#Copperhead's like all snakes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

phoward89 · 5 months ago

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Based on this ask

Peacekeeper!Coriolanus Snow x Nurse!Reader

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is in himself his own warning. Obsession, stalking, slight self-harm, cussing, manipulation, allusions to murder - getting rid of a body, allusions to panic attacks, allusions to anxiety attacks, allusions to mental breakdown, obsessed!Coriolanus

After ‘taking care of’ his once lover, Lucy Gray, and dumping the guns in the lake- to sink to the bottom and never be seen again, Coriolanus returned to base. He looked like shit whenever he entered the clinic, seeking treatment for the snakebite to his inner forearm. A snakebite that he's convinced himself is poisonous; is slowly killing him.

You just happen to be on duty that day, so the Matron of Base D-12’s clinic (who's in charge of the Nursing Core and Medic Unit), sent you to take care of Private Coriolanus Snow. She even went on to tell you how it was such an honor to tend to him since he was the son of the legendary Capitol war hero General Crassus Snow: the fallen Commander of 12.

You honestly didn't give a fuck who's son he was. In fact, your father Colonel Javani Halvir served underneath General Crassus Snow until his untimely death at the hands of rebels in the woods outside of 12. Like who cares who his daddy is. Your Colonel dad made you sign up for the nursing core after you graduated as punishment for being ranked 25th in the Academy and not being able to be a mentor in this year's shit show of the Hunger Games.

You're glad that you didn't have to mentor one of those poor kids. Mentoring seemed to be bad for Capitolite kids’ health since a handful died.

So…

Yea…

You and the other kids that weren't in the top 24 came out safe, but try telling your dad that.

Mhm…

Your dad even went on and on and on about how his old comrade's son was the top of your class, so why couldn't you have made one of the other 23 spots. Blah, blah, blah…

You hung around different circles then Coriolanus Snow did. In fact, you hung around Odysseus Odair, Livinius ‘Vinny’ Cardew, and Hilarious Heavensbee’s cousin Hector ‘Heccie’ (who had to repeat his senior year at the Academy 4 times, but at least he graduated this year with passing grades at the bottom of the class) and a couple of girls that weren't in the A-list clicky ass bitch squad.

That disappointed your father, the Colonel, as well.

So, yeah, that's why you're a nurse in training aka a nurse’s aide currently sliding open the curtain to Private Snow's bed in the large one room infirmary that could hold at least 2 dozen men- easily.

“So, according to the sign in form you've been snake bit?” You ask Coriolanus, reading his impeccable handwriting off of the form that's on the clipboard the Matron gave you.

“Yes,” Coriolanus frantically nodded. “I think it's poisonous; that I'm dying.”

Oh God, the son of the Almighty General Crassus Snow’s a dramatic baby boy. Oh, wouldn't your dad just crack up laughing if he knew that.

Obviously, if his snake bite was poisonous he'd be dead in the woods right now. If it was a coral snake he'd be shit out of luck since they're one of the most potent venomous snakes in Panem. And if it was a rattler his arm would be swollen 3 times its size and it'd be puffy and oozy, he'd probably be drooling and bleeding from the mouth and wheezing too.

If it was a water moccasin…well…he'd be utterly fucked. His arm would swell and become discolored, he’d have immediate and extreme pain, and he'd have rapid; difficulty breathing, and decreased blood pressure. Most likely would be dead before he made it a few yards away from whatever lake he found while hiking in the woods. And if it was a copperhead, well he would've gone into shock right away; his lymph nodes would've swelled up along with the arm he was bitten on. His arm would also be numb, so would his mouth, tongue, scalp, and feet- all from the poison.

Hey, that's what you read in that District 12 first aide book you were forced to read for the Nursing Core. According to that book Private Snow would be dead before he got out of the woods cause you need to get those poisonous snake bites treated right away with anti-venon or you'll croak. And you're not even sure if the infirmary even has that stuff.

Anywho…

Idiot was bitten by a damn garter snake. A harmless slithering thing, but he thinks he's going to die.

Placing the clipboard down on Coriolanus' bedside table, you go over to the counter and grab some gloves. “I'm going to take a look at your arm, okay?” You tell him while putting on the gloves.

Instead of saying something normal like ‘okay’ or ‘yes’ or even ‘thank you’, Coriolanus Snow asks, “You look familiar. Do I know you, Nurse?...”, as you round his bed and reach for his bitten forearm.

“I’m a Nurse's Aide since I still have a few weeks left of training.” you tell Private Snow while you hold his forearm in your hands and inspect the bite. “My name's Y/N Halvir, we went to the Academy together.” You tell him, noticing that he doesn't have fang marks but deep, jagged teeth marks in a circular shape on the inside of his forearm.

“Oh, that's why you look familiar.” The platinum blonde smiles a bit too wide, too toothily, at you. Goddamn, his pearly whites are on full display with his manic smile and it's a bit unsettling.

“I shouldn't look that familiar to you, I was ranked 25th and hung out with a different crowd then you did Mr. Golden Boy.” You dryly tell him, while going over to the cabinet behind his bed to grab some antiseptic wipes, ointment, and bandages. “Oh, and you're not going to die. The snake bite’s not poisonous.”

“Are you sure it's not poisonous? I felt like I was going to die. My heart's been racing, I'm sweaty, I even saw things.” Private Snow objects, so desperate to be right about having been bit by a poisonous reptile, as you place all of your supplies on his bedside table.

“Trust me Private Snow-” You begin only for him to interrupt you with, “Please, darling, call me Coryo.”, as you're tearing open the alcohol wipe pack.

Coriolanus thinks you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. Much prettier than that lying, sniveling, singing whore that was going to rat him out to the mayor to save her own ass; who he shot in the woods. Oh, how could he have overlooked your beauty for so many years? You attended the Academy with him; had classes with him and he never noticed you until now.

Now!

Now that you're both in this hellhole of a backwater bumfuck district.

“Anyways, you weren't poisoned and I believe you had a panic attack due to stress and high adrenaline.” You honestly tell Coriolanus, grabbing his forearm in your hand and cleaning it with the antiseptic wipe.

“Are you sure, darling?” Coriolanus asks, watching you discard the wipe and grab the tube of ointment.

“Yes, Private Snow, I'm sure.” You respond, opening up the tube. Squeezing some ointment on your finger and rubbing it into his wound, you explained, “Venomous snakes have bites that leave two fang marks while non venomous snakes, like harmless garter snakes, leave ragged teeth marks in a circular shape when they bite.” Grabbing the bandage roll, you unravel a piece long enough to wrap around his forearm. “You have circular teeth marks for your snake bite, but I'm afraid they're deep and will leave a nasty scar.”

“Of course, it'll leave a nasty scar.” Private Snow bitterly sighs to himself as you bandage up his wound.

When you're done you tell him, “You're all patched up and ready to go, Private Snow.”, while throwing away the trash from the antiseptic wipes.

You didn't wait for his response, you just took the clipboard and left his curtained off area in order to file the report on his treatment.

You seem to have had an effect on Private Snow. The platinum blonde found himself obsessing over you. Yes, he was obsessing and not daydreaming when it came to you.

He was so desperate to see you that he began getting ‘hurt’ as an excuse to go to the infirmary and make small talk with you. Oh, you lost track of the twisted ankles and sprained wrists Private Snow claimed to have. But every time it turned out to be nothing.

He was just faking it to see you. To have your touch on his skin. Even if you were just feeling his wrist or ankle for an injury, Coriolanus still felt that your skin touching his was intimate.

And talk about Coriolanus faking injuries just to see you…

“Is Nurse Y/N in? I need her to look at my finger; it's cut really bad.” Coriolanus asked the clerk at the check in desk. He’s hoping you're on duty today, otherwise he ripped his finger open on a knife during KP duty for nothing.

“I'll get you to a bed and then I'll send her to tend to your finger.” The clerk at the check in desk told Private Snow before bringing him to the beds in the treatment center.

It only took a few minutes for you to be briefed on Snow's problem and sent back to treat him.

“So, Private Snow-” You began and you pulled back the curtain around Coriolanus' bed, only for him to interrupt you with, “I passed my officer exams and ship out soon for training, so my paperwork should say Officer Snow or Petty Officer Snow.”

What? He's leaving this shithole for training? “Why aren't you being trained here?” You ask, scanning thru his clipboard to find his rank. Low and behold he's now marked as Elite Officer Snow. “Never mind, don't answer that. You're marked down as Elite Officer Snow on your form.”

“Oh, yes, did I forget to mention that I passed the Elite Officer's Exam?” Your accident prone patient cheekily asked as you set your clipboard down on his bedside table.

“I'm an army brat; my father's a Colonel, so if you're trying to impress me with your bragging about your new Elite Officer's ranking and soon to be departure then save your breath- it's not working.” You tell Coriolanus while grabbing some medical grade gloves from a nearby cabinet and putting them on.

Coriolanus quirks a brow. “Your father's a military man?”

“Yep.” You pop your tongue. You pick up his hand and start to examine his cut finger. “Enough about me, let's get a look at your cut finger to see if it needs stitches or not.”

The cut doesn't seem to be too deep. In fact, it looks more like a surface wound. A simple knick.

“Your finger just needs cleaning and bandaged, Private Snow. Lucky for you, stitches aren't needed.” You tell your patient before going to the cabinet to grab the supplies you need to tend to his cut finger.

“Please, call me Coryo.” He puts, watching you head over to him with antiseptic wipes and a bandage.

“What can I say, Nurse Halvir, I’m a very clumsy soldier.” The platinum blonde peacekeeper shrugged with a lopsided smirk painting his lips. “But, since you're calling me Coryo now it's only fair that I call you Y/N.” He says as you open an antiseptic wipe and start cleaning his finger with it.

“I guess I can call you that, considering you're in here every other day.” You relant, placing the items in your hand on Coryo's bedside table.

"Of course you'd rather call me Y/N then Nurse Halvir." You shake your head while bandaging up his finger.

Coriolanus was transfixed by your name. He adored how it sounds. So beautiful, so sophisticated, so fitting of a Capitolite girl. It'll sound perfect with the Snow surname as well. Yes, Y/N Snow has a ring to it.

“It suits you.” Coryo compliments with a beaming smile.

A smile that sends butterflies soaring in your tummy.

Too bad he's heading out in a few days for 2, otherwise- well, no use in going there.

