#whitmerule

[whitmerule]

a tale of two hairstyles (5/5)

(still need to find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex. Same AU as this ficlet.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

“... going grey,” Tugger echoed disbelievingly. He squinted at Skimble, trying to get a read on him, on how to respond. “Congrats, welcome to fatherhood?”

“Only a few hairs,” Skimble added quickly, “so far. But I’m not used to it. It doesn’t look right in the mirror.”

… Tugger burst out laughing, covering his eyes against Skimble’s glare. He couldn’t help himself. He’d never expected this streak of vanity in Skimble, and he was utterly charmed by it. 

“It’s all very well for you,” Skimble complained, as Bucky abandoned his play mat and crawled over to see what was so interesting. “You’ve got years ahead of you, and—”

“You don’t? Come on, dude, it’s not a death sentence, it’s the start of your silver fox era.” As if Skimbleshanks could ever look anything but distractingly, disgustingly handsome.

Skimble blushed. He actually blushed. 

“I know it’s silly,” he said, hiding his face by leaning down to help Bucky clamber onto the sofa. “But with you here, looking all…” 

He waved a hand vaguely up and down Tugger’s body, and Tugger’s laughter dried up suddenly in his throat.

“... Looking all…?” he prompted, relying on years of muscle memory to get the teasing smirk just right and cover up the stupid butterflies in his stupid tummy.

Skimble did glance at him then, a dark look with one sternly quirked eyebrow and that just wasn’t fair.

“Don’t fish. You know exactly how good you look,” he said, and Tugger could have crowed. “I mean well. You’re looking so healthy lately, and I’m—and that’s wonderful, of course.”

Tugger leaned forward and watched Skimble as he trailed off, leaving half a dozen sentences hanging in the air. Bucky was wobbling on the sofa, standing up against Skimble’s arm, clutching at his collar and investigating the button there.

“What you need,” Tugger decided recklessly, as the silence teetered on, “is a makeover.”

“I what?!”

…

Silly to be self-conscious about shirtlessness when they saw each other shirtless every day. Pointless to catch his breath when Skimbleshanks bent forward over the basin, shoulders strong and almost relaxed under Tugger’s fingertips as he draped a towel over them. Idiotic to close his eyes and shiver as he massaged the home-made treatment through the stern ginger hair, turning into soft pliable swirls around his fingers.

And the towel wasn’t long enough: it would be suicidal at this point to look down and see that tramp stamp that Skimble had refused to explain, that Tugger stupidly adored, that he remembered kissing and teasing with his tongue. That spot which, every now and then even nowadays, he couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over, when Skimble was fully dressed, as if it was an accident. 

When Tugger’s special secret mix was washed out of Skimble’s hair (leaving it lush and soft and glowing thank you very much), and Tugger had assembled his three favourite brushes and his two favourite styling gels for Skimble’s hair type, and a light curling iron just to shape some details; and when Skimble had consented to sit up on the bench top instead of in a chair, bare feet swinging self-consciously in the air…

Tugger stepped forward, into Skimble’s space, and threw down his own challenge.

“You trust me, right?” 

He grinned lopsidedly as he said it, like it was a joke. He wasn’t sure whether a yes or a no would be worse.

“... Let’s find out,” said Skimble, which was even worse than either.

Concentration; testing a part here, a wave there, considering the shapes they made; trying to find something that drew attention away from his temples, something that made him feel a bit younger but still like himself; Skimble’s knees pressed lightly against his belly, and the way they gradually relaxed open, making it more comfortable to lean forward to check this or that angle; Skimble’s eyes following his hands and face and slipping over his shoulder to check that Bucky was still curled up napping against the sofa with his blanket and his giant plush duck; Skimble’s breath skating over his face, deliberate and steady; and then, a hand that settled on his hip, as if it was quite natural for it to belong there.

“... I don’t think I can do all that myself every morning,” was Skimble’s verdict, almost a full minute after Tugger had turned him to face the mirror.

Tugger groaned, and couldn’t resist dropping his forehead onto Skimble’s shoulder. “Good thing I’m here then. Come on, what do you think? You hate it, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” They both watched in the mirror as Skimble hand rose, brushed experimentally against a lock. It moved freely under his touch, then fell back into harmony with the rest.

