#skitters in here like a scared cat

[apatheticsunday]

Batfam Eldritch Horror

AKA "inspired by that one post about Danny being a flerken and living with the Batfam" idea! Except he looks pants-shitting, "oh dear god, what is that" terrifying.

I just love slightly feral animal-like Danny in a... shape. It's not immediately identifiable as a cat or dog, maybe he has a few too many legs that kind of look like a tail at one point? And when he skitters up walls like a particularly small dog-sized tarantula, it's terrifying enough to make seasoned criminals squeal.

Let's imagine Danny had some sort of accident with a portal and was Wizard-of-Oz'd into Gotham, a literal hellmouth of a city with so many curses that it'd make John Constantine start to sweat. And this city also has... weird Ecto. (In my brain, there's a connection between the Lazarus Pit and ectoplasm, like pit waters are the sewers of ectoplasm or something.) It's enough for Danny to still exist but he can't seem to stay human-shaped. It's better than being a Blob Ghost, but not by much. His fur-scales-feathers-skin-something look dark as the midnight sky.

And who should stumble on this weird-looking Thing aside from Damian, secret animal-whisperer and passionate Pokemon collector? Damian, who known what a scared feral animal looks like and who can coax it into his arms? It doesn't matter that Danny has maybe five or six limbs. He can make himself slightly smaller at will (not in a Magical-Girl-Transformation way, mind you. When he changes shape, there's the distinct snap of bones breaking and wet, fleshy sounds of his organs, muscles, ligaments, tendons, everything shifting).

Damian has literally been trained by the League of Assassins under the Demon Head. He's likely seen more people's insides than an ER surgeon; he's killed more than enough people in incredibly grotesque and violent ways to be totally unphased by Danny changing shapes. Maybe he'll actually be sort of touched, a bit pleased, that his new Thing pet would change itself so violently so Damian could hold it.

What would Damian name it? He's outwardly violent and aggressive towards others, but pretty passionate and heartfelt once he cares for someone. Alfred the Cat comes to mind. So maybe Damian takes one look at this supposedly scary Thing and thinks, "It looks like Father."

As in, Dark as Night? A shadow inspiring fear amongst criminals? Spoken about in whispers, sometimes laughed off as a joke but still cautiously reverent, just in case?

Danny's new name is Batman.

Of course, this causes some confusion when Damian comes home to Wayne Manor and says, "Batman and I will retire to my room." In front of Bruce, who naturally and kind-of-correctly assumes his son picked up another animal while on patrol. Bruce had a hard time explaining this to a very concerned Dick, who was holding up a wooden stake and a bible (Dick totally wasn't going to kill Bruce if he turned out to be a vampire but it's always good to be prepared!), after Damian apparently made a wayward comment that "Batman refuses to eat anything besides raw meat."

And Danny is having a great time!! Sure, Damian treats him like a pet, but he gets affectionate pats on the head, incredibly expensive steak, and a soft place to sleep. He awkwardly dragged several blankets from the living room to Damian's room to make a bed in the kid's closet. (Alfred watched from behind the couch as this six-legged hairy-ish catlike Thing determinedly waddled with three blankets in its mouth, occasionally tripping on its own legs. He went back to dusting the crown moulding silently. So, that's why Master Damian requested uncooked sirloin steak twelve times in last few days. Hm.)

So, the Batfam accept there is another Batman in the family. Except they haven't actually seen Danny (aside from Alfred and Damian).

Until Dick needs to talk to Damian and goes into the boy's room. But it's empty?? He could've sworn he heard somebody talking or something in here, but maybe not? He turns to leave and then hears it again: a soft kind of thump coming from Damian's armoire. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face as his Older Brother Instincts kick in. Jason used to hide in closets and try to scare Dick when he was little; Damian, despite being a child soldier and trained assassin, was still a little kid at heart, right? The kid's clearly hiding from Dick to scare him or something.

(Damian was in the Batcave, studiously typing "Google, what non-Earth animals reside in Gotham, please?" into the Batcomputer. I like to think that Damian uses the internet like a 85-year old man who thinks a Google employee personally replies to each question.)

So, Dick creeps forward and abruptly slams open the armoire doors!! Only to let out an unholy shriek of terror as Danny, who was taking a nap, frantically skitters out of the closet looking like a Frankenstein cat-dog with bat wings. He crawls under Damian's bed as Dick scrambles into the hallway.

The cat-dog-Thing is out of the bag now. Damian looks utterly deadpan as he explains that Batman is his pet and not to concern themselves with it; Bruce, Tim, Jason, and a white-faced Dick disagreed. They need to see it to make sure the Thing won't harm anybody, especially considering it's fucking living with them!! How do they know it won't try to eat them in their sleep??

"Batman does not eat raw human meat, Todd. Why are you concerned now? It has resided with us for two months now."

"Two months?" Dick nearly faints (again).

"Yes, Batman is very well-behaved, Master Dick." Alfred, who's been feeding Danny for the last two months and has seen all the little quirks the Thing has, offers a consoling half-smile.

Ultimately, the Batfam decide to keep Batman in exchange for scary dog privileges. They'll have to think of another name for Danny considering having two Batmans in Gotham would be pretty confusing (especially if one of them decided they did, in fact, like raw human flesh).

[tosomeonessomeone]

there you are.

words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse

You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.  

The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”  

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.  

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.  

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.  

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”  

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”  

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.  

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.  

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.  

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”  

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.  

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”  

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.  

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”  

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”  

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”  

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.  

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.  

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*  

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*  

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*  

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”  

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*  

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*  

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.  

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*  

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*  

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”  

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*  

His slow blink is answer enough.  

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”  

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”  

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.  

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.  

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”  

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.  

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.  

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.  

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”  

Your throat tightens. “Why?”  

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”  

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”  

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*. 

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.  

“Minho! There you are!”  

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”  

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”  

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.  

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”  

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”  

But he wasn’t.  

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.  

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”  

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”  

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”  

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”  

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”  

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.  

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”  

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”  

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”  

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”  

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”  

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”  

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.  

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*  

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.  

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.  

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.  

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.  

“Y/N.”  

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*  

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.  

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”  

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”  

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”  

“But—”  

“*Please*, Rio.”  

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.  

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.  

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”  

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”  

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”  

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”  

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”  

“I quit.”  

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.  

“What?”  

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”  

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”  

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”  

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”  

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.  

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”  

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”  

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”  

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.  

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.  

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.  

Footsteps pad behind you.  

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.  

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.  

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.  

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”  

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”  

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”  

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.  

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”  

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”  

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”  

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”  

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”  

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”  

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”  

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”  

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.  

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.  

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.  

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.  

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.  

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.  

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*  

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.  

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”  

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”  

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.  

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.  

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.  

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”  

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”  

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”  

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”  

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”  

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”  

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.  

And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting” with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.  

[carolmunson]

“Wow, she just comes right to you,” he smiles, a soft laugh on his breath. A low chirp comes from your little tortoise cat as she hurries from the far end of the room after you click your tongue a few times to get the attention of another.

“Oh yeah,” you giggle to yourself, scratching her behind the ears from your spot on the couch, “Now that she’s more comfortable around you being here, she’s not as afraid to show off how sweet she is.”

“Yeah?” Eddie flushes, watching as your cat — who you affectionally call ‘Mama’ even though that’s not her real name — brushes against his shin. He reaches down slow, letting her sniff his hand before bumping her head against his knuckles.

“She likes you,” you nod, “Look at her little tail going.”

The other two cats, asleep on your coat on the floor, already made their opinion known on Eddie the moment they met him. If he offered to take them home, they’d go in a heartbeat. Drawn to him, his softness, his gentle touch — gentle demeanor.

Mama hurries away when you shift on the couch, still skittish in her own way. He wishes he didn’t understand where she was coming from — he wants to skitter away all the time. Too afraid of how much he likes you, how comfortable he feels in your house, how much the cats like him.

But later on, wrapped up in each other on the couch while the tv lights up the apartment, you scratch the nape of his neck under his curls. Soothing, sweet, repetitive — and he understands why your scared tortoise cat runs to you every time you click your tongue.

[katyawriteswhump]

Steddie microfic: I got you

Steve loves it when Eddie rubs his chest.

Written for the December @steddiemicrofic prompt ‘pine,’ 508 words. Originally inspired by the ‘pining’ idea, then it evolved and some extra pine turned up elsewhere!

Rating: T. CW: A couple of sexual references. Tags: shameless hurt/comfort, sickfic, fluff.

***

Their first winter, Eddie got sick. Then Steve got sicker. He took to their bed with a cough that scoured his lungs, rattled his ribs. When Eddie arrived, Steve buried his damp face in the pillow. “I’m all gross. G-go away.”

“Sorry, Babe.” Eddie rolled Steve over, fingers skittering soothingly across his brow. “Kinda guilty here. You scored my germs.”

“Always g-got chest infections as a kid.” Steve shivered. “Ask my m-mom.”

“She won’t talk to me, remember?”

“Ugh. Why are my f-family shitheads?” The pang of irritation proved too much. Steve’s next breath jammed in his lungs. A coughing fit consumed him. Eddie helped him sit, rubbed his back till the worst passed. Then Eddie removed his rings—huh?—pulled the covers over them, and spooned Steve from behind.

His warm hand slid under Steve’s t-shirt. He rubbed Steve’s chest, so gently Steve hardly noticed at first.

“I gotcha, Sweetheart. I gothcha.”

Steve’s shuddering breaths fell in sync with Eddie’s caresses, beneath which painfully taut sinews softened. Steve’s chest still burned, his breaths wheezy, but… 

…Eddie’s touch got him, somewhere so deep it almost choked him again.

It became a regular thing, in sickness and health. Eddie’s guitar-string callused strokes across Steve’s chest—sometimes firm, sometimes soft—set Steve sighing, groaning, purring like a cat. He even adored the cool slide of Eddie’s rings, especially when they snagged in his hair.

One day, afterward, he littered Eddie’s agile fingers with kisses. “Wanna marry your hands.”

Eddie quirked a brow: “You got a mighty fine chest, Babe.”

Steve grinned, sent his own hands south on a far dirtier mission.

Next winter, Eddie scored a touring gig with a band who’d lost their guitarist. Steve missed him like crazy, ignored that tell-tale tickle in his throat, and went to work—peddling hotdogs in the snow. Eddie called daily around 3am, always losing track of time. Steve mainlined cough medicine and pretended so hard:

“I don’t miss your mess, man. I cleaned the shit out of this place—totally reeks of Pine-Sol.”

“Haha. Miss you too, Stevie.”

“Riiight. If you blow the drummer, I’ll repave the drive with your vinyl collection.”

Steve got sicker. The pine stench of the stupid polish caught on his chest. He coughed himself raw. That night, Eddie didn’t call.

Or, Steve didn’t hear.

When he woke, he tried to sit. Flopped back down. He was shivering, out of water, and coughed till tears streaked his face and blood spattered his hand. Scared now... He drifted, never quite sleeping, coughing less, instead struggling to drag whistling breaths. His bones ached. His head ached worse. Freakin’ terrified…

A gentle touch revived him: “Babe?”

He blinked. Eddie? 

“You didn’t answer last night. Caught the first flight home.” Seriously? “Do I need to take you to ER?”

“No,” wheezed Steve.

“Don’t be macho, dude.”

“Need c-cuddle.” That ‘not macho’ enough, Honeypie? 

Steve was too sick for decisions, so let Eddie make them. Much later, when Eddie slid into bed behind him and rested a warm hand on his chest, he knew he was mending already.

***

Thank you for reading :) Also posted on my AO3 here

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Charles/ the cat king and your 22nd song please

Song 22: Six Days in June by The Fratellis Look. This is FIRST wrapped song fic request I got, anon. And it was such a GOOD song, and I wrote the first section, and the first section was so good I got scared the rest of the fic wouldn't live up to it. I know this is a short and weird rarepair hatesex to non-hate sex unrequited love song-inspired one shot but it's also lowkey my magnum opus. So THANK YOU. Don't worry too much about the background, this is set very loosely in canon-verse, in some prospective alternate reality season 2/3 where Edwin is having his hot boy summer and discovering himself and Charles is trying to figure out his own feelings in probably a not super well thought out way. CW for mild but non-explicit sexual content/themes. 2.5k, unrequited love, background endgame Payneland, angst. Enjoy 💛 Also on Ao3

“You think you're all that, yeah?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I know I am. You want my references? Or did you want me to prove it some other way?”

You're playing a dangerous game, batting at that loaded pistol in his ribs. You don't know him well (yet, yet), but you know a man who loves with his whole chest when you see one. It's in the knuckles; bloody from holding on.

His jaw tics. “Go on, then.” He squares up. “Show us what you've got.”

Your smile cuts. “Alright.” You brace for impact. “Let’s dance.”

The first time, is… well. Let's just say it isn't your finest work. Finesse is not what this guy's coming to you for, after all. He's here to prove a point. Prove to you — or himself — that you're full of shit. That you're all talk. That you don't deserve to touch his little BFF with a ten foot pole (or a ten inch di— y’know what? No. Too easy).

And it may not be your best, but by god, you do not give him the satisfaction of being right on that count.

Weeeellllll, he's inexperienced. You can blow his mind with, what? Forty percent effort? Sixty, tops.

He's just the cutest shade of pink when he leaves, shrugging angrily back into his little retro jacket, all ruffled and indignant.

“Satisfied with my credentials, yet, officer?” you drawl.

His ear tips are dark, his collar jerked up around his blushing throat as he stalks away. “Shut up.”

Your laughter follows him out of the cannery, echoing off the high warehouse walls. “Call me!”

