#more like bone tailed hawk

[silaslich]

The setting sun through open windows

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Warnings: friends to lovers, established relationship, smut, one bed trope, high honour Arthur

Length: 9k

You and Arthur practically grew up together, yet you still manage to live such different lives. You feel like he doesn’t see you, until a storm comes and he comes searching. Things are put into perspective and Arthur puts something somewhere else ;)

Lightening splits the sky overhead. It flashes like a beacon. Pointing the way home.

The thing is- there is no home for you.

Not a real one with rooted foundations. It’s not made of wood or brick. There’s no solid-framed bed with plush pillows and sheets without holes in them. There are no walls to hang framed memories and there is no door to put a barrier between yourself and the outside world. All you have is a bedroll on the dew-kissed grass. Albeit you sleep beneath the stars each night, but sometimes that doesn’t feel like enough. Sometimes it feels like a punishment. To gaze up at the sky and see how vast it is. To watch as it stretches father then your eyes can see - yet you’re cursed to sit on the back of the wagon as it rolls slowly down the hills and through creeks. Squashed between bales of hay and sacks of corn. Tucked away. Forgettable.

The thunder booms and it sounds like the world is cracked in two. It’s as if the earth shakes beneath your horses hooves and it startles the both of you. Rain blinds you. Hailing at you sideways as the wind begins to pick up. You’ve been riding for hours, and in circles it feels like. You’re shivering. Soaked to your bones and you can feel as the chill begins to set in deep. You pat your horse’s neck gently, reassuring her. “I’m sorry, girl” you yell through the storm. Tears well behind your eyes. The mare wickers, tossing her head as the rain pelts her profusely. This is unfair on the both of you.

Even whiskey wouldn’t warm you, it wouldn’t come close to sating your want for numbness.

You replay the day in your mind. What a typical morning it had been. Roped into the usual foolish ideas born from a drunken conversation Uncle had overheard at a saloon. Of course - you can’t say no. Another body is another gun. You’d never let them down. Could never entertain the idea of what might happen when you’re not there. Often enough, one more gun is all it takes to ensure everyone comes back to camp in one piece.

Today, it hadn’t gone to plan at all. No one died thankfully, but no one left unscathed. It was a blur, mostly, from what you can recall. The gunfire started so quickly, too quickly. Arthur seemed to notice that too. Has eyes of a hawk that man does. He himself was quick to the draw. He’s the main reason everyone got out how they did. He’s been in this game for so long, it’s second nature to him. He put his own neck on the line, like always. Drawing the attention away from the gang while he takes the brunt of the gunfire. As usual, by some miracle, he comes away with little more than scrapes and surface wounds from stray bullets.

A man touched by god you think, or is it the devil? No one can be this lucky.

The symphony of hooves hitting hard dirt drowns out the yells and shouts. The gunfire begins to fade and the breath returns to your lungs. You can breathe again. Arthur has been tailing the group for the majority of the escape. Only when he deems it safe enough does he dig his spurs into the barrel of his horse to overtake until he’s in front.“Woah now!” He yells. His voice is stern. Everyone follows, they hang on his every word. Maybe not Bill, but Bill is- well…Bill.

The horses slide to a stop, kicking up dirt in their wake. They snort as their nostrils flare, regaining their breath. Their riders are heaving too; Charles is watching behind in a paranoid manner, Bill is looking anywhere but at Arthur and Karen looks fit to burst into tears. You’re not sure it could have gone any worse than it did back there. Arthur says nothing at all. He bows his head just enough that the lip of his hat covers his eyes. He’s seething. You can’t see his face but you can smell it in the air. You don’t like it one bit.

Arthur grunts as he shakes his head. “Split up” he barks. “I don’t wanna be seein’ anyone back at that camp” he spits toward the ground on his left. Your eyes follow to where it lands and you see blood. “We don’t need the Pinkerton’s turnin’ up on the back of all this”.

He’d been so angry. It’s usually disappointment he feels when things go this way. Perhaps Arthur thinks he could do more. You suppose he thinks everyone could do more. He’s been pulling his weight since he was just a little boy, he’d had to, and you’d seen it first hand. While you were left in the tenor of Miss Grimshaw to gather herbs and help out round the camp, Arthur was riding out with Dutch and Hosea. Pillaging and raiding and killing, any means of survival.

You’d felt it too. The disappointment. But now everything is just so cold, so grey. You’ve always looked up to Arthur, been his little shadow since you were both younger. He’d grown distant in recent years yet you still fight to close the distance. Wishing he’d look at you. Wishing he’d just see you.

The storm grows and the sky is as black as midnight. The wind has picked up nearly tenfold. You can barely see three-feet in front of you. Rain pelts your face even through your bandana despite how you’d futilely tried to create a barrier between your face and the cold. You want to cry. You feel shame. You feel anger. It swirls inside your chest like the storm does right in front of your eyes. It’s too much. It’s so hot in your chest that it burns. No matter how hard you try, you feel like it’s never good enough. No matter how much money you steal or how many mouths you feed - it’ll never be enough for Dutch Van Der Linde.

Suddenly, your mare spooks. It takes you off guard and the abrupt jolt sends a deep shooting pain up your spine. “Easy girl” you mutter. You know the mare might not hear you, but you try and ease yourself in the saddle - she’ll feel it if you tense up. You don’t want to worry her, she’s an empathetic creature. Too much so. That’s when you hear it, a faint howl in the distance. Yet, somehow, it still feels too close for comfort. You can’t risk fleeing, not when visibility is this low. If you hit a rabbit hole you risk your mare breaking a leg. Yet, if you don’t move at all, you’ll both be dinner.

“Oh god” your voice wavers as you try to blink through the rain, trying to scan what surroundings you can still make out. You snap your neck in every direction, it’s so unclear. Your mind races and your mare snorts - sensing as the danger nears closer. You click your tongue, urging her forwards, you just have to keep moving. “Come on, girl” you try to sound reassuring, but you’re not fooling anyone. The path becomes steep, only made obvious by the way your mare struggles with her footing in the wet mud, stones tumble and knock against each other, the noise ringing in your ears.

Then, your mare bolts blindly, as fast as her hooves can carry her she runs for it. You’re unprepared for the action, it unseats you and you’re sent hurtling toward the hard ground. You land with a thump, winded from the impact, you cry out but no one can hear you. The sharp stones dig into the flesh of your palms as you brace yourself on your hands, desperate to get up, you need to get out of here.

Again, the howls carry on the wind, whispering around you, it’s coming closer.

You claw your way out of the mud, it’s tacky and sticks to your clothes, to your hands - weighing you down. You wish it would swallow you up, you wish the rain would wash you away down the ravine, maybe it would carry you somewhere better.

It’s been simmering for the longest time - your frustration. Perhaps this is just the tipping point, Hosea speaks about a different life too often, it leaves you wondering.

What would you do without them?

As much as you don’t want to, you rise to a shaky stand, still pelted by the heavy rainfall, you need to get back to camp. You whistle, or try to, “come on girl!” You bellow, all you can hear is the storm and the faint sound of the predators that loom close.

You walk, and you walk, time slows and you can’t feel anything. Your feet are numb in your boots and you try your best to tuck your hands in between the layers of your clothes but it’s no use, you’re soaked to the skin. Crying seems pointless, weak even, it won’t change your circumstances.

Hopefully your mare is okay. She occupies your current thoughts above all else, she’s too special for you to lose - especially like this. Arthur had given her to you, about two years ago now. He’d ridden into camp on a huge bay stallion you had never seen him ride before, it was the stockiest thoroughbred you thought you’d ever seen - and tethered to the horn of his saddle by a lasso was a small blue roan mare. A Nokota, he’d later told you, he’d seen her while doing business with the Davies twins; Clay and Clive.

“Reminded me of you” he’d said, introducing the two of you, letting you borrow his brushes to groom her. You didn’t know what to say. “She’s beautiful” you had muttered, flattening your palm to her forehead and stroking up and down. She had gentle eyes, as pale and blue as her coat, but her mane and tale were as black as ebony. Arthur stayed close, observing the two of you, trying to make it look like he was cleaning his saddle. “What’re you gonna name her?”he’d asked, shooting you a sidewards glance, you’d barely needed any time to consider your answer. “Iris”.

It might have sounded strange, but it only hit you later on down the line what this signified. Arthur hadn’t rustled Iris or acquired her at the expense of another man’s life. She hadn’t been the byproduct of a coach robbery gone wrong nor had her previous owner been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d purchased her. Maybe the money he used to pay for her wasn’t as honest as it could be, but he’d still paid for her. And a pretty penny no doubt. She was your most prized possession. You had never had a horse of your own before, you weren’t really encouraged to ride out or tag along until more recent times. You’d always just used one of the cart horses if you really needed to, but now she was yours. Your own mount and your own saddle. You could ride off of the edge of the earth if you really wanted to - you technically had the means to do so. Just not the freedom.

Now, Iris was gone. Scared and lost and running blind. Your stomach turned, a wave of crippling nausea running through you.

How had this all gone so wrong?

You start to cry, your vision now more blurred then it had been a second ago. The wind and the rain still spat at you so harshly it felt as though it were burning your skin. It’s so dark, even the stars in the sky do little more then remind you that you haven’t suddenly gone blind all together.

The second your boot hits a stone and your ankle rolls, that’s when you give up all together. You don’t try to catch yourself as you fall. The earth is wet under your palms, your knees sink into the soil and even though you don’t think it humanly possibly - it sends you even colder.

Then there it is again, when the wind sweeps through you and rustles your hair, it brings with it the eerie sound of the predators that lurk. They’re toying with you, following you, not that you would be much of a fight for them - easy pickings. Your fight or flight wants to kick in but the energy has died in your veins, adrenaline long since drained. Then, you swear you hear the rustling of tall grass and the lapping of jowls, your eyes are already closed and your body limp, you can’t do anything now. You try to think of something else, anything else, something to pull you away from here.

Arthur. It’s always Arthur.

There’s nothing else that could bring you comfort here, perhaps Iris, but all you want is Arthur.

From the boy you’d first met when you were 12 and he was 15; to the young man, who at 19 years old covered his eyes with his balaclava when sucking venom from a snake bite in your thigh when you’d managed to get split up from the rest of the gang - he didn’t speak to you for hours after. Then all of a sudden he’s 30 and you’re 27 and you’ve both managed to live completely separate lives despite being stuck in the same place together for all of that time.

You’ve watched him fall in love twice, that you know of, he’d had a son - a real family. Even after the tragedy, he’d had Mary and her brother, something closer to a family than Dutch and the gang would ever be. You’d watched with jealousy in your veins and a heartache in your chest, wishing you could have what he did.

Yet, he comes back again. Never able to leave Dutch’s side - a misplaced loyalty.

Years later, you’re 30 now, and you’re sure it’s too late for you. You were born into nothing and you’d die as nothing, with no blood of your own, a sad shallow grave along the roadside to be forgotten about.

Arthur had always been special to you, an unspoken bond between the two of you that had never been that of family. It had never stemmed from love a brother shows a sister and vice versa, maybe when you were both really young. But as you blossomed into a woman, that came with everything else along with it, your role within the camp changed and Arthur hated every fucking minute of it. He’d keep you at the camp if he could, always making sure the other girls volunteered first. “They’ll bring in more money” he’d huffed to Dutch, glaring at his boots. That had hurt at first, before you realised his true motives, before you’d broken his trust entirely and read his journal.

He’d dropped it by a creek the gang used to be camped close to, the book splayed open as it lay on the ground. You’d ridden out to wash up, untacked Iris so she could cool off and graze the standing hay nearby. When you’d first picked it up, you’d landed on a sketch of the exact creek you were standing next to, the shading was incredible and the true depth that Arthur had captured in his drawing surprised you. You turned the page curiously, mouth opening in surprise as you caught sight of yourself. A rough sketch, clearly unfinished. You were in your nightwear, the threadbare sleeves hung off your shoulders and the back of the garment rode up because it was way too small for you, leaving your thighs exposed. He’d captured you mid-task, scraping your hair out of your face, pinning it back messily in frustration. This is how he saw you. Every freckle and scar and mark, he’d captured every last little detail.

You’re glad he can’t see you now. Face down in the mud, scratched and bloodied and bruised, crying as your nails scrape into the dirt, losing your grip on everything.

Something draws close and you hold your breath, it snarls. Whatever it is growls and you squeeze your eyes shut. But even through closed eyes you see the flash of light through your eyelids, your body jumps when the gunshot rings out closer than you’d like it to. Your mind thinks it’s you who’s been shot, everything feels numb, as if time has stopped. Someone had seen you half dead by the side of the road, perhaps, thought to put you out of your misery.

Then there’s another gunshot that rings out and a choked half-bark half-cry bleeds into your ears. “Get outta’ here!” A familiar voice shouts and there’s the sound of a horses hooves stomping the ground and you can feel as it shakes the earth beneath you.

A pair of boots land in the mud beside you and then there’s warm hands touching you, pulling you upright, holding you close as you fall to dead weight in their grip.

“Hang in there” Arthur whispers, not sure wether you can hear him or not, his horse shuffles and snorts, clearly agitated. “Easy there boy” he chides, patting the horses thick neck.

You’re not entirely coherent, you can’t hold yourself up, your head spins when Arthur hoists you up, lifting you until your width ways - stretched half across his saddle and half across his horses neck. He’s quick to pull himself up, not taking his hand off of you for even a second. He adjusts himself, till there’s enough space for you to fit between his body and the horn of his saddle, albeit not comfortably but sturdy enough that he can get you somewhere warm and dry as quickly as possible. He tucks you as close as possible, not minding the dirt and blood you must be getting all over him, he pulls you close and holds his arm around you. His chin settles on top of your head. “Let’s get you outta’ here”.

~

The storm is violent.

It rages on and on through the night, shaking houses and felling trees. Water runs like vast roaring rivers down the trails. Winding down hillsides and collecting in the ravines. Rising and rising until it’s deep enough to drown, a deep muddy brown in colour.

Arthur rides like he’s never ridden before. He’s been chased by gunfire and tasted death, sour and metallic in his mouth. His life has never been worth more then this, more than you, he tries to keep you sturdy against him but he’s sure he feels the way you stiffen against him. He’s running out of time, it’s been hours since he’s seen you, he should have never told you to stay away.

Something breaks away in his chest, a small piece, because if he loses you- then what?

Another thing gone, wasted. Someone else he couldn’t keep safe, he couldn’t save. Eliza, Isaac, Jenny, Davey, Mac…need it go on?

You’d be the last part of his sanity. His head and his heart gone too if you succumb to the cold. A part of himself he’s able to hide away in you. It’s you who brings it out of him, tucked away in your pocket, kept safe until he’s close enough to draw it out again. A spark, a small flame, something that ignites when the two of you are in close proximity, a line of static that connects you both. He’s not sure where he’d be without you; those roots, the foundation that keeps him grounded when it would be so easy for him to just simply crumble away.

He’d been a boy when you met him. He’d watched as you waved him off glumly, stuck behind at camp stripping stalks of herbs and trimming up cuts of game while he rode out with Dutch and Hosea. He remembers the excitement in your face when you caught sight of their return. Your red cheeks and wide smile, so much smaller than him even at that age. You’d talk his ear off, ask him where he’d been and what he’d stolen.

“Did you see the wild horses again? Hosea told me about them a few mornings ago”. “Did Dutch say anything about us moving on?”. “Are we rich yet?”.

You were annoying back then, like a little shadow, hanging off his every word.

Then the two of you grew older and you grew apart, he would ride out for days at a time looking for a good score and eventually you’d stop counting down the days until he returned. The less and less time he spent at camp the more and more he felt like running, like riding for the mountains and never turning back. Then he’d remember, your smile and rosy red cheeks, the innocence in your eyes that he no longer had. He couldn’t leave you there.

Even later in life; after Eliza and Isaac, a mountain climbed and crumbled, as much as it hurt his heart he knew that it was never meant for him. He was never meant to get the good things, same as Mary, too good to be true. She wanted him to change, but he couldn’t lie to her, they both knew what he was. Outlaw, murderer, thief, ruffian. You never looked at him differently for that.

He never felt shaded by you for what he was and what he did, in some way you’re the same, hands as dirty as his just by association. He knows you understand.

Arthur blinks through the rain and shouts, “get on!” He knows his horse can’t go any faster, yet he demands it, digs his spurs into his soaked-muddy coat and prays to a god he’s not sure exists to please make sure you’ll be okay.

Town is closer than camp, from where he’d found you west of there, close to the mountains, he won’t risk the longer ride back to Dutch and Miss Grimshaw. He knows that they’ll have a better idea of what to do for you, but he still can’t bring himself to take the risk and keep you out in this storm any longer. He never slows down, he’d usually have to worry about the townsfolk cursing him for riding through so quick, but they’re all barricaded in. Sheltering from the storm with closed windows and cloths stuffed through the cracks under the doors.

Arthur heads to the hotel; the doctor has barricaded himself in too. He’s quick to dismount and pull you with him, you’re complete dead weight, you keep muttering but he’s not sure you’re awake at all. “Hold on” he catches himself whispering to you, adjusting you in his arms, a bridal carry that in other circumstances- he’d be sure to make a joke of. But this doesn’t feel right, not at all.

He bursts through the doors and the clerk is more than surprised to see him there, he’s sitting by candlelight, reading something. His spectacles almost fall off with the fevour in which Arthur comes barrelling through the door, heaving and leaving a stream of water behind himself with each hurried step he takes closer to the front desk. “Bath and room” his jaw is tense, teeth clenched as he stares the man down. The man shrinks back at Arthur’s presence, nodding profusely as his lips try to convey the words on the tip of his tongue. Arthur pays him no mind, he’s too focused on his task at hand. He steps through the corridor quickly, having stayed at the hotel before, he knows where the baths are.

The man from the front desk doesn’t even attempt to stop Arthur when he comes to the first door, knocking it through with his shoulder, careful not to injure you any further. Inside is a man and a woman, the man is one last garment away from being entirely naked and the woman is pouring what looks to be the final pail of hot water from the burner into the tub. Arthur seethes, “out” he spits coldly. He’s pleased to see the man doesn’t even give it a second thought, scurrying away with almost all of his clothes tucked under his arms.

The girl bows her head low and tries to squeeze between Arthur and the wall behind him to leave but he blocks her. “You stay” he tips his chin, looking down at the girl, she looks barely over the age of eighteen.

She shakes, visibly, swallowing hard when Arthur crosses the room to settle you down into a chair in the corner. The girl doesn’t need to be told what to do, she comes to Arthur’s side, mirroring his movements when he begins to peel away your clothes layer by layer. Out of nowhere, you grab Arthur by his sleeve, it’s so wet in your grip a few icy-cold droplets fall. “Just you” it’s quiet, whispered from pale lips as you open your eyes, he can see it takes almost all of your strength just to blink. The young woman doesn’t need to be told again, she mutters something Arthur doesn’t quite catch and then she’s gone.

You know Arthur, have done for so long, so to see how gentle he is with you - you’re almost taken aback. You’ve seen how he handles his horses; slow strokes and light pats to the neck, brushed till it looks like they’re bathed in oil, fed just right to keep them fighting fit. He reserves that part of himself, some days you thinks it’s gone, swallowed by the darker part of himself.

The one Dutch created, killing without cause and without thought, life weighed in his palm, likes he’s some god who deserves to decide.

Arthur can be crass and rude, he can be quick to anger and it’s hard to pull him out of it. But he can also be level headed, he’s a problem solver, a leader. He’s realistic in a way that Dutch isn’t, you think he got it from Hosea, his view of the world. Nothing is given, everything is earned, or taken. Arthur is a man who sees the world around him for what it is, he’s never dreamt of much more then the now, he lives each day as it comes. He’d thought about his life when he was younger, dreamt of what he could do if circumstances were different- but they’re not. He’s got a due diligence; he’s responsible for the lives around him, he cares about their survival.

Look where he is now.

Gentle hands. Soft words spoken that are too quiet for you to hear. He treats you like you’re made of glass, easily cracked in the brute strength of his palms. Too nice for him to touch, delicate and rare and too good for him to tarnish.

Warmth envelopes you, kisses your naked skin like summer sunshine. Slowly, feeling returns to your body, in your toes and fingertips. Your head is still pounding and it feels like theres cotton in your ears, but it’s a damn sight better then it had been. You shift in the water, it sloshes up the sides of the tub around you, it’s as you shift that you notice you’re not alone.

You stiffen, Arthur sighs. You crane your neck to look back, you’re squeezed between his thighs but you can tell he’s tried to fit behind you in a way that gives you some distance. It hadn’t exactly worked. He looks exhausted, no doubt your fault, he’d probably been riding out searching for you for hours. You had no idea what time it was.

His eyes are closed and his neck is braced against the side of the tub, face pointed toward the ceiling. Each arm is resting on the tub either side of you, trying to ensure he’s not touching you for the sake of it.

It feels…fine, normal perhaps. The two of you here, it doesn’t feel out of shape. You tell your self it’s logical, why would he pay for two baths, he’s saving himself some coins. That’s all this is, so you try not to let yourself linger on it. You bring your hands to your chest and wring your fingers together. It’s not a cognitive thought, picking away at your skin, you’re absentmindedly staring at the door when Arthur sighs again. The water moves as he does and then his fingers meet your shoulder, he guides you gently till your back meets his chest. Skin to skin. “You think so loud” he says, gently, more gentle then you have ever heard him speak. Even to Iris. He coos at that mare like she’s an infant, he whispers to her like it’s a language only the two of them speak - perhaps that’s true.

You try to bite your tongue but the words spill as the tears do. “I’m sorry” you mutter. He says nothing, merely hums as his thumb traces your shoulder. “I couldn’t find Iris” the little mare had never left your thoughts, Arthur loves her nearly as much as you do, you’re frightened for what he might say. He wets his lips, “she’s the reason I knew to come looking” he admits, shifting slightly, making the water sway. “Little thing came roaring into camp like a bat outta hell” he chuckles ever so slightly, recalling the image of the little silver mare charging into camp like a Calvary stallion - blowing her nostrils and throwing her head. Relief floods through you, Iris was safe, thank the lord above.

Time passes. You’re not sure how much goes by, only when the water enveloping you both becomes tepid does he shift behind you. “Feel better?” he asks, sincerely, you wipe your hands down your face, pressing your fingers into your eyes. You nod, “much better” you say, your tone sounding contradictory, “thank you” you add quickly.

Arthur pushes you off of him, again, very gently. Water rushes off of him as he stands, you do your best to avert your eyes as he crosses your sight in front of you, but his back is turned so what does it matter?

He snatches a cloth wrap that had been sitting on the chair beside the tub, trailing water everywhere he pulls open the door and shouts to the man from the front desk.

You sink further into the water as the man comes to the door, Arthur shifts, obviously trying to keep you away from the man’s eyes. Arthur asks him to retrieve his saddle bag from his horse, and to have his horse taken to the livery stables, inferring he’d pay handsomely for such things. The man shakes his hand and scurries away.

~

The bed is comfortable, you sit on the edge of it, staring down at your feet. Thoughts swirl in your mind, you’re still cold somehow, albeit much better. You can feel that you’ll get sick off of the back of all this despite Arthur’s best efforts, but at least you’re not dead. Arthur’s shirt smells just like him, funnily enough, you pull the collar up to your nose; inhaling the scent of gun oil and ginseng, he smells like the great open earth he rides upon.

He’s laying your clothes out on the stairs bannister outside the room, hoping the majority of the water will drop out of them by morning. How his saddle bag hasn’t been totally ruined you’ll never know, the shirt you’re wearing has one damp sleeve but it beats freezing to death.

You’re broken out of your thoughts when Arthur opens the door, you meet his eyes, his chest is bare and his jeans sit low on his hips, he hasn’t bothered tucking them into his boots. You’ve always known how tall and imposing he is, but looking up at him like this makes him seem even more so. He locks the door behind himself and wedges a chair to rest under the door handle, safe as houses and all that. He rounds to the other side of the bed you’re not sitting on, kicking off his boots and from what you think you hear, his jeans go with them. The bed dips and he pulls back the blankets, you get up quickly and blow out the candle on your bedside, shimmying underneath the blankets and settling as he does.

