Work Text:
You wake up, as you often do, with your harpy on top of you. You hum sleepily, rolling over to give her better access, and with a delighted chirrup she mounts you properly.
She ruts between your thighs, content to take it slow for now, which is a small relief. Your harpy is large in all respects, dwarfing you so thoroughly that you can't even kiss her on the lips while she fucks you, and that carries through in her equipment. Not that you can't take it, the slight swell in your belly and the babies sleeping just a short way away all prove otherwise, but you do like the opportunity to warm up first.
You take that opportunity with aplomb, sneaking one hand down to play with yourself. You toy with your clit a little, then run your fingers between your folds, gathering moisture and working yourself up before pressing two fingers inside. Your harpy titters as you work yourself open. "Wife is eager, is she? Excited to get ready for breeding."
You huff a little, a fond smile finding its way onto your face as she angles to rut against your hand. "Sure am," you say, pulling slick fingers out and spreading your labia, wiggling your bottom for good measure. "Go on, then. See if you can't fit another clutch in there."
She eagerly accepts the offer, pulling back to angle herself before the pointed tip presses inside, swiftly filling you to the brim. You moan into the bedding, wind punched out of you and legs shaking from just how big she is— and she still has more, barely half fitting inside even as she knocks against your womb, at least as wide around as your arm.
She's gentle, too, pressing right up against your limit and not trying to force her way deeper, even as her thrusts grow more erratic. She finally stills, heat blooming deep inside, and you imagine you can feel it taking root to grow into yet more eggs.
Your harpy pulls out after a short time, turning you over and shuffling down to replace her cock with her tongue. You shiver even as you hook your legs over her shoulders, wrapping your wings around yourself in a vain attempt to stave off the cold. Your harpy's wings are warmer and softer than any blanket you've felt, and love her to death but pyjamas don't last long when you share a nest with her, so you've taken to sleeping naked in the nest. It's not much of a problem during the warmer months, but as summer tips back into fall you think you'll have to change things up.
You might try to find a quilt the next time you go into town, or a book on how to make one. It'd be a pain to carry heavy bedding all this way, and you're getting better at sewing. Then again, a quilt is a big project, and you don't exactly have a sewing machine out here…
Your harpy lifts her head, frowning at you from between your legs. "Wife is distracted."
You blink at her a few times. "Oh, I'm just a little cold, that's all."
She chirps a little alarm call, sitting up. "That won't do," she says, climbing back up to wrap you in her wings. "I will warm you, wife, so you don't freeze."
"I'm fine, you big featherbrain! I just don't have all your plumage!" you protest, trying to wriggle your way out of her grip. It's no use, she only hugs you tighter until you sigh and relax into her grip. "You're lucky it's so early, otherwise I'd totally leave you to sleep on your own."
She trills, tucking your head under her chin. "Back to sleep now. Get lots of rest for eggs."
It's easy to obey, curling into the warmth of her downy bosom and drifting back off into sleep.
You wake up again to the sound of chirping. It must be well into the morning, judging by the sun shining through the curtains. When you sit up, a thick scrap of canvas falls off of you, which you give a bemused look before turning to investigate the uproar.
It's the triplets, of course, all tumbling over each other as your harpy offers them a torn-up lurker. She notices you watching and her face lights up. "Good morning, wife," she chirps, leaving the babies to their meal. "Did you sleep well? I had to hunt for our children, but I gave you landbound plumage to stay warm while I was gone."
That does make sense of things. "Thank you," you say, folding the canvas and setting it aside. She preens under the praise, then trots away to her perch, leaving you to watch over the babies.
It's a messy affair as always, taking the lurker apart with your hands so they can eat it in manageable chunks. Once their bellies are full, they curl up in a little pile of fluffy feathers which you cover up with a soft square of cloth. It works well as a baby blanket, but just glancing at your supplies you can't find anything warm to sleep under yourself. At least, nothing large enough to cover you.
The day is plenty warm, though, and you have your own breakfast to eat. Canned beans aren't the best, but they keep well and they heat up nicely over the fire. You note as you eat that there's only a couple more days' worth of human food before you'll be forced to either go to town or join in on your family's all-meat diet. You consider this at length, mentally running the numbers on the stash of valuables you have tucked away in your backpack, deciding how much you'd have to get. Perhaps some other non-perishables, metal cans weigh you down too much to fly.
Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the can and you blink at it, having forgotten you were still eating. The last few spoonfuls go in your mouth, and the can gets tossed into the pile with the rest of the shiny rubbish. Your harpy startles a little at the noise, then chirps reproachfully, to which you respond with a light laugh. "Just finishing my breakfast," you say, wandering over to the wardrobe.
The weather is decent for now, but who knows how long that will last. A hoodie and jeans, you decide, with some nice sturdy boots. Your harpy walks over as you tighten the laces, eyeing your clothes carefully before tugging the top straight. "Hunting plumage," she comments, tilting her head in something halfway to a question.