The following day Coryo showed up with a bouquet of beautiful flowers bound by a lace ribbon. You knew that the florists cost a fortune in 12, so you didn't take his gift lightly. In fact, you gasp and take them from his outstretched hand while telling him, “Coryo, this must've cost you a large chunk of your pay. I-I don't know what to say.”

“Well, usually a thank you is enough, darling.” Coryo quips, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smirk.

Looking between the platinum peacekeeper and the bouquet of mixed flowers in your hand, you smile. “Thank you, Coryo.” Sniffing the fragrance of the flowers, you announce, “They're beautiful and smell lovely.”

“They're nothing compared to the roses my Grandma’am grows in her rooftop garden. I'd like to give you one once we're both back in the Capitol.”

“I don't think that'll be for a long while, Coryo.” You tell him, cradling your bouquet of flowers.

“The Matron told me that you just got off duty, perhaps I could escort you back to your bunk?” Coryo asks with impeccable manners and a charming smile.

“Oh, I'm not at the barracks. I live with my brother in an apartment in the officer's housing unit.” You inform him while leading the way out of the infirmary.

“Your brother's an officer?” Coryo asks, keeping in stride with your steps.

“Yep.” You pop your tongue.

“So, the military’s a family affair for the Halvirs then?” The platinum peacekeeper asked as the two of you continued to walk along the path that would eventually lead to the area of officer apartments.

“My brother's the one that wanted to be a peacekeeper like our father; I was tossed into the nursing core because I ranked 25th in our Academy class and my father was ashamed that I couldn't be a mentor.” You honestly tell the man by your side. You probably shouldn't, but something about him has you opening up. Something you just can't put your finger on.

“How did you rank 25th? You seem very intelligent to me.”

“I don't know and I really don't care, to be honest with you.”

A couple of days after walking you home Coriolanus is set to depart for 2. But he can't leave you. So, with his duffle slung over his shoulder, he tracks down your older brother. It wasn't hard, in fact he was directed to your brother's office right away.

“Officer Halvir, I want to talk to you about your sister, Y/N.” Coriolanus announced as soon as he walked into your brother's office.

“What about her, Snow?” Rein asks, sitting up straighter behind his desk. Don't ask him how he knows, but he's positive that whatever Coriolanus has to talk to him about concerning you’s going to end up with him pulling some strings. He just has a gut feeling that this talk isn't going to be simple.

No, not with the look of infatuation plastered on the platinum blonde's face.

But what your brother thinks is a look of infatuation on Coriolanus' face is actually much darker than that. In fact, the young man didn't have a simple crush on you, but was obsessed with you. Yes, Coriolanus has a deep, soul consuming obsession with you and in his delusional mind you're his girl. His sweet Capitolite girl that he must possess and protect.

Coriolanus stands up straighter as he bluntly tells your older brother, “I want to take her with me. She deserves more than this backwater district. She's too innocent for the likes of this shithole and you know it, Officer Halvir.”

Your brother's face is neutral, but his head is spinning. He agrees with the young man standing before him about you being too innocent, too sweet for life in 12. Some of the things he's seen and had to turn a blind eye to in the coal mining district makes him cringe. He can't imagine what some of those images will do to your disposition.

But your brother knew something that Coriolanus didn't. He was told by Commander Hoff, since the man knew that your father and General Snow were best friends back in the day, that Coriolanus was being sent back to the Capitol as a special request by Dr. Gaul, the Head of the War department herself. So, Rein knows that if Coriolanus takes you with him that he'll be taking you back to the Capitol.

Back home to safety.

“My sister's off today, but if you can convince her to go with you then I'll pull some strings with Hoff.” Your brother tells Coriolanus. Rein only wants what's best for you and in his opinion being in District 12 isn't what's best.

“Thank you, Officer Halvir.”. Coriolanus salutes your brother before taking off to get you.

You're sleeping in whenever a loud banging on your apartment door wakes you up. You groan and roll out of bed, only to slip on your slippers and put on your robe before dragging your groggy ass to the door. You hope that you're not being called in; having your day off revoked.

When you answer the door you're met with the sight of Coryo in his dress uniform, “Come to say goodbye?” You gather from the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“No.” He shakes his cap covered head. “I've come to take you with me.”

“What the hell? I can't just go with you.” Was the reaction you had to his answer. One that you thought was crazy.

“I talked to your brother; he agreed to pull some strings for us.”

Of course Rein told Coriolanus that. Your brother didn't want you in the Nursing Core let alone in 12. It put a damper on his lifestyle. With you living with him on base he couldn't spend all of his free time with that girl of his from the Seam. He also had to cut back on his drinking and how much he snuck off base to get plastered at the Hobb, the black market/bar his girl slings drinks at.

Shaking your head, you sigh, “I’m sorry, but I can't leave.”

“Darling, you'll have a much better life if you come with me. We'll be stationed at The Nut and I'm sure the med bay there'll be more than happy to have you on staff.” Coriolanus tells you, his baritone dripping with finesse and delicate craftiness. Bringing his hand up to cup your face, he asks, “Wouldn't you rather come with me and make your father proud that you've been promoted to a nicer district then being stuck here in this backwater shithole to rot and die- to wither up and grow old in?”

“Coriolanus-” You begin to protest only for him to press an unexpected kiss to your lips. A kiss that was hungry and passionate. His lips were eager as they glided over yours. And you, well, your body instantly responded to his kiss. Your lips move in sync with his, a tiny moan escaping your mouth as your hands fist his uniform jacket as an anchor.

You're breathless as he pulls away from the kiss. You've never been kissed like that. In fact, it has your head spinning.

“Please, my sweet girl, come with me.” Coriolanus begs between placing open mouth kisses along your jaw. He stops kissing you, only to press his forehead against yours. “You're my everything, Y/N. I've lost so much in my life, but I can't lose you. Not when I just found you.” His icy eyes looked so vulnerable, like a puppy dog's.

Those words play at your heartstrings. If only you knew that Coriolanus chose them carefully just for that reason; to manipulate you into saying yes. And the look in his eyes, oh that really gutted you too. Another ploy of the platinum blonde's; one you weren't aware of. The boy was quite the actor when it suits him and what he wants.

“Okay. I'll go with you.” You find yourself telling him before you can think better of it.

And in what feels like a whirlwind, Coriolanus is shoving your things into your travel bag while you're getting dressed in your formal Nursing Core uniform. And then he's dragging you down to the station (well, you're literally sprinting so you won't miss the train) to meet Commander Hoff for the send off.

But Commander Hoff tells the two of you that plans have changed that instead of going to 2 you're going home, to the Capitol. Coryo's being happy hearing that, but you're not sure if you're happy about returning to the Capitol. Your father wanted you to serve your country in the Nursing Core in the districts, so returning to the Capitol would surely upset him.

Coriolanus didn't even ask you how you felt about the news. He just kissed you and shoved you onto the train. If only you knew that his sweet manipulations just ball and chained you to him for the rest of your life. Your career as a nurse would never be; you'd be the socialite wife of the man that would become the most dark, cruel, tyrannical leader that the country's ever known.

Too bad he had to be your patient the day he got snake bit in the woods, huh?

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cxpperhead · 4 months ago

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What are your favorite non-snake reptiles to keep or look after?

"Hmm, it's difficult to say. There are just as many different species to take into consideration as there are ones with varying levels of temperament, needs and care requirements. In my personal experience, if I could only pick one set species to care for, it would probably be the monitor lizard. They are some of the most intelligent reptiles out there and come in a great variety from Ackie Monitors to the Australian Goanna." Savannah monitors, water monitors, he had a little experience with them all, even the odd Komodo here and there. Copperhead preferred snakes for obvious reasons, but he couldn't deny these particular lizards had their own unique charm. "The trouble with keeping them is that they require a lot more money and attention than most people think they need. They see a cute little baby lizard and can't imagine it needing anything more than a 4x2x2 enclosure once they grow up. I've seen too many monitors receiving subpar care, whether from poorly-maintain diets or too-small enclosures. I like them, but could not keep one long term due to the nature of my, ahh... employment."

#anonymous #;; asks #Thanks for sending this in nonny!#This was quite cute as Copperhead likes a lot of reptiles #Turtles and tortoises probably come next #They're cute but require a whole lot of care too and specific water requirements #It's fine if he's looking after some for a little while but then he'd have the same problem as he does with monitors #They need attention more than snakes do and monitors especially need interaction #They're kinda like the parrots of reptiles #Hella smart and needing interaction to be happy unless you go all out on recreating a natural environment

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is-the-snake-video-cute · 2 years ago

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I once heard someone talk about putting clay on a snake (specifically copperhead) bite to "pull the venom out". I doubt it's any more true than sucking the venom out, but is there any truth to it at all?

Nope, not at all. Absolute nonsense! Venom injection works mechanically a lot like a vaccine; it gets in your bloodstream so fast there's no way to pull it back out no matter what you try.

If you are bitten by a venomous snake, what you actually want to do is:

Get a picture of the snake that bit you, if at all possible

If you have a marker or a pen, draw a circle around the initially affected zone and jot down the time. That way, folks at the hospital will be able to judge how fast the venom is affecting you.

Remove any clothing or jewelry around the area - snake bites can cause massive swelling, especially viper bites.

Wash the bite with soap and water if you can.

Keep the bite lower than your heart - avoid the urge to elevate because that'll just help the venom move along quicker. Never, ever ice the wound or apply a tourniquet; you'll almost certainly lose the affected limb if you do that. Avoid compression bandages, too - that's a recipe for disaster with viper bites, so unless you're in Australia, just play it safe. Even if you're in Australia, don't use a compression bandage unless you know how.

It'll be hard, but try to stay as calm as you can. Remember you've got time, and the slower your heart rate is, the slower the venom is going to affect you.

And get to a hospital ASAP!!

#not a rating #snake venom #snake bites #snake myths

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us3rnam3-r3dact3d · 2 months ago

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when i call, you run home (a bird in your teeth)

Ao3 | 2.1k Words | David’s POV

He and Ash always had to wander off, had to find fun for themselves, even if it meant doing something stupid. His dad always said that it was natural for boys their age to get into trouble, that he had done the same thing when he was young. As long as they were safe, he didn’t mind.

A teenaged Ash nearly steps in a bear trap. David saves him by stepping in it himself. Gabe and Marie come to the rescue.

