#in my head i kept thinking him as like a housecat but

[teddybeartoji]

big cat!bachira loooooooves giving you tongue baths he gets so happy whenever he gets to do it,, he'll just sit you down on his lap and he'll wrap his arms around you so you won't squirm away from him. he'll wear a smile and he'll hum and his tail will swirl and twirl in excitement – and if you were to push at his chest and whine that you're clean now, he'll just laugh to himself while tightening his arms around you.

[hannahbarberra162]

The Crocodile's Gambit, Ch. 5 (Croc x Reader)

18+ MDNI

on Ao3 All the other chapters

TW: (just for this chapter) mentions of torture / gore but not described in great detail.

Skip about halfway for softie Croc :)

Crocodile was in an absolutely fabulous mood as he cleaned the dripping blood from his hook with his handkerchief. He’d always enjoyed psychological torture more than physical, but combining the two was when he really shone. He’d been torturing the Marine in the same ways he’d tortured you - creating thousands of wounds, infecting them with sand, and allowing them to heal enough to scab. He’d then remove the sand, the wounds would reopen…ah, he was having fun with this one. His pitiful screams made Crocodile smile wider the louder they became. He didn’t need information, he didn’t need them as blackmail, he had full reign over the pacing of his craft.

It had been three days since the Mad Medic had come into his hands and Crocodile had kept him alive thus far. Crocodile had made him beg for the mercy of death but hadn’t yet granted the request. He was thinking about killing the Medic the following day but he wanted to ensure that you didn’t want to have your just desserts before he did so. Double checking his vest had no blood spatter on it, he walked the distance between the jail and his nearly-completed mansion with a spring in his step. He was elated with the way he’d dragged out this torture. Normally Crocodile bored quickly during his torture sessions, finding the pleading and begging irritating. But keeping this one alive and suffering was a delight, given what he’d done to you in the past.

Entering his mansion, Crocodile looked for you first in the office. He’d given you the week off but you’d insisted on cleaning his house anyway, saying it gave you an outlet for your nervous energy. You’d been off since the Medic had come to the island and Crocodile couldn’t wait to show you his progress with your former tormentor. You weren’t in the office so he checked your next favorite haunt - the kitchen. You were often in the kitchen, munching on snacks or drinking tea, or trying to get Daz to like you by baking him desserts. Daz did like you, but the two pirates had a silent agreement to dump your treats out the window or turn them into sand when you weren’t looking. You had many incredible qualities but baking was not one of them.

Nearing the kitchen, Crocodile smelled burnt flour and vinegar, indicating he’d guessed correctly. You’d been in the kitchen more than ever this week and your...food had gotten more creative over the time period. Peeking his head in, Crocodile prevented his nose from wrinkling as you plated the charred cookies. You looked cute in your apron, he’d love to unwrap you like a present but now was not the time. Maybe in exchange for eating the bricks he'd have you serve him in nothing but the apron...

“Crocodile! Would you like to try some of my oatmeal raisin cookies?” you asked with a bright smile. The cookies looked more like charcoal briquettes rather than an edible foodstuff.

“I fear they are too hot, they are straight out of the oven, no?” Crocodile demurred, trying to avoid the inevitable outcome. He’d resorted to turning his tongue to sand while in his mouth to decrease the taste of your creations. 

“True, you can have some later. I’ll set one aside for you, I just hope no one eats it,” you agreed easily. Crocodile could have sighed with relief but didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

“I assure you, no one will touch the cookie. Come, we have matters to discuss” Crocodile replied, thinking of the times he’d paid Daz to sample your baking in your presence. You took off your apron, set it aside, and followed Crocodile to the office. Crocodile sat down first in his leather arm chair, patting his lap. Like a spoiled little housecat, you slowly trailed behind him and perched on his generous thigh. 

Unfortunately this was no time for heavy petting. He was about to make you uncomfortable and wanted you near so he could physically reassure you. Something he’d realized over the time you’d spent together was the lack of physical affection, especially romantic affection, you’d received over the course of your life. You hadn’t come to him a virgin, you’d had some dalliances in the past. But he could tell no one took their time with you, treated you like the beautiful treasure that you were. You were used to quick, rough fucks, pulling your panties up when you were finished and leaving immediately without so much as a kiss. You were used to sex but not to intimacy which…Crocodile pitied you in some way. He didn’t often desire intimacy but to never have experienced it was depressing to think about. Indeed, the first time Crocodile had offered you aftercare, you’d balked at him.

“I can clean myself, I don’t need you-” you started in on him as soon as Crocodile had offered to run you a bath in his (newly renovated) bathroom. You were curled up completely nude on his lap, indulging in a lazy post-sex game of chess as his seminal fluids dripped down your thighs. You were winning, naturally.

“Of course you can but I want to,” Crocodile retorted, keeping his tone intentionally sharp and lightly slapping the outside of your thigh. You tended to yield most easily when he established that he took care of you for his pleasure, not your own. Which was partially true, Crocodile did enjoy pleasuring and pampering you. You were always awed and grateful, the relative poverty of life with the Clown a good counterpoint to the luxury in Crocodile’s mansion. But the larger problem in Crocodile’s mind was that you didn’t feel you deserved anything good in life. Not from Crocodile, not from the Clown, not from your fellow crew, not from anyone. And Crocodile didn’t like that line of thinking one iota. The least he could do is give you the head of your former tormentor on a silver platter. Perhaps literally.

Wiping a stray smattering of flour from your cheek, Crocodile gave you a serious look despite his inner glee.

“Dear, would you like to join me in the jail for a few moments? Perhaps torture the Medic yourself? It might give you some kind of closure,” Crocodile mused. Since he’d fought Strawhat, he always remained until his opponents were truly dead; Crocodile didn’t like making the same mistake twice. Your smile faded from your mouth, a sight Crocodile loathed.

“I, um, don’t know. I was, um, thinking, maybe but I -” you were looking beyond Crocodile as he used the flat of his hook to gently turn your face towards his. Your eyes held a hint of fear, of memories from long before you’d met Crocodile. Just for the tension you were feeling now, he’d torture the Medic for at least 4 more hours.

“ Tesoro I will be with you the entire time if you wish to go. You do not have to. You could also watch me torture him if you prefer,” he said quietly, running his hook up and down your back carefully avoiding ripping the fine green linen dress he’d bought you as a gift for winning your fiftieth game against him. You looked up, your eyes filling with the same tenacity he saw when you defeated him in chess.

“Let’s go.”

Crocodile was sure of his decision as you walked hand in hand with him to the jail. He watched you mentally prepare yourself for the sight, tilting your head to the sides as you engaged in silent conversations with yourself. You didn’t need to worry, the Medic wouldn’t be able to touch you in any physical manner, even if he had all his fingers. Reaching the jail, you took a deep breath and squared your shoulders.

“Remember, I am always at your side. I will begin with him, join me if you’d like. And if the sight is too much -” you cut off Crocodile with a curt wave.

“Trust me, you haven’t seen the gore I have, no matter how many people you’ve tortured,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Crocodile smiled at your bravery and passed through the guarded doors with you by his side. The jail was a rather small building, as you had recommended they did not keep many prisoners. There were no windows save small rectangular openings high up on the stone walls to let in a minuscule amount of airflow and light. Most cells were empty but as you walked down the hallway a few groans could be heard from a few cells along with the clinking of chains. 

Crocodile wasn’t bothered by the smells or the oppressive heat inside but he did worry about your own constitution for a moment. He realized that your words earlier were true, you were non-reactive to the rancid environment. You held your head high and kept your gaze forward as the two of you made your way to the back of the jail with Crocodile leading the way. Stopping in front of the last cell, Crocodile beheld the sight in front of him.

Bloody, bruised, battered, and beaten, the Mad Medic was a whisper of his former self. Sitting in the back of the cell, arms chained to the wall, the Medic’s greasy black hair hung loosely as he drooled on his lower half, jaw unable to close properly any longer. You looked at him askance, as if he’d ruined your favorite pair of boots, not like he’d tortured you maliciously for years. Crocodile ran his hook over the bars of the cell, enjoying the twitch it brought to the Medic’s frame.

“Wake up, Doctor. You have a guest,” Crocodile sneered. You watched impassively as the Medic made eye contact with you. Whereas before he’d grinned wickedly at you from afar, now he stared at you in horror as you stood next to Crocodile,  searching your face for forgiveness that would not be granted.

“Nothing to say? Come now, let’s have a chat, shall we?” Crocodile unlocked the cell and entered, his dress shoes clicking against the stone floors. The Medic curled in on himself as Crocodile took the tip of his hook and dragged it down his face, cutting the flesh neatly in two. The Medic moaned out loud, the wild look in his eyes showing the culminating effects of days of torture at Crocodile’s hand.

“Pleasssse, merccccy,” the Medic said in loose syllables, looking at you. You furrowed your brow.

“It doesn’t hurt. Ignore the sounds of the beast,” you replied in a clipped monotone. Crocodile tucked those words away for later in his mind. In the meantime, he sliced the Medic from finger to shoulder, putting increasing pressure as his hook continued its journey. The Medic screamed like a stuck pig, though his voice was now hoarse from repeated use. You watched for a moment longer then spun on your heel and left the jail. Crocodile smiled his unnerving cheshire grin at the Medic, who was trying uselessly to remove Crocodile’s hook from his skin. Oh, the fun they would have.

~

An hour or so later, Crocodile sauntered out of the jail. It was a shorter session than usual but Crocodile wanted to check in on you. He’d already changed his blood soaked clothes and started a new cigar - the old one had been extinguished on the Medic too many times to relight - and was heading back to his Mansion. First looking in the office and kitchen (where his cookie remained untouched on its plate), Crocodile finally looked in his bedroom. The bathroom door was shut and he heard the sound of running water in the pipes. 

Opening the door, Crocodile allowed the steam to escape before he entered the humid bathroom. All devil fruit users were weak to water but more so Crocodile than others. Of course he bathed but he avoided water as much as he could. The glass shower stall was billowing steam like a cauldron but he didn’t hear any noises besides the running of the water. He entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him, unwilling to let you get cold despite his discomfort.

“ Tesoro , how are you feeling?” Crocodile asked from the doorway. He heard no response, and approached the shower. Though the glass doors were fogged, he could see you sitting under the stream of water on the cold tiled floor with your knees tucked under your chin, allowing the hot water to beat against your back. 

“Answer me, Darling,” Crocodile urged you gently. You looked up at Crocodile with red rimmed eyes, tears running down your face even as water ran down your skin. Crocodile hadn’t seen you cry before and it was nothing he wanted to see again. He started unbuttoning his vest and shirt, folding them and placing them on the counter. You watched him with concern as he removed his pants as well as his hook, placing both on the counter.

“B-but you don’t like water -” you stammered out, starting to get up from your spot on the floor. He entered the shower, hiding the grimace he felt as the water began to bead on his skin. He wasn’t weak, the majority of his body wasn’t submerged in water, but the feeling was akin to a paper cut between his fingers. Decidedly unpleasant but not outright painful.

You stood up as he entered, Crocodile walked to the teak bench in the back and sat down, opening his arms to you in invitation of you joining in his embrace. The shower was roomy - Crocodile himself was a large man - and he liked having the bench near enough to feel the mist of the warm water without having to deluge himself in it. Unlike earlier when you’d practically strutted to him, now you scuttled like you were about to be punished. You stood between Crocodile’s muscled thighs, wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling into him. Crocodile ran his arm up and down your wet skin as you remained silent. 

“I will ask you once again. How are you feeling?” Crocodile said over the noise of the falling water. The increasing moisture in the air was bothering him but he’d endure for your sake. 

"I don't know, I um, I don't...know," you trailed off, still lost in your own thoughts. 

"Take your time, Tesoro, we have nowhere else to be," Crocodile said softly, holding you by the back of your arms. Though Crocodile enjoyed revenge and torture, he knew that trauma resolution was not so easy as the death of your former adversary. He'd learned his own lesson as he'd fought Whitebeard, the sick old man not giving him the fight he wanted.

“It um, didn’t feel as good as I thought it would? Like, I thought I would feel great, standing next to you? And you looked so powerful and strong and... but I felt…I don’t even know. Sad? Small? Confused?” you replied. Crocodile hummed and turned you to sit on his lap.  

“What did you mean about the ‘sounds of the beast’?” Crocodile prodded gently. He had a suspicion but wanted it confirmed before he visited the Medic next.

“Oh. That was what he would say if I screamed or made noise during procedures,” you said in an emotionless tone. Crocodile put his large hand on the back of your neck and pulled you forward to kiss your forehead. 

“I am sorry it was not what you imagined. It can be challenging to have such important events not live up to expectations. For what it is worth, I did not think you small or sad - I saw a powerful, strong, capable woman who has survived and overcome significant adversity. You were as I always have seen you -”

“Pff. Please don’t say something cheesy like the Queen on the chessboard,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension, burying your face in his shoulder. Crocodile tutted at you, enjoying the change in your mood. He watched the water drip off your nipple and yearned to lick it but restrained himself for now.

“Nonsense. You are not the Queen, a piece to be moved in defense of  or sacrificed for another. You are the only opponent worth playing,” Crocodile finished, looking you in the eyes. Your lashes filled with tears again, though this time they were accompanied with a smile and hiccup. 

“You’re the most romantic person I know,” you said with sincerity ringing in your tone, wiping your nose on your palm. Crocodile grimaced and put your hand under the stream of water in the shower.

“That is…not one of my known personality traits,” Crocodile replied dryly. He wasn’t going to disabuse you of your notions, it made his life easier if you were easily impressed with his variety of romance. He made a mental note to have flowers shipped to the island, based on your statement you’d be floored to receive them.

“I’d like to show you my romantic side,” you purred at him, your sadness forgotten. Your arm crept along his inner thigh towards his half erect cock. Crocodile was eager but the water was beginning to bother him. 

“Gladly, my Dear. I’d love to see what you have to offer me. In the bedroom,” Crocodile demanded, picking you up bridal style and turning off the shower. Wrapping you in a towel, he exited the bathroom and stalked towards the bed in the center of his room.

“What Croccy, don’t like swimming as much as your bananawani?” you teased, licking his dripping earlobe. 

“Mm. I see your attitude has recovered, Brat. Let’s see how well it serves you. I seem to remember you proclaiming endlessly that you would be my good girl if only I would stop my ministrations. Is that not still the case? Perhaps I can remind you of your promises to be good for me,” Crocodile drawled, biting your shoulder gently. You puffed up in fake outrage as Crocodile tossed you on the bed. You laid on your stomach on the bed, leaning against your elbows as you reclined on the tall bed frame.

“You had me over your knee, spanking my ass forever! I was sore for two days! Of course I’d say whatever, I woulda said you’re the Pirate King,” you said, flicking your eyes as he loosely stroked himself.

“Tsk, tsk. Lying to your Captain? Definitely not a good girl,” Crocodile said, raking his eyes over your figure as you broke out in goosebumps.

“Definitely not,” you agreed, licking your lips. Crocodile could tell you wanted to suck his cock but he had other plans in mind for you. He hooked his forearm and hand under your knees, flipping you up onto your upper back, pussy high in the air. His bed being so far off the ground put your delectable pussy at the perfect height for him to sample at his leisure.

“H-hey, wait, I wanted to -” you squeaked out before he silenced you.

“Don’t care what you want, Brat. This is what you’re getting,” he growled, holding your hips in place as your legs dangled over his arms. 

“I can’t come like this, it’s too -” you began as a blush crept over your face. Even though you’d been with Crocodile for a few weeks now, he’d discovered that some sexual acts made you feel embarrassed. You didn't like feeling exposed, you preferred to come with your legs clenched around his hand, face, and cock. Your embarrassment  was absolutely adorable and he made an effort to show off your pretty pussy and watch you squirm.  

“Is that so? You cannot come in this position?” Crocodile smiled, baring all his teeth at you. You shivered, biting your bottom lip and nodding.

A few hours later he'd changed your mind. You could indeed come in that lewd position, your pussy on full display for his consumption. You’d also come in many others as he’d taken his time with you, stroking you slow and deep, hitting your g spot with his thrusts as he kissed and nipped at you. 

“Just come for me once more, just one more time around my cock,” Crocodile murmured into your hair as he thrust into you from behind, his hand on the bed to keep from putting weight on you. You whined, you’d been so good for him already. Crocodile leaned back onto his knees, still thrusting as he smacked your ass for good measure. Picking up his pace, Crocodile admired the sight of his cock sliding into your well used cunt.

“ Aah , ah, p-please, I c-can’t -” you stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence as he continued to pound you from behind.

“You can. You will,” Crocodile said as he reached under you to rub your oversensitive clit. He’d kept you on edge for quite some time then had you coming over and over. You arched your back even higher, clamping your legs as closely together as you could.

“Ah ah. Legs spread, let me see my beautiful pussy. No hiding,” Crocodile cooed at you, using his knees to force your legs further apart. 

“Croc-crocodile, I’m c-close, I’m -” Crocodile slapped your clit with his fingers and was rewarded by the pulsing of your pussy around him as you moaned your release. He rode you through your climax, wanting you to enjoy every overwhelming moment as he sought his own release. Your fluttering, messy pussy pushed him over the edge as he came deep within you. As you came down from your high, you pulled him down to lay next to you. Sweating and panting, you pulled his arm over your side as you rested.

“Feeling better?” Crocodile asked, kissing your mouth tenderly.

“Mmhmm, feelin’ fuckin’ great,” you replied, stretching out your legs. Crocodile closed his own eyes, content to enjoy the moment together in comfortable silence. 

“You can kill him now,” you said apropos of nothing. Crocodile didn’t have to ask what you meant.

“As you wish, Darling,” he agreed, running his fingers over the scars on your back. You kept quiet a few minutes longer, fidgeting every half minute or so by shifting your legs, arms or learning his body with your fingertips. Your unease told him you had something else you wanted to say. He gave you the time to sort through your thoughts and feelings, despite the fact that he knew what you were going to say. As well as you could read him, he’d spent time working on being able to read you. And he knew you had a big revelation coming his way. 

“Crocodile I -” you started hesitantly after several more minutes, stopping to collect your thoughts. Crocodile opened his eyes to watch you chew on a nail.

“It's alright, Dear. I love you too,” he replied quietly, looking into your eyes as he cupped your cheek.

“....I was gonna say I don’t have the energy to play chess tonight,” you replied sheepishly. “But, yeah, that too.” For the first time in several decades, Crocodile felt himself blushing.

Fuck. 

[neonhellscape]

okay its no secret i dont buy into marazhai being the persona he puts on. so as i've officially met him in game now, im making a list of all the in-game reasons i think he's a bit of an idiot [which i love btw. i find him far more compelling if he's a bit stupid/weird and he's trying so hard not to be but you just know nobody in commorragh is inviting him to parties]

the very first time you get a glance of him on a rooftop and. 'deal with this' "of course" proceeds to just walk off like 3 seconds after the other two

ambushes you. has you cornered. is in optimal position to kick your ass frankly, high ground and better weapons and utilising shock against you. ...he bitches at you for a while, gets insulted, then runs off into the forest with a maniacal cackle

heinrix fired a mild insult [considering what he's like to everyone else its barely an insult] and he took big enough issue with it to start saying how he'll break him and turn him into a pet. oh sure dude you're responding super well to this mild comment from the guy who accidentally insults everyone and their entire ancestral line at some point

i think it says something that he's learned to speak your language fluently too. that Has to be some kind of Yikes moment to admit publicly in drukhari culture. buried family secret great great grandfather drukhari-georg learned to speak mon keigh and now we claim he just spoke oddly because was shot in the head as a child to prevent the shame

he also knows the mon keigh lore that says youre a super special little guy as rogue trader and actually LISTENS to the fact you're the special little guy as rogue trader. and he does treat you as more equal/with more respect than the other characters. thats not just a drukhari culture yikes thats what gets you checked for a concussion or brain damage

literally socially atrocious enough its believed he's working with you [read: with you. not using you, not manipulating, cooperating. this is a big difference i feel] and only he himself doesnt believe it

ignore the fact he eventually DOES work with you which. is its own follow up statement

challenges you to fight him, to give chase then and there. i made him wait while i went through english government simulator where i queued for multiple days, did multiple day/week voidship trips back and forth, got distracted by accidentally starting jae's romance, pasqal telling me to servitorise her, getting blackout drunk with her, shipwide broadcast tm, giving her a voidship, her getting me a space cat, attacked by pirates, dealt with a plague, explored a few extra systems.......................

he destroys your palace. ...its rebuilt effectively within a week. most of the damage is in bodies which are just sent to the poor district to rot [almost feels worse than the damage done good job imperium]

the throne has claw marks. he could've blown it up or shot it or piled corpses on it but no he wanted to sit on the fancy chair and so turned into a common housecat mauling the sofa arm

how long was he just sitting there lounging on that chair? again see how long i kept him waiting. he was just sitting there trying to find a comfy position on this [for him] kinda small chair JUST so he could briefly taunt, break your window with his space motorbike, jump off the chair in a dramatic [but not gunna lie not that impressive] feat of gymnastics, then fly out. he doesnt even shoot at you as he leaves

i will continue my list as i see more that entertain me

[gingerbreadmonsters]

captive audience

or: refreshments will be available during the interval!

gn!reader, standard vega content warnings, saturday morning fluffy stuff. i’ll buy you an ice cream if you sit still. a brief interlude for breakfast in bed - is this what slice-of-life is? the concept of a ‘psychic scream’ is borrowed from the lovely @starlitangels, who wrote an excellent fic with geordi and cutie all about it that i thoroughly recommend. warden having a lie-in in just over 3800 words.

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Good morning, darling.

It’s cold. Hm. Still tired. Why is it cold? That’s not right. Where did-

Did you miss me?

Oh. It’s Vega. Sulkily, you bury your face a little further into the pillow, eyes still pointedly shut and arms unfairly empty. So rude. He should know better than to leave you to wake up alone. What’s the point in having this nice bed if he’s not going to sleep in it with you?

Mmmm… You pretend to think about it for a moment, before grabbing the edge of the duvet and tucking yourself back in. That’s better. No. Sleepy.

Still sleepy? He sounds sweet, too sweet, and you don’t need to have your eyes open to see that look of false, mocking pity on his face. Poor thing.

(You’ll never admit it, but you… um…)

(Well. You do kind of like it when he does that condescending thing with his voice - you know, the one where he kind of talks down at you and he’s all fake-sad and indulgent and it’s a little bit patronising? It’s probably not meant to be as hot as it is.)

(God, you really are in deep, aren’t you?)

The mattress dips beside you as he sits down, one hand stroking gently over what little of your shoulder he can see. Just because it’s Saturday, it doesn’t mean you can spend the whole morning in bed, you know.

You huff. Someone kept me up late.

And someone kept asking me for more, he replies, more smugly than should be possible at whatever ungodly hour of the morning this is. Or were your desperate cries of my name unrelated, then?

Bastard. You don’t look up, but your hand moves under the duvet - a weak echo of psychokinesis thrums through the air, and you smile into the sheets at the soft thump of the pillow next to you smacking into the back of Vega’s head. Revenge is sweet.

Go ‘way. ‘M sleepy.

Oh, don’t be like that, darling, he says, lightly chastising, but you can hear the smile in his voice at your antics. Would breakfast make it up to you?

Hm. Only if it’s nice. Vega likes to share breakfast with you, but it doesn’t always taste so good. You’ve grown used to the bitterness over time, but it’s too much first thing in the morning - generally, you try and find something a bit less sour to start the day.

He leans down and kisses your horns, once on each side, before getting up from the bed. Anything for you, dear.

You feel his aura disappearing through the door and down the stairs, presumably to go and get something to eat. The sound of him moving around downstairs is strangely soothing, and you find yourself lightly dozing in the warmth as you wait for him to come back.