It’s been years since you’d slept in a bed. Sleeping under the stars had always been something you held close to your heart, but when winter and the rains come, you miss sleeping under a solid roof. You close your eyes and your body eases, you feel your spine click as you sink into the lumpy mattress. Arthur interrupts you as you start to get comfortable, he hooks his arm around your middle and pulls you close to him. Till you’re both flush together, your back had been facing him, your folded in the crook of his body. Back to chest, once again. “Much warmer like this” he mutters into your hair, despite everything, he’s so warm. You think to yourself that perhaps he’s getting ill too, his skin shouldn’t be this hot to the touch, surely. You press back into him, admittedly not minding the close proximity, “sure thing, Morgan” you chide, a smile creeping up your face. He grumbles into your throat.

It’s much later, it must be, the storm outside has subsided, the wind no longer howls like a starved wolf and the rain patters slowly against the glass window.

You blink your eyes open but it’s so dark, the only light is that of the moon, bleeding through the rain and through the glass. It’s only the silhouette of him you can see, you’re facing him now, must having turned in your sleep. His arm still holds you close.

His breathing is even, his chest rises and falls, synching with yours, both chests touching as you breathe as one.

You reach up your hand from where it’s tucked between the two of you, laying it across his cheek, feeling his beard and jawline beneath your fingertips. Tracing your thumb over his cheek, a tender touch, one you’re sure he hasn’t felt for many years. It takes you by surprise when his hand comes up to cover your own, not letting you take it away despite how much you try once you realise he’s awake. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, in a voice like melted molasses that’s been left on a windowsill, thick and ropey, his cigarette-smoke rasp only heightens it.

Shaking your head on instinct, you realise he can’t see you, “not really” you whisper, your own voice feeling hoarse now. You’d shouted for Iris for what could have been hours, your tonsils feel like lead. Arthur hums, maybe you imagine it, but you’re sure he shuffles closer. Still not letting you take your hand away from his face, you realise you wouldn’t want to take it away either way, this feels right.

“Arthur?” You test, wondering if he’s fallen asleep. He says your name, he’s awake.

“Thank you” you tell him, trying your best to meet his eyes in the darkness, unable to see him at all. He shifts, almost as if cocking his head, “for what?” He asks. You click your tongue at him. “You saved my life, Arthur” you reiterate, as if he’s forgotten, as if his brains sick and he can’t remember his own name and what day it is. He tsks. “Would die without ya, gotta piece of me in here” he punctuates his slurred words; taking his hand from yours where it lays against his cheek and pressing two fingers to your chest, but his voice is still steady, fighting sleep as it beckons him. It’s unspoken, unwritten, totally chance when the two of you lean closer - somehow able to find each others lips in the darkness.

~

Rain pelts fiercely at the glass windows now.

Yet, you hear nothing but the sound of your own heartbeat as it thumps in your ears.

Arthur kisses you with a palpable hunger, he steals your breath. He’s cradling the side of your face in his hand, angling your chin toward him, allowing him to deepen the kiss. If that’s even possible. You’re both burning up, pressed chest to chest, unable to get any closer to one another. You drape your arm over his shoulder, needing him closer, willing him to melt into you - become one.

Your fingers cart through the hair at the nape of his neck, your nails scratching slightly, he pants into your mouth. Arthur moves from your lips to your jaw, trailing kisses over your skin, gently. “You have no idea how long I’ve though’ta this” he admits, voice dark, husky.

If it’s as long as you have thought about it, then yes, actually - you did have an idea.

Over the years, fleeting moments, as if time stops for you all together. Watching Arthur chop wood during the sickly - sticky summers, noticing the way his muscles flex and ripple when he moves. Listening to him talk to his old mare; her name was Fly, he spoke so softly to her. Cooing her name when he called her to him, chiding her when she nipped at the faces of the other horses she was hitched near, the way his mare wanted for nothing. Spoilt completely rotten.

He even went as far as to turn her out on the plains a few summers ago, she was aging now, too much so to even pull the wagons. He wanted her to live out her days the way he wanted to live out his - free.

You wanted Arthur physically, so much so it was an ache most of the time, so badly you couldn’t stay near him for too long. The way he smelt of earth and ginseng, the sound of his drawling voice, the sharpness of his eyes when he watched you from across the camp. When he showed up once; heaving, sweat slicked and covered in blood, you should have been concerned. Worried even. Yet, you could see the wildness in his eyes, could practically see his pulse jump in his throat, the smell of adrenaline coming off him was too much. You left without a word, returning later with the excuse it was all too much.

Now, now he’s kissing you wildly while he grinds his hips against your thigh and leaves a streak of precum in his wake. His cock is hard and heavy against your skin, a burning touch, scolding. You’re panting into his mouth, raking your nails down his chest, a clear descending path to your intended target. “Fuck” he hisses, blinking hard in the darkness when you reach the wiry thatches of hair at his groin. You kiss him even harder and his thumb presses into your chin, forcing your lips wider, heat blooms in your core when he slides his tongue messily over yours. His cock is wet when it meets your palm, his own fluids coating him as you tease the length slowly a few times. His hips buck into your touch, it’s automatic, seeking the friction. “You don’t know what you do t’me” he heaves, speaking against your lips, kissing between words. You meet him there, kissing him back, “show me” you whisper into his mouth.

Then, you’re flattened onto your back, staring into the darkness of the ceiling before you feel Arthur’s chest press against yours, his hips settled in the apex of your thighs. His lips find your throat, scraping the skin, making you hiss. “Please Arthur” you beg, because after waiting all these years, you can’t wait any longer. Arthur grins against your skin, “anythin’ for you darlin’” his lips find yours again, and he kisses you anew. Your hands meet each other around his torso, fingers dipping into the skin of his back, rooting yourself - making sure this is real. Arthur kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like beyond these four walls nothing matters. Not war, not the gang, the Pinkertons, the new world.

Nothing.

Just Arthur and yourself. Alone. Skin to skin.

When he presses the head of his cock against you, there’s little resistance, you’re wetter than you’ve ever been. Even when you’d make yourself cum with your own fingers, pulling the fabric of your bedroll over your head to quell the noise you might make. Biting down against your knuckles as your world explodes, all because of a man, all because of Arthur.

He pushes into you, slowly, steadily as you adjust to him. You’re both panting against one another, inhaling each other, foreheads pressed together as Arthur finally seats himself fully inside of you. “Oh Arthur”you whine. It burns, on the brink of too much, but you’ve waited so long for this. There’s nothing that could ruin it. He grunts, “f-fuck” his chest rises and falls quickly in tandem with your own, pressing together until there is barely room to breathe. He moves, slow to begin with, but his pace soon picks up when he feels your walls ease up around him. Slicking him up, coated in your juices as he fucks into you with meaning and purpose.

This isn’t a sloppy night he chases off the back of beer and whiskey. No, this is more, so much more. His judgement is not clouded nor squandered in booze and adrenaline, here, his thoughts are clear. With you, he sees something he’s never seen before, purpose and reason.

Arthur is cursing in your ear, moaning your name as you clench around his cock. He fucks you with vigour, listening to the wet slap of skin as his hips meet yours.

“Feel so good, sweetheart” he soothes, teeth scraping along the shell of your ear as his hand messes with the buttons on his shirt you’re wearing. The air around you is crisp, but the heat from Arthur’s body is warm against your own, when your breasts bounce free his mouth is busied immediately. “Doin’ so good for me”he whispers, his tongue laps at your nipple and his free hand tweaks the other unattended breast. “Arthur” you hum, arching into his touch, needing more despite having it all.

Your hands find his hair, tugging at the long strands, pushing his face into your chest, you yelp with the sharp sting of teeth.

You would scold him but you’re caught off guard with the way your body reacts to him, walls squeezing his cock even more, gaining yourself a hoarse whimper from his lips. It’s squashed into your flesh.

“Nearly there, sweetheart” he pants, kissing your breasts, then up to your neck and then your jaw, until finally he captures your lips again. You kiss him like this is the last time you’re able to, because, in Arthur’s way of life - it really could be. He continues to fuck you with a steady pace, he’s not chasing release, or pushing you toward your own. He wants to drag this on, as long as he can, savour every second of it. Your nails sink into his back, your body arching into him, meeting his thrusts. It’s close, you feel it, so near your fingertips could touch it. Arthur’s lips never leave yours, even when you need breath, you breathe as one. Chests aching and heaving. As well as breathing, it’s also together that you finish. Arthur only a few seconds after you, having led you there first, angling his hips just perfectly so that they met yours just right. Your walls spasm and clench around him as he cums, you feel like you’re blinded for a second, struggling already in the darkness. You’re not sure how you feel the room spin, even when you can’t see it, your head wobbles.

Arthur is still inside you when he lays onto his back and pulls you with him, cradling you close to his chest, not wanting to lose the proximity yet. Neither of you speak, you’re not sure either of you are able to. You catch your breath and listen to the way Arthur’s heartbeat rings in your skull from where your head lays against him, you don’t want to move. His cock softens inside you and you feel the way his cum leaks out of you, squeezing out from where his cock is still stuffed inside of you. It’s vulgar, dirty even, but you could die happily tomorrow knowing what happened tonight.

You hope Arthur feels the same way.

~

It’s bright.

The buttery sunshine bleeds through the glass in holy rays that stretch across the room, framing the head of the bed in a sunflower glow.

You clench your eyes, it hurts even though your eyes are closed, all you see is yellow.

There’s a pain in the base of your spine and instinctively you stretch, trying to stretch it out. But you find you’re rooted to the bed, a great tree trunk like arm draped across your waist, like the roots of a tree. Unmoving.

As much as last night had felt like a dream, the very real pain in your spine and stomach tells you that it was real, if Arthur’s ironclad hold on you hadn’t already. His chest is glued to your spine, face sloped peacefully against his pillow as he sleeps soundly. You crane your neck, watching, waiting, using this time to just look at him. He’s usually frowning or scowling, or there’s that look on his face you have never been able to pinpoint. That straight face he wears when he’s thinking or trying to look impassive, he looks like that a lot these days.

You catch it when he laughs and he smiles often, when he antagonises Bill or roughhouses with Charles, there’s that part of Arthur that will always be the big brother. A big kid. Partly because he wasn’t really able to be a kid, he had to grow up too quick. You think that’s why he regresses sometimes, it’s where most of his anger stems from, the inability to reason or be reasoned with. No one can blame him for it, because it’s not his fault. It’s circumstance.

“I can feel your eyes woman” he smirks and you blink rapidly, you’d been lost in thought. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, the bastard just knew.

Before you get the chance to say anything, you feel Arthur grow hard against your back. You smirk, leaning back into the touch.

“Well, good mornin’ to you too Arthur Morgan” you bite your lip and feel the way Arthur presses into you. Rubbing his stubbled jaw across your shoulder, the featherlight touch of his lips ghosting your skin. He simply hums, distracted, very slightly jerking his hips so he meets the friction of your skin. You continue to press into him, waiting for him to initiate this, but he doesn’t. He continues kissing your skin, rubbing his jaw against you.

It’s like a match striking, when you reach around and take his cock in your hand, you imagine there is fire in his eyes.

He’s quick, the way he grabs your wrist, almost telling you off. Then he reaching for your knee and hiking it up, almost to your chest, and this time - there is no burn when he seats his cock fully inside of you. You’d heard him spit, lathering up his own cock, easier for him to push into you in one upward jerk of his hips. You moan, as does he, and he fucks you until the sun sits even on the horizon, not giving a shit about anyone else dwelling in the hotel. No one is sleeping in with the two of you there.

Part 2 - read here

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 7: Tell Me That I Won't Feel A Thing]

A/N: Hello besties! Thank you for voting in the poll for Chapter 7. Below are your predictions...let's see how you did! 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is back yay!!!

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Give Me Novacaine” by Green Day.

Word count: 9.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

Billboards ask you as the Tahoe flies across the flat emerald sea of Iowa: Have you heard the good news? Have you been saved? Where will you spend eternity? Are you struggling with same-sex attraction? Do you regret your abortion? Do you fear the Lord? Do you want to end up in Hell?

Aegon snickers, gnawing on a Slim Jim. The sun glare turns his wild hair to gold, etches crinkles into the ruddy skin around his eyes, murky like deep water, oceans you recognize from other corners of the world. “I thought I was already there.”

Jace’s Honda Rebel 300 is left on the shoulder of the highway with its fuel tank uncapped, drained to feed the Tahoe, prehistoric combustion, bottomless mechanical hunger. Rhaena takes over driving so Baela can sit with Jace, touch him, inhale him, convince herself he’s real. Aegon climbs into the passenger’s seat and skips songs on the CD player until he finds the one he wants: In Da Club by 50 Cent. The miles roll by so soft and so infinite that you can’t imagine ever feeling trapped again, warm July air unfurling down the darkest corridors of your lungs, hawks on lifeless power lines and fields dappled with white-tailed deer. And you think: Everything will be better now.

You cross the Missouri River and into Nebraska at Plattsmouth, which—according to a plaque mounted on the outskirts of town—the Lewis and Clark Expedition passed through over two centuries ago. Rhaena follows Aegon’s directions to cut between Lincoln and Omaha, avoiding the roiling wastelands of the cities and keeping well north of Cooper Nuclear Station, where in the absence of a successful manual or computerized shutdown before the power grid collapsed, rods of uranium are melting down and irradiating the surrounding area, anemia, cancer, heart disease, radiation sickness, an affliction that eats you alive.

Rhaena takes Nebraska State Route 66 north and then Route 92 due west, lush fields of corn and soybeans and sorghum planted before the dead began to walk, bones of devoured livestock. You stop for the night in a town called Broken Bow, the sky turning the colors of fire and rust and blood, the Tahoe exsanguinated like a man with a slit throat. Every vehicle you pass already has its fuel cap unscrewed; the farther west you go—the scarcer the resources, the longer it’s been since the world began to end—the less the earth will yield to you: less guns, less gasoline, less food, less human settlements scattered across what was once called the frontier. You commandeer a two-story house: white wood, wraparound porch, a long gravel driveway that winds like a snake. There is a small cornfield and a barn, both of which you sweep for zombies before making yourselves at home. You try not to think about what happened to the family that used to live here.

Helaena lights candles, Luke and Rhaena distribute bowls and silverware, Aemond and Rio gather kindling for the woodstove, Daeron keeps watch on the porch, Aegon picks all the Twizzlers out of a mixed bag of Hershey’s candy for Jace. There is a 12-pack of Ramen noodles in the pantry, gallons of water in the cellar, and a pot large enough to cook it all in one batch. Cregan takes Ice and disappears into the cornfield for half an hour at dusk—something none of the rest of you would ever consider—and reappears with an opossum that he’s nearly decapitated with his axe. He butchers it and you brown cubes of meat in a sauté pan placed directly on the glowing embers. The others are horrified and won’t eat a single bite until you do. It’s the first real food you’ve had since you left Saratoga Springs, and you feel satiated in a way you had forgotten existed.

In honor of Jace’s resurrection, some revelry is in order. There are bottles of Grey Goose vodka in a kitchen cabinet, and Aemond allows a two drink maximum for anyone eligible to participate: Baela is too pregnant, Daeron is too young, Aemond himself is too vigilant, too self-sacrificial, too indoctrinated into the religion of his own martyrdom.

“Daddy loved his screwdrivers,” Cregan says. “I remember being five or six and taking a big gulp of one thinking it was Sunny D or Tang or something. Lord almighty, was that a shock!” He guffaws, then inspects the pantry, scratching at the dark stubble on his cheeks. “We ain’t got nothing like orange juice though.”

“Mama made hers with Hawaiian Punch.” You point: there are several jugs of it on the floor between boxes of Pop-Tarts and Welch’s Fruit Snacks and Cheddar Whales, red like crushed blackberries or fresh blood.

Cregan grins at you over his brawny shoulder. “That’ll work, Miss Chips.”

Luke and Rhaena have first watch, Rio and Aegon will take the second. You are blessedly unburdened tonight. This house is big enough for you to get your own room; you climb the staircase with Grey Goose vodka burning in your throat, your head warm and dizzy, a sensation like freefalling as you lie down on the bed.

I left them, you think, the walls spinning around you, echoes of Mama’s voice through the phone as Rio stood there nodding, encouraging you to hang up. I left them and I never looked back. Can someone commit such an act of ancestral betrayal without incurring a curse?

You are still considering this when you feel Aemond’s weight on the mattress and fold into him, the world going dark and hushed and harmless.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I think it’s safe,” you tell Aemond between sighs, his lips on your throat, his hand between your thighs. Late-morning sunlight slants in through the bedroom windows; goldfinches and blue jays flap by chirping blithely. The dead pillage the misfortunate beasts of the earth, but creatures of the air and water are spared. You can hear geese honking from a distance, and the breeze through the cornfield, and calm indistinct voices beneath the floorboards. You can smell pancakes turning from white to gold in a pan sizzling with Crisco. Cregan must be cooking breakfast in the woodstove.

“How sure are you?” Aemond murmurs, his breath warm on your neck, those small teeth he’s always hiding nipping playfully, and if he leaves marks like stains of ballpoint ink you don’t care. He’s whisked every scrap of your clothing away. Beneath him you are bare and helpless and needing more.

“Like…eighty percent sure.”

“I’ll pull out.”

“Like Jace did?”

He laughs and kisses your mouth, not just ravenous but wild like a storm, and all the rest of the world goes quiet. Your ankles are linked around him, his hips rocking with yours. He is wearing only his boxers, black plaid from a looted Walmart, apocalypse chic. “Hopefully better than that.”

“Just try your best. I trust you. I’m willing to risk it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s worth it to me.” I could be dead in nine months, he could be dead in nine months. I’m not wasting the time we have left.

“It’s your decision. You would be most affected by the consequences.” He draws away and glances down. “I want to look at you.”

“Ohhh.” You stall. “I’ve been trimming with scissors by candlelight. It’s a hack job.”

“I won’t mind.” He grins. “You don’t mind my hack job of a face.”

“I love your face,” you say as you skim your fingerprints down the length of his scar. And then, when he raises an eyebrow roguishly: “I didn’t break any rules. I didn’t say I love you, just your face. I’m totally using you for your face. Your personality is terrible.”

He snickers, kisses you goodbye, retreats to your hips and pushes your thighs apart as you cover your face and whimper, nervous, exhilarated. And then his lips are on you and the trepidation melts away, puddles pooling and then evaporating, and you have a vision of being home again, shivering and dripping in front of the crackling flames of the woodstove after playing outside in the snow and waiting for the fire to take the cold away. Now the fire is growing over you like ivy, tendrils snaking through veins and leaves opening in your lungs, bones vanishing, muscles turning pliant and weightless. You can feel Aemond’s fingers pushing into you, a fleeting second of tension and discomfort, and then a fullness that is delectable, irresistible, maddening.

“Come back,” you plead, and when he does you clasp his face with both hands, kissing him deeply as his fingers remain inside you, thrusting and bathed in your wetness. You’re finally ready for him, you have to be, you need him so badly: like you’re dying of thirst, like you’re running out of air. “Now, Aemond, please. I want all of you.”

And he wants it too. His boxers are gone and he’s positioning himself between your legs, his tongue in your mouth, one hand cradling your jaw as the other guides his cock to where you are slick and aching and aware of an emptiness that has never felt so dire.

He’s so big…

But you are determined to take all of him. You don’t care if there’s pain, if there’s fear. You want to feel what it’s like to be with him before it’s too late.

Aemond presses himself against you, rolls his hips cautiously…and nothing happens. He is a bit more forceful. There is immense pressure, then the beginning of a stretching that is sharp, searing, dreadful, unfamiliar in a way that is completely disorienting. You gasp before you can stop yourself; a wince ripples across your face too quickly to camouflage. Aemond shakes his head and climbs off you, settling beside you on the bed.

“Fuck,” you exhale in frustration, slapping a palm down on the mattress. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand why…why I’m like this…”

“Shh,” Aemond soothes, kissing you. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll help you finish and then we can try again later.”

“Why isn’t this easier?”

“You’re just nervous,” he says gently, smoothing your hair back from your face, like it’s no big deal, like he’s pointing out a bird or a rabbit or the shape of a cloud.

“I don’t feel nervous.”

“It’s not always conscious, sometimes the body reacts without the mind even being aware of it. You tense up and things become…more challenging. But fortunately for us, the treatment is very enjoyable. We just keep messing around and working up to it until one day you’re so aroused and so relaxed that I can glide in without any discomfort whatsoever, and then your body adjusts to this glorious new experience and you aren’t so nervous anymore.”

“Can’t you just…you know…sorry, this isn’t very romantic, but like…shove it in?”

“I could, sure,” Aemond says. “If I was a horrible person. And then you’d learn to associate sex with pain, which would just exacerbate the situation.”

“The problem, you mean.”

He smiles patiently. “You aren’t a problem. We’ll figure it out, we have time.”

Do we? You stare morosely up at the ceiling, shadows of clouds, shades of wings. “I should have hooked up with that Marine at Corpus Christi. Then I’d have practice. I was so afraid of giving a man the power to hurt me or get me pregnant or otherwise ruin my life, but I didn’t know I’d meet you one day. And now I just want everything to be easy for us, and it isn’t.”

“Hey.” Aemond turns your face towards his. “For me, you are…” He struggles to decide on the words, his eye drifting to the window, sunlight turning the blue of his iris to a shallow, glass-clear river. “You’re like an island, and everything else is a sea of poison, and violence, and catastrophically fucked up situations, and when we’re alone together it all goes away for a little while. The world gets quiet. It’s never been like that for me before. I don’t mind if it takes time for us to figure this out. I just want to be with you.”

“What happens when we get to Nevada, and you’re supposed to turn south for the Bay Area while I go north to Oregon?”

Aemond shrugs, but his expression is contemplative. “I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe we’ll all stay together and go to one place, then the other. If Odessa is safe, I can bring my parents, Criston, and Grandfather there. If it isn’t, we can bring Rio’s family south and live in California in that beach house on the cliff.”

“I never thought I’d set foot in a mansion.”

“I never thought I’d eat opossum.”

You laugh and curl up against him, resting your head and a palm on his chest. “How was it?”

“Not too bad, actually. Kind of like dark meat chicken. A little gamey, but I like lamb and venison, so that’s fine with me.”

“Just wait until you try bear.”

“Bear?!”

There is a knock at the bedroom door. Luke’s bashful voice is muted through the wood. “Aemond?”

“Yeah?” Aemond replies impatiently.

This was not an invitation, but Luke doesn’t seem to know that. He opens the door, and as he does Aemond throws the blanket over you so you’re covered, leaving himself completely exposed.

Luke begins: “I’m really sorry, I didn’t want to bother you, but…” His eyes go wide. “Oh, you’re like, all the way naked.” He turns and stares at the wall to be polite. “If it’s a bad time, I could come back in five minutes. Do you need more than five minutes? Wait, that was rude, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure you can last way longer than five minutes…um…”

Aemond sighs. “What’s wrong, Luke?”

“Jace is sick.”

“Sick?” Aemond sits up straighter, his eye narrowing. “Sick how?”

“He’s been puking since he woke up.”

You and Aemond exchange a startled glance as you clutch the edges of a blanket patterned with wild horses. Illness, virus, plague, curse.

“He hasn’t been bitten or anything,” Luke says quickly. “So it can’t be…you know…that. And he and Baela don’t seem that worried. But you should probably take a look at him.”

Aemond nods, less alarmed now. “I agree. Can I get those five minutes first?”

Luke smiles. “Yeah. See you downstairs.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

You look to Aemond. “Why—?”

He yanks the blanket away and drags you towards him. “I said I was going to help you finish,” he says, grinning, a hand slipping between your thighs.

You bite at his lips when he kisses you and tease: “I don’t need your help.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But it’s better when I’m here.”