It's a joke, obviously. This was a fun little tumble, a chance to knock Mr. Righteous Protector down a peg and have some pretty passable sex in the process. Nothing more or less than that.

Except obviously the joke sailed right over his head, because he turns up like a bad penny a few days later with some more poor judgment to spend on you.

Fortunately for him, you’re not short on that, either.

“So has my score improved, or…?”

He huffs, hunting around for his left loafer where it skittered under the bed. “Piss off, cat. Was just… checking.”

“Checking, riiiiight. Y’know, if you need a second opinion, you could always invite Ed—”

The right loafer flies through the air and kicks you in the face.

“See you next time, then.”

“Not gonna be a next time.”

“Mm-hmm…”

“...Zip it, Whiskers.”

“Charming as ever. Won’t you come on in.”

Since three times is a pattern, that’s about when you stop doubting he’ll show up again, and again, and again. And that you’ll let him in every damn time; or at least when you’ve got nothing better to do.

Terrible idea, honestly. You give it a week.

You never see him for more than an hour or so.

You never see him in any mood besides pissed the fuck off.

And above all, you never see what the hell it is Edwin sees. The boy with the easy smile, the loyal knight in shining loafers. The best friend, the right hand man, the big, soppy puppy heart that a nice boy like Edwin couldn't help but fall for. No, no you don't get that.

You just get what's left over. The claws he never hones because he’d sooner sink them into his own stomach than leave his mark on anyone else. The parts he's too ashamed to show to anyone he gives a damn about; a category you most assuredly do not fall into. But hey, that's fine. A person like you can't be too careful about who you start fucking.

You can't go around screwing anyone who's nice to you — god only knows what ideas you'll come away with!

(That's not to say he isn't nice, of course.)

(Unfortunately he is, despite his best efforts. God, it can never be just a hatefuck with some people — it has to be worried eyes, trembling hands, little gruff check-ins on your wellbeing when you're trying to get fucking railed.)

(You try and focus on it for the boner-killer it is; and not for the sweet, unconscious thoughtfulness of a guy who holds the heart of the man you love precisely because he couldn’t handle it roughly if he tried. No, no, you shove that thought as far away as you can push it.)

(Dangerous thought to entertain, for a guy like you; a guy with his heart on a hair trigger.)

He shows up when he likes; or when he needs. When his skin is too tight and he needs an outlet for that electricity in his ectoplasm. He kisses you like it’s a contest; and you're nothing if not competitive.

He’s not running the show, though. Nuh-uh. You only kiss him back when you like. Or when you need.

The fact you haven’t turned him down once yet is purely coincidental.

He's got you on your back — and you've got him on your hips. Pretty standard. You’ve done this dance enough to have a few favourite positions locked in; and this one gives you a hell of a view.

He’s looking pretty comfy up there — eyes closed, head thrown back, riding it out — and you like to keep him on his toes, so you give him a little shake, bucking like a bronco, laughing at his surprised face when he falls forward, when he catches himself on your chest and stares down at you with wide eyes and that little annoyed scrunch forming in his brow.

Then the line smooths, he squints, laughs — smiles. At point blank fucking range.

You take the hit. Right between the eyes.

You never stood a chance.

You’ll look back on that as the day he snuck his hand through your ribs and clicked the safety off.

He shows up when he likes. When he needs. Sometimes, increasingly, when he’s bored.

“How can you be bored again?” you grouse, fingers attacking his belt. “Don’t you have like a cute mystery-solving husband to bother?”

He scowls. He’s been doing that less and less lately — you’d forgotten how out of place it looks on his lips. “He’s not my… Edwin’s out,” he says, flatly.

“Out where?”

Oof, now that’s a chilly little silence. And a very, very loud one.

“Let me guess,” you drawl, dragging his zipper down tooth by tooth. “You’re not the only one gettin’ some tonight.”

He grabs your face and kisses you, hard.

More reliable than telling you to shut your big mouth.

“See you next time.”

It’s an old familiar exchange, an automatic call-and-response. You wait, palm metaphorically outstretched for the return, the denial, the brush-off.

He slips through the mirror without giving it to you.

You laugh. “Brat.”

Always leave ‘em wanting more.

He kisses words out of your mouth. He crashes into you like a wrecking ball. He throws it all down like a gauntlet, the fucking, the being fucked. He grasps and grinds, scratches and squeezes, lets those little claws out of their casings.

And those big brown eyes find your face every goddamn time. Like he’s watching you, like he sees you; like somewhere along this stupid, fucked-up little journey, he started caring. Caring what you like, caring what makes you snarl and scream, caring about how deep he can sink his claws before the blood wells.

(No, it can never be just a hatefuck with some people.)

(God fucking dammit.)

You’ve got him on his back, this time; and he’s got you on his fucking nerves, right where you like to be.

“Look, leave off, yeah?” he snaps.

“You sure?” You roll your body, feeling the electric tickle of those ghostly hands where they press into the dip of your spine, pinning you close. “Kinda getting mixed signals.”

“Y’know what I mean,” he grumbles, jaw twitching, avoiding your eyes.

You sigh, and fold your arms on his chest. Relaxed, non-confrontational. Idle hands, idle motions. Like you’re just sunning yourself and not, y’know, in flagrante delicto, as Edwin might charmingly put it.

Ah, there he is, again.

Damn ghosts. Always lurking in the corner.

“Look, I am not here to be your therapist,” you drawl, waving your spoon in a lackadaisical manner. “I’m just saying, from experience, little friendly advice: dick isn’t gonna solve all your problems. Not even my dick.”

He sits there, shirtless, cross-armed and endearingly grumpy (god, when did he start hanging around, instead of dipping before the sweat can cool?), his nose wrinkled up at your can of tuna. You roll your eyes.

“You can’t even smell,” you snidely remind him.

“Still mingin’. Wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eatin’ crisps, but this…” He shakes his head — and catches up to what you were saying. “And I don’t need your friendly advice.”

There was a very brusque, British-y compliment in there, somewhere, and you pause to pick it up and admire it. You’re a bit of a collector.

“Coulda fooled me.” You suck the spoon into your mouth, with relish, enjoying the way he grimaces and squirms as you withdraw it with a slow, exuberant pop. “Mm. Now, that’s the good stuff.”

“Does this have a point, or what?”

“The point, you little pest, is that I know what I want, and I go for it.” The compass of your spoon wavers, rocks. “And what I want is, oh, nothing extravagant. Good food. Good sleep. Good sex. Maybe someone around to help handle that last one, someone, oh, I don’t know… someone tall. Handsome. Cute smile, cute accent. Pulse optional.”

You let the ever-present spectre of Edwin Payne fill in the shape you paint; while the spoon settles on the true north right between Charles shitting-goddamn-fucking Rowland’s eyes.

He scoffs; mulishly, adorably oblivious. “You decided you loved him in, what, a week?”

You snatch the spoon back upright, and flick it like a tennis racquet. “And how long’d it take you?”

He shuts his mouth after that.

Maybe, one of these goddamn centuries, you’ll learn how to shut yours.

It ebbs and flows, the shape of your arrangement.

In the wake of that conversation it gets a little spiky for a while, just like the good old days; baring teeth and raising welts.

Then you get back to yourselves, a bit — the new versions that actually, against all the odds, have fun together. The Charles that laughs with you, who scrunches his entire face into uncontrollable giggles when you tickle his skinny little waist with your claws. The Charles who asks if you’re alright when he’s bending you in half, and sticks around for lazy kisses and a little light bickering in the afterglow; who turns up staring at his feet when he’s about to ask you for something he doesn’t think he ought to want. The version that’s so easy to love, it’s all too easy to see why Edwin does.

And then it gets… quiet.

Too quiet.

“C’mon,” he says, with a little hiccup — guy can not hold his enchanted liquor. “Let’s — let’s play something. That’s what you’re s’posed to do, yeah?”

You laugh, swiping the bottle. It’s pricy stuff. Wasted on this kid, really. “Uh, yeah, if you’re twelve.”

“C’mon — missed out on uni, didn’t I? Mm, let’s play… what’s the one… the two truths one. Two truths and a lie, yeah?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You first. Go on, pusscat!”

You hum, hoarding his silly little pet name for your collection as you make a show of inspecting the bottle. “Alright… two truths. I took a vacation in the eighties and spent it as one of Freddie Mercury’s cats,” you count off on your fingers, that’s one. “Esther Finch owes me two hundred and seventy dollars, eighty-six cents, and my virginity,” that’s two. “Annnnnd…”

Your third finger hesitates, half-extended; your thumb teasing the loosening corner of the wine label. You affect the sarcastic tone like a warding spell.

“And this is the most rare, most expensive wine I got; I brought it out to keep you here longer because I’ve been missing you sooooo much.”

He snorts, and buys what you’re selling. “Yeah, right. Mate, you know you’re not s’posed to make it obvious which one the lie is, yeah?”

You’re probably not supposed to play when you’re a being who can’t fucking lie, either.

But hey, there’s always a workaround.

He shows up less. He fucks you less. You masterfully pretend you don’t give a shit either way.

He shows up once or twice a month and loiters, and chatters. He makes jokes and menaces your cats with penlights and tries to be so annoying that you won’t notice the cogs turning in that pretty little head. Maybe, if there’s enough frustration in the air, one of you’s lucky enough to get their dick sucked.

He hangs around, and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him to pull. The fucking. Trigger.

(You could pull the trigger. You know you could. In fact, you probably should; call time on this grubby little charade and put both of you out of your misery.)

(But you’re a selfish old creature. Greedy, grasping. And you always want what you can’t have.)

(And you can’t have him. You never could.)

“See you next time.”

He pauses. Glances back.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Next time.”

He leaves.

You pour yourself a stiff drink.

“Well,” you say to the empty room. “It was fun while it lasted.”

Thanks, mate. For everything. Think I’ve figured it out.

Take care of yourself, yeah?

-C

Of course you send a couple spies. Just to check it out.

What? You never claimed not to be a nosy bitch.

They return with drooping whiskers, pitying voices that raise your hackles. They return with news of your ‘boys’ smiling, laughing. Holding hands.

They don’t describe the kiss in detail. Why would they? You wonder who initiated. Wonder if Edwin leaned in, all neat and prim and knowing like that time he kissed your cheek. Wonder if Charles did that thing he does sometimes where he bends and sways in like a too-tall tree in a breeze.

You shouldn’t ask.

You ask anyway.

Curiosity killed the fucking cat.

You punch a wall that night. You get mad at yourself.

You realise it’s something he would do. You get even madder.

You fall asleep with blood on your open knuckles and it doesn’t do jack shit to distract from the smoking crater in your chest. You didn’t think it would.

If there’s one bright side to all this — and honestly, you’ll take what you can get — it’s that you did, technically beat out your initial expectations.

You lasted longer than a week.

If you take it all together, anyway, all the time in-between, snatch every last hour, stack ‘em up. If you count the ‘off-season’. If you let the days you spent apart exist as days where he implicitly wanted you enough to string you along, to keep you as an option.

Count those days, and you made it half a year. A Christmas fucking miracle.

If you take out the empty days, well. Then you lasted barely six of them.

[gh0stkitti]

Note: I am late, I apologize!! This is also on ao3!

tw: Blood

June 3: Rendog

They work quickly, scared of the wrath that would be given to them if they don't, Not caring if their work is sloppy and imperfect. The only thing that mattered was finishing. If they don't, it's punishment.

Punishment

Punishment

It's not a favorite word around the lab, it never was.

They were only created to create.

Yet if they were created, who created them to create?

…

Here they go again. Ex can hear them creating another player to join their strange team. They weren’t like the hermits, who knew each other. No, they were something else. Something strange as one would say. But no one would say that.

Copper couldn’t or maybe didn’t want to talk. And Robo? He wasn’t smart enough for that no offense, Ex quite liked him as much as he could manage but he didn’t have the brains to say something such as that.

After a moment, a small player is tossed next to them, he lanes with a groan, rubbing his hair. He barely looks finished, They did a pretty terrible job. His sems were falling apart, his left arm barely attached, and there was still fresh blood on him. Covering his hands and the seams. “Mini Rendog.” the scientist stated, glaring down at them. Although their voice showed no emotions they clearly weren’t the happiest.

Rendog? The guy clearly wasn’t a dog. Ex wanted to laugh at the pettiness of this. The guy was a cat, he had a long busy brown tail and two sharp pointed ears. He even hissed like a cat. “off you guys go,” That was it, that was all the scientist said to them.

So they listened, the door opening with a woosh. The noise that Ex was use to. “Where going?” Ex really needed to teach Robo Grian to speak, the robot looks at him with confusion, or well the best confusing face a robot can be. He didn’t have the muscles to really make one. Being made of metal and bolts after all.

Squeak.

The noise was high-pitched and quiet but it got Rencat’s? Attention. Yeah, Ex will call him that until he says his name if he even can talk. His ears perk up, his tail swinging from side to side. The noise came again, and the skittering sound of small feet hitting the metal floor. Rencat hisses before darting, going after the sound. The group quickly follows him. “Wait-Friend!” Robo calls out, reaching a hand out for him. Rencat hurries his pace, running through the halls after the noise.

Squeal! Whatever the animal was, was not happy at the fact that they were being chased, the big gray-furred animal ran as Rencat chases them. Stopping as the animal gets to a dark hole in the wall. Rencat’s eyes are wide as he stares at the dark hole. “What’s in there…?” he asks slowly, getting used to his voice, he had never had used it before had he?

“The creature,” Ex answers his question, slowly approaching him, and standing by his side.

“That animal is a mouse,” Robo’s voice doesn’t have much to it, robotic sounding, and kinda dead. Depressing isn’t it?