The blackout curtains keep the room dark, so you don’t have to worry about the light getting in as you nestle yourself nice and deep into the softness of the blankets. Mm, cosy. Soon, all that’s visible of you is the tips of your horns, peeking out from the duvet, and the shape of your tail flicking lazily back and forth underneath it.

You don’t quite fall asleep completely, drifting in the happy darkness with a small, sleepy smile on your face. Before long, you hear the door open, and the sound of something heavy being dragged along the floor. Amusement flickers in Vega’s aura when he spots you, curled up under the covers like a spoilt housecat, which you magnanimously choose to ignore.

Two light taps on your back through the duvet, like he’s knocking on a door. May I come in?

No. Warm.

Rude. He huffs, and you pull the edge of the duvet closer to you with your tail. He always lets the cold air in when he tries to join you. I’m more than happy to keep you warm, if that’s what you want.

Mm. You’re not dignifying that with a response. It’s a very nice offer, but he can’t get you that easily.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, but through the duvet you hear the muffled sound of a chair being moved across the floor. There’s a sort of quiet thump, like something heavy being put down, and then the mattress dips again as Vega settles down next to your covered form.

Are you sure I can’t persuade you?

On the other side of the room, you’re suddenly aware of a faint stirring of consciousness. Not much, but something. Dim, fuzzy thoughts ripple against the web of magic that fills this room, this house, like a pebble dropped in water.

So that's why he sounds so pleased with himself. I brought you breakfast in bed, you know.

Now that he mentions it… oh, that does sound good. Tentatively, the tip of your tail nudges his side from under the duvet, and you can feel the smile spread across his face.

Be quick. S'cold.

You don't have to tell him twice. To a human eye, it would probably look like a blur, resolving into the lean shape of him sitting up against the headboard, under the covers next to you. He does a decent job of not letting the cold air in, while he does it - pleased, you deign to rest your sleepy head in his nice warm lap.

There’s my darling.

Deft fingers stroke along your horns, scritching lightly around the bases where they meet your skull, and you can’t help the satisfied purr that vibrates low in your chest as your whole body just melts. Soon, you’re just a heavy, happy puddle in Vega’s lap, settled safely in the dark comfort of your duvet, totally content.

His tail curls around to lay gently across your back, curving down over your side. In return, you drape your tail languidly across his legs, the spade at the tip resting on his ankle. It feels good - satisfying, like the feeling of a warm bath.

My sweet, he murmurs into your mind, low and soft and melting. So lovely.

A faint question bubbles through his aura, thrumming in time with yours - with a hum, you give a tiny nod. This is very nice, but you are starting to get hungry now.

He coos gently down at you as he peels back the covers, one hand slipping around your back to pull you up against him properly. At the same time, he knows that sitting up too quickly makes you dizzy - with a little bit of manoeuvring, you're soon settled comfortably against his body as he sits back again.

Enjoying yourself, my love?

Mm-hmm, you nod, lazy smile pressed against the line of his neck and enjoying the warmth of his arms around you. Was nice.

Good.

Wordlessly, he offers you a glass of apple juice with a straw, but you shake your head - he taps the side of the glass, and it turns to orange instead. That’s much better. Your tail sneaks out from under the blanket to take it from him, and you sip delicately at the sugary, delicious juice.

Weak, half-hearted struggling against the rope that binds him to the chair. From this angle, draped against his side with your head on his shoulder and his arm around your back, you have a wonderful view of the tied-up human sitting opposite the bed. Yum.

(He doesn’t tell you where he gets them from, and you don’t ask. You just wave your hand in the direction of the basement door, careful to avoid the soundproofing, and the bloody fingerprints he always leaves on the door handle disappear.)

Vega rests his head lightly on yours, careful not to accidentally impale himself on the sharp points of your horns. Would you like to start, or shall I?

You can go first, you say, gesturing to your unfinished drink. Gonna finish this first.

Turning his attention to the human at the end, you watch as Vega’s eyes narrow. Magic swirls around the man’s body, soaking through his skin, until he’s thrashing in the chair - blunt fingernails scrape at the sides of the seat and stifled growls tear from his throat as the human tries to break free of the bindings that hold him still.

He feels angry, vengeful glare aimed straight at Vega, and you can imagine the sort of memories that are being broadcast into his head right now. Replays of past sessions, perhaps, or maybe some from Vega’s personal collection - humans tend to get all self-righteous and cruel when he shows them memories of their predecessors. Before long, the familiar sadistic urges kick in, and the demon beside you sighs happily as he begins to eat.

You - mmm… His contentment bleeds into your aura as he swallows, greedy and grasping and totally delightful. Sure you don’t want any, darling? It’s delicious.

‘M sure. You’re saving yourself for something sweeter. For now, the secondhand satisfaction of feeling Vega eat, sating himself on this writhing prisoner at the foot of the bed, is a wonderful way to whet your appetite - if you had a real stomach inside your tummy, you’re sure it would be rumbling.

Your arms are curled around his shoulders to keep you close to him - idly, you fiddle with the collar of his shirt, before stroking your claws up over the nape of his neck and tangling your fingers loosely in his hair. It’s so soft, shiny and smooth as you run your fingers through it. He doesn’t say anything, head tipping ever so slightly back as he relaxes into your touch, and the warmth of his scalp is strangely comforting.

The two of you stay there in comfortable silence as Vega eats, broken only by the occasional hiss or snarl from his meal across the room. He takes his time, leisurely drinking in the sadistic energy that permeates the air, and you sip quietly at your glass of orange juice. Is this what humans mean by domestic bliss?

Mmm… Soon enough, he’s eaten his fill, the flat of his tail swishing contentedly back and forth over your tummy. Lovely.

The magic spearing the human in place dissipates, and he slumps heavy against the bindings of the chair. Ready yet, darling?

Nodding, you finish your juice with a final sluuuurp, looking up at Vega with a big, sticky smile. Ready.

Anything in particular?

You take a moment to think. What would you like for breakfast?

Umm… Something happy? Like the, uh… Oh, what's the name of it again? You've seen it in humans before, but it's not one of the usual ones they teach you at the Department. You know when they see something cute? And it’s so cute that it makes them go all weird?

I’ll try, he replies, though he sounds a little unsure. Weird how?

They sort of go a bit… violent? Like it’s so cute that they just want to cuddle it and crush it and kill it?

Oh, I know the one. Does it go like this?

Your empty glass fizzles away into nothing as he suddenly sweeps you up towards him, gathering you up tightly in his arms and kissing you all over your face. His claws twist in the back of your shirt, and his tail twines lightning-fast around and around with yours - in a flash, you're flat on your back against the pillows.

Wh- Vega! You laugh as he smothers you with kisses, flailing wildly in a half-hearted attempt to fend him off, but you don’t really mean it. You - no! - Vega, Vega, it tickles!

Is that so? he replies, smiling wickedly down at you as he easily pins your struggling form to the mattress. Vaguely, you feel your horns tearing through the fabric of a pillowcase, but neither of you really notice. I don't believe you…

He teases you with the promise of a real kiss, pressing his lips lightly to yours over and over, pulling away just before you can do anything - it’s torturous, not being allowed to kiss him the way you want to. Playing along, you melt back into the pillows, letting him think you’re giving in before-

Ha!

Determined, you twist up to throw your weight as hard as you can against his shoulder, knocking him back in surprise. He recoils and you’re able to quickly wrestle your way on top of him, climbing over him like a cat until you’re perched atop his hips, leaning forwards to grab his wrists and trap them either side of his head. Gotcha!

So you have, he says, and you watch appreciatively as he makes a show of resisting, arms flexing and muscles tensing with faux-struggle. Even though you both know how much stronger he is than you, you’ll still enjoy the view if he wants to show you. Consider me your prisoner, my little warden. Whatever shall I do?

Pretending to think, you tap your chin lightly with the tip of your tail. Maybe I’ll make you beg for mercy.

Oh, I’m always at your mercy, darling. He grins, fangs on full display, cruel and charming and ever so handsome. Didn’t you know?

The sweet spotlight of his attention, and it’s so, so bright. You throw your arms around his neck, abandoning the pretence, and kiss him properly - his hands fall to your waist in return, palms warm against your skin, and you sigh contentedly as his tongue runs gently across your bottom lip.

Love you.

Your claws catch in the sheets, pulling him up to you with your quiet admission. Eyes closed, you don’t know if he’s looking, but you feel it - the subtle sting of flattery, that turns quickly to a deep, aching fondness.

Closer, closer, your tail sneaking down to wrap around his. His horns click against yours, and it satisfies something deep and instinctive inside you. As I love you, my sweet.

Something faint bounces off your aura from behind - irritated, you can’t help but hiss at the interruption. What is that?

Ah.

He doesn’t stop kissing you, but you can feel that stupid smirk pulling at his lip as your tongue brushes over his fangs. I think your breakfast might be getting a little restless.

With a start, you remember - fuck, that human’s still here! Vega jolts back in surprise as you suddenly whip around to glare at the interloper, annoyed at by the interruption to what was shaping up to be a very nice kiss indeed. He’s clearly been watching you two, but he can’t hear your conversation - the chair he’s tied to wobbles as he startles in fear, recoiling from the sight of your bared fangs and eyes that must surely have turned black.

Now, now, my love, Vega murmurs into your mind, a faint spark of amused pride smothered beneath a thick layer of faux-gentility. It’s not nice to play with your food.

It’s not nice to get in my way, you grumble, wrinkling your nose in distaste. Stupid human.

Slowly, Vega’s tail curves around your middle, guiding you gently down to sit next to him against the headboard. Stupid or not, you need to eat.

He doesn’t sound like he’s going to budge on this - and anyway, you really are quite hungry now. You scowl at the human once more for good measure, relishing the terror in his face as your lip curls and your claws dig into the duvet, before giving in with a low huff.

What was it you wanted, darling? He wraps an arm around your shoulders to pull you into him, settling you comfortably with your back to his chest. Oh, yes. I remember.

You’re still not sure what exactly the one you asked for is called, but it’s clearly not an emotion this human is used to. Vega skewers him with a hard stare as the room grows thick with magic, fragments of borrowed memory jammed into the brain as he tries to stimulate the right flavour of feelings for you.

After about thirty seconds, he manages to get the feeling right - you feel it click, the slightly-hazy sensation of induced emotion. Go on, he says. There’s plenty.

Relaxing into Vega's chest, you reach out and start to eat. The taste isn't quite as clear as natural emotion normally is, a little blurry with magic, but it's still delicious. Hungrily, you gulp down the smooth, beautiful lightness, like sweet meringue and cream - the mixture of aggression and adoration makes it crispy and chewy all at once. You curl up in his lap as you eat, pleasantly warm, watching the tiny dust motes tumbling through the air and licking your lips after every bite.

After a little while he laughs, and you’re briefly confused until you notice what he’s laughing at - your tail, softly swaying from side to side behind you with satisfied contentment. Embarrassed, you smack him in the side with it, before pointedly turning your nose up at him and going back to your tasty breakfast.

When you’ve had enough, you flop back against Vega with a big smile, luxuriating in the lovely fullness of your tummy and the warmth of his body against yours. Yum. Thank you.

You’re welcome, darling, he replies, abandoning the stream of magic that’s been powering your meal in favour of cupping your face in both hands. Now, I believe we were interrupted…

Finally! He meets your smile with his own, kissing you hard and making your body go all hot and tingly from tip to tail. With the duvet tangled around your legs, the angle is a little funny, but your fizzy mind doesn't care. You slide your hands up his chest only slightly clumsily, over his shoulders and up into his hair, just as his tail starts to sneak under your shirt - and you’d let him, if you weren’t so annoyingly aware of the pair of curious eyes on your back.

What - mmm… You trail off as he starts to kiss down your jaw, eyelids fluttering as he nips teasingly at the soft spot just under your ear. What about the human?

He doesn’t respond out loud, but one hand flicks carelessly towards the end of the bed - there’s a sudden shimmer of cloaking magic, before an almighty thud! echoes through the house from downstairs. You jump out of reflex, startled, but Vega’s strong hands keep you just where you are, not letting you out of his grasp to turn around.

I’ll deal with him later. He kisses you again, deep and hungry, and it’s an excellent distraction. There’s something else I want to do first.

Something?

He shrugs mischievously at your raised eyebrow, eyes bright and wicked as they rake over your body. Someone.

Is it bad, the flattered feeling that you get whenever he just… says things like that? Even if it’s not, it’s almost enough to make you forget about the faint whimpering coming from the living room below you - it sounds like the human must have fallen, phased, through the floor of your bedroom and hit the carpet downstairs. Although it sounds like he won’t be going anywhere soon, you’d rather not take any chances. A little bit of telepathic magic should do the trick.

Closing your eyes, magic starts to build under your skin, before being channelled into the human downstairs. It washes around inside his skull, filling it up and up and up with more telepathic power than his human brain can handle. You’ve heard humans call it a ‘psychic scream’ for the way it tends to manifest in their heads as a painful migraine - it seems like a pretty accurate name, although you’ve always known it as ‘overloading’. Demons and humans often have quite a few names for very similar magical techniques, so it’s not surprising that it would be called something different here on Elegy.

(You’d asked Vega what he calls it, but he wasn’t very helpful. He just calls it effective.)

The scream builds and builds, approaching its peak, and you feel the human’s mind begin to collapse - just a little more, and he’ll be nicely unconscious. Carefully, you pour more and more magic into the human’s mind, gushing and splashing through his brain until-

-ahh!

Sharp fangs break your concentration, a sudden spike of pleasure igniting your body as Vega’s teeth dig into your neck - instinctively, all of that magic rushes out of you like a tsunami, ricocheting out at full strength in all directions. Your head spins as you feel the human downstairs lose consciousness, and with a dizzy wave of dread, you realise that half the houses on this street have gone the same way.

Vega! Half-panicked and half-embarrassed, you slap his shoulder hard with the flat of your tail. Now look what you’ve done!

He has the gall to laugh, the bastard, easily tugging you back into bed with one hand when you make to get out and check if you’ve accidentally knocked out the whole fucking street. God, this is a covert nightmare - what if someone reports it as suspicious? Oh, you’ll have to go and wake them up again - and the memory modification, you’ll have to make them forget - or maybe come up with a reason? A freak accident, or a gas leak or something - yes, a gas leak might be a good one, or should you-

You worry too much, my love.

Vega’s voice knocks you out of your thoughts, frustratingly calm as he envelopes you in a soothing haze of serenity that forces your racing mind to slow. Here. Let me.

His eyes close, magic surging in the room, and it’s so thick that you feel it on your skin like a lightning storm about to strike. Slowly, house by house, you feel the humans waking up again - no panic, no fear, just carrying on as they were before. You shake your head slightly in what might be disbelief, or perhaps resignation. Of course he can just fix it without even trying.

Once all of the humans - except, obviously, the one downstairs - are back on their feet, he drags you properly back under the covers. Better?

You nod, relieved, fidgeting around until you’re back to your prior, very comfortable position laying on top of him. Yeah.

Good. Vega’s tail curls smoothly around your ankle before slowly starting to drag up the inside of your calf. A silent question, and he can feel exactly what your answer is. Now then, where were we…?

At last, you’re properly alone. His head falls back in delight as you press a thank-you kiss to his cheek, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head as you slowly make your way lower and lower, and it’s a good thing you’ve already had your breakfast. Something tells you it’s going to be a very, very long morning in bed today.

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

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[practically-an-x-man]

10 for Eris for the soft comfort prompts?

Oooooh thank you!! This one's about 700 words and might be a little choppy, and I don't have a title, but I think you'll enjoy it!!

10. Person A is patching up Person B and discovers that the only bandages they have in the house are goofy novelty ones (Hello Kitty, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, etc.). They share a laugh over this.

30 Prompts on the Comfort Side of Hurt/Comfort

____

Rick had had Malibu Barbie tacked up over his left eyebrow for almost a week now.

Eris had to hold back laughter nearly every time he looked at it: this tiny pink bandage, printed with some ridiculously skinny, ridiculously pale, ridiculously chipper woman, pinning together the ragged laceration that cut through his eyebrow from his last trip with the Squad. The man was built like an ancient warrior, like an idolized god, and here he was walking around with a children's toy stuck on his face.

It was just... ridiculous.

Even now, perched on the couch beside him on his only day free from work, she couldn't stop looking at it. Rick seemed unperturbed, even intent on having a relaxing day off - with his arm around Eris' shoulders and a beer on the table beside him and his eyes fixed on the television across the room - but Eris's eyes just kept finding that ridiculous pink bandage tacked up over his eyebrow. It had stopped bleeding days ago, and Eris could see the scab peeking out from the edges of the bandage, but Rick still hadn't so much as touched it.

"When are you going to take that stupid thing off?" Eris huffed, touching the far edge of the bandage with their thumb. Rick turned his head, looking over at them with amusement in his eyes.

"S'it really bug you that much?"

"You can't tell me the pharmacy was out of bandages. It's a pharmacy."

"So you're sayin' I did it on purpose."

Eris just raised his eyebrows. Rick barked out a laugh and gave Eris' shoulders a brief squeeze.

"Alright, maybe." he relented, "Thought it'd be funny. Y'know, since one of us 's always getting' beat to shit anyway."

"Usually you." Eris corrected, and knocked his forehead into Rick's shoulder the way a housecat might. It was about the closest thing to outright affection he ever got, he thought. Rick was really the touchy one.

"Usually me," he agreed, " 'Least, I'm usually the one that needs the bandages."

Eris just hummed, a vague and noncommittal response, then reached up to take Rick's face between their hands. They held him firmly, though not so firmly that he couldn't have pulled back. Eris' love was in temperance, after all. It was in trust- knowing she could hold him here if they wanted to, but knowing she wouldn't have to.

"Oh- gettin' a little close here, doll," Rick said, but there was a smile on his lips and he didn't even begin to move away.

Eris pinched the corner of the bandage between his fingertips, then pulled the worn adhesive free in one smooth motion. They folded it up and flicked it carelessly onto the coffee table, then finally released their hold on their partner.

"Better?"

"You might get a scar," Eris said - not quite the response Rick was aiming for, but this was typical for them - and ran their fingertips almost delicately across the little gash, "Seems pretty deep."

"Heh. Wouldn't be my first."

Rick reached up to probe at the wound, that rough scab that darkened his eyebrow in the middle, and winced as he caught a particularly tender spot. Still, he didn't seem too put-out by the wound. Not at all.

"Always wanted a scar like that when I was a kid. Thought it'd make me look all rugged."

Eris just scoffed, and settled back in against his side.

"You don't need the scars for that, cowboy. Trust me."

Rick laid his arm back across their shoulders and gave them another firm, comforting squeeze. It was almost strange, Eris thought, how a man with so much violence in his life could still bring her so much calm in these quieter moments. There was nobody else in the world, or at the very least nobody else still living, who could make her forget what she was with such ease.

It had been a very long time since he'd had a home like this.

[strawbattyshortcake]

Breathing Down my Neck

Read on AO3 Awful Glad We Met Chapter 2/3

Words: 8330

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Harken close and beware the Vampyr. Beware its cold beauty. Beware its charm. Beware its curse. Above all, beware the pale noble, for the Vampyr cannot bear to be of the common folk….

Let no stranger into your home. If it be a friend, look upon them. Do you find them pallid and wan? See you any mark upon their neck?

Astarion cares for the gods exactly as much as they’ve ever cared for him— which is to say not at all— but evidently they have a sick sense of humour, and it figures. He snaps the book shut with as much disdain as he can muster for an inanimate object.

First chance he gets, it’s going in the fucking Chionthar. 

As of right now, it lives in disgrace, shoved beneath a stack of worthier volumes, lest the drow catch him trying to drown it, or burn it, or whatever suitably ignoble fate he can devise for the damned thing. 

If his heart beat, it would have stopped when she showed it to him, some sick game before she produced a stake— but no. No, her big silver eyes were guileless, trusting, and if it was a cruel joke as he suspects, it was being done through her. 

Astarion had kept his composure, more or less, and with quick thinking, he had at once gotten the book away from her before it could describe him any more perfectly, and won points with Triel’dra in the process. She was certainly the person whose favour he most needed, and even with a bit of a hiccup initially— mind flayers are creatures of the underdark, there was a drow skulking around on the ship, he’d made some assumptions— he’d say he was doing rather well for himself on that front. 

It’s a brilliant stroke of luck that Astarion had full day to ingratiate himself to their fearless leader (“I do not understand how that happened,” she’d admitted when he’d first called her that to her face) before they’d stumbled across Gale and then Wyll. With only Shadowheart and Lae’zel around, winning her over had been child’s play. But these two… 

He sees the way the wizard looks at her.

Fortunately for Astarion, Triel’dra does not. 

Gale had been much, much too friendly from the moment Triel had dragged him from his own faulty portal, and all too happy to launch into a nauseating list of his many, many self-reported accomplishments; however, to Gale’s disappointment and Astarion’s immense satisfaction, Triel’dra’s only follow up questions were about the cat. 

“Would you like to be a housecat, Erelae?” she’d asked the raven on her shoulder. Evidently it did, because the familiar was now trotting after her as a sleek silver tabby.

The warlock, though… Wyll Ravengard had swashbuckled his way across their path mid-battle, leaping in to defend a gaggle of cowering idiots who had led a pack of goblins right to the gates of their settlement. Astarion hadn’t worried, not at first, about this newcomer getting between him and his quarry but that was before they’d gotten inside the tiefling encampment and it had immediately become apparent that Triel’dra was also exactly the kind of incorrigible do-gooder who would stop and risk her neck for anyone with a sob story. 

When he had decided to charm a drow woman for protection, too compassionate was not a problem he had anticipated. 

The day before had been all hiking and looting and the odd reanimated skeleton, so he supposes he hadn’t had the chance to really observe her. She was difficult to read, in a way he’d taken to calling ‘resting murder face,’ a quiet stoicism and soft voice that gave little away, save perhaps a twitchy kind of wariness— when the worm in her head wasn’t interfering, anyway— and when beset by goblins and bugbears, had dispatched them with a promising, ruthless efficiency. 

And then they’d walked into a settlement full of frightened little tiefling children and she’d melted on the spot. 

She’d been visibly unsettled as soon as they’d crossed the gate, murmuring something about her conversation with what he presumed to be the tiefling leader, and had only become more distressed as they took in the chaos, white brows knit, those eerie pale eyes wide and troubled. 

Triel’dra was hesitant with people, but she’d make time for anyone who asked— and her greatest weakness was for the little ones.  

The first time Astarion had actually seen her lose her calm was after stepping away from the particularly unpleasant group of children with their miniature thieves’ guild. 

“I do not understand,” she’d said, horrified as soon as she was sure there weren’t any more tiny little devils lurking around to hear. “Why is no one watching them? Where are their parents?” 

Shadowheart had raised an incredulous eyebrow. “They’re orphans, obviously. They don’t have parents.” 

Triel had floundered for a moment, the way she does when she gets stuck translating whatever is in her head from Drow to Elvish to Common and just gestured in helpless outrage to the adults milling about, panicking and arguing and running about like headless chickens. “No one’s child is everyone’s child.”

She had looked about ready to flatten the druids who tried to keep her out of the grove, once she heard they were keeping a girl captive, and he’d had little choice but to follow after her, ready to bolt if she was suddenly beset by angry bears. 

It had been a rather impressive bit of hostage negotiation, if he’s being honest. Especially considering how much of it she had spent talking to a snake. 

But now she was fully preoccupied with the druid’s predicament and could not be diverted. 

Thus, the argument. 

“We do not have time for any of this!” Lae’zel hisses. “The gaith tadpole in your skull grows by the hour. We do not have the luxury of running errands for every being we encounter!” 

They’d returned to spend one more night at their campsite before moving on, either forward as Lae’zel wants towards wherever she thinks her Creche might be, or after these goblin cultists who have, more likely than not, already killed this Halsin person. Here they could rest, and argue without the subjects of the argument weighing in or making puppy-dog eyes. 

