Dragon's Hoard: pt 9
(Inspired by docdudo and bluegiragi)
poly 141 and child reader
Warnings: hybrids being hybrids, kidnapping/adoption, dark found family.
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It had been a few weeks since you came to the nest, the long stretches of days and nights blurred together in warmth, strange comfort, and quiet confusion. As far as you could tell, you were well taken care of, and you should be happy, grateful even. There was food—warm and plentiful. The feeling of having some extra weight on your scrawny body feels strange. No longer can you count your ribs through your old shirt. Soft furs layered the ground where you once curled up on dirt in the wild of the forest. Even the sweet call of sleep came easier now, lulled by the sounds of deep breathing, wings shifting, and the distant whispers of the wind humming through the mouth of the cave.
But even with time, some things still felt… off. The way the hybrids moved around one another felt almost human. They joked, argued, teased—just like normal humans. But beneath the surface, there was something different. Something far older, and far more foreboding. You saw it in the way Soap shoved Gaz when they disagreed—less about frustration, and more about testing dominance. To show the other who's boss. In how Ghost didn’t speak much, but when he did, everyone quieted. Even Price. It was like his words were law, even though Price was the one usually in charge, or so it seemed.
It was like watching wolves pretending to be people. Wearing human skin so as to not scare you. To protect those precious sensibilities that you've been born with as a human. In all those moments, it was like for that spilt second in time, that very brief interaction with one another made them forget you even existed. But that was not for today.
Gaz’s attention had shifted to you lately.
He’d always been soft in how he watched and interacted with you, but now he hovered—each breath you took seemed to register in his bones. As if the harpy were taking note of every miniscule twitch of your muscles, every beat of your young heart. Today, after breakfast, he knelt behind you without a word, his large taloned fingers beginning to gently part and comb through your hair.
The morning light was soft in the cave, at least what little of it you could see from the mouth of the cave, of which you were banned from ever going near it. "Too dangerous" Price would mutter as he used his tail to pull you back every once in a while. The sweet air and the shinning beams of sun diffused through the mist outside and caught beautifully in the light sheen of Gaz’s brown feathers. You were only just starting to get used to the feeling of food in your stomach when you felt his taloned fingers gently card through your hair.
You flinched—but only slightly. It was an automatic reaction; tingles ran down your spine as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. A reaction-one you couldn’t help no matter how much you wished you could train yourself out of it. The one reaction the differentiated you from the rest, a prey animal among predators.
“Easy,” he murmured, the familiar warmth in his voice as casual as breath. “You’ve got little snarls in here again. Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”
His talons didn’t tug. They never did. He was careful. Always careful. Too careful.
But that was the problem.
He’d been doing this every day. Sometimes twice. And no matter how gently he worked through the tangles, your skin crawled with the knowledge that you’d never asked him to start. It was an exercise of patience, and patience was something you never really had.
His presence loomed behind you, the heat from his body a constant reminder that you couldn’t escape. His breath was warm against the back of your neck, and though his touch was soft, it felt invasive. Like a swarm of termites inside of a cabin. His fingers moved with a strange rhythm, an intimacy that wasn’t your own, as if your hair were some kind of prize to be cleaned and protected.
“I used to hate it too,” he said after a moment, his voice drifting as his mind wandered to a well-liked memory. “When I was little, I’d throw a fit if my mother tried to preen me in front of the others. Wouldn’t hold still for anything. She used to sing—off-key, real bad. Said it was the only way I’d stop fussing.”
You didn’t answer. You weren’t a harpy, a creature that belonged to this nest. You weren’t some helpless little chick to be tended to by others. You were a human. That fact bubbled and festered within your chest daily, each visible reminder nagging at your thoughts like a thick fog. You can feel your throat constrict, pressing you to remain silent on the very real threat that you might sob. But your silence only seemed to encourage him. The feel of his claws gently, relentlessly weaving through your hair made your eyes sting with unshed tears.
His fingers worked deeper into the tangles, moving with delicate precision, his breath close, almost too close. But the memory he spoke of—his mother, his childhood—kept him tethered, softening his presence like a fluffy cloud passing over the bright sun. It made him seem less threatening, less dangerous.
You weren’t a child who had ever been coddled, who had been soothed by anyone’s touch. You had learned to handle things alone, to fight through the pain of tangled hair with nothing but twigs and the harsh scrape of your own fingers. Your scalp still bore the scars of those desperate moments, when tears mixed with blood because there had been no one to care for you. Having no parents at sometimes felt like a great blessing. One less or two less mouths to feed, less noise to worry about, a few less people to care for at the cost of your own care.
You weren’t his to care for. The hybrids shouldn't even care in the first place. But they did.
You weren’t a pet to be groomed. But Gaz did groom and preen you. You didn't want to eat dried meat from the hands of monsters, yet Price fed you. You didn’t want the weariness of a long day to settle in your bones from how Soap play fought with you. But he did. They all acted like this was normal, like this was what you were meant to accept. But you knew it wasn’t. You weren’t meant to belong to them. Monsters.
“Gaz,” you muttered, voice thick with the weight of it, of everything you couldn't say. “Please… stop.”