“It is?” Ex’s eyebrows burrow, “How do you know?”

Robo Grian doesn’t answer it. Just joining as they stare at the hole in the wall.

“He’s right they are a mouse,” Ex flinches at the sudden voice, Lizzie bends down, crouching to look at them, “Trust your robot friend,” She says with a smirk. Before seedling down and sitting on the cold floor.

“A mouse…?” Rencat trails off, not sure what he’s saying, “Can I have the mouse?”

“No kitty,” Lizzie shakes her head, giggling. “I wouldn’t suggest going into that mouse hole if I were you, you might get lost,” SHe pauses as she hears voices a bit away, perhaps in a different hallway? “You hear that,” she whispers, the players nod. “Those are the hermits,” She beckons them to follow her.

They crept down the hallway, peeking over the corner to see a group of players giggling and laughing.

“Hey! I’m I can make builds fine thank you very much,” The one with brown hair, that looked like a vex says, pouting and crossing in his arms.

“That's Scar,” Lizzie whispers to the players.

“Sure,” The player that looked like Rencat but had dog features rolls his eyes, “Getting yourself stuck in the gue is totally building.”

“Rendog,”

“Oh shush you two! We are on a mission,” Another player, a girl with brown hair says, “We have to finish this mission and get back" With that they walk down the hallway, getting far away so that they look even smaller than they already were.

“Pearl,” How did she know who all these players were? They must be the hermits. Lizzie lets out a giggle again, “Silly players, now we should head back, I’m pretty sure you have a mission just like them.

Ex hoped not, he did not want to do this mission that Lizzie spoke of. Who knows what it could be from a watcher.

...

Uhh Rencat!! Yay? I don't know what im doing I must admit. Not great at making people bad :/

Foward//

Back//

[snailstep-and-her-clan]

So how did Tuliptail die and how did her parents react? Also do they have anymore kids?

This has been in my inbox for a while because I needed to figure out how to approach it.

I know the people who follow blogs like mine are mainly here for the pretty pictures, but a comic seemed like such a difficult undertaking for this particular part of the story.

And even though I am a writer, I haven't had a lot of energy to write these days even though I know exactly how this would play out...

So lets try a very bare bones script like how I would format the dialogue in my comics !

Here goes:

The Carrion Place

*Snail and Tulip are on a hunt together as new warriors. they pause at the top of a steep hill overlooking the carrion place (dump/scrapyard)*

Snailstep: Do you remember the scary stories Magpieleap would tell during leafbare when we were little?

Tuliptail: You mean about the rat king?

Snailstep: That's the one. Do you think it's real?

*the two of them stare down in silence for a moment before Tuliptail starts to climb her way down the hill.

Tuliptail: Well, only one way to find out!

Snailstep: Huh? wait- what are you doing?! We've been told to never go in there!

Tuliptail: Yeah, when we were apprentices! but we're warriors now.

Snailstep: So what? not even the senior warriors go in there! you can get cut up by twoleg rubbish and you can't even hunt the rats because they just make everyone sick, remember?

Tuliptail: who said anything about hunting them? I just want to have a look around. You don't have to come if you're going to be a mouseheart. *passes the threshold of the wide open chain link gate*

*snailstep hesitates, looking anxious and frustrated, before following after her sister, ears flat and tail bristling*

*as the two girlies vanish into the junkyard, the ghost of Firebright follows after them*

*Tuliptail is curiously sniffing and messing around with random scrapped items, meanwhile Snail is looking tense and glancing around*

*A rat skitters past, knocking several things down a huge pile of junk and Snail jumps back, arching her back*

Snail: That rat was the size of an apprentice!

Tuliptail: really? I must have missed it.

Snailstep: Look, we've had a look, can we go now? this place stinks of rats and twoleg filth, and it's giving me the creeps!

Tuliptail: The creeps? come on, its smells but it's not like there's anything to really be scared of so far.

Snailstep: It just feels like we're being watched, and I don't-

*more twoleg junk crashes and clatters, making both cats jump. there is a dark hollow in the rubbish, and Tuliptail slowly approaches it. Snailstep hesitates, but takes a few steps forward*

*the ghost of Firebright suddenly appears beside her (Nelly's ghost in the car in haunting of hill house style), screaming* RUN!!!

*the rat kind emerges, a great swarming pile of rats that descends upon the two cats, overwhelming them*

*fighting off any rats that attack them, the two she-cats flee blindly into the dump, pursued by a mod of large rats, Firebrights ghost running alongside Snailstep*

*as snailstep runs, she passes a dog house, and the junkyard dog lunges from the darkness, snapping at her. Tuliptail launches herself onto the dogs face before it can do anything. a two leg sitting on the porch drinking a can of beer stands up, shouting as the two cats keep running. The dog is chained and cannot follow, straining at its chain and snapping. The two leg grabs a shotgun and aims at the fleeing cats*

*there's a loud explosion sound, and Snailstep keeps running and running until she's far into shadowclan territory unable to run anymore. she looks around and realizes that Tuliptail is no where to be seen. Snailstep yells for her, frantically searching (think Bambi when his mom died)*

*back at the carrion place, the twoleg grabs the lifeless body of a cat and throws it into the piles of filth. when he's gone, the rats begin to creep out from hiding to inspect it*

How did the parents react?

Something like this:

But also have some actual writing:

Duskheart sat at the gnarled roots of the great oak, his stiff shape blocking the entrance to Cherrystar's den like a heavy stone. He greeted her approach with one terse sentence.

"Cherrystar doesn't wish to see anybody."

Not even me? The words died in Snailstep's throat. Duskheart's hard, unreadable face told her the answer.

"Oh. Ok." As Snailstep turned away in defeat, tail dragging in the dust, she felt Duskheart's cold blue eyes fixed on her back.

He wishes it had been me instead. The thought pricked her like thorns, and she flinched. Duskheart may not be a demonstrative mate or father, but Tuliptail had been his kit. He must resent Cherryspeckle's adopted kit for surviving when his own blood had not.

***

"Have you eaten?" Duskheart's voice pulled Snailstep from the deep dark hole that had been steadily swallowing her up. Her former mentor stood over her, glaring down at her.

"I- I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry, I asked if you'd eaten."

"no." Snailstep scored her claws into the dark soil, looking away.

Duskheart turned and padded away without another word. Snailstep curled back into a tight ball and closed her eyes.

The feel of fur pressed against her back and the scent of sparrow made her look up. Duskheart was laying beside her, shoving the bird under her nose with a paw. "Eat."

She shoved it away irritably. what was his problem? "I said I wasn't hungry."

"Mousefang told me you've not had a meal in almost two days. Eat."

Why does anyone care?

"Just give it to the queens or something." Snailstep turned her back on him, rolling back into a ball like a pillbug.

"Are you ill?" Duskheart asked curtly. "Do you need Mousefang to check on you?" She could hear the vaguest hint of sarcasm in his mew.

"Leave me alone Duskheart." She growled. "You're not my mentor anymore."

"But I'm your father."

His words made her sit up and stare at him. To her even further confusion and amazement, Duskheart leaned forward, awkwardly licking her between the ears.

"Cherryspeckle and I have already lost one daughter." He murmured in his low, cold voice. "I have no intention to sit idly by while our other one starves herself to death."

Snailstep tried to choke back a sob but failed. Duskheart continued to silently groom her as the tears welled up and spilled out onto her paws.

[angeart]

'grumbo horror' in all caps sounds interesting 👀 (for the ask game)

oh yeah :D that's an unfinished drabble i wrote when me and ben went insane about his grumbo horror apocalypse au.

cw for body horror, but to put it simply, grian is an absolute Creature in this one. he's got strong hunting/kill instincts, and his form is fluid and terrifying as he shifts shapes in ways that'd make your head hurt. number of limbs? arrangement of organs? skin, scales, fur, feathers? open ribcage with bones all funky and wrong? anything goes! he's just trying to be a Thing. to hold a Shape. (to not scare mumb 👉👈)

grian also can't speak, but he can mimic people's sounds (copy them in their voice), which in this case mostly means death screams <3 he gets all sad about it sometimes. he wants to communicate! (he'll eventually learn to make his own sounds and even words it's okay <3)

mumbo's just a pathetic wet cat that somehow managed to survive the first bit of the apocalypse and this grain Creature took a liking to him. (mostly because he didn't run and trigger grian's prey instrinct to pounce aha) they proceed to get insane about each other.

i will drop the entirety of the unfinished drabble here 💕

note that there are disjointed pieces that were eventually meant to slot together (i'll separate by x), but you can have it as a treat anyway, even in this messy form, since i don't know if i'll ever be finishing this.

cws are mostly just one big body horror. some insect mention right off the bat if that bugs you (aHA) (pun intended)— also yes this isn't actually horror (besides the body one), it's just angst. (you know me)

drabble starts here—

He can feel the feather shafts skittering underneath his skin like a pile of restless cockroaches, fluid and ever-shifting, complete with a disturbing, grating sound. They should scratch and pull at his flesh, but instead his form parts around them and allows the motion to be harmless, even if everything about it screams unease into his tangled mess of veins. The scales around his cheeks and neck shiver, lifting up with his uneven breaths as if they were gills instead. His clawed fingers (too many— too few—) are dug into the soil, damp and cold and covered in dead pine needles and withered moss. Head tilted back, he gazes at the rustling canopy above him with two eyes—big and round, glowing with faint purple and glistening with hot wetness that used to be so unfamiliar to him, so strange like Mumbo himself.

He’s taken it from him. He saw Mumbo cry many times. He watched and watched and learned. 

Two eyes and hot, salty tears, and somewhere in his throat, a sound that desperately, wretchedly wants to escape him, but it isn’t his. It isn’t made for him; it sits askew in his chest, discordant with the rapid echoing heartbeats (three of them, drumming and tripping over each other, trapped behind a bony cage that wraps around them like vines). 

It never bothered him the way it does now that the sounds he collects and holds close aren't really his. That the only way for him to speak is to take and imitate, hiding behind the mask of someone else's sounds and hoping they would fit. 

They don't fit. 

They don't, except maybe one. 

It's a sound of anguish—an emotion so deep and raw and human he can't quite comprehend it, but the writhing thing inside of him that insists he's in pain despite not being physically injured still selects this singular sound as the only way to really let the world know. 

He's hurting and he doesn't understand it and he can't make it stop and Mumbo left, why did he leave, did he hurt Mumbo? 

He's scared. 

He's terrified and confused and he wants Mumbo to come back to him. 

So he tilts his head back a little more, face breaking to allow space for a mouth, and in a borrowed voice, he wails. 

The sound of Mumbo's ravaged scream rips from his throat and pierces the white night, until everything around Grian shakes. (It takes him a long, muddled moment to realise that it's not the world that's shaking; it's him.) 

x

It’s something sharper and less monstrous than the [motion of his feathers and shifting forms]; something rooted in vulnerable humanity that he’s not supposed to possess. 

x

He didn't want mumbo to be afraid of him, because he didn't want to hurt him. 

[And yet, when it came to it days or weeks later, Grian pounced anyway.]

x

His vocal cords, crafted deliberately to fit this one sound and no other and nothing else, fray and quiver in a way they weren’t designed to, a way they aren’t meant to—and what comes out of him is wobbly and destabilised, a hitched noise interlaced with something that wasn’t originally there. Not when Mumbo made this sound; not when Mumbo was screaming like this, with his raw, anguished humanity, curled up not dissimilarly to Grian’s own posture right now and clutching at his hair. It wasn’t there but now it is and Grian can’t find it in himself to try to find out what it is, because he’s crumbling in a way he’s never crumbled before, and he’s grasping at nothing but the example of Mumbo’s pain to guide him to a life raft that maybe won’t let him sink.

The scream plays on loop, desperately and urgently let out over and over again, with heaved breaths in between; it slowly veers more and more off course, into uncharted territories. It seems to be filled with splinters and debris and torn off pieces of a soul—whose soul? not Mumbo’s, that much Grian knows, but whose then?—a helpless explosion of a terrifying, unending pain.

x

As he startles, the entirely of Grian's body gets skitteringly covered in black feathers. Their edges are shining with a metallic sheen, a literal silver lining, and when they puff up defensively, there's something dangerously razor-sharp about them. 

Countless of eyes spawn with a squelch—most of them on Grian's face, but some stray and find their home elsewhere. They open asynchronously, staring in the direction of a perceived threat. 

Mumbo stands there, rooted to the spot, watching him with an onslaught of bewildered apprehension. "Grian? Buddy?" 

As soon as Mumbo speaks, most of the eyes disappear until only two remain. Instantly, they fill with hot wetness, the tears spilling down into the feathers. 

There's a sound—a whiny, broken sob. 

Mumbo doesn't think he ever heard that from Grian. He didn't even know Grian stole that kind of sounds, too. Unless—? 

The thought is absolutely wretched. 

"Are you alright?" Mumbo tries weakly. 

The feathers fall off Grian's body as if they were plucked all at the same time; some of them leave small, ugly gashes in his skin, but most of them separate and fall as if they were never a part of him in the first place. What's left is  a soft, unprotected skin—helplessly imitating humanity, hazardously displaying open vulnerability to Mumbo, both in an attempt to express something and in an attempt to tone down Mumbo's fear.

Because Mumbo fears him if Grian's anything else than human.

But Grian can never properly be human, no matter how hard he tries for him.

Things remain that are askew and wrong, more feathers embedded under his skin, ears too animalistic and covered in tufts of fluff, fingers ending in claws—and three heartbeats still tripping over themselves in his chest cavity.

He tries harder to fix it, but doesn't know how.