TW: blood and injury, healing, distress

When David came back to himself he did it slowly, blinking past the ache in his head as he struggled to open his sluggish eyes. He felt heavy and tired, like he’d ran a marathon. He tried to stretch and figure out exactly where he was, but his body was weighed down and heavy.

“Ash…” he said softly, more growl than word as he struggled to open his eyes and see what was hurting him. He was starting to get the distinct impression that something was very wrong, but the panic that should rise in him and the subsequent adrenaline that should run its course and give him a push never came. It was like he was tapped out, like any energy he had for panic or action was gone already. When had he run himself down so fiercely? What was happening?

His eyes managed to crack, but he was surprised to find that it was still dark. Not as dark, though. There was moonlight. A nearly full moon beating down on him. On them.

Asher was laying a few feet off from him, pushing himself up on shaky arms.

“What the fuck, man, you can’t just push a guy like that-” he looked at David like he was about to pounce, but the color drained from his face as his expression went slack. “Don’t move.” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

David jerked immediately, rushed to assess what was wrong just as Asher reached him and pressed down on his shoulders. He craned his neck to take stock of his body. His torso was intact. His hands were shaky but still there. He couldn’t feel his right foot.

“Shit…” Asher hissed. His eyes were wide and he stank of fear and panic. David reached up and knotted his hand in the sleeve of Asher’s t-shirt. “I can’t-” Ash’s hands hovered over his right foot, and when he finally jerked into action, David felt it.

A sharp, raw ache pulsed through his leg as Asher tried to pry the bear trap off of his leg. He must have screamed. That was the only thing that made sense to him. He couldn’t hear it, though, over the ringing in his ears.

Asher was holding on to him, gripping his shoulders and repeating apologies over and over again like a mantra, like a spell that could make it all better. David’s hand was still clutched in his shirt as tears dripped down across his face. Fuck, he hated it when Asher cried.

“I’m sorry-” Ash said again, his voice cracking like it had been for the past three months, which David had taken every opportunity to bully him about. It was mutual, of course, since Asher had been doing the same since David’s voice had dropped. He couldn’t shake the instinct to poke fun, even as pain radiated up his leg. “Why did you do that?” Asher huffed. “Why do you always-”

David thunked his head back into the ground. He remembered. It took a second, but he remembered. He and Ash always had to wander off, had to find fun for themselves, even if it meant doing something stupid. His dad always said that it was natural for boys their age to get into trouble, that he had done the same thing when he was young. As long as they were safe, he didn’t mind.

The woods always felt safe. Safer than some places in Dahlia. It must have been the wildness in them, the wolf under their skin itching for wilderness. It was why the pack went camping so much. His dad always said to watch their feet. There were snakes and traps hidden in the grass.

Asher never really listened he’d been scolded enough times to have learned his lesson, but it still didn’t seem to get through his stupid skull. He’d almost stepped on a copperhead last summer because his head was always in the clouds, so David still watched the ground for the both of them just in case. When he saw the bear trap, gleaming in the soft moonlight, right where Asher was about to step down, he moved without even thinking. He planted his foot down between Asher’s and pushed. He just hadn’t realized that he put his foot directly into the trap until it triggered and snapped together so hard he felt something snap.

“Ash,” He said again, his voice strained and shaking. “My dad, get-”

“No,” Ash said immediately. “I won’t leave you I’ll… I can carry you, it’ll…”

No, that wouldn’t work. They were a good ways away from camp, so far that their scuffle wouldn’t be within ear shot. He needed help fast. He was bleeding, and chances for infection would only increase the longer they waited. If Asher moved him, jostled him in just the right way, he could dislodge the trap, fracture his leg further, hit a blood vessel…

“Won’t work.” He gritted out. “You gotta be fast. Get my dad. Please, Ash-” He gripped his fist tighter, let the small pain of his nails biting into his palm to distract him. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

Asher hesitated for a moment longer, still gripping onto David’s shoulders until he huffed and bolted up. David watched him go, watched his heaving back disappear into the brush before he let his head fall back. It was only when he was sure Asher was gone that he let himself feel the fear racing through him. His chest was tight, his leg pounding and oozing and aching. His hand fell to the ratty fabric of his blue jeans. He was losing blood. He needed to deal with that. He needed to keep a clear head and deal with this.

His dad had shown him how to make a tourniquet out of the leather belt he’d bought him for his thirteenth birthday. He’d wrapped it around one of the throw pillows in their living room and shown David how to tighten it before securing the tension. He had warned him that it would hurt, but that it could save somebody’s life.

David did it just like his dad had shown him, his fingers slick and shaking as he wrapped that same belt around his calf. It was best to protect any joints he could. He wasn’t a morbid person, he didn’t jump to the worst case scenario, but looking at where he was now, alone in the dark, away from his pack and miles out from civilization, he was likely to go a little while without treatment. If he lost his ankle, he would keep his knee.

When David synched the belt around his calf, felt that pain his dad was talking about, the teeth shattering pain ripping through him, he must have passed out. When his head cleared and he could blink past the spots in his vision to see the nearly-full moon above him, he heard a sound from the forest.

“David!” It was distant, but it was his dad’s voice. As soon as he heard it, a sob escaped him. He hadn’t realized he was close to crying, but he was. He felt tears brimming in his eyes as he pressed his head back into the soft grass. He raised one shaking hand high above him, saw the blood dripping down his fingers as he did.

“I’m here!” He called back. “I’m here!” They needed to locate him. He was in the underbrush and it was dark. Asher wouldn’t remember his exact location in his hurry.

“David!” His dad’s voice was closer. David could hear the huff of a few others and tried desperately to stop crying. He didn’t want to cry in front of the pack.

His shaking hand was empty one second and full the next. His dad’s hands were big and calloused and they closed over his so gently as he skidded to a halt next to him.

“Hey,” He said softly. “Hey, bud. I’ve gotcha. I’ve gotcha.”

“I know that.” David huffed. Gabe laughed, but David could see the worry in him, the etch of it across his face. He hated when his dad worried. It was so rare that when it happened, it threw him completely off.

“Stay still, David.” He hadn’t even noticed Milo’s mom until she spoke, but he nodded anyway, knotted grass in his fingers as she started to examine his leg. “You did so well. The tourniquet, staying still. Good work, kiddo.”

Gabe moved and rested his knees on either side of David’s head. Keeping his neck stable and ready to brace him, David realized. One of those big hands came to brush through David’s hair. It has gotten long over the summer and was falling in his face.

“Where’s Ash?” He asked softly. Gabe smiled down at him.

“He took a tumble, so he stayed back. Milo’s with him. He’s taken care of.” David squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. He knew that there was a risk sending Asher off alone, but he hadn’t really allowed himself to think about that until now. He felt Milo’s mom start to situate his leg.

“We’re going to have to release the trap.” She said softly. “It’s… not going to be pleasant.”

“We’ve got this.” Gabe replied. “We can handle it, right bud?” David nodded again, pressed his face into Gabe’s leg.

“Just do it.” He said softly. “Get it over with.”

Some silent understanding passed between the adults above him. They were still for a moment, and then Gabe was bent over him, pushing his weight down on top of David and holding him. He had one second to panic before pain ripped through him. He felt the jaws of the thing tear back out of his leg. It was white hot and all encompassing and impossible. He felt his body try to shift to get away from the pain, but he still didn’t have much control over his wolf. He bit down on his lip to stop the cry that tried to worm its way out of his chest. His mouth filled up with copper. His dad was bent over him, his forehead pressed into David’s sternum as he muttered little encouragements, soft praise, gentle apologies.

Marie’s magic had never been comfortable, but as it ran its course through him, David felt it’s every movement. His skin started stitching back together where the teeth of the trap had cut into him. He whimpered softly as the bleeding slowed, as the bruises eased back from the surface; red into purple into yellow and green.

He didn’t scream until she got to his bone. It was broken in a few places, and he felt every scrape of bone on bone as it shifted back into place. He shouted long and loud, back arching, pushing against his dad’s hold to… do what exactly? Run away from the pain? He felt so foolish as he choked down another cry, tears pricking his eyes. Gabe sat up, one big hand coming to rest against David’s forehead.

“I know!” He said, his face twisted up in a growl or a sob or something horrible like that. “I know, honey, I know. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His dad didn’t call him things like that. Not since he was very little.

Slowly, David’s vision cleared, his voice cracking off and failing as he curled inwards towards his dad. Marie let go of his leg. It still pulsed with distant pain, but he could feel that it was whole again. Gabe gathered him up, lifted him from the grassy ground and into his lap, his arms, cradled him like a baby against his chest.

“Dad,” he said softly, his face pressed into his dad’s leather jacket.

“I know. I know, honey. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, his dad stood with David still wrapped up in his arms. Gabe was so strong, it amazed him sometimes. He wasn’t a small kid, even if Asher was taller than him. Even so, his dad held him like he didn’t weigh a pound.

“You’re gonna have to put me down before we get back to camp.” David said after a while. He knew that there was a sizable portion of the pack in the woods surrounding them, shifted and moving in the darkness. He could feel them in his core, that new, foreign fullness in his chest. His threads strummed a strange music, pressed up against his dad, covered on all sides by the pack. Even so, this felt private, unobserved in the darkness. He didn’t want anybody else to see it. Embarrassment creeped into the edges of his exhaustion. “Ash’ll never let me live this down.”

“Ash was screaming that he’d gotten you killed.” Gabe chuckled. David twisted up his face.

“He’s so dramatic.” He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah.” Gabe replied. “Still not putting you down.”

#redacted asmr #my redacted content #redacted david shaw #redacted asher #redacted gabe #redacted marie #redacted audio fic #redacted audio

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

Text

Comet Donati [Chapter 2: Story Of My Life]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, cryptic song lyrics, tattoos, motorcycles, pretentious veganism, the return of the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.”

Word count: 6.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜

Under the stars, under the canopy of incandescent string lights, you tilt a Salty Dog against your lips: clinking ice, rosemary, a wedge of grapefruit, salt on the rim. The indigo wind raises goosebumps on your arms. From the speakers flow notes muffled by car horns and ambient conversation: Coldplay, Life In Technicolor ii. The Missouri River is a snake in the distance, twisting and glimmering, silver scales built of reflected moonlight. It is one year before you fly to Rome. It is the prologue of a book you never thought you’d write.

“I hope you’re not cheating on anybody,” you say to Aegon. Your voice has that drowsy, unguarded honestly that follows good sex with someone you might have the capacity to love under the right circumstances. His does too.