“I understand,” Triel’dra was considerably calmer than Lae’zel. It’s the measured response of someone who already knows what they’re going to do, arguments be damned. “But I cannot leave them. If we find the Archdruid, the circle will cease their ritual, the tieflings will be safe. Otherwise, they die.” 

“She’lak! Their fate is not our concern.” 

Astarion is inclined to agree with her. Triel’dra is an adult elf, at least one hundred, more than old enough to know the world is cruel, let alone nature, and her behaviour is in stark contrast to the whispers he’s heard about drow societies. He’s wondering if he shouldn’t look elsewhere for protection…but he’d also seen her shoot down a bugbear in the time it took the rest of them to draw weapons. 

Not to mention that one, brief glimpse of bloody murder he’d seen in her head. 

Just for an instant, between flashes of her capture and her home, he’d seen, through streaming eyes and too-bright light, another drow woman pinned beneath her as she drove a dagger down with all the vicious force her small frame belied. 

So for now, he’s retreated to his tent, thumbing through a book, keeping his thoughts to himself— and weighing his options. 

Shadowheart is allied with Lae’zel, to everyone’s amazement, though she’s after a typical healer and not whatever in the hells a githyanki decontamination involves. She’s watching the confrontation warily, keeping her distance. 

Gale is bent over a stewpot, hoping that if he stays very quiet and very, very still, he won’t be dragged into this. 

“It’s fine, Lae’zel,” Triel asserts. “I do understand our situation; I will not ask you to delay, but I am staying. I will find Halsin myself and rejoin you afterwards, if I am able.” 

“And me,” Wyll adds. He steps forward and gives the drow an approving nod. Triel smiles at him, gratefully. “The Blade of Frontiers does not abandon souls in need.” 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

When they’d first met, he’d been surprised to see so much of the surface in those brief glimpses into her mind. There’d been her capture, running through grey dawn forest as the nautiloid pursued, somehow tracking her beneath the canopy of the trees ahead, her only thoughts of leading it away from home. An ancient drow’s gnarled hands, revelry and prayer beneath a full moon, two figures wreathed in starfire. He knows enough to recognize worship. 

Far fewer spiders and less ritual sacrifice than he had anticipated. 

Astarion wouldn’t say he’s well-versed in drow customs or the politics of the underdark (enough to know that they’re brutal and depraved), just the bits and pieces he’s picked up in two centuries. Something something the Seldarine drove out the Spider Queen and she took her cursed followers with her into the darkness. 

Triel’dra, it seems, is among those drow who came crawling back. 

Judging by the way she shies from sunlight, they haven’t been forgiven. 

But the gods had deigned to grant her something. It may be a mere taste of the kind of sacred power Shadowheart wields, but  the silvery white fire Triel gathers in her hands had made the hair at the back of his undead neck stand up in terror all the same.  

It’s a precarious position, a vampire hiding from vampires. The drow strikes the perfect balance of holy and grounded— able to protect him but without the kind of zealotry that might target him as well, on principle. 

Astarion sighs, sets the book down carelessly, and steps from the safety of his tent awning and into the fray. “I’ll come along. The druids did say they would be very grateful if we found their missing leader…” The last thing he needs is Triel’dra going off on some heroic adventure with a fellow bleeding heart like Wyll. Where would that leave him? 

Besides, she likes him already, and charming as he may be, winning over Shadowheart promises a challenge. She narrows her eyes at him now as he declares his allegiances. 

“I am certain they would be willing to aid us if we return their leader. Perhaps in the form of healing?” Triel offers hopefully, and Shadowheart lets out a noisy breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Master Halsin has been studying these tadpoles for a long time, it seems.”

“You really should have led with that,” the cleric says, defeated. “Fine. Maybe the druids can help. Besides, you’ll all get killed without me.”

“Thank you,” the drow breathes as a relieved sigh, even as Lae’zel curses in Gith. “This is… this is important to me.” She falters, expectant eyes on her, and looks to Astarion. Not the way he’s used to being looked at. It’s never desire, never lingering or hungry, but if she’s looking to him for reassurance, that’s at least something. He looks curious, encouraging her to go on. “I… They are me? The Emerald Grove is…. It is very much like my home. If this happened to us, if our leader—”  her voice fails her, and she shakes her head. 

The place in her thoughts. The worshippers under the stars. 

She’s reluctant to share more, but between the three of them they’re able to get a few details out of her en route to this goblin stronghold. 

She calls their leader something that would translate like ‘Moonreader,’ a title passed from mother to daughter for generations: druids of great power who divine the will of Sehanine Moonbow through the stars. 

“Drow druids,” Astarion remarks, eyebrows raised. “Drowids?” 

“But you’re not a druid,” Shadowheart prompts, to which Triel nods and says nothing more. 

The day is strange and eventful. Something about Triel just cows everyone they come across from this Cult of the Absolute, and one look at the drow is enough to convince most that she’s with them already. It’s remarkably easy to creep through their territory, looking through the ruins of an abandoned village for anywhere they might be holding the druid captive.

Triel’dra is forever preoccupied with fresh water, and can’t pass a source without checking on it. She wanders off to investigate a well, and calls them over urgently a moment later. By the time they reach her, she’s already disappeared over the edge. 

Astarion darts to the well and peers down. It’s dry, the bottom seemingly dark stone, and Triel is looking up at him, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. “There is much down here,” she calls to him. Her voice is soft but it carries up the empty stone chute of the well. She’s used to this sort of setting. 

Astarion smiles lazily at her from above. “Well, well, well… What do we have here?” 

Triel smiles; Shadowheart threatens to shove him in. 

The well opens into a dark cavern, festooned with massive cobwebs— studded with silk-swathed figures, distinctly person-shaped. 

“Hopefully not our druid,” Astarion notes dryly. 

“No,” Triel treads forward carefully, placing each step with deliberate care as she studies the webs across the floor. “No, these are old. Some of these webs are new, so it is difficult to say if it’s been disturbed recently, but the bodies have been here for a while.”

“Phase spiders,” Wyll assesses, and the drow nods her assent. “And lots of them. Watch your steps down here.” He takes a moment to obliterate a clutch of hideous eggs with a blast from his palm. “This doesn’t seem to be part of the goblin camp.”

“We’re already down here,” Astarion sighs, glancing to the others for their assent. “Might as well take a look. Someone hid an entrance to this place; there must be something worthwhile.” 

There are, unsurprisingly, spiders. Many, many, massive, fuckoff huge spiders, and little else. He’s not sure which of them it was who stepped into the webbing and sent the things pouring in (he’s inclined to blame Wyll. Even with his expertise, and  though Triel conjured some softly glowing wisps to light his way, he’s still a human with one eye) but in an instant they’re overrun. 

Fire and distance both seem like worthwhile friends in this fight, and he sends a firebolt sizzling into a chittering beast. 

Triel’dra is nearest to him, and after getting off a few shots, she tries to hide her cat. She shoos her familiar away, but the movement catches the nearest creature’s attention and it lashes out, the cat disappearing with an indignant chirp in a wisp of grey smoke. 

Triel cries out. It’s in drow, but the distress and intonation are clearly cursing. The offending spider is too close to shoot, and she darts after it, short sword drawn, a dagger at the ready in her other hand. She’s deft with them, darting in close to slash and then out of its reach. But then it lunges forward, blinking out of existence to close an unnatural distance, and she isn’t quick enough as she throws herself out of the way. 

The spider lets out a shrill wail as its fangs graze her skin. It’s trying to sink in, pump venom into her flesh, but only manages to graze at her with the sharp points as she retreats. The fang slashes through her sleeve as she jerks back, a spray of blood sent through the air by the sharp movement. 

Astarion is caught in its path and the world stops. 

Droplets of drow blood, hot and sweet, are splattered across his face, in his hair, and there is nothing else. He can smell it. He can taste it and all at once he knows why Cazador kept this all to himself.

He’s stunned long enough for the others to notice. A flash of that bright, hateful light that makes his cursed skin crawl snaps him out of his daze as Triel blasts the spider in its horrid face with a handful of holy fire, scrambling out from beneath it. He’s not sure how she got there. 

“Astarion! Are you alright?” Triel’dra rushes over to him, close enough to feel the warmth of a healing spell already forming in her hand as she does a quick battlefield once-over. Close enough to hear her heart pounding, to smell the blood coursing through her veins just beneath her skin, still soaking the torn fabric of her tunic. 

Astarion’s mouth is watering. He swallows hard and drags his attention, kicking and screaming, from the lavender skin of her throat not protected by her leather armour. He does what he does best and forces a smile, raises his hand, and a firebolt strikesd the spider coming up behind. It collapses with a shriek, oozing venomous ichor. “Of course, darling, never better. But do watch your back, won't you?” 

Clearing out the phase spiders is a long, exhausting slog. Shadowheart gets too tangled in webs to move and has to be cut free… twice.  

“Let's see you do this in heavy plate, Astarion!” 

Finally, the creatures stop coming, the cavern free of echoing chitters and the clack of chitinous legs, nothing but the cold empty nothing and the rush of flowing water somewhere deeper inside. And Triel, being a drow dowsing rod— drowsing rod— of course, has to go find it.

A stream trickles over an outcropping to form a deep pool of dark water, and Triel kneels to examine it, then cups her hands and brings it to her lips. “It’s good,” she tells them and sets to refilling waterskins and scrubbing the dirt and blood from her face. 

“I’m not sure I trust dank cave water.” Shadowheart notes as she lowers herself to sit beside the pool, and starts the slow process of removing her armour. 

“I wouldn’t mind the rest, location aside,” Wyll adds with a weary sigh, worrying at a spider bite. He smiles at the drow, who is gleefully shaking off the cold water like a pigeon in a bird bath. “Though, perhaps ‘welcoming’ is a matter of perspective.”     

“This is the most at home I have felt in days,” Triel admits, standing, stretching, still battered and bruised despite the refreshing interlude. 

No one wants to delay, but it’s been a long day of hiking and spiders and they decide to make camp for the night. Shadowheart’s magic is exhausted, as is the ranger’s. 

“No, wait,” she says, and with a word of incantation, calls back her familiar. To everyone’s dismay, she’s chosen its form as a spider the size of a small dog. She beams at it, lovingly. “Now I am out of magic.” 

Astarion takes his time, keeps his distance, as the others wash and settle, making a fire, passing around the satchel with their food, taking turns washing up in the pool. 

He’s been holding his breath. He doesn’t need to breathe, it’s just a habit, just something he needs to speak— and to smell. If he doesn’t breathe he can pretend there aren’t still droplets of Triel’dra’s blood across his face. That he’s thought of anything else since it happened. 

Finally, once he’s sure no one will disturb him, he makes his way to the water. It’s icy and dark, that telltale nothing looking up at him from its surface, and after a moment of hesitation he works up the will to scrub it away. There are eyes on him. 

The evening wears on. It's impossible to keep track of time in the cavern, but his companions sit and chat and eat and he tries to do as much as needed to keep up appearances. Astarion excuses himself to his tent, picks up a book, and stares at it, unable to take in the words. 

Gods, one whiff of drow blood and he’s become the world’s most obnoxious sommelier. Full-bodied red, rich and sweet with notes of mountain spring water, night air, and blackberry. 

He needs to hunt, deluding himself that he can sate this hunger with quantity. Does anything in this damnable cavern even have blood? He can get back out into the night, into the forest, he has to find something, something with… with more thin, useless animal blood. 

There are goblins outside— that’s something— and now he’s fixated on how to be sure he gets one on its own, not be swarmed by a pack of the little bastards. And after all this, he knows, it still won’t hold a candle to Triel’s. 

There are two other living bodies here, of course, but he’s like a bloodhound and he’s picked up her scent. Transfixed, single minded. 

He tries to divert himself, but there is nothing but the hunger, nothing but the pulse pounding in Triel’dra’s throat and the gnawing weakness, the need. 

But Astarion has been starving for two hundred years. He can last another night. 

He can. 

He has to. Triel is sitting with the others, trying to shield her eyes from the fire and nibbling on a hunk of bread as Wyll regales them with tales of monsters he’s slain. Even relaxed, there’s a dagger at her side, not to mention that sacred fire she conjures. She may barely know what a vampire is, but she certainly knows how to kill one. 

Above all else, she’s an elf. She trances; Triel’s guard is never down. Even if he wanted to, it would be suicide, and he takes great comfort in the knowledge that no matter how hungry he gets, he’d never be stupid enough to try. 

But as the fire is dying down and the others begin to drag themselves to their beds, Triel’dra approaches his tent, cautiously, like she would knock on the canvas if she could. “Astarion?” 

He smiles, bites down the screaming in his head. “Ah, hello. What can I do for you?”

The look she gives him in return is nervous, hopeful. “I think… I think that I will try to sleep tonight.”  

His cold, still heart plummets. 

The other two have noted this exchange, but they can’t understand what it means, not really. How vulnerable Triel’dra is choosing to make herself. 

He laughs, before he can stop himself. A nervous giggle, just for an instant, near hysterics. The gods all hate him. “Really? Sleep, here? Are you…. Are you certain that’s wise?” 

She pulls something from her shirt, a round set of stacked pieces on a silver chain he’s seen her fiddle with. “The Lady of Dreams sometimes blesses her followers with visions, in their sleep.” She shrugs, weakly. “I… I do not think it will amount to anything, but it seems the time to try. We say: when the tunnel collapses, pray as you dig.”

A genuine smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “So,  have the same outcome either way, but if it’s good it’s because of  them and if it’s poor it’s on you?” 

He regrets it, the slip, but she’s not offended. She laughs a little, the scar across her face twitching as her nose crinkles. “I see it as: do all you can for yourself, but it does not hurt to ask.” 

Oh, but it does. It aches, to plead and beg and pray with no answer. 

His smile tightens.

“Anyway… wake me when it is my turn to keep watch.” 

This is their habit. It’s what they’ve done each night. He has no reason to do differently now. “Of course.” 

With a grateful smile, she bids him a good night, and turns back towards her tent. 

The others lay down to sleep, and Astarion is left alone with dying embers and his hunger. 

He should leave now, find something to eat, but… Triel isn't trancing tonight. There’s no elf aware enough to rouse if something were to disturb the camp while he’s stepped away. He can’t— or is that just the excuse he’s made? 

He creeps closer without meaning to, from his tent to the fireside to the edge of the pool and oh, that’s taken him right to Triel’dra’s tent, hasn’t it? How funny. 

Triel’s is the smallest of the shelters they’ve thrown together, made of dark fabric and suffocatingly small. She’s sacrificed surface area for coverage, devoting as much of the canvas as she can to blocking out the light. She’s tiny, a stunted little thing hiding surprising strength, and even she has to curl to fit comfortably, her bedroll poking out from beneath the flap. 

Astarion silently pulls it aside. 

Triel’dra is sound asleep. He can tell by the way her breath falls, the way she flinches and mumbles to herself into her pillow, murmurs in Drow, but no sounds enough like Elvish. It’s an unpleasant dream. 

As he moves closer he catches his foot on something— a less dexterous man would have face planted right into the pile of blankets stirring gently in the middle of the tent— but he rights himself and Triel’dra doesn’t wake. 

She’s left her pack and all its provisions out for him again. 

His mouth twitches, and he has to bite down hard on the bleak bubble of laughter threatening to slip free. 

She’s always so worried about him going hungry. 

With no sign of her familiar, he presses on. The fabric of the flap falls, sealing the tent behind him and at once he regrets it. Her scent is overwhelming in this close space, so tight he’s all but crouched over her, filled with her and her things— her blood, but more along with it. It’s woodsmoke and pine sap and the bar of soap she had from wherever she’d come from— night blooming jasmine and lilac, he knows his fragrances— and his mouth is watering. 

The little drow is fast asleep, safe in the knowledge that her trusted ally is watching over the camp. 

He can’t pretend anymore. He already knows what he’s going to do, knows why he’s in here, drawn irresistibly, a moth smart enough to realise what’s happening but too weak to stop itself as it’s drawn to the flame. 

Astarion may be free of Cazador but he’s still a slave to his hunger. 

He tells himself he won’t hurt her. He’ll be quick, take only what he needs, and she’s sound asleep. Just a taste, she’ll never know. Try as he might, the litany of excuses never completely drowns out the doubts. 

What makes him think he can stop? 

He’s breathing, desperate to draw in more of that delectable scent and it comes as ragged panting. 

His teeth are so sharp. She won’t feel a thing. 

He could so easily tear her throat out with his fangs. 

She’s so strong. 

She’s so small. 

He’s been so hungry for so long and to have it here— fresh, living blood, helpless beneath him… 

It’s as if someone else tugs gently on the blanket pulled over her head. She sleeps in a heap of them, curled into her pillow, as if even down here she’s afraid of sunlight sneaking in. 

He swallows hard, holds his breath, tries to clear the haze of ravenous need driving him to lean in closer, closer…. 

He tenses, ready to spring back as she shifts beneath him. Triel’dra mumbles in her sleep and rolls over, brow furrowed and lips parted as whatever nightmare she’s having plays behind her eyelids. 

She falls onto her back, her head dips to her far shoulder, baring her neck to him. 

He could sob. When this is over, however it ends, Astarion is going to find a quiet place and laugh until he cries. He has no doubt now that the gods are looking on at their unhappy cosmic punchline. 

Miserable of them, he thinks as he considers the sleeping drow, to use one of their own faithful as the set-up. 

The last of his restraint gives way. 

Astarion drops to his hands and knees as he inches closer, all too aware of the creeping, crawling thing he’s been reduced to. He doesn’t care. He’s too hungry for dignity, as if Cazador had left him with any to lose. 

He can hear the frantic beating of her heart, sees, with some gruesome instinct, the place along her neck that would be best to sink his teeth. He lines himself up, fangs bared, shuts his eyes and—

A jolt passes through the figure beneath him as she wakes. 

Oh, shit. 

Astarion’s eyes fly open in time to meet hers, wide with panic and unfocused with sleep as in a a reflexive movement she draws a knife he’d been too distracted to see from beneath her pillow and a forceful kick to his midsection sends him sprawling backwards out of the tent. 

This may well be the stupidest way he could die. 

He manages to land on his feet, standing just in time to see her stop dead in the doorway, an attack abandoned as she wakes fully and takes in what she’s seeing. Triel’dra lowers the knife, blinking sleep from her eyes. “Astarion?” 

He straightens against the ache promising a bruise in the shape of her foot, brushes himself off and tries to look as innocent as possible. “I can explain,” he says, and it sounds as weak as it feels. 

At least no one else seems to have woken.

There’s a moment where he considers lying. That he was overcome by a different kind of hunger and meant to wake her to suggest a midnight tryst. But no. Triel has been unmoved by his flirtations and she’d woken with a face full of fangs. It’s too late. 

She’s quick but if he turns and bolts he may be able to make it to the rope out of the well before she does. Maybe. 

Triel’dra hasn't moved from before her tent, just lets the flap fall behind her, tucks her knife away, then raises her hand. He hadn’t noticed her familiar creeping from the top of the tent ready to lunge, but the spider halts at her instruction. Triel is eyeing him cautiously, that appraising stare he’s felt before. “You do not eat with us,” she says softly. 

“No,” he says, his smile chagrined, defeated. “No, I don’t.” 

“Blood-thief,” she breathes. “You…?” 

He tries for casual, but the laugh that slips out is high and near-deranged, his eyes darting  between the drow and the spider, trying to place the campfire behind him by the warmth against his back. Just how and when to bolt without tripping into it. 

As much as Astarion loves a sharp knife, his wits have always been his first line of defence, but he finds himself disarmed beneath her steady gaze. Words bubble and spill, clumsy and panicked. “I wasn’t going to hurt you, I swear it— I’ve never actually killed anyone— to feed, I mean, I’ve killed people; you’ve seen me kill people— but I’ve always fed off of animals. I’ve been hunting deer, boars, kobolds—” 

She had, until this moment, been observing him silently, her expression unreadable. Triel’dra’s eyes widen and she starts towards him, a bewildered outrage on her face. “You!” She hisses, a sharp whisper that makes him reflexively look to the other tents for movement. She crosses the distance and gently prods an accusing finger into his chest. “You are the one who has been killing the boars!” 

“Shh, shhh!” he shushes, pleading. “Yes. Yes, that’s been me; please keep it down.” There’s no sound or movement from the others, and for his initial concern, her voice has never raised above a hush, drowned out by the steady trickle of water from the stream. She pulls back her hand to rest her face in it, exasperated. This is… not the reaction he had been expecting. 

She mutters something under her breath. Language doesn’t matter, Astarion can always tell when someone is cursing. “Such a waste of meat. A carcass that size attracts wolves, owlbears, scares off all the small game…” 

That’s the part she cares about? “I couldn’t exactly bring it back to camp, could I? Here’s a dead boar I hunted, don’t mind it being fully exsanguinated!” 

“That is why you bring it to me. Or better yet, bring me with you. I field dress the boar, no one can tell how it died.“

It takes a moment for the exchange to fully process. Astarion stares at her, baffled, as he finally convinces himself that he’d heard her properly.  His surprise turns to suspicion. “You would do that?” 

“Of course. I am doing all I can to keep everyone fed, and that boar would have helped immensely. You get the blood, we eat the meat, everyone is full and happy.” 

Astarion studies the drow, looking for anything like disgust or anger and finds none. He motions away from the group, and to his further surprise she’s happy enough to follow him closer to the pool, where the rushing water can better obscure their conversation. Someone should probably warn her that it’s inadvisable to wander off with someone like him. But for now, he’s impossibly grateful she does. “You… you don’t mind that I’m a vampire.” He shouldn’t really be so shocked. She barely knew what one was, and besides, he supposes it may be rather difficult to rattle someone from the land of things-that-go-bump-in-the-forever-night. 

It does give her pause. Triel is quiet a moment, and he can feel her gaze on him, his red eyes, his fangs, observing the things he tries to keep below anyone’s notice. It sends an uneasy prickle down his spine. 

“I wish you had told me.” She says, finally. 

“Yes, well.” Astarion’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “The response is typically less… this, and more…” He sighs, mimes the stabbing motion she had made the day before. 

“Oh.” Her brows knit. He shouldn’t be giving her ideas. “Thus, the secrecy?” She thinks for a moment, the freckles across her nose shifting as her mouth works at something she can’t figure out how to word. “If you have been drinking boar blood, and it is plentiful, why were you…?” 

He’d rather hoped she’d somehow forgotten about that. 

Astarion sighs. He feels pitiful, but maybe it’s best to lean into it. “Animal blood is… fine. It will keep me going, but I’m… I’m so weak. The blood of a thinking creature is far more potent, just a sip and I’d be so much sharper, stronger…” He doesn’t expect much, but looks at her hopefully all the same. She’ll refuse, he’ll be cheeky about it, smooth things over with his charms and they can both go back to their reverie and pretend this never happened. 

Instead her face is deadly serious, her voice soft with pity that would turn his stomach if it weren’t so empty. 

“You are hungry,” Triel’dra says.  

The laugh slips out before he can stop it, bitter. “For two hundred years.”   

Her unbroken stare doesn’t waver, studying him. “How much do you need?” 

He has no idea, but if it’s as powerful as it smells, it shouldn’t take much.  “A sip. Just a taste, really, I swear that was all I wanted.” 

“Alright.” 

“Pardon?”

“My blood. You may have some.” 

Astarion blinks at her. The words make sense, he understands them all individually, but cannot believe what he’s hearing when he strings them together. “I…. you’re certain?” She nods again, resolute. “Well then,” he forces his most reassuring smile, trying to hide the glance he takes around the campsite to ensure no one else is listening, to capitalise on this offer before she comes to her senses. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable, darling? Somewhere away from prying eyes.” 

She leads the way when he gestures to her tent. He has to wonder if she isn’t agreeing so she might lure him back to where she has a stake, but he’s too hungry to let that stop him. 

