#Molly would probably purr if petted enough

[themultiversebundle]

Out of nowhere a certain demon-hog shows up, casually pets and rubs the head of Ely and Molly, before leaving just as quickly. Complete with cocky smirk in the process.

Ely would instantly jump back, eyes widen before settling into his normal glare.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" He shouts as he grabs his sister.

Molly gives a smile before reaching towards Ely's head. "Can I pet you too?"

...sigh. "I guess."

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

Names are such funny things, Jester is discovering.

She knew from an early age that people held names close to their chests—when everyone from outside the Lavish Chateau called Mama the Ruby of the Sea, but everyone inside could say Marion Lavorre when the others were gone. And Jester, all alone in her room, could call her Mama when she read stories to her late at night with a tired but happy voice and kissed her hair.

Jester's name, too, held its own special place. No one except the Chateau's staff even knew she existed for so many years, much less her name. It was only spoken when Marion's could be. For a long time, she was nameless to all except her mother, Bluud, and the servants she got to see.

No surprise, then, that Genevieve never really caught on for Jester. It meant little else to her besides hiding.

But Mama told her about a tiefling tradition when she was really young. A tradition where you got to choose your own name when you were older based on a virtue—whatever you wanted to be, really.

"And Marion was who you wanted to be?" she said, scrunching her tiny child nose.

Mama laughed. "No, my love. It was the name my own parents gave me. I kept it."

Jester (Genevieve then) snuggled in closer to the crook of Mama's arm. "What name would you choose, then?"

"Hm. Well, I suppose I did choose my own name after a fashion."

"The Ruby." A hushed, dramatic whisper.

"Yes." Mama stroked Jester's blue locks, and she could hear the smile in her words. "A bright gem to awe people from every sea."

The memory of that tradition stuck with Jester. And a decade later, it was not Genevieve secreted away in a corner of the Chateau and from the lips of everyone who bought Mama's time, but Jester.

The choice was almost easy. When the Traveler came (another who kept his name close), everything about her life changed. He brought her so much joy in the days when they were both children—when Jester really began to figure out what loneliness was. When she grew older, he was still there for her. So it only made sense to embody the greatest gift her god gave her.

She wanted to help people smile like the court jesters did in the fairy tales she read. She wanted Mama to laugh, to erase those lines of weariness and strain on her face every night that she snuck into Jester's room.

And now, being outside the Lavish Chateau...

She's found that so many people need a Jester. And somehow, she's ended up with the best group of traveling companions she could've asked for—and every one of them, too, seem to know how funny names are.

Fjord's only other name before the Mighty Nein was something the orphanage made up for him, with no meaning to him at all, at least until they all found out that it happened to be the name of one of Caduceus's three families—his three closest names. Nott the Brave, Nott liked to joke, has no comma in it; she's not the brave, not the beautiful, not the impressive. For Veth, names can hurt.

Beau's name was supposed to be for a boy, she said. A son. Unfulfilled wishes to burden her. Yasha, so haunted by the ties that Orphan Maker gives her to the tribe who killed her wife and the cult that forced her to murder so many people. Molly with his own ghosts, and the accident of empty.

And Caleb...

"You don't know how Caleb feels about his name, do you?" Jester asks Frumpkin.

Frumpkin peers at her from his tucked-up position on her bed. He sauntered in a few minutes ago as she was settling in for the night. Jester is perched on the edge now, legs crossed under her, as she slowly strokes his back.

"He hasn't talked about it to us, you know," she says. "Like... we know his real name is Bren. But we all still call him Caleb. Do you think he doesn't like his old name?"

Frumpkin's tail lashes once, twice.

"No, I don't think so, either." Jester flops forward to drop her chin on her hand, her elbow propped on her knee. "He seems to miss it a lot, right? I see him look so sad whenever we talk about something close to his past. Well, even more sad than he normally looks, anyway."

She wants Caleb to be happier. More than anything else, that's what she wants for him. But she doesn't know if who she is, even with the name Jester, is enough to do that. She suspects she's right. Whatever is making Caleb so unhappy—not just his pain or his fear, she thinks he can't let go of something she can't see—that isn't something she can fix with a joke no matter how hard she tries. Or with a different name.

"I hope he's not hiding it if the name Caleb makes him uncomfortable," she tells Frumpkin. "You should let him know, okay? That if he wants us to call him Bren instead, that's fine. Names change all the time. I changed mine, you know."

Frumpkin lets out a little mrrp. It's out of interest in the conversation for sure, he's not a normal cat after all (not because Jester is giving him a good scritch under the chin).

"It used to be Genevieve, that's what my mama named me. But I didn't really like it, so I changed it. That's a thing tieflings do."

There is silence, because cats can't talk. Or at least Frumpkin can't really talk to Jester.

She pets him for another minute while staring at the wall with her chin still on the heel of her hand, then eventually she sighs and falls over onto the bed to splay out. It's not as comfortable as her bed back home, but she's used to that now.

"I wonder where your name came from," Jester says aloud. "Frumpkin. It's so squishy-sounding. Like you're a normal cat."

There's the soft sound of paw pads on fabric. Frumpkin appears by her face and sniffs her nose curiously before placing a paw onto her chest. She holds her breath as he climbs up fully and settles down, a warm and heavy weight atop her. Holding her breath probably wasn't a good idea. Now it's going to be harder to breathe, and she can't even sit up.

Jester smiles anyway and starts scratching Frumpkin around the ears. Gently, she can feel him begin to purr. "You're a good kitty. I hope you make Caleb happier."

[aaron-rdr2]

The cat called Dutch Van Der Linde

-

Part: 1/2

Pairing: VanDerMorgan

Rating: Teen and up audience (both chapters, but smut mostly in second chapter)

-

Arthur sit in his tent, as suddenly Dutch comes in. His black fluffy cat tail hanging loosely down, and ends at his kneethroats. His black fluffy cat ears stand tall on his head. They are not really big. Because of that, and the fact that his hair has the same color, it's hard to see his ears. But you see that he has no human ears. Because on the place where his human ears would be, his hair has grown. And then Dutch do something Arthur never expected to see or even be a part of it.

Dutch just lay down next to Arthur. His head on Arthur's thighs. What does he want? Cuddles!? Should he scratch softly through his hair? He don't know. Dutch never allowed people to touch his hair, ears and tail. Even Arthur isn't allowed to ruch it. And Dutch and he are a couple since two weeks now. So Arthur is unsure. But except from his tense shoulders Dutch seems to be verry calm. His eyes are closed. After he maybe scratch Dutch's hair, he will defenetly massage the knots out of his tense back. That is for sure!

,,C'mon watcha waiting for Orthur?" Dutch chuckles.

,,Uh. Dunno. I was never allowed to touch your hair, ears and tail." Arthur answers unsure.

,,But I allow it now. Pleas. But be carefull!" Dutch whispers.

And so the Welshman start to carefully run his fingers through Dutch's thick black curly hair. He avoids Dutch's ears for the start. And then he hears something, he would never thought to hear. Dutch starts to purr quietly. Like a cat. His chest vibrates, he can feel it on his thighs. Wow. The sound is so beautiful. It shocked Arthur at first. But now he love the sound. Dutch never purred. Not even as they came together as lovers. He's probably ashamed. He can see how Dutch blush, and try to hide his purr.

,,No don't. Pleas baby. Lemme hear you. I love it." Arthur begs.

And Dutch surprisingly do as he was told, and starrt to purr freely now. Just like a real cat. It even get a bit louder. Dutch begin to slowly but really let himself fall arround Arthur. He start to slowly let the Boss facade break, and also to show his feelings. He starrt to trust Arrthur. He trust him of course. But I mean in the terms of love. He always was ruff to Arthur and dominated him. He always let Arthur bottom. That makes Arthur sad. 'Cause he would like to take turns. So no one is the dominant or the "forever bottom". But he seem to let himself go right now. He relax slowly but surely. More and more. Arthur can't belive it. He feels like he's in a dream, and will awake every second. But luckily it never happens. Luckily it's real.

He longed for so long to be his partner. And since two weeks he longed for that moment where Dutch let himself fall, and trust Arthur. He defenetly don't need to feel ashamed because he's a cat neko. It's cool. And he try to show it to Dutch. He try to show the Dutchman that he can be himself when the two are alone. That he would never judge or hurt him.

,,I love you Dutch. So much. As you are. You're beautiful. And I love your purr." Arthur whispers.

The Welshman can see, that Dutch blush a bit more. Arthur scratch Dutch's neck, and back up between his cat ears wich are left and right from the middle of his head.

,,Can-can I touch 'em?" Arthur carefully asks.

,,Sure." Dutch purr.

Then Arthur carefully let his index finger wander over Dutch's right ear. Dutch start to purr a bit louder, and his tail begin to wag from left to right. Cute. But he try to suppress it as well.

,,Lemme see it. Stop hiding it. I think it's cute. You don't need to feel ashamed beautiful." Arthur carefully say. And his tail start to wag a bit faster.

,,I made bad experience. My ex boyfriends and Molly just laughed at me. Annabelle was the only one who accepted me as I really was. I mean the gang accept it to. But I would never purr or wag my tail in front of them. At least not intent at any case. Because it would make me feel ashamed." He purrs.

,,I accept it to. I don't understand why they laughed about you. I think it's cute, and felt in love with you purr already." He answers honestly.

Meanwhile he carefully pet his other ear.

,,Thank you. I appreciate it angel." Dutch whispers.

Then Arthur start to massage Dutch's tense back. His purring is so loud now. But not loud enough, that the others would hear it. His back cracks many times. But after half an hour his whole back is relaxed again. Dutch turn arround. Now he lay on his back. Both man look each other deep into the eyes.

,,Kiss me." Dutch whispers.

And Arthur bent down and did as he was told. Dutch never stoped the purring. The kiss slowly turns into a passionate tounge kiss. Their tounges dancing arround each other. And soon Dutch moan-purrs into the kiss. Arthur softly kiss Dutch's throat. It vibrates because of the purring. Dutch's tail wag excitedly from left to right. Dutch never purred or wagged his tail. Never. At least not in public. Maybe in his tent. I don't know. Then they kiss again. Tounges dancing with each other. This time Arthur moans into the kiss. Arthur can feel how his jeans slowly but steady get tide. He's sure dutch will take the lead again. But he just lay there on his back. Calmly looking deep into Arthur's blue eyes.

After a while Dutch sit up. Then he bent over, and softly kiss the Welshman. Then he sit down on Arthur's thigs and straddle him. All the while Dutch is purring. Damn how long can he purr? I mean it's beautiful. But amazing how long he can do it. Then he slowly start to suck at Arthur's  neck. Arthur let out a deep grunt, and Rut his hips upwards against Dutch's ass. Arthur is suprised. Normally Dutch would force him on his knees, and force his thick cock deep inside his throat. But he's not rough. He's calm, tender and sweet. Arthur is not used to it. Dutch's purring directly at his ear, while he nibble on his earlobe, let Arthur's dick twitch in excitement and give him goosebumps. It feels so damn good. And the vibrating from Dutch's chest against his body....