Aegon snorts and shakes his head. There is sunburn on his cheeks like a stain of spilled wine; summer in the Lower Midwest doesn’t agree with him. It’s too hot, too primal. It’ll bite you if you’re not careful. “No. There’s no one.”

“Is there ever?” you ask. “I remember seeing paparazzi photos of Jace and Luke with their girlfriends, Aemond with Shelby, Cregan with…plentiful, interchangeable Victoria’s Secret models. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you attached to anyone.”

“Look, can I be honest for a second? I mean, I don’t want to offend you. But you seem cool, you seem like you might get it. Can I be real with you?”

“Yeah. Be real, I’d like that.”

“I love what we’re doing right now,” Aegon says. He takes a swig of his Salty Dog, your suggestion. His blond hair, nearly shoulder-length, whips in the night breeze. There’s something about Missouri that feels old, prehistoric almost, and you know because you’ve left it and come back: untamed, unrefined, brown recluses and black bears, copperheads and water moccasins, droughts and floods and tornados, humid and buggy like the earth the dinosaurs knew. “And I loved what I was doing last week in Boston and Philly, and I’ll probably love what I’m doing a few days from now in Houston. But if I knew I had to do it, I wouldn’t love it anymore, you know? That’s just how I am. It’s not a reflection on anyone but me. I can’t handle obligations, commitment, chains. I feel the weight of expectations settling on me and I run.” He rests his chin on his knuckles as he gazes at you like a distant constellation. “I don’t think my worth is determined by who or how I fuck. I don’t think yours is either. I think there are sluts who are angels and virgins who are demons. And I think to believe otherwise is not just archaic or puritanical or ignorant. I think it’s deeply, catastrophically harmful.”

You’re smiling; tears brim in your eyes. “Thank you, Aegon,” you say softly.

He is mystified. “For what?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

Coldplay recedes from the speakers. Next—for no less than the fourth time this evening—is the Weeknd’s Starboy. Aegon groans and drums his Salty Dog on the tabletop. “Oh my God, this song again?!”

“They’re obsessed!”

“They really are.”

“It’s for you,” you tease. “You’re the big star. The boy band star. The Starboy.”

He takes your right hand, flattens your palm, and lays it against his chest. Through his t-shirt—Nirvana, grey, short-sleeved, from Target—you can feel muscle, bone, rushing blood. “Starboy,” he tells you, grinning. Then he presses his own palm to your heart, beating calm and slow beneath your dress the color of emeralds. “Stargirl.”

“Oh no. Wrong. I’m definitely a nobody.”

“You’re not,” Aegon says. And then again, to make sure you’ve heard him: “You’re not.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“So I only have to talk to two people?” Rhaena says suspiciously, like she’s waiting for you to pull the lever of a trapdoor.

“Exactly.” You take another bite of your carbonara, an Italian invention that would be at home in the Midwest: heavy, cheesy, lots of pork products. “At the meet-and-greet before the show tonight, I want you to pick two people. Just two. And they can be anyone you want. 13-year-old girls, frat boys, soccer moms, grandmas, whoever. And I want you to chat with each of those two people for two minutes. That’s four minutes total. And then you’re done!”

“I’m really done? You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. Two people, two minutes. I can do that.” Rhaena turns to Luke, who has bits of lasagna all over his shirt and one wayward shred of a noodle in his dark curly hair. “I can do that, right?”

He nods encouragingly. “You can totally do that.”

Aemond is watching; you can see him on the periphery of your vision, short blond hair and a black t-shirt. He wears a lot of black, few accessories, like he’s trying not to be noticed. You look across the table at him. The band is enjoying a late lunch—everyone sleeps in until at least 1 p.m.—on the patio of a restaurant that overlooks the Palatine Hill. Intense midday sunbeams stream, in threads like tinsel on a Christmas tree, through the gaps in the pergola of grapevines, climbing roses, and ivy. In the daylight, Aemond’s scar is jarring—red, wrathful—and his sightless blue dreamscape of a left eye all the more peculiar. He fixes his gaze on you, daring you to flinch away, to be disgusted, to wilt like something parched and dying. You stare steadily back. Aemond sips his white wine, half-smiling, and twirls spaghetti onto his fork. You have white wine too. You keep choosing whatever drinks he does.

“You came all the way to Rome only to order the most basic, fifth-grader version of pasta imaginable?”

“It has marinara sauce,” Aemond replies. “I’m a vegan.”

“Uh oh,” you say. “For health reasons or the environment, or…?”

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “I just feel that the world has enough suffering in it already without me contributing to the mass torture and execution of sentient beings.”

“Okay. Pretentious.”

Aemond chuckles, covering his mouth with one hand so he can chew his spaghetti with dignity. “What do your parents do in Kansas?”

“Missouri,” you correct, like a reflex.

“I know, it’s so confusing,” Aegon tells him. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses and a salmon-colored tank top that matches his sunburn. “It’s Kansas City, but apparently it’s in Missouri, not Kansas. But there is a different, smaller, much worse Kansas City in actual Kansas.”

“It’s confusing for your little hamster brain,” you say.

Aegon holds up a dark green bottle of olive oil that he’s been drenching his salad with: lettuce, tomatoes, black olives, skinless boneless chicken. “This is healthy, right?”

“Yeah, it’s really good for you. Antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties.”

Jace snickers. “Dude, that has like 100 calories per tablespoon.”

Aegon frowns dejectedly down at his salad. “Fuck.”

Aemond asks you: “So what do your parents do in Missouri?”

“They have a farm just outside the city.”

“Oh. Nice.” Some apprehension now. “What do they raise?”

“Beef cattle.”

The rest of the table bursts out laughing. Aemond’s cheeks—one smooth and pristine, one cut in two by a rust-colored cord of bitter corporal memory like barbed wire—flush pink. He is happy in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time; you can see that in the warmth that glows on the others’ faces. He is alarmingly, breathtakingly beautiful. He has the sort of features that belong carved into marble, in myths, in museums. “I mean…I’m sure they do a great job.”

“You should visit one day. You can help brand the herd.”

“Absolutely,” Aemond quips.

“Nothing gets one’s deepest, darkest revelations flowing like hard labor.”

“I’m not interested in therapy.” He peers around the table for the basket of bread. “Jace, can you pass me some of that?”

Jace picks up a piece of crunchy Italian bread and lobs it through the air. It goes sailing right past Aemond, at least a foot from his fumbling, futile hands.

Aegon is exasperated. “Jace, bruh, you know he’s got no depth perception!”

“It’s fine,” Aemond says quickly, like he wants the conversation to be over.

“It’s not fine.” Aegon stands up and leans across the table to jab his index finger menacingly at Jace. “Have some consideration for anyone besides yourself. Have some fucking respect.”

Jace is more entertained than intimidated. “I’m sorry, I was under the impression that I outrank you now.”

“Yeah. And how’d you get there?” In the uneasy quiet that falls over the table, Aegon—quite tipsy already—lurches inside the restaurant to use their bathroom.

Daeron slides the basket of bread over to Aemond. Luke studies him sympathetically without knowing what to say. So much of what settles in us—accumulating like radiation, cooking malignancies into our bones—are things we cannot speak of. This is the great supposition of therapy. It’s what first inspired Sigmund Freud to get that fateful ball rolling in the latter half of the 1800s, before television or radio or record players, before airplanes, before Alaska or Hawaii were added to the Union.

Criston sighs loudly and stabs at his carne alla pizzaiola. Cregan stares indifferently out over the Palatine Hill: the Palace of Domitian, the House of Tiberius, the Temple of Apollo, ruins of gods and men. He slips a minibar-sized bottle of Absolut Vodka out of his sweatpants, empties it into his San Pellegrino, and gulps it all down. Jace has one arm slung across the back of his girlfriend Baela’s chair. She whispers something to him, clearly irritated. He replies briskly back. They have the look of a couple that has spent more time trying to claw their way back to a good place than they ever spent happy to begin with. Jace steals a glimpse of you, smirking. He turns away as soon as you notice him watching. His arms and chest, visible through his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, are a mosaic of tattoos: the Eiffel tower, cherry blossoms, Christ the Redeemer, an alligator, a pair of dice.

After a few minutes, Aegon returns to the table, noticeably more peppy. He starts collecting everyone’s silverware and piling it on a plate for when the servers clear the table. He sorts the utensils by type—forks, knives, spoons—and then by size.

“What is on your face?” Criston demands.

Aegon feigns innocence. Badly. “Huh? What? Face? Huh?”

“Your face. What the hell is all over your face?”

Aegon touches his fingertips to his nose. They come away dusted with white residue. “Um. Donuts.”

“What?”

“Powdered sugar donuts.”

“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom? Eating donuts?”

“…Yes.”

“Aegon,” Criston says sternly.

“They’re called zeppole here.”

Criston claps his hands together and rises from the table. “Okay, time for soundcheck!”

There are groans and complaints, but the band obeys, mopping stray sauce from their lips with cloth napkins and then heading for the black Escalades parked outside the restaurant…everyone except Aemond. He sips his wine leisurely, like he hasn’t heard Criston. You don’t leave either.

Criston regards Aemond with fatherly concern, a hand rested on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah. We’ll catch up with you later.”

“Really?”

“If memory serves, you don’t need me for this part anymore.”

“Right,” Criston admits awkwardly. “Well one of the Escalades will be waiting out front whenever you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Criston and the rest of the band vanish towards the front of the restaurant. You can hear the slamming of doors and Criston shouting: “Get in the car…get in the fucking car…put your seatbelt on…Aegon, right now, put it on—!”

Aemond takes a pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his dark jeans, puts one between his lips, ignites it with a small square metal lighter—vintage? heirloom?—and then throws the glittery gold pack onto the table. “Okay. Go ahead.”

You smile at him, bars of shadow and sunlight across both of your faces. The restaurant speakers, breaking the spell of the ever-ancient Roman mirage, are playing Foster The People’s Pumped Up Kicks. “I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I’m not interested in therapy. But I’m somewhat interested in you.” He exhales smoke like a dragon. “So go on, ask your questions so I can theatrically unburden myself and emerge from the wreckage like a phoenix, all shiny and redeemed.”

You gesture broadly. “How did this happen?”

“This?”

“You getting kicked out of Comet. Daeron being added to the lineup, Jace being promoted.”