And he’s right; it is.

~~~~~~~~~~

Daeron is out on the front porch sharpening sticks into arrows and using goose feathers for fletching, attaching them to the wood with a tube of Gorilla Glue that Helaena found for him. Helaena herself is presently floating through the house—soundlessly, ethereally, traceless like a ghost—and partaking in what you all call “apocalypse shopping,” pilfering the clothes and accessories of the former occupants. She seems to know everyone’s sizes without needing to ask. Aegon, Rio, and Cregan are sitting in the living room and eating pancakes off paper plates, carelessly spilling Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup on hideous 1970s couches ornamented with scenes of pheasants and autumn leaves. Down on the Turkish-style area rug, Ice is merrily chomping her way through a stack of burnt pancakes.

“So Cregan,” Rio says, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. “What did you do before the whole zombie situation?”

“I was a lumberjack.”

“No way!”

“Yes sir. I cut down trees for the power company.”

“What a coincidence,” Rio says around a mouthful of pancakes. “I was an electrician!”

“Well how about that? We oughta go into business together once the world straightens itself out. Where’d you work?”

“All over. Wherever the Navy sent us.”

Cregan sets his fork down on his plate. “You were enlisted?”

“Yeah, me and Chips both. That’s how we met.”

Cregan, much to Rio’s surprise, seizes his hand and shakes it soberly. “Thank you very kindly for your service.”

“No problem,” Rio replies, then turns to Aegon. “No gratitude from you, huh?”

“I showed my gratitude when I let you have the last pancake, you ogre…”

In the only bedroom on the first floor, down a hallway and towards the back of the house, Jace looks worse than you expected. He is heaving into a reusable plastic popcorn bucket, gluey ropes of saliva dangling from his lips; his skin is pale and bloodless, his dark curls damp with sweat. Baela is perched beside him on the bed and holding a wet washcloth to the back of his neck. Rhaena and Luke are loitering anxiously in the doorway, watching Aemond to determine if they should panic.

Jace casts you a bitter glance. “You poisoned me with your poor people food.”

“There’s nothing wrong with eating opossum,” you say, somewhat defensively.

Aemond feels his forehead. “That wouldn’t give you a fever. And everyone else is fine.”

“Maybe I’m extra sensitive. My digestive system has higher standards. I’m built different.” Jace resumes retching into the bucket.

Baela tells Aemond: “He can’t keep anything down. There’s nothing left in him, but he’s still so sick…it has to be a stomach flu, right?”

“Who would he have caught it from?” Luke asks, and Baela doesn’t have an answer.

“Stand up,” Aemond orders Jace when his wave of nausea abates. “Strip down.”

“Aemond, he wasn’t bitten,” Baela says. “I saw his whole body last night. He doesn’t have any scratches or bruises or anything.”

“Fine. But I want to see for myself.”

Jace stumbles out of the bed, pushing away Baela’s hands as she tries to stop him. “Okay, Nick Fury. If you wish to gaze upon the goods, I won’t deny you. I’m not shy.” Aemond rolls his eye. You turn around to give Jace privacy. “What’s the matter, Chips? The only dick you’re interested in belongs to Mike Wazowski over there?”

“Jace,” Baela says, but she’s chuckling. Amused, you stare at a picture on the wall—a haloed Jesus guiding a flock of lambs—as Jace sheds his clothing and follows Aemond’s instructions: lift your arm, turn around, show me the bottoms of your feet.

“No bites,” Aemond confirms, deep in thought. “But the symptoms…”

“It’s not that, Aemond, I’m telling you,” Jace insists, rasping breaths between each clause. “Listen, I got sick when I was alone, before I found you guys again. My stomach, my head. Maybe it’s the same thing now. It didn’t last long, and I thought I was over it, but I guess not.”

“People don’t get better and then worse again after they’ve been bitten,” Rhaena observes softly. “They just get worse.”

Jace lies back down on the bed, his face crumbling with pain. Baela uses the wet washcloth to cool his cheeks and neck. “My head hurts so fucking bad…”

“Because you’re dehydrated,” Aemond says.

“Helaena brought pills, but every time I try to take one I throw it up before it can start working.” There is a gurgling sound in his guts, and then a horrified expression. “Baela, I gotta get outside again.” She and Luke immediately swoop in, grab one arm each, and usher him out of the bedroom, through the back door of the farmhouse, and into the cornfield to allow him some semblance of dignity.

Rhaena gives you and Aemond an awkward smirk. “Helaena found Jace a 24-pack of Angel Soft toilet paper in the basement. So there’s some good news.”

“He needs electrolytes,” Aemond says. “We can’t let him get so dehydrated that his kidneys shut down. IV fluids aren’t an option. Pedialyte would be the next best thing, Gatorade or Powerade if that’s all we can find.”

“We passed a pharmacy on our way here,” Rhaena recalls. “It’s only a mile back, I think.”

Aemond nods. “Then that’s where I’m going,” he says, and walks out of the room.

You say as you follow him: “I want to go with you.”

“No.” Aemond points to Rio, who is now playing Uno with Aegon on the coffee table in the living room. “You and I are going to a pharmacy to get Pedialyte for Jace so he doesn’t die.”

“Cool,” Rio says, standing and fetching his Remington shotgun from where he propped it against the wall. “What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. Maybe food poisoning.”

Aegon says, a hand pressed to his heart: “Personally, I loved the opossum.”

You stare defiantly up at Aemond. “If Rio is going, I have to go too.”

“Aww, so you can protect me?” Rio teases fondly, patting your back with one monstrous palm, an unintentional battering.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Rio looks at Aemond. Aemond looks at you, touching his chin agitatedly. “You are stressing me out.”

“I’m the best shot. I want to be there in case anything happens.”

“Fine, okay, whatever you want. Just stay near Rio.”

“That’s the idea.”

“A pharmacy?” Aegon asks excitedly. “Can I go?”

“No,” Aemond snaps, and continues out onto the porch. In the gravel driveway, Cregan and Daeron are kneeling by the Tahoe and inspecting the front tire on the driver’s side. “What’s wrong now?” Aemond asks, exasperated.

“Got a flat,” Cregan says. “The little fella here noticed it.”

Daeron is mortified. “Please don’t call me that.”

Aemond peers around mistrustfully, out at the road, into the cornfield. “Someone sabotaged us?”

Cregan shakes his head and taps the tire. “Naw, we just ran over a nail yesterday. You can see it right here. A big one too, a masonry nail, I suspect.”

“Can you fix it?” Rio asks.

“I think so. I saw a jack and a lug wrench hanging up on the wall in the barn, now I just need a new tire, a real one. A spare wouldn’t do us much good, not with all the weight we’re carrying. It’d pop in twenty miles.” Cregan gestures to the main road, but westward, the opposite direction from the pharmacy. “Don’t remember seeing a tire place on our way in. Figured I’d try the other direction. I’ll walk ‘til I find a shop or a truck with the right kind of tires to steal from, whichever comes first. Can’t change a tire on gravel, though. I’ll have to drive the Tahoe out to the road and fix it there. I’m gonna need Rhaena’s keys.”

There is an uneasy lull as Aemond studies him. You, Rio, Daeron, and Aegon—who is lingering on the front porch, not yet ready to admit defeat—glance between them apprehensively. Ice is rolling around in the gravel, coating her grey fur with dust. “How do I know you won’t take off without us?”

Cregan’s face goes dark. His brow, heavy and furrowed, settles low over his eyes. “Look buddy, I’ve done a lot of things for you and your people that I didn’t have to. And now I’m fixing the Tahoe so it can take you west, someplace you decided we’re going. If you don’t trust me, do it yourself. Kill your own opossum. Change your own flat tire. But you can’t, can you? Just like I can’t shoot a zombie straight through the eye or tell you how to cure that sick boy in there. We’ve all got jobs here. Let me do mine.”

Aemond glowers at Cregan, knowing he’s right. Daeron averts his eyes; Rio, grinning, eats a handful of Cheddar Whales from a pocket of his cargo shorts. You lay a palm on Aemond’s forearm. “Aemond…he’s trying to help.”

“Sure,” Aemond replies crossly.

“You want collateral?” Cregan says. “Take my dog.” He whistles, and Ice scampers to his side. He points to you. “Go on, princess.” Ice obediently trots over to stand with you, shaggy ash-colored fur, bestial amber eyes like a rattlesnake’s. “She’ll look after you on your way to the pharmacy and back. And if the Tahoe and I have mysteriously vanished upon your return, you can eat her for dinner.”

“You don’t want a warning if you’re about to run into zombies?” Rio asks.

Cregan chuckles as he picks up his axe off the gravel. “Don’t you worry about me. We haven’t heard a peep since we got into town, and I’m just going a little ways up the road. Any less than ten of those abominations, and I can take care of myself.” He gives you and Rio a parting salute and strides into the farmhouse to collect the Tahoe keys from Rhaena.

Aemond turns to Daeron. “Stay here, keep watch. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

Daeron nods, glancing to where his compound bow rests on the front porch. “Got it.”

“Aegon will help you.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says. “I want to go to the pharmacy too.”

Aemond is losing what remains of his patience. “No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“Then can you at least bring me something back?”

Rio is confounded. “What do you need?”

“You know…” Aegon gestures vaguely. “Percocet, Vicodin, Oxy, maybe some of that cough syrup with the codeine in it—”

“Grow the fuck up,” Aemond flares, and Aegon falls silent. “You’re thirty years old. Take some goddamn responsibility for something, for anything. I have to go to the pharmacy, Cregan has to fix the Tahoe, someone has to stay here with Daeron to help protect Jace and Baela, and Luke and Rhaena, and Helaena too. Just shut up and do the right thing. You have to start acting like an adult. Who do you think is in charge if I get killed? I’ve never for a single day of my life had the luxury of making selfish choices, and now I feel like I’m not even allowed to die. Leaving everyone else with you would be like leaving them with nobody.”

Aegon gazes up at him, not offended but childishly, mortally wounded. His oceanic eyes are huge and glistening. “But you’re not going to die before me.”

“That’s not the point,” Aemond pitches back, cutting, caustic. Then he starts down the long gravel driveway towards the road. You give Aegon a small, apologetic half-smile and then follow after his younger brother, Ice loping alongside you.

Rio thumps Aegon encouragingly on one shoulder. “See you soon, Honey Bun.” And Aegon watches the three of you disappear, standing in the dazzling midday light with his arms folded over his chest and his hair in hie face, kicking at the gravel with the Sperry Bahama sneakers he once wore on yachts and golf courses.

“Please try to be nice to him,” you tell Aemond when you’re far enough away to be out of earshot. Rio is humming a song you don’t immediately recognize—probably Enrique Iglesias—and acting like he’s not listening. “You don’t know how much longer any of us have. And if that was the last thing you ever said to him, you’d feel awful about it.”

“You have no idea what it was like being his brother. Since I was born all I’ve done is try to plug the holes he blasts into ships. But there’s always water on the floor, I’m never done bailing it out. He needs to learn how to do things for himself.”

“Yes, he does. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. He would never intentionally take anything from you. He’ll grow into his purpose, whatever that is.”

“He needs to do it faster,” Aemond says harshly, and you walk the rest of the way without speaking, listening for snarling or lurching footsteps, hearing nothing but birdsong and wind whispering through leaves.

The pharmacy—a diminutive family-owned business, not a chain—has been ravaged. The glass of the large bay window has been broken out and the shelves looted, empty containers and wrappers littering the floor, crystalline shards threatening to gash, stab, infect.

“Stay out here with the dog,” Aemond tells you. Ice is panting calmly, her ears relaxed, her strange yellowish eyes taking in the scenery without any concern. “If she gets her paws sliced up, Cregan will have yet another accusation to levy against me.”

“You’re going to have to get used to him.”

“Not much of an adjustment for you, it seems,” Aemond says, then steps through the shattered window, glass crunching beneath his shoes. Rio gives you a wink and goes after him. They rummage through the remaining merchandise, strewn about randomly and interspersed among trash. Aemond peeks behind the counter where pharmacists once filled prescriptions and climbs over it, searching for any bottles or boxes that were left behind.

“Sorry guys, no condoms,” Rio announces, then laughs at his own joke.

“Be careful,” you urge from outside. “Look underneath, check the bottom racks. Rio? Rio, down low, check them!”

“Relax, ain’t nothing going on in here. It’s silent as the grave.” He laughs again. “Get it? As the grave.”

“Aemond?”

“I’m fine,” he tells you as he squints to read medicine bottles.

“Okay, okay,” Rio says, squatting to examine the shelves closest to the cluttered floor. “I’m checking all the racks. There’s nothing scary under the racks. Happy now?”

“Very. Helaena said something that freaked me out.”

“She can be a bit of an enigma,” Aemond admits. He is taking a tiny box from a drawer to keep.

“Oh, we got Pedialyte!” Rio says, yanking a jug of pink fluid from a pile of debris. “You think Jace likes strawberry?”

Aemond hurries over to help him hunt for more. “Yeah. It’s like a Twizzler, right?”

Ice noses your hand and whimpers softly. You look down at her. “What?”

She whirls and canters around the side of the pharmacy, then returns to make sure you’re keeping up. You go after her, slow and wary, a hand on one of your Beretta M9s. There’s nothing of note to be found in the narrow, shadowy alleyway other than an overflowing dumpster and two skeletons stripped of every shred of fabric and flesh; even the bones were licked clean.

You turn to Ice. “Did I need to see this?” She whines and shifts her weight from foot to foot, ears perked up. Something else? You look down the alleyway. Far behind the pharmacy and the shops that surround it is a church on a jade green slope, old-fashioned, white wood and a belltower. There is a cemetery beside it, and amidst the small grey blurs of headstones are… “Oh,” you breathe. “So that’s where the rest of the town is.”

The graveyard is full of limp, swaying figures that can only be zombies. You are far away and draped in shadows; you retreat back to the pharmacy without any indication that you’ve been spotted, Ice trailing close behind. Aemond and Rio are climbing out of the window just as you arrive. They are each carrying three jugs of Pedialyte in various flavors.

“Where the hell’d you go?” Aemond says; but he sounds more relieved than irritated.

“There’s a church about an eight of a mile away. And there are a lot of zombies in the cemetery.”

Rio sets his Pedialyte down on the sidewalk and reaches for the Remington 12 gauge hanging over his shoulder by its leather strap. “Okay, let’s go clear them out.”

“No, I mean a lot. Like a hundred.”

He freezes. “Oh.”

“We should leave town,” you say.

“While Jace is puking and shitting everywhere? You want to be stuck in a car with that?”

Aemond is thinking, toying with the little box you saw him pick up earlier. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

“What’s that?” you ask him.

He shows you the label. “Injectable morphine. All the pills were gone, but I found one vial of this, and I have syringes in my medical kit. It doesn’t need to be refrigerated. It should still be useable.”

“For Baela?” For when she delivers the baby?

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Just in case.” Then he looks at both you and Rio meaningfully. “Don’t tell Aegon I have this.”

“We won’t,” Rio promises. And Ice begins trotting back towards the farmhouse, as if trying to rush you along.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe is at the mouth of the long gravel driveway, still up on a hand-cranked scissor jack. The tire appears to be new, but the lug nuts haven’t been tightened, and the wrench is nowhere to be found.

“Cregan?” Rio says uncertainly, peeking through the cornstalks as they bend in the wind. “Hey, Cregan? Aemond’s sorry he was a bitch to you earlier. He wants you to return ASAP and do manual labor for him.” Aemond grimaces; Rio beams in reply. But Cregan does not appear.

You can hear them long before you reach the farmhouse, muffled chaotic chattering, raised voices and rushing footsteps. As you ascend the steps of the front porch, Rhaena bursts through the door.

“Thank God you’re back,” she says; there is blood on her hands. “It’s Jace, he…he…come look at him. Aemond, you have to do something. He’s sick, he’s really sick. He’s bleeding.”

“From where?” Aemond asks, urgent, bewildered.

“From everywhere,” Rhaena replies, and beckons for him to follow.

The bedsheets Jace is swathed in are blooming with crimson, flowers of doomed gore. Blood drips from his nostrils and his eyes; when he retches into the popcorn bucket, clots of pink and red spew out. Everyone is gathered around him and speaking at the same time, except Helaena. She is crouched on the floor of the hallway just outside his room, her arms wrapped around her bent knees and her face stricken. Ice curls up beside her.

Above the other voices, Baela screams at Aemond, a desperate horrified moan: “What’s wrong with him?!”

Aemond pushes by the others and feels Jace’s forehead, then grabs his wrist to measure his pulse. As Aemond’s fingers tighten, Jace’s skin rips beneath them, the top layer sliding off and leaving only glistening, raw pink. Jace howls, tears of blood streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t know,” Aemond says, his voice unsteady.

“What the fuck do you mean you don’t know?!” Baela shouts back. “You’re a doctor! Fix him!”

“It hurts, Aemond,” Jace gasps, fresh blood on his teeth. When Baela touches his hair, locks of it fall out into her hand.

“He’s turning, right?” Rio says to you. “This is what happened to Snowflake, the blood and the skin and everything—?”

“He wasn’t bitten!” Luke insists, positioned in front of Jace’s bed as if he’s guarding it.

“I don’t care if we can’t find a bite mark, he’s decomposing for Christ’s sake, what the fuck else could it be?!”

Daeron returns with more blankets and towels. Aegon grabs a strawberry Pedialyte out of Rio’s grasp and tries to help Jace drink it. Cregan is muttering: “I ain’t never seen anything like this…”

Decomposing, you think dizzily. He wasn’t bitten, but he’s falling apart…what else does that to a person?

Baela cleans blood from his lips, a towel turning from snow to rubies. “Jace, baby, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to help you…”

“Could it be rat poison or something?” Cregan is saying. “Rabies? Mad cow disease? Ebola?”

“How the fuck do you think he got Ebola?!” Aemond exclaims. “You think he took a jet to sub-Saharan Africa when he was on his own? Use your brain.”

“I’m just trying to come up with ideas here, doc, and I don’t see you with any bright ones!”

He’s decomposing. He’s decomposing.

And then you remember. You kneel down beside the bed so you can look into his face, so you can make him pay attention. “Jace, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” he replies faintly. He coughs, wet and gurgling. Fresh blood paints his lips. There are blisters beginning to form up and down his arms, you see now, the skin bubbling and separating.

“Jace, do you remember Three Mile Island?”

“What the fuck.” He is baffled, dismissive. “Three Mile what? Huh? What are you talking about…?”

“You’re upsetting him,” Baela says fiercely, tears glittering in her eyes.

But you are determined. “Outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, after we left Fort Indiantown Gap. There were these huge concrete cooling towers. We saw them from the Wawa parking lot.” But he wasn’t there when we talked about radiation. He was still inside searching for guns. “Remember, Jace? Do you remember?”

Now Aemond and Rio are looking at you, petrified, realizing what you must be thinking. No one else understands yet. After a long pause, Jace nods feebly. “Yeah. I remember the towers.”

“Good,” you say, smiling to encourage him. “Okay, this is important. After we lost you at the river, before you found us again, did you see anywhere that looked like Three Mile Island?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs as he stares back at you with glazed, bloody eyes; and Rio sighs and shakes his head. “I drove right by it on the Honda. The sign said Byron.”

And it’s been over for him since that moment.

“Alright, Jace.” You want to touch him, to embrace him or cup his cheek. You know it will only make his suffering worse. “Thank you. That’s all I wanted to ask.” He begins to gag again, and Baela hurries to place the popcorn bucket so it can catch his liquefying organs. You turn around and walk through the doorway.

“What’s happening?” Aegon asks you, hushed voice, frantic eyes. He has followed you to the living room, along with Aemond, Rio, and Cregan. You nod to Aemond. He knows.

“It’s radiation sickness,” Aemond says, low and bleak.

“What?!” Aegon gapes at him. “I mean, are you sure…?”

“It fits all the symptoms. He was in close proximity to a nuclear power plant, something the rest of us have intentionally avoided. If there was a meltdown, there are miles and miles that are poisoned with radiation. Passing by on a motorcycle could definitely result in a lethal dose.”

“Poor guy,” Rio says. “Not a good way to go.”

“No,” you agree. It isn’t.

“So how do you treat something like that?” Cregan asks Aemond.

“It can’t be treated,” Aemond replies tersely. “Not here, not by me, not by anyone. Not even if the world was normal again.”

“What do you mean it can’t be treated?! Everything can be treated nowadays! Cancer, heart attacks, diabetes, hell, my cousin got testicular cancer and he was fine a month later, he even got to keep one of his balls!”

“Radiation sickness can’t be treated. He’s going to die.”

“But how is that possible when—?!”

“I need you to try to not be stupid for five minutes,” Aemond snaps.

You say quietly: “He’s not stupid, Aemond. He just doesn’t know about this.”

“You are always defending him.”

“Because not going to med school isn’t a character flaw.”

Cregan asks mildly, looking at Aemond: “Could you explain it to me?”

“It’s pennies in a jar, man,” Rio says. “Radiation stacks up and at a certain point it kills you. It destroys your DNA and your body falls apart. You can get it just by going near someplace contaminated, and you might not even feel it happen. And there’s no way to undo the damage. The pennies never leave the jar.”

Cregan raises an eyebrow at Aemond. “Was that so difficult?”

Aemond ignores him. “We have to tell Jace,” he says instead.

Back in the bedroom—a mineral stench in the air, coppery blood and the salt of sweat—Aegon sits on the edge of the bed and takes one of Jace’s swelling, blistering hands carefully in his own.

“Don’t hold my hand, you loser.” Jace mumbles, and Aegon respectfully releases him.

“Jace,” Aegon begins. “We think you have radiation sickness.”

Jace blinks up at him, wincing and disoriented. “Which means…?”

“Which means, um, it’s going to be…not great.”

“Why are you the person explaining this?”

“You’re right, I really shouldn’t be explaining it. Can someone else explain it…?” Aegon glances around hopefully.

“Jace,” Aemond says. “Those cooling towers you drove by were part of a nuclear power plant that melted down when the power grid collapsed. You received a fatal dose of radiation. It’s the only thing that explains what’s happening to you.”

“Fatal…?” Daeron ventures.

Rhaena gasps and reaches for Luke. Baela’s face is a mask of numb shock. Jace stares up at Aemond for a long time before he speaks. “Aemond, fix me.”

Aemond’s words are brittle and fracturing. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking around, man, you’re a doctor. You can fix me. I know you can. You’re a genius. You’re a total freak but you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Give me the pills, give me the shots. Cut me open if you have to. I won’t scream, I promise. Fix me. I trust you.”

“Jace, I can’t do anything. No one can.”

“I have to meet the baby, Aemond,” Jace whispers, scarlet tears bleeding down his cheeks. “I have to be here for Baela and Luke. Fix me, man. I’ll do anything you tell me to.”

“Jace,” Aemond says, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I can’t help you.”

Jace looks to Baela, Luke, Rhaena, and at last back to Aemond. “How long?”

“Not very. A few days, maybe.”

“Days?” he echoes, dazed. “What happens?”

Aemond shakes his head. You don’t want to know.

“Yeah I do. Tell me.”

Aemond can’t respond; clear silent tears snake down the right side of his face. Rio answers for him. “You continue to bleed out of every orifice and the rest of your skin falls off. And eventually you die.”

Jace breaks down in sobs. “I was trying to find you guys.”

Suddenly, Baela turns to you and Rio and Aemond, wrathful, hissing. “This is your fault.”

Aemond pleads: “Baela, please don’t—”

“You made me leave him at the river. I knew he was still alive, but you forced me to leave him. If he’d been with us, this never would have happened. But he was alone, and it was because of you. You did this to him. You stole him from me.”

Rhaena tries to console her. “Baela, no one meant to—”

“I just got him back!” she screams, and then shelters Jace in her arms as he clings to her, the skin of his fingers and palms flaking at the pressure, holding onto her anyway. No one knows what to say; everyone has tears burning in their eyes and embers in their throats. “Get out,” Baela demands. “Leave us alone. This is the last time I’ll ever have with him and it’s your fucking fault. So get out.”

And you leave them to their final moments, failing flesh in a dying world.

~~~~~~~~~~

Only Luke and Rhaena flit in and out of the bedroom, carrying soiled linens and the plastic popcorn bucket to be periodically emptied. The rest of you are engrossed in a grim, thunderstruck deathwatch in the living room. You discuss the inevitable in hushed murmurs. It is cruel to let Jace suffer; it is unspeakably horrible to let Baela witness it. Ice alternates between receiving scratches from Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon, never trying to enter Jace’s room. You can hear Jace and Baela talking in there, his retching and groaning, her sobs.

It is not until dusk that Rhaena summons Aemond. Luke is weeping as he paces back and forth in the bedroom. Baela is still sitting on the bed with Jace, resigned now. She does not apologize, but she doesn’t have any more venom to spit either. The rest of you watch from the hallway, keeping a respectful distance. Ice nudges your hand with her nose, but you ignore her. Jace’s bloody eyes roll to Aemond.

“I’m keeping you here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Aemond replies. There’s no point in lying.

“And I don’t need to feel myself melting like this for days. I get the idea.” Jace looks at Aemond for a while. His voice is anemic but calm; there are fresh blisters on his face and neck. “What can you give me?”

Aemond opens his medical kit and shows Jace the vial of morphine. “I found this at the pharmacy today. It would be painless, like going to sleep and never waking up.”