Instead, another miserable sound leaves his throat and he trembles where he sits on the forest floor, crying harder.

x

Eventually, only one heartbeat remains where before there were three.

—that's it <3

–—–—

wip question from here

[drinkpisser]

MY HESITANT ALIEN FIC, "HOW IT CAME TO BE" CHAPTER 2 ANDDD 3 IS FINALLY READY TO SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY!

thank you for waiting guys!! ^0^ took a little longer than the first chapter but hopefully it's still okay and whoever reads enjoys <3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER LINK:

(click Keep Reading to begin!)

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 2: PINKISH

"This dream is calling your name."

A few months had passed by since Gerard's first day at the camp. Each morning, before everyone else awoke, he would cycle the narrow pathways of the woods to clear his mind- it wasn't something he ever did back home and most would find it rather unusual.

When Ray asked him about it, he shrugged.

Truthfully, ever since the encounter with the extraterrestrial, Gerard had not been the same. Ambiguous figures would slither past the corners of his eyes, he'd stare into the stars of the night sky with an unwarrented anticipation, not even sure himself what he was looking for, and all he could seem to sketch and doodle were variants of the mothership.

This is the one, he'd think, before ripping up the paper and restarting.

On this particular morning, he impulsively turned a different direction to take in new scenery because he found repetitiveness tiring. Of course, taking an unknown direction typically leads to some dilemma in most cases, yet that didn't seem to phase Gerard in the slightest, thinking unrealistically and all.

Swerving his balance slightly, a sudden fatigue dawned on him. He found it best to take a seat on a nearby stump, surrounded by branches leaning towards him. After regaining his senses, he observed that this neck of the woods appeared rather strange, the saturation of everything enhanced almost to a neon- trees twist and turn dangling fluorescent leaves, flowers spit shades of the rainbow and the dystopian clouds above swirl as they glide across the cyan sky. He could have sworn it looked like any old mundane part of the site before he sat down! He scrunched his nose in confusion, before then reaching out for his bike.

Just as he grabbed the handlebars, a distant, soft "Thud!" sent the pigeons flying in a scare.

Inflicted with paranoia, Gerard freezes. The only action he could resort to was a short and sweet use of speech, which is no good defence against a potentially malicious opposition.

"Is- is someone there?" he mutters.

Nothing, only a skitter within the bushes.

"SomeTHING... Maybe?" He slowly creeps closer, making sure to scan his surroundings as he leans forward. Using both of his hands, he separates the bushes in which the wriggling was heard, trying his best to ignore the nettles that pierced his palms in the process.

...

What on earth?

A toddler sized ball of pinkish fuzz sits bewildered, as though it may have hit it's head through the fall from each branch above. The fuzz on it's face is white, it's eyelids a pastel blue; upon seeing Gerard a curved grin forms on its face.

Instinctively, he backed away. As he did, the creature reached forwards with grabby paws. Tilting his head, Gerard shuffled a few steps closer.

It squeaks, scurrying away!

"Oh, crap!-" he cries, and once again, he is running a little faster, like an idiot. If Gerard was a cat, curiosity would have definitely killed him by now. Nine times. Eventually, the pair end up at an oddly placed flight of stairs, it's lengthy.

"I don't remember this being here.." Gerard scratches his head in confusion, looking down at the small alien for an answer. It begins to crawl up each step.

"I suppose actions speak louder than words, huh." Once again, he follows.

Gerard looks up, doing a harsh double take. He saw the very vehicle that gave him that fright so many weeks ago- he's being led into the mothership! How in God's name did he allow himself to be sabotaged by such a freaky animal, without even judging where it could take him?! He turns back. No, absolutely not, he cannot do this again-

Oh, Jesus Christ.

The most grotesquely unsettling, inhumane guards block Gerard's exit, ushering him with oblong sniper guns. Their skulls are stretched by their oversized brains, the six eyes on each side of their wrinkly faces staring deadpan into Gerard's soul. Taking a deep breath for his own sanity, he turns a stiff and full 180 back around, each guard standing beside him.

One anomalous move and he's toast. He keeps going, shuffling inside of the entryway. Those things could probably sense the fear within him from a mile away, there was no benefit in hiding it.

They make their ways through hallowed metallic halls, dashed with blinding lights on each wall, heavily supplied with martian soldiers. Each instance where Gerard looked around and gulped in awe, his neck was nudged back in the forwards direction like the hostage he was.

"Damn, sorry. This just reminds me of Star Wars. It's neat." he adds, nodding.

Over time, Gerard progresses in apathy. Each hall began to look the same. Each monument or picture framed on the wall became old news. Bored. So bored that even starting a fist fight with his captors would exhaust him to an extreme extent. Although, realistically, with sting plastered palms it would be more painful for him than his opponent.

Without warning, the fuzzy alien leading the way comes to a halt, pointing at a circular door... The cockpit? What was it doing leading Gerard there?

The tightly sealed door is accompanied with a turn of a wheel keeping it together. As it cracks open, Gerard realises that this is no ordinary cockpit, it was a spacious control room. What amazed even further was the cosmical view of outer space ahead of him in wide, circular windows.

It looked exactly like the dreams he had prophecised since he was small; to watch as the earth grows smaller in size and float behind him, to see the ashes of the milky way beyond a printed photograph, to cross lands even he wouldn't have thought existed. Most of all, what he really yearned to do, was to take passion past human domain. He wanted to preform, create precious art- If more than one intellectual species exists in our entire sense of being, they deserve to feel the phemomena of music.

He staggers forward in awe, unable to deflect his eyes from the view beholding him. The stars shift in formation, constellations bonding together. They attempt to fabricate letters in a language that Gerard doesn't quite understand.

He turns to the guards behind him, who drop their weapons in fascination.

The large screen above the entryway begins to decode, displaying a message in green digital letters:

"This dream is calling your name."

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 2.5: BROTHER

Days have passed by.

In the eyes of everyone else, Gerard had vanished. Due to the emergency situation of a missing camp student, friends of his were scouted to different parts of the forest and local areas to place posters.

Ray and a newcomer called Frank were assigned the nearby town, as an opportunity for him to get to know the area better. Unfortunately, Ray was not his chirpiest self on this day. It's hard to be when your best friend is gone, but he still tried his best to be welcoming.

Frank himself was a spiky looking fella, his hair clearly damaged from all of its bleaching and dying. For the moment, it was a bright red- although, Ray had a feeling it would change soon. He had a few tattoos despite not being the legal age for them, some looked like stick 'n' pokes. His eyes reminded Ray of an excited puppy, observing all of the new surroundings and he was noticeably shorter than a lot of the boys he'd met at the campus so far. Frank looked slightly younger than him, perhaps by a year.

"What brings you here, then?" Ray asks, whilst putting up his last poster.

"Parents. They're tired of me slacking off and playing Mario Kart." Frank replies unseriously.

"Right, that's relatable," he sighs, "You wanna grab a bite in the cafe whilst we're here? I could do with a distraction."

Frank nods.

As they head into the cafe, the smell of freshly baked cookies fill their lungs, it's incredibly appetising.

"Hey, uh- I'll pay for 'em." Frank smiles briefly, "I know this probably isn't the best day ever for you."

Ray's eyes light up, taken aback by the offer.

"You're sure? I don't mean to be annoying-"

By the time Ray finished his sentence, half a batch had been purchased by a ravenous Frank.

"Here, enjoy!" he smiles, tossing Ray a couple of cookies and munching away on his own.

"Thank you," he also takes a bite, "I did really need this, to be honest."

"You needed a cookie that bad?" Frank smirks, smugly.

"Yeah but, I mean, just- company. A friend. It's been lonely without Gerard. I don't even know where he could have gone other than somewhere definitely unrealistic." Ray comments, challenged.

"Ah, sorry about that. Hopefully he just wanted out for a few days." Frank adds, overlooking the "unrealistic" part of Ray's sentence.

"He'd have taken me out with him, we go everywhere together," Ray stresses, "something happened, dammit!" he exclaims.

"Woah dude-" Frank puts an arm around his shoulder.

"Calm down, I didn't mean to upsetchya- he's gotta be fine. From the description of him on the posters, he seems to avoid trouble."

Ray sighs once again.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. It's almost been a week of him dissapearing without notice, I've barely slept." Ray apologetically rambles.

Frank pats his back and the two get back to their feast of cookies, awkwardly conversating along the way.

Meanwhile, back at campus, the head girl has a relatively difficult phone call to make. She dials Gerard's home number, hesitantly awaiting a response.

To her surprise, a voice too adolescent to be a parental figure answers.

"Hello? Who is this?" the young boy enquires.

"This is Gerard's summer camp, who am I speaking to?" she responds.

"Umm.. I'm his younger brother, Mikey. My parents are out right now- did he do something dumb?" he snickers, the grin audible from across the line.

"Not necessarily. I just need you to call us back when your parents are back home-"

"Tell me!" he puts on a serious voice, unsuccessfully disguising a chuckle.

The head girl takes a dread induced breath.

"Your brother is still ... missing. We learnt he was last spotted by a volunteer in the woods five days ago, who commented that his behaviour was weird."

Radio silence hit the line.

"Is everything okay? Are you able to tell your parents about this?" she asks.

"Uh.. what- what am I supposed to do now? Just sit here?" Mikey stumbles on his words.

"Unfortunately so until we can give any further updates. We need you to notify your parents, because it isn't looking too good- sorry you had to find out this way."

Mikey holds the phone with a slight shake, his eyes welling up. He'd do anything for his older brother, to protect him, just as Gerard would. Yet here he is, powerless on a phoneline on the one occasion that the role reversed. He felt bottom of the barrel hopeless, like a half of him had just vanished completely.

"I'm um- I'm gonna go now. Bye." Mikey shoves the words out of his mouth quickly and to avoid an outburst of tears, he hangs up.

----------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER 3: ARE WE RUNNING HOME, OR RUNNING FREE TODAY?

"This dream is calling your name."

Gerard is perplexed at the message on the screen. Where's the catch? Sure, experiencing this is admirable, but what if it's a trap? And what the everloving fuck is he doing on a spaceship to begin with?

A shadow emerges from the light, so bright that it's features are barely distinguishable. It's voice is androgynous, and speaks with charm.

"You did a pretty adequate job, Lola."

It ruffles the fur of the pink creature as it praises them.

"So that's what they're called. Lola. Hmm. I was thinking of naming 'em myself but i was stumped." Gerard comments with a hint of disappointment, "But are you finally gonna help me out of here or what?" he adds, slightly nervous.

"Not yet. We must negotiate... You are the only one who can see us. The only one who hasn't wound up dead by stepping inside of this vehicle, and most importantly, you were chosen by the machine." it's words slip with uncertainty and sour undertones, forcing the situation to be creepier than it already is.

Gerard grows in fear, his breaths drawing progressively sharper. The joy of his desires being so close in reach lowered his guard, he almost forgot the potential dangers of subhuman creatures!

"What the fuck could I have been chosen for? I'm the biggest loser at this joint! Even the janitor wouldn't fall for this- if you're gonna eat me or somethin' just kill me now already and spare me the pain!" Gerard snaps with stress, agressively gesturing towards the messages and strange posters on the walls in disbelief. The alien goddess blinks, humbled by Gerard's violent assumptions.

"We want to form an alliance with planet Earth without starting a war this time. We come in peace," the goddess explains, putting their webbed hands up, "my people are suffering from our highest deficit of essential living supplies in centuries. If an ordinary, likeable human being such as yourself can draw attention to us... We won't have to suffer anymore."

"Likeable, huh. Sure. But what if I'm not good enough? What about my family and friends?" Gerard averts eye contact, moping down at his dirty sneakers.

"It has been decided by unimaginably high divinity that you are capable, Gerard. As for your loved ones, they cannot know of our meeting yet. Not until you have completed your art. In six months time, we will reconcile and you'll be taken on a venture across space and time- and don't stress, your family and friends will receive explanatory letters from us if they don't buy it from you." the figure folds it's arms.

Gerard steps forward.

"So, I could really make music that saves lives?" Gerard meekly perks up at the luminescent lifeform, wincing with self doubt.

"Even better," it suggests...

"You could make history."

[hoffstrap-yuri]

Cat For Tat

ao3 // masterlist

Summary: Peter was not sure how he would prove to his roommate that a cat could understand the innate human instinct to be a bother to, him, Peter Strahm.

Tags/Content: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Crack, Animal Transformation

Rating: T for Teen (For now subject to change)

Status: Chapter 1 of ??. Chapter 2 can be found here. Chapter 3 can be found here (EXPLICIT CONTENT BEGINS HERE).

Author's Note: So here's my fic that was inspired by @dixxiemaegraphics lovely art of Hoffkitty (x) (x) (x).  He's just such an adorable little shit I knew he would get on Strahm's nerves and I needed to write for it. I also don't know when I'm going to update with chapter two right off the bat because I have a bigger project going on in the background, but I can't say anything about that juuuust yet! So while you wait for that, enjoy this little fic!

“Damn it…” Strahm stepped off the metro and onto the platform barely covered by an awning. He remembered he left his umbrella back at the office. He would have to make the walk back to his car in the downpour of a lifetime. “Fuck this, fuck this, fuck this” He made it to his car, then slammed his head into the steering wheel as he realized that Lindsey’s car was in the lot spot that day, and he’d have to park on the street. He didn’t bother praying to a deity for a close parking spot, he knew they wouldn’t answer him anyway. He found a spot only a block away, it would have to be good enough for tonight. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his messages.