[grimmseye]

A Bird in the Hand: Chapter Five

Read on Ao3 here!

Rating: T

Fandom: Critical Role

Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast (eventual)

Chapter Characters: Mollymauk Tealeaf, Essek Thelyss

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Molly Rez, Amnesiac Mollymauk, Oh My God They Were Roommates, Shower Scene, Nonsexual Nudity, Touch Starvation, Dissociation

This fic now contains spoilers up to Episode 97: The Fancy and the Fooled

— — —

For a blink of the eyes, the world fell away.

The sensation of stone under his knees became cold tile. Mollymauk didn’t know how they’d gotten there, one moment in the market and the next here, but he couldn’t dwell on it. A chill was settling under his skin, offset only by the heat of his wounds, the pressure of Essek’s vice-grip on his arm.

That grip vanished as soon as he registered it. Mollymauk slumped without its support, a whine leaving his throat, panic crawling behind it. Somehow he knew what came after this, and he did not want to be alone for it. He wasn’t the first time, he wasn’t the second, but the third was cold and e m p t y and

He was on the ground, now, panting. Black dots flickered in his vision. He saw the hem of Essek’s clothing dragging along the floor, saw a line of red that streaked from where he laid to where Essek stood. There was a rattling, something fell to the floor and clattered and rolled. The image doubled and then blurred beyond recognition.

And then he was upright, and the rush of it nearly made him vomit. Something was pressed to his lips, Essek’s voice in his ear, rough and breathless. He couldn’t respond, eyes rolling in his skull. There was something he was supposed to do. Something important, something easy, but his brain wouldn’t keep up.

A snarl sounded, making him flinch as Essek seized his jaw and squeezed. Molly’s teeth parted, and a bitter flavor drenched his tongue. He gagged, and a hand clasped tight over his mouth before he could spit it out. He retched, air and liquid expelling between Essek’s fingers but not fast enough. So Molly swallowed.

Essek let go to wrap his arm around Molly’s side instead, keeping him upright as he choked. It dissolved into heaving breaths, all his weight leaned into Essek. He didn’t get a chance to catch his breath before Essek pulled him along, Molly staggering with each step.

The drink — the potion, he realized — had been thick and lacked temperature, but now he could feel a warming sensation spreading from his belly and chasing away the ice under his skin. His wounds crawled and then cooled, the labored beating of his heart eased. By the time Essek lowered him into a seat, Mollymauk’s head had stopped spinning.

He blinked, eyes refocusing as Essek knelt down in front of him. The drow was a mess: his hair stuck out of place, his clothes were torn and sopped with blood. His hands, too, were slick with it, skin drenched red with what was probably Molly’s own blood.

And he was speaking, lips moving and brow furrowed. Molly only caught the tail end of a question, forgetting the words a second later. His mouth opened, tongue rolling out over his lips and not even wincing when he tasted iron.

“We just took a bath,” was what Mollymauk said.

The dumbfounded look on Essek’s face made him giggle, a high-pitched noise that began to slip to hysterics.

“Did you hit your head?” Essek started, only for Molly to laugh harder.

“Maybe,” he wheezed, “because I have no idea how we got here .” He nearly hit Essek in the head as he gesticulated about the room. It was all white tile, an opaque glass door on each side of the room. Circles of runes were etched and painted into the wall, and the floor had a shallow slant to a drain in its middle, letting the blood ooze down. “I think I blacked out on the way.”

“Ah,” Essek said. “No, that would be the teleportation. If we had traveled any other way, you would have expired long before we got any help.”

He reached up, pushing Mollymauk’s coat from his shoulders. Molly let it fall.

“This room functions as an emergency shower,” Essek continued. “You should get cleaned up.”

“What about you?” Molly asked, the words slurring together. He went to lift his shirt over his head, hissed as the muscles pulled at a wound. The potion had stopped his bleeding, and was clearing his head, but the damage remained.

“I can wait.” Essek’s hand shifted towards him, then paused and drew back again.

“That’s…” He failed to find a good word. “Dumb. What you said was really dumb.” Realizing what he’d been doing, Molly gave him a defeated smile and asked, “Mind helping me outta this?”

Elven ears were fun, he noted. They twitched, folding closer to the sides of Essek’s head, where his hair was buzzed short. Did the stubble tickle his ears when he was surprised? Or was that not surprise but something else — acknowledgement, maybe even interest? Probably not, but Molly could dream.

Essek cleared his throat and stood. His feet were on the ground, Molly noted. He himself was startled when Essek did lean in, head tilting up automatically, eyes finding lips before the pale pupils that didn’t meet his gaze. Essek’s hands were warm, brushing his sides as he took the hem of Molly’s shirt and lifted. Molly raised his arms, practically holding his breath as Essek slid his shirt over his head, feeling the slow draw of fingers over his skin, tracing a burning line up his ribs before the material was lifted over his head and away.

“Is that why you wear such wide collars?” Essek asked.

Molly blinked, looking up at him. His ears felt hot. “Uh — huh?”

“Your horns.” Again, Essek looked like he was going to touch one, but pulled back a moment later. “A shirt with a tight collar wouldn’t fit around them.”

“Oh, yeah. No, if it’s got a tight collar it needs buttons. Your tailor friend made note of that, no worries there.” Molly stood as well. Even with Essek touching the floor, Molly was only at eye level with his throat. It wasn’t a terrible angle, looking up at him. And with Essek looking down — a grin toyed at his lips. “Do you pay attention to the cut of my shirt?”

Essek only sighed. Molly watched the swell of his chest, the slump of his shoulders. He didn’t know a lot about anything, not about the world he’d been tossed in, not about the people he was chasing, not even about himself. But he knew things he liked, he knew what was good. Making people smile was good. People were good. And there were a few different ways to enjoy people, and at least one of them involved pressing his mouth up to Essek’s neck and feeling that sigh against his lips.

Bloodloss did funny things to his brain, it turned out. Molly swallowed, dragged his gaze up to find Essek staring back at him. Essek wasn’t shy, nor bold. He couldn’t pin Essek down as much of anything, and that was as disconcerting as it was intriguing. It made Molly want to put his hands everywhere they didn’t belong, search until he could find the chink in the armor and peel it away, piece by piece. What did Essek look like when he wasn’t wearing a mask? He would also settle for learning what he looked like when he wasn’t wearing clothes. Wishful thinking, again.

“We got off topic,” Molly drawled. “Get undressed. We’ll just shower together, this is a big room. Why do you even have a room like this?”

“Arcane materials are dangerous,” Essek said, voice clipped. “If an experimental potion begins eating through your flesh, you’ll want to wash it off expediently.”

“Fair enough.” He snorted. “You could afford to make it look nice, at least! If you’re going to have a giant shower you might as well lean into the luxury and live a little.”

“I have my own casual bathing facilities,” Essek sighed. And that was a treat if Molly had ever heard one. Essek had been holding out on him.

Molly took a step forward, intending to hunt for whatever mechanism turned the water on. Instead his knees buckled. Essek threw an arm around him, Molly clinging to keep his balance. He wheezed out a breath, laughing, “I may — shit, I may actually need your help just to shower. I swear this isn’t a ploy.”

“I didn’t think it was until you said that. Can you stand?”

“I’ll find out.”

“Sit on the ground if you must.”

That was what Molly did, sitting on the cool tile and wriggling out of his pants, tossing his remaining garments aside. Undressed, his body was a mess of scabs and dry blood. More scars to add to his collection, but at least he had the story for these ones.

He watched Essek approach one of the doors, touching a crystal embedded in the nearby wall. Where the rune circles were carved into tile, streams of water began to pour down. “Tell me when the temperature is comfortable,” Essek called.

Molly stuck a hand under the water, feeling it slowly warm. He waited until it was just on the edge of too hot to say, “Good!”

He scooted himself under the stream, finding a pleasant pressure behind the water. It ran a rusty brown, blood chipping away from his skin and running down the drain. Essek was shuffling out of his clothes where he stood, and Molly averted his gaze. He wouldn’t step further than he was allowed, and try as he might, he couldn’t get a beat off of Essek.

It surprised him to find Essek approaching. He had a towel in hand, sat down beside Molly and lifted it in an offer. When he nodded, Essek began to draw the towel over his skin, delicate passes of soft material.

Too delicate, really. It made shivers wrack along his spine, his chest feeling too tight for his lungs. If this were just for some heavy petting, he’d be happy to lean into it and purr, but that wasn’t the case. “You don’t like touching people much, do you?” Molly drawled, letting his eyelids droop.

The motion paused. “I don’t dislike it.”

“Then put a fuckin’ hand on me. I won’t bite unless you want me to, and you’re not getting anywhere treating me like those fancy plates you’ve got.”

More readily than he’d expected, a hand clasped on his uninjured shoulder. His skin buzzed under Essek’s touch, the drag of the towel growing more firm, making him hiss through his teeth. He tried to focus on the hand over the pain, how it slid down to lift his arm, how the pads of his fingers weighed on the back of his neck as Essek examined a ragged bite.

When it was done, and Essek pulled away, he mourned the loss. “You want me to get yours?” Molly offered, catching Essek’s gaze in the corner of his own. “At least the ones you can’t reach.”

He watched Essek weigh that in his mind. Something about the way he calculated things in his silence pinged a memory, someone else who was stuck in his own head, curled in on himself rather than open up to the world. The memory was there, in his grasp, and then it was gone.

“That’s reasonable,” Essek murmured at last. Molly watched the stains on the towel clean themselves before Essek handed it over, and turned so his back was to Molly. And again there was that thought of just bending down and kissing the skin where the water ran over his shoulder blade, and maybe parting his lips and seeing if Essek would like him to bite after all.

Then he set his hand at Essek’s unmarked hip, and he watched his shoulders jump and the breath freeze in his chest.

“You alright, there?” Mollymauk checked, not removing his hand but ready to.

“Fine,” Essek said, in that clipped voice again. So Molly began to wash the dry blood from his skin, abandoning the towel nearly at once to just work with his hands. It ran down Essek’s leg, and he murmured a soft ‘ excuse me’ as his fingers drew down to the back of his thigh, working quickly and brusquely to return to a spot that Essek’s arm had hidden.

Hands came up into his hair, where flecks of dry blood stood out against white. Essek made a noise, then, the muscles of his back winding tight but head seeming to tilt into his touch. The sound replayed in Molly’s head as he teased his fingers over locks of hair, dragged nails along stubble. Short and throaty, shaking into a sigh — it was a good sound.

He was massaging his thumb along the crease of a rib when he realized Essek was shaking. His breaths sucked in too quick and too deep, shuddering on the exhale. Molly’s hand froze in place. “Are you —”

“I am fine, Mollymauk.” The words were jagged things, broken and sharp. Essek yanked away, clambering to his feet. “I will take care of the rest myself, thank you. There are towels through there.” He pointed, hand quivering, to the first door in the room.

Mollymauk was silent as he stood and took his leave.