"Yup," you say. "Need to pick up some fabric."
"Nesting supplies?" She tilts her head even further, looking at the pile. "We don't have enough?"
"Not the right kind," you say, shrugging on your backpack. Its contents jingle pleasingly, its weight sitting comfortably between your wings. "Plus some other stuff. You can hold down the fort, yeah?"
The harpy's wings wrap around you, pulling you into the warmth of her embrace. You startle briefly, then sigh and put up with it as she fusses with your hair and your wings for a minute. "Be safe," she says, once she releases you.
"Yeah, yeah, you big featherhead," you say, rolling your eyes and heading for the perch. "I'll be back in the evening."
Your hometown is an awful place, but at least the park is nice. Very lush, and the bathrooms are empty enough to spend a couple minutes stuffing your wings under the hoodie to avoid attracting attention. Then there's something like half an hour spent getting to the pub and back— you don't know how Landry estimates those prices so fast, you occasionally suspect you're being ripped off but at least he gives you enough to buy food— and then it's off to the shopping centre for the usuals.
There's food, of course. Canned beans, canned soup, canned fruit, and for a dash of variety you grab a box of brightly coloured cereal as well. With your pack significantly heavier, you turn then to your other business: Quilts.
It becomes rapidly apparent that there's no way you're fitting an entire duvet into your rucksack, no matter how you fold it. Nor do you plan on carrying it in your arms all the way through the moor. Which means making it yourself.
You suppose, given more time, you could try to figure quilting out on your own. But the nights are already cold and you have more babies on the way, and enough pounds to pay for a visit to the bookstore. You don't have the space for more than one book, though, so you spend a long while humming and hawing over your options, flipping through different books, trying to figure out which one has the most comprehensive but approachable information.
It's while you're skimming a book on knitting (you're not sure why, you don't even have knitting needles) that you hear a familiar voice. Ice runs through your veins, and the world moves in slow motion as you turn your head to look through the shelves, sharp eyes instantly picking out the back of Bailey's head near the cashier.
Heart thumping, you pull your hood up and duck your head, praying you won't be spotted. She isn't looking your way, hasn't marched over with demands you can't meet. Your wings ache to spread, to take to the sky, but even if they weren't pinned beneath your bag there's no way to take off with a roof over your head. You can only walk, hands shaking in your pockets as you pray to just make it as far as the exit.
You nearly make it. So focused on whether Bailey is looking your way, you completely miss the burly man until you walk right into his shoulder, knocking a book out of his hand. "Watch it!"
"You watch it," you snap back reflexively.
It's the wrong response. Annoyance twists into rage, and the man catches you by the arm before you can duck away. "Now that's not very nice. Can't even take the time to say sorry?"
"Let go of me," you say, trying to twist out of his hold.
He just adjusts his grip, leaning in close to leer. "Oh, no. You're gonna make it up to me, you little—"
A hand lands on his shoulder, cutting him off. "Excuse me," Bailey says mildly, and the burly man turns to look at her, confused. "I apologise for the actions of my ward. She will be suitably reprimanded at home."
"Well that doesn't do anything for me, now does it?" the burly man complains, tightening his grip as you try again to slip away. Bailey stares him down, and slowly he becomes aware of a few other shoppers watching, curious to see how this plays out. Teeth gritted, he relents, practically throwing you aside. "Whatever. She ain't that cute anyhow."
Bailey continues to stare him down until he shuffles out of sight, before turning that look on you. "Now then—"
You bolt, not waiting to hear out Bailey's demands. She shouts behind you, but you're already out the door, sprinting wildly through the shopping centre in search of the exit. Which exit? You've already lost track of your location, which way is out— Stairs. Up. There's safety in the sky, the one place that no one can catch you but your harpy.
You sprint to the edge of the roof, already swinging your backpack off your shoulders and throwing your hoodie aside. The heavy bag throws your weight off as you cling to it by the straps, but the wind still catches you as you vault over the edge, gliding on unsteady winds towards the forest. You hear shouts below, but you refuse to look until your feet hit the ground near the treeline.
As you collect yourself, returning the backpack to its place, you realise you've made a critical mistake. In your hast and panic, you discarded your top entirely, with not even a bra underneath to cover you. Your face heats up bright red, wings fluffing and wrapping around you as you sprint into the forest, hoping with a racing heart that those shouts weren't from people looking up to see you flying past half-dressed. Though now that you think of it, the shirtlessness would probably be the least interesting part of that sight.
For a few minutes, you go back and forth on whether to go back, for a shirt or for the book on quilting you'd been hoping to buy. But Bailey's around, and Bailey knows you're around, and you just can't risk it. Your harpy is waiting for you.
Your mind made up, your feet follow a well-trodden path to the lake, and from there to the bog. You move carefully, paying close attention to the boardwalk; you've gotten lost here a few too many times to let yourself get careless.