“Ordered Indian, see you later!” Something quick from Lindsey sent nearly 30 minutes ago. Their food would be arriving any second. He tucked it back in on the inside of his jacket and held onto the door handle. He hesitated for a second before finally stepping out into a deep puddle and soaking his dress shoes. He cursed under his breath before stepping out of the hole and made the walk down the side street. Just as he was about to step up to the apartment building he heard a quiet animal noise. His foot led up the first step, when the noise got louder. It sounded desperate. He stepped back down and peered his head around the corner from where the sound came and saw… the fattest stray cat he’d ever seen.

“What is this ugly thing.” He muttered under his breath, scoffing at the gray cat. The thing looked up at him with big wet eyes and meowed at him for his attention. “… Lindsey would like you.” So despite thinking that this stupid thing was one of god’s ugliest creations he reached his hands out and scooped the cat into them. He held the cat against his chest like a baby, surprised by the heft that the gray feline packed. With the cat in one arm, he opened the door to the apartment building and climbed up the stairs. He grabbed the keys in his pocket and opened the door, announcing to his friend that he was home. “Linds?”

“Yeah?” She stepped out into the hallway before rushing over to the little gray furball in his hands. “Oh my god, oh look at this little baby. Little gordito…” She brought her finger up to his chin and gave him scratches. The cat purred and flipped himself around in Strahm’s arm to get closer to the affectionate woman. She pulled the cat from Strahm’s arm and let his legs flop around for a moment. “Oh my god you’re so loooooong.”

“I take it you like him?” Strahm had to laugh. His best friend, his work partner, the woman who scared men twice Strahm’s size into confessions…. Obsessed with an obese cat.

“I love him.”

“Good.” He smiled

“Here, can you hold him for a second? I think I have some leftover Purina from that foster I had a couple months ago.” She handed the puff of fluff back to her partner and rummaged under the sink for the can. “Found it” She announced. He looked at the cat and frowned. The stupid thing almost seemed smug? Could a cat be smug? He carefully let the cat fall onto the ground, the animal skittering across the wooden floors towards the kitchen. Lindsey, while in a crouch, ran her fingertips over the cat’s forehead and gave him some scratches. “Hope you don’t mind the bowl…” She took the bowl and moved it away from the sink, placing it before the cat as she waited for his approval. The cat happily shoved his whole head into the bowl and licked up every last bit of the wet food before him. One more head pat and Lindsey went to get him a water bowl. The cat stretched out in front of the bowl before running and getting water from his other bowl. He lapped at the surface of the water with an insane intensity. Lindsey titled her head as she watched him and asked herself, “How long were you out there? You’re acting like you haven’t eaten in days.”

“It probably wouldn’t kill him to miss a couple treats.” Strahm muttered under his breath. Lindsey turned around, perking her ears up like she had missed something that he had said. He sealed his lips back up and shrugged, pretending as though he had been quiet the whole time. He went to get the door when their delivery arrived and Lindsey threw a couple toys in the cats face to see what he liked. He seemed to most enjoy the crinkly pom pom balls, but would never go far to catch them, making Lindsey get up and grab them if they got too far from him with his sad pathetic meows. “Food’s here, Linds.”

“Okay.” She got up from the floor and walked over to their couch. The cat followed from a distance, meowing for attention from his affectionate owner. She ignored his pleas for toys as she grabbed two pieces of naan from the foil and pulling her lamb vindaloo away from his chicken tikka masala. “What are we watching?”

“I’ve got either The Notebook or Brokeback Mountain.”

“Huh, let’s do Brokeback.” She shrugged, tucking some rice into the side of her cheek as she talked.

“Okay.” He popped the DVD into the machine and skipped through as many of the trailers as he could before getting cockblocked by the ‘FBI Anti-Piracy Warning’. Sometimes Strahm hated his own agency more than life itself. They got to the menu and after turning on subtitles for Strahm’s hearing and Lindsey’s attention, they got into the movie. Not usually one to complain about well done movies, Strahm was bored during the opening. The wide shots of the greenery did nothing for his east coast big family in one house sensibilities. Lindsey seemed enamored with it though, so as much as he wanted to say something about ‘We get it there’s trees’, he kept his mouth shut. She hit his shoulder after about twenty minutes and made a grabbing motion with her hand. He handed her the papadam and let her eat those.

“You’re never this quiet during movies.” She laughed

“I’m enjoying it, for once.” He mouthed back at her, stealing one of the crackers before she could finish the whole stack. Their cat that had sadly settled at Lindsey’s feet began making noises during the climax of the movie as Jack’s wife coldly talked to her husband’s lover. Strahm didn’t think much of it and Lindsey had her eyes glued to the screen. As Ennis cried, holding Jack’s shirt flat against his chest, their cat’s noises came to an abrupt stop. Strahm looked down at his shoe as the cat pawed at the rubber edges of the shoes before projectile vomiting over said shoes. Strahm scrambled to get up, covering his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting on the cat in turn. He tried to keep his feet from curling up to his chest and getting the vomit onto the couch as Lindsey made a dash for the kitchen to grab a wet rag.

“Stupid fucking cat!” He yelled. The cat looked at him smug once more. How could that stupid creature feel smug?

“Here, get your shoes off.” Lindsey came back, holding onto a wet towel as he stripped himself of the shoes as fast as his fingers could get him out. He grabbed the towel to clean his hand off first and took his socks off, trying to avoid any goop on the ground that might have slide off the shoes and onto the floor.

“For fucks sake, Linds.” Strahm got up from his seat and walked to the bathroom. The cat followed him from a distance, lurking like a shadow in Strahm’s footsteps. He cleaned his hands off proper and looked as the cat pushed on the door to close it on Strahm. Not fast enough, Strahm was able to keep the door open, damn near ready to punt the little thing. He wrapped his hands under the fat belly of this menace and carried it, face forward, back to Lindsey. She took a new rag and cleaned up the puke from around the corners of the cat’s mouth. “He’s going in the morning.”

“You can’t let him go back out.” Lindsey frowned slightly, “He might get mauled or ran over.”

“Then take him to the humane society.” Strahm sighed

“What if I train him?”

“You can’t train a cat to just not throw up.” He scoffed. He rubbed his face with his fingertips and let out a deep sigh.

“I can get him a new bowl tomorrow, one that will hopefully slow down his eating.”

“Fine. Just a couple more days.”

“Yay.” She cheered mostly to herself, picking up the cat and cradling him like a baby. His tail swung over Lindsey’s forearm, purring happily as he received pets from her. “I also need to buy him some diet food. I’ll take him to the vet.”

“Good. Maybe you can see if he’s chipped and give him back to his owners.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Okay, good night.” She said, not letting go of her pet. He lumbered off to bed, only to hear that fat bitch fall to the floor and come scuttling after him. “Oh no. You’re not sleeping in my bed, satan spawn.” The thing meowed at him, like he hadn’t just vomited all over Strahm. Its noise was so pathetic, Strahm had no choice but to scoop him up and bring him into his room. He plopped the cat onto the mattress as he pulled his pajama pants and beat up t-shirt out from his dresser and changed into those. His eyes kept darting behind his person as he listened to make sure the cat didn’t make those same noises, or planning sneak attack two on Strahm’s bed. When he was changed, he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth before going back to bed. The cat stared at the FBI agent as he rolled over the sheets again and again, leaving his stomach exposed to the human. “Tubby little fuck.” Strahm reached a hand to pet the stomach before the cat moved away, running out of the room and crying for Lindsey’s attention again. “Stupid thing.” He said to himself before crawling under his comforter and falling asleep. He doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up the next morning, only that the little puffball has taken up residence over Strahm’s face. The cat placed itself strategically over his nose and mouth, blocking his airways. Strahm peeled the animal from his face and got out of his bed. “How the hell did you get in here, you fat fuck?” He opened the door and looked at the vicious scratching he had managed to do.

“Morning.” Lindsey greeted him, looking similarly tired. “He was clawing and crying for an hour last night, begging to be let into your room.”

“Fat bitch tried to suffocate me.” He dangled the cat in her face. She scooped the cat into her arms

“Mark.”

“What?”

“His name is Mark. Don’t know why, he just looks like a Mark.” She shrugged, bouncing the cat around as she explained the name. The cat purred in response to Lindsey’s pampering, giving Strahm a look as he did.

“Anyway, Mark tried to suffocate me in my sleep.” Strahm stared back at the thing bitterly. He was onto the cat’s ruse. The evil thing. Lindsey jerked the cat away from her friend, sensing the weird vibe between them.

“I’ll see if the vet has anything to say about his behavior today.” She took the cat with her and gently tossed her pet into the carrier. Strahm heard his screams of protest from down the hall and laughed to himself. Stupid thing. When the beast was contained, he decided he could go about his morning routine with ease. He started the coffee pot in the kitchen before stepping into the shower. He let the water run over his face for a moment and reached for his shampoo. Mark had only been in the house for a few hours, but he was already a menace to put it mildly. Strahm enjoyed having this moment to himself without worry that the cat would worm its way into the bathtub and start peeing on his feet. He got out and went back to the kitchen to grab his coffee, throwing the liquid into a nondescript mug that only a middle aged man could own. He heard the low grumbles of the thing in the carrier as he took a sip, only to lean in and antagonize the cat some more.

“Can’t get out of there, can you you stupid thing?” He hovered a finger over a slot in the top of the box. The cat threw its whole body against the door, but it didn’t budge. Once more and he made a dent. “How fucking fat are you?”

“Stop teasing him.” Lindsey leaned against the frame lead into the kitchen, “You wouldn’t like it if Rogers came into your office and called you a fat sack of shit.”

“Rogers doesn’t have the balls to call me that.” Strahm scoffed, “To my face anyway.”

“Yeah, well in any event, see you later.” She picked up the carrier and headed out of the apartment. Strahm finished his breakfast and walked out to his car to get to work. He’d be working late tonight, he could afford the drive in to the office. Hell he would even treat himself to another cup of coffee on the ride in. It’s the least he deserved for putting up with the hell cat the previous night. His workday was uneventful otherwise. Lindsey texted him a couple of times but he didn’t check his phone until he was out for the night.

“Doctor said he was fine, and gave me some food to help him lose weight!”

“I have a surprise!”

“Did you get rid of the stupid thing?” Strahm managed to type before hitting the backspace and just deciding that he would find out the surprise when he got home. The congestion from the nine to five office workers had let up and the ride to his apartment was smooth. He found a spot round the corner from the building and walked into his apartment. Inside he saw the fluff ball being tortured by Lindsey as she attempted to tease his fur up into a little bow on his head. The poor thing almost looked grateful as her attention was shifted onto something that wasn’t him for a second. He used the opportunity to make a sluggish run towards Peter’s bedroom and hide. “Son of a bitch.”

“Isn’t he adorable?” Lindsey looked up at him with big eyes.

“I say this because I love you Linds, that was the ugliest thing you could’ve put that stupid cat in.” Strahm told her point blank.

“You’re no fun.” She huffed and went looking for her cat

“How did the vet go, other than saying he was healthy?” Strahm went into the kitchen and rummaged through their fridge for leftovers.

“It was the weirdest thing, the doctor said we could get him neutered today and as they were trying to take him out of the room he attacked the techs. He wouldn’t even let me touch him until the doctor called the whole thing off.”

“Told you that thing was evil.”

“He’s not evil, Pete.” She rolled her eyes at him

“He radiates pure evil. I feel like I’m being watched by a creature too stupid to know whether or not it should dip its feet into the water bowl.”

“I think you’ve just had too much coffee today.”

“I’ll show you Lindsey.” He grumbled a little bit, not sure how he would prove to his roommate that a cat could understand the innate human instinct to be a bother to Peter Strahm.

[ourebottarchive]

MafiaFell - Saint Snippet

TW: Implied death and violence

He wondered to himself if the dust would ever really wash out of his gloves or if there would always be that dull gray tinge to them. One of the others called out to him from across the room and he shook the thoughts from his head.

“We’ve cleared the area, Papyrus.” The cat monster reported, then shifted uncomfortably, “Although… some of them got away when the fighting started up.”

Papyrus furrowed his brows, crossing his arms over his chest, “How many is ‘some of them’?”

“Like…” The cat counted under his breath, “Eight of them… maybe nine.”

He growled under his breath and the other monster shrunk away from him, which did not help with his bad mood. Saint wondered if the others in the Dreemur Family really thought he’d ever turn on them.

“Sans won’t be happy to hear about that, but there isn’t anything to be done about it now.” Saint said after a moment, “Get the others together and gather any evidence that needs to come back with us. We’ll leave once that is done.”

The cat monster skittered off with a nod of his head and a quiet ‘yes, sir.’ The skeleton looked around the room he was in and let out a resigned sigh. He’d never liked this work, but there weren’t a lot of options in this world and even less with monsters still being trapped underground. He knew a lot of the others in the Family, especially those in lower ranks, did not agree with how he handled things. He scared them and unlike his brother, who was charismatic enough to maintain a semblance of being liked, he was not good at dealing with others.

“Not that any of them would look past my face or LV long enough to let me talk at all.” He muttered under his breath.

It didn’t matter. At least, that’s what he told himself. 

He busied himself with scouring the room for anything he would need to take back to the hideout, only leaving once he was certain he’d managed to clear the room. The others were wrapping up their own work once he rejoined them and it didn’t take long for the group to be on their way back to report on the job. 

He was right and his brother wasn’t happy that some of the monsters had gotten away, but everything else had gone well enough that he let it slide for now. The others were all celebrating, sharing drinks and talking about how well they’d done, some flirting with the performers at the bar. Saint sat off in the corner alone, watching the rest of the room form his spot. He knew better than to attempt and join the festivities, all that would do is remind him that even here, he didn’t really belong. 