She grabs her pack on the way past, pulling it into the tent behind her as she disappears behind the canvas flap. He has to stoop as he nudges his own way into the cramped space just as Triel sinks cross legged to her bedroll and indicates the space she’s left beside her. 

He laughs to himself as he gets to his knees beside the bed instead. “You should lay down for this.” 

“Why?”  It comes out in a hurry and for the first time she seems nervous, well after he would have expected it. 

“Blood pressure, my dear,” he eases. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing but it makes sense. “Better to keep you from fainting on me.”  

Triel considers this and hesitantly seems to concede. She’s uneasy as she lowers herself to the bedroll and settles back against the pillow, hands balled into fists and her eyes fixed on the dark canvas above her. 

Slipping into place over top of her is familiar enough, a well-practised movement from so many other nights,  and Astarion lays a hand to either side of her to rest his weight. Triel’dra squeezes her eyes shut tight as he draws closer and gives him a side, turning her head— away from him— to offer the crook of her neck and left shoulder. 

Astarion pauses, studying her beneath him. Her whole body is clenched as tight as her eyes, breath stuttering, heart pounding… cheeks flushed. 

Well, well. And here he had thought she wasn’t interested. Will wonders never cease? His vicious little gloomstalker is shy. An unusual surge of feelings pulse through him at the realisation. Relief and no small amount of amusement. He can work with this. 

The aftertaste is disappointment. 

He had thought she was different, but in the end, he knows exactly what he has to offer. All he’s ever had. 

 “Go on.” Triel swallows hard, he can hear it from where he’s paused, a whisper away from the heat of her skin. 

“Relax, darling. You’re so tense I’d break my fangs if I bit you now. Deep breaths for me… There you are….” His smirk nearly brushes the hammering thud of her pulse as Triel doesn’t calm so much as force herself to go slack about the shoulder. She’s still gritting her teeth, breath hissed between them. 

Her nerves have been an amusing diversion but his empty stomach clenches painfully. He has to breathe to speak and inhales a lungful of her scent, overpowering this close to her skin, to the veins calling to him beneath it. He’s salivating as he finally bares his fangs and surges forward. 

Triel swallows a gasp and Astarion’s first taste of thinking blood hits his tongue. 

He can’t really remember what it was to need air, but in that moment he thinks it must have been like this. How it was to gasp for something so desperately as he slips a hand beneath to cradle Triel’s head, holding her closer as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, losing himself in it. 

Astarion moans. It slips free on it’s own, not a pretty sound, not the pitch-perfect playacted panting he’s perfected over the centuries, but something deep and animal and real that would be mortifying if he had the wherewithal to care, but his mind is empty of anything but taste and sensation and blessed relief. 

He feels it. The strength that was always just out of his reach, the heat of her blood spreading through his body, her pulse against his tongue—

“Astarion—” 

Her voice is so small, so far away when it finally reaches through the drunken haze of his thirst. How long had she been calling? Her hand is fisted in his shirt, the grip going slack.

No. No, it’s only been a moment, only a few seconds, he can’t have—

The heartbeat beneath his lips is slow, the skin cool against the unfamiliar stolen heat of his own.

She’s still breathing when he pulls back, but the lavender of her skin has gone grey. She blinks at him through heavy eyelids as he swallows curses under his breath and fumbles through his pockets for— ah, here it is. He hurries to press the handkerchief to the still bleeding wounds at her throat, dragging her to sit up. She sways, slumping against him. 

The rats were too small to tell but feeding on the boars he had been sure: there’s something in his bite that keeps the blood flowing. 

“There you are, darling, that’s it. Just… Hold this here, would you? It just needs a second…”  

Triel’dra steadies, the weight slumped against him lessened as she props herself up to sit under her own power, numb fingers grasping at the thin square of cloth. She mumbles something, slurred Drow that stumbles into Elvish, something like ‘I’m fine.’ Her movements are slow and clumsy, and when she looks at him she’s reeling, silver eyes are unfocused, but she’s keeping upright under her own power and the handkerchief clutched to the wound well enough, so finally he’s free to retreat. 

“Well,” Astarion sits back on his heels, getting what distance he can in the cramped tent. She’s fine. It’s fine. A little rest, and she’ll be good as new, he’s certain. “That…” He feels breathless, giddy. He licks his lips, catches a stray trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “That was… amazing.” An ache so deep he’d forgotten how it was to be without it is gone. “My mind is finally clear. I feel strong, I feel…” It takes him a moment to find the word, so long since he’s needed it. Content. Satisfied. How had she put it? Full and… happy.  

Astarion hears the need in his own voice, the heady desperation, and clears his throat. He smiles, polite, brisk, aiming for just the perfect combination of nonchalance and gratitude. What’s a pint between friends? Everything is fine. No need to panic, or call the cleric, or contemplate just how valuable this is to him. Not appreciative enough that it might be leveraged against him, but enough that she might agree to this again. 

Gods, he can still taste her and already he’s angling for his next fix. 

Triel just smiles a little, weakly, unsteady. Something about it makes him uneasy, a feeling that only intensifies as an eerie chittering sound from behind sends a shudder down his back. The flap stirs and her familiar creeps back into the tent, crawling along the ceiling and watching him warily with far too many eyes. Time to make an exit. 

Astarion excuses himself to find something more filling he can feed on without restraint. “No boars,” he adds, forcing his most charming smile despite the disquiet still needling at him, “I promise.” 

He can never just enjoy anything. A belly full of drow blood is more than he dared to dream of through his years of draining vermin, but the high is souring and he can’t put his finger on why. A mix of things, a potent cocktail of roiling troubles and he needs to leave before his facade slips. 

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”  

Astarion can’t bring himself to look at her as he hesitates at the doorway, the image of her haunting him anyway: pale and trembling, big horrid spider curled in her lap like a housecat as the red staining the handkerchief clutched to her neck deepens and spreads. 

A gift. As if there were such a thing. 

That’s part of the disgust he feels. That she has something he needs, that she knows it, and that for all his talk of his improved usefulness, it’s something he owes her with no way to repay. A debt, just another thing weighing against him in the balance of his worth. 

Well, at least Astarion knows what she wants from him, something he is all too able to provide, and the sooner he can tip the scales back in his favour, the better. 

It’s as he stalks through the web-strewn cave that the other aspect makes itself clearer. It’is knowing, now, just what was being kept from him. Not just the taste, but the strength, the clarity, the relief. It’s not possible to hate Cazador more than he does already, but it brings the feeling back up to the surface, acrid and persistent. 

Unfortunately, sharp as he is, the first thing he finds to stalk is an ettercap. It’s going to be one kind of spider or another down here, so he resigns himself to the thing with fewer legs, at least. He remembers from the earlier encounter to keep his distance, to hit it with fire. 

Its blood is vile but abundant. 

It doesn’t douse the heady craving for the drow’s blood as he had hoped. If anything it’s all the sweeter in his memory by comparison, the taste still lingering on his tongue. 

He stalks back to camp, belly full, chest hollow. 

Wyll and Shadowheart are asleep and he makes it back to his tent without waking them. It’s just as he’s about to turn in and try and get a decent stretch of reverie that a sound from the furthest tent catches his sensitive ears. The scent of blood is still heavy in the air and a stuttered, rasping sound just barely reaches him over the sound of the waterfall. Her familiar is meant to be keeping watch, but there’s no sign of the spider. 

Astarion grits his teeth, the flap of his tent clenched in his hand, and with a roll of his eyes he lets it fall and creeps back to Triel’dra’s tent. 

He’d left her sitting up. She’d been alert, mostly. She’d been fine. 

When Astarion pokes his head into the tent, the drow is sprawled across her bedroll in a dead faint, the handkerchief loosely grasped in her hand drenched in blood. There’s a splatter of it across her pillow. She’s deathly pale, grey lips tinged blue, breath shallow and strained, and soon to stop. 

Fuck. 

He should leave. He should go back to his tent and trance, and be as shocked as everyone else in the morning. This cave is full of horrors, it’s no surprise someone died. 

But no. Shit. Shit, they’ll find her with two perfect little punctures in her throat. All they need to do is look at his fucking teeth and he’s finished— and even if he gets away with it, he’s lost his best protection from Cazador. 

Cursing under his breath, he darts inside, drawing the flap closed behind him. Turning he starts, finds himself face to face with the fey spider perched on the dying drow woman’s chest. It shouldn’t be possible, but he swears those many eyes are all glaring accusations. 

The thing lunges for him when he moves towards her. 

“Piss off; I’m trying to help!” he hisses through clenched fangs. 

The spider only sort of…. Wiggles defensively in response, its first set of arms raised in a sad attempt at a threat display. It’s difficult to be intimidated by anything that fits under his boot but he still reflexively draws back. 

“What do you care, anyway? You’re bound to her, aren’t you? If she dies, you’re free.” The fey spirit waggles its arms more emphatically. 

Astarion sighs, surprised as he watches the creature by a sudden pang of pity. It probably can’t let her die even if it wants to, some clause in whatever fey pact familiars are bound by.  

“Look,” Astarion raises his hands, placating, and it— Erelae, that’s what Triel’dra calls it at least— lowers its arms in turn. “I’m trying to help, alright? Here, see?” He reaches behind himself and feels for her pack, dragging it over to rifle through. There’s no way he’s explaining this to Shadowheart and no way she’s lasting until morning, which leaves him few options. His fingers close around the familiar shape of a potion bottle and he shows it to the spider for its approval. 

Because that’s the kind of ridiculous his life has become. 

Erelae relents. The spider backs up, crawling off of its mistress, all eight eyes still fixed carefully on Astarion as he uncorks the bottle with his teeth and gathers the limp form of the bloodless drow in his arms. Her head tips back against his shoulder, and he carefully drips the sweet-smelling liquid, an unnatural bright red, into her mouth. “There we are,” he says, more to reassure himself than anyone else. “All better… No harm done. Good as new.” 

She’s still unconscious as the last of the potion trickles down her throat, but Triel’dra lets out a deep sigh, and her breathing seems to steady, the wounds on her neck fading. She’ll still feel like shit in the morning, but— in his amateur opinion, at least— she’ll live.  

Astarion lays her back against her bloodied bedroll. He’s certainly had worse targets. Pleasant enough to spend time with, and she’s beautiful— if in a severe, rugged sort of way. This close, and without having to worry about being caught, he’s able to really study her. There’s the obvious, the freckles, the jagged scar that stretches across the bridge of her nose from her jaw to her forehead. There are more. Older, fainter scars. One across her eye, tendrils of lethal scar tissue that stretch across her throat, the other side than she’d offered to him. A lifetime of fighting, and more than one brush with death by the looks of her body— let alone what he’d seen in her memory. 

Exactly what he needs, if he can just keep her attention. 

Astarion reaches down, her skin warm beneath his undead fingertips as he brushes silver hair, matted with blood, from her face, acknowledges the spider creeping back into its place on her chest, rising and falling with each slow breath, and skulks back to his tent to try and salvage what he can of this rest. 

[Prev] [Next]

[catspittle]

⏰️

[Unfortunately, the roulette has hit a bad memory. Do mind the tags.]

The first thing that comes to his mind is the feeling of someone shaking him awake. Snarling, Crane bats blindly at the offending hand- - which drops the bottle of Narcan it's holding to the cool tile of the floor. The plastic clunks, bounces off the chipped edge of a square of whitish-beige. "You were awfully quiet." And there was his faithful partner, kneeling on the bathroom floor and quietly somber as always. Aside from the overcast of disappointment, the man's facial expression was unreadable. Still, he brushes a coil of hair from the former Scarecrow's eyes. Crane bared what remained of his teeth (which ultimately wasn't much), squinting up at him in the light of the bathroom. "No shit, Wong?" "Ahh. You're using my last name. Why, I believe you're mad at me." Still as carefully emotionless as ever, even though he's starting to shake, even though his grip on his partner's shoulder is becoming a little too tight. Like a particularly pissed-off housecat, Crane simply locked eyes with his partner, unblinking. God knew how long this went on for; who kept a clock in their bathroom? Who out there was timing how long they pooped? And then, Honghui looks away. "I think I'm damned well mad at you, too," Honghui finally vocalized. Then, quieter; "It feels good to say that. It shouldn't." His fingers flex in the curls of Crane's hair, the fabric of his clothes. Repetitively. Just to give himself something to do, even if it ultimately isn't much in the moment. Eventually, Crane gives up, leaning into the touch. "Fucking stab me again. I dare you." Speaking of that, his previously-wounded shoulder is touching the tiles in a terribly unpleasant, joint straining manner. The urge to adjust it is strong, but he's just so....tired. The psychiatrist laughs; high-pitched and strangled, like a bird's call. "God damn it. I might, now that you've mentioned it. Slit you from ear to ear in your sleep, even." He's absolutely shaking now, trembling head to toe. Something hard and flint-like flashes in Crane's dark eyes. "You wouldn't." "I would, Kay," Honghui barks out. "Believe me. I would." The sentence ends on a snarl. "You'd have no one." Those fingers dig deep enough to nearly draw blood. "Sometimes, I think I already have no one." Still, despite the callousness of his words, the slightly older man is pulled close to him like a child's rag doll; rocked quietly, slowly. It's a soothing kind of strength. Warm, even.

[earlgreydream]

haunted.

| bucky x reader | fluff |

Bucky is new to town and feeling lonely when the townies are unfriendly. Until you show up at his door. soft, sweet bucky fluff to make you feel good! 🥺 🥰

cw: vague mentions of murder. because there’s a haunted house. but it’s not scary! 

a/n: I love “we have always lived in the castle” and this is loosely inspired by that film

Bucky felt like everyone stared at him. He didn’t anticipate moving to the small town and being the object of attention for it. He definitely didn’t expect some people to be overtly rude to him, or stare at him like he was a creature when he walked by. 

He could’ve sworn he heard the word “haunted” whispered by a group of people when he was buying paint at the small hardware store in town. Bucky turned to stare back, but they quickly hurried away under his confused silver gaze.

His opportunities to make friends seemed grim, and he found himself spending most of his time renovating the old fixer-upper he bought. He was beginning to wonder if moving here, away from his home was a good decision. It was lonely, and he felt like he’d made a mistake. 

About a week after he moved in, the weather was particularly nice, and he decided to start tackling the garden while the weather permitted. He was working outside when he saw you. 

“Hello!” You called, walking up to the gate of the fence he was painting. 

“Hi,” Bucky grinned, setting down his paintbrush and greeting you. 

“I’m Y/N. I live next door, I’m sorry I haven’t been over to introduce myself yet.” 

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone just calls me Bucky. You’re actually the first person to properly speak to me. People in town... don’t seem fond of my arrival.” He struggled with the right way to phrase it, but you just smiled, shaking your head.

“It’s because of the house.” You explained.

“The house?” Bucky turned to the beautiful old victorian house he had moved into.

“Yeah. People in town are convinced it’s haunted. There was a murder here, a decade or so ago. The murderer is in jail now, and the house is completely fine, and safe. But the old people here are paranoid and superstitious. I’m sorry they’ve been unfriendly. They all claim it’s haunted,” you frowned, feeling sympathetic toward your new neighbor. 

He was sweet and friendly, and also incredibly handsome. You had come over to invite him for dinner, but had gotten distracted by his confusion about the unwelcoming town. Then, you found yourself staring at him. He wore a bright yellow shirt, standing out against the lush green of the garden. 

“It’s alright. I suppose I’ll have to prove I’m not a ghost,” he laughed. 

“I believe you. You are too kind to be a ghost. I came over actually to invite you for dinner. I thought you might be lonely.” 

His bright smile made warmth spread in your chest, and butterflies flutter in your tummy. 

“I’d love to, Y/N.” 

He watched you blush, giggling with excitement. You rattled off a time before running off, the breeze ruffling your hair and skirt as you crossed the yard back to your house. You waved at him and he smiled, waving back.

Bucky looked forward to spending time with you later. The sound of your laugh and the sweetness of your smile echoed in his mind as he continued with the fence. 

He cleaned up as the sun started to set, and he gathered daisies from the garden, wanting to make a good impression on you, and thank you for your hospitality. 

Bucky knocked on your door, and you swung it open with a smile. The scent of coffee and the food you were cooking filled his sense. 

“I brought these for you!” Bucky held up the flowers. You bit your lip with a blush, taking them from his hands. 

“Thank you, come in.” 

You stepped aside, letting him into your bright kitchen, putting the flowers into a jar on the table. 

“Have a seat. Can I get you some coffee or tea while I finish?” 

“Coffee, please. I can help you,” Bucky offered, and you shook your head. 

“I’ve got it. I’m almost done,” you said as you poured him a cup of coffee. 

“What brings you here, Bucky?”

“I was just looking to get out of New York City, to something more quiet. I wanted to renovate a house, too. This seemed perfect.” 

“I’m glad. It’ll be good to see the house alive again. You’re not so bad either,” you teased lightly, making him grin.

You set down dishes of food before taking a seat beside him, chattering long into the evening. You learned that he was from Brooklyn, and that he loved New York style pizza. He was also fond of classic novels and big band music, and loved the color yellow.  

You took coffee to your back porch swing, sitting with him and gently rocking in the dusk, continuing your conversation until the stars were glittering in the sky.

The doorbells chimed in the shop you worked at. You stepped out from the back, smiling at Bucky.

“Hi!” You grinned, happy to see him. 

“Y/N. I didn’t know you worked here.”

“What can I get for you?” 

“Knobs for a dresser. There was one in the house, I’m refurbishing it.”

“Certainly. What color have you painted it?”

“Just white, I didn’t know what else to do. It needs something.”

“If... If you wanted, I could give it some detailing. I paint.” You offered shyly. 

“I’d love that.”

“They’re on the house.” You smiled, handing him the knobs he asked for.

You were kneeling in the sunroom of Bucky’s home. A record was softly spinning in the corner, and a gentle breeze blew through the open windows. Bucky brought a cup of tea to you, setting it down beside you. 

“Thanks,” you smiled, reaching up and gently squeezing his hand before going back to painting delicate flowers on the dresser. He hummed along to the old song scratching on the record, and you smiled as he sipped on his tea, taking a break from painting the walls of the sunroom a pale sage green. 

Your hand stilled as you watched him. You stared at Bucky, he was too perfect for you not to. 

Despite the rumors of the house being haunted, and a curse placed over those who resided there, you found yourself at peace with Bucky in his home. It was bright and inviting, just like him. 

Every hour spent with him had you falling more hopelessly in love with him. 

You kept Bucky awake at night. He would stare up at the ceiling, thoughts of you filling his mind and his heart. You were so tender and warm, your presence alone was a comfort to him. You made him laugh, and you made joy flood his life. 

Bucky was catastrophically in love with you.

“I’ve brought you a book. It’s my favorite, and I didn’t see it in your library,” you said, walking into his home that you’d been spending weeks helping him paint and redecorate. 

He walked around the corner of the hall, taking the well-loved copy from your hand. A soft smile crossed his face when he saw your little notes in the margins of passages you loved.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, and yours found their way around his neck. You breathed him in, feeling safe and warm in his hug. You were sad when the long hug finally broke, Bucky looking up at the clock on the wall.

“Can you stay for tea?” Bucky asked, fiddling with the hem of his yellow shirt you loved.

“Of course.” 

The two of you curled up on the porch swing with your tea, enjoying the warm weather. 

“I was thinking about planting pumpkins in the garden for autumn.”

“You should. I have a pumpkin soup recipe, I can teach you,” you suggested, and he smiled softly.

“I’d love that.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, settling as his arm wrapped around your body. You watched the housecat run across the grass before hopping on the porch below you. His hand gently rubbed small circles where it rested on your leg, and the two of you rocked gently.

Music played faintly from inside as always. Bucky always had a record spinning or a playlist drifting out through hidden speakers. You found the habit endearing, like most little things about him. 

He had what seemed to be hundreds of tea bags, always having tea and offering it to you. You noticed that teas you mentioned you enjoyed started showing up in his collection for you when you were over. Books were stacked on nearly every surface, and filled shelves throughout the house. 

You giggled, getting some flour on Bucky’s nose while the two of you were baking cookies in his kitchen. You gasped and squealed when he knocked flour all over your shirt, covering you in the white powder. 

“Bucky!” You giggled at the mess. 

“It wasn’t me, it was the ghost,” he teased with an adorable grin. You shook your head at him and he got one of his clean t-shirts for you to change into, tossing your ruined one in with his laundry. 

The fabric of his was soft and smelled like him. You hugged it to your body, smiling as your heart raced. You went back downstairs to finish baking, Bucky promising you he was going to behave. 

“Taste this, tell me if it’s good,” he laughed, holding out a spoon of the melted chocolate to you. You opened your mouth so he could feed it to you, and chocolate smeared over your lips as he pulled the spoon out. 

You nodded in delight, and an amused smile crossed his face. 

“You’ve got a little on your face, doll,” he laughed and you blushed. 

Your breath caught as he leaned forward and kissed you, tasting the chocolate on your lips. You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, your heart bursting. 

“Was that the ghost too?” you giggled shyly. 

“No, that was all me,” Bucky promised before kissing you again. 

[soupbabe]

may i request josuke & 4taro with a male s/o who owns a cat that hates them and fights them for the love of the reader? i thought of the idea and it makes me laugh a little. feel free to not do this!

Josuke and 4taro a Male! S/O w an Overprotective! Cat

Josuke Higashikata

When you mentioned that you had a cat to him, he wanted to meet it right away

He's always had a soft spot for the fluffier animals out there and he's the kind of guy to fanboy over them too

"Are you sure you wanna meet my cat? He doesn't really like meeting new people." "It's cool, babe! I think animals like me :D"

Animals in fact don't like you, Josuke.

When your cat saw him he literally hissed and scratched his hand when he went to pet it

And when you went to check on your boyfriend after hearing him, your cat ran up to you, purring while he bonked his head against your legs

Even after you washed Josuke's scratch (and messed around and kissed his bandaid "to make it feel all better" which left a smiling Josuke and a fuming kitty,) your cat kept trying to get your attention

The feline kept getting into your lap, meowing until you gave him your attention

The pompadour wearing teen even looked over at your cat and saw It's shit eating grin that he finally had your attention

He couldn't believe he was getting competitive and jealous over a simple housecat.

That was the Josuke came up with a fantastic idea: your cat hates it when he gives you attention, right? Why not make it so jealous your cat gets kicked out of your room? He smiled at the idea of him and his boyfriend getting some peaceful alone time

So Josuke did everything he could think of to make your cat jealous: it started off with the teen suggesting you two play a movie and when you agreed, he pulled you closer to him (much to your cat's dismay) and cuddled up to you

"You're being really clingy Josuke" "Is that a problem? I just want to be close to my favorite boy~"

The cat growled at your flustered state; it's patience wore thin when you hid your face in your hands and leaned into your boyfriend, to which he kissed the top of your head in response, laughing a little

The animal was just close enough to Josuke to jump up and hit his face with his paw with claws out

You quickly reacted by picking the feline up and taking him away and leading Josuke to the bathroom to clean his scratch, apologizing profusely about your cat's behavior

But it's worth it though. Josuke's glad he could finally spend time with you without any interruptions

Jotaro Kujo

Just like Josuke, he probably would disregard your small warning

He's more aware in his surroundings than Josuke, so when he walked into your house and your cat tried to jump at him, Star Platinum was able to catch him mid attack with The World

He's less subtle with his discontent, but his patience doesn't wear thin easily

Like no matter how much this cat tries to get in between you two, Jotaro simply doesn't care

He might glare at it and mumble about how annoying it's being, but he isn't going to make a big deal out of it

So for a while it's mostly just passive aggression going on between your cat and your boyfriend

That was until your cat jumped up behind Jotaro, who was sitting on the couch next to you, and swiped his hat off of his head

It effectively broke off his iconic golden hand piece and your cat started playing/scratching with the white cap

I feel like this was when Jotaro had enough and with a menacing aura, picked up the cat by the scruff of his neck and locked him in your room

Jotaro was mildly pissed off and annoyed, but at least the situation gave him an excuse to temporarily get rid of the 4 legged menace

"Oh Jotaro, I'm so sorry about your hat!" "It's fine, I can have Josuke fix it later. I'm happy I can at least get some peace and quiet with you now."