Towels were located in a cabinet as promised, alongside too-long robes. When Essek emerged, Mollymauk had donned one, black material bound around the waist, hanging open in the front. The drow did not so much as meet his eyes, the towel they’d used now clean and dry and wrapped around his hips for modesty.

Molly caught Essek’s movements in the edge of his vision. They were jerky and rough, reminded him of something — of a construct of metal and blades, of a prison and children in need and friends, one was an orphan like these children and one was like him and one was like Essek and there was a child with seven voices and black feathers and a knife in one hand and Welcome to the —

“Mollymauk.”

He nearly flinched, but held himself steady. Essek had already moved to the other door, levitating now in a robe that fell to the floor, covering himself completely. When he was bare, when skin was on skin with no layers in between, he shook and he cracked like glass struck so many times.

Molly followed without a word.

Essek made himself scarce, after. The day passed, and morning rose. No elven mage was there to literally hover over Molly’s shoulder, nor to show him about the city nor treat him to a day at the spa nor even cook breakfast.

That last number was just fine in Molly’s book. Essek’s cooking implied he usually didn’t cook in the first place.

The house — though it was more of a tower, round and tall instead of a box — was large and stunningly empty for something so elaborately furnished. Of half a dozen bedrooms, only Molly’s saw use. Without Essek around, he had an entire vacant home to snoop through.

The first hour was dedicated to finding the most comfortable couch in the building and the one after that to lounging on it naked. Fifteen minutes following that was the hunt for Essek’s bedroom, another five scrounging around for some hairpins, and then longer than he cared to admit spent on his knees trying to pick the lock before he realized it was magically sealed.

“Fucking wizards,” he growled, and left it at that.

Lunch was burning the most expensive cut of meat he found in the kitchen and then spotting a basket of strawberries for dessert. He wandered the house with sticky fingers, scanning over bookshelves and pulling one title off before realizing he didn’t care much for reading. A study yielded good, thick paper and pencils and pens that Molly scooped up to carry to the dining room table, uncertain what his hands wanted to do with them but willing to find out.

An image of a raven etched itself onto the page. It was crude, abstracted. Turned one way, the bird was falling, feet scraping the air to catch the branch that snapped under its weight. Turned the other, it ascended.

Death, he scratched on one end. Then he spun it around and wrote atop the other: Revival.

The raven had too many eyes. A sick feeling rose in his throat and he crumpled the page in a hand.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hand locked around paper, staring into the table. When his mind returned to him, the clock on the wall sat at a different angle. His skin felt like cotton, sand filled his head. It weighed too heavily to the side, feeling that if he let it droop too far his insides would come dripping out his ear.

Molly slouched in his chair, realizing distantly that his muscles ached.

What was he doing?

He should stand up.

Mollymauk stared at the paper. He should stand up, he told himself. That wasn’t working. He should move his leg, then. It didn’t move. His head tipped just faintly, making his brains swim in his skull. He could hear his vertebrae creak with the motion. A finger, next, the knuckles smoothing out, index finger flexing. Middle, ring, pinky, and thumb followed, and he found himself able to let the paper go, to push himself mechanically away from the table, walk five paces and sink to the ground there.

He laid there, and then he started shaking, and then he started sobbing.

He didn’t know why he was sobbing. The tears poured off his nose and the breaths left his chest quicker than they came, until he was dizzy and shaking and wheezing into the rug. He couldn’t feel his own skin, he was empty inside, he was empty, he was — he was —

And then his breath was steady again and he was just lying still, wracked with sudden bouts of tremors for a stretch of uncounted time, until the tremors became less frequent and stopped altogether and his body went lax again.

Eventually, he would stand, and the clock had inched even further along.

Molly moved back into the kitchen, craving stew and not knowing why. Something about the idea felt like being surrounded by friendly faces. They didn’t have enough but they made do with what they had. That’s what he told her , the big one, his favorite, his heart.

Faces poured into his mind, faces and feelings, colors and music and days rolling by.

Stew was a meal meant to be shared, so when he thought it was almost done, Molly went to find Essek.

A set of three towers made up Essek’s property, surrounded by a garden Molly knew he didn’t tend to himself. There was a plot of loose earth hidden behind the tower that made up Essek’s actual living space, the shortest of the trio. All three towers were connected by bridges.

Mollymauk paused halfway across one walkway, the cold night air sweeping through his coat. He leaned over its edge, elbows braced on the thin rail to gaze out at the city sprawling around them. In the distance, he could see that house, the one with the glittering tree, the place he’d blindly crawled to and found empty.

The clouds opened up at night, here, allowing the moon’s glow to bathe the rooftops, the stars matching Rosohna’s lights.

His ear twitched at the sound of a door opening. He turned, seeing Essek drifting from the tallest tower, the one Molly had been approaching. As the drow locked the door with an arcane word, he turned his head, pausing when their gazes met.

Molly gave a smile, a faint wave. His voice felt stuck in his throat.

“Mollymauk,” Essek observed. He moved across the bridge, coming to hover a few feet from Molly’s side. His eyes seemed to catch the moonlight, pupils glinting white. “What are you doing here?”

It took a conscious effort to form words. “Made dinner. Have y’eaten?” He had to clip his own voice, wincing at how unnatural it sounded, like he grated each sound between his teeth before letting it out.

“... Not yet, no,” Essek said, meaning he’d likely skipped lunch and breakfast, too. Molly just gave a chuckle, raspy, and swatted his leg with his tail. He reached for Essek’s arm — wanting contact, needing to ground himself — to pull him back to the first tower.

He leaned into Essek, walking slowly to drag out the time he could spend close to another person. The material of Essek’s mantle was surprisingly comfortable, like silk. Molly would happily nuzzle a cheek into it if he didn’t know that would be crossing a line. If he could get skin contact right now, that would be worth the world. But Essek wasn’t offering a hand, he was letting Molly cling to his arm, indulging whatever he thought this was.

As they passed back into the first tower, the scent of cooking meat and spices filled the air. Essek’s stomach rumbled on cue, and Molly laughed. “Glad to have me now, aren’t ya?” He rasped.

Essek gave him a single laugh. It was better than nothing, he thought, until Essek turned that calculating gaze on him. “Did something happen?”

Molly made a vague noise, finally letting go of Essek to move into the kitchen. “Get some bowls down for me, would ya? You keep them in the worst place.”

Essek let the question drop. Molly took each bowl from a mage hand, filling each one nearly to the brim. Everything was cut in thick chunks, beef and vegetables in a rich gravy. He stuck a slice of bread in each and passed a bowl to Essek on his way to the table. It wasn’t pretty, but it was everything a meal needed to be: hot and filling and delicious.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Essek said, as he sat across from Mollymauk.

“Turns out I lived with a carnival,” Molly shrugged. “Learned that today.” Essek looked like he was going to dismiss the comment, and then gazed at Molly for a bit and seemed to concede. Molly snickered, then said, “Anyway, things like this are easy to make and can fill a lot of bellies. And when you have spices like what’s in your cabinet, it’s better than the ten-gold meals down the street.”

He watched, chin in his hands, as Essek gave his bowl a dubious look. “It does smell good,” he said, picking up his spoon and lifting it to his mouth. The ears and eyebrows went up, and before he was even done chewing Essek had another spoonful.

“Y’see?” Molly grinned. “I’m a pleasure to have.”

Essek only smiled down at his bowl. It was a good look on him.

They ate in a comfortable silence, broken only for Molly to tease Essek about the dainty way he ate his bread, for Essek to scrunch his nose at him when Molly licked his fingers instead of using a napkin. He got gravy on them on purpose after that, just to watch Essek’s displeasure as he licked them clean. He had to wonder if there wasn’t an interest in the fork of his tongue.

“You are repulsive right now,” Essek stated.

Molly clutched his chest in mock pain. “Oh! How could you say that.” He leaned an elbow on the table, grinning as he said, “And why don’t you just use your mage hand, huh? Then you never have to get so much as a spot on your beautiful hands.” He paused in his heckling, then gave a delighted grin. “That started as a joke but I actually need to see this, now.”

“See what?” Essek tore a small piece of bread and dipped it ever so slightly into his bowl, maintaining eye contact as he lifted it to his mouth. His fingers didn’t touch so much as his own lips, and Molly made an affronted noise.

“If you won’t get your hands dirty, use your magic hand.” Molly wagged his own hand at him. “The thing you got the bowls with.”

“Why would I do that.” Essek’s voice was flat.

The answer was easy: “To prove you can.”

He knew he’d won, at that point. Essek sighed, lifting his hands as though in surrender. A swirl of purple magic formed into a third, spectral hand, and Molly rapped his hooves on the ground in anticipation.

“This is inane,” Essek sighed.

“This is entertainment,” Molly corrected.

They both watched as the hand tore a chunk of bread, dipped it in the stew. When the hand lifted up to Essek’s face, looming closer to his half-open mouth — Essek’s will broke. His face pinched, a breathy sound hissing from his lips before he turned his head away. He laughed through his nose, eyes shut and lips spread around a smile, a series of quick exhalations as his shoulders shook.

“You can’t!” Molly crowed, smacking a palm on the table. The hand dissipated as Essek sputtered, covering his face with his own hand. “You call yourself a wizard!”

“What was the point of that,” Essek rattled out, losing the fight to hide his smile.

“Purely for my enjoyment.” His cheeks hurt, he was smiling far too broadly. There was something genuine at last, and it was a smile and laughter and the red tinge to the tips of Essek’s ears. Watching him fight to gather his composure felt like he’d finally gotten a peek under the mask.

He didn’t even care when he was caught staring, Essek spotting him with his chin propped on his knuckles and a smile on his face. For a long moment, they were both just smiling at one another, the warmth of laughter softening the air.

Then Molly asked, “Why are you doing this, anyway?”

Essek’s smile waned at the question. He finally seemed to pull himself in order, straightening up in his chair. “What are you referring to?”

“Just. This.” He gestured about, and then to himself. “Me. Keeping me in your house, getting mauled, dumping your potions on me. No offense, my friend, but I know you’re not just a charitable soul.” He recalled the bodies pulled into Essek’s magic, crumpled and broken, killed by the man sitting across from him without an ounce of remorse.

Essek inhaled slowly, as Mollymauk picked up his own bowl and walked to the sink. “That would be an… accurate assessment,” he said, and fell silent. When Molly had washed and dried the bowl, and was setting it on the counter, Essek spoke again.

“I owe the Mighty Nein a great deal,” he said. Molly turned, and found him hunched over the table. He gave a breathy laugh, said, “Technically, they owe me quite a few favors. But I do not think I will ever claim them. Not how I originally intended to.”

The silence stretched, and then Essek shook his head, a slow and delayed motion. “In any case. They are… my friends. I care for them. And with the weight of what I owe them, returning someone that they love to their sides feels like I may finally be able to alleviate some of that weight.”

He lifted his head, giving Molly a thin, somber smile. “So, no, I am not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I am simply, blindly hoping to weigh the scales in my favor. I apologize for that.”

