff of breath. But when Justin opens his arms like that, Stiva can't help but be drawn in as if pulled by some invisible string.

He feels his throat go slightly dry at the sight before him. By now, he's seen the kyubi take on many forms. He's heard Justin's voice lilt in so many different octaves and his skin bloom in a variety of shades (each one more beautiful than the last, especially when colored pink and red with pleasure and need).

"Yes, master."

(He uses the term out of respect, out of fear of overstepping, and out of sheer habit. But he notices just the slightly dip in Justin's fine brow when he says it.)

His fingers, calloused and rough from handling bowstrings and paperwork alike, smooth over the other's form, tracing the jut of the shoulder, the hollow of the throat, the curve of a pale breast. He bites back a groan, leaning down to take a deep breath in, smelling tea and incense and the remnants of hot coals.

"As always," he murmurs, lips barely grazing a dusky nipple, his breath making it start to perk up and stiffen, "you're perfect."

He sighs with quiet, earnest satisfaction, his pale skin flushed, both nipples peaking almost visibly under Stiva's gaze. His hands drape over Stiva's shoulders limply, but there is a substantial weight to them, his long slender fingers curled to stroke gently against the bare nape of Stiva's neck, tracing the outlines of a familiar, hidden brand, out of sight beneath his layered collars.

"Such an unusually sweet tongue you have today, little bird," he murmurs. "May I have a kiss, please?" His voice is wheedling, coyly pleading, asking for what he knows he can very easily and rightfully demand. It was almost always his way and preference, particularly when alone with the tengu.

He doesn't hesitate, not like he would have in the beginning. He mouths up the kitsune's bare neck, breathes in the scent of tea and smoke and something older, like fresh earth after the rain. Their lips touch but it's chaste for now. That doesn't make it any less sweet. Stiva's wings flutter behind him, giving him away even though his expression remains calm and still, held that way by will.

"You don't usually like it when I'm sweet," he says. "You must be in a good mood, master." He thinks carefully about what to say next as his trained hand wanders, sliding along the other's thigh, pushing up the supple silk of his robes. "Is it because of our guest? You're fond of him aren't you, and his stories? The one eyed serpent. I hear he'd returned here after several moons away."

Stiva thinks about Peter - half-man, half-youkai - and his cursed face. He knew Justin enjoyed him because of his novelty and his wit and the challenge of his doomed fate. Justin enjoyed puzzles after all, and Stiva enjoyed providing them for him.

"Have you decided to play with him again? I can bring him to you."

He shakes his head, lets his legs fall even further open, rocking against the skillfully trained touch of the tengu's hand. Stiva had come to him already well-versed in the bedroom arts, but time and Justin's own training had left their mark even deeper, ingraining Justin's personal tastes and preferences into every gesture and motion.

"Not tonight, little bird," he shakes his head, and then his own hand reaches down, tugs the inadequate knot holding fine silk just barely together, then lets the panels fall open gracefully, revealing his bare body, slender and fine, skin flawlessly smooth and pale, his illusory form that of an untouched virgin from some noble family, hands and feet soft and unblemished with the slightest trace of real work. "You haven't finished examining my work," he pouts deliberately, coquettish and teasing, but his eyes are glittering with avarice and anticipation. "I expect you to partake of everything I give you."

His eyes widen with obvious delight at the body fully revealed beneath him, but he keeps his face unmoving and calm (it's harder than it appears). His nails - painted a dark, charcoal color this time - scrape lightly down the dip of the other's waist, pressing into the soft (so soft, like fresh tofu) skin and watches the way it pinks with the pressure. "What have I done to be given such a reward?" he murmurs, thumb tracing down between the other's thighs, touching that wet heat of a perfectly formed cunt. Stiva feels his mouth start to water and his cock twitch as his wings spread, covering the both of them in their shadows.

"And how dare I critique such a work of art?"

"You think this a reward, little bird?" He coos, sounding delighted and pleased, a ripple of laughter coiled within the teasing words. "I trust your eye and your touch more than my own. This form must be absolutely flawless, and I expect you to test everything." He reaches for Stiva's wrist with one slender hand and tugs, shamelessly grinding against the tengu's fingers, coating them in the damp evidence of his body's pleasure.

"And I do mean everything. Do you understand, little bird?"

Edited 2025-04-29 20:09 (UTC)

Crane Wife AU

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