Though not really since your cat kept meowing to let him out

[fairieboywhump]

Middle Fingers

why hello there. this is intense.

introducing Miah :D! and Ryland, two of my new ocs. they exist in the same universe as cathal and clement and the rest of them, and ryland is... the worst. the Worst!

word count: 2,768

TWs: PARTIAL AMPUTATION/APPENDAGE AMPUTATION, fingore/finger whump, "do it yourself" in regards to torture (whumpee doesnt do it but thinks they'll have to) gagging/emeto (v-miting up nothing), pet whump, dehumanization, mentions of being kept in a facility, kept in the basement, once again i can not tw this for small amputation enough, miahs poor fingers, use of knives & uh. idk. shears. if i missed anything please lmk and i will add it :-)!

little preface: miah uses they/them pronouns, and ryland uses he/they, which are used interchangeably in this fic. im realy sorry if this gets confusing because of that, i tried to mitigate that as much as possible but it is a little difficult.

leeess go

~~~

If you walked past his house on the street, past the perfect white fence, you wouldn't notice. 

Miah knew, though. Inside, hidden away in the basement. They knew. 

There was a knock at the top of the stairs, informing them that their captor was soon to be descending into the room to hurt them once again. They shivered. 

Somehow, they really had been led to believe that this would be better. That being purchased by somebody was going to be better than wasting away in that wretched facility, listening to other people scream and beg for mercy that they had long since learned would never come.

They thought they were being saved, really. Thought that there would be a chance they could just do well enough, and be treated like, they didn't know, maybe like a friendly housecat? The word pet certainly didn't elicit this image.

Ryland took their time coming down the stairs, Miah's dread increasing with every step they took. 

"Ohhh puppy," He called brightly, but their stomach twisted with fear. "Where are you hiding this time love? I'm not here to hurt you." 

Miah stayed silent, not wanting to expose their position, hidden away in a closet they hoped Ryland wouldn't notice had been unlocked. 

But he found them, - he always found them - and Miah was dragged kicking and screaming out of the closet, as if fighting back had ever made even a fraction of a difference. Ryland simply shushed them, they had grown weak enough in the facility that they had never managed to really do much damage, and it was cute to see them weakly try to shove him away. 

They threw Miah to the basement floor, the poor pet's head connecting hard with the basement floor. 

"You really are such a brat," Ryland commented, shooting them a look as he stood above. "Such a hassle. Maybe I should send you back for extra training, really beat it into you how much I own you." 

Miah groaned. Their head hurt, they always hurt somewhere now, and they just wanted to go home. They raised their head, and one hand to flip Ryland off with a half dazed grin, before letting themself fall back onto the cement. 

"Do that again." Ryland seethed. "I dare you." 

Maybe it was the delirium, maybe it was that they had hit their head, maybe it was sheer stupidity. But they did it, this time triumphantly raising both hands to show their hatred. 

Ryland was on them in an instant. They were dragged to their feet, his hand in their hair while he spat curses of how rotten they were, how stupid and disobedient. Ryland knocked Miah's head against the wall and Miah cried out, hands shooting up to desperately protect themself. 

They were thrown to the floor again, and Ryland picked up a chain and lock that connected to the wall in order to prevent them hiding again. The lock clicked into place, and weighed heavily around Miah's throat, a sickening reminder of who they belonged to. 

Miah sat on the floor, pouting pitifully enough that Ryland couldn't help but laugh. 

"I don't know what you were expecting, love." They smiled down at their pet. "I thought even you would be smart enough to understand sarcasm." 

Miah glared at him. They seemed to think it over for a moment, before raising their hand in one final obscene gesture, a satisfied smile on their face. 

Ryland snapped. He grabbed Miah by the hair again, pulling their head up and kicking them repeatedly in the stomach. Miah cried and moaned with every kick, the impact knocking the wind out of them again, and again, and again. 

"Put your hand down." Ryland ordered, letting Miah's head fall and pointing at a wooden box beside them. Miah, frightened, obeyed and placed their hand on the surface. Ryland put a knife next to them and stepped out of their reach with a grin. 

"Alright puppy!" They smiled, such a stark contrast from his attitude just seconds prior that Miah's stomach began to turn with fear. "Here's what's going to happen. Since you can't keep those to yourself, I want to watch you remove them." 

Miah froze. "WHAT?" 

"Oh, you can still speak." Ryland continued calmly. "You heard me! Bad puppies don't get to keep their toys."

"That's not a toy!" Miah shouted. "That's my fucking hand!" 

Ryland laughed. "Oh, no. Silly. Not the whole hand. Just those pesky middle fingers!" 

"That's still not a toy, you fucking madman!" Miah waved the knife around, and Ryland knew that he had made the right choice stepping away. Had they been any closer, Miah would have attacked them. He could see it in their eyes. 

"Well, you really only have two choices here, love." Ryland stated, still just as infuriatingly calm. "You can be a good pet, and obey me, or you can stay down here and starve to death. Your choice, sweet thing." 

Miah stared at them like their entire world was ending. It was, honestly. Or already had. But Ryland wouldn't… they wouldn't give them that kind of ultimatum, right? Not really? 

They looked at their hand. Nothing he had ever done would suggest that Ryland fucking Vale was the kind of person to make those threats lightly. Nor did their demeanor, the way he stared down at them like it was nothing.

"J-j-just, just one of them, r-right?" They asked fearfully. 

"Did you use just one of them, love?" Ryland replied. "No. You can't really expect me to let you off that easy when you were so disrespectful to me, can you baby?" 

Miah shuddered. "N-no… no sir…" They stared at their hand in horror, too terrified to move. Ryland sighed, exasperated as if they had anything to be upset about. Miah wanted to kill him, and they swore they would some day. 

“Come on, pet.” Ryland ordered, crossing his arms. Miah let out a desperate sob, tears beginning to fall. “Aww, poor baby,” Ryland teased. “Do as you’re told. Now.” 

Miah shook their head, chest heaving as they cried. “N-no, please, please don’t, don’t m-make me, I, I, I can’t, I can’t, please, no, please sir…” They threw the knife out of their reach, sending it skidding across the floor and almost into Ryland’s foot, had they not been clever enough to dodge.

Ryland sighed again. He knelt down to pick up the knife, inspecting the blade closely for any imperfections or nicks in the metal. “You’re lucky you didn’t damage this stupid,” They snapped. “I would have had to kill you with it.” 

Miah’s breath caught in their throat. Ryland grinned, leaning in close. 

“Fine,” He sighed, putting on a facade of great sympathy. “I won’t make you.” They crouched down in front of Miah, who sniffled pathetically as tears continued to run down their cheeks. They weren’t easy to make cry, this was certainly a win. Ryland traced their jaw with the blade of the knife, which was a large thing with serrations running down the bottom half. Miah whimpered. 

Suddenly, and with no change in their demeanor, Ryland was grabbing Miah by the wrist, squeezing tight and slamming their hand palm-up onto the wooden box. Miah screamed, their eyes darting up to meet Ryland’s, and their heart pounded in their ears as they saw the sickening grin that had overtaken his face. Ryland curled three of their fingers inward, holding them down and keeping the middle finger exposed. Miah thrashed and kicked, crying desperately for him to stop.

They didn’t even register the feeling of the blade touching their skin until they were screaming in pain, and the crunch of bone filled their ears. Miah went silent as soon as they truly realized what had happened.

Everything inside of them told them not to look. Every instinct they had, every single fucking part of them was against it. They didn’t want to see. 

Still, they looked.

They had to turn away to avoid vomiting on themself as soon as they saw it, heaving up nothing but gagging nonetheless. The blood, oh the blood, and their hand. Even worse, the finger itself. Laying on that wooden box even as they clutched their hand in agony, in a pool of blood. Their blood. Their finger. Their finger! Their head spun. 

From the sound of it, Ryland thought their reaction to be hysterical; their dark, sadistic chuckle echoing off the walls and into Miah’s psyche. 

Ryland turned to dig through one of the large metal drawers lining the wall. Miah supposed it was their workspace, however terrifying a thought that was. It resembled what one would assume a carpenter would use for a workspace, and that terrified them even more. What kind of things would Ryland Vale need a hacksaw for? 

If they weren’t terrified before, they were when Ryland turned around. 

He held a pair of sturdy looking garden shears, green handles and sharp blades that reflected just a bit too much light to be something Ryland used casually. Miah could just imagine it, him sitting and sharpening them, polishing the blades to be just as terrifying to every new victim.

The fear in their eyes made Ryland laugh. They had never looked at them with eyes quite that wide, nor cried quite this hard. Not once, in their months of captivity, had they looked this deeply, truly, terrified. 

“Oh love, don’t look so betrayed. I told you it would be both, so both it’s going to be. I’m not a liar, and I’ve already let you off easier than I said I would.” Ryland explained. “You should have been good for me from the start! You know I only hurt you when you disobey me. You’ve brought this on yourself.” 

Miah’s lip trembled with fear. What a fat fucking lie that was, only hurt you when you disobey. They could list several examples of that being false from the past two days alone. 

“No, please… no no no no no no no…” They whined. Ryland pouted at them in mock sympathy, and they felt so small. No one was even there to prevent this. They looked at him with tearful eyes, as he took their hand in his own, bringing it close to his face. Ryland pressed a kiss to the base of their palm, and then on the tip of every finger, stopping for a moment to graze the middle finger with their teeth. They savoured the fear in Miah’s eyes as they did, gripping their wrist tightly. 

Miah watched helplessly as they positioned his shears, and, their other hand pulsing with pain, as the blades closed together with a snap.

Their finger was severed in an instant. Ryland closed the shears with as much force as they could, and the bloody digit fell to the cold concrete floor. Miah’s mouth fell open in a gasp, their eyes unfocused and their mind blank of anything but fear. They were grateful for their tears, obscuring their vision enough that they couldn’t make out Ryland’s expression as he picked it up to examine. 

“There,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now there will be no more obscene gestures. You’ve learned your lesson, haven't you?” 

Miah nodded dully. Ryland patted their cheek in a condescending manner, still much more focused on the severed finger than the poor person it had come from. They stared at it for a few minutes, eventually picking up the other as well. Soon he began to pace around the basement, letting Miah sit there and bleed with a childish glee that made their stomach turn. Only when they groaned in pain, looking up at Ryland with their face as pale as a sheet did he remember that they still needed his attention.

Ryland paused. “I suppose you could use some help…” They nudged Miah with his foot, and Miah whined quietly, falling to the floor with no energy left to hold themself up. 

“Hm..” Ryland took off up the stairs, taking the severed fingers with him. Miah watched them wearily, struggling to keep their eyes open. Were they dying? Were they really going to bleed out on the cold floor of the basement of some twisted bastard who cared more about their now removed appendages than their life? Honestly, that didn’t sound too bad compared to what they just went through. They started to cry again, although now they didn’t have the energy for it. 

Their whole body shook as they wept, unable to even wipe their tears with their hands covered in blood. They wanted to go home. They wanted their brothers, their mom, they wanted their cat and they had never felt so helpless in their entire life. It tore them apart. Their head hurt, and their hands hurt worse. 

The door opened again and Ryland came hurrying down the stairs, carrying what looked to be a first aid kit. Miah found it strange that they wouldn’t keep that where they torture people, but learning the intricacies of a sadistic fucking monster’s mind was not high on their priorities. They whimpered when he came closer, and Ryland hushed them. He pulled them onto their knees, and then close to his chest with a hand on the back of their throat. They kissed Miah on the top of the head, and Miah whimpered again. 

“Oh, precious pet,” Ryland hummed. “You wouldn’t have to go through this if you were just good for me, you know? Doesn’t it sound nicer to be good, love? I would be so kind to you, you could leave the basement, and sleep in a real bed again, and eat. Don’t you want to be good?” 

Miah practically fell over themself to agree, nodding their head desperately and whining sweetly. Ryland took one of their hands in his own, tracing their palm with his finger. “See,” They continued, unzipping the first aid kit with his other hand. “You know how to be good, Miah. You even know you want to be.” 

He pressed the start of a roll of gauze into their palm, and they whined. “You just forget it,” They wrapped the roll around Miah’s hand twice to anchor it down, before beginning to cover the wound. “Because you don’t want to admit that you’re better off as a pet than a person. Because you’re a stupid little thing, and you’re desperate to deny it.” 

The gauze went up, and around, and around again. It covered the horrifying little nub where Miah’s finger used to be, down to their wrist to keep it from moving. Again, and again it wrapped around, and they supposed they were meant to be grateful for Ryland’s help. He kissed the base of their palm again as he finished, looking them dead in the eyes. 

“I’m sorry.” Miah whimpered. 

“I know you are, love. And you won’t forget it either. You’ll be my good pet for a while now, hm?” Ryland responded with a grin, although Miah couldn’t see it with their face pressed into his chest. 

“Yes sir…” 

“I’m sorry?” He asked, a hint of a threat in their voice.

“Y-yes… master…” They buried their face further in his shirt, whining. 

“Good pet!” Ryland praised, cheerful. “You’ll get there eventually, love. Don’t worry.” 

They secured the gauze with some elastic tape that went around Miah’s hand in the same pattern as the wrapping. Miah cried quietly as Ryland switched to their other hand, wrapping it in the same way. They sniffled every time either of their hands moved, every little shift sending pain pulsing through their whole arm. They felt like such a baby.

Ryland kissed their hand like he had done with the first, before securing it with tape as well. Miah leaned back and stared at their hands, their expression unreadable aside from the horror and exhaustion so evident on their features. 

It didn’t feel real, even as they looked directly at their hands, at the gap between their pointer and ring fingers. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t. They bit down on their cheek, and tasted blood.

Very real. 

They continued weeping, and Ryland watched with a sick half-grin painting their face. Miah was going to be good for him whether they liked it or not, and Ryland suspected that they would never be one to like it. 

But that was fine. They were going to break. They would obey eventually, and they would soon realize that it was either obedience, or death. Most pets were rather desperate to avoid the latter, and Miah would be no exception. 

And they were going to break beautifully. 

[pillage-and-lute]

@thequeeninyellowlace requested “ Geraskier discovering that angry, testy Lambert is actually a big kitten? ❤️❤️”

Warning: some derogatory language, especially anti-sex work slang (although all the witchers are canonically pro-sex work)

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“I can’t believe you brought your bard to the keep,” Lambert groused. It was the same complaint he’d had all week, ever since Geralt arrived with Jaskier in tow.

“He’s my bard, this is my home,” Geralt said. “I wanted to bring him here.”

Lamberts stood, slamming his mug on the dinner table and glaring at Jaskier. “You wanted a whore to warm your bed in the winter.”

“No,” Jaskier said calmly, turning over a page in the book he’d borrowed from the keep’s library. “Geralt wanted a slut to keep his bed warm in the winter. That’s me.”

“I don’t see a difference,” Lambert growled.

“Lambert c’mon,” Eskel groaned. “This is getting old.”

“The difference,” Jaskier said, speaking over the scarred wolf but not looking up from his book. “Is that I love Geralt very much and I fuck him for free.”

Lambert stormed out, presumably to go throw things about in the armory. Geralt pressed a kiss into Jaskier’s hair.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “He’s not good with change.”

“It’s okay, dear heart, I’m sure he’ll warm up to me.”

Eskel stood and began clearing the dinner dishes. “Good luck with that,” he said.

Vesemir smiled across at Geralt and Jaskier, who were sitting so closely entwined. It was good to see his reclusive pup happy, and he had an idea what had gotten under Lambert’s skin. Before he retired to the library, Vesemir paused, resting a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I’m glad you’re here.”

Jaskier smiled in return.

-- -- -- -- -- -- 

Some days later the younger wolves were relaxing in the hot springs after training. Vesemir had well and truly put them through their paces and their muscles needed a good, long soak. 

Jaskier appeared, looking almost as beat as they felt. He’d been tending the handful of sheep and two goats that Vesemir kept, mending their fence today. In the cold, with the animals butting in and distrustful, it was hard, slow work. He slid in beside Geralt with a sigh.

Lambert huffed, but, exhausted, wasn’t about to leave the hot springs. Eskel eyed him in amusement.

Geralt, to the shock of everyone but himself and Jaskier, curled himself in and rested his head on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier didn’t even blink and instead reached around and began stroking Geralt’s back and shoulders soothingly. This continued for a few minutes, the other wolves watching a little dumbly. Then Geralt pressed a light kiss to Jaskier’s collar bone and turned around on the ledge, resting his arms out of the bath. Jaskier took this in his stride too and began firmly kneading out the knots between Geralt’s shoulder blades. 

Lambert saw the difference now. Jaskier wasn’t a whore, because even the best paid ones wouldn’t touch so...reverently. They didn’t gentle the tension out of scarred skin and pull the knots from muscles. He shot a glance at Eskel, who was watching with the same half envy half hunger that he felt.

Then Jaskier just got up and walked over to a basket settled next to the wall. He and Geralt had brought that too, it had soaps and oils in it. Jaskier hesitated for a moment, then he picked up the whole basket and brought it to the edge of the hot spring. 

He settled back in, seemingly unaware of the eyes on him, and handed Geralt a bar of soap. It was the usual pale yellow-white color for soap, but Vesemir made all his soap in a big vat and it smelled to high heaven and cleaned by taking a layer of skin off every time it was used. This stuff smelled nice.

“Chamomile,” Eskel said, sniffing. “And bergamot?” 

“Very good,” Jaskier said. “It’s Geralt’s favorite.”

Geralt having a favorite soap was news to his brothers, but they didn’t comment. Jaskier poured a little oil into his hands, but it was mixed with soap or something, because he rubbed it into a bit of a lather and began to work it through Geralt’s hair. 

Geralt reacted like a pampered housecat, arching back into the touch and humming as Jaskier worked. The bard seemed to be doing something of a scalp massage while cleaning and the wolves heard a rumble start up in Geralt’s chest.

It wasn’t purring, not exactly. But all witchers could do it, only when they were truly relaxed of course. It was a whole chest rumble that always seemed to soak into their bones. Lambert scowled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d purred.

Eventually, with Geralt boneless against the side of the pool, Jaskier finished, rinsing the suds from snow white hair and kissing the back of Geralt’s head.

“Alright,” Jaskier said, pulling two more bars of soap from his basket. “Pick one, each of you.”

“What?” Lambert said. 

“I brought five types of soap, Geralt told me about what you all have up here. So I brought his and mine, and one for each of you. Vesemir already picked his.”

“Did he?” Geralt asked.

“Yes dear heart, he gave me the tour the other day, picked that fig and goat’s milk one I brought”

“Hmmm,” Geralt replied, seemingly fast asleep.

Obediently, and somewhat hypnotized, Eskel and Lambert leaned forward to sniff each soap bar. 

The first made Eskel’s nose crinkle, and he quickly moved on to the second one, but Lambert lingered. The first one was nice. 

It was slightly green, which was weird, but it was nice.

They each picked the one they wanted and Jaskier smiled. “Excellent,” he said. “Now let me wash your hair.”

“Geralt,” Lambert said, immediately on edge. “Your bard is trying to fuck us.”

“My bard,” the white wolf answered drowsily, “Is trying to help you. Be nice.”

“You first,” Lambert muttered to Eskel. Eskel just shrugged and let Jaskier work on his back, settling in to a very similar position to the one Geralt had taken. He let out a few grunts as the bard worked skilled fingers into the cords of muscle on either side of his spine, but they certainly didn’t sound pained. Eskel even chatted quietly with Geralt as Jaskier worked. Then, obediently, he let Jaskier wash his hair.

“The soap you picked is oat and lavender,” the bard said. “So I have lavender oil for your hair, but tell me if it’s too strong, we can use something else.”

Eskel sniffed as Jaskier poured some of the faintly purple liquid into his palm. “Smells fine,” he said. Jaskier smiled, humming faintly as he worked it into Eskel’s hair, commenting a few times on how well kept it was. 

“Geralt always let’s his turn into a rat’s nest whenever I’m away.”

That made Eskel and Lambert raise their eyebrows. Geralt had always been meticulous about his hair, more so than was practical for a witcher. Eyebrows raised further when he blushed slightly and avoided their gaze.

The scalp massage continued and, to Lambert’s complete surprise, Eskel began to purr quietly. Jaskier smiled, but not mockingly or cruelly, and continued his work.

Eventually Jaskier finished with Eskel’s hair and then looked towards Lambert questioningly. “I don’t have to wash your hair if you’d rather I didn’t,” he said. “But I like doing it, and I think you’d like it too.”

“Let him, Lamb,” Geralt grunted before Lambert could say anything. 

“I was going to,” he grumbled as he turned around. 

The first press of hands into his back nearly burned. 

Money was scarce on the Path, even with Toss a Coin playing in every tavern. This year had been harsh on many of the villages Lambert passed through too, and they paid him what they could. 

Sometimes he was in the business of returning most or all of the payment, if things were bad.

All that to say, there had been no prostitutes, or bed mates of any kind, all year. Maybe one or two the year before that. Apart from his brothers, who he sparred with and got drunk with, almost no one touched him.

Jaskier touched him like being afraid of him was a foreign concept. Calloused fingers found every knot and point of tension and worked them out. Lambert felt like dough under a rolling pin.

“Where did you learn this?” he wondered aloud. “And why?”

Jaskier chuckled, digging his fingers into Lambert’s neck as he did so in a way that should have set off alarm bells but instead just sent electricity down his spine. “See,” Jaskier said. “I spent my time at university working for a bathhouse to make extra money-well, it was mostly a brothel but it offered baths. I just warmed up towels and sliced soap.”

“Mmmhm,” Lambert said, feeling his mind numb under the onslaught of touch.

“And one of the older women there, Rosie, lovely lady, taught me to make soap and find the right ones. Also taught me about massage, not the happy ending kind, that education I got elsewhere, but good information.”

It must have been, Lambert thought. It felt like Jaskier’s hands were touching his soul through his skin. 

Then Jaskier moved on to his hair. 

Lambert let the feeling wash over him as gentle fingers kneaded into his head, taking away headaches he hadn’t known were there. Manicured fingernails scratched lightly at his scalp. 

It was so good.

It was so nice to be touched when it wasn’t sex or sparring. It felt like a balm on Lambert’s soul and he’d been so jealous. Geralt had brought the bard and gotten all the touch he could want and left Eskel and Lambert without, but he was sharing this. It was like honey inside his brain. To his shame Lambert felt his eyes prickle. 

Witchers could cry. Their eyes didn’t tear up with wind, dust, or pain as much, because that could compromise their eyesight in battle, but emotion could bring tears. 

“It’s okay,” Geralt whispered, although not so low that Jaskier wouldn’t hear. “He won’t judge you.”

“I did too, a little,” Eskel said. Had he? Lambert hadn’t noticed. He let tears fall mixing with the moisture from the steam on his face. Jaskier reached around to get more oil and one landed on his hand, so he brushed a thumb down the tear track on Lambert’s face.

It could have, should have felt either patronizing or romantic. It wasn’t. It was just intimate. Gentle, intimate, platonic touch. Lambert began to cry a little harder. 

Geralt sidled over and leaned against him, pressing their shoulders together. Eskel joined in on the other side so that Lambert was sandwiched between his older brothers. 

They sat like that until Jaskier rinsed out Lambert’s hair.

He’d taken longer on the wash, Lambert noted, even though he had the least hair of the three of them. He was grateful for it. 

Eskel and Lambert watched as Geralt washed Jaskier’s hair, passing Geralt the bottle of oil--mint, to go with the mint and honey soap Jaskier favored--whenever Geralt needed it.

Lambert realised he was purring, and wondered how long he’d been doing it, but he had a pretty good idea.

[jessamine-rose]