He speaks nonchalantly as if discussing ancient history or the weather, like that’s just the way the world works, a morally ambiguous eventuality. Every once in a while a tsunami or a mudslide comes along and gobbles up a couple thousand lives, but the planet keeps on spinning. “The label made the call. An executive decision, they said. A boy band is a fantasy. It has to be light, fun, erotic without being scandalous or threatening. No one wants to watch some mutilated, half-blind guy strutting around a stage trying to reclaim some long-gone, better version of himself.”

You are at once immeasurably vengeful on his behalf, but you can’t show this. “That must have been difficult. To be treated mercilessly when you were vulnerable. To realize that something you poured your heart and soul into was so transactional.”

He shakes his head, smoking, not looking at you. He gazes out over the Palatine Hill instead.

“Aemond?”

“What do you want me to say?” he answers abruptly. “That I’m angry? I am. That I wish the accident had never happened? Yeah, I wish that. I wish it every goddamn day. But there’s nothing I can do about any of it. Of course I’m furious. Of course I’m resentful. I built this band. I got us together, kept us together, wrote virtually every hit we ever had. Comet was mine. It was my whole life, my past, my future, my legacy. And they took it from me. You want to know how I really feel about that? I couldn’t tell you in words. I’d have to hit something until my knuckles split through the skin.”

He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray with trembling hands, then he drags his fingers—long, uncalloused, dexterous, though you wish you could stop staring at them—through his hair. He glances at you, embarrassed. You look calmly back.

“Jesus Christ,” Aemond says shakily. “I don’t know where that came from.”

“The band was yours,” you agree. “So you’re the one who named it?”

“Yeah.”

“Comet Donati. The first comet ever photographed. 1858.”

He is impressed. “You’ve studied astronomy?”

“Well…I Googled it,” you confess, and he laughs. He’s relaxed again, he’s sunny like the sky. “But I really like it. A disproportionate number of astronomers are from the Midwest, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Because there’s nothing to do there, so people watch the stars instead.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Better than livestock farming or teen pregnancies, I guess.”

“What is it about the comet that inspires you?”

Aemond lights himself a fresh cigarette. His last name is etched into the side of the steel lighter, you see now: Targaryen. “It has an orbital period of 1,740 years. That last time Comet Donati clipped by Earth, Abraham Lincoln was watching it from the front porch of his hotel. It won’t come back until the late-3000s. I’ll never see it. You’ll never see it. But it’s always there. And to me, there’s something really beautiful about that. So many things in life are invisible, silent, unspoken, unacknowledged, unknown, misunderstood. But that doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

You recall the woman you’ve seen standing beside him in countless paparazzi photos: an actress and influencer, 20 million Instagram followers, California blond, Ibiza clubs and Met Galas. “Where’s Shelby?”

“Not around anymore, obviously.”

“She left you or you left her?”

He flicks away ashes, vague, evasive. “She couldn’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, that’s clear. It’s marked him somewhere deeper than the flesh.

“No, Aemond.” You reach across the table to take his free hand, his left hand, in your own. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He’s watching you, but he isn’t just watching; he’s a little bewildered, and little captivated, a little impishly proud like he’s won a bet. When you release his hand, he says: “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want someone who’s repulsed by me. Or worse, someone who can only see me as something damaged and pitiful. I don’t want to be fucked out of pity.”

Oh no, you think, gazing helplessly at his face, his fingers, his wrists, the slope of his throat. Oh no, I don’t think pity would be anywhere in my mind, not even a whisper of it, not even a ghost.

Aemond notices. His lips pull up at the edges into a sly smile…and then he grows solemn again. “Are you going to ask me about what happened at the Budokan?”

“No. I don’t want to talk about the past anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because I think what happened to you was horrible and senseless and unfair. And the worst part isn’t that you look different. It’s that you are different. You can’t ever unlearn how people treated you afterwards, what their true motivations were. People who discarded you, people who forgot about you. You didn’t deserve that. You were worthy then and you’re worthy now. I don’t want to talk about your past. I want to talk about where you’re going next.”

“I have no idea. When I said the band was my whole life, I meant it.”

“You’ll figure something out. And maybe I can help.”

“Maybe.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette, intrigued. “What made you want to be a therapist?”

That nervous drop in your stomach; a sensation like falling. You disguise it expertly. “No no, I’m asking the questions here. I’m the one with the master’s degree.”

“Now who’s pretentious?”

You’re giggling, and then Aemond is too, like mirror images of each other: sipping white wine and averting your eyes—those so-called windows to the soul—towards the Palatine Hill before they can reveal too much.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Comet Donati performs now, Aemond isn’t on stage. But he never misses a show. He paces around with a black notebook and a white gel pen—Luke learned that from him, you realize—jotting down suggestions and critiques to share with the others afterwards. You follow him, trailing soundlessly like a shadow, through hallways and down aisles and across sky-high catwalks like ancient aqueducts. You’re wearing the only dress you brought from home: short, black lace, cold shoulders. Unconsciously, Aemond takes your hand to make sure you don’t fall behind. Wordlessly, he points out things that make you laugh: Aegon repeatedly slipping on a puddle of beer that he spilled, Daeron’s improvised dance moves (the Mailman, the Beached Whale, the Reckless Uber Driver, etc.), screaming middle-aged women flashing Cregan, Luke giving little crochet stars and planets and comets—handmade by Baela and Rhaena—to children in the audience. But Aemond rarely acknowledges Jace.

As you and Aemond lurk just offstage, the band is performing A Song I’ve Never Heard, the lead single off their first album and an enduring fan favorite.

“If you disappear, I’m going under

Telling you right now, there is no other

Who could ever replace you, no need to wonder

Your name is a song I’ve never heard before.”

“They’re really good live,” you shout, barely audible over the noise. You stand on your tiptoes and lean against Aemond’s shoulder so he can hear you. You are struck by the dormant power beneath your palms, his tense muscles, his radiating heat. You can’t help but imagine what sort of rhythm you might fall into together.

“Yeah,” he says distractedly.

“They’d be even better with you.”

Aemond turns, startled, then smiles. He passes you his notebook and gel pen so you can read his comments and add any of your own. You skim through his scribbled, pearlescent observations.

Cregan – Good smolder. Pay attention to every fan in the crowd, not just the fuckable ones. Thumbs up and high fives for kids. Fist bumps for dudes. Wear less clothes, maybe? If you’re cool with that.

Luke – Don’t be afraid to move around the stage more. Weave. Prowl. Pretend you are a shark.

Aegon – Wrong lyrics during Space-Time Continuum. And Lake Effect. And A Girl Named After A Car!! And The Worst Way To Be!!!! Please for the love of God the words are on Genius.com if you don’t know them.

Daeron – Really great overall. Missed verse during If You’re Summer I’m The Rain. Beware of handshakes with crowd, they could pull you in. Invent a new dance move, something inspired by Kansas City. The Tornado Watch? The Oppressed Beef Cow?

You write at the bottom:

Aemond – Cultivate at minimum one (1) hobby not directly related to Comet Donati. Or pretentious veganism.

You hand the notebook to him, and then he scrawls back:

Already have it. I’ll show you later.

When the concert ends, Aemond leads you backstage to reunite with the band, along with Baela and Rhaena who spent the past two hours dancing and shrieking in the front row.

“I did it!” Rhaena trumpets when she sees you, eyes alight and hands waving in the air. “At the meet-and-greet before the show! I talked to people for four whole minutes and then I got to sit in the corner and drink champagne all by myself and it was amazing!”

“That’s so great!” you exclaim, hugging her. “See?! We knew you could do it. But next time you have to talk to people for ten minutes.”

“Ugh,” Rhaena says, but she’s still beaming. She knows she’s capable of it. It might hurt, but it won’t kill her. And that’s true for a lot of things, isn’t it? The trick is figuring out which of our brains’ frantic doom-signals are misfires, exaggerations, genetic malformations…and which are warnings of something actually lethal.

Everyone piles into the Escalades for the short journey back to the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel. You and Aemond end up sharing a car with Aegon, Luke, and Rhaena. Luke sits right next to Aemond, wants to see all his notes, wants to rehash every detail of the night with him: Did you like this little move I came up with? Was I too extra when I did that? Am I too low in the harmonies? Did you see how psyched that one kid was when I gave him a stuffed comet? As you watch them, streetlights passing by overhead like miniature suns, it occurs to you that Luke is the only person who still treats Aemond like he’s an essential part of the band, not a progenitor to be paid occasional pennies of homage but a heart or a spinal cord, something that can’t be excised without killing the host.

Aegon is lying on his back across the floor of the Escalade and scrolling through his phone. “Oh my God, guess who else is in Rome right now!” he gasps.

“Who?” Rhaena asks, but she rolls her doe-like eyes in a way that tells you this happens a lot.

“Selena Gomez!”

“Great,” Aemond says. “I don’t think she wants to see you.”

Aegon is typing manically with both thumbs. “We’re about to find out.”

Back at the hotel, a force like gravity—stringless, unthinking—pulls everyone towards Jace’s suite. The lights are low, the air smokey, the drinks misty with condensation, the balcony door open as people—friends and roadies and label executives—drift in and out of the starlit night breeze, the music loud and rumbling, lots of bass, Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous by Good Charlotte. Crowded together in one corner of the room, illuminated by an end table lamp, are Jace, Baela, Daeron, Cregan, and Criston, who is observing with arms crossed over his chest and an exhausted, long-suffering sort of disapproval. There is a tattoo artist getting set up on the coffee table, laying out the needles and ink cartridges, latex gloves, sanitizer, a squeeze bottle of green soap.

“Get the Pantheon!” Baela is telling Jace. She’s sitting in his lap on the white leather couch, his arms locked around her waist but his eyes roaming around the room. “Or laurels, maybe. Or an eagle.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron says.

Baela grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Get the Colosseum!” Luke says as he hurries over to join them.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

“He gets a new tattoo for every city we play in,” Daeron explains.

“Some are better than others,” Baela adds. “There were so many gorgeous possibilities for Miami and you chose an alligator?!”

“Every single city, huh?” you say to Jace. “You must have a lot of tattoos.”

He grins crookedly up at you through locks of dark, messy curls. He’s wearing a black and white striped shirt that is mostly unbuttoned. Aemond’s gaze flits anxiously between you and Jace. “I do. But believe it or not, we’ve never been to Rome until now.”

“Get the Leaning Tower of Pisa!” Aegon says.

