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Content Warning

This episode contains themes of:
– Surveillance & loss of privacy
– Manipulation / power dynamics
– Emotional distress
– Mild profanity

Please read with care. 🖤

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The Red District breathed like a living creature.

Velvet curtains hung heavy from iron arches, spilling crimson shadows onto cobblestones slick with perfume and sweat.

Lanterns glowed low in the mist, painting every wing, every scale, every patch of fur in hues of honey and wine.

Music throbbed through the street—
bass so deep it rattled bones,
strings sharp enough to prickle fur,
voices lilting with promise.

At the heart of it all rose the Swan’s club.

The facade glittered like water under torchlight.
Carved glass windows shaped into sweeping feathers.
Doors wide and gilded.

Patrons lined outside—
whispering, wagering halo-credits,
desperate for a glimpse past the velvet ropes.

Inside was not lust.
Not decadence.

It was worship.

Every body moved in rhythm.
Every laugh and gasp fed the floor, kindling on a flame.

And in the highest alcove, curtained in black and gold, sat Rue and her crew.

They didn’t glitter.
They didn’t need to.

All four were draped in black—
casual, unbothered,
but wealth clung to them like perfume.

Rue lounged back against velvet.
Boots hooked on the table’s edge.
Aura folded low.
Tight.

Amaya sat upright beside her.
Profile carved from steel.
Tea cooling untouched at her elbow.

Prism sprawled wide.
Tail flicking.
Neon sheen shimmering faint across her scales.
Slit jaw twitching with the ghost of teeth.

The fourth chair remained empty.
A jacket draped across it.

A reminder no one dared fill it.

Dancers twirled in their booth.
Wings brushing soft against shoulders.
Laughter sweet with halo-credits.

But Rue’s eyes didn’t track them.

Her gaze stayed on the floor.

The curtain shifted.

Then Swan arrived.

He glided into the alcove with a bow too polished to be sincere.

White feathers slicked and lacquered to gleam under the lamps.
Suit cut to flatter his long frame.

Every step rehearsed.
Every smile sharpened—
gleaming like glass.

“My honored guests,” he purred.
Voice smooth as old wine.

“It is rare for me to host such… refined company.
I trust my Aviary has pleased your eyes tonight?”

He gestured with a wing, feathers fanning wide, as if the whole club belonged to him.

Prism smirked.
Leaning back.
Slit jaw twitching just enough to flash her teeth.

“Generous of you, Swan.
Or maybe desperate.”

Her tail flicked against the booth, scales catching the neon glow.

The Swan’s smile didn’t falter.
But his feathers twitched faintly.

“Business thrives when pleasure thrives.
And here…”

He spread his wings wider, basking in the crowd below.

“…pleasure is eternal.”

He slid into the seat across from Rue.
Posture perfect.
Eyes bright.
Greedy.

He kept speaking—
about profits, about patrons, about the exclusivity of his dancers.

Numbers dressed up in velvet.
Every phrase a sales pitch disguised as charm.

But Rue wasn’t listening.

She hadn’t been since the moment he sat down.

Her gaze shifted to the stage.
Shadows gathered faint at her shoulders.

She leaned forward slightly.
Voice low.
Deliberate.

Her words sliced through his velvet monologue like a blade.

“What can you tell me,” Rue said, eyes locked on the floor below, “about the one on stage now?”

The booth froze.

The Swan’s beak clicked.
Words tangled as he tried to recover.

“She’s… she’s the one who—”

He stopped too late.
Feathers twitching like he’d stepped into a storm.

Prism’s grin widened.
Her slit jaw splitting just enough to flash a row of serrated teeth.

She leaned forward.
Tongue gliding slow over the edge of one.
Tail thumping the booth like a drumbeat.

“The Boss asked you a question, Swan,” she purred.
Her voice vibrated low, predatory.
The scent of salt and iron seemed to hang with her words.

Rue didn’t answer.

She stood.
Smooth. Deliberate.

Shadows traced the booth walls in her wake—
controlled, coiled, never wasted.

Her eyes never left the stage.

Prism tilted her head.
Neon shimmer flickered faint across her scales as she followed Rue’s line of sight.

Her jaw split wider.
Hungry. Delighted.

Amaya’s ear flicked once.
Her face stayed carved from stillness.

