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micropoet · 2 months ago

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Creature Craft

hi! your writing’s cool :) do you have any analogical fics in the works? (my fav is queerplatonic comfort/fluff, but anything is good!) – amateurmasksmith

Read on Ao3

Warnings: none

Pairings: analogical

Word Count: 1848

It's a strange service. It promises to help bring out the best in you by showing you your worst so you understand yourself better. Or at least that's what he understood from the drunk rambling phone call when his friends needed another person to sign up for it so they could all get the discount. *** Virgil finds himself an unwitting participant in one of the newest magical fads: a personal spell that will create a creature just for you. The service claims to offer each participant an insight into how they fit into the world's magic, what their strengths are, what their weaknesses are, areas for improvement. The process is...more than challenging, the outcome...perplexing.

It's a strange service.

It promises to help bring out the best in you by showing you your worst so you understand yourself better. Or at least that's what he understood from the drunk rambling phone call when his friends needed another person to sign up for it so they could all get the discount.

There's a confirmation email that explains a bit more about the program. Basically, the magic is shaped over two trial periods and the spell is completed by the end date. Everyone gets together to send out their last approval and spend the rest of the night drinking and gossiping about what fun it's going to be.

A small envelope arrives two days later.

He opens it up and tips the contents into his hand. A small seed falls out along with a scrap of paper. The sees is small, innocuous, almost a rock instead of a seed. He turns the piece of paper over to reveal a small printed note that just says 'Plant Me.'

"Hello, little one," he whispers as he holds up the seed, trying to figure out what it is, "may I look after you for a little while?"

He takes the seed to the store, asks what it could be, what it needs. He gets no clear answers but recommendations. He goes from store to store, and when even that doesn't help, he turns to the internet.

He never learns what seed it is, but resolves to try his best.

The others get plant seeds too and he learns about how beautiful their plants are. He's still waiting for it to sprout, but eventually, he gets a little green shoot. He sees the pictures the others send of their plants—vibrant colors, incredible blooms, vivid green leaves. He asks what they're doing and they give him answers like: oh, I just stuck it in any old soil and water it when I remember.

I prune all the ugly parts until it looks good again.

I told it it'd better grow well and it did.

He doesn't do any of that. He waters it when it looks like it needs more, the right amount of light, eventually it begins to grow more and more and the others start clamoring for pictures. He hesitates before sending them.

Maybe you just got pranked, they say, it looks ugly.

There are thorns everywhere, oh my god.

It's monstrous.

He doesn't mind not really. He tends to it just as carefully, whispering that it's okay, you don't need to be pretty, I'll still take care of you. It grows a little more.

Then, three months after it first arrived, the plant is gone and he has an email informing him that phase one is done.

Then, a crate appears on his doorstep.

He brings it carefully inside, looks at the label from the company and the simple card. He opens it to reveal the words: 'Take Me Home.'

The box hisses.

He carefully opens it, bit by bit, only to have his eyes almost scratched out as a blur of fur comes up and out of the box and off into his apartment.

Learning how to live with a feral cat is not easy, especially one that refuses to let him see it. He quickly tarted keeping his door closed to his room and asked a local pet shelter what best to feed the cat. He kept the food open on the floor—dishes were a no-go—and did his best to set up a litter box.

He didn't learn quick enough to hide his breakable things from the cat's wrath. He lost more than a few photos and vases. The cat hisses at him, scratches him bloody, and turns the house upside down.

Still, he tries to be patient.

He moves everything dangerous out of the way. He feeds the cat, cleans up after it, and respects its space. It's claimed an old closet and drags its prizes there, camping out like some army protecting its position. It's scared, he understands, it's just trying to feel safe.

The others, who are bragging about their own impeccably trained animals, say he's just doing it wrong.

Then one day, he's cleaning the kitchen when the cat bolts along the counter and knocks off a glass. He lunges forward, just managing to catch it, as water spills everywhere. He lets out a breath and turns to set it down.

As he turns, his elbow hits his favorite mug and knocks it off. It falls to the floor and shatters.

Slowly, he sets down the glass and sinks to the floor, burying his head in his hands. All the frustration and irritation about the cat, the seed, his friends for roping him into this, all of it starts to come out ion bitter tears. Soon he's sobbing, fists pressed to his eyes.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want this, didn't want to care for a plant that grew to be monstrous, didn't want a cat that hated him and tore his house to shreds.