“Why do you have that?”

“I was thinking a small amount might help Baela during labor.”

“Is it the only morphine in your kit?”

“Yes.”

Jace nods. “Save it for Baela.” His gaze drops to the Glock in the holster at Aemond’s waist. “Can I borrow that?”

Rhaena stifles a dismayed yelp. Baela closes her eyes, but does not protest. Aemond says: “I don’t think you want to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Cyclops,” Jace says, smiling. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“It’s heavy,” Aemond warns. He clicks off the safety and gives the Glock to Jace. “Are you able to use it by yourself?”

“It’s a very simple two-step process. Barrel to skull, finger on the trigger. I think I’ll manage.”

Again, Ice bumps her nose against your knuckles; again, you barely notice. Baela kisses Jace on the mouth, her lips coming away bloody. Rhaena says goodbye to him, then Luke, whispered parting words you don’t try to listen to. Before Aemond exits, Jace grasps his hand.

“Take care of my family, Aemond.”

“I will.”

“Don’t let the zombies eat me afterwards.”

And then it becomes real. Aemond’s composure falters. “Jace…I’m so sorry…”

“Go,” Jace urges him. Then there is a coughing fit, fresh blood and pieces of stomach and lungs. “Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

Baela is the last one to leave the bedroom; she shuts the door behind her. Almost immediately afterwards is a deafening bang. Baela sinks to the floor and wails, one hand on her belly, the other embracing Rhaena and Luke when they rush to her. Ice is whining and pawing at the floor, her nails screeching on the hardwood. Aemond alone returns to Jace’s bedroom and reappears with his Glock. He places it back in his holster, his scarred face vacant. There’s blood on his fingers, you see. Jace’s blood, the last he’ll ever shed. Aemond hasn’t noticed yet.

You reach for Aemond’s hand; he flinches away. You ask him, pained: “Do you think if you don’t touch me, it won’t hurt you when I die?”

“Please don’t say that,” Aemond responds in a hoarse, splintering whisper.

Ice yowls, and Cregan is abruptly aware of her. “Oh shit, the Tahoe is still up on the jack. I’ll go get it.” He opens the front door. Under the moonlight, there are upwards of a hundred zombies stumbling down the long gravel driveway. Everyone begins screaming. Cregan slams the door shut and shoves one of the couches in front of it. “What now?!”

“We go through the cornfield,” Aemond says as you are all frantically gathering your sparse possessions. “It will be more difficult for them to see us. We kill as many as we can and we make our way to the Tahoe. Cregan, how long will it take you to get it ready to drive?”

“Maybe a minute. But I’ll need someone to spot me while I tighten the lug nuts.”

“Sounds like my kind of job opportunity,” Rio says, pumping his Remington. Helaena gives you a flashlight. Cregan secures the lug wrench under his belt and picks up his axe. Rhaena has her Ruger out and is telling Baela to breathe, to stay focused, to let her and Luke lead the way.

Aemond comes to you and leans in close so the others can’t hear. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Not enough. Maybe fifty.”

“Do what you can. Stay near Rio.”

“I’ll try.”

Now there are zombies at the front windows, beating their spongy swamp-colored palms against the glass. Baela, Rhaena, and Luke are leaving through the back door with Daeron; you can hear the whizzing of his arrows and the sick soft sound they make when they pierce rotting meat. Under the weight of so many hands, one of the living room windows pops from its frame and clatters against the floor. You open fire, bullets exploding skulls and spraying brains, corpses jolting and then diving to the ground. You shoot until both M9s are empty, then pause to reload, boxes of bullets that Cregan gave you back in Iowa.

“Let them in,” Helaena says.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Aegon shouts at her. He’s firing his Marlin .22 beside you, quite poorly; Rio and Aemond are in the backyard killing any zombies that find their way towards the cornfield. “We’re not letting them get through the house!”

“Not through,” Helaena says placidly. “In.”

“Oh.” Aegon understands. “Oh! I get it! Trap them inside!” He races to the kitchen and tears the remaining bottles of Grey Goose vodka out of the cabinet, then begins spilling them onto the wood floor. “Helaena, give me a lighter.”

She places one in his outstretched palm and then leaves with Cregan as he escorts her away, leading her by her fragile hand. They vanish together into the cornfield, Ice on their heels.

“Time to go, Chips!” Rio booms; he can’t be far behind Cregan.

“We’re on our way!”

Zombies are pouring through the front of the house; another window has given way. You pull the trigger over and over again as you move with Aegon towards the backyard, his clear river of vodka drawing a path from one end of the house to the other. You hit the grass before he does, then wait for him by the edge of the cornfield. Aemond and Rio are shouting for Aegon to hurry up. He crosses through the threshold, flicks the lighter to life, and throws it into the house. His plan works—the farmhouse is abruptly aflame, cooking zombies like long-spoiled hams—but he neglected to realize that in his haste, he had also accidentally doused his own left leg and Sperry Bahama sneaker. The fire licks up over Aegon’s skin and blazes there radiantly. He shrieks and falls to the ground. Rio yanks his own shirt off and uses it to smother the inferno, then throws Aegon over one shoulder to carry him.

“Go to Cregan!” Rio tells Aemond, shoving him in the direction of the Tahoe. Rio will be slower now, but no one else could still run with Aegon’s added weight. “You and Daeron spot him until I get there!” When Aemond is gone, Rio glances back at you.

“I’m fine,” you say, felling zombies as they round the house. “Get Aegon to the car!” And Rio listens to you like he always does, vanishing with Aegon through the cornfield.

You weave through the leafy stalks, investigating each growl and rustling with the beam of your flashlight. Grotesque, fetid faces plunge through the greenery, and you demolish them. You’re in the rhythm now, wheeling for a target and locking in, squeezing the trigger and watching ghoulish faces disappear. And then you spy a zombie lurching towards you from fifteen feet away, a twenty-something in a red Nebraska Cornhuskers t-shirt making her way down the dirt aisle between two rows of corn; and when you pull the trigger, there is only a dry click in reply. Your other M9 is already empty. You’ve used all the ammo Cregan gave you.

“I’m out of bullets,” you say, but no one hears you; you are alone. Aemond always told you to stay near Rio and you never did. Too late, you realize what an oversight that has been. “Rio? Aemond?!”

There are human voices and gunshots, but reverberating from a distance. Far closer are snarls and groans of the dead. You click off your flashlight, drop to the earth, and crawl until you are as far under a row of corn as you can be, long leaves tickling the back of your neck and damp soil in your nostrils. Clumsy, lumbering footsteps trod by you. From the road, you hear the Tahoe’s engine start with a rumble.

They’re leaving.

You shake your head, here with no one to see you in the dark. Still, the thought persists.

They’re leaving. I left my family and now my family is leaving me.

“Chips, stay where you are!” Rio shouts. “We’re coming back, we’ll find you!”

You wait until they are within ten feet of you, Rio cracking skulls with his Remington—he must be out of bullets too—and Aemond firing his Glock. “I’m here, I’m here!” you cry, and they are lifting you up from the dirt and dragging you towards Tahoe, and Aemond puts his pistol in your hand knowing you can do more good with it. You fire ten rounds before the Glock is empty, and you think with terror: Do any of us have bullets left?

Then you are being helped into the Tahoe, and the second all the doors are shut Rhaena floors the gas pedal, heading west on State Route 92.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I got my drugs after all,” Aegon rasps as Aemond injects him with morphine on the floor of a laundromat on the edge of Merna, Nebraska, far enough to escape the zombies, not so far that the Tahoe risks running out of gas before you reach the next town. His left leg is burned from the knee down, and burned badly: skin, fat, muscle, blood-red scorched ruin. Even through the modest dose of morphine—Aemond is terrified of accidentally killing him—Aegon can still feel what has happened to him. He knows it’s bad. He knows it could be the last mistake he ever makes. “I’m so thirsty…”

“I got you, Honey Bun,” Rio says, and then uses the butt of his Remington to bust open the vending machines and bring him bottles of Powerade. Baela is sobbing in the corner with Luke and Rhaena. Helaena is shining a flashlight on Aegon’s leg so Aemond can see. Daeron and Cregan are keeping watch by the entrance. You don’t even know why. All the bullets and arrows are gone, Aegon can’t walk, the Tahoe’s gas tank is nearly drained. If you are descended upon now, what will you do?

Aegon sobs and clutches for you, links his arms around your waist, rests his head in your lap. You hold him and comb your fingers through his unruly hair over and over again, like a compulsion, like a ritual. You are so afraid to let go of him. You are terrified he’ll disappear.

I wish I knew what to say. I never know what to say.

He’s shaking uncontrollably as Aemond cleans his leg: peeling away dead skin, wiping down the raw flesh with disinfectant. Aegon’s eyes are wide and glassy. There is blood on the white tile floor, pinkish lymph fluid, bits of charred skin. Ice is whimpering, her muzzle propped on her paws and her eyes darting around the room. Aegon manages through the pain, a reedy, gasping whisper: “Tell me about all those places you went when you were in the Navy.”

You can see it like the miles-deep blue of his eyes: the Indian Ocean, the jewel-tone equatorial sky. “On Diego Garcia, they have these birds called red-footed boobies—”

Aegon barks out a weak laugh. “They do not. You’re making that up.”

“No, really, I swear! They’re like seagulls, but they have blue on their face and bright red feet, hence the name. They’re extremely stupid, and one night a few of us were hanging out drinking Guinness and playing pool, and a booby flew in through an open window. We panicked, it panicked, and then it was flying in circles and couldn’t get out. We opened all the doors and windows, and the booby still just flew around banging into the walls. And of course the whole time it was shitting and bleeding and getting feathers everywhere, we knew it was going to take hours to clean up. After thirty minutes of chasing this idiot bird around, Rio snapped, took off his boot, and smacked the booby with it. He was trying to fling it out the window, like hitting a tennis ball with a racket, but he accidentally hit the bird too hard and murdered it. Its beak literally separated from its body and flew across the room. None of us could believe it, we didn’t even know that was possible. Rio felt so bad he started crying. We took the booby—and its beak, of course—out to the beach for a Viking funeral. We made it a little raft of coconut tree leaves, set it on fire with a lighter, and pushed it out into the waves.”

Aegon is cackling. “Bryan Osorio, terrorizer of the homicidal undead and boobies!”

“What else?” Baela says, and you look over at her, startled. The flashlight incandescence turns you all to ghosts, phantoms, half-shadows. At first you don’t know what she means. “What else did they have on Diego Garcia?”

“Oh, tell them about the coconut crabs,” Rio prompts you. He’s settled down beside Aegon and is resting one broad hand on his trembling shoulder.

“Coconut crabs?” Rhaena asks you, wiping tears from her cheeks with her delicate, small-boned fingers.

You are abruptly aware that you have an audience. You can feel yourself shrinking beneath their gazes. “Rio should tell the story. I’m not good at it.”

“Sure you are,” Rio says, smiling kindly beneath dark, wet eyes. “Go on. Tell them.”

So you do.

[itsabouttimex2]

Dude Tang sanzang really sound like a gentle but also....ya know-

and maybe we could get a fic of him?I kinda curious actually-

Taken Aboard

Yandere Tang Sanzang and Sun Wukong

(I’ve noticed recently that I enjoy writing yandere introduction fics- them meeting you. The content is a bit softer, but I enjoy establishing these things!)

You don't really want the shiny little key, no matter how important it looks. You just know that it's important. Made from polished silver and ending in many prongs, with a large gemstone set into the bulb... it was clearly valuable.

But you don't want it. Not the silver, not the jewel. You want what comes with taking it- a chase. And if these people didn't want to play your games, why would they come into your forest?

They’re only at the very entrance of the forest, where the trees are thinnest, but it’s still a foolish expedition that they’re surmounting.

There's easier ways to get through the area, after all. The forest is thick with trees and sharp vines, running with many rivers and populated by thousands of different animals. Clearly, these strangers are in no rush and have supplies to spare if they're traveling directly through instead of around.

So what's the harm in one little game?

You’ve learned all the creatures in this forest by heart- their scents and sounds and shapes, each palm-sized critter and earth-shaking beast impossibly dear to your heart.

Your hands; diminutive and deft, shift from tight skin to soft feathers. And as nail curves to talon, the bones of your fingers slide around your palm until they’ve diminished from five to four. In a sudden. startling flash of golden light does the rest of your form fall away.

As the aureate rays that wrap your body burn away from your reducing frame, the new truth of your body becomes clear- you’ve taken the form of a diminutive songbird. Were it not for your green-flecked wings, you would be entirely indistinguishable as a demon by the eye alone.

There’s just enough wind filtering through the dense forest to aid your feathers, sending your small form skyward.

You gather speed by twisting around clustered branches and thick tree trunks, breaking through a canopy of foliage and soaring to the warm sky.

Wings close to your body, you zip overhead the group and unfurl them in what would be a grand display, had you a more imposing form.

Tucking your wings tight, you dive haphazardly, snatching the key from a very startled monk all dressed up in a fancy cossack with a jangly golden stick.

Prying the metal free from his fingers, you retreat to the denser woods, taking a moment to perch as he calls out indignantly for you to return.

But you don’t even have time to gloat to yourself before a multicolored hawk comes at you, red and blue and ginger feathering.

Barely you manage to dodge, watching the bird soar past. The wind left in it’s blazing wake is so fast that your feathers are nearly torn out by their quills.

It rounds sharply, lurching at you again, only missing when you drop from the branch and dip towards the ground. The hawk turns and dives, losing you as you loop a low-hanging branch. It curves the bend with you, only inches away. Through the leaves, it misses by a hairsbreadth, mistaking a browning leaf for your insignificant form. Over the river your shadows startle the koi, causing them to retreat to the muddy depths. All across and through the forest are you hounded, slowly falling closer to the talons of the glorious hawk.

And you finally slip, diving too slow to avoid the clutch of avian claws.

But cold keratin is not what cages you.

Furry fingers tightly enfold your fragile form, stuck fast between the palms of the Monkey King.

He drops from the sky with some measure of grace, tail swaying in glee born of victory.

Exhausted from the chase, you concede defeat in the form of birdsong, melodically peeping and chirping to the simian from the cage his hands form.

Sun Wukong pauses at your display of surrender. It’s not often that a demonic enemy accepts being beaten. He carefully opens his hands to view you- and, to his disbelief, you hop onto the pointer finger of his right hand, holding the little key in your beak.

“You’re a funny little demon, aren’t you? So cute, but so darn troublesome… here, give me that.”

You don’t protest or fight as he snatches the jeweled key, stuffing the metal into his pocket.

“Wukong! Wukong, don’t hurt them!” Says a worried voice from just a few paces away, clearly out of breath from running. “Wukong do not make me recite the… sutra?”

His voice trails away at the sight of you, cupped in the simian’s ginger-furred hands.

“…they aren’t running, Master. They just… gave me the key after I caught them.”

The monk approaches slowly, then takes you into his gentle hands, a note of pity in his contemplative eyes. One soft finger brushes against the green spots that speckle your quills.

“Demon, I kindly ask you- reveal to me your name and form.”

With a giggling peep, you do as asked and immediately return to your true form- in his palms.

Tang Sanzang gasps from the sudden shift in weight, pulled to the ground before he can right himself. You giggle again, sprawled half on his lap and half on the dirt. And Sun Wukong laughs too, enjoying a moment of indignity from his oft-stoic master.

There’s a flash of irritation that fades the second the monk gets a good look at you- gods, you’re only a child. And so thoroughly ragged too. Mud and leaves in your never-cut hair, your fingernails chipped and uneven. Shredded clothing and no shoes.

“Have you been out here long, little one? In the forest, all on your lonesome?” Pity in his voice, compassion in his eyes. “When was the last time you had a meal? A drink? Come, quench yourself with my canteen,” he commands, lifting the fur-wrapped metal to your lips.

“They’re not a baby,” Wukong argues, tapping one clawed finger against your nose. “And don’t act like they’re harmless, Master.”

You pull away from the canteen after a long sip, sticking your tongue out at him. “No one asked you, Hóutóu!”

“Are you getting cheeky with Sun Yéyé? Maybe I should chase you all around your own home again, brat!”

Tang Sanzang sighs, not cutting into the squabble. Petty arguing was better than outright violence, and neither of you seemed all too serious about the verbal spat.

All he can really do is change the subject.

“I can hardly leave a little one all alone out here- even in the forest, it must grow cold at night. Come, you may rest in my tent when the sun falls. Then we shall find your parents, and-“

“Nope!”

“…excuse me? ‘N-no’, little one? You mustn’t joke with me like that-“

“I’m not joking,” you cheerily and confidently respond. “This whole forest is my home! And I don’t have parents, anyways! I was born from a fallen peach tree!”

That didn’t sound… too implausible, honestly. Strange things gave birth to demons, after all. Rocks, in Wukong’s own case.

But, even if you were a demon born of nature and the wilds…

Wouldn’t it be horribly cruel to leave a child out here, all alone?

You were small enough to still fit in his lap, small enough that you only came to Wukong’s hip even when you stood on your toes.

A child. Gods, how could you have survived on your own for so long? Demon or not, you were a child. Gods above, he couldn’t leave you here.

It couldn’t be that you’d leave easily. You had just declared that this forest was your home. And with the powers and skills you had, simple force wouldn’t be enough.

He… had some praying to do. To Guanyin, and to another blessed length of golden metal.

You would not be staying here a night longer.

[naffeclipse]

Heya @skizabaa! I'm your Secret Skeleton! I might have gone a bit over the word count minimum, but I had so much fun writing this! Your interests/likes are exactly my jam and I loved crafting this little piece for a cozy and sweet Halloween treat for you! I hope you enjoy some creature Sun and a Y/N who wants a friend!

The Harpy and Hazel Trees

Harpy!Sun & Reader

Word Count: ~3,500 Warnings: N/A

You’re so used to the quiet—birds calling to each other, crying out about the cold, and the buzz of the last insects filling the air with the gentle crunch of leaves underneath your feet, fallen off the hazel trees. Your lone heartbeat pulses within your ears. 

The quiet eats away at you in the way a caterpillar gnaws away at a leaf: slowly devoured. And yet, you remain. There’s still more of you left to be eaten. It surprises you every time you think you can’t take another moment of silence, of a lack of another’s voice.

Behind your simple wooden cottage, you kneel. Only a pale brown fence marks your lost lot within the forest for the deer merrily prances over it. Knees sinking down into the moist earth, you tug out the last few weeds crowding your pumpkins though they are only weeds in name. The plants, you’ve learned, hold nutrients that pair well in salads. You won’t have fresh greens for much longer.

Autumn sweeps back as if this was always its home, and you, its guest. Your garden is bursting with foods that make the harvest moon happy and the dreaded months of winter bearable. The late-season sun heats the crown of your head and strokes your hair, but it is not a substitute for a friend.

You toil away, cleaning out weeds, plucking fat cucumbers, and snatching a wide green head of lettuce. You’ll have a wonderful bowl of fresh salad tonight and cook an egg to go with it. Your chickens are still producing well but when the cold of the dying year steps in, the chickens will convert their egg-laying efforts to keeping warm, and you don’t blame them. 

These winters are brutal, on body and heart.

You shiver under a cool wind. A gust flips leaves of dill and oregano and you mutter of the cold to no one.

Then a shadow falls over you. You lift your head.

You startle in your garden. Perched on your fence just a few feet away from you is a beast, one with a rather wide grin at that. A harpy. He tilts his disk-like head, a large mouth displaying sharp teeth fit for pulling meat off of bones. Beautiful feathers sway around his face, long and curved, bright as sunshine and exquisite. He holds a rather polite expression; if only you could ignore the sharp teeth. 

His wide eyes, the color of cornflowers, hold the intensity of the hawk but soften upon gazing at you. His body is covered in a finer layer of plumage, off-white and yellow, with wings for arms and long claws on the ends of his fingers, though his large, raptor-like feet wield talons that currently balance upon your poor fence. He wears no shirt but an ascot tie of silky ruby around his thin throat. Billowy pants conceal his animalistic legs, stripped in a bright pattern of red and yellow. His wings are gently tucked against his side, hands curled in front of his chest in an almost nervous, shy manner. Radiant feathers of scarlet and gold decorate his wingspan. 

You understand immediately that he is beautiful and, perhaps, dangerous.

“Hello, I’m so sorry to drop in like this,” he begins, voice bouncing and cheerful, though a touch strained. “I hope I haven’t startled you.”

You slowly get to your feet, stunned. You clear your throat, afraid of how raspy your voice will be—the only conversations you hold are with the chickens and the goat. 

“I don’t usually get company out here,” you begin, though you sound a touch defensive. You clear your throat again. “Are you lost?”

“Lost?” The harpy cocks his head to the other side, feathers swaying like a rooster’s tail. “Oh, well, I’m only lost in that I have yet to find what I’m looking for and that I don’t know what I’m looking for yet, but the most pressing matter, currently, is the oncoming storm.”

He lifts one wing, long fingers nearly hidden under the cloak of gold and scarlet feathers, to point to the sky behind you. Careful to not turn your back on the stranger, you glance in the direction.

The harpy is right. Creeping forward are black, angry clouds. They gather low, pushing through the blue skies like a stain of ash. The storm wasn’t climbing the horizon this morning but swiftly it arrived.

He is being very polite, you muse.

“Oh,” you say, then face the harpy again. You clasp your dirt-covered hands, wishing you had thought to wear your apron so you might make yourself a little more decent. Of course, who could have predicted a visitor? Certainly not you. “Yes. I assume you don’t want to be caught in it? You’ve probably flown a long way here, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” he echoes with a grin that’s still toothy but much less sharp. His eyes upturned, the cornflower color beaming. “Could I trouble you for shelter for the evening? I won’t be in your way and I’ll gladly stay in your chicken coop or wherever won’t disturb you.”

You laugh gently. The harpy waits, his nervous hands returning once more to his chest, feathers rustling.

“Oh no, you’re far too big to stay in the chicken coop. You’ll scare my rooster half to death.” You look at him, resting a hand on your hip, forgetting the dirt caked on it. “No, you’ll come inside and out of the storm. The wind that will come will be fierce.”

“Oh!” The harpy leaps from the fence in a flurry of plumage. You start at the snap of his wings but find yourself gazing up into his towering expression, his smile absolutely delighted. “Thank you, friend! You’re so sweet!”

You look away, coughing once, unsure how to take the title he already bestows upon you. Is it even true? Could it be?

“It’s nothing,” you give. 

You bend down and snap a pumpkin from its stem, the bright orange gourd is more than ready to be harvested for its seeds. On second thought, you’ll roast pumpkin seeds and have a stew today. A meal that will honor your harpy guest as much as your little garden can. 

“Would you take this into the cottage for me?” you ask, pointing. The harpy is watching you closely, his head ticking with sharp adjustments to his gaze, his alertness unparalleled and fascinating. “I could use a hand for a few other things, too… friend. If you don’t mind.”

You hesitated, but saying it out loud dusts a lightness in your chest.

“Of course!” He kneels and scoops the pumpkin into his feathered arms as if it were a mere trifle, not a fully grown vegetable. His claws carefully cradle the orange shell. “My name is Sun. I am at your service!”

You give your name in return.

It’s been so long since you’ve heard someone call for you, but when Sun says it, you feel a little more alive. A little more real.

“Do you like stew?” you ask, plucking your gathered leafy goods that will wait in the cupboard until tomorrow, and lead the way to the back door of the cottage. 

“Stew sounds heavenly compared to what I've been scourging these last few days—bugs and berries and other bitter things!” Sun’s jubilee voice is no less dampened by recounting his horrid meals. “Yes, stew sounds lovely. How might I help you, friend?”

He doesn’t see you smile. You lead him to the door and open it, holding it so that he might duck inside and not fumble the precious pumpkin.

“We’ll need a few spices, celery and potatoes. Help me dig some up.”

* * *

Harpy claws, as it turns out, are great at digging up dirt, though you think he might have put them to better use hunting. Sun is cheerful and he easily takes to work. It’s not glorious, digging up potatoes, but he does it all with a smile on his wide face. 

You love his chatter. He sounds like birds trilling and cheeping, talking of the weather and the storm and how he was alone before he ventured into these strange but wonderful woods. He doesn’t tell you what he’s seeking, but he doesn’t seem to know either. A wanderer. A lost soul.

Like you.