And to his credit, there was a flash of guilt.

Molly only shrugged, giving him an easy smile. “Listen. My carnival memories are still fuzzy as a lamb, but from what I can make out… you find your family, and you live and die for those people. The rest are just… the rest.” He holds up a finger, adds, “And that doesn’t mean you get to go fuckin’ everyone over along the way. Everything I did, I was doing for those people and for myself. I’ve lied and I’ve cheated and I’ve cut a few throats when I needed to. But I tried to at least put a smile on the faces of the saps I was scamming.”

He walked to Essek, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Kindness is kindness. As long as you’re not gonna stab me at the end of this, I can appreciate that.”

Essek was still and quiet under his hand. His head bowed low. Molly ran his fingers through short, white hair. He nearly leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head before he pulled away.

“Mollymauk.”

He paused half in the doorway, looking over his shoulder to where Essek had spun in his chair, gazing back at him. “Yeah?”

Essek pulled in a breath. Let it out, slouching into the back of the chair. “Just… goodnight, Mollymauk.”

A smile graced his lips. “Goodnight, Mister Thelyss.”

[smudgejoinsthunderclanau]

Chapter 1

    Smudge lay curled up underneath a bush in his garden, watching large, pink, flower petals fall in unison with the light rain.  Unconsciously, he fluffed up his black-and-white fur, blocking an oncoming chill.

   Suddenly, a large rectangle of light appeared on the wet grass.  There was a quiet swish, and his owner stepped out into the garden.  Shaking a bag of treats, he called Smudge’s name.  Usually, the young tom would bound out from the bushes and into the house.  But only silence answered his call, and eventually, he went back inside, a second swish following his exit.

   Beneath the bush, Smudge flicked an ear and flopped over, uninterested.  He had already decided on sleeping outside that night.  It was his very first time spending the night out, but he wasn’t worried.  His garden was safe, and the bush would keep him dry, so there was little worry about his collar or coat getting wet.   

   But, not going in meant no supper.  A quick grumble from his stomach reminded him of that.

   Smudge shook his head.  Hunger was not going to stop him from having a good night’s sleep under his favorite bush.  He curled deeper into the grass and felt a purr escape his throat as he drifted off to sleep.

            .o0o.  .oOo.

   Fog layered the forest like a thick coat of fur.

   Smudge tread carefully, avoiding twigs that would snap beneath his paws.  Something was watching him, he could feel it in the fur rising along his spine.  

   Something amber flashed in the corner of his eye.  He turned quickly, but only more fog awaited him.  

   “Find them…”  A sudden voice, softer than a dove’s song, drifted through the air.

   Smudge jumped, his white-tipped tail bushing up behind him.  “Who’s there?” 

  “Find them,” the voice said again, this time more urgent.  “You must find them!”

   Smudge’s back arched and his ears lay flat against his head.  “Who are you?” he yowled, eyes darting to and fro.  There was nothing, nothing but fog.  

    Then he spotted her, a brown, tabby, molly.  She was walking towards him, amber gaze meeting his. 

   He stood, trembling, hind paws braced to run.  I can’t run, he thought with a jolt of fear, There’s nowhere to go. 

   The molly was almost to him.  She parted her maw.  “Find them!”

  “Stop!” he mewed desperately, shrinking into his pelt, “Please stop!”  

   But it was no use, the molly was a mere tail-length away.  Her gaze softened slightly.  “Clouds that cover the darkest night will bring the sun.”  She pressed her nose to Smudge’s, and he felt a wave of calm pass over him.  Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh of relief and his fur smoothed.

   Then, he opened his eyes and she was gone.  The foggy landscape had been replaced by a dark, pine forest.  The treetops swayed in a slight breeze.  Stars sparkled in the night sky.

   Before he had time to react to the change, a sound caught Smudge’s ear- a familiar sound.

   It was the ringing of a bell.

    .oOo.

   Smudge blinked awake, the sound from his dream lingering in his ears.  It was still night, but the rain had stopped, and not even a sliver of light came from his house.

   The ground was cold and harder than it had been before.  Settling back down, he noticed the dampness of his fur with an annoyed groan.  Maybe sleeping outside hadn’t been such a good idea.  

   Smudge twisted and turned under the bush, before finally giving up with a defeated sigh.  There would be no more sleep tonight.  

   Well, he thought, standing up and stretching, I might as well get an early start to the day.  He glanced up at the moon and noticed it was far from setting.  A really early start, I guess. 

  Deciding he had enough time for a wash, he licked a paw and drew it over his ear.  He repeated this a few times before stopping with a jolt.  His ears pricked.

   There was a faint tinkling noise coming from the other side of the fence, the fence that just so happened to face the forest.  Smudge shook out his damp fur and leaped up onto the fence with ease. 

    A ginger cat stood just at the edge of the forest, facing away from him.  The small bell on his blue collar gave a delicate little tinkle as he took a step.  

   With a purr of amusement, Smudge asked, “Where are you off to Rusty?”

   Rusty stopped, looking up at him and flicking his tail.  “Hello, Smudge.”

   “You’re not going into the forest, are you?”  Smudge asked, shifting anxiously.  His mind flashed back to all of the stories his other neighbor, Henry, had told him about the cats who lived in the forest.  He said they ate kittens, and used the bones to sharpen their massive claws.

   Rusty didn’t meet Smudge’s gaze, “Just for a look.”

   A pang of worry shot through Smudge.  “You wouldn’t get me in there, it’s dangerous!”  He wrinkled his black nose with distaste.  

  “Y’know,” he ventured, “Henry told me he went into the woods once.”  Gesturing with his nose, he looked down the row of gardens to where the tom lived.

   “That fat old tabby never went into the woods!” Rusty scoffed.  “He’s hardly been beyond his own garden since his trip to the vet, all he wants to do is eat and sleep.”

   “No, really,” Smudge insisted, leaning forward so far he almost fell off the fence.  “He caught a robin there!”  He remembered the feather Henry had shown him, and how the old tom’s chest had puffed up when telling the story.

   “Well, if he did, then it was before the vet.  Now he complains about the birds because they disturb his dozing.”

   Smudge ignored the scorn in Rusty’s mew.  “Well, anyway, Henry told me there are all sorts of dangerous animals out there.  Huge wildcats who eat live rabbits for breakfast and sharpen their claws on old bones!”  He scratched at the fence in fear and excitement, his tail curling.

   “I’m only going in for a look around,” Rusty meowed.  “I won’t stay long.” 

   Worry wormed through him again, and something else that almost felt like jealousy, but Smudge made his fur lie flat.  Rusty would be fine, and so would he.

   “Tell me if you run into any huge, wild cats, or rabbits!  Or mice,” he added, stomach grumbling.   

   Rusty turned to look at him, bell tinkling.  “You could always come along and see that stuff for yourself Smudge.  I’m sure it’s not as scary as Ol’ Henry says it is.”

   “Oh,” Smudge began, his tail drooping, “I don’t know.  What if there are dangerous cats in there like Henry said?”

   Rusty rolled his eyes.  “Well, obviously Henry got out unscathed, and he was only one cat!  There’s two of us!”  His ears pricked and a mischievous gleam shone in his eyes, “And think of the exciting stories you could tell.  They’d probably be better than any of Henry’s…”

   Smudge curled his tail tightly around himself, worry and excitement each rippled through his pelt.  Could I really go in?

   Rusty was the smartest cat Smudge knew, and Smudge knew plenty of cats.  Surely, if he wanted to go into the forest, it couldn’t be such a bad idea.  He was right too, Henry had gotten out just fine, and with a robin’s feather to show for it!

   A sharp myip caught his attention.  It had come from Rusty, who was kneading the ground impatiently.  “So, are you coming?

      With one last glance back at his house and his favorite bush, Smudge gave a hesitant- “Yes-” before scrambling down off the fence.  

   Rusty smiled, “Glad you decided to come, Smudge.  Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to us.”

   Smudge tried not to notice how dark and formidable the trees looked at night, stepping closer to Rusty.  “Well, I was just a little scared, that’s all.  Plus, you’re here, so that means I’ll be okay.”  He looked up at Rusty, and the other tom licked his chest, embarrassed.

   As the two walked deeper into the forest, Smudge stayed close behind Rusty- making sure to glance around nervously every few seconds, just to be safe.

   The moon rose higher and higher into the sky, and Smudge began to worry.  He didn’t like how the forest seemed to be watching him, each tree reaching out and grasping at his pelt with their long branches.  Could they even find their way back through all of this undergrowth?  They had been walking for a while now; what did Rusty even want to do out here? 

   “Rusty,” he mewed, “How far do you plan on going?”

   “We won’t go for much longer,” Rusty affirmed, “I just want to find a-”  He stopped short, holding out a paw to still Smudge.  Dropping into a crouch, he slowly stalked towards a patch of ferns.

   “Rusty, what are you-”

   “Shh!” Rusty silenced him with a wave of the tail.  “If you’re quiet, we can share it!’

   He’s hunting for something! Smudge realized.  He felt like wacking himself over the head with his own paw for not understanding.  After all of the stories Henry had told him, he couldn’t even recognize a hunting crouch.

   As he watched Rusty, he wondered if the ginger tom had practiced before; every step seemed so sure and purposeful.  Smudge suddenly remembered his green, toy mouse at home and felt a rush of embarrassment.  Whenever he had tried to stalk it before he ended up wobbling too much and falling over.  Of course, his housefolk would usually coo and pet him afterward, which only made him feel worse.

   Flicking an ear, he forced the memories away.  There were other, better things to think about now.  His paws tingled at the thought of eating a real mouse, and Smudge looked on as Rusty slowly crept closer.  

  A sudden prickling sensation started at the nape of Smudge’s neck and raced down his spine.  Fur spiking, he crouched low and swiveled his ears.  There was a dull sound coming from above.  It almost sounded like the flapping of very large wings…

   Before Smudge had time to call out a warning, something large swooped down from above, slamming straight into Rusty.

   The fight was a ball of orange fur and brown feathers.  Smudge could tell the creature was some sort of bird, but bigger than any he’d ever seen.  He leaped at it and swiped, claws unsheathed, only to be batted back by a massive wing.  Feeling something sharp tear into his flank, he whipped around, only to find a second bird.  

   It towered over him, large, pale wings stretched out wide.  From deep inside its brown-feathered face, two amber eyes glared out, and a sharp beak snapped open and shut.  

   In one swift movement, the bird flapped its wings and threw itself at Smudge, talons outstretched.  He felt one dig into the wound that already marked his flank, and watched another just barely miss his nose.  Not stopping to think, he turned and ran.

Behind him, he could hear the creature screeching and a faint caterwaul.  That was a cat, Smudge thought, ears flat against his head, That was Rusty!  He wanted desperately to go back, but no matter how much he pleaded with them, his legs would not stop running.   

   Trees flew by in a blur, and at one point he tripped over a rock, but he quickly righted himself.  In his mind he pleaded over and over, I need to turn around, but there was no one and nothing to listen.  His fur was standing straight up all over, and his ears were flat against his head.  This was pure fear, and he dreaded nothing could stop it.