Swan blinked rapidly.
Feathers rattled against his sleeves.

“W-wait, my honored guest—your seat is best here, yes? We can negotiate—”

But Rue was already walking.

She cut through the crowd like a blade through silk.

Patrons parted instinctively.
Muzzles lowered.
Wings twitched.
Tails curled in sudden unease.

Her presence rolled over them—
a hush more than a storm.

Velvet weight.
Measured.
Inevitable.

Rue stopped at the rail.

The bass rattled the floor.
Above her, the disk spun slowly.
A stage of glass and light, suspended on invisible currents.

Silks brushed the air as they swept near.
Patrons craned upward, glazed with worship.

Rue didn’t look at them.

Her eyes found the dancer.

Luma spun once.
Dropped low.
Wings trembling as she rose into the light.

Her glow kissed the edge of Rue’s presence—
water meeting flame.

The disk turned.
Brought her back around.

Their eyes met.

Rue leaned forward.
Her lips barely moved.

“Dance for me,” she whispered.
Smoke and command.

“And no one else.”

The words slipped past the music.
Past the haze of venom in her blood.
Straight into her.

Luma faltered—
just once, a wingbeat stuttering.

Then her body found a new rhythm.
Slower.
Sharper.

The crowd thought it was performance.
But the Aviary wasn’t who she danced for anymore.

The stage rotated again.
Slow. Relentless.

When she came back around, Rue hadn’t moved.
Still as a verdict.
Eyes fixed only on her.

Luma’s body bent into the stare.
Her rhythm sharpened.
Every line tuned to Rue’s presence.

On the next turn, Rue leaned in again.
Breath stirring the silks as they swept near.

“Look at me.”

And Luma did.

The spin carried her away....
but her gaze never broke.

Every movement now
was hers alone.

Not for the crowd.
Not for the Swan’s patrons.

For Rue.

And the room broke.

The music didn’t change.
Rue’s presence did.

It rolled heavy across the floor;
slipping into every vein,
every wing,
every scaled back arched beneath the red lamps.

Patrons gasped.
Moaned.
Clung to the nearest body.

Wolves pressed muzzles to feathered throats.
Scaled tails coiled tight around trembling thighs.
Antlers tangled.
Horns clashed soft against striped backs.

The Aviary dissolved into worship.

And yet Rue saw only one.

Luma’s silks no longer fluttered for the crowd.
They clung to her, streaming like banners answering Rue’s command.

Her wings spread wider.
Glow bleeding from their tips...
flooding the lamps until it seemed she carried her own light.

Her gaze locked to Rue.
Lips parting soundlessly.

Smokey Eyes.

Rue’s chest tightened.
Her aura pulsed once.

The entire club groaned in answer.

Up in the booth, the Swan’s feathers rattled like dry leaves.
His beak clicked with nervous greed.

“Unfathomable,” he whispered.
Eyes locked on Luma.

“No trained glow bends a floor like this.
By dawn, the district will pay tenfold to see her.”

His voice cracked with the fever of currency.

“Which House does your Boss serve?”

Prism leaned forward.
Slit jaw stretching wide.
Shark teeth gleaming wet in the red light.

She licked slow across one.
Tail lashing against the cushions.

“Forget your halo-credits, Swan,” she purred.
Body humming with restless hunger.

“The Boss is feeding.
And gods, I like watching her feed.”

Her scales shimmered faint neon.
Thighs pressed together.
The sharp salt of her arousal cut through the incense haze.

She grinned feral.
Eyes glued to the stage.

The Swan swallowed hard.
Feathers fluffed in panic.

But greed calcified anyway.
His beak clicked with muttered promises—
halo-credits, contracts, endless profit.

Amaya sat silent.
Her hand resting loose on her cup.
Eyes sharp on Rue.

She exhaled once through her nose.
Long. Slow.

“…You wouldn’t understand,” she murmured.

And she was right.

Onstage, Luma twirled into Rue’s orbit.

Her dance broke from performance into devotion.

Each roll of her hips.
Each arch of her back.
Every movement spoke only to the figure at the rail.

Her wings flared wider.
Trembling with every whispered pull of Rue’s presence.

The crowd writhed.
The booth held its breath.

And for Rue and Luma—
the Aviary ceased to exist.