People like you often end up here, in this forest. A woodland of spooky, lingering things, full of yellowing trees. Everyone is seeking something. A heart hungers beside the hazels. A person gets lost here, but sometimes, a person gets found.

Taking a much-needed breather from work, you lead Sun to the hazel trees. The leaves are soft and pale as butter and halfway melted, dripping to the ground. You show him the hazelnuts, perfectly round, dark treasures. In fascination, he gazes at the hard, black shells that you easily crack, shuck, and reveal the smooth nut hidden within. 

For a while, you two snack on hazelnuts. Sun’s tongue is dark red and licks at his teeth, chewing away. You love the soft crunch, and how nutty the flavor is. In summer, you take what you have left from winter storage to mix with cocoa and sugar then crush into a paste. A treat that is so lovely you tell Sun that you wish he could be here to have a bite when you make it.

His feathers perk at the mention. He looks as if he wants to say something, something you earnestly wait to hear, but he only agrees. It does sound lovely. 

You return to work. Sun is a bit quieter, back to his anxious hand curling and feather-ruffling, almost pulling a few from around his wrists, but you don’t ask. He would have told you if he wanted to. Why confine a stranger when he’ll be gone after the storm blows through?

You taste something bitter in the back of your mouth.

He helps you haul in the potatoes, celery, and carrots. Your cottage is small, but it fits him and you just right. You begin bowling the pot, adding in bits of beef you fetched from the wooden barrel where it sat in a brine of water and salt to preserve the meat until you were ready to cook. Then you begin chopping the vegetables. Sun fetches you an onion you had forgotten, and when he returns, his feathers blown against his body due to the picking up wind, he begins asking you questions. So. Many. Questions.

You can hardly pause between them. He’s so intrigued by your every boring answer. There’s very little for you to talk about except for the years you spent here and how long you’ve been alone (you don’t tell him the last part, though he does ask about family, and you simply comment that you have none with a sharp chop of your knife across a deep orange carrot.) He smoothly moves on, tending to the boiling pot and feeding the fire when it needs more logs. 

You can’t help but stare. A harpy tending to your stew. You think this must be a dream, a wonderful, heart-breaking dream. 

Tossing the ingredients into the heated meat and broth, you and Sun wait, listening to the howl of the wind and fearfully eyeing the flames as the pressure in the air snatches at the flames by reaching down the chimney. You’ll let the fire go out when the evening ends instead of fighting with it all night, but it will get cold. You ask Sun if he’ll be alright. 

He taps his chest with a wicked sharp finger and promises that his plumage is more than enough to fight off the chill. 

You stir the stew and spoon it into simple wooden bowls. You hand one to Sun. His large, clawed hand easily grasps it. He’s so sweet, so grateful. You sit down beside him at your small kitchen table—there was never a need for a full dining room set, and now you worry it’s too humble. You never expected company.

The stew, however, is heavenly. You’re relieved and immediately warmed by the savory broth and melt-in-your-mouth bites of beef and potatoes. Sun tears into the stew and you give him a second, then a third helping. You almost laugh at how sheepish he appears until he eats once more. 

He helps you clean up… You didn’t know what you expected, but certainly not his methodical ability to sweep the floor and scrub the pot.

“Thank you, Sun,” you say softly, handing him the last dish to set high on the shelf. “You’ve been a great help today.”

“It’s the least I could do to repay your generosity.” He faces you after setting the bowl away without any stretching or tip-toeing, unlike you. “You’re so kind and there’s so much for you to do by yourself. I’m amazed you can handle all this work. It would put a whole team of fieldhands to shame.”

“Oh, stop it,” you wave him away, ducking your head to hide your bashfulness. “I put you to work. I do hope you’ll sleep well tonight, despite the storm.”

As if summoned by your mere mention, a clap of thunder reverberates through the air. Your heart quakes in the strength of the ferocious growl. Sun whips his head towards the front door as if expecting the storm to rudely barge in without your invitation. 

“It’s a very good thing you stopped here,” you say, breathless. 

Sun slowly looks back, his hackles raised, and his cornflower blue eyes fall down. You follow his line of sight to your hand touching his feathered wrist, fingers anxiously curled.

“Oh.” You drop your hand away. “My apologies. Let me get you a comfortable place to rest. I’m afraid I only have one bed.”

“No need to apologize,” Sun says quickly, “Were you concerned for me, friend? That’s alright. Friends can be concerned for each other and there’s no shame in that. I truly don’t mind.”

You nod but don’t meet his gaze.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Friend?”

You stop, looking back at him. You wonder if he intends to leave, but that can’t be right. The storm is descending with a vengeance. 

“I need only sit by the hearth. I don’t need beds or other human comforts, though I appreciate your offer.”

“Oh.” You look around, the smell of stew having long since drifted away as the fire slowly begins to die. A thick darkness descends. You regard the harpy with a worry for the morning. Sunshine will come, yes, and the skies will be clearer, but he will leave.

You find yourself dreading tomorrow.

“Very well.” You hold his gaze for one brave moment. The cornflower blue holds you. “Goodnight, Sun.’

“Goodnight, friend.”

You close the door to your bedroom. In quiet reflection, you dress into your night clothes and slip under the quilts on your bed. You are so caught up on Sun’s ruffled feathers, his cheerful demeanor, and how anxious he holds his claws. 

He calls you a friend. You’ve only just met. You shouldn’t be so attached to a fellow so quickly, yet, you find yourself wondering how you might combat the silence in the afternoon after the thunder ceased its grumbling and the harpy has continued on his way.

You hardly sleep a wink before the storm splatters rain upon the roof and sends winds to rattle the shutters. A quaking bolt of lightning strikes, the thunderous cry shaking the very cottage and you bolt upright. You cry out, disturbed from dozing, dark dreams. 

The very world is being torn apart by a dark tempest.

“Friend!” The shout is muffled through the door, but you hop out of bed, bewildered and frantic, and throw it open to find the harpy.

He stoops low, his height eclipsed by the stout door frame. You stare up into his concerned eyes, long hands almost reaching for you but hesitating.

“I heard you shout. Are you alright?”

You lay a hand over your chest and breathe out. The wild blood pumping in your veins has yet to calm, but the sight of Sun’s cheerful face plumage, swirling about his expression like rays of the sun, and his big blue eyes, looking over you for injury or harm, touches your heart.

“Yes, I’m alright. The lightning—the thunder scared me!”

“It’s alright. It startled me, too,” he gives, though grinning with the energy of a thousand afternoons.

Sun peers through the small window in your bedroom. The lightning flashes again, not so close, but the thunder roars upon the little cottage as if a beast had snatched your home into its mouth.

You shudder to think of lying down now.

You hesitate, contrite, then ask quietly, “Sun?”

He visibly perks up and almost hits his head on the top of the doorway. His golden feathers brush against the ceiling of the cottage. 

“Yes?”

“Can I sit with you for a while? If I’m not keeping you awake, that is…”

His expression blooms as if a flower under the sun. He grins, the sight so lovely and tender before he takes your hand in his down-soft palm.

“Of course! There are still hot coals in the hearth, and I do hope I can help you stay warm, just a little.”

You lower your shoulders. A calming pulse moves through your chest as Sun, your friend, guides you into the room with the dying embers that beat a last, desperate red in the sooty black.

“Are you cold?” you ask, concerned. 

“No,” his eyes upturn, “If it’s alright, I would like to keep you warm.”

He opens his arms, the plumage of his wings falling like a cloak of ruffled sunshine and scarlet. His chest is fuzzy with soft down, and his billowy pants cross to make a comfortable seat on the floor before the cooling heart.

You want nothing more than to enter his embrace. Worry of the morning strains against your weary thoughts, holding you away.

“Are you sure?”

You only met him today. Why do you feel so much for this blossoming friendship, newly made under the threat of a storm and in the dirt of hard work?

He inclines his head gently, his feathers softly sashaying with reassurance. “Yes. I would be delighted to help my friend.”

His warm confidence chips away at the last of your reservations. Breathing in, you ease yourself into his embrace. Settling into his warm body—you didn’t realize how wonderfully comforting his form is, wrapped around yours, like a drop of sunshine. It immediately chases away the autumn cold nipping at your edges. Once you set your back against his chest, feeling a bit conscious of his presence and how you hold yourself, Sun wraps his arms around your shoulders. His beautiful wings cover you up in the burning colors of sunsets. Outside, the thunder and rain harmonize. 

“Is this alright?” he asks.

You nod and hook one hand over his fluffy wrist. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Yes,” you murmur.

It’s nice to have a friend.

You sit a while, gazing at the fire. Sun hums a low, throaty sound that reminds you of birds calling to each other, and you drift quietly. Your head begins to fall. In smooth, careful motions, Sun shifts your legs so they drape sideways off his lap and guide your cheek so it might rest on the soft pillow of his shoulder. His arms fall upon you again. You are blissfully warm, sleep whispering in your ears.

“Friend?” he says. His fingers curl against your arm. An anxious clench.

“Hmmm?” Your eyelids flutter.

“I was thinking—in the morning, you’ll have so many branches to pick up off your garden and you’ll need to check your chickens and see if any of your precious vegetables have been harmed, and you have so much work to do! I could stay a bit longer tomorrow, just to lend a hand, as a final thank you.”

“Sun?”

Your eyes open in the blue dark of the autumn night. Your heart melts quietly in your chest, and you think you might be brave. You dare to want to be bold enough to let him stay with you, beside you.

The harpy titters nervously. “Well, only if that wouldn’t be an inconvenience for you, of course. I don’t want to impose or linger where I’m not wanted—”

“Sun?”

“Oh! Yes?”

You sigh softly and close your eyes.

“Would you like to stay?” You hesitate quietly. Your heart thumps with all the desire of your being. “My friend?”

The beat of silence is devastating. The echo of nothingness deafens your ears and you almost lift your head to see if you cross a boundary or assume too much, but Sun quietly trills.

“If you’ll have me.”

You smile.

“Yes, I will.”

“Then you know my answer, dearest friend.”

You soften in relief, and in Sun’s gentle melody humming in his chest and soothing your very soul, you drift away. In the morning, there will be Sun. For every day after, it will be you two in the cottage.

You and your dearest friend.

[a-book-of-creatures]

It’s been nagging at me for a while, so I’m going to try to put together my thoughts on the Quetzalcoatlus sequence in Prehistoric Planet 2. In the grand scheme of things it’s tiny, insignificant, and I loved Prehistoric Planet, but I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to talk at length about scavenging birds.

(Spoilers (?) for Prehistoric Planet 2 ahead. Go watch it!)

I’m talking about the part where a Tyrannosaurus is driven off from an Alamosaurus carcass (presumably carrion and not killed by the tyrannosaur). The tyrannosaur is expressly stated to be concerned about losing an eye to those Whopping Big Beaks. The pterosaurs aggressively fly over it a few times and honk angrily until the tyrannosaur walks away in Shameful Defeat, leaving the carcass to the pterosaurian pterrors.

And that confused me.

Before I go on, I want to point out that this is not a Who Would Win discussion, I’m not going to argue for or against one or another. Not going to discuss if Tyrannosaurus should really have won because of the massive weight advantage and lack of fragile bones/wings, or if the big landlubber had it coming and the numbers and aerial advantage was too much. I’m not arguing about Quetzalcoatlus being scary or not either (it’s scary as all hell).

No, the issue I had was with the beaks.

This is the Quetzalcoatlus as it appears in the show.

Impressive beak, isn’t it?

But it’s not the beak of a flesh tearer.

Let’s back up a bit. Birds that eat meat by tearing it into manageable chunks typically evolve sharp, hooked beaks to make up for the lack of teeth. Like this eagle for instance.

Majestic. They make the cutest sounds too. Look up golden eagle sounds, don’t believe the red-tailed hawk propaganda.

Raptor bills look intimidating, but they’re not there for killing. They’re cutlery. The talons do all the work, and then the beak tears up the meat into delicious gobbets of protein.

Even shrikes get in on the act. They don’t have killer feet, so they use their ripping bills to impale prey and tear at it.

Aw, look at it, it thinks it’s accipitrids.

The Quetzalcoatlus’ bill, though, doesn’t have that hook. It doesn’t look like the bill of a bird that dismembers its food. The closest thing I could think of to compare it with was stork bills. Specifically the marabou.

Ol’ pickaxe-for-a-face. This is the beak of an animal that stabs smaller prey and swallows them whole with minimum processing.

But a bill this long and pointed, turns out, is good for stabbing but not for tearing meat. Marabous are scavengers, but they won’t tear apart a carcass on their own. The “[b]ill [is] not well designed for dismembering carcasses, so [it] normally steals scraps from vultures or snatches up morsels that are dropped” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992).

As you can see, vultures retained the hallmark accipitrid steak knife face, and are much better at Ripping and Tearing. This one (the lappet-faced vulture) generally goes first, being big and strong enough to Rip and Tear tough hide and get to the fleshy interior.

In fact, “[d]espite its huge bill, the [marabou] stork can rarely dominate a carcass and normally stands by the much more numerous vultures and nips in from time to time to snatch morsels which are dropped by others, though Tawny Eagles (Aquila rapax) in turn often steal food from the stork. The bill is not apparently very effective for cutting up meat and dismemberment is normally carried out quite simply by pulling” (del Hoyo, Elliott, and Sargatal, 1992). And if marabous have trouble with the average carcass, I wouldn’t imagine Quetzalcoatlus would fare much better with a titanosaur, which presumably has rather thick skin too.

One big happy family. That’s a much smaller carcass being shared (with the obligatory squabbling) by a whole bunch of dinosaurs. Neither vultures nor marabou are trying to monopolize it.

So... I don’t see why the big stork pterosaurs would chase away a perfectly good meat processor. I know everyone wants to see Big Prehistoric Animals Fighting With Lethal Intent, and everyone wants to see Tyrannosaurus Getting Knocked Down A Peg By The New Hotness, but I think it would have been a more interesting and believable scene - not to mention more in keeping with Prehistoric Planet’s attempt to be as scientifically believable as possible - if the pterosaurs acted like marabous the size of giraffes, both them and the tyrannosaur keeping a respectful distance of each other, and snapping up bits of meat left behind. And maybe the pterosaurs pulling the dinosaur’s tail for good measure, the way ravens bully eagles.

But it would make for a much less exciting scene. Who wants to watch a bunch of scavengers milling around a carcass and honking at each other as they jockey for the best morsels and settling their differences in ways that involve as little risk as possible? I mean, I do, but I don’t assume the average viewer does.

And that concludes my altogether far too long opinion on a single scene from a great series. Of course, I’m not a paleontologist and never will be, I’m only approaching this with what I know about birds, so please feel free to let me know if there’s any details of Quetzalcoatlus anatomy that do in fact suggest it could rip and tear!

References

del Hoyo, J.; Elliott, A.; and Sargatal, J. eds. (1992) Handbook of the Birds of the World, Vol. 1. Lynx Edicions, Barcelona.

[nyaniikat]

This has been itching my brain for the past few days. Hawks x male goat hybrid. Fun fact goats wag their tails constantly when they need to mate…. And I was thinking while hawks is teasing the reader and their tail keeps tickling his nose while he gives oral. That’s all I got *^*.

HELL YEAAAA GOAT HYBRIDDDD

ehehehehehehh I got a good one for this, hopefully what I wrote is alright ♡＾▽＾♡

This one took a while cuz I was pretty busy

•---------•

Sub Male reader/Dom Hawks

Female aligned DNI

Masterlist

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Keigo is basically eating you out here

-

Feeling his tongue in you was bliss, the juices spilling out of your cock went right onto the sheets

After Keigo noticed you being strangely more affectionate this morning, face flushed, the horny look in your eyes and your tail wagging constantly, he searched through his memories to figure out what day it was for you to act such a way.....and then it hit him.

Your heat

Your heat is here and it's early

Too early that he couldn't make a call about how he can't go to work for the next few weeks and had to worry about you while he was filling out paperwork, fighting villains and dealing with boring meetings.

Your panting got heavier and the moans were louder as you felt the overstimulation. However, something you didn't notice was how your tail was wagging and the fur at the end of your tail was tickling Keigos nose.

With every tired bone in Keigos body, he did his absolute best to not sneeze, laugh or even a tiny giggle at the fact that his very horny husband still had his tail wagging, if he did right now...well... he was definitely not sleeping in the same bed as you for the next few days. An idea popped up in his head, deciding to try and stop wagging your cute tail he took his hand and gently held your tail to hold it up so he could properly please you and make you cum and cum and cum again.

Although this sudden motion made you turn your head in confusion, the innocent look on your face with your eyes looking at him with a question made him smile a little.

"wh-why are you holding my tail???"

"Baby.. you were wagging your tail in my face I thought I was going to laugh because your tail tickles"

"A-ah I'm sorry I didn't realise my tail was bad for you"

The sudden sadness in your eyes made Keigo stop what he was doing only to flip you over and cage you in-between arms

"Hey~hey~ it's alright sweetie you don't need to apologise, things like this are just a natural thing to you and it's okay for you to show them"

"But didn't I just ruin this-"

"No no you didn't ruin anything baby bird~ I only did that so I could pound into you more when you're prepared enough for another round"

"Ke-keigo!! don't say things like that it's weird!"

Embarrassed, you covered your face with your hands yet your tail wagged furiously with love. Keigo laughed as he enjoyed this side of you, pulling you closer he kissed your hands and neck.

He loved every bit of you and seeing you get embarrassed remembered him the first time you both did it. Despite you being older than him by a few years you never had sex with anyone as you had no proper interest in them except for him.

Pushing your hands away from your face, he kissed you, slowly, deepening the kiss to a full-blown makeout. Rubbing your ass he lifts your lower half up giving your butt a harsh slap followed by your moaning. Once he heard you moan it was a sign for him to start fucking you deep into the sheets again. More harsh slaps were given to your butt as you felt Keigos hard dick against yours.

Ah, you were in for a long night for sure

•---------•

[thegreenwolf]

Howdy! I stumbled across a broken link to your WordPress blog where you mentioned your views on people who believe their religious/spiritual practices exempt them from wildlife laws. I'd be very interested to hear your thoughts, since this is a topic I have a hard time getting through to others about. If you don't have the time (or don't want to), don't sweat it! Have a wonderful day ^-^

@raspberrysquid Well, it's something I've primarily run into in the Pagan/etc. arena. These religions, as a general rule, are recently created, though they may seek to emulate older polytheisms to varying degrees. (There are also polytheist reconstructionists who do not consider themselves under the modern Pagan umbrella for varying reasons, FTR, but that's a whole other discussion I'm not going to get into here. The Venn diagram is complex, and not everyone fits under the Big Tent, so to speak.)

The attitude I seem to run into repeatedly is the idea that Neopagan religions should be on an equal par with indigenous American religions with regards to access to restricted items such as eagle or other migratory bird feathers. For example, Lady Suzy Bunnysnuggles picks up a red-tailed hawk feather that a bird molted, and decides that this must be a sign from [insert deity or other higher power here] that she must incorporate that animal's energy into her spiritual practice somehow, and so she takes it home.

Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with interpreting an encounter with an animal (or its shed bits) as being personally, spiritually profound. However, if Lady Suzy Bunnysnuggles is--like many of us Pagan folk--an American citizen of varying European origins or otherwise not in a federally enrolled* Native American tribe, she is breaking the Migratory Bird Treaty Act (MBTA) which prohibits the possession of almost all native wild bird parts, other than a few exceptions like turkeys. This law is in place because in the latter 19th and early 20th centuries bird populations in North America were being absolutely demolished for both restaurant tables and the feather trade. Since you can't really tell the difference between a feather that was naturally molted, and one that was torn off of a poached bird, the law has a blanket prohibition on possession regardless of origin.

There are some exceptions to the MBTA, and to the Bald and Golden Eagle Act, for federally enrolled people to have access to otherwise prohibited parts for religious or cultural use. However, people like Lady Suzy Bunnysnuggles, when informed of the laws, huff in indignation that they, too, should have religious exemptions, and that they are not, in fact, going to put that feather back where they found it. In fact, they may very well hang it from their rearview mirror or on a ritual staff, in blatant violation of the MBTA, and with the assumption that they will not run across a USFW law enforcement agent or other authority who is familiar with the laws. If pressed, they may claim "Oh, it's a TURKEY feather**!", but they're banking on the idea that no one is actually going to recognize what they have.

My thought on it, as a longtime Pagan of various European descent, is that it's my people who basically screwed up everything for everyone else by coming over here and overhunting species and systematically destroying their habitats. I've been working with hides, bones, and other remains in my practice for over a quarter of a century, and I am totally fine with staying within the confines of various laws. I have plenty of things I can legally work with, AND I am creative and flexible enough to come up with legal alternatives to prohibited items. My traditions are my own, and they don't pre-date me. Indigenous people, on the other hand, have been dealing with over 500 years of physical and cultural genocide, and the previous ban on their possession of eagle feathers and the like is just one more manifestation thereof; reversing that ban and making allowances for feathers/etc. for their spiritual and cultural practices is a TINY piece of trying to undo centuries of damage.

I am not going to try to argue that the erasure of European polytheistic traditions by Christianity many centuries ago affects me in the same way that the ongoing oppression of indigenous Americans affects them. They're not even comparable. Any problems I may have experienced as a relatively out Pagan in the United States are nowhere near in comparison to the immensity of 500+ years of active racism and other violence enacted upon Native American communities by both individuals and governmental entities.

Moreover, if we open exceptions to Neopagans and other followers of modern nature spirituality, then anyone can step up and say "Oh, hey, I'm a Wiccan/Druid/etc., can I have some eagle feathers?" that would then open up a greater demand for otherwise prohibited animal remains, and feed into a still-substantial black market. Therefore, I think it's best if I and Lady Suzy Bunnysnuggles simply find alternative ways to work with the archetypal spirit of Red-Tailed Hawk, rather than argue that our supposed religious oppression is somehow on par of that of indigenous Americans, and use their plight to try to weasel our way out of following a law that is in place to protect wildlife after other white people have demonstrated time and again that they couldn't be trusted to hunt wildlife at a sustainable level. Is it a case of some bad actors ruining things for everyone else? I mean, sure, maybe. But it's one of those things that I've long since made my peace with.

*This is with the understanding that there are also significant problems with federal recognition of some tribes, but not others, and the immense amount of bureaucratic bullshit a group of indigenous people have to wade through just to prove their legitimacy to the BIA.

**I once pointed out to a fellow vendor at an event that some of the feathers on their wares were, in fact, from various species of owl, because the last thing I want is for someone who is simply ignorant of the law to get in trouble, and generally speaking people are pretty cool about removing the illegal bits of their work and grateful that they met me before they met someone who could actually issue a ticket and/or cause trouble for the event runners. This person instead insisted repeatedly, both to me and to event staff, that they were turkey feathers, in such a manner that it was clear they knew what they were but was assuming we all played the "wink wink, nudge nudge, yeah, those sure are TURKEY feathers!" game. Needless to say, they had to take down anything made with owl feathers in order to stay in the vendors' row.

[automeris-io-moth]

Snippet.

“Do you want to know how it felt?” the girl asked, blowing out the smoke from the cigarette in her hand, a cough from her chest echoing through the metal sheet walls of the warehouse, at the lack of response of the one observing her from down the floor, sitting crossed-legged and still before her, she stretched her wings open, and continue “Nothing has ever hurt as much as that, and I doubt something will ever do. The breaking of each bone to rearrange itself into something it was never meant to be, the tearing of the skin, opening your muscles, exposing the ligaments to the open air. It was gruesome, I bursted a blood vessel in my eye from the effort of crying, I was too weak to stand and ended up completely covered in blood.” 

Civilian noticed something in her voice, an accent of sorts she did not recognize the origin of, a sadness embedded in it, something she had unlearned and learned once more, something she used as part of herself then, something she had recovered and adapted. 

Civilian liked the accent. 

After a long drag of the cigarette, the tail was offered her way, the girl holding it between two fingers for her to inhale from her hands. Civilian did, coughing out harshly as a burning ache went down to her lungs, the other laughed. 

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” she said, eyes fixed on her like a hawk, like a bird of prey, like exactly what she was “I hated it too, once, before all this shitshow I always declined a drag, unless of course it came from a pretty girl, if it came from a pretty girl I would suck it right up, smoke whatever was offered.” 

A smile was drawn on her face, Civilian swallowed. 

“Is that what happened here, Civ?” 

“Well I, I was curious, I’ve never smoked before,” her voice trembled at her answer.

“Don’t let me corrupt you then.” 