But soon, to both Smudge’s relief and dismay, he began to slow down.  His legs buckled beneath him as he tumbled forward.  Hissing in pain, he hit the ground.  The wound on his flank was bleeding and left a red stain on the grass.  He tried to lift his head and see if the creature had followed him, but found that it wouldn’t budge.

   As his eyes fluttered slowly closed, he thought he saw a tortoiseshell cat in the distance, coming closer.   

“Please, don’t eat me.”  Was the last thing he muttered before his eyes finally shut and he slipped away.

[fajority]

Five times Caleb expressed physical affection exclusively through his cat, and one time he didn’t

I wrote another thing! This is, by the way, @fraeuleinjuhu‘s new Critical Role sideblog, so anyone who wants to follow me here, hop on board. 

Thank you @hippity-hoppity-brigade for being the best & nicest beta I could have hoped for <3

1- It takes Caleb a while to realize what Molly's problem is. In his defense, he does have a few of his own problems that take up about 90% of his capacity at any given time, and while their group has gotten almost uncomfortably close, Caleb has tried his best to stay on its outskirts.

He only notices Molly getting increasingly sharp and snappish with them at first, countering Beau's jibes with more and more cruel retorts, until Yasha takes him aside for what he assumes must be a more or less stern talking-to.

Caleb watches Molly slink around the bar they've wound up in this time, getting steadily drunker and louder. He sits down on the chair next to Yasha for a minute, placing his feet in her lap and tipping the chair back on its back legs dramatically.

Yasha gives him a few absent pats on the legs and then gently removes them from her thighs, and Caleb can practically feel Molly's mood drop.

Ah.

Of course: the circus seemed like a pretty affectionate bunch, even if they didn't always like each other. Their little motley crew is different, warier. More distant, at least physically.

Molly is touch starved and he has no tools to work with it. This place doesn't have a brothel. There are no strangers around that seem susceptible to his particular brand of charm.

Caleb's first idea is to message Jester to give Molly a good long hug, but when he turns to look for her, she's nowhere to be seen. Fjord is missing as well, so Caleb decides against investigating further just in case.

Molly has slumped on a barstool, elbows on the bar, his face in his hands. There's a grin on his face still, but it's holding on by a thread.

Caleb snaps his fingers, and Frumpkin jumps up onto his knees from under the table as if he's always been there, just out of sight.

He makes his way to Molly slowly, cradling Frumpkin to his chest. His decision is made, but that doesn't have to mean he likes it.

"Mollymauk," he greets and gets into the chair next to him. Molly gives him a grunt and an indecipherable stare.

Oddly enough, Caleb has found that he doesn't mind the red eyes at all: He's not very fond of pupils and irises anyway. He finds it much easier to maintain eye contact if he can't see the eyes fixating on him back.

"You look down today," Caleb starts, wavering. "I'd offer you a hug but I'm afraid I don't really, uh, do that kind of thing." Molly raises an eyebrow.

"I'd figured, or I probably would've tried to drape myself over you at some point this evening."

It has all the components of a confession, but it doesn’t sound like one: too annoyed, almost angry.

Caleb shakes off the image of Molly coming up behind his chair, leaning into his space, hands on his chest in a loose sort of hug. A sharp toothed grin pressed to his cheek. It sounds nice in theory, but in practice it will just feel like being crowded, short of breath and panicky and too much weight on him all at once, Caleb knows this.

"But Frumpkin does. I can lend him to you whenever you - uhm - crave - uh - physical contact, if you'd like."

He holds out a hand, and Frumpkin scales his shoulder and walks along his arm towards Molly.

Molly stares at him some more, or at Frumpkin, precariously perching on Caleb's hand. It's hard to say.

"Okay," he says finally. "Sure. Thank you."

He holds out his own arm, and Caleb grips it firmly, making a bridge for Frumpkin to cross, and then he's a purring scarf around Molly's neck, and Molly squeezes Caleb's hand once, very briefly, before he starts scritching Frumpkin behind the ears, mindful of his claws.

Caleb feels himself relaxing a fraction, and he pulls back his hand. That went well, he thinks.

"You can keep him until morning, if you want," he offers before he's even finished the thought. Molly looks at him again, and this time Caleb thinks he can see surprise in his expression.

"You don't need him?"

"I do, but he's always with me, no matter where he is location-wise." Caleb taps his head.

A grin very slowly unfurls on Molly's face. "Are you telling me you are feeling this?" He reaches up with his other hand to scritch under Frumpkin's chin, and Caleb gets an incredibly weird double feeling tugging him in two directions at once.

He tries for a middle ground, which is neutral honesty. "It's - not directly. I get the secondary impressions, if that makes sense."

Molly hums, thoughtful. "What are those?"

Caleb hates every second of this but he started this conversation to make Molly feel better, so he better see it through. He sighs.

"He feels… comfortable. Loved."

Frumpkin jumps down into Molly's lap and rolls up into a ball, still purring loudly.

Molly hums again, one hand settling on the cat. "I'd kill to have that," he says, sounding half serious. "Okay, I'd love to hold onto him until morning, but only if you don't spy on me."

"What would I even -" Caleb clamps his mouth shut on a memory, too late.

"You remember that I sleep naked," Molly grins.

"Vividly," Caleb confirms, and hightails it out of the conversation.

*

2- It happens while they're fighting a group of trolls attacking their camp at night: Beau is, as always, the first to get into the melée, jumping up and onto one of them and delivering a series of kicks and hits against its jaw - until it gets a handful of her and flings her against the nearest tree. She stays slumped against the trunk for a couple of seconds, enough for everyone to see her but not enough to reach her: Jester is occupied healing Yasha, her duplicate trying its best to get the troll to attack it instead of going after Beau again, and none of the others have healing spells or potions left. It's been a long day.

Caleb fires spells left and right, and out of the corner of his eye sees Beau move to sit up ever so slowly.

She's going to get back up and get herself killed for good, he thinks, and snaps his fingers. Maybe he can't reach her in time, but Frumpkin will.

And sure enough, Frumpkin goes from thin air to pointedly curling up in Beau's lap, nuzzling into her hands as she automatically reaches down to him.

Between two spells, he sees her shoot him a look that doesn't quite say fuck you, but it's a near thing. He motions for her to stay put. "We've got this, don't get yourself in trouble for no reason!"

She looks like she's considering to yell back a few choice words, but decides against it. Her whole body is shaking with the sheer effort of staying upright. She doesn't stop petting Frumpkin.

Caleb feels a wave of affection for her that is and isn't his own. He casts Haste on Nott, who brings down the troll that attacked Beau with three clean shots. He flashes her a proud smile and runs over to Beau, as if he could even shield her from any damage. As if she can't handle herself better than he will ever be able to.

It doesn't matter. He's out of spells, no use for anyone. He might as well get out of harm's way.

He sits down next to her, and she pointedly doesn't turn to look at him, although maybe that's her spine acting up. She did hit that tree pretty hard.

"I don't need you to protect me," she says.

Kiri could knock you out right now, he doesn't say. "I'm not protecting you," he says instead, holding out his hands, palms facing outward. "I'm tapped. If anything, you're protecting me."

Beau starts laughing and then very quickly stops again on a choked outbreath. "Thanks for that, Caleb," she says. It falls flat, like almost everything she says, but he thinks she might actually mean it this time.

They sit together and watch the last troll fall as Molly cuts its tendons and Fjord slashes its throat once it's down.

Beau's breathing rattles in her chest like an old woman's. It's all Caleb can do to wait until Yasha comes running and casts her Healing Hands.

"Thank you," he says in Celestial, sung on a sigh.

She gives him a confused look. "I am healing her, not you. Why are we speaking Celestial?"

"She never says thank you. I wanted you to hear it, but I didn't want to make her feel bad about it."

"Thanks, Yasha", Beau says, exhausted. The rattling sound has stopped, but she's still shaking ever so slightly. "That sounded nice. I hope you weren't talking shit about me."

Yasha gives him a pointed look, and Caleb gets up and offers Beau a hand. "Sorry about that. Do you want us to stop?"

Beau takes his hand. Frumpkin jumps onto her shoulder as she slowly gets up, spine popping. She leans her cheek into him, and Caleb feels a shadow of his cat satisfaction. He hides a smile about her conflicted expression.

"I mean, I don't appreciate being talked about, but it does sound really fucking nice."

"I thanked her for healing you, because you were looking that awful," Caleb volunteers.

Yasha flashes him a discreet thumbs-up.

"You're welcome," she says, and repeats it in Common, too.

"Fuck you too," Beau says, and ironically, it's like insults are the only thing she can make sound affectionate. Frumpkin butts his head up against her chin and purrs loudly.

*

3- When Caleb wakes up, screams still ringing in his ears and the heavy memory of smoke in his lungs, Nott's weight on his chest is just this side of suffocating, and he pries her off with shaking hands. She makes a small sound, turning her head in his direction, and he snaps Frumpkin into existence as quietly as he can.

The cat stretches out next to her, almost as long as she is when she is balled up like this. She settles her arms around Frumpkin as Caleb backs away into a corner of the room, choking on memories both real and made up.

Nott slings her arms around Frumpkin in her sleep, and this time Caleb doesn't feel the suffocation of it, just the quiet reassurance. He calms down in increments.

Forgetting nightmares is hard when you have a photographic memory, but Nott's steady breathing helps. When he strains his ears, he can hear the faintest purring.

I don't deserve any of this he thinks, and as he does, Frumpkin lets out a pitiful mewl, and Nott opens her eyes, glowing yellow in the dark.

Caleb doesn't try to hide anything like he would from anyone else. He just sits there and breathes through it, wheezing until he's panting until he's huffing until he's as quiet as he'll get.

Nott is watching him, and then she very deliberately reaches out a hand and starts petting Frumpkin.

The effect is immediate: Just like that, Caleb knows he's safe. More than that: he's worthy of it, too, just this once. He shrugs off the nightmare like a heavy coat and instantly feels exhausted, ready to fall asleep.

And then Nott’s small voice fills the quiet, and for once, she doesn’t sound skittish or hysterical, just sure.

“I know you think that your brokenness is the only redeeming factor about you, that breaking was the only indicator in all this that you're a good person - and I won't try to change your mind about it, although I think you're wrong - but even if that were the case, that still doesn't have to make it a bad thing if you let yourself heal. It's not a betrayal to your parents if you get better. If you let yourself be a good person in the time it takes to learn what you have to learn, it won't mean you disrespect their memory. I hope you know that.”

In the dark, in the privacy of their room, with nothing but Nott’s and Frumpkin’s glowing eyes watching him, he can almost believe it.

"Thank you," he tells Nott, and gets back under the covers. She blinks once, a cat smile, like he taught her. Frumpkin blinks back.

*

4- The next time Yasha leaves, Caleb sends Frumpkin to go with her.

She tries to hand him back over. "I don't know how long I'll be gone," she says.