Papyrus took another sip from his drink and leaned back in his seat, never letting his gaze linger anywhere long enough for the others to catch him watching. It was better this way, he wouldn’t know what to say even if they wanted him to join in. He was better off on the sidelines.

He was better off alone.

Besides, who could ever want to be friends with someone like him? Oh sure, he and Undyne were friends, but she was still more personable than him and was more liked by the others. There was his brother, but he didn’t count that either. No, Papyrus didn’t need friends and he needed to stop letting himself ruminate on these thoughts. There was no time or reason to worry about such silly things.

********

When they were settling the paperwork to get their identification on the surface, Papyrus and Sans had agreed to take on new names. The two both agreed that a level of separation from their identities underground would be useful. Sans, now Whiskey, had laughed at the name he chose and commented that if he was looking to make himself out to be someone to be feared he was doing a good job. 

He never tells his brother that’s not what he was going for. 

Papyrus takes the name, Saint, in the hopes that the word had positive associations elsewhere and perhaps some of that would rub off on him. He’s tired of being alone, tired of monsters recognizing his name and practically running in the opposite direction. 

He hopes for better on the surface, but humans prove to be no better.

Saint settles into his routine from then on, never hoping for more than living through each new day. He and Undyne train together and get drinks a few nights out of the week. His brother stops to have drinks with him on Mondays in one of their offices and they discuss how the week goes. Otherwise, none of the others stay in his office longer than necessary and after a while, it stops stinging so much every time they flinch away from him. 

He resigns himself to loneliness and finds some level of comfort in knowing where he stands with others. It stays that way for years and he never falters in his stance, never takes a chance on anyone who comes through the doors of the hideout.

Better to not let himself get hurt again. -J

[mjonthetrack]

pressure

CHAPTER 123 — “CRUISIN’”

The house was quiet.

Not the kind of eerie silence that creeps under your skin. No, this was a soft, golden silence. A cozy afterglow, scented with dish soap, cinnamon candles, and the last whispers of a family dinner that fed more than just bellies.

The kids were gone. Mariah had volunteered to drive them back with Tamir tagging along—“I got 'em, Dad, don’t worry. We gon' stop for dessert too, lemme get my siblings right.”

And just like that, the house shrunk into a softer kind of stillness.

The record player in the corner clicked once, then the rich, honeyed voice of Smokey Robinson started pouring out like warm syrup on Sunday pancakes.

🎶 “Baby let's cruise… away from here…” 🎶

Taliyah was standing at the sink, elbow-deep in suds, wearing one of Cliff’s t-shirts that nearly swallowed her whole. Her curls were tied up in a silk scarf now, and her legs were bare, thick thighs peeking from beneath the hem. She was humming along softly, hips swaying on instinct.

Behind her, Cliff leaned in the doorway watching her. Silent. Arms folded, tattoos flexing, eyes low and soft as melted chocolate. This woman…

“Stop staring at me,” she mumbled, not even turning.

“I ain’t even blinkin’,” he rasped.

She chuckled, biting her lip. “That’s exactly what I mean. You tryna laser beam a hole through me?”

He took a step forward, then another. Then another—slow like a big cat in silk house slippers. The floor creaked under his weight, and Taliyah felt it in her bones. She sucked in a breath just as his chest met her back.

“Mmm…” she exhaled. “You tryna start something.”

Cliff didn’t answer. Just slid his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him. His nose pressed into the space between her shoulder and neck, inhaling her deep like a man who’d been underwater and finally found air.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice thick with honey and gravel.

He spun her gently and took the dish towel from her hands, tossing it aside like it offended him. Taliyah blinked up at him, lips parted, heartbeat skittering.

Smokey crooned behind them:

🎶 “Music is played for love, cruisin’ is made for love…” 🎶

Cliff’s fingers laced with hers, and with one slow tug, he pulled her closer until they were chest to chest. He didn’t ask. Didn’t speak.

He just moved.

Swayed.

Rocked her in a slow circle like they were teenagers again, like there wasn’t a single scar in the room, like heartbreak had never happened. His hands on her waist, hers on his chest. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, nose brushing his collarbone.

“I missed you,” she whispered into his skin.

“I missed us,” he murmured back, chin resting on her crown. “Missed this house soundin’ like love again.”

Taliyah sniffled and laughed in the same breath. “You always say the smoothest shit when Smokey’s on. I swear you be waitin’ for this moment.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, that crooked smirk on his lips.

“I was made for this moment.”

She rolled her eyes with a grin, shaking her head as he spun her once, catching her again like she was the only thing that mattered. The only thing real.

🎶 “I love it when we’re cruisin’ together…” 🎶

Taliyah sighed. “Cliff…”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m scared,” she said quietly. “Of what comes next.”

He didn’t flinch. Just leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers.

“We already lived through the storm. This?” He kissed the corner of her lips. “This the after.”

The song faded out, but neither of them moved. Just held each other in the middle of the kitchen, slow-dancing in the silence. Cruisin’, indeed.

CHAPTER 124 — “CAUGHT YOU, COZY BOY”

The door creaked open.

Mariah and Tamir walked in side-by-side, already bickering over who had to carry Dream upstairs. They paused as soon as they stepped into the house and caught a vibe—a heavy, thick, love-drenched vibe that practically slapped them across the face like a Luther Vandross adlib.

Tamir wrinkled his nose. “Why it smell like cocoa butter, incense, and regret in here?”

Mariah didn’t answer—she was busy scanning the living room. The lights were low, Smokey Robinson was still faintly playing on loop somewhere, and Method Man himself was sitting on the couch like the world’s most innocent man in grey sweats and a fresh Wu hoodie. Feet up, joint lit, phone in hand. Looking relaxed as hell.

Too relaxed.

Suspiciously relaxed.

He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, not even glancing their way. “Y’all back already?”

Mariah crossed her arms. “You tell us.”

Tamir narrowed his eyes. “Where’s Taliyah?”

Cliff shrugged like a damn villain. “She around.”

Mariah and Tamir both squinted at him. Same exact squint. Genetics strong as hell.

“…‘Around,’ huh,” Mariah said, her tone sharp as acrylics. “She in the kitchen?”

“Nope.”

“On the porch?” Tamir asked.

“Nah.”

“Garage?”

“Nope.”

The siblings shared a look and turned in sync—stalking toward the hallway like they were about to uncover some mysteryon Scooby-Doo. Cliff didn’t even flinch. He took another long drag, eyes half-lidded.

Mariah cracked the guest room door. Empty.

Tamir checked the den. Nothing.

Then.

Then Mariah opened the door to Cliff’s room.

And stopped.

Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She spun around, whisper-yelling down the hall, “TAMIR. Oh my God. Come here.”

Tamir jogged over, peeked around her shoulder, and—“DAAAAMN.”

Taliyah was out cold in the bed. Face buried in Cliff’s pillows, bonnet on, shirtless, skin glistening in the low amber light of the bedside lamp. Cliff’s comforter was barely clinging to her lower back, exposing smooth thighs and nothing else. She looked like she'd been folded, fed, and put to sleep like a baby.

Tamir slapped a hand over his mouth and wheezed. “I ain’t even mad. I’m impressed.”

Mariah turned slowly like a ghost in a horror movie, marching back down the hall with pure rage bubbling under her lashes. She found Cliff exactly where they left him—sitting on the couch, joint between his fingers, looking smug.

“You got her laid out like a rotisserie chicken and gon’ sit here like you ain’t do nothin’?”

Cliff blinked. “She tired.”

“Tired?!” Tamir yelled from down the hall. “Bro, she comatose!”

Cliff smirked. “She peaceful though.”

Mariah looked like she was about to throw the entire coffee table. “You evil. Straight evil. You didn’t even let her breathe, huh?”

He took another slow pull from the blunt, then let it out through his nose like a dragon.

“She the one who put her place on the market,” he said casually, “and brought groceries. I just showed her what she’d be comin’ home to.”

Tamir flopped down in the recliner across from him, still grinning. “So that’s what she meant in the group chat. She texted ‘SOS’ earlier and said quote, ‘someone come get this man before he realigns my spine into a permanent S-shape.’”

Cliff laughed deep from his chest, shaking his head. “Y’all so damn dramatic.”

Mariah groaned, already texting Taliyah “girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage in that man’s sheets.”

And upstairs? Taliyah stirred only slightly, smiling in her sleep, mumbling something about cornbread and Cliff’s hands before rolling deeper into the sheets.

Yeah. She was home.

CHAPTER 125 — “Y’ALL GROWN, BUT I’M TIRED”

Taliyah barely had her eyes open.

Bonnets slightly askew. Lips pouty. Legs tangled in the comforter like she’d just finished going twelve rounds with love itself (spoiler alert: she did). The sun was bleeding in through the curtains, soft and rude at the same time, and the soft murmur of two familiar voices in the kitchen had her groaning before her body even let her move.

She could hear the trouble brewing.

Tamir’s voice was loud, animated. “She already actin’ like a wife! I’m just sayin’—I ain’t tryna wait two years for some invite when the love is right there.”

Mariah: “Boy, let her have her coffee before you start wedding planning.”

Tamir: “Nah, 'cause she really ‘bout to be my step-mama and think we not finna talk logistics? Cliff old, he need to lock this in before he throw his back out.”

Taliyah, still under the covers, lifted her hand and weakly flopped it toward the hallway. “Y’all please.”

A giggle from Dream in the distance. Somebody had her on their hip. Probably Mariah.

Taliyah pouted harder, eyes still half-shut as her voice came out in a cracked whimper. “I got pulses in places that don’t normally have them. I can’t feel my hip. Don’t do this to me.”

Tamir’s head popped into the doorway like a nosy cousin. “So is the wedding spring or fall? I just need to know what type of fit I should start lookin’ for.”

Taliyah, without lifting her head, just pointed behind her blindly.

“Ask ya daddy, I’m innocent.”

As if summoned, Cliff was just walking out the bathroom, towel around his waist, steam chasing him like sin. He raised an eyebrow, rubbing a hand down his chest, lowkey smug.

“What y’all harassin’ her for now?”

Tamir didn’t skip a beat. “I just asked what colors we doing for the wedding, chill.”

Mariah leaned into the doorway, sipping from a mug. “Tamir tryna plan a whole destination vibe and we haven’t even had a proper brunch with her yet.”

Taliyah was barely sitting up now, bonnet drooping, holding the sheet to her chest like it was armor against this wild family she was now deeply entangled with.

“Y’all grown but I’m tired,” she grumbled, falling back into the pillows with a dramatic huff. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth. Cliff been treating me like a pretzel for two days straight and now y’all got the nerve to show up talkin’ about colors and cake.”

Cliff just laughed, walking over and dropping a kiss on her forehead. “You did say you brought groceries though.”

She cracked one eye open at him. “Yeah, and you burned enough calories to eat all of ‘em solo.”

Mariah grinned from the hallway. “So brunch at eleven?”

Tamir grinned harder. “Cool. We’ll pick a venue while we eat.”

Taliyah threw a pillow at them. It missed.

And still? Her smile lingered under the pout, her heart full beneath the fatigue. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t just surviving the storm.

She was being loved through it.

CHAPTER 126 — “BOY MOM? GIRL MOM? WE MOMMIN’!”

Brunch was jumpin’.

They had the spot rented out private-style, the windows open, jazz playing low, and enough catered soul food to feed the whole Wu and then some.

Cliff sat at the head of the table, hoodie pulled low, shades on, pretending like he wasn’t completely obsessed with the woman across from him who was currently tearing into her shrimp and grits like she hadn’t just spent the last 48 hours getting folded like laundry in his bed.

Mariah and Tamir were mid-bicker over who had the better Spotify playlists when Taliyah leaned over to Mariah with a small smile. She whispered something low, barely audible over the noise.

Mariah froze mid-sip.

Her brows raised. Then— “SHUT UP.”

Taliyah smiled sheepishly.

“OH MY GOD—”

Mariah threw her arms around her so quick the fork damn near flew off the table. “Girl!! Girl, are you serious?!”

Taliyah nodded into the hug, giggling quietly, her eyes glassy with emotion.

Tamir blinked. “What’s going on? What’s going on??”

Taliyah turned to him, biting her lip, and whispered the same thing.

He just stared at her.

Gaped.

Paused.

Then—

“HELL NAH.”

The chair scraped the floor violently as Tamir pushed back, standing like he was ready to fight God and time itself. Cliff’s brow jumped above his shades.

“You not walkin’ nowhere ever again,” Tamir barked, stepping around the table like a linebacker. “And I already decided it’s gon’ be a boy! I call dibs on naming him!”

“Boy if you don’t sit down—” Cliff muttered.

“No!” Tamir snapped, and before anyone could blink, he’d snatched Taliyah up right out of her chair like a toddler with a favorite stuffed animal.

“Tamir!” she yelped, flailing in his arms.

“You carrying my little brother or sister,” he declared, spinning her around, ignoring her dramatic squirming. “That’s ourbaby now. I'm your son. I get visitation rights.”

Cliff stood halfway. “Put her down before you pop something, damn!”

Mariah was crying laughing, holding her stomach. “He serious. He tryna write the name on the birth certificate himself!”

Tamir finally set Taliyah down gently—sorta—still gripping her shoulders like he was anchoring a national treasure. “You sure? For real? Like—confirmed?”

Taliyah, cheeks red, nodded. “I was gonna tell Cliff first but… y’all caught me off guard.”

Tamir turned to his dad, pointing dramatically. “You let this girl walk up stairs? Carry groceries? You ain’t bubble-wrapped her yet?”