God I'm so in love with Chemistry. I really can't wrap my head around how you manage to over and over again just churn out such haunting masterpieces!! Herbarium? Chemistry?Housecat? I love them all I love your works so much.

I knew in my heart that I shouldn't get to attached to story Dotorre, but you made him so strangely charming somehow that I couldn't help but still keep wanting him to "genuinely" "love" reader 😭. Your writing is so compelling it keeps throwing me in every direction and I enjoy every second of it. The Dottore-Reader dynamic was so interesting and Dottore's manipulation and motivations kept me so deathly intrigued. Reader's near blind faith, Dottore's calibrated affection, and their subtle power imbalance was masterful.

Thank you so much for Magnum Opus also it was such a fun read and your characterization of Dottore is SO good. "Having analyzed my own behavioral changes and emotional attachment, I find this idea rather agreeable." ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? IM GOING TO THINK ABOUT THAT FOR MONTHS!!! And the scene with the segments with Dotorre systematically analysing the progression of his feelings for reader?? A segment wanting reader clones because they find reader more competent (probably the highest genuine compliment from a Dottore at that age)??? The subtle complaint from a segment at their time with observing reader being interrupted??? I love the way you wrote his messed up way of loving. You write him with so much complexity and it makes me want to put the funny little guy under a microscope.

Despite their messed up relationship and the inhumane things they do together I'm happy for their happy end? Like... congratulations I suppose? In a way? They make me feel very complicated and I enjoy that from them and from you for making me feel so many strong things in the span of a few minutes.

Thank you again for sharing your works with us! My life is all the more richer for it and I'm greatful to be able to consume it!

Anonie, your message just made my day (;﹏;)

Thank you for pointing out your favorite parts of Chemistry!! It makes me happy knowing that y’all appreciate the lil details and my version(s) of Dottore. And a reader of my other works, I see?? Thank you for your long-time support <3

[quizzyisdone]

Russell Adler is a Cat Dad | Headcanons

A/N: Yesterday I jokingly posted that Adler is a cat person, but then I realized how true it actually is. May have gotten a little carried away with these headcanons. Sorry not sorry.

Warnings: Some strong language

- Russell Adler is definitely a cat person and you can’t change my mind. 

- He even has one at his place back in the states. Now, you’d think that someone like Adler would prefer to have a super elegant, mysterious and sassy cat that abhors human connection unless they want something. Like most cat people.

- Nope. Not Adler. His is a trash child. And he loves it.

- He found his cat as a kitten behind a Burger Town dumpster in ‘79, covered in ketchup and grease, nearly starved to death and shivering in the winter air. Sims, who was with him at the time, seemed to take pity and they took it back to Adler’s place to clean it up and feed it some lunch meat scraps. 

- Initially, Adler wanted to take it to the shelter, he never had a pet in his life, but this ugly little tabby cat just attached herself to him. He tried to seem indifferent at first, but when Sims woke up the next morning to see the wretched little thing perched on top of Adler’s chest, purring up a storm while sleeping soundly as Adler’s hand absentmindedly pet its head, he knew it was too late. Adler had fallen in love.

- Adler kept making excuses to put off bringing the cat to the shelter. “She’s too young.” or “No one would adopt her at this age and she’ll just end up euthanized.” until he finally admitted he just wanted to keep her.

- “If you keep her, she’ll need a name.”

- “How about Maddie?”

- “Nope, that name’s too pretty for that ugly thing.”

- “She isn’t that ugly!” Adler lied, knowing damn well that Sims was right. That cat was an ugly trash kitten, but it was his ugly trash kitten.

- No name seemed to stick until Sims joking said “Greasy”, harking back to the condition in which they found the cat. Adler actually liked the name and decided to call her that.

- Greasy is ugly, she’s super thin with really long legs. Adler thought she’d eventually grow into those pointlessly long legs, big ears, super skinny torso and larger than life green eyes. Nope. She’s destined to be super awkward and funny looking her entire life.

- Don’t call her funny looking to his face though, Adler will argue and fight relentlessly over how beautiful his precious cat is, despite knowing that this cat is ugly.

- What Greasy lacks in physical charms though, she makes up for in how sweet she is. Always has her motor running, a purr that you can hear a mile away, and always needs to be attached to Adler somehow. 

- Adler loves his cat so damn much, if you hang around and let him think he’s alone, you can hear him talking to Greasy.

- “You are the most beautiful thing in the world, don’t let those mean old fuckers tell you otherwise.” He’ll coo in a baby voice while letting her lay on his shoulder.

- You can see little scratch marks in his leather jacket from when she tried to use it as a scratching post while it was hanging on a chair. He also doesn’t mind the cat hair that clings to his clothes, despite being pretty anal about his appearance otherwise.

- He’ll also use Greasy as another lie for his scar when Bell asks.

- “Yeah, my cat used my face as a runway once.” It’s one of the more unbelievable lies, a housecat couldn’t do that kind of damage, but he loves watching the look on Bell’s face.

- Also, in an alternate universe, where Adler doesn’t kill Bell in the good ending, I can definitely envision Greasy taking a liking to Bell, much to Adler’s dismay. He’ll be jealous and it seems that even his cat in some weird way feels sorry for Bell. 

- Don’t worry Adler, you’re still Greasy’s human.

- Loves that cat more than he loves any person, and will definitely spoil the shit out of her.

- “Congratulations, Adler. You have effectively substituted cats for real human connection.” Park quips, half joking and half serious. She doesn’t understand why Adler loves that damn animal so much. 

- No one in the safehouse believes Sims, save for Park, when he tells them about how soft their commanding officer is for some ugly tabby they found behind a fast food joint.

Other Random Cat Dad! Adler Headcanons:

- After retiring from the CIA, years after he found Greasy, he adopts two other cats from a local animal shelter so that she won’t be so lonely, two female black cats from the same litter named “Ellie” and “Maddie” because those were the two names he originally suggested for Greasy, but it didn’t quite stick.

- All three of them get along well enough, especially Maddie and Greasy, but come night time, Maddie and Greasy fight for the spot right above Adler’s head on his pillow. Ellie doesn’t give a fuck.

- Ellie is the independent and the smartest one out of all of them and is the least affectionate, until Adler meets his partner. Then she attaches themselves to them, and develop a similar type of bond like Adler’s and the other two. (Especially if it’s Bell, that cat knows what’s up.)

- When Greasy dies in 1994, fifteen years after he found her, Adler keeps a little picture frame on his bedside table with a photo of her to remember her by.

[missdawnandherdusk]

Beautifully Beastly

Reader X Draco

Summary: It’s over ten years since the Battle of Hogwarts, and you stumble upon an old classmate and his son. Soon you find yourself in a large house, tutoring a young protege, and acquiring feelings for his father...? 

A/n: Okay, so this is the cutest thing in the world. I changed cannon of course, but isn’t that the point of fanfiction? Anyway, I know I tortured you guys with the last chapter of my Hufflepuff!Reader series, so here’s a cute one shot with a brooding older Draco and a lively Scorpius who just wants to learn everything. I love you guys so so much, let me know what you think!!

“Draco? Draco Malfoy?” I asked, pausing at the park bench.

The same white blond hair was not longer and tied back at the nape of his neck. I would have mistaken him as Lucius if I didn’t linger. He had grown into his features, his eyes still the same piercing blue. It had to have been maybe ten years since I had seen Draco last. They were memories I didn’t dwell on often.

“Y/n,” Recognition flirted across his face. “What... what are you doing here?” 

“It’s a park?” A smile found its way to my lips. “I come here to clear my head,” 

He nodded, as if in understanding.

“So, what are you doing here?” I mused.

“I’m here with my son,”

“Son?” I was surprised. “I didn’t know you had a kid,” my eyes scanned the park and narrowed in on a little boy with white blond hair. “Should have known though,” I smiled. “His mother?” I sat on the opposite side of the bench.

“Died when he was seven months,” His eyes stayed on his son’s playful form in the distance.

“Sorry,” I offered, wrapped my arms around my midriff.

“It’s fine,” His lips pressed into a tight line, letting me know that it was not fine.

“I hear you’re a Head Auror,” I tried to keep pleasant conversation. “Brought in a lot of his followers,”

He didn’t comment. His jaw clenched and he kept a cool mask on his features. He clenched his left fist and drew it to himself almost defensively. I heard a lot of other things about Draco as well over the years. It was hard to escape the politics and news of the Wizarding World, but I knew Draco better than a news article, even if I hadn’t seen him in a decade—which spoke to how much the papers knew.

“Where did you end up?” He asked finally.

“Um, well, I’m a writer. Historian.” I clarified. “It’s been a lot of work lately trying to get everything written correctly. So many biased petty people wanting to get their two cents in,” I scoffed, my thoughts drawing to Skeeter, who still wouldn’t retire.

“Historian?” He mused. “So, you’re well versed in a lot of topics then?”

“I guess, yeah. McGonagall sent me a letter not too long ago asking me to come and teach. I... I couldn’t bear to think going back...” I looked down at my hands. “That place still haunts me.”

“Are you for hire though?”

That caught my attention.

“Hire?” I pressed, my brows quirking together.

“Private tutor, for Scorpius.” Draco nodded towards his son. “I’ve been looking for someone to come and start his schooling.”

“You want me to tutor your son?” I asked, quite shocked.

“You’d have lodging at the Manor, and all the books and supplies you needed, as well as a salary,”

I gaped at him. “Okay...?” I finally got out.

It took about a week, but soon I was moved into the Manor with access to the library wing, and the rest of the house as I pleased. The house elves had orders to answer to me as if I was there mistress—even though I hated the notion and protested.

Scorpius was hesitant around me for a few days, until he caught me practicing spells. He was delighted to see even a bit of magic, and I wondered if Draco ever did magic in front of his song. Draco gave me a vague outline of what he wanted me to cover with Scorpius, leaving a lot of it up to me. Which was for better or worse, the best mistake he could have made.

Draco seemed to realize that when he came home one evening and Scorpius and I were in the front lawn, covered in bowtruckles. The little boy was laughing joyously, playing with the small plant creatures. Draco started to yell, but seeing his son laugh, he paused and gave me a cold look before heading inside. I rolled my eyes at him and brought Scorpius inside to wash up for dinner.

“If you have something to say to me,” I baited, leaning against his study door jam.

“No,” He said curtly, his back to me as he leaned against his desk. “He should be well versed in herbology,”

I made an exasperated gesture and let it drop.

A few months passed, and I spent the days teaching Scorpius anything and everything. I had the weekends off, but still didn’t mind taking the young Malfoy to the park or lake or wherever else he wanted to go. Sometimes Draco accompanied us, sometimes he’d be gone weeks on end on a case. In those long periods of time I did my best to keep Scorpius happy. I taught him how to bake cookies and other sweets. I read to him bedtime stories, both muggle and wizarding—after getting a pinky promise from Scorpius that he wouldn’t tell his father.

There were some nights that Draco and I spent together, not intentionally. But he’d be in the library, reading from a pile of large old books, and I’d flit around, finding the material I wanted. Sometimes I’d ask him for a certain book, and he’d raise the one in his hands. It was always left on my desk in the morning.

A few nights I’d find him asleep in his large chair, the book that was in his lap fallen onto the floor. I’d pick up the book and drape an afghan around his shoulders. Neither of us mentioned it.

We shared tea and coffee in the early mornings before he was off to work and I had been up all night reading, our internal clocks aligning for no more than a quarter hour.

After seeing Scorpius to bed, one night in late November, I retired to my own room, picking up my book, continuing to read. The hours slipped away, and I was forced to stop reading and turn in for the night. It was a silent night... almost.

My eyelashes flickered open at the nudging on my arm. I met a teary eyed blond little boy.

“M-miss Y/n? I-I had a nightmare and d-dad’s not h-home,” He hiccupped, trying to hold back further tears.

I was immediately alert and awake, a gentle smile on my face. The light from the hall softly lit the room. I scooched back in the bed and held up the covers.

“Well, come on,” I encouraged. “It’s alright,”

Scorpius hurried under the duvet and curled up to my side without hesitation. My arms draped around him and my hands stoked his hair softly. I had no idea what I was doing, but it seemed to calm the young Malfoy.

“Nightmares, huh?” I asked softly and he nodded into my shoulder. “Can I tell you a secret?” Starling blue eyes met mine shining with tears and hope.

“There’s a way to beat nightmares,” I smiled widely and pulled my wand from under the pillow. “It’s called a Patronus,”

With practiced movements I casted the charm and a silvery ferret emerged from my wand. My eyebrows furrowed. The last time I casted the charm, it was a housecat. The ferret, however, bounced around in the air, circling around the room before hovering in front of Scorpius.

“You have a Patronus, Scorpius,” I let the charm fall, tucking my wand back away. “And it’s always protecting you,”

“But I can’t do magic,” The little boy pouted. “I don’t even have a wand.”

“A Patronus isn’t cast by a wand,” I watched confusion fall upon his face. “It lives inside you, in your happiest memories. And it always protects you.”

The little boy nodded, and I went back to stroking his hair softly. 

“I miss daddy,” He mumbled.

“I know sweetheart,” I sighed softly. “But he’s out there protecting you too. He takes down bad wizards who want to hurt you and everyone else,”

“People say that daddy is a bad wizard,” Scorpius was almost scared to say it.

I took a sharp breath in and exhaled slowly.

“I grew up with your dad,” I told him, rubbing his back. “And he made some... difficult choices. We all did. His choices didn’t work out so well, and people hold it against him. But we were just kids,” I sighed softly thinking of my last few years at Hogwarts. “I should have done something...” Shaking the thought I looked back down to Scorpius. “But your daddy loves you. So much Scorpius, and though it may not seem like it, you’re his entire world.”

He nodded into my shoulder again, and I pulled the covers around him. His eyes had a hard time staying open. I smiled, running my fingers through his hair still. Humming an old lullaby, we were both calmed to sleep.

“Scorpius!?” A harsh worried voice called.

My hand went to my wand as I cradled Scorpius protectively watching Draco burst in through the door. We both seemed to relax at the sight of the other. Scorpius stirred in my arms, blinking up at me sleepily.

“Nightmare?” Draco asked softly, kneeling beside my bed, reaching out to stroke his son’s head.

I nodded and uncurled my arms from around him, letting him cling to his father, he was now wrapped up in Draco’s arms. Draco disappeared from the room for a few minutes then returned. I sat up, turning on the lamp.

“I’m sorry about that,” Draco looked at the floor. “He’s been having a hard time lately.” 

I nodded. “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” There was a weight in Draco’s eyes.

“Dray,” I called. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, long day, that’s all,” He rubbed his face. “One too many hexes... we got him though,”

“That’s good,” There was a silence that hung around us.

“How did you get him to calm down?” Draco asked, changing the topic. “It takes me at least an hour,”

“Patronus Charm,” I smiled. “And an old muggle lullaby,” I tacked on.

“Are you contaminating my son with muggle things?” The words were harsh, but there was a smile at Draco’s lips.

“A bit,” I smiled back. “He loves you Draco,” I confessed to my duvet after a moment.

He nodded and leaned against the door jam, his eyes slipping closed. I called his name and his eyes snapped back open. He grumbled a goodnight and lumber down the hall. I shrugged mentally and spent the next hour staring at the ceiling trying to figure out why my Patronus had changed all of a sudden.

It was a few nights later and I was awoken again, this time by muffled screams and cries. I sprang from my bed, wand in hand, Lighting Charm casted as I tore down the hall. The sounds were coming from Draco’s room. I barged in and saw him thrashing on the bed.

Nightmares must have been a commonality in the Malfoy household.

“Draco!” I called, setting down my wand and shaking his shoulder. “Draco! Wake up!”

His eyes didn’t flash open. He didn’t seem to notice me.

“Daddy?” A small voice called from the door.

“Scorpius go get me a glass of water, please,” I threw the task at the young boy to get him out of the room. He scurried off.

“Come on, Draco,” I whispered, throwing back the sheets. “You can beat this,”

Grabbing my wand, I went through a mental list of spells that might wake him up, but I took the notion after dealing with Scorpius’ nightmares and casted my Patronus. The ferret instantly soared towards Draco, diving into his chest and disappearing. I stared, awaiting.

“Draco?” I asked again, sitting beside him on the bed. Hesitantly, I reached out and took his hand. “Please wake up Draco,” I pleaded softly. “It’s just a dream,”

Blue eyes flashed open and wrestled me to the ground, wand under my throat, a wild look in his eyes. I raised my hands in surrender, raising my eyebrows at him.

“It’s me,” I soothed. “It’s just me,”

Draco groaned and released me, rubbing his face. He sat on the floor, leaning against the bed frame. I sat next to him. We didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say. The patter of little feat had us both looking at Scorpius enter the room, glass of water in his shaking hands. He offered it to me, and I passed it to Draco who downed it instantly.

“Are you okay daddy?” Scorpius asked meekly.

“Yeah, I’m okay bud,” He nodded. “Just a dream,”

“Don’t you have a Patronus like Miss Y/n? She says it protects you from nightmares,”

“It’s okay sweetheart,” I smiled tiredly. “I let him use mine tonight,” Standing, I lifted the little boy into my arms. “Let’s get back to bed, huh?”

It took a while, but Scorpius did finally settle down enough for me to feel comfortable to leave him—it did require a bit of spell work. A simple spell that left his bedroom ceiling reflecting the starry night outside—what my parents used to do for me. Another soft muggle lullaby and the stars beckoned the young Malfoy to sleep.

When I turned to leave, Draco was waiting for me in the hallway. Something gripped my heart when I saw the brushed away tears on his face. Without thinking, I wrapped him in my arms, pulling him close. He didn’t push me away. Instead he clung to me, the same way that Scorpius did.

My hands laced into his long silvery hair, carding through it. He pressed his face into my shoulder—having to hunch himself down to accomplish the feat—and inhaled deeply.

Before I wanted him to, he pulled away. Again, we didn’t say anything. Deciding that I wasn’t going to leave Draco on his own either tonight, I took his hand and led him back to my room. He didn’t protest. I nodded to the bed and got in on one side and he got in on the other. There was a tension between us that dissolved when I reached out for his hand in the moonlight.

“Has your Patronus always been a ferret?” He asked softly. 

“It was a cat up until recently,” I confessed.

We fell back into silence and remained like that until my eyelids became too heavy to open again.

“Thank you,” Was the last thing I heard before being pulled under.

In the morning, he was gone. I expected it though, he had to work at the Ministry. It was the entire point of my being at the Manor, to watch after Scorpius while his father worked. That and tutor him, but that was become less of a priority the more time I spent with the small family.

That night, however, I was on the verge of sleep when I heard my bedroom door open. A familiar silhouette slunk through the darkness, padding across the wooden floor. A small smile grew on my face as Draco slipped into bed next to me, lying very still. My heart raced. I rolled onto my back and we both stared at the ceiling in silence. Our soft breaths were the only thing heard. His hand reached for mine in the darkness.

He was gone again in the morning. I sighed and sat up, rubbing my face. My feelings were confusing themselves as questions swarmed in my mind. Draco was home for dinner that night. Scorpius went on and on about the day we had: I introduced him to Latin.

“They’re just like spells!” He exclaimed. “Miss Y/n showed me!” 

“You know Latin?” Draco looked at me.

“Spent a few semesters at a muggle college learning it,” I shrugged. “Some records only have copies written in it.”

He didn’t comment.

I retired to my room early that night, worrying my lip the entire evening, trying to figure out what was going on. It was all so confusing. Sometimes I thought I saw something in Draco and he in me, but... what did I know?

Draco was preparing for another long-term case. It was only a week. Scorpius tried not to cry in front of his father, but later the young Malfoy ran to me in tears. I lifted him into my arms and rocked him softly. I began to sing another muggle lullaby, a new one. It caught his attention as he calmed to listen to my new melody.

“How do you know all of these songs?” He asked with watery eyes.

“I used to get scared too,” I confided in him as I laid him into bed. “Sometimes I still do. They’re another secret to keep from being afraid.”

“But where do they come from?” He asked.

I smiled and pulled his covers up. “That... is something I’ll have to talk to your father about. It’s complicated,”

“Why?”

“Because they’re all muggle songs,” I explained softly. “And your father is...”

“Against muggles?” Scorpius frowned.

“No,” I responded immediately. “But though I teach you, I don’t have liberty to tell you everything my dear,”

“Why not?”

“Because...” I sighed. I’m not your mother.

“It’s complicated?” Scorpius gave a familiar smirk that once belonged to his father. 

“Quite so,” I replied and stood. “I’ll talk to him before he leaves.”

“Night Miss Y/n,”

“Goodnight Scorpius,”

I closed his door and leaned against it for a moment before finding my courage to go and find Draco. I found him packing in his study, gathering books and various magical items. I knocked on the door frame.

“Yes?” He didn’t look up.

How was I supposed to start this conversation?

“Y/n?” This time he did look up, worry in his blue eyes. “What’s wrong?” He set down his bag and came over to me. “Is Scorpius alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” I answered quickly. “He... Am I allowed to show him muggle movies?” The question was barely audible.

Draco’s expression sobered as he went back to his desk.

“They’re just fairytales, Draco.” I reasoned softly. “Just stories...”

“And they were just lullabies,” He snapped. “I should have stopped you the first time you sang to him... muggle songs... my son wanting to hear muggle songs... and movies...”

It was like a slap to the face. I took a small step back. Maybe I had been wrong, and Draco was still against muggles.

“If they’re so awful, why didn’t you stop me?” I snapped. “You had every chance to stop me.” 

“I’m stopping you now,” His voice was ice.

“You can’t do that,” I argued back. “He wants to know!”

“I do as I please! I am his father! You work for me! You will do as I say!” He threw down a book and stormed over to me, fury written on his face.

“Then I resign,” I bit out.

He faltered and froze.

“What?”

“You heard me,” I tilted my chin back. “I will not be treated like a child. And I will not keep secrets from yours. He deserves more than that,” My voice was calm and even.

“And what do you know about what he deserves!?” Draco spat. “He isn’t your child! You aren’t his mother!”

“I know that!” I yelled back, tears in my eyes.

I turned away, covering my face, biting back the tears that wanted to fall. I took a deep breath. 

“I’ll stay until you return, for Scorpius’ sake.” I gritted out. “Then I’m gone,”

I ran down the halls of the Manor and slammed my door shut, locking it childishly. Then I broke down into tears, leaning against it. I quieted when I heard footsteps coming down the hallway. They lingered outside my door but made no attempt to knock or open the door.

The next morning, he was gone.

Scorpius noticed my somber mood almost immediately. He asked me why I was sad. Then he asked me what I fought with his father about, bursting into tears when I told him that I was leaving within the week.

“But you can’t go Miss Y/n!” He sobbed, crawling into my lap. I bit back tears and cradled him close.

“I have to,” A few tears escaped. “But that doesn’t mean I love you any less,” I stroked his face softly, brushing away tears. “But I can’t keep things from you, and your father won’t let me teach them to you. I can’t do that to you my darling,”

“I don’t care! I don’t want you to go!” He clung to me. 

“Scorpius, darling,” I tried to reason with a four-year-old. 

“No! I won’t let you go!” He cried.

I held him close, hiding my face from him so that he didn’t have to see me cry. I started to whisper out another song. It quieted his crying once more but didn’t stop my own. He slept with me every night that week. I knew it wasn’t a smart idea, but I couldn’t seem to get out the word ‘no.’

There was a loud crack in the foyer while I was teaching Scorpius how to write his letters—he had a habit of mixing up runes and letters. I rose, knowing the sound of apperating and rushed down the hall. Draco was lain on the floor, scantly breathing and bleeding, severely.

I froze at the sight and turned, catching Scorpius in my arms and ushering him away from the sight.

“Scorpius, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” I set him down, kneeling in front of him. “In my room there’s a green carpet bag with purple flowers on it. I need that bag. Please Scorpius,”

