#cat bothering another cat or something like that

[tititilani]

I can't stop thinking about if Simon had taken Edwin's offer

Like Charles finds Edwin in the hallway as ever but this time there's another boy there too, cowering against the wall next to him. Maybe the dollhead spider doesn't care about Simon, too busy focusing on its favorite target, so Charles is left standing in the hallway with Simon when Edwin is taken.

They get out of hell, but Edwin doesn't confess due to Simon hovering behind his elbow. He doesn't want to confess his emotions in front of his killer, who he probably hasn't even properly figured out how he's feeling towards yet.

The Night Nurse is pissed they came out with an extra soul but Niko's same loophole still applies and Simon stays.

"This is Simon," Edwin says when it's all said and done, finally introducing the boy that's been hiding behind him since the door closed. "He was a...classmate of mine."

"He saved me," Simon says, looking up at Edwin moony-eyed and Charles knows that look and something settles heavy in his stomach.

"Glad to have ya, mate," he tells him even though the words taste sour. This other boy knew Edwin when he was alive, the thought is slightly terrifying to him.

Simon settles in fine with the agency even if the agency feels a little crowded now with five people in it but he continues to moon over Edwin and Edwin just...never tells anyone how they actually knew each other. He reasons it just doesn't matter, that he can't find the right time, whatever.

Charles never really warms up to him, though he tries to hide it, but he sees the looks Simon gives Edwin, a soppy smitten look that is somehow worse than anything Monty or the Cat King ever tried with Edwin because of all of them, Simon arguably knows the most about like Edwardian courting. That, like Edwin, Simon has also survived hell. Charles hates the idea that someone could potentially understand Edwin more than he does.

He hates it so much that nothing further happens between him and Crystal because the idea of Edwin being left alone with Simon bothers him so much. He sees Simon adjusting Edwin's collar one (1) time and it makes him feel sick.

And then there's the fortune-teller.

They only go to her sometimes for cases because she never fails to freak Charles out but her prophecies tend to be accurate like 60% of the time which is pretty good for a fortune teller. She looks at the two of them at the end, because it is just the two of them for once, and then looks just at Edwin.

"How kind you are," she says, the words a compliment but the tone snide. "To house your killer. Pray tell it doesn't come back to you."

"What." Charles says. "The fuck."

Charles is furious, of course, and it takes Edwin a long time to talk him out of smashing Simon's face in with the new cricket bat.

"He's like me," he insists in that quiet but firm voice. Charles wants to scream that Simon is nothing like Edwin - that he doesn't have a fraction of Edwin's kindness or pissiness, that his blue eyes are not nearly as beautiful as Edwin's green - but before he can even open his mouth, Edwin continues. "He...He likes boys, Charles. He likes me."

Oh. Oh.

Charles stares at Edwin who is looking back at him, trying and failing to hide the fact he's terrified, and Charles doesn't give one shit that Edwin likes boys because he's his best mate forever. He's still pissed that Simon is apparently staying but he has to hug Edwin at that. "I'm still pissed you didn't tell me about him," is all he says, swallowing back the other words he wants to say.

Charles grows even more paranoid about Simon being around, who has to get used to the fact that Charles takes to swinging his cricket bat ominously every time he comes within ten feet of Edwin. He finds out that adjusting clothing was an Edwardian courting thing and wants to break something. The very idea the very person who killed his best mate is now trying to put the moves on said best mate pisses him off.

It also makes him think of numerous times Edwin had readjusted his collar or jacket in the past and it makes his non-existent stomach flip.

Eventually, Simon decides he's ready to move on to his after-life and Charles keeps his hands from fisting when he looks at Edwin with that same soppy look. He knows Edwin has forgiven Simon by now but Charles has always been better at holding a grudge and he knows what is going to come out of Simon's mouth before he even asks. He knows that if Edwin says yes, he won't stop him.

Charles also knows that if Edwin does, there is no way he is going to find any kind of his own afterlife.

"You could come with me," Simon says hopefully and the moment after is the longest in Charles' life.

"Thank you, Simon," Edwin says kindly and Charles has to keep himself from crying. "But I have no interest in going anywhere without Charles."

He steps back - away from Simon and back towards Charles. Ears suspiciously pink, Edwin links their hands and they watch as Simon follows the Night Nurse.