Criston snaps: “Really? The one that’s in Pisa? Which is a completely different city? The one that’s four hours north of Rome? That Leaning Tower of Pisa? That one?”

“Well fuck, don’t let me inconvenience you with my presence!” Aegon thumps a fist against Cregan’s brawny shoulder and they disappear together, peering down at their phones, faces painted by the white-blue glow of the screens.

“What should I get?” Jace asks Aemond. It sounds like a loaded question.

“Julius Caesar. A usurper.”

Jace winks up at him, arrogant and taunting.

Baela rubs Jace’s bare, ink-adorned chest. “Baby, don’t.”

“I want the Pantheon,” he declares suddenly. “Right here on the back of my right hand. Prime real estate. I won’t be able to do anything without remembering this city, this show.” He turns to Aemond, victorious. “They were filming, you know. They’re going to make it a Netflix special.”

“I’m aware,” Aemond replies, flat, cold.

The tattoo artist is nodding agreeably at Jace. “Si signore, I do the Pantheon all the time. Tourists love to have a picture to take home with them. Nessun problema. You want it on this hand? You are sure? Va bene, place it here on the table. Si, si. I will clean the area and then we will begin.”

Soon the needle of the humming tattoo gun meets the skin: metal, blood, Jace hissing in pain as black lines spring to life across his metacarpals. Baela passes the time by chatting with you. She is clever and kind like Rhaena, but louder, tougher, beautiful yet barbed like a lionfish. She can talk to anyone and never drops her eyes. It amazes you how siblings, built of the same genetic Legos, can grow up to be so different: Baela and Rhaena, Jace and Luke, Aegon and Aemond and Daeron.

When Jace’s tiny Pantheon tattoo is complete and his hand bandaged, he goads you: “Now you’re getting one too, right?”

“Sure,” you say, and you are delighted to see the shock leap into his face.

“What?!” Baela cries.

“You’re joking,” Aemond says uncertainly. “She’s joking.”

“No, I really want one.”

“Get a gladiator!” Daeron bellows, jumping on top of the couch and flexing his muscles like Hercules.

“Get my name on the side of your face like Post Malone,” Jace says. And then, when Baela and Aemond glare at him: “What?!”

“I definitely don’t want that. But I do want something.”

“I will do whatever you like, signora,” the tattoo artist says, changing out needles.

“You’re actually serious?” Aemond asks. And what he means is: You don’t have to do this. It would be reckless. It would be permanent.

“Yeah.” You smile up at him. “I want to remember this little adventure. When I’m back in Kansas City…in a few weeks, or a few months, or whatever…I want to be able to look in the mirror and know that it wasn’t all something I made up. A fantasy, a dream.”

“You should get Comet lyrics,” Luke says excitedly. “Aemond’s lyrics.”

You tap Luke’s notebook: black paper, white gel pen, just like Aemond’s. “Absolutely. Help me choose them.”

Within ten minutes, you’ve settled on a design that Luke has sketched in starlight-colored ink and a location: upper back, equidistant between your shoulder blades, someplace you can easily conceal it when you’re working. It will be a small, minimalist comet—nucleus, coma, and tail—with cursive lyrics from a hidden gem off the band’s most recent album encircling it like the rings of Saturn:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

Somewhat clumsily, you manage to unzip your dress, shimmy the top part down to around the line of your bra strap, and then lie on your belly across the couch. Baela and Rhaena giggle at the way the men bashfully avert their eyes…all except Aemond. He is speechless, blinking, fascinated. He shakes it off and turns away when he realizes he’s been staring.

“I’m sorry, is this too unprofessional?”

“No, you were perfectly clear,” Daeron says. “You’re a therapist, but not our therapist. So feel free to walk around in just your bra anytime.”

“For real,” Jace adds.

Baela shoos him away: “Go, get us more drinks. Go! Bar! Now!” And Jace reluctantly retreats.

Using Luke’s rough sketch as a reference, the tattoo artist begins working once he’s thoroughly cleaned the area of perfume, shining perspiration, invisible fingerprints, tobacco, other remnants of life’s general untidiness. The pain is bad but not overwhelming, worst when the needle nears your spine. Aemond sits on the floor beside you and observes thoughtfully, sipping a rosy-pink Bramble. Aegon and Cregan wander back into the suite—white powder on their palms, more on their shirts, their pupils dilated and glassy—and are extremely amused by this turn of events. They stay for a while and then are gone again, forever both here and there, comets zooming around their elliptical orbits, Schrodinger’s cats.

“How’s it look?” you ask Aemond as he studies your back. You can’t see anything; you can only feel it.

“The tattoo, or…?”

You laugh and shove him away with your very limited range of motion; then, when you wince at the stinging pain, Aemond grips your hand in his. “I know I’m being pathetic. I know it’s not that bad.” Not compared to what you endured: blunt force trauma, partial blindness, your face stitched back together, your life’s work stolen from you.

“You’re not that pathetic. Louis Tomlinson probably would have cried.”

You laugh again, louder, and the tattoo artist scolds you: “Signora, per favore! Stay as still as you can, I beg you. We are almost done.”

Aemond’s iPhone rings and he glides it out of his pocket with his free hand. His ringtone is Mr. Brightside. “Oh. I should take this.”

“Go ahead,” you tell him. “Go, I’m fine.”

“Who is it?” Criston asks Aemond with curiously intense interest.

“It’s my mom.”

“Does she want to talk to me? To see how the tour is going?”

“No, Criston.”

“Fine,” Criston says testily. “I’m gonna go make sure Aegon isn’t on the roof or something.”

He departs from the crowded suite, momentarily parting the miasma of cigarette and cigar smoke like Moses split the Red Sea. Aemond goes out onto the balcony. Baela and Rhaena take his place next to the couch, fawning over your almost-finished tattoo and showing you their own: Baela has a ring of roses around one ankle, a quote from her grandmother across her ribs, and a compass on her forearm; Rhaena has a tiny L behind one ear for Luke. Even over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the reverberating music, the chattering of new friends and perfect strangers, and the backdrop of traffic noises outside on the winding streets of Rome, you can hear chaos: yelling, banging, the pounding of sprinting footsteps.

When your tattoo is completed and bandaged, you fix your dress and follow the commotion out into the hallway. Several doors down, you find Criston in Aegon’s suite. He’s standing on top of the mattress and attempting to handcuff Aegon to the bedpost. Aegon, thrashing and yowling and shirtless for some reason, rips away from him.

“Give me your hand!” Criston roars. “Give me your fucking hand! You want to act like Motley Crue, you’re gonna get treated like Motley Crue.” He finally clicks a cuff around Aegon’s left wrist, fastens him to the bed, and then doubles over gasping for air.

You say from the doorway: “This is not what I, personally, would call effective conflict resolution.”

“Oh good, you’re here.” Criston wipes fat beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of one hand. “You talk to him. Meditation, yoga, hypnosis, a lobotomy, read him bedtime stories, get him a shock collar, I don’t care what you do, just give me fifteen minutes of peace. I need a goddamn San Pellegrino.” He stomps out of the room and is gone.

Aegon sighs listlessly. “I’d like to say I don’t deserve this, but I probably do.”

“Hey, Aegon?”

“Yeah?”

“What was up with your salad at lunch today? And the skinless boneless chicken?”

He smirks, an expression you can’t quite read. Nervousness? Cynicism? Shame? “I’ve gained like twenty pounds since last summer.”

“So?”

“So almost none of my tour wardrobe fits.”

“Can you not afford new clothes? Have you snorted that much coke?”

He chuckles, but his large blue eyes are sad, defenseless, watery. “The label doesn’t want a chunky popstar. Girls won’t spend thousands of dollars on tickets to see me anymore.”

“Yes they will. And I would too. In a hypothetical alternate universe where I was rich.”

He smiles, for real this time. “You wanna stay? I still have one hand free.”

“That’s a super tempting offer, but I think I’ll pass.”

He blinks up at you with groggy, drunken realization. “You got your eye on someone else, Stargirl?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He’s grinning, toothy, playful. “You didn’t have to.”

There is a knock against the doorframe. When you spin around, Aemond stands there. “Hey,” he says. “Found you.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine. Do you want to see something?”

“…Okay?”

“It’s outside.”

“Oh, no way,” Aegon tells him, still handcuffed to the bed, cackling. “No way is she gonna be down for that.”

“She might be,” Aemond replies evenly.

“You still got a second helmet?”

“Of course.”

“Helmet…?” you venture.

Aemond smiles, nodding towards the hall. “Let’s go.”

Aegon waves goodbye with his free hand. “Good luck, Stargirl. Hope your last will and testament is in order.”

“Like I’d leave you anything.” You set several bottles of water and a box of Nutella snacks on the end table where Aegon can reach them.

“Wait wait wait!” he cries when you are about to depart. “Bring me a trashcan too.”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

“So I can piss in it, obviously.”

“You’re an animal.”

He howls like a wolf, rolling around on the mattress. You supply him with a trashcan, as requested, and then follow Aemond out into the hallway.

“Stargirl?” he asks once the two of you are alone in the elevator and headed down.

“It’s a the Weeknd reference. It’s hard to explain.”

“And you and Aegon are…” Aemond raises an eyebrow, the scarred one, the one that’s cut in two. “Friends?”

“Yeah. Friends.” You’re worried your voice will squeak, but it is traitorously steady. Aemond seems mollified. And is that really such a lie? What would be closer to the truth? Yes, Aemond, your brother and I are friends. But we’re less than that, and we’re also more, because I’ve fucked him but somehow that was the very least of it. He looks at me and I feel understood like a language the rest of humanity has forgotten. I look at him and I see someone who I care for deeply, irrationally, who I could fall in love with in a slightly different world. But that’s not the world we live in. And in this world, the real one, you’re the person I’m falling in love with.

Aemond takes you all the way down to the ground floor and then out front to the entranceway, fountains, cobblestones, taxis, Ubers, stars. He speaks to the valet and within minutes, they ferry it out of the garage for him, growling and puffing like some kind of mythical beast, a dragon or the Minotaur or the Cerberus. The valet lowers the kickstand and then hands the keys over to Aemond.

“What is that?!” you exclaim.

“It’s a 1960 Gold Star, made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company.”

“Alabama?”

He is amused. “No, the English Birmingham. The original one.”

“Oh. Right.” The valet brings two helmets and two jackets. “You travel with a motorcycle?”

“It fits on the jet,” Aemond replies casually.