Cliff just blinked, stunned, heart thumping like a drumline under his ribcage.

Pregnant.

She was pregnant.

With his baby.

This woman. The one he thought he lost. The one who carried his heart in her laugh, his breath in her body.

He hadn’t moved in twenty seconds, then he stood slowly, walked over to her—quiet, stunned—and cupped her face in both hands.

“You serious?” he asked her low, voice damn near cracking.

She nodded again, whispering, “Yeah. I’m really serious.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just kissed her. Deep and slow, like a prayer answered in full.

And somewhere behind them, Tamir was yelling, “I’m already designing the baby room, I don’t care! It’s gonna have LED lights and a mural and—”

Mariah: “If it’s a girl, I’m naming her after me. Period. Cliffette if it’s a boy.”

Taliyah pulled back from the kiss with a teary laugh. “What have we done?”

Cliff smirked, low and rough. “Something beautiful.”

CHAPTER 127 — “CODE RED, BABY ON DECK!”

The sun had barely hit its peak, and the entire brownstone felt like it was glowing from the inside out. Not because of the soft light peeking through the blinds or the smell of breakfast leftovers still wafting from the kitchen—nah.

It was because she was glowing.

Taliyah was curled up on the couch, legs folded under her, wearing one of Cliff’s oversized tees and the softest bonnet in the damn tri-state. Her hand rested on her stomach out of instinct more than anything. Cliff sat beside her, one thick arm thrown over the couch while he checked his phone, his kids scattered all around the room.

Mariah was leaned up at the island sipping a matcha latte like she didn’t already call dibs on godmother. Tamir was FaceTiming his homeboys, flexing fake tears. “My lil’ sibling gon’ be a Taurus, y’all. That mean stubborn and cute. Just like me.”

Najir had his headphones around his neck but he was listening—his eyes flicking between them, a tight nod to himself. He didn’t say much, but his gaze said “I got you, shorty.”

Mali and Dream sat on the floor cross-legged, Dream cradling a baby doll and pretending to show it to Taliyah’s belly.

“Okay, baby, this your cousin Sparkle! She don’t talk back but she be judging.”

Taliyah giggled softly. “Nice to meet you, Sparkle.”

Cliff watched them all for a second—then quietly got up and stepped out into the hallway.

He hit the Wu group chat.

🛑: “CODE RED. I need y’all at the house. Emergency. Serious. Life or death. Pull up fast. No questions. Bring burners. 10-15 min max. I’m not playing.”

Then he sent another text to Ghostface: “Wear the ski mask.”

15 MINUTES LATER

BANG BANG BANG

The door flew open like the feds had found a kilo in the walls.

Taliyah jumped so hard she dropped the remote. Dream screamed and dove behind the couch. Mali just sat there blinking.

Mariah rolled her eyes. “Oh god.”

Tamir? “This man play too damn much—”

RZA, Ghostface, Raekwon, GZA, and Inspectah Deck burst in, decked out in dark hoodies, tactical gear, and two of them—yes, TWO—had ski masks. Ghost had a foam bat for some reason.

“WHERE HE AT?!” Raekwon shouted, doing a tactical spin that made literally no sense.

“WHO HURT WHO?!” GZA yelled. “IS IT THE EX-WIFE?! SHE BACK?!”

“WHERE THE OPPS?!” Meth’s cousin called, crouching like he was in Call of Duty.

Taliyah just stood there wide-eyed like she’d stepped into a Marvel crossover episode of COPS.

“Y’all—” she started, but Cliff stepped into the living room dramatically, a full smirk on his face.

He clapped once.

“Stand down, soldiers.”

They all paused. Ghostface pulled his ski mask up. “The hell you mean ‘stand down’—you said code red!”

Meth turned to look at his five kids first. All of them sitting there confused or cracking up.

Then he pointed at Taliyah with both hands.

“She pregnant.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then— Ghostface screamed first. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Deck hollered. “AYYYEEE!” RZA fell to his knees like she’d just won an Oscar. Raekwon threw the foam bat in the air like it was a graduation cap.

Everyone surrounded her instantly.

Taliyah was being lifted, hugged, spun, blessed, kissed on the cheek, prayed over, ghost-danced around like she was a fertility goddess sent from the ancestors.

“Y’all doing the absolute MOST—” she tried to protest, laughing breathlessly, hands up as Raekwon bowed in front of her belly.

“Queen Mother,” he whispered. “Womb of the legacy.”

“Raekwon please get up,” she choked out laughing.

“YOU MADE A BABY WITH CLIFF?! THAT MEAN THE KID GON’ COME OUT WITH ABS,” Deck yelled.

Cliff just leaned back on the wall, arms folded across his chest, proud like a man who just won a championship. His whole family was in the living room—his blood, his brothers, and the love of his life who was now carrying a piece of him.

“Y’all thought I was done?” he smirked, blowing smoke from the cigar he lit casually. “We just gettin’ started.”

CHAPTER 128 — “Super Sperm Confirmed 💥”

Taliyah’s fingers danced over her phone screen while her legs were slung over Cliff’s lap, his warm hand idly stroking the side of her thigh. She had on one of his hoodies—again—and her bonnet was slightly tilted, giving her “I’ve been loved on, fed well, and spoiled rotten” vibes.

He was focused on his phone too, scrolling through the dozens of group chats now renamed things like Baby Wu Watch, Smith Legacy Loading, and Team Taurus Turn Up.

Dream was asleep curled on the floor with a blanket and stuffed elephant. Mali was next to her, pretending not to be asleep but clearly halfway to dreamland. Najir had his game in his hand, headphones on, but every few minutes he glanced over at her stomach like it might start kicking mid-game.

Mariah and Tamir were deep into a sibling roast session, arguing about who got to design the baby’s first fit.

“This child’s gonna come out dripped in Balenciaga bibs if y’all don’t calm down,” Taliyah muttered with a smile.

Cliff chuckled, that low, warm sound vibrating beneath her. “You love it.”

She did.

So when she opened Instagram, she didn’t hesitate this time. No press filter. No hiding her joy. No ducking from the noise.

She posted a picture.

The living room looked like love incarnate. All five kids in some form of laughter or mischief, Wu brothers still scattered from the chaos of last chapter, and her in the center—Cliff’s hand on her stomach, his lips pressed to her temple, both of them glowing like a soft spotlight was following their joy.

The caption?

“he ain’t lie about that verse on super sperm 💅🏾🍼baby smith the Taurus ♉️ loading …”

The internet? LOST. ITS. MIND.

The comments exploded within seconds.

🗣️ “SUPER SPERM??? GIRL I—” 👀 “Not y’all being Black royalty. I’m crying real tears.” 🔥 “Taurus baby? That baby gon’ fight AND cuddle.” 🍼 “Wu-Tang really forever now.”

Even celebs were in the mix. Zendaya liked it. SZA reposted it with “omggggg 🥺😭😭” Beyoncé’s team dropped a single 👑 emoji. The Shaderoom? Front page. TMZ? Already outside the brownstone.

But inside?

Cliff turned his head, reading the post over her shoulder.

He blinked. “Super sperm?”

She grinned. “You said it in that verse, didn’t you?”

His eyebrow lifted. “And you just confirmed it to 4.2 million people.”

“Correction,” she teased. “5.7 mil now. My engagement going crazy.”

Cliff let out a deep sigh, but he was smiling.

“You know what, imma let it slide. Just know—”

He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her jaw, “—next time I hear somebody yell ‘super sperm’ in public, I’m pointing straight at you.”

She snorted, hiding her face in his hoodie.

“Deal.”

[derbophobia]

beautiful animal dynamics for pairings that i think abt conceptually except none of them are dog/cat/bunny (love yall tho truly):

Fox x Hen: sneaky fox girl who is mostly here to have fun and joke around but also she IS gonna steal ur eggs and mayyyyybe eat u if she gets hungry enough. hen girl who tries very hard to puff up her feathers and look scary but it just makes the fox laugh

Snake X Mouse (Jerboa if u wanna get specific): little scared mouse who likes to skitter off and hide, but is easily tricked and/or captured by the smart snake. snake girl who just wants to squeeze and hug the mouse girl real tight and okay yes bite her a LITTLE BIT but its no big deal its just cuz shes cute !!! no other reason!!!! >:•}

Frog X Spider: (based off a symbiotic relationship that forms with certain species of frog and tarantula) frog girl who is a bit naive and highly optimistic, and cant figure out why everyone is acting like that about her new girlfriend. spider girl who is intimidating at first, but became instantly charmed by and protective of the frog girl who was Not scared of her for even a second.

Crocodile and Plover bird: (another symbiotic) croc girl with a short temper and jumps at the chance to argue or fight with anyone she perceives as rude or threatening. bird girl who is cute enough to get a pass, and helps take care of her girlfriend after fights. friends of the croc girl are in constant shock at the amount of teasing that the bird girl gets away with, cuz they didnt know the croc had that much restraint in her (theyre gonna fuck crazystyle later about it ofc)

[ourdreamsareneon]

animal abuser

sorry for having the audacity to say that *check notes* you shouldn't steal someone's pets?

here's my cat to show you how awful of a human being I clearly am – last night she was at the top of the stairs, and when i went to walk down them she got scared and stumbled. she didnt fall or anything but she did look like a looney toon because we have wood floors and I haven't been able to cut her paw pads lately so there was a little skittering and that made me laugh at her.

1 like = 1 prayer

[chickensoup-4-mysoul]

herculean (drrr x f!reader) - chapter 18

Chapter 18 - Complementary

synopsis: you find yourself a new pet, run into some familiar faces, and receive an odd text message.

word count: 3114

warnings: N/A

“living in her forehead humming away leaning in and falling on anything,, small world - jack stauber

“Ack—c’mon!!”

Father never let you have a pet. He blamed it on all sorts of things; grooming, maintenance, allergies, the list went on. You didn’t press for long, opting to turn to cute videos on TV as a substitute. Out in the city, you expected to see more animals out and about. All you ended up seeing, though, were ravenous city birds, a couple of rodents, and maybe the occasional dog out for a walk. If you were lucky, you would have the privilege of a pet or two before the gracious owner had to continue on their way.

What you rarely saw was a stray cat—especially not one as adorable as the little thing running away from you. It was going so well, at first. She accepted the little bite of the snack you were eating, and even purred and leaned into your hand. She didn’t have a collar and looked a bit on the skinnier side, so you assumed that she was a stray.

Just as you were considering taking the poor thing home, the screeching of a large garbage truck scared her off. Watching her skitter off into the busy street caused you to panic, and you immediately ran after her. It was a wonder that neither of you were run over as you crossed numerous roads.

“Hey, it’s okay!!” you try to soothe her. She’s not convinced, slipping out of your grasp once more. The cat finds a narrow opening in the wall behind her and slithers through. You groan in frustration, running around the corner in an attempt to track her. It took you an infuriatingly long time to round the full span of the building. You were expecting her to be gone by the time you could round the corner.

When you finally reach your destination, however, she’s not too far gone. In fact, she’s only a few feet away, parked at a bench positioned against a storefront. She’s not alone, nuzzling into the pantleg of the young boy occupying the bench. You approach them, pouting childishly.

“And here I thought she was only sweet to me like that,” you sulk, eyeing the cat reproachfully. The boy turns to you, most likely startled by your appearance. His face is very childlike, his round, brown eyes making it difficult to place exactly how old he is. “Is this your cat?” he asks, looking down at the feline currently circling his ankle. He makes no move to remove her, but he also doesn’t look too keen on the contact.

“No, just a stray I found. I was thinking about taking her home, but if you’re a finders-keepers sort of guy…”

He shakes his head, finally pulling his leg from her clutches. It sends the little thing toppling over, rolling onto her back in confusion. “I’m not much of a cat person. You go ahead,” he says dismissively. His voice holds a child-like timbre, but it’s worn in a fashion that only age could accomplish. He seemed...bored.

You simply hum in response, taking in his demeanor. Crouching to your knees, you coo at the cat, holding out your hand. Seeking a new cuddle buddy, she rolls back onto her feet and bounds to you, happily accepting the scratches and head rubs. To your surprise, she latches onto your arm, allowing you to pull her into your arms. You can’t hold back your whispers of praise, overwhelmed by the affection.

The boy is staring at you, you notice, scraggly eyebrows raised. His eyes survey your form, narrowed and analyzing. Unperturbed by his attention, you regard him with a smile. “(Y/N) Brigall. You are?”

“...Aoba Kuronuma.”

The snort you let out is obnoxious, but you don’t particularly care. The adorably perplexed look on his face dismisses any possible regrets. “Sorry, just….Ao. Like the color blue? Seems like some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. It suits you!” In the direct light, you can see the navy tint in his otherwise black hair. Had he tried dyeing it? Perhaps it was brought out by the blue shirt peeking out from his hoodie.

He honestly doesn’t look very amused, but his baby face keeps you from taking him too seriously. “Aoba,” you breathe in, trying to steady your quivering voice, “Are you waiting for a friend?”

“No, just having lunch,” he responds, gesturing to the lunch pail sitting beside him. Not the talkative type, huh? Maybe you should leave the kid alone… “What are you going to name her?” he asks.

The question catches you off guard. He looks at you expectantly, face still fixed with indifference. Snapping out of it, you look at the cat in your arms, holding her up to get a good look at her face. She stares back at you with wide, dark eyes. Her choppy ginger fur stuck out in all sorts of directions.

“Renji.”

“Renji?”

“Yeah, like “ Orenji ”. Since her fur is orange, and…” You turn her to face Aoba. “ Ao and Orenji are complementary colors!!” Aoba chokes, pale cheeks flushing a light shade of pink. You chortle gleefully at the indignant look on his face. “Foolish...don’t name her for a stranger,” he grumbles, refusing to look at you.