[mossy123302]

Ah yes, I am now deep in the KinitoPET brainrot. Why not combine it with my favorite pairing. So many au's...

Was inspired by the song "Everlasting Fun" by LongestSoloEver for this brainrot

Warning:

Implied Yandere & Horror

Missa's entire social life was admittedly....in flames. It was all bad timing that he just had to get into an argument with Roier about what happened to his cat, so now Roier won't speak with him and the fact Spreen just straight up vanished without leaving a message nor call. Missa wasn't very close with others, only knowing them via Spreen or Roier so ...what a way to spend his vacation.

Missa could catch up on his games, maybe teach himself to play another instrument than a guitar or...scroll the Internet and mourn his miserable non-existent social life. He sighed, running his hand through his hair which was a bit greasy...so he needed to shower, but first, maybe he should go on his computer and actually see if there were any indie games or something he could download while he showered.

Missa searched through the Internet, and searched through Reddit as well to help give him an idea of what game would catch his attention. The Adventure of Angel Death...

Hm.

Angel Death?

That sounds like something interesting, sounds like a horror indie game or something actually. However, to Missa's surprise, it wasn't a horror game but more or less like those ai pets that helps with browsing. It just happens to be more slightly advanced because it has built in story mode, it could do slight programming and vice versa.

Well ... It had its own story and it couldn't hurt to try something. He could delete it later if it's not much, since the ratings weren't really high for this one. Missa clicked download and with that, he headed off to take a much needed bath, unaware of his computer screen turning blue with multiple tabs opening.

Missa sighed, drying his hair with his towel, squeezing out all the water from his hair as he approached his computer. He was glad that the download seemed to be finished, as there was a tab open, awaiting for him to click some agreement terms, which he did.

He was not gonna bother reading through paragraphs of words, when it mainly repeated the same thing. With that out of the way, it seems he can now...finally play this game?

A crow appeared on his screen, seemingly looking lost for a moment with a green and white stripped bucket hat in its beak, until a figure appeared, seemingly chasing after this crow.

"Give me my hat, right now! Why are you always stealing my things!" The AI huffed, snatching it's hat back from the crow before looking up at Missa. "Oh! I didn't see you there, mate. Hello!"

Missa couldn't stop the smile growing on his face, and quietly hummed. Maybe the game won't be so bad after all? I mean this ...figure was really cute, or well looks like a better version of that anime character, that Missa cannot remember for the life of him. The developer must have gotten real inspired by the anime..but still added their own personal tastes to the AI, possibly to avoid copyrights.

Philza.

That was his name, and man, Missa hasn't had so much fun even if it was simple. Philza asked simple questions, like what is his name, his favorite color and hobby while he seemingly read a book that appears from thin air as Missa types his answers. Missa was honestly impressed with the programming, since Philza seemed to have full range control on his computer and was able to pull immediate results or answers when Missa typed a question into the search engine.

Now it seems Philza did have a story program set in him, in which he opens another tab for Missa. It was a simple game, he just had to do simple tasks assigned by his friends; Tommy and Techno.

Techno was quite easy, it was to decorate the cabin! He added a few wolves, painted the whole cabin in blue and purple and added way too many skulls. Philza had a good laugh out of that one, amused by the amount of skulls that Missa had added.

"Well, your room is certainly interesting" Philza laughed and Missa smiled. It's weird how this little ai knew how to make him smile or probably because he's just starved of actual contact

Speaking of that... Missa frowned when he spotted a message from Roier. He didn't realize how long he spent playing this small quest, the message was there for hours and Missa barely recognized it. He didn't know what to say exactly, in fact, he just wanted to ignore it entirely but...

"Hey mate, you've been distracted by that message for a while now" Philza spoke, his voice snapping Missa out of his thoughts. Missa closed the message browser and sighed.

"Good choice, mate" Philza said, a hint of amusement in his tone. "We have plenty of other tasks to do, surely you have enough time"

Missa did, so he followed the new instructions Philza gave him to add a new game mode it seemed.

Hide and Seek

Missa didn't know where he was, frankly. He was... somewhere, tunnels that closed in on him. He couldn't make out most of the tunnels, with how pitch black it was and all he had was this torch to guide his way. He faintly could hear humming and footsteps that clattered against the stone...