“It’s… different,” Skimbleshanks decided. He straightened up a little, back brushing against Tugger’s chest. “Not every day, perhaps, but…” He turned around, tilting his face up with a hint of a smile toward Tugger’s. “I could get used to this.”

---

note: there is another version of this final chapter which is about twice the length of this one, but it's too long for the format of the fic as a whole. when I put it on AO3 I'll include it as bonus material! includes Bucky having a geranium to show to daddy.

[falasta]

This is still so amazing!! Thank you @whitmerule for putting this together. I miss these beautiful cats so so much.

Feline, fearless, faithful and true...

A little nostalgia for the Vienna revival production, which closed a year ago!

Credit for the footage goes to @cryptidvoidwritings and @falasta. Credit for the Willhelm scream at 0:40 goes to Dominik Hees.

I won't name all the actors since it's scraps from several different nights in the final week: 19th, 21st, 22nd, 23rd, and 24th June 2022.

[storyweaverofgondor]

Cats Thunerseespiele 2017 clip compilation

Come and enjoy some non-rep crumbs! This is the result of several years obsession with this non-rep. I used Tecklenburg as a guide for the order of the clips since this musical seems to strongly follow the same story structure. The sounds for many of the clips don't technically match the clips but i chose to leave those in (especially the genius one where Tugger going 'Woohoo!' is perfectly lined up with the clip of Macavity bouncing), for simplicity's sake.

@uppastthejelliclemoon @statisticalcats2 @per-the-jellicle-magician @per-the-jellicle-magician @afairytalestray @whitmerule

[rainbowratsstuff]

Noodles for cheese 🥺

Macavity can share his noodles with Cheese. But be careful because they might bite 😅

(if you dont know who cheese is)

[mysticalcats]

I was pretty prominent in the cats fandom circa 2019-2022 and oh god. skimbly and whitmerule were especially awful. you’d think that a silly musical about singing cats wouldn’t cause so much hate and vitriol but some people had something terrible to say every other second. anyway don’t feel bad that you didn’t know!! thank you for understanding and blocking!!

no problem! thank you for letting me know!!

[monstersandmaw]

Ayyyyy

I saw this post and thought it was a fun thing to show you and also cause it seems like a fun imagine for creatures lol

https://www.tumblr.com/whitmerule/685384930358853632/what-if-you-vibrated-your-throat-patch-at?source=share

Awww for sure!! Some kinds of dragons definitely would definitely have dinosaur behaviours!

[whitmerule]

a tale of two hairstyles (4/5)

(until I find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

---

Bucky was a warm bean-bag weight on Tugger’s chest, and fingers were stroking through his hair, gentler than he’d ever felt.

Tugger rolled his head lazily on Skimbleshanks’ thigh (when had it got there?), and purred.

Fingers stilled and drew back, until they were only a tickle against the longest strands. Tugger made a vague complaining sound that didn’t get past his throat and chased the touch, squirming his shoulders against the mattress to get closer.

The fingers returned: a little firmer, less of a caress and more thoughtful.

“It’s getting long,” Skimbleshanks murmured.

Tugger opened one eye a crack. The lights in the bedroom were dim, floating between night-time and reality. He could feel the little damp patch of Bucky’s drool on the collar of his pyjama top.

“Too messy for you, granddad?” he mumbled. 

Skimble made a scolding little ‘tch!’ sound with his tongue. His fingers crooked, dragging rather than stroking for a moment; and even that slight tugging sensation rippled across Tugger’s languid body in lines of faint fire. His hand tightened on Bucky’s back and he shifted a bit under the blanket.

The fingers uncurled at once. 

“Ridiculous.” Skimble’s voice was low so he wouldn’t wake Bucky. It made him sound warm, almost intimate. Tugger let it wash over him, too comfortable to care whether it was himself or his hair that was ridiculous.

“Too messy for work,” he confessed, in the half-light.

(Tugger was pretty sure the blanket hadn’t been covering him when he’d dozed off: he’d just dragged it over Bucky.)

“When has that ever stopped you?” The hand moved down, a faint movement in the air, to cup the back of Bucky’s head. “I’m sure you could tidy it up a bit and keep the length. If you wanted. You know… I think he’s going to be a ginger.”