“You are so freaking pretentious.”

Aemond offers you a helmet and jacket, and he’s trying to keep the fear from his face but it’s there, because he keeps waiting for the spell to break, for the illusion of who he thinks you are to shatter like glass and reveal that all along you’ve been disgusted by him too, that you misunderstand or patronize or pity him. He surveys you with two eyes, one wary and clear and searching, the other a cloudy planet of misty blue like Neptune. And he waits for you to ask one of those fateful questions—Can you really drive this? Is it safe? Can you see well enough? Can I trust you?—and look at him with bleak, sympathetic skepticism.

Instead, you look at the motorcycle. There are extra mirrors on the left side, you notice, capturing angles that he would otherwise miss. He doesn’t need to be reminded of his maiming. He couldn’t forget it for a second. You don the helmet and jacket and say: “Are those leather seats, Mr. Vegan?”

He beams and straddles the motorcycle. “Shut up and get on the bike.”

You climb on behind Aemond, your arms around his waist, your lungs capturing pieces of him to absorb into your bloodstream: smoke, cologne, hair gel, gin, molecules that become your own. He starts the engine, flicks on the headlight, and steers his Gold Star out into the late-night traffic.

You fly through a nightscape of car horns and streetlights and babbling tourists clustered together on the sidewalks like prey animals, ancient landmarks whirling by like comets: the Piazza Navona, the Trevi Fountain, the Arch of Constantine, the Pantheon that Jace now has inked irrevocably to his flesh. The sky is freckled with constellations you couldn’t name. The moon is full and brilliant. There is a black limo cruising nearby full of hooting, half-naked frat boys and blaring Coldplay’s Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall. At stop signs and red lights, Aemond reaches down to rest a palm lightly on your bare thigh, just an inch or two above the knee��his wrist brushing against the black lace of your dress—but enough to pillage your mind of anything else, enough to rip the door to your skull off its hinges and build a home there in the web of neurons and flashbulb surges of electricity that we call memory, emotion, instinct, desire. When you close your eyes as the wind rushes by, you can imagine that you’ve always known Aemond and that you always will. When you press yourself against him as hard as you dare to, you can feel everything else dissolving away: pasts, futures, doubts, every other person on this planet, scars that mar the soul with jagged rifts and knots as red as blood.

In the abandoned, golden halls of the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, Aemond walks you back to your suite. His hands are in his pockets, his head down, his steps swift. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Your thoughts are deafeningly loud with clattering impossibilities: Me? Aemond? Lust? Love?

You arrive at your door, swipe your keycard, and open it. You stand at the threshold, but you don’t vanish inside. You don’t want to be apart from him. You gaze up at him, dazed with longing, resting your head against the doorframe, fresh ink burning between your shoulder blades.

“Hey, Aemond?”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t fuck you out of pity.”

There’s satisfaction on his face, there’s pride, there’s hunger, but there’s trepidation too. He hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I, uh…” He sighs, resigned, perhaps warring with himself. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” But he doesn’t leave.

“Are you lost? Need a map back to your room? I can try to draw one for you. We could get one tattooed on the back of your hand.”

He laughs, marveling at you. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” He makes it halfway down the hall, glances back, shakes his head to himself, keeps walking until he’s disappeared.

You shut the door and say to your empty suite: “I don’t even like him that much.”

But I do. I do, I do, I do.

“Oh no,” you moan, covering your face with both hands. But you can’t stop smiling.

You take a shower, pull on an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, then crawl into your hotel bed: scratchy comforter, a mattress that’s too firm, pillows that are too squishy. You turn on your laptop, open YouTube, and start searching for Comet Donati performances before Aemond left the band, scenes from a different lifetime under the same stars.

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aegon x reader #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen

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staticsattic · 4 months ago

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I RISE FROM MY SLUMBER‼️‼️

Okay quick little yap about these drawings!

THE SECOND LADY IS HOW I THINK JOHNNYS MOTHER WOULDVE LOOKED LIKE!!

DONT GET ME WRONG JOHNNY IS A EVIL GUY! But I genuinely think about those times where he has regrets or weak moments, thinking about the life he could’ve had if he wasn’t taken as a child.

Kinda chose the song “Forwards beckon rebound “ mainly for that line! The way I interpret it to his story is obviously the “Villain and Violent” being Nancy and her actions, and his mother Judith as “infant and innocent “ since she didn’t know any better when it came to Nancy plus I imagine she was a very sweet lady. The next line being “both arms cradle you now” just gave me the idea that “oh they’re both his mothers either way so and he’s their son “ He is his own person yes but he learned his actions from Nancy but still has the heart of Judith (if that makes sense? )

Anyways the animals were obviously a snake and a rabbit but a little idea I had was to make it species that are from Texas because I thought it would be a missed opportunity not to. So the snake is a copperhead and the rabbit is an eastern cotton tail!

For “both arms cradle you now” the animals are attached the Johnny in some way, the snake wrapped around his neck and the rabbit sitting on his shoulder. The snake represents Nancy (ofc) and it’s wrapped around his neck because she taught him the violence and aggressiveness and plus she’s always at his neck for something.

The rabbit representing Judith is just sitting there on his shoulder because even in death she’s still his mother so it’s reasonable to say she’d always be watching him. (Nothing to specail for that one sorry 😔)

That’s all the yapping for today!! Sorry I was not active for a bit but I hope you guys like this!

#texas chainsaw game #tcm game #artists on tumblr #digital art #johnny sawyer #procreate #fanart #nancy sawyer #johnny slaughter #nancy slaughter #texas chainsaw massacre #rambles

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moeitsu · 8 months ago

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A fisher of men and A strange encounter.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 2 - The Snow Is On The Grass Again

The chill of May lingered as Kate set up camp near the riverbank, where patches of snow still clung to the ground. With the water icy cold, bathing was out of the question, but she found comfort in the soothing melody of the flowing stream. Nearby, Lorena grazed peacefully as Kate hummed a tune and cast her line, hoping for a catch to satisfy her hunger.

It had been two weeks since her stagecoach heist with Arthur and Hosea. Since then, Seamus hasn’t given her any more dubious tasks, and she hasn’t seen the two men either. She went back to being a ranch hand for a bit until she told Seamus it was time she moved on again. She followed the river south until she found a suitable spot to set up camp for the night.

It was a beautiful sunny day, but still chilly enough for a jacket. "It's cold, but at least the fish don't seem to mind," Kate remarked to herself as she felt a strong tug on her fishing line. With a flick of her wrist, she hooked the fish and began reeling it in, “Cmon now don’t fight too hard,” she mused to herself.

Lorena whinnied for attention "easy, girl," Kate murmured, as she made a noise behind her again. "Let me pull this in first." Suddenly, the quiet scene shattered as Lorena squealed in fear, her hooves pounding the ground. Kate's heart raced as she spun around, spotting a small copperhead slithering toward her mare.

"Sh-shhh, it's alright, it's just a snake," Kate reassured, her voice trembling slightly. But Lorena, in a state of panic, bolted downstream. With a grunt, Kate abandoned her fishing pole and chased after her horse. "Lorena! It's okay, girl, you're alright!" she called out, her voice echoing over the rushing water.

Though reluctant to admit it, Kate knew this wasn't the first time Lorena had been spooked. Usually, the mare's restlessness signaled impending danger, but snakes remained her Achilles' heel. It was a fear Kate couldn't rid her beloved horse of, even if she tried. Not that she ever would.

As they rounded the bend of the river, Kate lost sight of Lorena, but the mare's hoofprints remained etched in the sand. With a silent prayer, she pressed on, hoping her companion hadn't ventured too far.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

"Think this spot looks good, Uncle Arthur," chirped the little boy from his saddle as they neared the riverbank's edge.

"I think you’re right Jack. Let's give it a shot and see if we can reel in some fish," Arthur replied, guiding Belle to the sandy shore and helping Jack dismount.

Taking the smaller fishing pole from Arthur, Jack asked, "Where should we stand?"

"Right by the shoreline, just follow me," Arthur directed, leading Jack to the water's edge. "See those ripples? That's where you'll want to cast your line. Just aim for that, and you'll snag 'em."

“I wanna try!” He exclaimed impatiently while Arthur baited their lines with cheese.

"Okay kiddo, watch me. Hold the line over your shoulder like this," Arthur demonstrated, guiding Jack's movements. "Now, swing it forward smoothly, using your wrist, not your elbow."

Jack mimicked his uncle's actions eagerly. "Like this?"

"Exactly! Well done, Jack. Now, all we do is wait for a fish to take the bait," Arthur said proudly, as Jack beamed up at him, standing closer by his side.

As Arthur watched Jack with a mixture of pride and guilt, he realized how long it had been since they'd spent quality time together. Since their escape from Blackwater, life had been a whirlwind of tasks assigned by Dutch and taking care of the camp, leaving little room for personal time. He was about to leave camp again when Abigail asked if Arthur would watch Jack for her. Dutch would most likely make a comment about it later, but at the moment he couldn't care.

After a minute of peaceful silence, Jack looked up at him again with a curious expression. "Uncle Arthur, can the fish see us?"

Arthur chuckled at the unexpected question. "Well, not exactly like how you see me. It's a bit blurry for them, I reckon," he replied, scratching his head at the complexity of explaining fish vision to a four-year-old.

"Oh, okay. Can they hear us then?" Jack fired another question.

"Pretty much the same, I suppose," Arthur replied with a grin. "They can hear us, but not as clear as you and I can hear each other. Why all the questions, Jack?"

"Do fish talk?" Jack pressed on, undeterred by his uncle's attempt to change the subject.

Arthur smiled and shook his head. "Well, Jack, do other animals talk?" he countered, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

Jack paused for a moment, pondering the question. "Hmm, nope. Can't think of any," he admitted.

"Exactly. So, no, fish don't talk," Arthur affirmed, looking down at Jack, who seemed lost in thought, gazing at the grasses behind them.

"Uncle Arthur, I'm bored," Jack suddenly declared, breaking the silence.

Arthur let out a quiet sigh, realizing his attempt at fishing with his young nephew hadn't been the most thrilling activity. "Yeah, I figured as much," he muttered to himself. Louder, he addressed Jack, "You know what? Why don't you go explore? Just stay close to me, alright?" But before Arthur could finish his sentence, Jack darted off toward a nearby pool of rocks.