The brush of his fingers stilled mid-stroke, and the world seemed to hang in the balance. The sound of the fire crackling in the distance, the slight rustle of his feathers, the wind whispering through the cave—it all faded, all of it. Just the two of you, and the tension of your strained words hanging in the air.
Gaz’s fingers stayed frozen in your hair, but his eyes flicked to your face with that familiar tilt of his head. It was a mimicry of curiosity, His pupils dilating until they take up most of his irises-you can barely hide the shiver that wracks through you. It was like he didn’t quite understand why you were resisting, why you wanted to pull away. His heavy gaze lingered on you, and it was almost too patient, too soft. His gaze was sharp in its own way—like a predator’s watching its prey with interest, even if he didn’t mean it like that.
“But I haven’t—” he started, his voice faltering for the first time. The words didn't seem to come easily to him, not when he couldn’t find the right way to fix it. “Okay. Okay, sweet one.”
His voice dropped quieter, almost like an apology, but it wasn’t. He drew back slowly, fingers flexing in the air as if they missed the weight of your hair. The absence of his touch was palpable, and you almost felt like you could breathe again. But something in his posture remained uneasy—his feathers ruffling slightly as though unsettled, his body tense in a way you hadn’t seen before.
He wasn’t angry, not really. But he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what it was like to be touched without wanting it, to feel the weight of another’s presence like an uninvited shadow. A harpy chick was meant to be preened and groomed daily for their physical health. But you were human.
“I’ll come back later, yeah?” he offered quietly, his voice thick with something unreadable. Almost sad.
You said nothing. The words feeling more like bile in your esophagus.
And the silence between you grew. It was louder than any refusal, louder than the crashing of waves against a cliff. Overpowering and loud. The sound of his absence was louder than the sound of him being there, the air heavy with what he failed to understand.
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Later that day, you found yourself alone with Price. The harpy off doing who knows what. Most likely hunting with Soap by the distinct lack of boisterous chatter that usually filled the cave.
Price sat near the back of the cave, reclining against the stone wall like a watchful mountain. His one wing tucked in, his claws carefully sorting something in a fur-lined satchel. More dried meat from the looks of it. You lingered nearby, quiet, until he rumbled your nickname without looking up.
“Hatchling, c’mere. Got somethin’ to show you.”
You hesitated, then walked closer. Bare feet tentatively padding along the cold stone of the cave floor. The fire crackled softly in the fire pit for warmth and the small, old oil lamps were few and in between as the resting either in small alcoves carved to hold their presence along the walls, or along the sides of the tunnels to illuminate the dark passages, you approached hesitantly. The others watched from a distance, sensing that this was a moment meant to be private. Even Soap stopped tossing his makeshift pelt-ball around.
Price, tossing the satchel to Ghost shared a brief glance. A look that conveyed a thousand meanings, all of which were lost on you. As Price gently led you to the back of the den, past the common nest and deeper toward a small room, a storage alcove. Inside, tucked beneath thick hides and careful layers of cloth, was a hoard.
Not like the stories with mountains of gold. This one was smaller. Stranger. There were gems, yes—opals, garnets, polished amber that flickered with echoes of a trapped time. But there were also scraps of cloth, even a child’s ribbon tied in a neat bow.
You glanced at the ribbon, a curious object. As your gaze lingered, a small detail caught your attention. The edges of the ribbon were singed as if the ribbon had been caught in an old fire. Your stomach twisted, a deep unease settling into your tiny bones.
“These are mine,” Price said, gesturing with a slow hand. “Collected them when I was young. Most of these I’ve had for years. Some...” He tapped a dark blue stone with a cracked edge. “...were gifts.”
Your eyes flicked across the collection. There was something unsettling about how personal it all felt. These weren’t just objects. They were pieces of people. A deep look into the dragon hybrid's soul. Lost moments. Claims.
“This one’s from Soap,” he said, pointing to a sloppily wrapped brass bracelet. “That—Gaz found for me when we first nested together.” as he picked up a dainty piece of sea glass that glinted red in his large palm.
He turned to you, gaze softer than you’d ever seen it.
“I’d like you to have something. For now.”
Your small fingers reached out. Far too small against Price's own. Not to take—but to touch. The one item he offered you was a pale, amethyst crystal, almost cloudy in the center. Its surface is smooth and warm from where he’d been holding it.
“Why?”
He smiled, the corners of his lips tugging upward like cracked tectonic plates shifting. The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes growing deeper as if showing his age far beyond what he physically appears “Because you’re part of this nest now. And a dragon’s hoard isn’t complete without the things most precious to him.”
Your breath hitched. The feeling of acid reflux and bile returns to your throat.
“I’m not a thing.”
His smile didn’t falter—but it froze.
“No,” he agreed carefully. As if he were weighing his options and trying to find some words to soothe your fears. “You’re not.”
But the way he looked at you—like that gemstone was no different than the child standing before him—made something terrible twist inside your chest.
The dark shadows flickered with the crackling of the firelight. Ghost said nothing. He didn’t need to.
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Woah! what do we think? Is Gaz being an overprotective helicopter dad? yes. Is Price scary when he tries to bring comfort? yes. Is child reader getting away unscathed?...who knows?