There was a definite ripple of teasing in there now, even if it was mixed with the possessive wonder that crept into his voice every time he saw Bucky asleep.

“In your dreams,” yawned Tugger. “Some of us got taste, don’t we, little dude.”

Bucky drooled a bit in response. Sleep was sinking over Tugger again, thick and promising.

“There’s definitely a trace of red in there,” Skimble’s voice insisted. 

“In this light?” Tugger nuzzled his cheek against Skimble’s thigh. Flannel: pyjamas already. Good. Warm bed, not going anywhere.

“I can see well enough.” Movement, and a rustle of bedclothes, then his voice again, almost diffident. “I can see this stubble coming in. It suits you. Accentuates your jaw.”

A thumb rasped softly, thoughtfully, along the bolt of Tugger’s jaw, dragging slow warm heat in its wake. Something inside him preened. 

In the dark behind Tugger’s eyelids, he pretended he could hear Skimble smile.

“Go back to sleep,” Skimble murmured; and as Tugger drifted obediently away, he dreamed he felt lips brush against his hair.

(part 3 | part 5)

[storyweaverofgondor]

Do you know if there's like, an performers' bible for CATS costumes and makeup and if people can buy it?? I see pictures everywhere and I just love it, but is it something that actors take pictures of and upload to social media, and that's how we see it???

. . . i honestly have no clue. Sorry.

I'm gonna call in the experts for this.

@whitmerule @the-cat-at-the-theatre-door @statisticalcats2 @cryptidvoidwritings and @white-cat-of-doom are the most knowledgeable Cats people on the site that i know of. Maybe one of them can answer this for you.

[whitmerule]

a tale of two hairstyles (3/5)

(until I find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Skimbleshanks’ hair was just as rigid as ever, at least during the day. But now his moustache was usually sticky and ruffled from the fascinated clutch of baby fingers.

Co-parenting, Munkustrap assured Tugger, was hard on any relationship. You had all the usual difficulties of living together and working around and with each other, and then here was another entire human being, dependant on you both and exhausting you to the bone. 

All very well for him to say. Jemima slept through the night, and never got the tummy upsets that Bucky did. And at least Munkustrap and Bombalurina had a relationship.

At least they owned their house together, and neither of them was an uneasy guest (a charity case) (a hostage).

… at least Munkustrap wasn’t suffering from a perpetual case of blue balls.

Tugger had a bed, in theory—in the granny flat out in the garden—but he never used it at night. He crashed on the couch in Bucky’s room (formerly Skimbleshanks’ guest room), until Skimbleshanks would come stumbling in at the sound of the latest fretful wail, and lift the baby out of Tugger’s fatigue-heavy arms, and shoo Tugger into the master bedroom to get some proper rest.

In the mornings, when Skimbleshanks stepped out of the en suite, his hair was dark and oddly flat, plastered down over his forehead and trailing little rivulets down his nape, to vanish temptingly below his cable-knit green robe.

In the evenings, or in the timeless hours of soothing and rocking in the night, it seemed paler instead: mussed and soft without that Ken doll pomade, but still, always, falling in the same direction anyway, automatic after decades of training.

In the darkness, when it had no colour at all, it was only sensation to Tugger. Easy enough to bury his face in it and breathe, citrus and sandalwood and the soft-harsh little prickles against his mouth.

(Easy enough to sneak a hand down between his own thighs, when he was almost sure Skimbleshanks was asleep, and stifle his moans into the pillow that smelled of him.)

Sharing a bed was convenience, not intimacy. They never talked about it. If limbs tangled, or hands curled around the back of a neck, or if Tugger woke up as a ludicrously large little spoon (with the skin of his belly tingling under Skimble’s firm hand)... well, that’s what you get when you’re all up in each other’s space all the time. It didn’t mean anything. Especially not to Skimble.

Tugger’s strength and muscle started to come back, and his collarbone didn’t cast such a sharp shadow below his throat. Now he was back on regular T his body was starting to change for the better in other ways too, even though Bucky was still chest-fed as much as bottle-fed. 