"Take him anyway." Caleb bends down to Frumpkin to give him instructions. "Go with her until she tells you to leave. Then come back to us."

Frumpkin scales Yasha's leg, and she scoops him up. He climbs her arm and knits himself around her shoulders, and Yasha reaches out a hand to pet him, automatic.

"Don't spy on me", she says, and Caleb promises. "Friends, remember?" he says in Celestial.

"I'll hold him to it. Kick him in the shins at regular intervals so he can never be off guard here," Beau adds, and Caleb nods.

She nods back at him slowly, and turns away. They watch her leave, her huge form and the bright orange scarf getting smaller ever so slowly.

He feels intermittent bursts of warmth throughout the next days, and only thinks of checking in briefly, not only because Beau is holding up her end of the bargain and kicks him in the shins in the most unexpected moments.

Somehow, he doesn't want to lie to Yasha. Even if when he set out to gain her trust he did so because she is scary and strong and it's always good to have someone intimidating on your side. Something about the word friends keeps him from betraying her trust.

He's getting a signature feeling from each member of the Mighty Nein now, almost, he ponders. He can usually tell who snagged Frumpkin without looking: Nott feels calm and safe, Molly feels like a smile. Beau feels affectionate. Yasha just feels warm.

On the fifth day, Caleb feels small and unprotected and off the way he sometimes does; it takes him an embarrassingly long time to link it to the absence of the faint bursts of reassurance he so quickly got used to.

"Do you think Yasha's okay?" he asks Beau at dinner.

She stares at him for a couple of seconds, the way she does when he addresses her without preamble, and then shrugs.

"Don't know. She can probably handle herself."

She sounds miserable as well.

Caleb snaps his fingers once, and then again. Frumpkin comes running towards him, leaping into his arms and nuzzling his hand. Caleb feels the familiarity and closeness, but this time, it's not enough. They are too close in mind.

Frumpkin jumps back to the floor and starts pawing at Beau's trouser leg until she scoops him up with a sigh. She sinks her fingers into his fur slowly, and Caleb is struck with a feeling he barely remembers - compassion. Pity. Frumpkin attempts to lick Beau's face, and she leans back with a grimace: "No - what - that's weird, Caleb - "

"Oh - yes - sorry - " He calls Frumpkin off, who immediately goes to placidly lying in Beau's arms, the picture of a harmless pet. She eyes him suspiciously.

"Did you - did you, like, tell him to lick my face? Because that's really weird," Beau repeats, and Caleb is sure if he gets any redder his head will just explode.

"I didn't think of it as such," he tries to explain, fumbling. "Frumpkin just felt sorry for you and that is what he does when he feels that way, and it has been a while so I didn't remember in time to stop him."

"Frumpkin felt sorry for me." Beau asks, flatly. Caleb nods, and hopes this conversation will be over soon, so he can lie down and hopefully die and stop thinking of situations in which Beau probably also thought that Frumpkin was a part of Caleb in the same way his hands are. All of the laps and shoulders he's sat on. That time he licked Kiri's face. "Mmmhm." Beau gives him a considering look.

He tries and fails to look inconspicuous.

"So, how, how close are you to him? Can you, like, read his mind? Are you his mind?"

"Somewhere in between those two?" Caleb tries. "It's a connection, but he's still a cat. But I still made him. So he's also a part of me, but just a bit."

"So, before Frumpkin, did you never feel sorry for anyone? That strictly his job?"

Caleb feels the blood drain from his face all at once. He sits up stiffly. In Beau's arms, Frumpkin goes completely still.

"I didn't-"

Beau is already shaking her head, horrified. "Oh no, nope, no, I wasn't alluding to that, can we pretend that never happened please -"

Caleb nods gratefully. Frumpkin, less forgiving, lightly nips at Beau's finger. "I know, sorry," Beau tells him, and Caleb relaxes a fraction.

"I just meant," Beau tries again after a moment of silence. Caleb spends a few seconds wishing he had a God to pray to for this to end. To not loop back to before Frumpkin.

"I just meant, maybe you shouldn't distinguish - quite so much. Maybe you can just say you felt sorry."

"But it was Frumpkin. I am just miserable because he hasn't gotten anyone to pet him today and I'm afraid for Yasha and I am hating how lost I am without him. Then you picked him up and he felt - that."

He pauses for a second. "He's better at the interpersonal stuff than I am. You might have noticed."

Beau laughs, a hearty, bellowing sound that lasts until Frumpkin digs his claws into her thigh and she lets out an undignified yelp.

"I - yeah, I might have some idea," she says.

Caleb grins, just a little.

*

5- When they finally find Kiri's parents and leave her with them, Jester is the one it hits the hardest.

Nott is a little teary eyed as well, but she manages to talk through it. "It's almost like we're good people," she tells Caleb at some point, and he nods.

"She made it easy to be," he says.

Everyone is a little subdued, but it's most obvious with Jester. She's walking a little off to the side, not taking part in any of their conversations. When Fjord splits off to talk to her after a while, she sends him off with a shake of her head.

Maybe she wants to be alone. But maybe she wouldn't say no to some wordless comfort, Caleb thinks, and snaps Frumpkin into existence on top of Jester's head, nestled between her horns.

She gives a quiet yelp and sends him a startled look, but doesn't pry Frumpkin off, so Caleb leaves him there, playing with strands of her hair as they walk on. He makes sure his claws are drawn in.

When he feels a brief burst of satisfaction that isn't his own a few minutes later, he chances another look: Jester has reached her tail up above her head and is using it to scritch Frumpkin behind the ears. Frumpkin has closed his eyes and is dozing in the sunlight that filters in through the leaves of the trees they're walking beneath. She's still quiet, but she seems less sad.

By evening, the strange spell has worn off, and Jester is back to her old self: Talking excitedly, scribbling in her notebook, telling everyone who will listen about the great deed they have done by rescuing this child from a monster and reuniting her with her family.

Caleb realizes for the first time how much they need her to keep them sane and kind and happy, and Frumpkin carefully climbs off her head and onto her shoulder to press his face into her cheek. She sets down her tankard of milk to pet him, and then grabs him around the middle and hands him back. "Thank you for your cat, Caleb," she says, in the drawn out sing song voice she gets when she's trying to remember to be polite. "He was very cute and helped me a lot. But I also think he needs more flowers."

"I know, but I can't make them stick to him!" Nott butts in, "They just fall down when he goes poof. Do you know a spell for that?"

"Oooh, that would be a great spell. Let Frumpkin take flowers to the other realm!" Jester slams her fist on the table, startling Beau, who had been resting her head on it.

Caleb smiles. "If I come across one, I will teach it to you," he promises. Then, on a whim, he leans closer to Jester and lowers his voice to ask: "Are you okay?"

Jester gives him a startled smile. "Oh, I'm fine," she says cheerfully, "Just, you know, I have never made any friends before you guys, so it's hard to leave one behind."

Caleb has the sudden urge to hug her, and quells it by letting Frumpkin jump on the table and push into her hand again.

"Well, we'll stay together, so that's six friends you don't need to worry about losing," he tries.

Jester nods emphatically as she pats Frumpkin on the back a little too hard. "And we'll get those diamonds so I won't need to worry about losing you in other ways, too."

She scrunches up her face and headbutts Frumpkin before he can, and if Frumpkin steps on Jester's plate in the following playfight, it's not like anyone but Caleb sees it, so it can remain his secret.

"Yes", he says. Fjord, who is seated two chairs over, starts sneezing in earnest, so Caleb reluctantly disappears Frumpkin, making Jester almost faceplant into the table.

*

6-  When they reach Erdeloch, Caleb thinks it should make Fjord as happy as he gets: Caleb has never seen a body of water so big that it meets the horizon in the distance, and he thinks to himself that they probably won't get any closer to an actual ocean in their travels.

But Fjord is quiet and withdrawn even when Jester invites him to come swimming.

He gets in the water, but there's no joy in his practiced strokes.

Something is troubling him. From the way Molly is watching Fjord from the shore, Caleb thinks he probably sees it too, or knows more than he does. Maybe Fjord had another nightmare.

He summons Frumpkin, who eyes the water suspiciously, and pets him absently.

"Do you think he might be cheered up by a cuddly familiar?" Caleb asks Molly abruptly.

Molly raises an eyebrow. "Fjord is allergic," he reminds Caleb, and Caleb nods. "I know," he says. "But I still have enough incense."

Molly's other eyebrow joins the first. "Oh, that sounds like an incredible waste of resources. I love it."

Caleb knows he probably shouldn't take that as an encouragement, but he does: He gathers coal from their campfire and starts the ritual right then and there, on the shore of the lake, where they can all watch him - and they do, he's half aware of Nott's curious gaze and Jester's questions, of Molly's quiet answers from his other side. He's briefly swamped by a feeling he hasn't had in more than a decade: he feels at home, for the long minutes that his mind is occupied with the ritual just enough to not be thinking how much he doesn't deserve them, and the others in his peripheral, just enough not to crowd him.

Then it's over, his mind snaps back to alertness, and Frumpkin nuzzles his hand, otter-shaped. His fur is softer and more dense than Caleb is used to.

"What is that?" Molly asks, immediately fascinated.

"It's an otter. Pretty close to a cat, but they live in water," Caleb explains. Molly holds out a hand, and Frumpkin pushes his head into it just like he did as a cat. Molly gives a delighted bark of laughter. "Incredible," he says, smiling bright.

"He is pretty good," Caleb says, in a rare burst of pride. He doesn't feel exposed and lonely the way he did when Frumpkin was a sparrow, and this way he is not wary of the water the way Frumpkin-the-cat was. Caleb nods down at him and smiles. "Go bother Fjord," he instructs.

Frumpkin chirps at him and flits off, weirdly off-balance until he reaches the water, and then he's streamlined and as elegant as the cat was on land.

Fjord is diving when Frumpkin reaches him, so Frumpkin dives after him without hesitation.

Caleb looks away from the stilling surface of the water and catches Molly, Jester and Nott intently staring at the lake. After a second, Jester nudges him with an elbow. "Well, go spy on him! We want to know what's happening!"

Caleb looks to Molly. He doesn't know when Molly of all people became his moral compass, but here they are. Maybe it’s because he’s always sure, even if his moral rules only make sense to him.

"What are you waiting for? And tell us everything!" Molly makes a shooing motion as if to push Caleb into the water, and Caleb goes blind and deaf, with Jester and Molly habitually holding onto his elbows so he won't topple over.

Frumpkin has almost reached Fjord when he gets there, still on his way to the bottom of the lake, which is, as Caleb can see now, littered with little colorful pebbles that seem to emit a faint glow. Fjord grabs a handful of them, and Frumpkin does the same, taking one with little blue swirls on it and holding it carefully as sand muddies the water where they stirred it.

Fjord looks over to Frumpkin, and for a second, Caleb sees surprise on his face, melting into a genuine smile. He slowly holds out a hand as if trying to gain Frumpkin's trust. Frumpkin puts the stone he picked up into it, startling Fjord into a laugh that leaves his mouth in a few bubbles that rise towards the surface. Reminded of where he is, he quickly pushes off the ground and swims up, Frumpkin at his heels.