He nodded and took off up the stairs and I rose, shedding my cardigan and rolling up my sleeves. I hurried over to Draco, kneeling beside him, drawing my wand.

“Medicari,” I chanted, running my wand over his slain skin. 

The gashes on his skin vanished, but he still looked deathly.

“Draco? Draco can you hear me!?” I fought back tears, lifting his head softly, placing it in my lap.

Scorpius came in, my bag in his arms. I thanked him and ripped the bag open. He took his father’s hand, silent tears on his face as a house elf showed up behind him.

“Get out!” I shouted at the elf, drawing a vial from my bag: Elixir of Life. “Just one drop,” I whispered softly to myself.

Uncapping the bottle, I took the dropper and placed it to Draco’s lips that were parted, scarce breaths drawing through them. Just one drop.

Slowly Draco became less a sickly green and restored back to the beautiful pale complexion. His breathing became deeper, healthier. His lips were no linger blue, but the soft pink color they had always been. His eyes remained closed, however.

“Daddy?” Scorpius asked softly.

“He’ll be fine,” I whispered, mostly to myself.

My eyes trailed over his body, making sure I hadn’t missed anything else, and I noticed that his shirt sleeve had been torn and the Dark Mark was opaque black and surrounded by red and irritated skin.

“Death Eaters,” I hissed. “Scorpius, come here,” I opened my arms and the little boy ran to me. I held him protectively and drew my wand, casting Protective and Shielding Charms around the Manor.

“What are Death Eaters?” Scorpius asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” I murmured softly. “Just stay close for now.” My eyes kept darting around the room, expecting to see the dead walk again and my old nightmares come back to haunt me.

“Are you still gonna leave?” Scorpius sniffled, his tears staring to fall again. 

“No, sweetheart,” I consoled. “I’m not leaving you on your own.”

I was decided in that moment. It didn’t matter what Draco said to me or ordered me to do. I would stay for Scorpius’ sake. Even if that meant laying aside my pride. I would stay.

With the dreadful feeling that Draco might not wake up soon, I called a house elf—whom I apologized to upon seeing—and had her apparate Draco up to his room, and into bed. Scorpius was glued to my side the entire evening. The house elf came in later with soup and tea for dinner as well as a bowl of water and washcloth.

After dinner, Scorpius fell asleep in my lap. I gently laid him on the chaise lounge that was next to the bed and covered him with an extra blanket. Then I took the water and washcloth and began my task.

I took my time and gently washed the sweat and grim from Draco’s face, moving to his neck and arms. He looked peaceful like this. Years of harsh and cold looks were gone. Instead I found something reminiscent of a young boy at Hogwarts evident in his features. Without knowing it, I began to sing softly.

I unbuttoned Draco’s black shirt and continued to wash away the dried blood and dirt. It was a slow process, but it gave me something to focus on; rather than the crippling anxiety that loomed over me. My fingertips traced old scars that littered his chest in an abstract pattern. I wondered how many of them he had to mend alone...

I sat on the floor, leaning against the bedframe and tried to read my book, but failed. I just stared at the fire in the hearth and sang absentmindedly. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed three o’clock.

“Y/n?” A scratchy groggy voice called.

I sprang up and met tired blue eyes.

“Merlin, Draco,” I cried, tears springing into my eyes as I crouched beside him stroking his face.

He tried to sit up and I aided him, tears streaming silently down my face.

“Don’t do that to me!” I squeaked, cupping his face between my hands, sitting on the bed. “What were you thinking!?”

“I-I’m sorry,” He stammered, shocked at my cry of emotion.

I drew him into a tight embrace and buried my face in his shoulder. Tentatively his arms wrapped around me. After a moment, they started to rub my back as I cried into his shoulder.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” I confessed through tears.

“No, never,” His vow baffled me.

I withdrew and studied him, confusion and heart break on both of our faces.

“I’m sorry,” He took my hand in his. “It was wrong for me to yell at you like that. Or to say the things I did. Please, don’t leave. Even if you can’t stand to be near me, nor say another word to me again, Scorpius needs you,” A pause. “...I need you.”

Saddened blue eyes met mine and I pressed my lips to his without a second thought. His lips melded to mine instantly as he drew me into his arms. My hands went to his hair, knotting themselves into his long locks. His lips were hot and desperate against mine—mine even more so against his.

“Daddy?”

We quickly parted, both of our attentions snapping to a sleepy Scorpius.

“Why are you kissing Miss Y/n?” He asked, rubbing his eyes. “And why is she in your lap?”

After a moment of shock, I dissolved into laughter, hiding my face in Draco’s shoulder. I felt him shake with laughter too. One of Draco’s hands left my waist, beckoning Scorpius into our embrace. It took a bit of finagling, but soon we were all laying on the bed, Scorpius tucked between Draco and me. Draco pulled a blanket around us, pressing kisses to Scorpius’ head and to my forehead. My fingers combed through Scorpius’ hair as I watched him fall asleep to the soft melody that fell from my lips.

When I was positive that he was asleep, my gaze shifted to nervous blue eyes. I searched for answers, for an explanation. Draco seemed to pick up on that.

“They... Polyjuice Potion,” He started. “It was you; they were you... I... Merlin, Y/n,” He reached out and took my hand. “It was a living nightmare... your screams... they wouldn’t advance... it was days before...”

“Stars, Draco,” My heart broke at the picture that he was piecing together for me.

I could only imagine if the roles had been switched and it was Draco that I had heard screaming from pain and torture for days... not being able to do anything... trying to prove to myself it wasn’t real... What would I have done?

“You went in alone,” I realized. “You... Draco, what were you thinking? You could have been killed!” I whispered harshly, careful not to wake Scorpius.

“I... They weren’t going to take away someone else that I cared for. I wasn’t going to sit by and watch it happen,” His voice was firm and sure.

I reached out and stroked his face softly, his eyes connecting with mine. Nothing was said but everything was meant. It was moments like these that my regrets shone the most. I should have done more in school... I should have done something...

“I was going to stay anyway,” I confessed, my gaze dropping down to the young Malfoy. “I couldn’t leave him like that.”

“You... you would have let me order you around... for the sake of my son?” Draco’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes,” I whispered softly. “And I still will, if that’s what it takes.” 

My eyes met his again. There were tears in them.

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” Draco whispered softly.

I smiled and shook my head softly.

“It’s never about what we deserve, but what we do in spite of it,”

We fell asleep, the three of us, curled up and clinging to each other. It was peaceful, for once. When I awoke in the morning, I was alone. Frantically I looked around for Scorpius but relaxed when I heard laughter and a loud clatter downstairs.

Snagging Draco’s house coat, I made my way downstairs to find Draco and Scorpius in the kitchen, in various states of disaster. Scorpius was covered in what looked like flour—Draco not faring much better—and the kitchen counters were covered with pretty much every baking utensil and dish that the Malfoy’s owned. It was very hard not to laugh. So, I did.

“Scourgify,” I snapped my fingers and the kitchen began to return to a less chaotic state of being.

Scorpius marveled at the wandless magic as everything was placed in its proper order. I carefully made my way over to the two Malfoys, avoiding dishes and pans that floated around in a hurry to find their proper homes.

“Good morning,” I drawled, raising an eyebrow at Draco.

“He insisted we make pancakes the muggle way because someone taught him,” He raised an eyebrow back at me.

“I almost remember how to do it Miss Y/n!” Scorpius cut in between us, pulling at my hand.

Chuckling, I pulled him up into my arms and set him on the counter. Then I went around and gathered what was actually necessary to make pancakes. Draco watched quietly, offering things I needed before I could ask for them. His gaze and hands always lingered when they were upon me, and it left me a bit redder than I cared to admit.

With breakfast on the small kitchen table, coffee and tea brewed—a glass of milk for Scorpius— we ate in the company of one another. Draco started to chide Scorpius about the amount of syrup he was using, and I gave Draco an amused look and he refrained, sighing and reading the Daily Prophet. (It meant having to give Scorpius a bath afterwards because of the sticky mess, but it was worth it).

“How did you do it?” Draco asked as we walked the grounds, Scorpius chasing the wild peacocks.

“Do what?” I asked, eyeing a peacock that was getting a bit too aggressive for my taste.

“Last night,” He gave, but I still wasn’t quite sure what he wanted me to explain. “you saved my life. I know about every spell and potion out there... how did you do it so quickly?”

“Elixir of Life,” I paused and teetered my head. “Sort of. It’s the juice of the Fire-Flowers that grow in the Mountains of the Sun. Cures any illness and injury... as long as the person still has breath.”

“That what of what?”

I laughed. “Historian, remember?” I nudged his side. “You learn a few things. I think I have what’s left of it... no one has been able to find the flowers or the mountain any longer.”

“What did you go and waste it on me for then?” He exclaimed. 

“Um, you were dying?” I argued back. “It wasn’t a waste.” 

“I’m hardly worth keeping alive,”

“That’s not true,” I refuted stubbornly. “You mean so much to Scorpius, and to me for that matter. What would either of us do without you?” I looked to Scorpius who had a peacock feather in his hand, waving it proudly. We both waved back.

“He’d be fine. He’s strong,”

“He’s four, Draco,” I snapped. “He doesn’t need to be strong; he needs to be a kid.”

Draco pursed his lips and sighed. “Suppose you’re right,” He finally admitted. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing this right...”

“There is no right way to raise someone, Draco,” Then mended, “Okay, there’s no one certain way that you have to raise someone. And I think you’re doing just fine with him. He’s a great kid, Dray,”

“Miss Y/n! Look what I found!” Scorpius ran over, a small bowtruckle in his hand.

“Look at that!” I crouched down. “But you better go put him back, he needs to be with his family,”

The little boy nodded and ran back into the yard, crouching down beside a bush. Our conversation of the matter seemed to end there. Draco was called back into work and Scorpius and I remained outside for the rest of the evening. When he returned later that evening, Scorpius was fast asleep in bed and I was staring at the family portraits in the great room. Though the figures moved, they gave me no guidance on what to do. Draco came and stood beside me, gazing at the paintings as well.

“She was beautiful,” I whispered softly, looking at the painting of Draco, Astoria, and an infant Scorpius. “With more courage than a lion,”

Draco nodded and stared at his late wife. I gnawed at my lip and sighed softly.

“Sometimes I wonder how things would have changed if she was still here,” Draco confessed to the painting. “If they would have...”

“Well, you wouldn’t need me,” I smiled sadly.

“And why not?” He turned to me, confusion on his features. “Scorpius would still need a teacher,”

“But we never would have met in the park that day. It wouldn’t be me here...” My gaze shifted back to the portrait.

He went quiet at that, and with a deep breath, bid me goodnight and retired to his room for the rest of the evening. I gave the paintings one last glimpse and turned in myself. I was alone that night, not getting much sleep.

We fell back into an odd sort of routine as December ended. I attempted to keep my emotions for Draco under control as I continued to teach his son. I may have failed at the notion completely. I had convinced Draco to throw a small party for Scorpius for his fifth birthday and though it was only the three of us as well as Narcissa and Lucius, the youngest Malfoy was the happiest five- year-old in the world.

“Miss Y/l/n,” Narcissa gestured for me to join her in a quiet sitting room.

Setting down my plate of homemade cake—that I showed Scorpius how to make upon his request and pouting—I followed her. Anxiety grew in my chest as we sat by the warm hearth.

“It’s my understanding that you are tutoring my grandson,” She said softly. 

“Yes ma’am,” I nodded, fidgeting with my sweater.

“And that you care deeply for my son,” She gave me a knowing look.

I pressed my lips together and stared at the crackling fire.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel,” I repeated my mantra. “I can’t...”

“And why not?” My eyes snapped up at hers, a startled look on my face as she continued. “Draco has been through a lot, and I cannot change the past. Astoria aided him through some of it, setting him back on his feet, but you my dear, have brought back life to my son’s eyes.”

“Mrs. Malfoy,” I started, but she raised her hand to stop me.

“I understand if you do not wish to take on the family name, nor commit to a very broken man.”

“That’s not the issue,” I amended quickly. “I... I don’t know if Draco is ready... Sometimes I think yes, then other times I don’t know what’s going through his head... and I don’t want to lose him or Scorpius if I’m wrong...”

“We are never truly ready for anything my dear,” Narcissa spoke softly, reminiscing. “But I know my son, and I know that he has changed so much since you’ve been around. Do not be afraid of not being ready, it’s when true character shines through,” She rose elegantly and gave me a warm smile. “You are good for him,”

“Everything alright in here?” Draco stood in the doorway, a curious look on his face. I did my best to offer an encouraging smile.

“Yes, quite,” His mother smiled and swept out of the room with the grace of a swan.

I stood and readjusted the shawl around my shoulders. Draco’s eyes didn’t leave me as I walked over to him. He was still waiting for me to explain.

“It’s nothing,” I smiled and looked down. “We just talked about Scorpius and his studies, that’s all,” It was an easy lie, and I knew that he could see through it, but he didn’t call me out on it.

“Miss Y/n! Look! Daddy got me a book! Just like yours!” Scorpius bounded over to me, a thick leather-bound book in his hands.

“Isn’t that wonderful!” I beamed, bending down, examining the book’s cover.

Walt Disney’s Classic Storybook Collection: Volume Three

Shock flitted across my emotions as I looked up at Draco, my eyebrows drawing together. 

“They’re just fairytales,” He offered a lopsided smile and a small shrug.

I couldn’t stop the smile on my face or the warmth in my heart that grew. I rose, giving Scorpius his book back and went over to Draco.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered softly. “I told you, it was alright.”

“You were right, Y/n,” He spoke in a hushed tone. “He deserves to know, and he deserves to be a kid,” He pulled me beside him, nodding to his son that played with a mix of muggle and magic toys on the floor, Lucius eyeing him warily and Narcissa beaming.

I leaned against Draco and watched Scorpius play in the firelight, pondering what Narcissa had told me. Was I really the one that brought life back into this small family? Could Draco hold the same regard for me as I did for him?

With his arm wrapped around my side, keeping me close, I thought that just maybe he could.

The night after Narcissa and Lucius had gone, Scorpius begged me to read from his new book as a bedtime story. I gave in and opened the gold leaf pages and skimmed the table of contents. I chose a familiar tale: Peter Pan.

“Is one of your songs from this story?” Scorpius asked, his eyes shining.

“Not this one, no,” I smiled. “But we’ll get to those, I promise,”

He nodded and settled in as I began to read the fairytale. Scorpius was fast asleep before Peter saved Wendy from the mermaids. I closed the book and set it on his bedside table, smiling and leaving his room, the door cracked open. Draco was in his study, hunched over a book on his desk, deeply focused. Passing the room, I headed to the kitchen and made two cups of tea before returning. Setting one on his desk next to him, I stood behind him, leaning against his desk chair.

He murmured a thanks and didn’t look up from the book. Gathering my courage, I sat my mug down as well.

“Draco, can we talk?” I bit my lip and looked down.

His blue eyes looked up from the book, his eyebrows raised, waiting for me to continue. I took a deep breath. Hopefully this conversation would go better than the last time we ‘talked.’

“I... have had a wonderful time, here over the past year, with you and Scorpius,” I began. He sighed. 

“I understand,” There was an air of melancholy in his voice.

“You do?” I wondered what he was referring to or if we were on the same page. It seemed like we weren’t.

“You wish to leave,” His gaze didn’t meet mine. “You tried, and it didn’t work, I understand.”

“What?” I took a small step back, wrapping my arms around myself. “Where in the world did you get an idea like that?” I paused. “Do you want me to leave?” My voice was as small as I felt in that moment.

“No,” He confessed softly. 

“Then what do you want?” His eyes flashed to mine.

“The truth?” He seemed nervous and afraid. I nodded. “I... I don’t...” He pursed his lips together and stood, his back to me, like it would make it easier. “I don’t sleep well when you’re not beside me. I don’t go a day at work without thinking about you. I feel the same need to protect you as I do with Scorpius.

“You understand my son in a way I’ll never comprehend, and I see you in him more and more every day. I’ve given you everything I can, and I still fear it’s not enough to make you want to stay. Because I’ve spent months trying to deny and conceal what I feel about you from you and myself and I can’t do it anymore.”

I gaped at him.

“And maybe keeping you away will keep you safe,” He whispered.

I rounded his desk and reached out, placing my hand on his shoulder. He turned, desperation in his eyes. I reached up and stroked his cheek softly.

“I love you Y/n,” As if the notion broke him. 

“I love you too, Draco,”

His hands cradled my face as he drew me into a scared, hesitant kiss. My hands splayed over his shoulders and pulled him closer. Holding another close, we melted into the other. Past fears, regrets, pains, and nightmares all laid aside for one shining moment.

“Don’t go away,” He whispered softly against my lips.

“Never,” I vowed. “You’re stuck with me now,” I smiled up at him. 

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

It was a soft and gentle night. Draco continued to read, I brought my book and joined him in the sitting room that his mother and I spoke in not hours before. He was sitting in the center of the sofa and my legs were draped across his lap as we read into the late hours of the night.

With unspoken words and requests, we curled up together in his bed, in ridiculously expensive silk sheets and down pillows. My fingers absent mindedly traced the scars across his chest, my head nestled on his shoulder and his arm around me.

He rose early in the morning, placing a kiss to my forehead before heading to get ready for work. In his house coat again, I saw him off, kissing him softly before he departed. Contented, I went to wake Scorpius, humming softly to myself. He insisted that I read him another fairytale after lunch, and I compromised and agreed I would after his lesson.

Draco returned that evening, in a pleasant mood, placing a kiss on my cheek, before lifting Scorpius into his arms, asking about his son’s day. The young Malfoy babbled about the tale of Peter Pan and Captain Hook, saying he wanted to fly like Peter.

“Do you still have your broom?” I mused, curious. “I remember someone being quite the quidditch player,”

Scorpius’ eyes lit up. “You know how to play Quidditch!?” He exclaimed.

I laughed as Draco set down his son, the three of us heading out to the backyard where Draco produced two broomsticks. The wood hummed in my hand the same way that my wand did and responded to my thoughts. Draco and I hovered just above the ground. He pulled Scorpius onto the broom with him and kicked off, soaring high over the Manor. I laughed and chased after them. We flew until the setting sun provided no more light.

Scorpius was asleep in my arms as we headed back inside. Draco followed me up the stairs, helping me tuck his sleeping son into bed. With his arms wrapped around me, Draco and I watched the peaceful slumber that Scorpius had claimed.

“You’re a good mother to him,” Draco whispered lowly, not to disturb his son’s slumber.

My heart fluttered at his words, my lips curling into a smile. A new sort of anxiety set into my chest.

“And you’re a great father,” I gazed up at him through my eyelashes.

Again, Draco and I curled up together in the quiet of the night, talking about anything and everything. What we had been doing the past ten years, what jobs we had taken, how our families were. Some nights Scorpius would join us in bed, either from loneliness or nightmares.

We hold him, as I found another melody to put him to sleep again. In fact, my lullabies had a habit of putting both Malfoys to sleep.

In the park one spring afternoon, Scorpius went off and played with other kids his age. It made me smile, knowing that he probably craved the company of those his age. Draco and I sat together on the same bench where it all started.

“Does that boy look familiar to you?” Draco mused, nodding to the child that Scorpius was laughing with, chasing around the swing sets. There was another little girl with them, with bright red hair and an older boy who held more of a likeness than the younger one.

My eyes started to scan park for the Potters.

“There,” I pointed inconspicuously towards another couple a few benches down from us. “Should we go say hi?” I mused.

Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re still harboring a grudge.” I laughed. “We were kids, Draco. Besides,” I nudged his side. “It looks like Ginny beat me to it.”

The two Potters came walking over, one sulking, one smiling brightly. Draco and I stood, mirroring the other couple.

“I thought I knew a Malfoy when I saw one,” Ginny grinned at me and Draco. 

“Ginny,” I beamed, and we hugged.

“It’s been too long Y/n,” She smiled.

The two boys seemed to be having a stare down, neither giving in. I slipped my hand into Draco’s and Harry’s eyes darted to the gesture, then to my eyes. I offered a smile and Harry seemed to backtrack a bit.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Both Draco and Harry turned.

Scorpius came bounding over smiling hugely. Draco crouched down, a smile on his face as well.

“Daddy! I made a new friend! We’re lost boys together!” Scorpius beamed. “And his brother is Peter Pan and his sister is a lost boy like us!”

The other three children came over, all flocking to Harry and Ginny, telling about the same story that Scorpius did, who was now in Draco’s arms, still going on about their adventure.

“You son knows about Peter Pan?” Harry asked skeptically. “Isn’t that a bit muggle for your lot?” There was a snide tone in his words.

“They’re fairytales Harry. Let them be kids,” Draco responded coolly, like I hadn’t spent months trying to get that through his head.

“Miss Y/n knows all about fairytales! She’s really good at singing them too! She’s been teaching me about so many things!” Scorpius could barely hide his excitement.

Harry looked at the three of us, baffled.

“Seems we have a lot to catch up on,” He finally spoke.

“You’ll have to come by the Manor sometime with the kids,” Draco offered to everyone’s shock, including mine.

“Er, yes.” Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’ll have Ginny send an owl,”

Draco gave a small nod and set Scorpius down.

“Men,” I heard Ginny muttered and grinned.

The young Malfoy clung to my side, holding my hand. This seemed to surprise Harry and Ginny both.

“Are you ready to go, darling?” I asked Scorpius, crouching down. Scorpius gave a small pout. “No crocodile tears,” I tickled him, lifting him into my arms. “Or I’ll just have to make dinner myself tonight...”

The young Malfoy perked up at that. Every once in a while, I’d cook dinner myself, the muggle way and Scorpius was always keen on learning how. Draco joined us on those nights, showing his son how magic also worked in the kitchen.

“I’ll send an owl,” I smiled to Ginny and Harry. “Say goodbye Scorpius,”

A chorus of goodbyes rang about the four children and Draco and I apparated home. Scorpius bounded off to the bathroom to wash his hands at my request before we started dinner and Draco cornered me against the counter in the kitchen.

“Was that so bad?” I smiled up at him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Terrible, absolutely dreadful,” He smirked, pressing a kiss to my lips. “Potter,” He snarled in a familiar tone that had me laughing.

“Oh, some things never change, do they?” I laughed into his shoulder.

“Afraid not,” Draco chuckled. “Thank you, for staying by my side.” His words were soft and low.

“Of course, always,” I murmured, tugging the hair tie from his hair and running my fingers through it. His eyes closed as he relaxed under my touch.

“I love you,” His tone was soft. 

“I love you too,”

Something lingered in his eyes. Something that he hid and something that made the butterflies in my chest flutter anxiously. A question that we both waited for.

It was a few days later that the Potters came over to the Manor, along with the youngest Weasleys and their parents, and another teen who was just as much family as the five kids that accompanied them.

It was tense and awkward for some time between Harry, Ron, and Draco, but with some easy planning and quick thinking between Ginny, Hermione, and me, it faded. We all sat comfortably

out on the back porch, watching the kids play in the yard. I couldn’t help but smile watching Scorpius finally having someone his own age to play and imagine with. Draco seemed to have the same thought because his hand found mine.

“So how did you two end up together?” Ron asked, not so stealthily to Hermione’s dismay.

I laughed and Draco smiled.

“Draco hired me to tutor Scorpius,” I shrugged. “And well...” I looked to Draco and smiled.

“That explains why Scorpius knows so many muggle things,” Harry laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day,”

Soon we all began swapping stories, catching up with each other’s lives. It was nice to be beside Draco and other friends from school. The memories that always haunted me about Hogwarts seemed to fade as the afternoon went on. Dusk came and the two other families bid us goodnight. Scorpius was sad to see his friends go, but with a promise that they would be back, he seemed alright. It wasn’t hard to get him to bed that night, he was fast asleep after the first verse of my lullaby.

