An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“Trevathan?”
“Yes, Caesar?”
“What is “tooth” in latin?”
“Dens, Caesar.”
Proximus frowns. “Dense? Same as "stupid"?”
Trevathan knew if he chuckled now, the Caesar would misinterpret it, even if it was in genuine delight and not ridicule.
“No, Caesar, it's uh... different spelling.”
“Hmpf.”
Proximus strokes his injured finger as you sit at his feet, Sylva in the process of removing your muzzle to give you a drink of water. Then the Caesar smirks, one fang showing.
“Dens is a fine name for her, yes?”
