The sun is just starting to approach the horizon when you step out onto the moor. A cool wind blows through you, making you fluff your wings in an attempt at staving off the cold. You hasten your steps, following the distant landmark of your harpy's tower.
It's a quiet day, at least, the grounded wildlife leaving you be all the way up to the castle grounds. There, you stop for a breather, not quite ready to lug all these cans up the tower. You can do it, of course, you've done it before. It's just tiring.
You're just about ready to give it a go when you hear a sharp noise from up above. "Wife is back!" your harpy chirps, balancing atop the wall like she just landed there. There's something hanging from one of her talons, though you can't get a good look from this angle. She examines you for a moment longer, and her eyes go wide. "Wife lost her plumage! What happened?"
"Nothing, I'm just a bit stupid," you say. "I didn't realise I'd dropped it until I'd already flown away."
She clucks, hopping off the tower and soaring down, a brightly coloured banner trailing behind. "That's no good, no good at all. You're going to get cold and sick."
"I'm fine," you try to tell her, but she's already bundling you in the fabric and gathering you up in her arms. With a great flap she takes to the air, circling up to the top of the tower where she marches inside and deposits you gently in the nest.
It takes some squirming to free yourself, especially with your harpy fussing and piling more bedding around you. You eventually get a hand free, letting you unwrap the rest of the blanket— and it is a blanket, you realise, a remarkably soft and warm one at that. Your harpy puts another blanket over your head while you're examining it, and you're quite sure neither was in the pile when you left.
"Stop that," you say, waving her off before she can bury you any deeper. "Did you get these while I was gone?"
"I did," she says. "Took them from the landbound, since you like landbound things. It's warm, yes? Warm enough for wife?"
"It's wonderful," you say, straightening one of the blankets to get a better look. There's a few tears, courtesy of her talons, but nothing you can't mend. "Very well done."
Your harpy preens under the praise, dipping her head and letting you ruffle her feathers before turning to work on the nest. You straighten out the rest of the blankets you recognise as new, assessing the damage before folding them back up and setting them aside to repair.
You wander over to the wardrobe after that, wriggling out of your jeans and wrapping yourself in a cosy bathrobe instead. Your stomach rumbles just as you start to reach for your sewing kit, and sheepishly you pivot to sorting out your food instead.
The cans get piled up in their designated spot, and then you tear open the cereal box and start munching on handfuls of dry cereal. A high-pitched noise catches your attention, and you turn your head to find one of the triplets peeking at you over the edge of the nest.
"Hi baby," you say, coming a little closer. The baby peeps. "Are you hungry? I think you're gonna have to grow a few more teeth before you can try this."
He chirps more insistently, extending little grabby hands towards the box and keeping up the noise until you relent and move it closer. He doesn't show and interest in the contents, though, merely gropes the surface, seemingly fascinated by the colorful mascot.
"Is wife eating seeds?" your harpy asks, leaning over you and inspecting the box as well. "Like a little songbird?"
"Sure, close enough," you say, taking the box back and fishing out another handful. "Maybe if I scatter some at the base of the tower it'll grow into more cereal."
The harpy cocks her head. "Okay, if you think that's a good idea."
"I'm just kidding," you say.
"Oh," she says. She cocks her head the other way. "What was the joke?"
You sigh, closing the box and standing to give her a pat on the head. "Don't worry about it, honey."
She nods hesitantly, still looking thoroughly puzzled until another nestling's cries attract her attention. You watch for a moment, making sure it isn't an emergency you need to attend to, then head to the perch to tidy your wings and watch the sunset.
Your harpy joins you after a few minutes, fluffing her feathers and wrapping a wing around you, a welcome source of heat as the evening wind starts to bite. Her hands join yours in combing through your feathers, and you soon melt into her lap and leave the rest of the job to her experienced claws.
Looking out across the moor through half-lidded eyes, it's hard to believe you were ever afraid of her. The first time she found you, you had never so much as set foot outside town before, much less gone all the way past the farmlands. People go missing in the moor, you'd heard, and up until then it had kept you far away.
You hardly even remember most of that day. Only that your legs ached, your purse was empty, and for a brief crystal-clear moment you thought that getting eaten by a hawk would be a better fate.
You're roused back into the present by your harpy moving, gathering you up in her arms. "It is nest time."
"Nnh," you mumble, wriggling until she lets you go. "Lemme undress, I'll be there in a sec."
The harpy bobs her head and makes her way to the nest. You hang the bathrobe up, shaking your wings out and then grabbing a blanket to drape over your shoulders like a cape. Your harpy watches attentively the whole time, wing lifting once you get close so that you can crawl underneath and cuddle up close. It takes some shuffling around to get comfortable, but you're soon dozing off again, kept warm and safe by the embrace of your wife.