“Don’t be silly! My cat chose you...we can’t be strangers.” You hold her out, a little closer to his face. He looks at Renji out of the corner of his eye. The kind part of you doesn’t tease him for the way his gaze softens. Deciding that the boy’s had enough, you pull the cat back into your arms.

“Well, I won’t keep you long. Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Aoba! Nice meeting you!” You wave him goodbye, as well as you can with a cat in your arms, and return in the direction from whence you came. For a moment, you hear no response and start to worry. Perhaps you had pushed his buttons a bit too much for a stranger.

“Yeah, see ya…,” you hear right before you round a corner. You can’t resist the urge to glance back at him one more time, smiling mirthfully. Gently grabbing one of Renji’s little paws, you pull it back and forth as if she’s waving at him. It’s hard to see from the distance, but you’re sure he rolls his eyes. Finally rounding the corner, you laugh to yourself. It had been a while since you made a new friend!

...

“Figures you’d go for the fancy wet food instead of the dry food.” The numerous tin cans clink against each other as you jostle them in the bag you hold. “Not complaining, though. That kibble bag looked heavy.” You peek over your shoulder at Renji, who’s head peeks out of the opening in your backpack. She meows happily, still nibbling the treat you had given her to tide her over. 

You wanted to splurge and get all of the essentials; a bed, toys, a tree—but there’s only so much that you can carry all by yourself. For now, you settled for food, some small toys, and a little collar. You could probably just make her a little bed for now. Renji suddenly takes interest in one of your earrings, pawing at it. The bell on her collar jingles at the movement. You swat her paw away, positioning the backpack to move her away from your ears.

“Jeez, you’re just a little trouble maker, huh?”

“Woah, she talks to animals, Kururi!! Guess Shizuo’s into the nutty types!”

“To each their own…”

Those voices, you hadn’t heard them in a while, but you recognized them immediately. Sure enough, in your path stood those twins you had met a while ago. The bespectacled one grins at you unapologetically while her companion sports a consistently blank look on her face. “Girls! Good to see you,” you say through gritted teeth, ignoring their rude comments.

The quiet one, Kururi you think, peeks over your shoulder, indifferent eyes lighting up at the sight of your furry friend. “Cute…” she mutters. Looking at the cat ears decorating the hood of her top, you wonder amusedly if she’s a cat person. You pull the bag around to rest on your front and pull out Renji, who is very content to be held. “Wanna hold her? She’s super docile.”

Kururi nods, stars shining in her eyes as she accepts the small animal. Renji, though confused by the movement, quickly adjusts to the new set of arms, nestling into the girl’s chest. You notice how the other twin simply watches, eyeing the cat warily. “You can hold her too, if you want,” you offer. She vigorously shakes her head, even holding her fingers in a cross shape at Renji.

“Nope! No way! Dogs are way better!” It matched her outfit, you guess.

“Well, if I see a stray dog, I’ll be sure to let you know,” you laugh at her childish antics. Kururi passes the cat back to you, eyes not leaving the creature as you place her back inside the makeshift cat carrier. “Anyways, we’re not here about some cat!! We’re asking if you’ve got intel on Yuuhei, yet!” You thought they might say something like that. 

After your last brief encounter with them, you actually took the time to look up this Yuuhei they were talking about. It was a little tricky with just the first name, but you assumed that it had to be Yuuhei Hanejima, an actor that was currently very popular, especially with young girls. 

How they made the outlandish connection that he was related to Shizuo was lost on you. They even had different last names, for heaven’s sake! Though, you had to admit, the two did have similar features when you looked closely. Plus, Shizuo did mention having a brother—but you think he would mention if that brother happened to be a famous movie star . A sigh tumbles from your lips, accompanied by your fingers pinching your nose. 

“You’re awfully pushy for a girl who hasn’t even bothered to introduce herself yet.” Weren’t manners a thing, here? They were still young, so you suppose you should cut them some slack. 

“Fine, fine!! I’m Mairu Orihara—that’s Mai-ru Oh-ri-ha-ra!” The girl’s hands move in enthusiastic gestures, as if she’s conducting a symphony.

“Kururi,” the other murmurs. 

Orihara. Mairu’s nonsensical antics, barely concealing a less innocent brand of mischief. Her impish grin is accompanied by a narrow stare that reminds you so strikingly of him. Kururi’s selective silence, eschewing all attention so that you don’t notice her calculating gaze, always watching and observing.

“Kururi, Mairu,” you address them both, trying to hide your sudden feeling of unease, “I’m (Y/N), a friend of Shizuo’s—nothing more. Per our last ‘discussion’, I’ve never met this Yuuhei, nor do I think I ever will.” You hope that the eye contact you make with both of them solidifies the fact that you’re being sincere. Mairu crosses her arms behind her head, humming thoughtfully. You wait with baited breath, anticipating what she could say next.

“Oh-kaaay,” she drawls, feigning great disappointment. You feel your shoulders relax, grateful that you are off the hook. “But if anything changes, you better not hold out on us!! Once high school starts, we’ll be in the area way more often. We’ll be keeping an eye on you!”

“Often.”

So much for getting these girls out of your hair. Well, if it came down to it, maybe you all could develop a positive relationship. There was a slight age gap, but if it worked out with Anri, it could work with them. Besides, they were... relatives of that man. What did that mean for them? You couldn’t quite assume, but you wondered if they needed another adult figure. “Where are you girls headed to school?” 

“We’re gonna be first years at Raira!” You light up at the familiar name. This may be easier than you’d thought! 

“I have close friends at Raira. You’ll probably see me around there!”

“Huh—what’s an adult like you doing around high school kids!?”

“Creepy…” God, on second thought maybe you should just avoid them ! 

“Well you two don’t seem to have a problem with following me around,” you shoot back. It’s not even like you were that old. How rude! Mairu titters cheerfully and even Kururi smiles. “Just kidding, kidding! We’ll see you around then, Miss (Y/N)!”

They practically dance around you, skipping past you and forcing you to turn around to see them. While you do let out a flustered huff, you find yourself chuckling. That is until Mairu says one last thing that digs directly under your skin.

“I do hope you don’t give up on Shizuo, though. The way he looks at you—Whew! I can practically feel the romantic tension!”

Curse them for being so fast! They practically disappear before you can fit in a rebuttal. As you stand there, fixed to say something, you aren’t quite sure what it was you were going to say. Don’t give up on Shizuo... what did she mean by that? Of course you hadn’t given up on him, he was one of your close friends! You just didn’t have the... relationship that the twins thought you did.

You liked the guy, and you cared about him—but ‘romantic tension’ was so far-fetched. And he looked at you normally!! Maybe you caught him staring at you, sometimes. When you were caught up conversing with a mutual friend and he just watched silently…how did he look at you then? A serene smile plastered on his defined features. Gaiety swimming in his warm, kind brown eyes…

A paw to the face from your furry friend reminds you that you’re still just standing there. You click your tongue at her, murmuring that you’ll get her home soon. Your face is embarrassingly hot for reasons that you don’t want to acknowledge. The rest of the walk is uncomfortably silent, leaving you with your raging thoughts. You tried to think of anything else; plans for dinner, tomorrow’s outfit, possible cat bed substitutes, etc.

Anything but that man’s enchanting eyes.

...

So, the makeshift cat bed ended up being your lap. Despite the lovely pillow-blanket combo you had constructed for her sake, Renji insisted on cuddling with you in bed. At first, you were adamant about keeping her out of it, considering the fact that she had been out on the streets for who knows how long. When she wouldn’t budge, you were faced with the very grueling task of bathing her. As compliant as the cat had been before, all of that went out of the window when water was involved. A lot of hissing, spitting, clawing, and splashing later, the cat was wrapped in a towel, nestled up in your lap as you scrolled through your phone. 

You occupy yourself until you’re tired enough to fall asleep, texting back and forth with Erika and Anri and checking the Dollars forums.

*ALERT* ( Unknown Number) Attachment: 1 Image *ALERT* ( Unknown Number) Attachment: 1 File

Your eyebrows raise when the notifications appear on your phone. That’s odd; you hadn’t given your number to anyone lately. Opening it didn’t seem too appealing. What if it was something weird? After a short period of trying to ignore it, the red badge quickly got annoying. Maybe you would open and close it immediately, just to get rid of the notification.

Of course, the operation was not as simple, and you got a full peek at the attachments. It quickly dawned on you that it was nothing gory or creepy. The group photo of a bunch of middle-aged men had you thinking that it must have been some sort of wrong number mix up. Out of courtesy, you shoot a quick text to the sender. The response is alarmingly immediate.

ME Sorry, I think you may have the wrong number.

UNKNOWN NUMBER I do not.

The message was so curt and cryptic, it sent shivers down your spine. You hoped that it was a funny misunderstanding and not anything creepy. Once again, your message received an immediate response.

ME I’m sorry, may I ask who this is?

UNKNOWN NUMBER No.

This is a very strange predicament. Whoever this was, they knew who you were, sent you these things, and insist on concealing their identity. It was certainly mysterious, but were you really in danger here? They looked like harmless photos; what did they have to do with you anyway?

You go back to the group photo. It was a group of men, varying in age but none of them younger than their early thirties. Upon closer inspection, you noticed that they were all dressed professionally, topped off with lab coats. The quality of the photo isn’t the best, and most of the faces are barely visible. One of the men, strangely enough, wore what looked like a white gas mask. Perhaps it was a piece of equipment? The only face you can really make out is the man on the far left and— wait…

You squint, zooming in on the man and even pulling the phone close to your face. Is that... A face thin and pale enough that his sickliness registered even through the photo. His beard was unkempt, thick and bushy. A thin pair of glasses rests on the crooked bridge of his nose. His facial hair is longer and his eyes are obscured, but you can tell.

Father was in this photo. Was this a photo of him at work? He looked so old, though. A timestamp in the corner of the painting marked the photo to be about 4 years old. Goodness, had he aged backwards? You blamed the excessive facial hair for aging him so much—good thing he wore it a lot shorter, now.

The next item was a scanned pdf of a document that you could barely read. The whole thing was basically chicken scratch. At the top of the page was written “The Herculean Project”. At least, you think that’s what it says. With the help of the timestamp from the photo, you realize that the document was written shortly before the photo was taken. It appears that the two are connected.

Quite frankly, you have no clue what any of this means. You have a feeling that this anonymous person wouldn’t be much help, either. It was all very unfathomable to you and trying to understand it befuddled you greatly. 

Renji, finally dry, emerges from her towel cocoon and leaps up to rest her paws on your shoulders. She stretches her back and legs, leaving your lap to curl into a ball at your feet. “Not mad at me anymore?” You prod her with your toe. She lets out a ‘mrp’ in response. 

“Lights out it is, then.”

[fear-the-hippo]

So My Hubris Got The Better Of Me

It’s getting Cold outside, so the other day I brought my succulents in so they could be happy and not perish.

Now, I had been aware that they had An Inhabitant for some time, as I’d seen the smallish orb web this inhabitant had constructed between the flower stalk of my aloe and the deck rail, but didn’t know where they were when I went to do this. I’d seen an absolute speck of a spider on them at one point, but it had been a while and they were nowhere to be seen as I was detaching their web from it (sorry, friend), so I’d assumed they were elsewhere, presumably either the deck rail or the outdoor chaise lounge which also had anchor points connected to it.

I was wrong.

The SECOND I set the pot down on a table inside, they show up. I guess the vibrations dislodged them from hiding in a flower or whatever the hell they were doing, because they kind of fall down and swing over onto the underside of a fake plant on the table nearby.

I did not know this friend even existed. The teeny speck I’d known about had been brown and stereotypically shaped. This friend was a cat-faced spider (Araneus gemmoides). Still a small one, but definitely Different. About the size of a tack head.

‘Okay,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’ve picked up jumping spiders, I’m mostly chill when things end up on me now, and this friend is tiny. I’ll just pick them up and carry them outside. No big deal. I’m not nearly as scared of spiders as I used to be.’

……So uh. The reason spiders freak me out has to do with a combination of how fast they are and how erratic they are/ how their legs move when they run around. I don’t love centipedes for the same reason.

Jumping spiders don’t do this. Jumping spiders just kinda teleport.

Cat-faced spiders, however….

The second I scoop this tiny friend up, they spazz out. Which. Fair. Me too, dude.

This immediately makes me Freak The Hell Out. So now, for a brief second, both me and the spider are panicking. The spider wants off this ride and is behaving accordingly. I just kind of freeze up while my heartbeat goes crazy at the feeling of 8 little legs skitter-skittering across my hands.

Spider finally finds the edge of my hand and Mission Impossible-s herself down onto the table. Cool. I remember how to breathe.

Spider is still freaking out. I can’t leave because I don’t want to lose them, but need something else to carry them out on because…. Well. Yeah. Hands don’t work so great, apparently.

So I’m like. Herding this poor spider around the tabletop and yelling at my mom to get paper + a cup, she’s downstairs doing laundry and apparently finds the concept of a cup deeply confusing even once she comes upstairs, and eventually just like. Gives up on me and hands me a Costco pamphlet.

Which. Only solves half the problem, technically, but. Whatever.

Spider runs onto the pamphlet and I carry them outside, occasionally switching hands to avoid a Repeat Incident, and deposit them on the railing.

And proceed to just. Die laughing. Partly because my stress/adrenaline crash response is to laugh and also because this whole scenario is so stupid on so many levels.

So yeah that happened.

TL:DR overestimated my ability to pick up a spider. Here’s a pic of the perpetrator (below the cut)