As Arthur continued fishing, lost in his own thoughts, he heard the loud approach of hoofbeats. Instinctively, he jumped to intercept the approaching stranger before they could draw too close to him and Jack. To his surprise, the horse charging toward him was unmistakably Kate's, riderless and wild.

"Ain’t that Kate's horse?" Arthur muttered to himself in disbelief, raising his hands in a futile attempt to calm the agitated mare. "Easy, girl, it's alright," he murmured soothingly.

Jack, drawn by the commotion, hurried to join Arthur, his eyes wide with excitement. "Whoa! Where'd that horse come from?" he exclaimed.

"Stay behind me, Jack. She's spooked, and I don't want her to accidentally harm you," Arthur cautioned. As he tried to assess the situation he recognized it was indeed Kate's horse but was unable to recall its name. Peering down the riverbank where the horse had emerged, he found no sign of its owner.

With gentle words and a steady hand, Arthur coaxed the horse into submission, finally gaining control of the reins. "What kinda trouble you in, girl?" he wondered aloud, stroking her snout.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As Kate followed the hoof prints of her mare, she rounded another bend in the river and finally spotted her beloved horse. "Oh thank god," she murmured, letting out a relieved sigh. Right before realizing there were two figures accompanying Lorena—a burly man and a small boy, both appearing to have been fishing.

About to call out her gratitude, Kate stopped as the man turned, revealing himself to be Arthur, the same man from the stagecoach incident. Surprised yet somewhat pleased to see him, memories of their previous encounter flooded back, particularly their pleasant conversation during the ride back from Carmody Dell. They had talked about their horses and she knew Lorena was in good hands with him.

"Mr. Morgan! I can't thank you enough. I hope she didn't cause you any trouble," Kate called out, jogging to meet them. Arthur looked up at the sound of his name, visibly relieved at her arrival, replied, "Miss McCanon! I was a little worried when I saw your horse come through here without you."

"She got spooked by a snake, that's all," Kate explained, petting Lorena affectionately. "She's a bit dramatic, though," she added with a hint of amusement.

As a small face peeked around Arthur's frame, Kate smiled warmly, realizing it must be his son. "Your horse is very pretty, miss," the boy remarked shyly.

“Thank you, would you like to pet her?” She asked with a smile, the boy nodded, “she’s a little shy so just go slow, let her come to you.” The child looked up at Arthur and only approached once he nodded a go ahead.

"Getting tired of Seamus' dubious stagecoach business, I take it?" Arthur teased, prompting laughter from Kate. Their banter flowed effortlessly, she found Arthur refreshingly different from most men she encountered. He had a playful and protective aura, with a bit of something else that made her incredibly intrigued. Or maybe it was just because he was handsome.

Kate smiled and shook her head with a laugh, “not quite. Just about time I move on I guess. I was only passin’ through. I see you’re still here enjoying the countryside though, haven’t given up on robbing stagecoaches yet?” She teased back.

Before Arthur could respond, the boy blurted out, "Uncle Arthur and my daddy robbed a—" Arthur swiftly intervened, diverting attention away from the boy's revelation.

"Kids have wild imaginations," Arthur chuckled nervously, steering the conversation back. "So, um, where are you heading? Camping around here?" he inquired.

So Jack is his nephew, Kate smiled to herself, these two were adorably entertaining, her heart panged slightly at the memory of what her life could have looked like. Her grief still makes itself present in the cracks of her being even after all these years. "Just going west, no place in particular. My camp is just downstream," she replied, gesturing in the direction she came from.

Jack tugged on Arthur’s sleeve and motioned for him to bend down, with a slight roll of his eyes he kneeled down to his level, “can we invite her back to camp?” The boy whispered not so quietly.

“Jack you can’t go inviting every stranger you meet back to camp,” he spoke sternly, “you know we’re on the run, we gotta be safe around here.” He added quietly, the boy looked up sadly but nodded in understanding. Arthur entertained the thought of inviting Kate back to the camp, he knew she was taking on odd jobs and constantly on the move. Maybe it wouldn't hurt if she stayed for a few days. He would never admit it, but he was a little disappointed they didn't cross paths again in the two weeks since the heist.

“Ah, hell, why not” he breathed, turning back to Kate, “It’ll get pretty cold tonight, winters still not through in these parts. My camp is up on Horseshoe overlook,” he took his hat off bashfully, “If you’d like a warm fire, and some good company, you're welcome to join us.”

As Kate was about to respond to Arthur's invitation, the rhythmic thud of hooves interrupted them. Two men in detective uniforms descended toward the water, casting a shadow over their gathering. "What a touching and complex circumstance we have here," one of the men remarked as he dismounted, while the other leveled his rifle at Arthur. Sensing danger, Kate instinctively stayed close to her horse.

Protectively, Arthur positioned himself in front of Jack as the man approached. "Arthur, is it? Arthur Morgan?" he inquired, his tone heavy with accusation.

"Who are you?" Arthur countered, his voice tight with tension.

"Yes, Arthur Morgan," the man echoed, “Van Der Linde’s most trusted associate, orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac's silver tongue. And matures into a degenerate murderer.” He finished.

Arthur's tension escalated, leaving Kate astounded. She harbored suspicion that there was more to him than met the eye, but the revelation of being wanted for murder caught her completely off guard. Despite the shock, she found herself even more intrigued by the supposed outlaw.

“I’m agent Milton, and this is agent Ross,” he gestured to the other gentleman holding the rifle. “We’re with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. It's nice to finally meet you,” he looked over at Kate and added, “and you as well miss. Who might you be?”

"Madeleine McCanon," Kate responded, opting for a false name to distance herself from whatever was about to unfold. Agent Milton pressed further, questioning her connection to Arthur.

“Do you know this man?” He inquired, but before she could answer he continued, “because we sure know him.” His tone, that of a detective accustomed to authority, carried a hint of arrogance, as if he relished the prospect of confrontation.

“Oh do you?” Arthur said coldly.

“He’s a wanted man, Miss McCanon,” he said, turning to face her, “There's five thousand dollars for his head alone.” Kate glanced a look at Arthur but made no sign of her surprise.

Arthur chuckled, "Five thousand dollars? For me?" He glanced around casually. "Can I turn myself in?" he quipped.

Agent Milton's expression remained stern. "We want Van der Linde. A man matching his description robbed a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall a few weeks back."

Kate's memory jolted as she recalled reading about the robbery in the paper. It was carrying money to fund a new oil rig off the Wapiti reservation. Thousands of dollars were stolen, but none of the passengers on the train were injured.

“Ain't that a little old fashioned nowadays?” Arthur attempted, trying to sound innocent.

“Apparently not,” Milton deadpanned, “this is my offer Mr. Morgan: You bring us Van der Linde. And you have my word you won't swing.”

“Oh, I ain't gonna swing anyways agent Milton. You see, I haven't done anything wrong, aside from not playing the game by your rules.” He argued condescendingly.

Milton's tone grew sterner. "I appreciate this society."

“You enjoy being a rich man's toy!” Arthur snapped back.

“You people venerate savagery, and you will die savagely,” Milton emphasized.

Arthur's voice dripped with defiance. "All of us are gonna die someday, agent, some sooner than others."

With that, Milton turned on his heel and walked toward his horse. "Good day to you, Mr. Morgan," he said as he departed. "And if you know what's good for you, Miss McCanon, stay far away from this man. Unless you want to end up dead like his friend Mac Callander."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Arthur cursed under his breath, " fuck ." He turned to face Kate, Jack looking between them, unsure of what to do next.

Feeling like a complete fool for inviting Kate back to camp, Arthur realized he had just given away Dutch's whereabouts and Milton exposed their crimes to her. He had hoped she would be safe for a night or two at camp without knowing their true identities, but now, with everything at stake, he wrestled with the decision. The lives of his gang were paramount, but involving an innocent woman in their mess weighed heavily on his conscience. He would never force her, but with everything at stake now he hoped she would still come back with him. Or else she might go inform the authorities of their whereabouts.

“So, railway workers from the North huh?” Kate questioned, breaking him from his thoughts.

“If you’ll let me explain miss-” he started, unsure what was about to come out of his mouth.

With the revelation of Arthur's true identity and the dangers it presented, Kate found herself torn between fear and curiosity. While her instincts screamed at her to flee from these outlaws, there was an inexplicable pull towards Arthur. Despite the fear gnawing at her, she couldn't shake the connection she felt with him. There was something in his eyes, a vulnerability masked by his tough exterior, that resonated with her own struggles.

"I'll come with you," she said, her voice steady despite the uncertainty swirling within her. "I've never been one to shy away from a little danger, and besides," she added with a wry smile, "I've always had a knack for finding trouble."

Arthur looked at her, a mixture of surprise and gratitude flickering in his eyes. He knew the risks she was taking by choosing to stand by him, but he also couldn't deny the feeling of relief that washed over him.

His gaze softened and he bent down to lift Jack up onto his saddle, “well, it’s getting late. Want to head back with us?”he asked, settling himself in behind the boy.

Kate nodded and answered, “I’d be happy to. Let me grab my things from camp and I’ll meet you back here,” she replied, gracefully mounting Lorena.

With those words, she cantered off downstream, disappearing into the fading light.

“Why did those men ask where Uncle Dutch is?” Jack questioned, his voice tinged with innocence.

“Because… well, those are disagreeable men. And they want to hurt Dutch.”Arthur explained, his tone grave.

“Like they hurt Mac?” Jack's voice was small, filled with concern.

Arthur hesitated, then replied, “Ahh don't worry about Mac, I’m sure he’s alright wherever he is. They were just trying to scare us is all,” he patted Jack's shoulder reassuringly., “the world is full of disagreeable men. That’s why you got all of us, to protect you from folk like them.”

“Is that why you invited Miss McCanon back to camp, to protect her from the bad guys too?” he asked innocently.

Arthur chuckled, masking his uncertainty. "Uh, yeah, something like that," he replied, the corners of his lips twitching. He wasn't sure why exactly he invited Kate to stay with him, sure, he didn't like the idea of her being alone in the cold. But why did he care? Something about the woman intrigued him, and it wasn't just her pretty horse.

Unexpectedly, Jack's voice piped up again. "Uncle Arthur, what does 'fuck' mean?"

Arthur's laughter bubbled up, realizing the boy listens more than he cares to let on. "It means your mother will slap me if she hears you say that word," he joked, relieved for the distraction.

At that moment, the steady beat of hooves announced Kate's return.

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