And Tugger was slowly lifting his eyes from the one-foot-in-front-of-the-other of survival mode, looking around and finding things to enjoy. The kitchen was becoming his domain, scene of a grand success on one day and a messy disaster the next. Gradually, Tugger made his way up to working four half-days a week, while Bucky was with Cassandra, or with Bomba and Munk. Even Skimbleshanks, that consummate workaholic, was cutting back on his hours to spend some days and half-days at home with Bucky, and taking his turn at babysitting Electra.

When Tugger was feeling vicious and resentful he’d call Skimbleshanks his Prince Charming, and laugh to see Skimble stiffen and freeze over. 

Whether Skimbleshanks had asked (ordered) him to move in out of charity, or penance, or just because he knew Tugger didn’t dare refuse… if it came down to a custody battle between the respectable middle-aged well-off model employee and the down-and-out (trans) son of a mob boss, then it woudln’t even be a battle. 

(And Father might hear of him—might learn about Bucky.)

Sometimes Tugger looked at Skimble, running long fingers through rumpled red hair and muttering to himself as he worked out the week’s schedules and shopping lists, and all the micro-managing bullshit was almost cute instead of stifling and he wished… something. But he didn’t hope. 

What could he possibly offer to Skimbleshanks apart from his body—and his kid?

(part 2 | part 4)

[storyweaverofgondor]

@uppastthejelliclemoon @afairytalestray @whitmerule @statisticalcats2

[storyweaverofgondor]

Ok, I'm nearly faceblind but

Maybe? OP Bomba is - ??? *squints eyes and adjusts glasses* Ja . . . ee- nia? P- ??? (what is that squiggle???) e - o??? letico? Darn it, being dyslexic and almost faceblind is making this REALLY hard!

(Jaeenia P?eoletico)

@statisticalcats2 @whitmerule do you think either of you could help me, by any chance? Here's the link to the possible cast list if you need to look that over. x

[junkyard-gifs]

ok so who wants platonic tuggerpounce h/c after pounce has been whumped by macavity because pounce is engaged to macavity's brother and he's going to take out all his resentment on him now he's got him and forget all that the point is h/c cuddles and whump and also agonised munkustrap trying to fix it from a distance. plus background tuggershanks. and magic rings of morse-like communication.

also tugger is werewolf and munk and pounce can shapeshift into actual cats or humans or anthro cats because what is a beauty and the beast AU if the beast and beauty can't retain a bit of non-human afterwards.

yes ok good that's what i thought

(cw for mention of recent sexual assault, sorry pounce. also obvs pounce is a young adult here, not an actual child, despite tugger calling him kiddo all the time.)

also. also pounce thinks it's very important you all know how indignant he is over the fact that he has fleas ok.

---

(brief sample:)

“First things first,” Tugger said cheerfully to the air, “you stink. Bath for you, kiddo.”

He strolled over to the bed, shrugging his cloak off his shoulders, and deposited it and his precious burden on the bed together.

The cat stared up at him from the cavern of its folds, ears half laid back and fur bristling so much it almost obscured the sharp angles of ribs and hip bones.

You wouldn’t even try to touch a real cat, if it had looked at you with that much fight-or-flight. But Pouncival was in there somewhere—who knew how deeply—and he’d come to Tugger. After Tugger had changed into his wolf shape and chased away the stray dogs who’d been hassling him, after almost an hour of lounging around outside the crevice where he’d wedged himself, looking non-threatening and making soft reassuring noises and letting Pounce drink in his scent. Eventually, eventually , he’d crawled out from under that pile of crates and huddled desperately up against Tugger’s flank.

He was still there.

“You’ve got fleas,” Tugger informed him. “Trust me, I’m an expert.”

He blew the shivering lump a kiss and strolled away from the bed, shedding his outer layers and plopping his boots down by the door. 

(His ring was still vibrating, because Munk couldn’t take a hint. Tugger had lost count of the pulses so who knew what he was saying. Probably the obvious. Lots of desperate things.)

“Easier to get rid of them if you change back to human shape,” he added casually, downing a glass of water from the washstand then filling a shallow bowl. “Better hope you didn’t grab any ticks, by the way. The forests around here have some beauties. I got a couple last week, right up by my nadgers. Evil little buggers. Long fur in long grass is no joke, I’m telling you. If you don’t drink I’m telling Munk on you,” he added.

He wasn’t moving his hand fast, as he pushed the bowl toward Pouncival.