An early June day, Scorpius insisted that we make another cake for Draco’s birthday. I laughed and let the young Malfoy pull me to the kitchen as we started our adventure. When Draco came home from work, he found us both covered in frosting, laughing. At least some of the frosting made it onto the cake.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Scorpius yelled. “We made a cake!”

“I see that,” He grinned, setting down his case and shrugging off his robe. “And a mess,”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my cheek then lifted Scorpius into his arms. The little boy giggled, and like every day that Draco came home, began to talk about his day.

“Happy birthday love,” I smiled, leaving them to catch up.

I snapped my fingers and the kitchen began to clean itself again as I set the cake onto a cake stand, I had found in the pantry. With dinner eaten and cake devoured—and no longer all over Scorpius and I—the night was quiet once more.

“Now,” Draco sat Scorpius on the counter. “A little birdie told me that someone wants to see a certain movie?”

Scorpius’ face lit up and nodded enthusiastically. I raised an eyebrow at Draco, who grinned. He lifted his son into his arms and led us both to a small sitting room where a screen and projector had been set up. I gasped, covering my mouth with my hand, tears pricking my eyes.

“Dray,” I breathed out. “You didn’t have to...”

“It’s about time he gets to see them, no?” Draco set his son down on the mountain of pillows and blankets that resided on the floor. “He deserves to be a kid.”

I pulled Draco into a hug. “I love you,”

“I love you too,”

Drawing away, I looked at Scorpius who was waiting more or less patiently.

“And every kid deserves a pillow fort.” I drew my wand and crafted a structurally sound fort, big enough for the three of us.

Nestled down into the fort, Peter Pan began to play. Scorpius was glue to the screen, taking in every moment. In fact, both Malfoys were. Laying my head on Draco’s shoulder, I combed my fingers through Scorpius’ hair.

“If you father knew about this,” I murmured into Draco’s ear, causing him to chuckle. 

“He doesn’t have to,” He grinned like a rebellious teenager.

About twenty minutes into Beauty and the Beast, Scorpius was fast asleep in my lap. I chuckled and Draco helped me up as we put him to bed. I headed back down to the makeshift movie room where the movie was still playing to clean up, but Draco caught my hand. I looked at him expectantly. With a snap of his fingers the room cleaned itself and he pulled me to the cleared floor.

“Dance with me,” He gestured to the dancing pair on the screen.

I laughed and nodded, taking his hand and letting him lead me in a familiar waltz. Though I hadn’t done it in some time, my feet remembered what to do. It was intoxicating, dancing with him. It took me to a world of far off places, magic spells, and a prince in disguise. I sang softly with the music playing, the words setting in both of our hearts.

Ending the dance with the fading melody, our eyes locked both panting softly. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine in a sweet loving kiss, something hidden in his warm eyes when he withdrew. My gaze dropped, a blush on my cheeks.

“Y/n?” He called softly.

I looked up, expectant. Waiting for those four words, dreading their moment but wishing their arrival.

“When we were younger, we lived in a different world,” He began softly. “Things were a lot less complicated. And if, as we are now, met back then... I would have courted you. I may have stolen a kiss or two but only after asking your father’s permission... but we are both very different people now, and I know it’s not the same, but if it were...” He took my hands and slid down onto one knee. My heart hammered in my chest, tears welling into my eyes as a smile grew on my face.

“I would have got down on one knee and I would have presented you with a ring.” He pulled out a small velvet ring box from his pocket and opened it, revealing a ring. “Y/n Y/m/n Y/l/n, I promise to love you every moment forever, would you do me the extraordinary of honor of marrying me?”

With tears streaming down my face I nodded. 

“Yes,” I cried. “Yes, yes, yes!”

A smile broke out across Draco’s face as he scooped me into his arms, spinning me around. We were both crying and holding each other. Little ‘I love you’s left our teary-eyed kisses. He slipped the ring onto my finger: a silver band woven with diamonds and emeralds that enchanted itself to fit my ring-finger.

We didn’t let go of another that night. A night that was filled with soft words, gentle kisses, and loving touches. In the morning, Scorpius burst into our room and bound onto the bed, pulled my left hand into his sights as soon as he was close enough, squealing when he saw the ring.

“I told you daddy!” Scorpius beamed. “I told you she would say yes!” 

“That you did,” Draco ruffled his son’s hair.

I smiled at my boys and pulled them both close. The morning was lazy and filled with laughter and moments that I wanted to hold close forever.

.

.

List of Muggle Lullabies: 

Stay Awake, Mary Poppins

Feed the Birds, Mary Poppins

My Favorite Things, The Sound of Music

Edelweiss, The Sound of Music

Once Upon a December, Anastasia

Lavender’s Blue, Cinderella

A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes, Cinderella

You’ll Be In My Heart, Tarzan

Beauty and the Beast, “”

Remember Me, Coco

You Are My Sunshine, Jasmine Thompson

.

.

Part 2

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Tags: @coffee-addicti @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @fuzzy-panda@bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @jillanaholland @shookyungsoo @savingdraco @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @akari180 @slytherin-emerald @chaotic-good-gemini @memalfoy-spidey@theres-a-dog-outside-omg @queenfeatherwings @fanficflaneuse @go-whovian-universe @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise@dietkiwi@katsukink @takemetothekingdom @strangerr-things@tmnt-queen @mccloudchloe @hxneybgb @justsomerandomgur @belcvayelena @moviesbooksandfandoms @howdycharlie@xtrashmouthxtozierx @cocochanelthepupper@ninacotte@mccloudchloe @braelynn-j @jiggllyy @honeymarvel@go-whovian-universe @darcypottah @atomicpunkrock@thiccheerioss @lottie289 @boredashaeck @beautiful-pegasus @tceedlmao @deadlynyghtshayde @iconjuresnapeingrandmaclothes @anonymous034 @bi-andready-tocry @lunna-does-real-doodle @dragonsandbread @atomicwonderlandmentality @okaydraco @the–queen-of-hell @langdonzvoid @cmxreader @alienmotel @oh-itsnothing @tulippings @thestressedprincess @sunflowerxsadnessw @caps-wilsonn @fattycooter @angelotakunerd08 @thisisahugemistake @fanficsigottaread​ @gweaslvy​ @okaydraco​ @strawberriesonsummer​ @ughjjloveme​ @honeymarvel​

[chaoticevilbean]

Voltron Humans Are Weird 1/?

"C'mon Keith! Just follow the instructions! When I say Vol, you say Tron! VOL-"

"Voltron?" Lance facepalmed for what felt like the millionth time, a headache already forming once again. He'd been trying for a week to get his teammate to understand the chant, but he just couldn't get it! It was frustrating beyond belief.

"PALADINS! THE GALRA ARE APPROACHING! TO YOUR LIONS!" Allura's voice rang out from the speakers in the hallways, and both Paladins wasted no time rushing to their hangars. Shiro was already out and racing towards their enemies, and Lance and Keith followed soon after. Hunk was the last one out, once more complaining about the stupid zipline not supporting his weight.

There were three cruisers advancing on the group, and fighter jets rushed towards the humans in droves. The team began blasting immediately, explosions lighting up the nearby space more than the stars and the Castle's light. They fought hard, but it was obvious they couldn't do much individually.

"We need Voltron!" Shiro called out, and the group went into formation. As they did, an idea struck Lance.

"WHAT TEAM?" he screamed as they merged.

"WILDCATS!" four voices screamed back. The Paladins felt the rush of confidence that came from the simple call and response, and it was enough to let them finish off the Galran ships in only a few minutes.

The humans boarded the Castle laughing, meeting in the lounge with grins firmly in place.

"Lance, that was perfect," Hunk told his friend, pulling the other into a side-hug. "I can't believe none of us have done that sooner."

"Well, I thought it was better than the Voltron chant," the Blue Paladin responded, eyeing Keith.

"That one actually makes sense," the boy said defensively, arms crossed.

"That's why I think it's better. The Voltron one makes sense to most of us, this one makes sense to all of us."

"Excuse me," a voice interrupted. The Paladins turned towards Allura, only now noticing she had entered the room. Both her and Coran seemed rather confused. "But, who are the Wildcats? They are a team? Of what?" Pidge smirked at the princess, glasses glinting in the artificial lighting.

"Schools on Earth sometimes have names that they call their students in a general sense, and their sports teams are named after that. There's a school with kids called Wildcats, so their basketball team is called the Wildcats. However, actual wildcats are just what the name says. Cats that are wild, as in known to be vicious and not meant to be around humans much if at all."

"And what are cats?"

"Small feline predators with sharp claws and teeth, impeccable balance, night vision, and a strong hunting instinct. Their tongues have small hooks on them to help rip the meat from their prey's bones, and they can jump really high or far when they pounce. Humans domesticated some, creating smaller variants called housecats. We also took lions and tigers, two incredibly dangerous and very big cats, and bred them together to make an animal that can't even reproduce. Some big cats are kept as pets or in captivity in zoos and stuff, and they could kill us in seconds. But they're fluffy and occasionally very sweet, so we keep attempting to befriend or domesticate them more than we already have."

Allura and Coran were silent. And horrified. Very very very horrified.

"You keep these creatures in your homes?" Allura finally asked, eyes wide and seeming to be unable to comprehend what had been said. To be fair, Pidge had made it sound rather terrifying, or at least caused unease to her fellow humans. Lance was the only one unaffected. He blamed Tumblr.

"Yeah, of course we do," Lance commented, joining the fun. "Same with dogs. Those are canine predators that rely more on strength than agility when hunting. They're used for hunting, pest control, disability management, companionship, and pretty much anything else we could think of. They travel in packs more often than felines, and the wilder canines are wolves and coyotes. Unlike housecats, dogs can get really big. I mean, English Mastiffs are absolutely huge, and that's just one breed. Dogs are more likely to be kept as pets because they're generally considered friendlier, though nowadays it's a 50-50 chance. And that's just dogs and cats that's being counted. If you put in all of the other types of animals, snakes - reptiles that don't have legs and some are venomous, and some just literally squeeze the life out of you - and lizards - basically snakes with legs that don't use constriction but instead sometimes use their tongues or claws and just latch on - and frogs - the poison dart frog is tiny but deadly - and all sorts of birds, from eagles that dive at high speeds and snatch prey off the ground to parrots that can mimic sounds so well people have mistaken them for sirens or babies crying. Humans like taking the animals that could kill us and making them pets so that we can enjoy how cute they look. Or just feel kickbutt when our boa constrictor hisses at bullies but no one can get rid of it because it's a certified service animal."

"Princey was terrifying."

"Hunk, you only thought that because he tried to hug you before I explained that he does things like that."

"HE WAS TRYING TO MURDER ME!"

"HE WAS SAD WHEN YOU STARTED SCREAMING AND HE JUSTED WANTED TO SHOW THAT HE ACCEPTED YOU AS MY FRIEND! HE WAS GIVING YOU HIS BLESSING! HE SULKED FOR THREE DAYS AFTER YOU REJECTED HIM, HUNK! IT WASN'T MURDER!"

"ATTEMPTED MURDER!"

The argument escalated, with questions tossed in by the other humans about why Lance needed a service animal and why a boa constrictor and why Princey and more. Most questions were ignored in favor of the shouting match between the two bros. Shiro put a stop to it when Pidge and Keith looked at him for guidance. After all, the Yellow and Blue Paladins never fought. Ever. And now they were fighting about something obscure and personal.

The Alteans left the moment the teens raised their voices, heading directly for the control room.

"Coran, pull up a new log, and please make sure none of the Paladins can access it. A secure file for just you and I, at least at the moment."

"Of course, princess! And what should I label it?"

"A Guide To Humans." The log was created and pulled up, and both aliens stood at the computer. Together, they inputted their newly learned facts, agreeing that they would never understand their Terran companions, but they may as well try. Especially if they somehow found living with other predators to be normal and beneficial, and yet could make it sound absolutely horrifying.

Humans live with many different predators from their home world that are domesticated for different uses. These uses are listed below as they are discovered. Fauna that are considered 'normal' or 'okay' to be kept within a home, as 'pets', will also be listed and described. Beware, as the human's normalcy for having these creatures may cause their analysis of other 'alien' creatures' danger level to be incorrect or considerably lower than the official assessment.

If in a battle and struggling, verbalizing the question, "What team?" (preferably in a raised and/or enthusiastic voice) will result in any Terrans to respond with the word "wildcats" (at an extremely increased volume) and an aura of confidence within the humans. This most likely can be used every battle with continual effects, and will leave the humans with increased success and higher dopamine levels. It will also unify any Terrans, so there is a possible use in causing multiple groups of the beings to join together, despite any previous disputes or separations.

On all accounts, proceed with caution until new data can be collected to verify the information and theories presented here.

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Probably crack and a result of staying up way too late, but how do you think an AU where Peter dated and married Naomi instead of Nora would go?

This officially goes on the list of “ships I never considered before, but now that you say it I can kinda see it.”  Peter’s clearly got a competency kink, between Eva and Nora.  Naomi deserves better than Dan.  They’re both overworked single parents who try to do what’s best for their kids, and don’t always succeed.  Peter’s good at the nurturing and hug-giving and supportive side of things, not so much at the day-to-day practicalities.  Naomi’s excellent at making sure everyone is fed and sheltered and keeping up in school, not so much at the touchy-feely stuff.  Yeah, I can see it.

Anyway:

They meet through the PTA, naturally.  Naomi’s there to stage a formal protest about the high school’s suspension of late-bus service, and Peter’s there because this is the once-a-month night out of the house that Marco keeps scheduling for him.  Naomi makes a sarcastic comment about the U.S. government’s idea of “sufficient funding”, Peter jumps in with a one-liner about science grants, and four hours later they’re still companionably trashing the NSF over their third round of bake sale brownies.  Peter makes the first move, of course.  Naomi sets the time, the venue, the curfew, the transportation, and the expectations for the night, of course.

Jake thinks this is the funniest thing that has ever happened to him in his entire life.  The more both Marco and Rachel call him to complain about their respective parents, the funnier he finds it to be.

Both Naomi and Peter are pleasantly surprised at how well their kids get along.  They were both vaguely aware that Marco and Rachel knew each other through school, but neither one is prepared for the instantaneous companionable banter the teenagers fall into the moment Peter first brings Marco over to meet Naomi.

The first four or five times Marco comes around Rachel’s house for dinner, Jordan hides under her hair and watches him in enraptured silence.  After about two months’ worth of this, Rachel drags Marco aside after an Animorphs meeting and has a stern conversation with him.

Neither of them will tell the others what they talk about, even though Ax expresses concern at the brilliant red shade both their faces have taken on and Cassie gives them a knowing smile.  Technically Tobias overhears the whole thing — the others tend to get so caught up in hawk eyes that they forget all about hawk ears — but he’s nice enough to keep his silence.

The next time Marco’s over at Rachel’s house, he lets out a seven-second belch after downing an entire can of Mountain Dew in one go.  Over the next ten minutes, he insults Jordan’s favorite boy band, picks his nose in front of everyone, claims he’s going to die alone because girls are gross, and (to Rachel’s quiet shock) too-casually acknowledges his raging crush on Brad Pitt.

Anyway, it works like a charm.  Jordan gets over her crush pretty quick after that.

“You didn’t have to go quite that hard in the paint, you know,” Rachel says to Marco much later.  “Pretending to like Brad Pitt, I mean.”

Marco is lying on her bed, looking through one of her back issues of CosmoGirl with the air of a forensic anthropologist picking apart the dismembered remains of a human sacrifice.  “What?” he says, back in that too-casual tone.  “I can appreciate a good pair of lips, no matter what type of human being they grow upon.”

Rachel spins around, looking away from the mirror where she was fixing her hair.  Marco is now staring at the magazine as if trying to detect a coded message between two lines of the spread comparing different brands of eyeliner.

“No matter what type?” she asks.

Marco lifts his chin.  He doesn’t back down, and he doesn’t laugh.  There’s a defiant set to his smirk, and the careful confidence in his expression is betrayed by the slight trembling of his fingers clenched around the Cosmo.

Their parents are engaged, that’s all.  And it’s not something he’s ever told anyone... but he also thinks it’s maybe the sort of thing that one tells one’s siblings.

“So you do agree with me and Cassie about Jeremy Jason McCole!” Rachel says triumphantly.

Marco gags so hard he risks straining his own throat muscles.  “I have taste!  You, clearly, have none.”

If Jordan still has any romantic interest in Marco at all even after the you’re going to be step-siblings news broke, it disappears the instant that Naomi announces Jordan and Sara are going to be sharing a room from now on, because Marco and Peter are moving in with them.  A week later, Jake’s mother has a stern conversation with him about the extent to which he’s been running up their phone bill.  He grumbles that he didn’t ask to be everyone’s agony aunt, but that doesn’t get him out of being grounded.

Marco teases Rachel endlessly when he figures out why she leaves her window open every night, even — especially — when it’s cold or rainy outside.  But he also helps cover for her and Tobias without being asked, and one night in gorilla morph he deforms the oak tree out in the back yard so that a sheltered branch rests directly underneath her windowsill.

Rachel stops in the door of Marco’s room the day after the confrontation with Visser One outside the fake hork-bajir valley.  She doesn’t bother to knock.  He didn’t bother to shut the door.

Marco’s sitting in the narrow space between his bed and the wall, staring at the blank blue paint in front of his face.  His knees are drawn up to his chest, his hands limp at his sides.

“They didn’t find a body,” Rachel says, blunt as ever, standing over him.  “I know that’s not good news or anything.  But I also figured you had a right to know.  There’s no sign of Vis—  Of her body.”

Marco squeezes his eyes shut, hard, but still can’t stop the tears.  “Shit.”  He lets his head fall back against the bedspread.  “Shit.”

Hesitating only a second, Rachel scoots in next to him.  She doesn’t try for a hug or anything stupid like that, but she sits shoulder-to-shoulder with him.  She’s the kind of person given to stillness, but she stays put as he struggles to breathe and swipes his sleeve across his face time and time again.

“It’s never going to end, is it,” Marco says at last, when he’s got enough air for words.

Rachel shrugs.  “I’m the wrong person to ask.”

“Shit,” he whispers again.  “Shit, shit, shit.”

“You wanna play Sega?” she asks.  “Not think for a while?”

Marco shakes his head violently.  “I just need some space, okay?”

“Sure.”  She stands.  “I’ll tell my mom not to expect you for dinner.”

Their parents are downstairs cooking.  Laughing.  Arguing companionably over one of Naomi’s cases.  Every clink of dishes, every fond word, feels like a spike driven under Rachel’s fingernails right now.  And if that’s how she feels...

“Anyway, I know you think I’m a crazy psycho killer, but for what it’s worth I think you made the right call.”  She says it sharply, standing to go.  Marco doesn’t respond, not that she expected him to, and she yanks his door shut when she goes.

Peter doesn’t try to be Rachel’s dad.  But he helps her with homework and shows up to her gymnastics meets and acts more excited than she is when she aces a history test.  He asks her what she wants to study in college, not whether she’s going or how they’re expected to pay for it.  He doesn’t try, and he does pretty well anyway.

The Animorphs meet in Rachel’s room almost as often as they do in Cassie’s barn.  It’s more centrally located, even if it doesn’t have nearly the selection of morphs right at hand.  Jake and Cassie both have preexisting excuses for showing up several times a week, and Tobias and Ax never bother using the front door anyway.  Marco’s also taken the time to confirm that no one in the house is a controller, so it saves everyone a little peace of mind.

Rachel wakes up screaming in the middle of the night.  No, that’s not it; she’s screaming in her sleep, and then Marco snaps the light on and wakes her.  He sets a glass of water on her nightstand.  Tilts the alarm clock so she can see the time.  Pokes her in the arm to remind her that she’s human, at least for now.  When it becomes obvious that she’s not going to talk about it, he turns and leaves without ever saying a word.

“I need you,” Marco says into the phone, middle of the night, apparently apropos of nothing.  “They took my dad.”  He gives the address, and then he hangs up.

He and Rachel have come to a decision, without discussion, without niceties like consulting Jake, by the time they’re done fighting off the half-dozen controllers who were dragging Peter toward the portable yeerk pool.  Rachel demorphs as Peter watches.  Marco goes through the explanation the first time, then the second.

Midway through the third round of attempts to convince Peter he’s not crazy, Rachel gives up.  She herds both Peter and Marco into the backseat, and drives back to the house.  “Pack for a long trip,” she tells them both, and goes upstairs to tell her mom.

Maybe, Jake concludes, exhausted just at the thought, they could’ve kept going if it was just his parents, or just Cassie’s.  But Rachel and Marco can’t both disappear without rousing too much suspicion, and getting rid of just one of them will put the yeerks on the tail of the other.  “I guess it’s time,” he says.  “Better get ready to tell our own parents, then.”

By the end of that day, Rachel’s and Marco’s blended family is in the hork-bajir valley.  By the time two days have passed, Jake’s and Cassie’s families are there too, even if Tom is currently secured with about a half-mile of duct tape and will need to be babysat by several hork-bajir for the next three days.  A week after that, Tobias shows up with Loren in tow.  One hellish mission later, and Visser One is dead, but her host is rapidly recovering.

Naomi and Eva circle each other like a pair of housecats thrust into the same room, at first.  They’re prim and aloof and wary, unable to know what to make of each other.  Peter helps exactly nothing by retreating from the conflict entirely, busying himself with an elaborate irrigation project the hork-bajir don’t actually need his help with.  But he can’t escape them forever.

One night, all three of them get roaring drunk on some kind of regrettable fermented-bark thing, and finally have it out.  Peter makes a passionate speech or two about his love for them both before retreating into morose silence.  Naomi’s sixth drink ends in her making an elaborate attempt to draw up a timeshare contract over who will keep Peter on which night.

Eva slams a hand down on the table, and they both fall silent.  She won’t share, she announces quietly, and she won’t be with a man who cannot choose.  She’ll find her own way.

Her own way, as it turns out, is even worse than Marco could have possibly imagined.

“Why?” Marco cries, flopping on the ground in the middle of the next Animorphs’ meeting.  “Why, why, why does this keep happening to me?”

“Pretty sure we’ve been over this before, back when it was your dad, and concluded it’s not about you,” Jake says.  “Anyway, the yeerks —”

“No!”  Marco sits up.  “We have more important things to talk about than yeerks.  Tobias, back me up on this!”

«Uh, yeah.»  Tobias looks over at Rachel.  «By the way, all those times you talked about how weird it was when your mom started dating again... Sorry for not being more sympathetic.  Now that I’m in your shoes...  It’s really weird.»

Rachel sniffs.  “You only met your mom like a month ago.  It’s still worse for me.”

“And it’s worst of all for me!”  Marco has flopped back over.  He emits a noise something like a wookiee being murdered.  “Please someone acknowledge that it’s worst of all for me!”

Cassie pats him on the back of the head.  “It’s worst of all for you,” she says.

“Thanks,” he says into the grass.

“Okay!”  Jake throws up his hands.  “Marco’s mom and Tobias’s mom have a thing going.  Now do we have it out of our systems?”

«Personally, I think Loren and Eva are most compatible,» Ax says.

«Nobody asked you,» Tobias snarks.  «And Jake, just imagine for a second if it was your mom who was macking on—»

“Nope!” Rachel says loudly.  “Nobody is thinking about anyone’s mom and anyone else’s mom.  Or dad.  We are ignoring it, we are pretending it’s not happening, we are carrying on as Marco and I have been for over a year now, we are killing yeerks.”

“Yeah, like I was saying.”  Jake rolls his eyes.  “There are aliens invading the planet, remember?”

“The horror,” Marco mumbles, still facedown in the grass.  “The horror!”

Cassie gives him another sympathetic pat on the back of the head.