Villain finished her cigarette, setting off the tip on the sole of her boot. The other girl stayed quiet, quiet and observing the surroundings of the warehouse, wore down but certainly used, not for living, of course, too much dust and spiders for such, a waste too, of course, for Villain, as she was, could live anywhere else in the world, amongst prodigies of the arts, of the crafts, of the science. A dirty old warehouse was no place for her. 

But she understood too, she had a warehouse of herself when the days felt too overwhelming, probably then the cameras and the responsibility one could take in a situation such as the winged woman sitting too uncaringly before her was much worse, she imagined, then the one from college and family. 

Sharp yellow eyes met her when she turned once more to face Villain.

“Why do you keep coming?” 

“I like you,” she answered with more firmness and determination than she thought herself capable.

“I’m not that likeable.” 

“I disagree.” 

Villain let out a huff, something not quite a laugh but pretty close.

“I like you too, then, Civ.” 

_

Those words, spoken what seemed ages ago, burnt still on her skin. Perhaps literally, she laughed at the thought, as the uncomfortable warmth of the burning building behind her stung dangerously close to the side of her cheek, the back of her neck and her uncovered arms left to the night wind as she stood still in her pyjamas. 

And Villain looked as beautiful as she remembered under the moonlight, the brown of her hair casting a red shadow against the burning of the wood and the metal of her home. 

“I’m so sorry, Hero,” the blessed one apologised, hand cold even with the fire burning before her cradling her face so tenderly, lifting her chin to face each other “I’m sorry something as ugly as me fell in love with you.” 

_

Masterlist

I'm back with a small snippet from something longer piece I've been working on

[autumnmobile12]

Felt like sharing some speculation today:

All right, so we know My Hero Academia has the something of the same premise as X-Men in the sense that select a group of humans were suddenly born with powers, the whole 'evolution leaps forward’ deal.

We see in My Hero how the First Generation of people with Quirks, especially the ones who appeared non-human or semi non-human, were originally ostracized like the mutants of X-Men are, but then more people were born with powers and then more people had powers until it became a widespread phenomenon and ‘normal’ people became the minority and society had to restructure itself to accommodate the new normal.

But have you read The Resurrectionist: The Lost Work of Dr. Spencer Black?

The plot is a 19th century doctor who theorizes that mythical creatures like the minotaur, harpies, sirens, and the like all existed millions of years ago but slowly interbred with humanity and eventually died out altogether.  So he believed that when someone was born with extra fingers, limbs, a tail or otherwise didn’t have the typical human shape, it wasn’t so much a mistake in genetic coding as it was the extremely recessive genetics of those ancient creatures trying to reoccur in the modern day.

...

Definitely an interesting premise, so now I’m wondering if the My Hero world has a cult, conspiracy theorists, or even some scientists/historians that have similar views regarding mythology.

If this whole Quirk thing happened back in the Stone Age where no one had the benefit of science or awareness of DNA, anyone born with an otherworldly power would have been worshipped as a deity. Or the ones born with a non-human appearance would have been reviled as monsters.

So following the idea of The Resurrectionist, maybe the sudden appearance of superpowers did lead people to take a closer look at the old myths and consider the stories of the gods/goddesses of old were originally stories of people with 'Quirks' who rose to power.  Humans with meta-powers ruled the world for a few centuries, then those powers inexplicably died off. For a variety of reasons or maybe unknown reasons, humanity lost that history but remembered the old stories and chalked them up to just myth until the powers that made it possible began to reappear full force several millennia later.

Some myths began as historical events but in being handed down hundreds of generations, the multiple tellings and retellings exaggerated them into the realm of impossibility.

Lightning/electricity powers:  Zeus, Thor, Hinon

Fire powers:  Hephaistos, Surtr, Hestia, the phoenix

Foresight:  Any seer, prophet, or oracle that appears in any myth ever

Ice powers:  Yuki-onna, Skadi, Morana

Water powers:  Poseidon, Chalchiuhtlicue, Anuket, Tlaloc

Plant-related Quirks:  Demeter

Gigantification Quirks: Giants, titans, nephilim

Ryukyu:  Is a dragon.  ‘nuff said.

All Might:  Herakles

Tokoyami having a bird head but otherwise appearing human is pretty reminiscent of the old Egyptian gods.

Hawks:  Any winged creature; take your pick.  Personally, the one that comes to mind for me is Hermes.  He only had wings on his sandals, sure, but the trickster archetype resonates.

Tsuyu: Naiads, nymphs, rusalki, any kind of water fae

Momo: Sedna (created sea life from her finger bones), Ukemochi no Kami (produces food from her own body)

Best Jeanist: This one's a bit of a reach, but the fabric thread thing coupled with the long, spider-like limbs kinda brings to mind the story of Arachne the weaver.

We do get a nod to Ancient Greek mythology with the prison Tartarus.  What better place to lock away beings with god-like powers than the prison of the Titans itself?

Obviously an incomplete list, but you see my point.

Personally, I'm leaning toward cultist ideology with this one as I find it hard to believe every civilization would have forgotten about a previous appearance of Quirks. But civilizations die off, civilizations are overrun by others and their histories are suppressed, maybe this hypothetical 'previous Quirk phenomenon' wasn't as widespread as the current one and so fewer people were affected and therefore fewer people were alive to verify the truth of facts, maybe this hypothetical time was from an age of oral history and nothing was documented properly, so not impossible just really, really improbable.

Still, I love mythology and I find it an interesting headcanon to think about.

[escapismmaxing]

skywing redesign + headcanons

birds of the sky,,.,

physical traits

small little fellas, in order to be the fastest fliers they are the smallest of the pyrrhian tribes! but still bigger than the pantalan bugs

most of my headcanons really just focus around making them more flight focused

i know it’s canon that they have huge wings, but i make their wings fucking huuuuuuuge like their wings are discounted when scaling their size in relation to other pyrrhian dragons but if it wasn’t, they would be “bigger” comparatively

also their wing membrane stretches partway down their tail in order to really catch the air

their shoulders have locking mechanisms like albatrosses perhaps

also,,, for aesthetic purposes,, i think they have those little butterfly tail things like swallowtails or luna moths

they have short tails so less drag is created

their horns are very long and branching, but they bend back and tend to follow the curve of the spine/neck so that they don’t stick out and create excess drag when skywings are flying

this one exists in theory more than in drawings,,, but they would have those faceplates that owls/hawks/birds of prey have that angle air into their ears in order to hear better when they're flying

they have relatively small/thinnish bodies, with honeycomb structured bones (i really just redesigned them around flight tbh)

they don’t really have “spines” but they have plated scales that can be ruffed up around their neck

colors have a huge range, basically any color the sky can be a skywing can be, but i think maybe their eggs only hatch during the daytime? so they don’t overlap with nightwings in color a lot

i think reds and oranges are perhaps still the most common? but blues, purples, yellows, and even pinks aren’t unheard of

i also think their scales can match the cloud formations during their hatching

culture and societyyyy/ family structure 

skywings have family units! not really nuclear families how we’d think though because i really hate limiting fictional dragons to a western understanding of family structure

however i do think fewer partners are involved, like 2-3, raising their hatchlings under one roof

still a strong community, but with dragonets returning to one house for the night

i think there’s certainly a “town” daycare somewhat that young dragonets will go to and be communally watched over

however skywings are comparatively more fractured than other tribes due to their home in the mountains, so it’s somewhat small pockets of dragons all looking after one another scattered through the mountains

as for school,, i think skywings have a stricter, more academic schooling model closer to what icewing schools are like? learning a variety of subjects in an academic setting rather than learning the family trade from the family

there are still skywings who have a family trade such as farming (herbs, root vegetables) and artisan trades like metalwork and glasswork. but these artisans often take in apprentices rather than raising their kids to be their apprentices

farming is pretty common because skywings don’t eat a lot of meat! in line with the whole,, bird,,, fast flying,, etc, they have to digest lightweight things that are still high in protein, so they eat a lot of seeds and leafy greens

they don’t eat a lot of “heavy” meat like cows, pigs, etc, and they tend to avoid eating birds at all. some skywings do eat fish and rabbits though

skywings also have a pretty strong hierarchy within the castle that degrades pretty fast outside of the castle

although this begins to fade as queen ruby takes over

there wasn’t the circle system exactly, but it was very clear who scarlet favored, and the favorings of the queen directly correlated to jobs and housing given within the castle walls

this falls apart outside of the castle, where towns are generally kind

skywings have a lot of festivals/celebrations surrounding flying, racing etc

adrenaline seeking skywings will have crazy dangerous flight races through precarious pillars of rocks

on the topic of sports, falconry is super popular and falcons and other raptors are considered holy by basically all skywings

on certain days, festivals will be held where skywings decorate their wings with beads, thin fabrics, jewelry, feathers, ribbons, etc, and flaunt their wings, perform some tricks, etc

flutes, pipes, and wind chimes are very common for music! generally just any using wind to make noise instruments is common, like an ocarina!

another example of me making music more present in the world,,, many skywings can learn simple ish wind charms that give them semi control over the wind, while this is helpful during flight, skywings also use wind charms to essentially play the mountains as a huge instrument!

of COURSE skywings speak with hoots and chirps and tweets and basically any bird noises. like any and all bird noises. which meeeeannsssss skywings can also be really good mimics! not as good as rainwings but still very good at mimicking animals and other tribes

fashion and jewelry

alpacas are very common in the mountains, so spun wool fabrics are very common! shawls and coats and capes are very common

skywings have very diverse jewelry since the mountains give them access to a lot of metals and gems, but a lot of this jewelry is for royals and nobles, and commoners tend to wear simple metal bands and piercings 

a lot of trade happens so thin, silky, gauzy materials are used for drapes and shawls

basically, a lot of fashion (especially closer to royalty and nobles) would be very inconvenient to fly in

and fashion for commoners is a lot more focused on wooly shawls and scarves to help skywings stay warm since they’re silly little guys living in the peaks of mountains

religious-y superstitions 

so. much. bird. idolization

there is somewhat of a bird hierarchy but at the same time all birds are good birds

a very common religious “pilgrimage” for skywings is traveling around the continent and going birding. making and keeping birding journals. 

multiple jobs revolve around the upkeep of birds, especially in the palace, there’s multiple different sectors that house exotic birds and are dedicated to the care of those birds

falconry is very common, as is all bird keeping

they’re not really considered pets as much as they are companions

when a dragons companion bird dies, it gets a skywings funeral since skywing and bird souls are considered to be one in the same

if you see a bird and the bird sees you it means fate has turned her wide eyes unto you. if the bird doesn’t see you it means fate passes over you (for now, it always comes back around)

scrying with feathers

like skywings will have bundles of feathers and then scry by asking questions and throwing the bundle of feathers onto the ground

the answer depends on the orientation of the feathers

since skywings burn bodies, but bones don’t burn, they keep the skeletons usually in very fancy clay urns

this wasn’t happening during the war with ruby, so there’s currently a huuuuuge project within the kingdom of recovering the skeletons and trying to match the bones to put them in an urn

it’s very slow moving work but dragons also think it’s essential

there’s kind of a paris esque catacombs being created under the castle where all the urns are ending up, but dragons are trying to make it look a lot more lively

gems embedded into the walls, skylights when they can, etc

skywings do the same thing with bird bones! especially the bones of companion birds

the birds bones will be kept in their own urn until the dragon dies, at which point an urn big enough for the bones to be mixed will be produced

also,, in line with wanting to make magic more prevalent in all the tribes outside of animus,, skywings being bonded with birds will extend the bird’s lifespan 

the bird wouldn’t get the dragon’s lifespan, but a blue jay would live to be ~20ish rather than 7 years

also (random but related to birds) some icewings were freaked the fuck out by skywings because icewings consider birds to be BAD LUCK. icewings who live not in the castle, but a little bit north of the more populated border, do sky burials with their dead because the ground is too hard for graves. so these icewings consider carrion birds to be kind, but also omens of impending death, so when they roll up to the skywing kingdom and some fuckass has a black culture absolutely chilling there’s a lot of 👁👁

i think skywings can be super cool and interesting but i do kind of struggle to spice up their designs,, bc i dont like drawing feathers. maybe one day ill learn! idk. but i think theyre funky fresh

[blizzardstarx]

Pontalo AU Masterlist

LightWings full information!

i did not know how to describe how their names are chosen lmfao, also this took a million years to make

LightWings are one of the seven tribes inhabiting Pontalo. However, they have been nearly wiped out from constant pressure from the BloodWings, having most of their territory taken. Most LightWings have either fled, gone into hiding, or been killed. They are pacifists and believe in peace instead of fighting. Their current queen is Peacekeeper.

Description:

LightWings are bird-like dragons, with feathers running down from their foreheads to around their tail, behind their legs, and below their snout. They have sharp, bird-like talons, and feathered wings that reach a large wingspan. They also have hollow bones and are lightweight. LightWings are slightly shorter than the other tribes, other than the HydroWings, have slim bodies, and come in light, pastel colors. However, their wings are pure white and their other feathers can come in various bright colors. These have been described to attract other LightWings. They have blue or yellow eyes. LightWings also have dapples of luminescent scales running along their necks and legs, and they have curved horns.

LightWing eggs are bright white, and slightly glow when they are hatching.

Diet:

They eat a variety of fruits, as well as hawks, eagles, goats, squirrels, wild pigs, deer, cougars, rabbits, and other birds of prey. They can also somewhat get energy from the sun, which was more potent in ancient times. This was passed down onto their relatives, the SunWings and ShapeWings. However, they have developed to not rely as much on the sun, instead developing an omnivorous diet.

Abilities:

LightWings have light elemental powers, specifically able to shoot light beams out of their mouths as well as manipulate light waves, creating lasers. These are also energy-based, and they take a long time to recharge. LightWings also have healing powers too, which are amplified by herbs they gather and trade from the forest. However, with the threat of the BloodWings, their healing powers have weakened significantly.

Animus magic:

There have been traces of animus LightWings in the past, like the great Lightbringer, but only a few have animus blood now. One, yet unknown, animus is Hopebringer.

Society:

LightWings are considered artistic and creative, able to create songs, dances, which attract partners, and writings. Typical jobs include being a(n) writer, musician, ambassador, guard, dragonet caretaker, healer, and many other jobs.

Ancient era:

LightWings is the most ancient Pontalonian tribe, having populated the whole continent in separate colonies, and are related to the SunWings, HydroWings, MoonWings, and ShapeWings. The colonies were different in many ways, slowly evolving into those four tribes by partnering with other dragon species that would visit Pontalo. They were carefree and good-natured, trading with other colonies and traveling among themselves.

Lightbringer era:

Lightbringer was a powerful animus LightWing that lived during ancient Pontalo. She was known as the protector of the LightWings, as the evolved tribes slowly began to separate, causing conflict and disagreement over territory. The original LightWing colonies were then brought together by Lightbringer, and slowly, she brought peace to Pontalo. Lightbringer is revered as a symbol of greatness by the LightWings, almost like Clearsight to the HiveWings. She first introduced the idea of pacifism and peace to the LightWings.

Modern era:

LightWings were welcoming and trusting to the BloodWings when they arrived, which is leading to their downfall as their attacks continue to pressure them using the element of surprise. Over 75% of the tribe has been killed, and some flee to the unknown land Paradox landed in, going into the protection of the Light Tribe, some hiding, and some trying to reason with the BloodWings. They have become paranoid as a result of the amount of BloodWing ambushes.

Names:

LightWing names are meant to give a sense of hope or good will. They can also be light-themed or inspired by their powers.

Trivia:

LightWings originally did not have that many feathers, they were only dragons with feathered wings.

Paradox believed the LightWings were extinct, until Hopebringer showed up at her school.

[zoeysdamn]

Bark, Bite & Break Bones - Tyler Galpin x Van Helsing!reader |Part.1

Summary: Recently released from juvie by a court’s order, you go back to Nevermore academy to meet with the school board who had negotiated your parole in exchange for a very special mission. Trying to put your bitterness aside, you reluctantly agree and meet the infamous Hyde. What could go wrong with Tyler Galpin, after all?

Warnings: swearing, light violence

A/N: Might be some OOC, but I had so much fun writing this! Also, I made the reader and Tyler being a year older than the usual gang (Wednesday, Enid and co.) for both plot reasons and bc it sounds legit to me (it’ll make reader and Tyler between 17 and 18 - end of high school - and the other between 16 and 17). And I took some liberties and extrapolated a lot of information we don’t exactly have, such as the school board etc. This is fanfiction after all, let’s try things! 

[Masterlist] [Prologue]

Being born with a significant family name comes with perks: destiny already chosen, power coming with the name and ancestors' history, people already knowing you without ever meeting you, due respect. Well, if someone asked for your opinion, they would learn all of this was pure bullshit. 

As a Van Helsing, traditions had always ruled your existence, crawling their way in every aspect of your life. The mission of monster hunters started by your ancestor Abraham Van Helsing left no doubts in everyone's mind; before you could even talk or walk, it was obvious that you would learn how to throw a knife before losing your baby teeth, know all of the family's bestiary like the back of your hand by 10, and go to your first hunt for your 12th birthday. It was obvious that the family heritage and monster hunting duty would carry on with you. But then, your parents had a change of heart, and got you enrolled in Nevermore. Needless to say, the arrival of a Van Helsing at the very place creatures were supposed to be safe wasn’t pleasant, not even to you. The news of your return must’ve been even harder to swallow. 

“Principal Weems is expecting you in her office,” informed Vlad, the fencing team coach as you got out of the car and grabbed your luggage. 

He had been asked to pick you up from the detention center and bring you back to the academy. You had almost laughed at the irony of the situation – a vampire charged to be responsible for a Van Helsing – but had refrained yourself. You had to keep your sarcasm for Weems and the school board. Some students around you gave you curious looks, but you ignored them. They probably were younger or hadn’t recognized you yet. 

With coach Vlad on your tail, you made your way to the principal’s office, encountering a few shocked faces from students around your age. Their astonished faces brought a smirk on yours; so they hadn’t forgotten about your last stay here completely. Good. 

When you entered Weems' office, the whole school board was there, watching you like hawks. You remembered them vaguely from the last time you’ve been at Nevermore, an old vampire lady who looked like a Victorian character, a middle-aged gorgon whose sunken cheeks made him more severe than he was, a ginger and long-haired witch, and a dashing blond medium who reeked of fake smiles. The odd yet powerful bunch you owed your freedom to, much to your displeasure. 

“You’re late,” pointed out the vampire bitterly. 

Her frontal attack made you snort, “Sorry your highnesses, got lost in time while murdering a bunch of students in the way,” you said with a mocking over-exaggerated bow.

Your mocking comment made her purse her lips in annoyance, so her colleague Gorgon took over before she snapped something unlady-like, “I suppose you’re aware of the reason for your presence here, Miss Van Helsing?” 

Shrugging slightly, you nodded, “I’m to be the bodyguard of the new student/murderer or something like that. Can’t imagine how much it must hurt your pride to have to call me back here.”

The uneasy and irritated tension in the room just became heavier at your words; none of the people here wanted you here, not even you. Yet, you didn’t have a choice. 

“So,” you began to get this meeting started – the sooner into it, the quicker out of it, “what exactly are my missions?” 

Glad you addressed the question, the ginger witch cleared her throat and invited you to sit with a sign of the hand, “Due to a court’s decision, the school is to welcome the Hyde responsible for Jericho’s murders. This is the occasion for us to restore a good reputation for Nevermore, should we succeed in his reinsertion smoothly.”

“That’s where you need me,” you completed for her, slightly surprised by her brutal honesty. 

The witch nodded, “That’s where we need you,” she repeated. “Given your specific…skills, you’re the most designated person to supervise him during the school year.”

“For his own safety or yours?” you asked with a raised eyebrow. 

The blonde medium scoffed, muttering something along the lines of “what would he need protection”, but his colleagues ignored him and the vampire carried on. “Both, Miss Van Helsing. It’s in everyone’s interest that this experimental reinsertion works.”

“You do realize that you’ll drop a guy who can kill in a school full of people who hate him? How exactly do you expect this to be a success?” 

The blonde medium gave you a lopsided grin, “Well, that’s why you’re here now, aren’t you? To prevent some unnecessary trouble from happening.” 

You snorted loudly, “Ah, and I’m the most designated one to play peace keepers of course. I have no problem with handling the Hyde if things go out of hands, but for your students, ask the teachers do to their fucking job.”

Principal Weems, who stayed silent until then, spoke up. 

“The teachers will take care of the students, I can assure you. Your sole mission is to make sure that Mister Galpin doesn’t represent a threat to anyone.”

“And to neutralize him if he does become one,” quipped the Gorgon, eliciting a nod from everyone else. 

Their sudden agreement sounding like a discussion-closer made you frown. There was something that still didn’t sit right with you. 

“Okay spill,” you irritably said, “why me? Who bribed you into this idea?” 

All the members of the board got up without gracing you with any answer, bid their goodbyes to Weems and made their way to the door. 

“Answer me,” you called them from your seat, “which fucker had the brilliant idea to use me as a political lifeguard?” 

“You should thank them for once, Miss Van Helsing,” said the vampire lady as her colleagues got out of the room, “they gave you an unexpected occasion to redeem yourself.” 

You whipped your head in Weems’ direction as the door closed behind the board. 

“Do you know who suggested this deal to the court, yes or no?” you asked her bitterly. 

“I do,” she nodded, “and as a sign of good faith, I’m going to tell you. Your parents had made this suggestion.”

With a loud groan you slumped deeper into your chair, pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“For fuck’s sake,” you grumbled, “of course they did. Always sticking their noses in someone else's business.”

“They’re your parents, Miss Van Helsing,” reminded Principal Weems with a harsher voice, “they’re doing what they believe is best for you.”

“Exactly,” you snapped bitterly, “what they believe is best for me. They don’t fucking know me, and this is only a political move for their stupid pacifist campaign.” 

Weems sighed loudly at your angry reaction to your parents’ mention, then straightened up. 

“I’m not going to dig into your family business any further, but you’re one of my students again now, miss Van Helsing,” she said calmly, “I’d appreciate it if you'd keep your flowery language out of our exchanges from now on.” 

Rolling your eyes at her, you agreed, “Fine, whatever.”

“Excellent. Here is your school schedule, your dorm room key, and Mister Galpin’s file.” 

Getting up from your chair you grabbed the documents and started to browse through them. At your dorm assignment you raised an eyebrow. 

“A single room? To what do I owe this luxury?” 

Weems gave you a tight polite smile, “Considering how you value your personal space I thought this could be an olive branch in your direction.”

“Yeah,” you snorted, “this is also to prevent any potential roommate from trying to kill me in my sleep, right?”

The slightest nod of her head gave you confirmation. Well, whatever the reasons you were glad you had a room for yourself. 

“What about Tyler?” you asked, searching through the documents Weems gave you, “is he also in a single room?” 

To anyone else, your question could have been framed as an interested one; but Weems knew it was only you gathering all the information you would need to supervise the new student. 

“No, he’s been paired with a student a year younger than the two of you,” she said. “He should be stopping by any moment now.” 

As on cue, someone knocked on the door. At Weems’ invitation to enter, a lanky teenager wearing a beanie and with nervous eyes entered the room. 

“You uh- you asked to see me Mrs W?” he stuttered anxiously. 

You watched him carefully, analyzing every single one of his movements and his physical traits. In a handful of seconds you could easily guess he was a Gorgon. Old habits of a hunter didn’t die easily. The weight of your watchful gaze sent shivers down the boy’s back, even if he tried to ignore you the best he could. Thankfully Weems cut short his uneasiness. 

“Y/N Van Helsing, this is Ajax Petropolus, one of our Gorgon students. He’ll be Mister Galpin’s roommate for this school year.” 

Internally, you applauded the decision. It was a smart move to assign him a Gorgon roommate; their dorm would be the only place you wouldn’t be able to watch over Tyler, if he tried anything his roommate could stone him. Clever. 

The hand you offered him to shake made Ajax slightly jump. 

“Nice to meet you,” you said flatly. “Don’t worry I don’t bite,” you said at his evident nervousness, “at least not you this time.”

Despite the uneasiness coursing through his veins for being so close to a known monster hunter, Ajax shook your hand, “N-nice to meet you too.”

Weems glared at you for your teasing but cleared her throat, “Mr Petropolus has agreed to take part in this reinsertion program, and he’ll give you information if you need it. I thought it was important for the two of you to meet.” 

You rolled your eyes but then turned to the nervous Gorgon with a serious look, “For how long can you stone people?”