But how could he hold it against them? They didn't ask for this either.

For long minutes, he sits there and cries, refusing to take it out on anything other than himself, as cold tea drips to the floor.

Then something soft brushes his leg.

He moves his hands, eyes widening when he sees the cat nosing at his leg. It looks at him and does it again, for once gentle and seemingly unafraid of him, tail swishing back and forth.

Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out to offer his hand.

It sniffs it delicately and rubs its head against his palm.

"Hello, little one," he croaks, "may I look after you for a little while?"

The cat purrs.

Slowly, slowly, they learn. He gets off the floor and cleans up the remains of his shattered mug, throws it away and watches the cat walk off towards its den. It stays where he can see it that night, eating in front of him.

They navigate each other's space, understanding how to move around. Things begin to return from the den, back to the rest of the house. It begins to use the litter box, spending more time where he can see it. Sometimes he messes up. He gets scratched for his efforts but he never retaliates, always bandaging his wounds and making sure not to do it again. The cat is always wary for a while after those moments but forgives him when he leaves.

Then, one night, as he settles on the couch, it curls up in his lap and purrs.

He lowers his hand to its back slowly, as if at any minute claws will dig into his legs. But they don't and he brushes soft fur, feeling the purr intensify.

"Good kitty," he whispers, and the cat looks up at him, blinking real slow, "thank you."

He's almost sad a few days later when he comes home and the cat is gone, his apartment as though it had never been there—his favorite mug still broken, though, when he checks somewhat hysterically to make sure he hadn't imagined the whole thing—replaced with an email that says phase two is complete.

His friends are all excited, saying how they can't wait for their rewards at the end of this, ow much they've been looking forward to it. They look at him and his monstrous, feral magic and whisper that it won't end well for him.

When the final day comes, he learns that he can't make the scheduled appointment at the place because he's been called into work for an emergency. The company understands when he sends them an apologetic email, telling him that his spell needs a bit more time to settle, they were going to contact him saying as much anyway. The night before, he curls up in bed and lies awake for a while, staring at the spot on his windowsill where the plant once sat, where the cat would lie. There are deep grooves int he wood from its claws.

Despite how rough of a time he's had, he does find himself missing their presences just a little.

When he gets home from work on the day the others have their appointments, he looks at his phone and balks.

Mine tried to kill me, a friend says, it was awful! Like I would only listen if I was pinned against the wall!

They were horrifying, they had big pus filled things and warts all over them, says another, they looked like something out of a horror movie!

They stared at me and called me ugly!

They tried to order me around like I was their servant!

Thy tried to hurt me, said I was being misbehaved!

They were so mean to me, I wanted to cry.

I'm suing, they fucking ripped us off.

What happened to the nice flowers and animals? Didn't we do a good job training those?

I want those back. Those were nice. I could handle those!

He puts down the phone with shaking hands. He feels awful, the thought of his friends having to go through that, hearing all that abuse hurled at them. No one deserves that. Is it true? Is the spell a scam? It was always important to read though things first, but…

There's a smarting suspicion in the back of his mind that something more is going on here.

As he gets ready for bed that night, a horrifying thought crosses his mind.

If the others grew such beautiful plants and had such perfect animals and had spell results this awful…

…what on earth was his going to be?

Sleep doesn't come easily that night.

The company never specified when his spell results would be in, so he's caught completely by surprise when he comes home one day.

There's someone sitting in his living room.

They turn to look at him as he walks in and he breathes in sharply.

They're…they're really pretty.

Their hair is short, swept up off their face. They have glasses. They're dressed in a Henley and dark wash jeans. They look at each other in silence for a moment before he swallows, suddenly feeling terribly under dressed in his old hoodie and sneakers.

"Are…are you here for me?"

They nod and stand up.

God, they're tall.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself to be insulted, hurt, even attacked, squaring his shoulders and setting his backpack on the floor.

They stop in front of him and he tries not to blush at how intensely they're staring at him.

….they're so fucking pretty.

Their hand moves.

Then the other.

Slowly, so slowly, and with enough tenderness that it almost threatens to make him cry, they cup his face and smile.

"Hello, little one," they murmur softly, "may I look after you for a little while?"

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