Pouncival flinched back automatically, all the same.

Tugger’s heart clenched. He poked his tongue out.

“Promise I didn’t gob in it.”

Pouncival still wouldn’t meet his eyes, but the cringe in his body language was now apologetic as much as it was fearful. Tugger didn’t like it any better.

But at least he crept forward, and lapped at the water.

Tugger’s other hand flexed in his lap, fighting the urge to reach out and touch.

Even as a cat Pouncival was always noisy. He made all sorts of sounds, all sorts of expressions and chatterings, no matter what mood he was in. But now, he was absolutely silent: Tugger had heard nothing from him but a couple of defensive hisses, right before he’d shot in under those crates.

It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

But he’d known that from the moment Munkustrap had contacted him via the rings more than a month ago, to say that Macavity had taken his betrothed.

“Well, hey, I guess it’s handy to have a wandering hero about the place after all.”

One of Pouncival’s ears pricked up—a faint puzzlement, a faint lopsidedness. A faint trace of him.

Tugger grinned at him, and said, “Hey, you wanna—?”

Footsteps and a metal clanking sounded in the corridor outside, and the door handle turned. In a blur of panic, Pouncival disappeared under the bed.

… why wasn’t Munkustrap here. Tugger was not cut out for this sensitive comforting crap. 

He and Pounce always had got on well, but you couldn’t really seduce a guy when he was the son of your not-so-casual regular hookup, and you couldn’t seduce or annoy him into a good humour when he was a quivering wreck who’d almost certainly been raped over and over for weeks. And seduction and annoyance were 80% of Tugger’ toolkit for making people get over bad shit.

In short, this whole situation was an attack on him personally .

The landlady’s sons dragged the buckets of hot water over to the tub in one corner of the room, while Tugger lounged on the bed, flirted carelessly, and incidentally distracted attention from any signs of cat. 

“Didn’t you have a bath just this morning?” panted one lad, disgruntled as he dragged into place the screen which sectioned off the bathing area from the view of the door and most of the room.

(There were fleas in the bedding at this place already, so Tugger wasn’t about to feel guilty for bringing in stray animals who might or might not also be cute but traumatised boys.)

“What can I say?” replied Tugger, with automatic arrogance; “looking this good takes work, baby.”

If he’d actually been listening he would have despaired of himself—that banter wouldn’t impress a twelve-year-old—but all his attention was on his senses, not his tongue. He couldn’t smell or hear so keenly in this shape as when he was a wolf, but everything in him was focussed on a small furry shivering lump under the bed.

The boys left.

Tugger flopped onto his back, and looked at the ceiling.

The ring quivered on his finger. Munkustrap, asking.

Tugger tuned it out—it wasn’t like he knew any more than Munkustrap did anyway—and stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.

He’d been hunting for traces of Macavity, of Pouncival, for weeks. He’d found nothing. Now here Pouncival was, cat-shaped, starving, in the middle of a nothing-much town.

The big question was: where was Macavity? 

How long since Pounce had got away? How had he got away? Where was Macavity? Was he on their trail? How quickly would Tugger have to—

The lump under the bed stirred.

“Do you even want a bath?” Tugger asked of the ceiling, “because if you don’t, I’m gonna be on that like a shot. You should’ve seen the fish that man at the corner of Chancegate and High tried to sell me this afternoon, it was… well, high .”

The twin triangles of ears rose up over the side of the bed.

(... he was standing on his hind legs . Exposing his belly!)

Tugger flopped his head sideways to look at the beloved asymmetrical face, and cocked an eyebrow.

… Pouncival’s eyes dropped, and his ears flicked backwards.

“... okay. Bath,” Tugger pointed left, “or no bath?” he pointed right.

Pouncival glanced almost longingly toward the left, but then lingered in the middle, staring at the quilt.

Tugger huffed out air at him. “Just go take a bath, babes.” He sat up, rolling his body away at the same time so he wasn’t suddenly looming over the cat. “That soap should take care of the crawlies. Yowl if you want me.”

… fell kinda flat.