Caleb relates everything to the others as it happens, and feels Jester's hand tighten on his elbow in response.

Fjord reaches the surface and gulps in air, sputtering a bit.

"Hey!" he calls over to the two colorful globs Frumpkin can barely make out in the distance. "I found a friend!"

Frumpkin chitters and swims around him to clamber on his head.

"Well done, Fjord!" that's Jester's voice, drifting over from the shore.

"Say hi to Frumpkin!" comes Molly's shout, a second later. "Caleb made him this way specifically so you could stop sneezing!"

For a second, Fjord stiffens. He probably doesn't appreciate anything that even remotely resembles a prank, after the kind of childhood he seems to have had. Frumpkin jumps off his head and swims around him in a wide circle to gage his expression.

Fjord gives Frumpkin an appraising look, and then it eases into a grin.

"Thanks, Caleb," he says, quietly, and gives Frumpkin a pat. "'ppreciate that."

"You're welcome!" Caleb yells across the lake before he can talk himself into pretending he wasn't just spying on his friend, and he pulls back just in time to hear Jester cheer and Mollymauk give a big, hearty laugh.

After that, Frumpkin and Fjord set out to collect as many of the pebbles as they can for a delighted but decidedly dry Nott, and between the splashes and the low, encouraging voice Fjord uses to talk to Frumpkin, Caleb feels well and truly appreciated.

It has been a while since that feeling last wasn't associated with murder and obedience.

Caleb leans back on his elbows between the two tieflings and allows it to heal him the tiniest bit.

[arrow-guy]

All Was Well (7/??)

Summary: Harry and Draco struggle with life after the war. Together, things my not be easier, but they sure are more interesting.

A/N: Well, I mean’t to get this up over a month ago, but I guess we can celebrate Harry’s birthday a little late lmao. I hope you guys like this part!!

Word Count: 2030

Pairing: Drarry

Warnings: Some snogging, but that’s about it?? (this is the first time I’ve ever written a makeout scene so please be gentle with me)

part 6

“Your birthday is in two days,” Draco says, more of a statement than a question.

“That it is,” Harry looks up at Draco over the rim of his glasses. “Why bring it up?”

“It’s your birthday,” Draco repeats.

“Again, yes, it is.”

“What would you like me to get you?”

“I don’t need anything, Dray.”

“It’s not about need, Potter, rather a matter of want. There has to be something that you want.”

Harry shrugs and shakes his head, “No, not really. I’ve got practically everything I could ever want right here.” He says, a soft smile playing at his lips as he meets Draco’s eyes.

Draco scowls, a rosy flush creeping up his pale neck. “While I appreciate the sentiment, that doesn’t help me get you a gift.”

“I don’t need you to get me anything.” Draco raises his eyebrows questioningly. “I’m serious! I really don’t need anything fancy. I’d be absolutely thrilled if you just bought a box of Bertie Botts and shared it with me in bed while listening to the wireless.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious, Draco. I’m not a materialistic person.”

“Really?”

Harry sets his book aside and crawls across the couch to Draco, laying his body over Draco’s and bracketing the blond’s head with his arms. Draco looks up at him expectantly, resting his hands on Harry’s sides and rubbing gentle circles there with his thumbs. Harry drops his head down and captures Draco’s lips with his. Draco responds immediately, opening his mouth under Harry’s, allowing room for him to ease his tongue past Draco's lips and tangle it with Draco's, gently mapping out the curves of it. Draco's breath hitches and he circles his arms around Harry’s middle, pulling him flush against his body. Harry smiles and bites down on Draco’s lower lip, hard enough to elicit a low groan from the young man. Harry releases his hold on Draco’s lip only to give it another sharp nip before laving over it with his tongue. Draco sighs shakily and places one hand on the back of Harry's neck, gently pulling his mouth back down to his own and kissing Harry languidly, running his tongue along the seam of Harry's lips before peppering gentle kisses all over Harry's face and neck. Harry giggles as Draco sucks a mark onto Harry's collarbone and pushes himself off of him, hovering over the blond beneath him.

“Really,” Harry affirms.

Draco blinks at him dazedly. “What were we talking about?”

Harry laughs and settles next to Draco on the couch, wiggling between Draco's side and the back of the couch. “We were talking about my birthday and how all I need is you spending the evening with me, never leaving the warmth and comfort of my bed.”

“Right,” Draco clears his throat awkwardly and shifts slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Okay, I understand.”

--

“Draco?”

Draco smiles awkwardly at her from the floo. “Sorry for calling without warning.”

She shakes her head and plops down in front of the hearth. “Don't worry about it. Is something wrong? Is Harry alright?”

“He's fine, just being difficult.”

“Oh?” She lifts one eyebrow quizzically.

“His birthday is coming up-”

“As I am well aware.” Hermione cuts him off.

Draco rolls his eyes before continuing. “I was talking to him about it and he says there's nothing that he wants.”

“Well, I would rather imagine that he'd like to spend time with you. He's said that he literally waits on the sofa for you to arrive when the two of you have plans.” A dark flush spreads across Draco's cheeks and he averts his eyes, coughing once before continuing. “He did say something along those lines, but it just doesn't seem right to let the day pass without getting him something.”

“And you called in hopes of me having an idea?” Draco nods and Hermione sighs. “Well he had talked about becoming an animagus a few weeks ago, so I picked up a book on it for him, so I haven't really got any suggestions for you.”

Draco's brow furrows. “Harry had an owl, right? I haven't seen her around Grimmauld place. What happened?”

Hermione bites at the inside of her cheek, debating whether or not telling him would be a good idea. “He lost her on the journey to the burrow almost a year ago.”

“Oh,” Draco's eyes go wide and his stomach clenches, remembering how close Harry seemed to be with his owl. “She was a lovely bird.”

Hermione nods. “Hedwig was probably Harry's best friend, even above Ron and I. He took her loss pretty hard.” She watches the emotions play out across Draco's features and realizes what he's thinking. “Don't buy him an owl, Malfoy. It would only hurt.”

“I wasn't thinking of getting him an owl, actually.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.” He smiles genuinely at Hermione, startling her slightly. “You've been a great help, Hermione, thank you.”

He disappears in the flames, leaving behind a confused Hermione. “You're welcome?”

--

Draco checks his appearance once more in the mirror and fidgets with his now ordinary looking brown hair. He traded his usual slacks and dress shirt for a pair of Harry's denims and one of his over-sized jumpers that he managed to nick the day before. He nods in satisfaction at the end product, certain that no one will recognize him looking like this.

He aparates directly to Diagon Alley from his bathroom at Malfoy manor and immediately strides towards the magical menagerie, certain of what he's looking for.

The bell tinkles as Draco pushes open the door. As soon as he crosses the threshold he's assaulted by any number of animal related smells and sounds. When the door slams, the man behind the counter looks up at Draco, eyebrows raised.

“Kneazles?” Draco asks, intentionally speaking in a deeper voice than he does naturally.

The man stares at him and jerks his thumb towards the back of the store. Draco nods to him and ducks his head before pressing forward through the shop towards the back.

He immediately sees a huge crateful of kittens and he bites his lip trying to decide on which one would be perfect for Harry. He scowls at the numerous wiggling bodies and leans on the side of the crate closest to him.

After about three minutes of staring, he feels a soft tug on the sleeve of the jumper he's wearing. Looking down, he sees a rumpled looking gray tabby with piercing blue eyes staring back at him, claws caught in the material of his jumper.

“What do you want?” He asks, not taking his eyes off of the sentient ball of fluff. The kitten blinks once and meows loudly, tugging insistently on his sleeve. “You want to come home with me?” Another tug and a screechy meow. Draco snorts and scoops up the small creature, cradling it in the crook of his arm. It immediately presses its body against Draco's and begins to purr.

Draco rolls his eyes and turns back to the counter at the center of the store. “How much for this one?”

The man behind the counter glances up from his copy of The Prophet, disinterest obvious in his face. “She’s a galleon.”

“What? Why so little?”

“Runt of the litter with suppressed magic. Damn thing’s a muggle pet at best.”

Draco looks down at the fluffy creature in his arm only to find it already looking back at him with what can best be described as pleading eyes. Draco shakes his head and looks back to the man at the counter. “I’ll take this one.”

--

“Harry!” Molly Weasley pulls Harry to her chest in a bone crushing hug as soon as he sets foot through the door.

“Hullo, Mrs. Weasley.” He wheezes out, hugging her back. “How've you been?”

“We've been managing well enough, dear, don't you worry.” She releases him from her hold and pats him firmly on the cheek. “How have you been holding up?”

“I’ve been pretty good, actually.” He smiles lopsidedly and scratches the back of his neck.

“Oh? Finally left Grimmauld Place, have we? Perhaps picked up a new hobby?”

Ron snorts loudly from across the room. “You could say that.” Ginny punches him in the arm and Ron laughs. Harry grins at his friends.

“Well, you can tell us all about it over dinner.” Molly nods decisively and scurries off to the kitchen to attend to what was bound to be a feast.

“You’re going to have to tell her,” Hermione says softly, making Harry practically jump out of his skin.

Harry presses his hand to his chest, eyes wide. “Merlin, Hermione, you can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

“Sorry,” She apologizes quickly. “My point still stands. You should tell her before she reads about the two of you in the Prophet.”

“I know. But it can wait. I’d rather not incur the wrath of Molly Weasley on my birthday.”

Hermione nods. “Fair enough.”

--

“Be quiet!” Draco hisses, struggling to contain the little tabby in an empty Bertie Botts box. “He’s going to be home any minute, and then you’ll be back out in no time.”

She yowls indignantly and tries to wriggle away, only to have Draco grab her by the scruff of her neck and attempt to put her back into the box.

“Dray? Are you here?”

“I’m upstairs!” Draco calls before turning back to the frustrating ball of fluff in his hands and hissing, “I am literally begging you to cooperate with me right now.” Seeming to finally understand the seriousness of the situation, the still unnamed kneazle sinks down into the box and stops moving around. Draco heaves a sigh of relief and closes up the box as the door creaks open. He abruptly straightens his posture and turns around to face Harry, hiding the Bertie Bott’s box behind his back.

“Hey,” Harry smiles as he crosses the room and presses a kiss to Draco’s cheek. “Are you okay? You look tense.” He asks, slipping out of his jacket and hanging it on the hook on the back of the door.

“I’m fine,” Draco takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, moving the box from behind his back and holding it out to Harry.

“What’s this?” Harry asks, taking the box from Draco. “That’s definitely heavier than regular Bertie Botts, Draco.”

“I know you said that you didn’t need anything, but I spoke to Hermione and she told me what happened with Hedwig,” He hears Harry’s breath catch and he holds his hands out in front of himself, almost defensively. “Before you say anything, I swear she isn’t an owl.”