“Uh- two hours mostly,” he said nervously, and you nodded. 

“That should be enough if you ever need to stop him as a last resort. Are you afraid of him?”

“I…yeah a bit.”

“Good,” you deadpanned, “then you’re not half stupid as I thought. Good luck with getting any sleep this year.” 

Ajax threw a last glance at Weems that motionned to him he could leave the room. The boy had never fled a room so quickly. 

“What?” you said at Weems’ new glare. 

“Could you please refrain yourself from scaring every single student in this school?”

“Is either that or they hate me, can’t help myself,” you shrugged matter-of-factly. “So, when does that Tyler Galpin guy arrive at Nevermore?”

“Glad you asked Miss Van Helsing,” smiled Principal Weems, “you’re coming with me to pick him up from the detention center this afternoon.”

“Great,” you snorted, “a road trip with the Principal. Lucky me.” 

Weems only kept her polite smile. That made you think about something you didn’t quite catch yet; noticing your starring, the principal raised an eyebrow at you. 

“I don’t quite get how you survived to your allegated death,” you wondered out loud. “I clearly remember reading your obituary. Very touching, by the way.” 

She pressed her lips in a thin line, not looking very fond of this traumatic episode. “The shapeshifting abilities had allowed me to change my body’s composition to handle the poison that had been administered to me,” she explained carefully, which made you raise an eyebrow in turn. You did know the theory of shapeshifting, but never heard of a case like that. “Unfortunately the dose I received was too strong to remain in this corporal form, so I had to adopt another body and lay low for some time in order to heal.”

You nodded in understanding, “Explains the faked death. You’ve got more guts than I thought, I'll give you that.” 

“Get out of my office please,” sneered Weems. 

With a mock salute you got up from your chair and gathered the documents and the key to your room. As you went to the door, Weems called you out. 

“I’ll meet you at the entrance at 2 pm, when you’ll have retrieved your uniform.”

You froze in place and whipped your head in her direction, “Is this a fucking joke? The uniform? At least tell me you gave me the boy’s version and not that fucking skirt.”

“Rules are rules Y/N,” she smiled, not even half sorry about it. 

“Aww c’mon Principal Weems,” you smirked bitterly, “it’s the 21st century now. A girl can wear pants, I swear it’s socially acceptable now.”

“Good day Miss Van Helsing,” she said flatly. 

Opening the door of her office you huffed loudly, “And people think Van Helsings are the old-fashioned one.”

With that, you slammed the door. This was going to be a long, long year. 

A few hours later you stood in front of the detention center in your uniform, and a deep frown on your face. Although you had absolutely refused to wear the skirt outside of the Nevermore grounds and wore jeans, Weems hadn’t said anything. As long as you were here to do your job, the shirt, tie and blazer would suffice. Leaning against the car hood as you wait, you mind-absently played with your favorite sliding knife, twirling it between your fingers. Standing stiff next to you, Weems glared at you on the side. 

“I thought the non-weapon policy was quite clear,” she seethed between her teeth. 

“You want me to do my job correctly, yes or no?” you shrugged, “And there was nothing about a non-weapon rule in that deal.” 

Scoffing lightly, Weems readjusted the lapel of her coat, “Be discreet about it then. No need to make a scene.” 

“Yes ma’am,” you said with a mock salute, pocketing the knife as the heavy door of the penitentiary opened. 

Surrounded by two officers a curly brown-haired teenager approached, clinging on the strap of his bag for his dear life. His brown eyes were shifty, always avoiding looking at someone else. The red scars on his cheeks contrasted with the freckles and the frightened look that belonged more to the golden boy he must have been. Shoulders hunched, you almost thought he was about to cry. You repressed a roll of eyes; playing the frightened card, pathetically classic. 

“Thank you gentlemen,” smiled Principal Weems politely, signing the release forms, “we’ll take it from here.”

The officers gave your pair a wary look – the tall, blonde, impeccably dressed woman, and the angry-looking teenager, hunching and glaring at everyone – but then shrugged and walked away without giving it much more thought.  

“Hello Mr Galpin,” said Weems with her usual politeness, “it’s great to finally meet you in person.”

“Principal Weems I– it-it’s really an honor to join Nevermore, thank you so much for giving me a chance I–”

“This is Y/N Van Helsing,” she cut his rambling short, slightly turning in your direction, “she’ll be your tutor throughout your reinsertion year at Nevermore academy.” 

Tyler turned in your direction, eyes wide in surprise and wet with tears. He looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, like he was afraid you’d tear him apart. Good. 

“I’m a glorified bodyguard,” you specified while extending your hand to him. As soon as he grabbed your hand with his shaky one, you harshly tugged him closer. The sudden proximity of your faces made him blush slightly, along with the surprise caused by your unexpected gesture. Mouth barely inches from his, you locked your eyes with him. 

“Listen here and listen closely Galpin,” you hissed lowly, “I’m here to make sure you won’t fuck this up. If you ever slip away from this good boy path they want to follow, even the slightest, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes without a sweat, is that clear?” 

Through all your speech, your hand had been gripping his harder and harder, until your knuckles were white. Still, you could feel him shiver under your palm. He looked at you with fearful eyes, and at your dark and very much serious glare, nodded obediently. 

“Wonderful,” you breathed out before releasing his poor hand. 

Just before he pulled back, you thought you saw a glimpse of something else in his eyes. Like amusement, or cruel excitement. But given it was only for a split of second before the fright filled his look once more, you brushed it away. The second after, he was putting some distance between the two of you, giving Weems a dreadful look like begging her to come to his help. The Principal only sighed loudly and gestured to the two of you to get inside of the car. While she sat in the driver seat, you followed Tyler on the back of the car, where you’ll be able to watch him more closely. The proximity didn’t seem to make it at ease, given he practically pushed himself completely against the door to put the more distance he could between him and you. On the other hand you were quite pleased by that effect you had on him, even if the frightened little mouse behavior didn’t quite fit right with you. There was something off coming from this over-exaggerated mood of his, but it was yet too soon for you to say if he was playing this role consciously or not. You’ll have plenty of time to observe him after all. 

At the end of a very awkward car ride – where only Weems spoke, in occasional short sentences giving Tyler some practical information about his stay at Nevermore – you all got out of the car. After making sure she wasn’t needed anymore, Weems left you to give Tyler a tour of the school grounds. Fortunately, most of the students were in class for the time being, so you won’t have to deal with angry teenagers yet. The last look Weems gave you before leaving the two of you at the quad was very clear: it was a first test, for Tyler and for you. For all answers, you rolled your eyes at her and turned to Tyler. 

“Let’s go,” you groaned at the terrified-looking boy, “I’m gonna give you a tour of the place.” 

Not expecting you to walk away so quickly, Tyler stumbled behind you trying to catch up as you pointed out flatly all the major locations of the school. 

“S-so, you’re also a student here?” he stuttered, trying to engage in a discussion. “I didn’t think they…well you know, they’d trust me to be alone with another student…”

The snort you let out was bitter, “That’s why I’m here, pal. They don’t trust you, I’m here to do the dirty work if shit goes wrong.” 

The thought of that didn’t seem to put him more at ease. “You’re gonna watch me for the rest of the year? Like- like all of it?”

“I’m literally back in this shit hole only to bodyguard you,” you groaned in confirmation. “Trust me there’s a thousand other places I’d rather be right now, so suck it up and deal with it, Whitney Houston.”

As he stayed confused at your words, Tyler noticed a bunch of students in an adjacent corridor glaring at your odd pair, eyes throwing daggers and hushed grumbles undoubtedly bitter. At first he hung his head low in shame, but then he realized that the hatred glances were probably more meant to you. It was confirmed to him as a passing by student muttered a “fucking bitch” under his breath, not giving a single glance at Tyler. Taken aback by the unexpected violence, Tyler looked at you, even more surprised by the evident lack of reaction. Not even a slight frown on your face, you carried on your tour. 

“You- uh, don’t seem to be the popular type,” he chuckled nervously. 

“No shit,” you said with a roll of your eyes as you reached the boys’ dormitory, “I’m a Van Helsing, meaning most of my ancestors hunted theirs, and let’s say I’m carrying out the family legacy.” 

Tyler almost choked on his own air, “You hunt monsters? And you’re in a school for outcasts??” 

Sliding the key in the door lock of his room you gave him a playful wink and a grin over your shoulder, “What, you think I volunteered for this job because of your pretty face? I’m the muscles here pal, don’t get your hopes high.” 

Swinging the door open, you were welcomed by the sight of Ajax jumping on his feet nervously. The poor boy must have been plagued with anxiety all day at the prospect of his new roommate's arrival. The two boys glanced at each other shyly, looking more frightened by the other’s presence than anything else. You sighed loudly, pulling them out of this tetanized rabbits staring contest. 

“Ajax Petropolus, Tyler Galpin,” you said, pointing out one then the other of the teenagers. “Tyler Galpin, Ajax Petropolus your roommate.”

“It’s uh- nice to meet you,” said Tyler with an outstretched hand. 

Ajax eyed it warily before carefully shaking it, “Yeah…nice to meet you too I guess?” 

“I will have my own room in the girls’ dorm, but Ajax can stone you if needed,” you said matter-of-factly, eliciting a dumbfounded look from Tyler. 

“Stone me?”

“Oh yeah, I’m a Gorgon,” clarified Ajax with a small nervous laugh. “Medusa and all that, y’know?”

While Tyler stared at him with eyes wide like saucers, you turned to Ajax and outstretched your hand to him. 

“Phone,” you said sharply. 

The Gorgon looked at you in surprise, “What? Why? What do you want to do?”

“Browsing your internet history and sending it to your mom,” you snickered before rolling your eyes at his mortified expression, “I’m gonna put my number in it, what do you think?” 

This didn’t make him react either, if anything he was even paler than before. So you sighed and reached for his pocket to pick his phone and quickly saved your contact in it. 

“Here,” you said while putting it on his desk, “if anything happens you can reach me immediately.”

“O-oh,” finally let out the Gorgon with a shaky breath, “that’s why you wanted to– yeah I mean of course.” 

You raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, which made him stutter even more. His awkwardness amused you but you really, really wanted to take a nap right now. So you turned to Tyler, who fidgeted nervously with the strap of his bag. 

“I’m gonna let you settle down here, dinner is at 7 I’ll pick you up. Don’t be late, or your stay at Nevermore will be much shorter than expected, understood?”

He nodded his head and you didn’t wait any longer to get out of the room, leaving the awkward tension-filled room. 

Walking through the corridors and ignoring the either surprised, frightened or dark glances on your way, you made a mental list of all the documents you’ll have to ask from Weems. Sure, you weren’t really happy about this situation, but it was a job like any other and you intended to do it properly. Meaning you needed to know everything about what happened at Nevermore since you had left the academy two years ago. 

Lost in your thoughts you didn’t notice the figure of another student coming straight in your direction. It was only when they willfully bumped their shoulder into yours that you realized they were right in front of you. 

Repressing a groan you looked up at them with your best glare, which turned into a mockingly delighted grin when you realized who it was. 

“Aaaah Yoko, what a pleasure to see you again!” you cooed with evident sweet-laced venom in your voice, “love the gloomy blind vampire look, really looks better than the acne.” 

“What the fuck are you doing here Van Helsing?” she seethed between her pointed teeth, “Has a deathwish?”

“Only on Thursdays,” you countered cockily with a wink. 

That only seemed to anger her more, “I thought that it was clear that you weren’t welcomed here anymore. You’ve been stupid to come back after what happened.”

“And yet,” you mused as you cocked your head to the side, “I never was welcomed in the first place, was I? Even if you definitely made things much more pleasant if I remember correctly…”

The vampire growled and before you could even blink her hand shot at your throat, ready to claw it open and pinning you against the wall. But as quick, your own hand shot up, grabbing her wrist just as her acerated nails were about to reach your trachea. Back on the wall you chuckled darkly. No matter how hard she tried to claw at you, you kept her hand in an iron grip.

Tsking in a patronizing manner you gave her a lopsided grin, “Now, you know I’m into that kind of things, but I’m not sure that you’re looking for a rebound hookup with me, are you Teethy?”

“Don’t,” she growled, “You’re not ever calling me that again, you bitch.”

“Awww, loved you too,” you grinned, “by the way, how did your coven take the news? That you slept a Van Hel–” 

Her hand tried to grab you again but your grip on her hand only tightened, “They don’t know and they never will,” she spat angrily, “and we weren’t dating.”

You gave a doubtful nod of the head, “Mmmmh yeah never said that, but we kinda did tho. But what would I know, I’m really not one who gives two shits about what my family thinks of me, right?” 

Yoko didn’t respond but rage was painted all over her face, a thick vein ready to pop out of her forehead. 

“Is that why you came back? To loathe at me after what you did?” 

You scoffed and forcefully shoved her hand out of your way, pushing yourself off the wall, “Don’t flatter yourself Teethy, you’re not that special. I’m here for business, nothing more.”

Yoko snickered, “What, this Galpin son of a bitch? What are you now, his personal bodyguard?” 

“Easy now babe, you know green doesn’t suit you,” you said with a roll of your eyes, “it does look fantastic on me though, I should know I wore it for two years.” 

“What’s your point?” she spat, her patience running short. 

“Don’t imagine things,” you said flatly, “I’m only here to make sure that Tyler guy doesn’t mess things up and neutralize him if he does. That’s what I’m doing best after all,” you shrugged. “As soon as the year is done I’m getting the fuck out of this shit-hole.” 

She narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously but didn’t say anything more. Getting this as your cue, you started to walk past her to resume your way to your room. 

“Soooo, if we’re done here with the empty threats I’m gonna leave your lovely blood-sucking company okay?” 

“You’re not gonna last,” she warned you, but you only continued to walk. 

“Big fucking news,” you called over your shoulder, “I live to disappoint!” 

“No one will ever help you,” she continued. 

“Boo-hoo, so sad!” 

“You don’t know what he’s capable of!” she finally shouted. That made you stop and you turned to her, an eyebrow raised up. Yoko had a wicked smile on her usual composed face, “Maybe if we’re lucky you’ll just kill each other.”

Staring at her silently for a few seconds, you then let out a snort. 

“Well, good news he doesn’t know what I’m capable of either then.” 

At 7 sharp, you were in front of Tyler’s door, waiting for him to answer your knock. You had previously texted Ajax of your arrival, and the poor boy had fled the room as soon as you had informed him you were entering their dorm. He had crossed way with you, eyes avoiding yours at all cost and walking the fastest he could. This made you chuckle slightly, but now you weren’t as amused. If Tyler didn’t respond in the next few seconds, you would blow up his door. Thankfully for him he opened the door just as you were about to lose patience. He looked just as frightened and lost as earlier. 

“Hi,” he said in a small voice, “am I on time?”

“You are. Luckily for you,” you observed sharply. “Let’s go.” 

He hurried behind you like a lost little boy, following you closely. 

“Is there going to be…everyone at the dining hall?” he asked nervously. 

You hummed in response, “Nevermore in all its glory. Even the school board if we’re unlucky enough.” 

Tyler gulped loudly, “Do they…do they all know what I did?”

“I don’t know pal,” you said with an exasperated sigh, “Probably yeah, I’m not a fucking reporter here.”

And then something you didn’t expect happened: Tyler sobbed. He legit broke down in tears in the middle of the empty corridor, hiding his face in his hands. 

“I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m so sorry for everything that happened, I didn’t want to do any of this.” 

At first his reaction slightly took you by surprise. His pathetic display of emotion, full of tears, sobs and shivers was a heart-breaking sight. Even the tremors in his voice could make you shed a tear. But instead, you snickered bitterly. 

“OKay that’s enough,” you rolled your eyes, “no one cares about your guilty moods.”

“But I’m so sorry, I truly am,” he sobbed, voice heavy with tears, “I never wanted to do that you have to believe me—”

Grabbing him by the front of his shirt you harshly pulled him down to your height, forcing him to lock his teary eyes in your. 

“I don’t believe you,” you seethed, “not about your crimes, for all I bloody care those people are dead anyway. But I’m not buying your little act of the redeeming good boy so cut the fucking crap.”

For a millisecond, Tyler looked so frightened he might have convinced you. But then a wicked grin completely whipped away his tearful expression and his eyes darkened. His mouth morphed into a monstrous, pointy gash with a growl and big clawed hands snaked around yours. Just before his mouth completely turned into the monstrosity that had killed so many people, you headbutted him violently, smashing your forehead against his with all of your might. The unexpected shock definitely took him by surprise and he tottered back, gripping his head with both hands and groaning. The sneaky move had stopped his transformation instantaneously and you didn’t lose a second ducking down and describing a circle with your leg, tripping him off his feet. He crashed loudly on the ground, and before the next groan left his mouth you had jumped on him with a dagger against his throat and a hand gripping his wrist. Straddling him with a knee burying deep on his plexus, your other feet pinned his left arm on the ground. 

Breathing heavily, his face had become human again, a few inches from yours, close enough for your breaths to mix together. Some of your hair brushed against his forehead but this apparent intimate atmosphere was radically changed by the cold sensation of your blade against his throat. The slightest twitch of his jaw made you press it harder and almost draw blood, which made him chuckle. 

“Well well well,” he rasped in a mocking voice, “That’s not very nice”

“I’m not here to be nice,” you said flatly, “I’m just good at doing my job.”

Tyler let out a low chuckle, “Guess you have it in you after all, doll.” 

The light scoff you let out didn’t soften the pressure of your blade, “Guess you still have to learn about consent,” you countered back. “Touch me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you on the spot.”

The grin Tyler let out had nothing to do with the previous crying image he gave you earlier, “What makes you think you’d actually manage to do that?” 

Quick as ever a gun suddenly appeared in the hand that was previously tightened around Tyler’s wrist. Barrel pressed against his forehead, he grinned even harder than before. 

“Cute toy, had a few more?” 

You cocked the gun, the click echoing in the corridor, “I’m sure you’ll love the silver bullets, pretty boy. Should be keeping you down for enough time.” 

“Mmmmh, and then what? Gonna slay the monster and burn the house?”

You nodded your head matter-of-factly, “Been there, done that. Routine job really, you’re not that special honey.” 

Tyler chuckled slowly and mockingly raised his hands in surrender. 

“Alright then, I’m willing to play along. But only because you’ve asked nicely.”

You tried to repress the amused smirk, “I literally have a blade pressed against your throat.” 

Tyler shrugged, a smirk still plastered on his face. This made his scars on the cheek look even more ominous. So you leaned even closer to him, whispering in his ear. 

“If you ever try to pull this shit again on me, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes, understand?” 

With a feral grin, Tyler looked more pleased than ever, “Game on, doll. Game on.” 

[Part.2] 

A/N: More Ajax screentime? More Ajax screentime. And yesssss bisexual reader bc the raging bisexual in me is simping for that krkrkr

Plus, I love soft Tyler, but you know what’s better? Switch Tyler between soft and feral cocky bastard because yES. Originally I planned to make the Van Helsing reader insert a Xavier x reader story (with some differences in the plot of course), but I’m glad I’ve switched to Tyler. First, it’ll be a more interesting story (I think), and I love to explore writing for other characters! (as long as I’m comfortable with it that is ofc).

I wanted to finish writing chapter 2 before posting this, but eh couldn’t resist krkrkr

If you got the reference from ‘The bodyguard’, I love you

Thanks everyone for reading, I hope you enjoyed this part ♥

Hope you’re all doing okay, take care of you ♥

Taglist:

@igotanidea​ @officerrrfriendly​ @beggingforxavierthorpe​ @aliciahlewis​

Usernames unfound by Tumblr: 

@spiceyhotsherbet

Plz tell me if I’ve forgotten you in the taglist (or if you wanna join!)

[sensei-venus]

Getting steamy w merman!hawk??

(Unedited) (Mer!Hawk, merman/tentacle dick??, Mermaid/Merman Anatomy, Blowjob, Public Sex, Beach Sex.)

“How do we- how do we do this?” Reader blinked as she looked down at Hawk’s lower navel.

The boy was laid out on the soft sand of the beach. His long tail was stretched out on the ground in front of her. His breathtaking purple and blue scales glistened with sea water in the moonlight.

If Hawk wasn't so cocky she would have told him how sappy he looked right now. The whole scene in front of her looked like a chapter from a fantasy book. The way he was looking at her right now only made it even more real. His pretty blue eyes were lust-filled as they peered over at her. Sending filtration filled looks her way the whole night so far.

He wiggled his eyebrow at her before saying “Well you could start by coming over here. Get a better view of what I'm working with.” Reader blushed a little but nodded anyway. She slowly crawled over to the tailed boy before stopping just in front of him. Her eyes taking in all of his beautiful features up close. It felt so new to be this close to him even after the multiple times she sat near him.

For a merman he was built, the slight outline of abs over his tight belly. Nice collar bones and tight pecks. Even his cheekbones were handsome.

“I really enjoy the staring but I think we would both enjoy touching way more.”

“Oh uh yeah your right sorry…” Reader felt completely out of her element at the moment.

“Hey it’s ok, this is new to both of us. I have never been with a human before and I'm pretty sure you have never been with a merman before.”

“You're just saying that because you know that you were the very first merperson I ever meet.” she rolled her eyes at the smirking merman. He seemed to find her embarrassment amusing. If she was being honest she really didn't find it all that funny.

Slowly he reached out and took one of her clenched fists, he was gentle as he got her to relax a little. Hand falling limp he moved it to his abdomen area. Gently he took one of her fingers and let it ghost over a small spot in the middle part of his tail. Her lips fell open in awe as she felt the new area. It wasn't exactly like the rest f his tail.

There was an odd area that didn't feel like his normal scales. It was small and hidden between a tiny patch of his beautiful blue and purple scales. Soft and slightly warm compared to his cold outer tail.

He chewed on his bottom lip to stop from moaning out as he let her stroke the area. It was definitely sensitive by the way he was acting. Her fingers danced over and around the area and it seemed to drive him crazy.

“What's that?”

“It's my slit, it's where my dick is at. I'm guessing humans don't have that?”

He lets go of her hand and let's get do her own thing. She hums as she feels around the hidden slit, she tries her best to be as gentle as possible. Her eyes linger over the spot. She says “No we kinda have all that stuff hanging out I guess?“ he closes his eyes and groans.

His pelvis bucked as her fingers dipped into the now puffy slit. Her eyes wished as her finger tips dipped into the warm wet heat. It was hot and warm against her skin, it made a quiver go up her spine. She could even feel his heart beat.

The sponge-like walls hugged her fingers like a vice. Welcoming her in and encouraging her to explore him more. Wanting her to feel all of him from the inside.

Her fingers went in deeper as Hawk allowed her inside his slit. His eyes rolled and his tail slapped out against the wet sand below. Slowly losing his cool.

Reader almost yanked her fingers out when she felt something get wiggle against her digits. Hawk was quick to grab at her wrist and keep her fingers inside him.

“Was that-”

“Yeah that's my dick, you got me excited. Playing with my slit is the only way to get it out.”

“But it moved!”

“Yeah so?”

It was only a second later when the wiggling against fingers grew more intense. Suddenly Hawk’s “dick” was moving and clutching at her fingers. It moved to hook around the fingers, squeezing and searching for more warmth. Seeking out her touches.

It wasn't long before it was pushing her out of his slit and freely moving around in the cool night air. Reader gasped as his dick finally came free.

Thick long and light pink covered in a thick layer of clear fluids. It dripped down the wiggling length and puddle around his open slit. It moved in the air searching for more attention. Obviously wanting Reader to go back to touch it. Hawk smirked at her expression, clearly happy with her taken-aback look.

“Touch it, I dont bite~”

Reader rolled her eyes at him before taking the chance. She reached out and let the appendage explore her hand. It flicked over her fingers and palms and slowly tried to go up her wrist. Squirming in her had trying to get her to fondle it. Chewing on her lip she tried to softly grip the new toy. The texture was hard but gave a little with a quick pump of her palm.

She watched as it wiggled against her palm seeking her warmth. She blushes a little as she starts to stroke him. She wonders if the warm slick dripping into her palm is pre or natural lubricant. It's sticky but also a bit watery as it starts to slick up her hand. The more she pumps him the more spills from both his tapered tip and hidden slit. Jerking him softly she finds him wetting her palm even more.

Her eyes lock onto his twisted-up face. His brows furrowed and his head threatened to slam back into the sand. Clawing at the sand next to him with his sharp claws. He grunts and groans as he gets closer to his orgasm. His tail twitched and his belly tightened.