He didn’t look back. He was busy at the table with his maps. If Pouncival had turned up here, and now, then that meant… all these trajectories and routes he’d plotted on the map, when he was trying to find them… not this or that, but maybe up there in the northern mountains… or had he fled down the river, and come up from there? Timing, timing… how long would it have taken him? Had it been all on foot? All on paws? How long since he’d…

… how long had he been starving?

[jellicle-home-for-jellicle-ships]

Alonzo and the Great Sofa War

aka Four Times Tugger Stole Something From Alonzo (and maybe one time he maybe didn't but you'll never get Alonzo to admit it). aka housemates AU.

Because this vid gave @skimblyshanks and @whitmerule 'Alonzoffelees Plus Annoying Housemate' feels.

Human AU: rating Mature; word count c. 9k; pairings Alonzo/Mistoffelees and Munkustrap/Tugger, with a strong focus on Alonzo&Tugger. AO3 link here.

Theft 1: His Dignity. "On the third day after Alonzo moved into Mistoffelees’ bedroom, Tugger nicknamed him ‘grumpy cat’."

Theft 2: His Moments. "It wasn’t until they woke up properly that Alonzo found the note pinned to the blanket. It just said, ‘😜’."

Theft 3: His SOFA. "Alonzo knew that Tugger still got on Munkustrap’s nerves, because as soon as Tugger appeared Munkustrap’s eye-rolls (which were impressive at the best of times) increased by approximately 200%."

Theft 4: His brother?! “'… I think,' Alonzo said carefully, 'my brother thinks I want him out of my life.'"

Part 5: ... okay so maybe not the sofa. "The first time Alonzo managed to turn the tables on Tugger, it was completely accidental."

Epilogue: And one thing Tugger gave him.

(skimbly's gif, whit's writing, based on skimbly and whit's AU brainstorming.)

[storyweaverofgondor]

@whitmerule

instagram: smacmccreanor

[aquatic-batt]

Don't worry about the dismemberment anon: it's one of those things that are harmless enough on its own and only becomes obvious when you notice a pattern of asks like this across the whole fandom. It's quite possible to respond innocently with art, and a few people have done just that ❤️ It's certainly not your fault if a few people make a hobby of tracking 'sightings' of this anon, though it must be uncomfortable to learn about it this way. I'd advise laughing and forgetting about it! 🤗

ahh thank you! honestly it was incredibly embarrassing at first but I find it hilarious now that. wow I got a fetish ask without realizing it how crazy is that JSBDJDDB thank you all for letting me know though! and thank you for the support! ! :)

[whitmerule]

a tale of two hairstyles (2/5)

(until I find a better title)

being a little set of vignettes my and @basilibino's angst/fluff Tuggershanks AU, with trans!Tugger and (accidental) baby Carbuckety.

About 3k words in total, rated M for mentions of sex.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

There was nobody to hold Tugger’s hair back for him when he was vomiting into the toilet bowl every morning, alone for the first time in his life.

He saw his hair going limp and dull in the mirror as he tried and failed to feed himself and the child growing in his body, because he’d never had to think about nutrition, let alone finances.

The mirror was grimy anyway, and there was mould growing from underneath it.

He’d drawn out as much as he could of his father’s money before he’d run, but it wouldn’t last forever. He had to find ways to… to make this all work. Munkustrap, and Bombalurina, and Cassandra. They were the only people he could trust.

He wasn’t Macavity’s son anymore.

Six months into his pregnancy, he hacked off his hair in angry chunks and tufts.

About a year after that, he stumbled yawning out of Cassandra’s spare room, scratching at hair that was still short and maybe even messier thanks to a much-needed afternoon nap. His baby was making happy intrigued babbles somewhere in the kitchen.

“Oh, here’s papa,” he heard Cassandra say, just as some male voice crooned baby-talk back. “Tugger, this is a friend of mine—he just stopped by to return a few books, but Bucky doesn’t want to let him go.”

Tugger was suddenly horribly aware of the fraying old tee slipping off one shoulder, where it was so used to him just tugging it down under one tit to feed Carbuckety.

Standing there, with one side of his moustache grabbed in a chubby baby fist and the expression of amiable greeting fading to shock, was Skimbleshanks.

“... You look terrible,” he said, after fifteen frozen seconds.

Tugger leaped forward to snatch Bucky away. Then he started to yell.

It was the first time they startled their son into crying.

(part 1 | part 3)