The chandeliers flickered.

The floor dissolved into heat and movement;
scaled tails coiling tighter,
wings trembling wide,
fur damp with sweat as muzzles crashed together in desperate worship.

The Aviary became a storm of lust.

But none of it existed for Rue.

Her gaze cut only to the white bat twirling above her.

Luma’s silks slid down her shoulders as she spun.

Wrapping and unwrapping like tides.

Fabric itself seemed to obey Rue’s whisper.

Her chest rose sharp with shallow breaths.
Her wings shivered open.
Glow flaring faint violet at the tips.

Her eyes never left Rue.

Rue leaned closer to the rail.

Her voice velvet smoke....
curling into Luma’s ears alone.

“Mine.”

The word hit like a brand.

Luma faltered mid-spin.
Her body arched, wings flaring wide as if the command itself forced her open.

Her lips parted—
a moan spilling silent into the air.

She moved differently now.

Not for halo-credits.
Not for Swan.
Not for the crowd.

For Rue.
Only Rue.

The room convulsed in answer.
Patrons gasped, clawed, clung harder, collapsing into each other in waves of desperate ecstasy.

Up in the booth, Prism groaned low.
Her slit jaw gaped wider, shark teeth gleaming as her scales shimmered with restless hunger.

“Gods…” she hissed, voice trembling.
“The Boss is eating her alive.”

Her claws pressed into her thighs.
Tail thrashing against the cushions.

The Swan shook.
Feathers rattling with greedy awe.

“She’s… she’s a goddess,” he whispered.
Beak clattering as he calculated, even now.

“The district will bleed itself dry to see her again.
Contracts, halo-credits—she’ll make me rich beyond—”

“Careful,” Amaya cut in quietly.
Her eyes never left Rue.

Her voice was low, dry steel.

“That one doesn’t belong to you.”

Rue didn’t hear any of them.

Her presence poured heavy over the stage, wrapping Luma in velvet smoke.

The white bat arched.
Her body trembling.
Her lips shaping Smokey Eyes.

Again.
Again.

As if the name itself held her up.

For the briefest moment, the Aviary vanished.

There was only Rue.
Only Luma.
Only the claim.

Rue’s back blocked the booth’s view.

To Prism.
To Amaya.
To the trembling Swan;
it looked like Rue towered over prey.

Luma’s wrists pinned high in the silks.

Aura locking her in place.
Wings trembling wide under the lamps.

Prism’s jaw stretched open, teeth gleaming wet.
“She’s gonna rip her open,” she whispered, hungry.
“Boss is finally feeding in front of everyone.”

Swan trembled.
Feathers rattling so loud they nearly drowned the bass.

His beak clattered, voice fevered.

“By dawn, I’ll sell the whole district; an angel claimed in my Aviary! The contracts, halo-credits, endless profit—”

Amaya stayed still.
Eyes narrowed, sharp and certain.
A smirk tugged faint at her mouth.

Because she knew this wasn’t what it seemed.

Rue lowered her muzzle slowly.

Her tongue traced up Luma’s chest.
Lingering…
watching every tremor shiver through her frame.

Only when Luma’s breath hitched and broke did Rue move higher—
a slow, commanding line up her throat.

The bat’s wings snapped wide.
A raw moan tore from her lips as her head fell back in surrender.

Rue leaned close.
Velvet smoke curling into her ear.

“Come for me, Moonlight.”

The words broke her.

Luma’s body arched.
Wings flaring wide as if the command itself snapped her open.

A cry tore from her lips.
Her glow spilled out in trembling waves.

She shattered against Rue’s presence.
Collapsed into trembling silk and surrender.

The Aviary collapsed with her.

Patrons moaned.
Clutched each other harder.

Fur pressed to scales.
Feathers to claws.
Horns tangling as the whole club sank into Rue’s trance.

From the booth, Prism hissed in delight.
Her slit jaw gaping wide.

She nearly purred—

“Gods, she’s devouring her.”

Swan shuddered.

Beak clicking frantically as credit fever lit his eyes.

“A goddess on stage.
Mine to sell.
Mine to…”

Amaya smirked faintly.
She set her tea aside.

She didn’t speak.
She didn’t need to.

Because she knew.

This wasn’t feeding.

It was possession.

And Luma was already claimed.