“Fuck your really good at this!”

He bites back as he firsts his claws into the sand harder than before. Eyes rolled back into his skull trying to keep himself together. His poor lips are borderline bloody with the way his teeth dig into them. Reader can tell he's trying to keep himself together.

She can't help that her own heartbeat picks up as she watches him slowly melt under her touch. He's falling apart all because of her.

She picks up her pace as she watches his dick start to spasm. The tip weeping that same clear fluid that covered her hand and wrist. It pumped out like a leaking faucet down her hand. It glistened under the moonlight as it started to drip down her arm. It just wouldn't stop.

Watching it flowed down her hand made her mind race and her thighs clench. Wetting her lips she did the only thing her brain was telling her to do at that very moment.

Suck it.

Leaning down she gently licked around the wiggling cock. She licked around the weeping tip and tasted the strange fluid. It almost tasted like nothing, the slight tang of salty water mixed with the only thing that could be named “Hawk” meet her taste buds. It wasn't horrible, if anything the more she tasted it the better it got.

She could almost say it was a bit additive. It wasn't long until the tip started to unwrap itself to seek out her warm mouth. Finding the hot cavern more interesting than her hand.

It prodded at her lips for entry before sliding in with one go. Reader gagged a bit at first with the way it stretched her lips open. She moans as it goes deeper into her mouth and taps at the back of her throat. A few seconds later and it taps her throat and slides in. Gagging she grips at his slim waist in hopes of finding some kind of grounding. But this only makes him moan out and buck harder.

She tries her best to suck around him but his dick does most of the work.

Moving around her mouth and exploring her pretty tongue and throat. Taking the time to poke and prod.

It only takes a few more minutes before his cock vibrates in her mouth and seeks out the very back of her throat one last time. It pushes as far as it can into her tight throat before sputtering. It gives her no other choice but to gulp down his hot load. It sends rope after rope of water-like cum down her throat. Directly into her belly and filling her up all the way.

She tries her best to stay on and swallow as much as she can. It's hot as it spills down her throat. She can feel how it fills her belly, already physically feeling the way her belly starts to bloat from the copious amount of fluid. Her belly feeling tight and full as he finely starts to stop. A few more sports and he wiggles back to life in her mouth.

With a small pop it retreats from her mouth. It gives no time as it slowly retreats back to its now puffy slit. It already looks raw.

She does her best to collect herself, licking her lips of the remaining strange cum. She coughs as she is finally able to breathe again. Her long filled with salty beach air once again. Looking up she finds Hawk boneless on the sand. Fallen completely limp onto the sand.

He's panting and breathing heavily, his chest and cheeks painted a bright pink in the light. His slit is still twitching from the intense orgasm he just had.

For a split second she swears he is about to cover his poor abused slit from the slight breeze.

He looks over to her in a haze, his eyes full of lazy lust. She can't tell but she wonders if his eyes have caught sight if her extended belly, his gaze falling down. She wonders if he is checking out her bloated belly.

She runs a hand over it to feel the slight distention of her new belly. She questions how long it will stay like that. Her belly is full of his warm cum.

“D-definitely didn't see that coming. Sorry about uh how watery it was. It's uhh thicker during the matting season I guess.” he stammers a bit, still trying to collect himself. Their eyes briefly meet.

“So that just means I have to wait till then right? See how thick your load can get for me right?” she smirks at him. His cheeks grow brighter as he slowly nods.

“Yeah, I guess so~”

[greypetrel]

Hello! ⭐ Maybe "i had a dream about you" for Raina? Feel free to change it tho!

Hey there! <3

I kept Raina, but hoping you don’t mind, I tried to dip my feet in the Whale AU 2.0, the fully original one. I blame @theluckywizard for putting the HawkexInquisitor bug in my ear. Then I remembered that my toxic trait is recycling characters. I know this, as all OC content here will interest three people, but please indulge me. Raina will change her name, but I kept her as Raina still for commodity. A sketch at the bottom!

Ah for your knowledge: we’re in Iceland in the Edwardian Era, I still haven’t set a precise date, but I’m pending towards 1910.

Tis the prompt list

Morning, Noon and Nightime, too

“I had a dream about you”

[ Famale Hawke x Female Lavellan || An Edwardian AU || 3256 words || CW: Shipwrecks, storms, non-graphic description of violence ]

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. - T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Raina was born by the ocean. Raised on it. Her first steps had been on her father’s boat, her first memories were by the seaside. She knew the ocean, her feet were more stable on a ship than on dry land. She knew how to move, knew how to read the waves, knew when a storm was coming and it was time to seek shelter and drop the anchor, knew how to move if the coast was too far and the anchor wouldn’t reach the bottom.

That night, nothing mattered.

That night was cold and wet and salty, she was cold to her bones, the ship swayed left and right, waves scroshing down the bridge white with foam, too much for her footing to keep sure.

At a certain point, she had to hang on the railing and wait for the next wave to shift the Hvalur around and sweep the bridge. It made it slippery and wet, but she had something to hang onto and avoid slipping down, down, in the black of the water and to a certain death.

She was desperately trying to reach the wheel, but it seemed like the hull extended longer and longer the more steps she took. The more difficult, harsh and slippery steps she took. It felt like for each step she made, the storm pushed her back two.

Rain filled her eyes, it didn’t matter how much oilskin she had covered herself with. The ship rolled too much for it to be effective, the Northern Atlantic cold and unforgiving. It mattered little that it was the same ocean that saw her whole life passing by.

She used her hands to drag herself further. Further. A little more, headed to the stern lantern. Closer and closer, she gritted her teeth in effort, pushing her heavy, cold legs to work for a little more. Just a little more, and-

- someone yelled to her back, someone Raina knew.

If she thought her blood was frozen from the cold before, she was wrong. It froze now, recognizing that voice as her brain filled with dread.

She turned, heart beating fast, in time to see two things.

The first, was that whales were blowing in the water, puff glowing starkly white against the blackness of the surroundings, black noses emerging, mastodontic tails breaking the waves right after. Everything was fast and quick, but those tails, growing bigger and bigger -too big, a part of her brain knew they weren’t as-

The second thing was Aisling, climbing over the railing of the vessel. One foot, the other, hands propping herself up on the border…

Panic took her, making her limbs suddenly light, too light. She forgot about the ship -she never reached the wheel in time and the ship wrecked, she knew, trying to change it was pointless anyway- and lunged for the other woman. The ship was lost, but Aisling was not. Aisling would not be. She let go, slipped and turned, yelled at her not to jump, it wasn’t-

- Thunder cracked in the sky, illuminating the night, and everything seemed to go slower.

Raina turned, in time to see a tail -huge, enormous, too enormous- contrasting black against the whitened sky, horribly close to her. Aisling slipped and fell with a yelp that wasn’t happiness, was dread.

Raina knew what was about to happen. She knew it all too well.

She saw the same scene before, after all, even if she couldn’t remember when or why, and some details where off. It was the first time that Aisling was there, but the rest, she knew.

Time sped up, recovering the pause of before. The tail descended on the ship, heavy and quick, the ship tilted to it obediently.

A crash, a boom, the pavement slipped from under her feet and her hand lost grip, Raina collided heavily on the water.

The ocean filled her clothes, slipped inside her oilskin, her trousers and sweater and shirt. She thrashed madly, confused and not understanding where was up and where was down.

Everything was black, she never felt so cold in her life, nor so scared.

Or well, she already saw and felt everything there, and she, indeed, felt just as cold and just as scared.

But she couldn’t remember when.

She saw Aisling back again, taken down by huge jaws full of teeth, eyes void.

She screamed, and her lungs filled with water and salt.

A familiar flavour, at least, just before she drowned.

---

Raina woke up screaming from the bottom of her lungs, jolting awake and up.

She couldn’t breathe -or well, she could but it was difficult- her heart thrummed in her ears, and she was still mortally cold, and felt wet. Everything she saw was black, black, a vast nothingness and an infinite ocean where up and down were the same thing, and each meant death.

She struggled to breathe, body not fully responding, blinking and squinting to get a clue of where she was, anything to tell her that it wasn’t the bottom of the Atlantic, there were no whales around her.

Something shifter beside her, something else squeaked from the same direction, but it made her just more on pins and needles than she was before.

“Raina?”

A voice, groggy with sleep, which brought a too vivid image to her mind. Not being able to see her didn’t help: she kept imagining her maimed and mauled, brought down in the ocean by sharp teeth.

“It’s ok. It’s just me. It’s fine, you’re safe.”

Aisling kept on, shifting closer, voice soft and quiet. Not the voice of a person who is dying. It calmed her a little, but not seeing her didn’t fully help, even if slowly breathing was becoming easier.

“Can I touch you?”

She asked, and slowly, oh so slowly she approached. Raina felt the faintest of touches, barely the shifting of the cloth on her shoulders, brushing over her skin. When she didn’t react, the touch became a real one, hands placing delicately on her shoulders. Gradually, very gradually, fingers squeezed, and when nothing else happened, the squeeze became a hug, a cheek rested on her shoulder, she felt hair brushing on her jaw.

Her body wouldn’t move on its own, but she let Aisling gently move her, to lean on her more thoroughly first -her fingers combed through her hair, nails gently scratching her scalp- and then down, back to bed, when her breathing got more regular and her shoulders unclenched some.

She remembered where she was, then, and why it was so dark.

It wasn’t the ocean, it was Aisling’s hut. The embers in the fireplace must have extinguished, and the rain still ticked on the glass of the curtained window, behind the steel bars of the bed’s headboard. They were sharing the bed because Aisling received some bad news about her research, yesterday, and all she had asked was if she could sleep in her bed tonight, and not in the hammock hanging from the ceiling. Raina couldn’t tell her no, not when she had looked so uncharacteristically down. It was her bed, after all, and Raina had been occupying it since two months. Two months since Aisling found her on shore, miraculously still alive after the shipwreck. She tried to offer to sleep in the hammock, but she was too tall for it, and too heavy for the hook in the ceiling. So, they shared.

Sweat had cooled down on her skin and she shivered. Quickly, the blankets were back on her. Aisling shifted around, as she kept chatting in a soft voice about what she was doing and why. Tucking her in, so she was fully covered, the night was chilly and they both didn’t want her to get another fever. Fixing the sheet and the blanket together, Raina apparently had twisted them around while thrashing in sleep.

It was too much, and a part of her brain was screaming to tell her to stop -she would have, Raina had only to ask. One thing was pining and finding her cute and not acting upon it not to make the situation any weirder than it already was, another was sharing a bed, waking her up in the middle of the night and taking advantage of her kindness like so.

Maybe it was the nightmare, maybe it was still some lingering fear that clutched her throat and her heart like so, maybe it was the bone-deep need of knowing she was unharmed, she wasn’t bloody and drowning.

Raina listened to the other part of her brain, and as soon as Aisling too, finally, curled down beneath the covers, she shifted forward and slipped her arms around her waist, dragging her closer.

She felt the other gasp, the chatting stopped for a moment. Raina squeezed her eyes hard and clutched the other’s body closer, if but for a moment before rejection came crushing hard on her.

The moment passed, another came. And another.

The next, she felt Aisling sigh and shift. Not to slip away, but to slip an arm in the crook of her neck and hug her shoulders back, cheek resting on top of her head and fingers coming back to caress her hair, tread in short black locks leisurely.

“Don’t let me go.” It slipped out of Raina’s lips automatically, without her thinking too much about it. She would have hated how hoarse and whiny it sounded, if there had been anyone else with her.

“I won’t.” Aisling just told her, staying right where she was and hugging her tighter in all answer.

Soft and steady between her arms and under her cheek, she pressed her ear on her shoulder, and felt her heart beating, her chest rise and fall with breath.

She smelled liked salty water, but on her, it didn’t make her antsy.

Her breath calmed, and she forget embarrassment and pining, and let the solid body in her arm, the fingers in her hair, Iull her back to a dreamless sleep.

---

The next time she woke up, the hut was illuminated by grey light filtering from the other window in the kitchen corner.

The day was cloudy, and there was still noise of rain, more intense on the glass, even if curtains were drawn to cover the window on the bed.

Raina, on her belly, took a moment to get used to the waking world again. She didn’t feel so tired after all, even if she felt a weird pressure on her back, pinning her down.

The cupboards and cabinets were all in their place, with the stove. The table was still full of papers, books and writing materials in terrible order, the fireplace, the yellow armchair beside the bed, in front of her, was still there. Everything -the few things that could fit that barrack, that was, and they had to choose between the table and a second bed because both wouldn’t have fitted- was exactly where she left them the night before.

It felt silly, now, to have actually believed that it was the ocean and everything could have been swept away by the storm.

She couldn’t see in the dark the whales and waves and sea animals painted on the walls. And even if she could, Aisling was an enthusiastic painter, but not a talented one. She knew that was a seal –“a sea lion, that’s very different”- only because she tried to guess and mistook it for an otter first. Little to fear, even in the night and after a nightmare.

She shifted, trying to get awake and at least get some of her dignity back by getting breakfast ready, when Aisling groaned, too close for comfort, and the weight on her back shifted, something squeezed her waist.

Raina fell back down with wide eyes, turning her head as she could to glimpse the curve of Aisling’s back at her side, disappearing up her back when she couldn’t see. One of her arms stuck close to her bust.

Fuck.

Embarrassment came all back, and the exact memory of what she did in the night crushed on her barely awake conscience. Well, she was fully awake now, and ready to panic.

Aisling had found her after the shipwreck and welcomed her in her home. In the home that was allegedly too small for one person alone. She left her her bed, slept in an old hammock that she hung on a hook on the wall that couldn’t have surrected Raina’s weight. Aisling never complained, never once even when they quarreled because all the biologist could speak about were whales and Raina didn’t want to hear anything about them that wasn’t how monstrous they were.

And two months later, she took advantage of her kindness in that way.

Hell, she had a fiancée back home. A façade of one, but still she had one.

And Raina didn’t want to intrude letting her know that she could as well see her as more than a friend. Now it would have been difficult to explain otherwise.

But, as her pining mind scrambled to find a passable excuse that kept her behaviour proper and fitting, Aisling shifted again. She felt her nuzzling in the space between her shoulder blades, rustling her shirt, squeeze her waist with her arms and curl up more  snugly against her side, groaning with a groggy voice.

“Mmmmh, five minutes more…”

Which was perfectly, blissfully normal, and made Raina snort, despite her heart beating too fast.

“Let me go-” she didn’t want her to let her go. “-and I’ll get breakfast ready while you sleep some more?”

Another groan from her back, longer.

“No. You’re warm and cozy.”

That didn’t help.

“And you told me not to let you go.”

That helped even less.

Raina cleared her throat, biting her tongue before her traitorous mouth could answer with something else she would have regretted later.

She shifted amongst drowsy protests and arms trying to keep her there -that helped very, very little- and seeing her face all pouty still with her eyes squeezed close made her want to bend down and kiss her.

Bad.

She bravely resisted the urge, and deftly slipped her pillow between Aisling’s arms, slipping down the bed and depositing her back on the mattress. She ruffled her hair -that was proper, maybe- and tucked the blanket up her shoulder.

And went directly to the kitchen, hoping that cooking would have cleared her mind more, and maybe distracted Aisling enough to forget to talk about things Raina wasn’t exactly ready to discuss.

She lit the fire in the hearth and then approached the kitchen. Picked from the larder eggs, butter, sugar, milk and flour. It was a pancake day she decided, and shifted bowls and tools out of their cupboards. Cooking had been something she took up since she could stand for long enough. Partly to thank Aisling for her hospitality, partly to not feel so much a dead weight and get a little less restless while forced to rest, partly because Aisling was even worse a cook than she was a painter.

And, the stove allowed her to give her back to Aisling, and clear her mind with another task to keep her hands busy. Crack the eggs, mix them with sugar, add the melted butter and the milk, add flour, little by little.

Skillet on the fire, she let some butter melt on the iron, swinging the pan back and fort to distribute it.

Mechanical tasks that kept her attention on them. Soon enough, whatever emotion was swirling around in her mind -how Aisling smelled like sea-salt, the exact curve of her waist- tuned down, substituted by pouring batter and checking it didn’t burn up.

It lasted little. Muffled steps on the wooden planks, a chair got dragged back, and her roommate sighed heavily, paper rustling under her arms.

“Pancakes?”

“Yup.”

“Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“You had a rough day yesterday… I thought it could cheer you up.” It was true. Also, a thank you for not making it weird.

“Mh.” She hummed, with a certain tone that told Raina she wasn’t convinced. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Raina asked back, too briskly maybe, her muscles contracting.

Aisling got the hint and waited before answering. Her eyes burned on Raina’s neck, but she soldiered on, flipping one pancake on a plate and pouring another ladleful of batter on the skillet, rolling it around to spread it in a circle. Just another officer checking her work, she was. Nothing she hadn’t faced before. Or so she tried to tell herself.

“What did you dream about?”

Aisling, finally, asked, voice impossibly soft, hesitating as if she wasn’t fully sure she even could ask.

 They’ve been in contact in a narrow space for enough time -Raina spent almost half her life on ships to know that time didn’t matter much in relationships of any kind between humans when space was scarce. And the hut was narrower than any ship she ever worked on. She knew that the biologist wouldn’t have minded if she had changed the topic. She knew all too well. And yet…

…Yet, that kindness melted away fears. She knew, from experience, that if she had told her, she wouldn’t have minded. As she wasn’t minding last night accomodations and talking to her normally now.

Raina sighed heavily, flipping the pancake around. She burned it a little, in all her musing, and she glared at him as if it was its fault.

After a minute, she slid it on the other plate she had readied -her own-, and left the skillet on the stove on its own, turning towards Aisling.

“I dreamt about you.”

She declared, simple as that. No pain, no gain.

Aisling’s cheek turned pinker, and it was her turn to lower her eyes.

“Oh.” She just told her. “I see. Well, I must have been horrible if you woke up so startled, I apologise.”

Raina laughed at that. Let it to her to apologise for someone else’s dreams. Aisling turned her face up, giggling shily with her.

“Anything else?” Aisling asked, a smile still on her face.

“Well...” Raina shrugged, turning back to the skillet. More butter on it, and more pancakes when the butter melted. “The usual.”

She told her, ironizing on how only her could try and make friend with a gigantic whale on a murder spree. It made Aisling laugh, agreeing and counter-arguing -as Raina knew she would have- that the whale surely had her good reasons, probably was just scared and didn’t do it on purpose.

In the morning light, with laughter filling the room, the perfume of sweets in the air and rain ticking rhythmically on the windows and buttering the sea outside the window, it all seemed less scary and less serious than it did even half an hour before.

They ate their breakfast, still bickering and laughing about how murderous whales exactly were, as their usual.

Aisling said nothing about the night and sleeping hugged together.

But, she shifted on the chair, collecting her legs on the sittee -she could sit straight only if she took an effort- and one of her feet rested on Raina’s chair, at her right over the corner of the table. Toes gently resting on her thigh.

Raina felt herself blushing, Aisling smiled and her cheeks were pink as well. Nobody said anything about it, and it felt right, there and then, before another day fully began.

It didn’t help at all, but Raina didn’t mind it.

[poindexters-labratory]

Could you tell us your thoughts about Evan in your au???

Sure!!

Evan can best be described as the asshole kid brother for the first half of Before the Storm. He is a lot like Michael, being highly argumentative and confrontational during this point in time. Evan is the quiet listener type, doesn't have a lot of friends, and isn't very emotive like his father and brother are.

Him and Michael fight often, but their arguments end quickly. Until 1982, Evan found Michael to be more of an annoyance than anything, and his brother viewed him the same way.

One of my favorite aspects of FNAF lore that I haven't seen a lot of people touch on is that they're located in the United States desert west, which is where I spent some of my childhood. I'll just mention this here because cowboys are Evan's favorite thing.

This AU gives me the opportunity to touch on western US culture and environments. There are Gila monsters, red-tailed hawks, cougars, coyotes, and snakes roaming about the environment. There's desert, mountains, red rocks, winding roads, and broad open sky, it all feels like home to me. Henry is from a ranch-hand family, he was and remains a cowboy. The Afton kids all get a taste for helping out on Henry's family ranch from time to time.

Evan especially likes to work on the ranch. He likes being helpful and especially loves the animals. The kid likes it to the point of spending Wednesdays with Henry to help out with feeding the animals and learning from Henry's patience combined with his hard work ethic.

(Henry is almost a second father to all of William's kids.)

Evan development takes a drastic turn at the age of 11 (1982). William had his horrific springlock accident and during his hours long surgery to get everything off under Henry's guidance, Evan slipped away from Michael, and walked into the OR. He couldn't come anywhere near William without panicking for a few months and animatronics, he never got over.

Over the course of the year, he couldn't sleep through the night and vivid night terrors would wake him up (he's always had them, but these went on for months and months). Michael didn't help much with his constant pranks. His dad tried to help when he could, but was either occupied with work or retraining his body to function.

William didn't break any bones in his accident (thankfully), but it was a lot of nerve and tissue damage. His vocal cords were damaged in the accident, so he didn't sound like himself much, and Evan wasn't a fan. He was also suffering intense nightmares and psychological trauma from the accident.

The only one who could take care of Evan during this time was Michael. Evan didn't have any friends to go to, Henry was always busy as his father was (combined with William's healing physical and mental health), his older brother was the only other viable option. And it sucked ass.

William did another one of his antics in placing copies of Fredbear stuffed animals around Hurricane on Evan's routes to and from different locations to make sure he was okay and because he knew how Michael would be.

Michael had better things to do, 1982-83 being his senior year, with his friends leaving for college, studying because he wanted to leave, be a stupid teenager, and do everything for his last year of high school that wasn't looking after his crybaby kid brother. So, there was payback in making Evan as miserable as possible.

But then it went too far.

Evan Afton Fun Facts!!

His birthday is April 24, 1971

Also, not William's biological son (William and Claire had a mutual agreement to keep their relationship open to make it easier for them, then later got divorced when Claire really wanted to go back home)

The scars on his face, arm, and leg is result of really terrible road burn he got when he was younger. Henry has dogs, and not just dogs, but herding dogs. These dogs are really good with their commands. Evan was holding the leashes for two of the dogs and Henry called them, causing little Evan to be dragged across road. Henry apologized a lot. He still apologizes.

Evan has Tourette's because I said so

His favorite game is "Freak Dad Out", which includes dramatic theatrics both at home and in public (he's only gotten in trouble once and it because he broke one of William's rabbit figurines)

He has a staring problem

Nicknames: Sweets (William-given), Worm (Michael-given), Grizzly (Lizzie-given)

Favorite animatronic: he's never liked them enough to have one

[quirkwizard]

Which Quirks do you think would be the best for fishing?

I'm removing "Electrification" and "Hellflame" from the list of candidates. Those both would help a lot wish fishing, but just seem so absurdly cruel and unfair to use. Same does with "Anivoice", but for less cruel reasons. Honorable Mention will go to "Mimicry" since with that, you could quite literally become one with the rod.

Spearlike Bones: Humans have been fishing with spears for as long as we have had them. Get in touch with your ancestors and teach those water breathers what for.

Gatling: Humans have been fishing with guns for as long as we have had them. Get in touch with your patriotic roots and show those communist fish what for.

Larceny: Forget the fishing line. Just grab the fish straight out of the water and put it in your collection. And if you can't do it, pull some fish from other peoples' hauls.

Vibrate This is kind of like "Electirifcation" and "Hellflame", affecting the whole of the fishing spot to increase the odds of a getting a catch, but something like this is more sporting by merely controlling whether fish are going.

Lizard Tail Splitter: Just stick your body parts into the water. No hook, no rod, just make the fish come to you. Hey, if people can catch catfish with hands full of meat, you can do the same with other parts of your body. Just try not to lose them.

Fiber Master: When you just want to have all your bases covered. Just have fifty fishing lines going at any given time and when you feel the slightest pull, fling that fish in the air. Yeah, could make a net with it, but that's not real fishing.

Orcinus: I mean, orcas are one of the greatest predators of the ocean. So you could always catch them with your greater water movement and echolocation abilities. If nothing else, it would be hilarious to see people's reaction to seeing an orca in the local fishing spot.

Fierce Wings: This might just be the best one. Between them working like blades and being able to detect vibrations, you can just place them around the water to detect any movement and destroy it with dozens of feathers. I mean it's only natural. Hawks are natural fishers.