Harry’s brows knit together as he turns his attention to the box in his hand, opening the top with his free hand. As soon as the top is popped open, a small gray head pushes it all the way open, gazing up at Harry with blue eyes. Harry covers his mouth with his hand, looking back up to Draco for a second before gently scooping the kitten out of the box.

“I-I don't know what to say.” Harry shakes his head and holds the kitten close to his chest, gently scratching under her chin.

“Well, ‘thank you’ is generally a good place to start when given a gift,” Draco says, the malice that would have laced his words not even a year ago completely gone.

Harry looks up at Draco and grins. “Thank you, Draco.”

“You are very welcome,” Draco presses a soft kiss to Harry’s temple.

“Does she have a name?”

Draco shakes his head. “I was leaving that for you to do.”

Harry’s brow furrows momentarily as he looks down at the small feline cradled in his arms. “What about Cassiopeia?”

Draco blinks. “Really?”

“Yeah, why not? The Black family has named their children after stars for generations. Seeing as my godfather was a Black, I don’t see any reason not to carry on with the tradition.” He says, his voice faltering towards the end. “Do you not like it?”

“No, no I think it’s perfect.” He pulls Harry close and scratches Cassiopeia behind the ears. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

Thank you guys so much for reading! If you liked this installment, please leave a response or shoot me an ask! Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

Tagged:

@jazzcutie, @claws-of-vibranium, @arianagreengrass13, @sassyslytherinschist, @divitiasdraconis, @orkedad

[beyondforks]

Release Day Review! Dangerously Dark by C.J. Burright, Plus an Interview w/ the Author!

Dangerously Dark (The Dreamcaster Series #3) by C.J. Burright Genre: Adult Fiction (Paranormal Romance) Date Published: November 13, 2017 Publisher: Ravenrock Publishing LLC

Some call him Purgatory’s Missing Prince. Demon Master. Overlord of Shadows. Only one woman may call him hers.

A master of dreams, a failure at life…

After another botched career attempt, Quinn Carmichael escapes to a remote lodge for a weekend recharge, needing respite…especially from the nightmares that haunt even her days. When a wounded, sexy-as-sin stranger faceplants unconscious on her kitchen floor, there’s something disturbingly familiar about him—as in he’s the boy from her childhood dreams. Mr. Dark, Dangerous, and Diabolical may be the key to unlocking the mysteries of her past and future, and Quinn isn’t about to let the opportunity—or him—escape without a fight.

His time is running out…

Known as Purgatory’s Missing Prince, Zaire’s existence has been one of endless pain, torture, and loss. Resigned to his fate, his final goal is simple—rescue his nephew before succumbing to the deadly darkness inside him. But when a fateful misstep brings him face-to-face with the one woman who could have saved him once upon a dream—the one woman he treasures above all else—he battles to keep his distance before he destroys her, too. But he would gladly sell his soul for just one taste.

Love draws them together, destiny will tear them apart

With ruthless enemies closing in, Quinn and Zaire must fight to save each other and those they care for before it’s too late—even if it means they’re doomed to live apart forever.

Dangerously Dark is the third book in the Dreamcaster series by C.J. Burright. This series just gets better and better. This time we see things mostly from the perspectives of Zaire and Quinn, though we do get glimpses from other characters from time to time. These different views really helped to build the situation and what was going on. Zaire has had a horrific life. Granted he has also done a lot of horrific things. Quinn was unique. She has used her dreams to strengthen herself it seems. She is a survivor. So, when Zaire disappeared from her dreams, she learned to fight them herself.  I loved her strength. I also love when they showed their vulnerabilities too. Characters like these are what makes fiction believable. I love it. The romantic tension is palpable. You don't know if they're going to rip each other's throats out or rip each other's clothes off. Add in the horror and mystery that always surrounds the world of the V’alkara, and this is completely impossible to stop reading. The whole Dreamcaster Series story line is pretty ingenious. Each book blows me away. I can't get enough. 

The ARC of Dangerously Dark by C.J. Burright was kindly provided to me by the author & Bewitching Book Tours for review. The opinions are my own.

Quinn tossed the note on the coffee table and wrapped one hand around the warm ceramic mug, absently petting Wolfgang with the other. Dusk took over beyond the wall of windows, made darker by the blizzard. Falling snow hid the skirting tree line. Wind howled at the house corners and turned treetops into jerking puppets. The perfect meltdown location. No phones, no people, no problem. The lamp flickered and died, leaving her with only the dancing firelight, not that she minded. The power had lasted longer than she expected. Stoked fire, hot cider, and now she had a great excuse to procrastinate reading unhelpful flyers. She sipped her drink and wriggled back on the couch. Wolfgang launched off her lap, kicking papers everywhere and sloshing her drink. “Bad cat!” He scurried into the kitchen, out of sight. A distinct thud followed, which meant Wolfgang was up to no good. “I should’ve sent you off to the Nameless One.” Quinn shoved the remaining flyers aside and nabbed the flashlight from the end table. “You’d make an amazing hat, and there’d be enough fur left to make a stole, the perfect ensemble to compliment her plastic face.” She flicked on the flashlight and shuffled into the kitchen, ignoring how the light made all the shadows twist and scuttle on the walls and ceiling. Broken bones might bother her, but the dark never had. Wolfgang expectantly stood at the back door. He meowed, high and plaintive. Nothing looked out of place. Whatever had made the thud wasn’t in the kitchen. Maybe the wind had blown a loose branch against the house. “What, you’re a snow leopard now? There’s no fancy feline feast waiting out there for you.” Wolfgang rubbed his cheek against the doorframe, circled, and meowed again. Thud. The entire door shook. Quinn jumped. That was no branch. All the horror movies she loved to watch and ridicule flashed to mind, a lot less funny now. Alone in the woods. Killer storm. No electricity. No connection to the outside world. Wolfgang’s purr rumbled, and he slid his face over the jamb again. The noise hadn’t spooked him even a little, and animals always sensed evil. Wolfgang had had no problem detecting it in Molly. She squared her shoulders. No one would be roaming around in a blizzard. An animal had probably knocked the trashcan into the door, and a quick look would ease any worry. At the first glimpse of fur or fang—or red, glowing eyes—she’d go for the door slam. Pushing Wolfgang back with one foot, she cracked open the door. Wind exploded in, ripping the doorknob from her grip and firing snow and ice into her eyes. The door banged into the wall, and the storm’s full force rushed inside. Quinn scrambled for the knob and stopped, frozen by more than the sudden blast of cold. A man filled the entryway from threshold to frame, dark as the nightfall behind him. Steam drifted from his bare head. Frost coated his short, sable hair, and even in the flashlight beam, his complexion held an unhealthy blue-gray hue. One hand was anchored to the doorpost in a white-knuckled grip. The other brandished a wicked as sin knife. She shone the light on his face, and her stomach roller-coastered. Her demon. The one who’d haunted her nightmares years ago and then abruptly bailed, never to return. No matter what face he wore, his death-black, abysmal eyes were unforgettable. Or were her delusions returning with a vengeance? “Get out of my way.” His chest heaved, and he lurched forward, the knife pointed at her. His guttural words erased any suspicion that he might be another hallucination. He was too present, too solid to be anything but real. Merde. He was real.

How long have you been writing?  Growing up in the boonies, I had to find ways to entertain myself after I’d read all the books on hand, so I turned to writing my own stories when I was in my teens. I wouldn’t call them good stories and they are best kept in a shoebox in the deepest, darkest recesses of the attic. Those early scratchings should probably be burned to avoid becoming blackmail material. What inspired you to write The Dreamcaster Series? A dream started the whole thing. Appropriate, huh? 😊 I dreamed of Kalila from Wonderfully Wicked, standing in a café with Lydon standing menacingly behind her, and I had to know why he was stalking her. Then I started plotting, and as more characters come out of the shadows, I find I must write their stories too. Did you always plan for it to be a series? Once I started writing Wonderfully Wicked, I knew there was too much in this supernatural world of dreams and nightmares that I wanted to explore to include in a single book. And as I fall in love with the broken characters, I want them all to experience their own HEA. It wouldn’t be fair to leave them all hanging, right? What was the weirdest thing you had to google while doing research? I did Google some angelic language, which was both weird and interesting. I thought about using a bit since Zaire knows how to speak in angel/demon tongue, but I didn’t want readers stumbling over how to pronounce words like oxex and gmicalzo. But I’ll definitely name my next cat zvrza. This series would make some great movies. Would you want to turn your books into movies or TV shows? Ooh, thanks for saying that! I’d choose a long-running TV show like Supernatural – with awesome (and hot) guys, spooky stuff, action, fun times, and romance. Maybe Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki could find a new acting home. 😊 Which of your characters do you relate to most and why? They all have a piece of me stitched into them, but I relate most to Kalila from Wonderfully Wicked and Quinn from Dangerously Dark. Kalila is guarded with people she doesn’t know well or trust (like me), but I’m also an idealist like Quinn. And like both of them, I’m not afraid to fight for what’s important to me when necessary. Ka-pow! What is a secret about you that nobody else knows? I’d be on Dancing with the Stars if I could partner with Val Chmerkovskiy. And dancing (especially in public) sooooo isn’t my thing. What book have you read too many times to count? The Magic Garden by Gene Stratton Porter. It’s antiquated, beautiful and bittersweet, and a rescued treasure from my grandmother’s library. I’m not usually prone to waterworks, but this story gets me. Every time. What is the best piece of writing advice you ever received? Keep writing, keep learning your craft, and never give up! If you could hop into the life of any fictional character, who would it be and why? Claire from Outlander because…Jamie. He’d be worth giving up a couple hundred years of technology. What was one of the most surprising things you learned while creating your books? In researching dreams, it was interesting how some people are so paralyzed by their dreams they can’t move and even have trouble breathing. It’s amazing how the subconscious (or is it some outside force?) can affect the body. What do you like to do when you're not writing? I have a day job which takes up an unfortunate amount of my time, but when I’m not writing or working, I’m reading, working out, or playing Assassin’s Creed surrounded by my adoring cats. It’s a superb life. Are any of the things in your books based on real life experiences or purely all imagination? My stories are a mixture of both—I think it’s impossible not to color my writing with my own life experiences—and as far as who and/or what are based off truth…I’ll never tell! Thanks so much for having me! <3

Thank you for hanging out at my blog & answering all my questions!

Check out my review of the previous books in this AMAZING series!

C.J Burright is a native Oregonian and refuses to leave. A member of Romance Writers of America and the Fantasy, Futuristic and Paranormal special interest chapter, while she has worked for years in a law office, she chooses to avoid writing legal thrillers (for now) and instead invades the world of urban fantasy, paranormal romance, or fantasy. C.J. also has her 4th Dan Black Belt in Tae Kwon Do and believes a story isn’t complete without at least one fight scene. Her meager spare time is spent working out, refueling with mochas, gardening, gorging on Assassin’s Creed, and rooting on the Seattle Mariners…always with music. She shares life with her husband, daughter, and a devoted cat herd. To learn more about C.J. Burright and her books, visit her website.You can also find her on Goodreads, Pinterest, Facebook, and Twitter.

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