Missa peeked around the corner, and could see a red cape flutter and he immediately hid back, silently praying that he wasn't spotted or at least heard. He covered his mouth with his free hand, trying to keep his heavy breathing quiet.

"Found you, mate"

Missa shrieked, as he immediately sat up, his eyes immediately darting around and ... He wasn't in tunnels, where it was damp and cold. He was...back in his room, where it was safe and warm. The computer was still on...and Philza's persona was asleep, or at least shut down since it seemed Missa was inactive for a while.

"....Dios mios...That dream.." Missa sighed, running his hand through his hair as he tried to process what he just had. He winced when his neck slightly twinged, and he mournfully had to turn off his computer to actually get some sleep or else his neck will be the least of his worries.

Philza opened his eyes when he felt the computer turn off, and while Missa couldn't see him anymore. Philza will always still see him and he quietly sighed. He frankly hated these moments where Missa had to sleep, I mean, it's much better being awake and doing fun activities but ... He supposes that taking a moment to relax and wind down is admittedly nice to take. It gave Philza time to jot down future ideas, or references to the games Missa had in his computer and to delete the incoming messages from Roier and Mariana.

He admired their stubbornness, but it was starting to get on his nerves a little. Can't they see he's trying to have fun? He was so close, he finally got to tap deeper in Missa's own dreams...

Slowly, bit by bit, Philza will be the only thing Missa will remember. He doesn't need these other friends to make him happy, all Missa needs to do is enter his world...and be happy with him, Techno and Tommy. However, Philza is patient, he will...bite down the urge to pull Missa straight away. He needs more time to create the perfect world for Missa.

Just a bit more... information and soon, Missa will finally be in his arms.

"Just wait a bit more, my moon.."

"Soon, we'll have an Everlasting Fun in our beautiful world"

[powderblueblood]

a cat is only itself

eddie helps lacy process the death of a friend he didn't know she had. a/n: this ficlet is completely self-indulgent and an effort in processing grief. last night, i lost my young cat in a cruel and tragic accident. she would have turned 3 this week. i wanted to write something that would help me process all that happened that night and anchor my love for her. i do not know what to do with all the love i have for her, so i put some of it in here. this is for fran. i love you forever. cw: dead dove, extreme TW for pet death, animal suffering, description of animals in pain, strong language and implied driving under intoxication i guess, classic edlacy banter, angst, yearning. this takes place in that nebulous just friends part of the hellfire & ice timeline. but who knows. this is kind of flung out of time and space. no one is under any obligation to read this as i know the subject matter is heavy. it was heavy to write it. thank you if you do though. wc: 5.7k part of the hellfire & ice universe

The day she came began as unremarkably as the day she went. 

Lacy’s boots were biting her–as in, chomping at her toes, due to them being both a touch too tight (doesn’t matter, too gorgeous to leave them behind in the thrift store) and her tights being a touch too thin. An unseasonal frost was creeping in and she’d elected to walk home and not get a backache in the library chairs while she waited for Eddie and Ronnie to finish up with another bottomless Hellfire session.

Rounding her part of the trailer park, she spied movement up by the raggedy chainlink fence. It seemed as if the equally raggedy Mayfield mutt was being bothered by something. A flash of iridescent eyes in her direction and Lacy saw that it was a little black kitten, no bigger than a cantaloupe, swiping at the dog’s nose. Her little eyes locked on Lacy’s little eyes, Lacy huffing out a steamy puff of laughter. That thing was so small, yet it was putting more anxiety on that Mayfield dog than SAT prep put on Nancy Wheeler. 

A flash–the cat darted straight to her, circling and dodging around her ankles. Lacy tried to pick her head up, ignore the little bother, but, y’know. Kittens. There’s no saying no to them, especially if they’re uncharacteristically insistent. 

Cats usually have a decent sense of boundaries, which is why Lacy was shocked that this little thing dashed into her trailer ahead of her. Tail up, making a beeline straight to her bedroom. 

She hopped upon Lacy’s dinky excuse for a double bed, making a seat for herself on a cozy tartan scarf Lacy had earlier discarded when dressing for school.   

“Hey… hey. You can’t be in here!” Lacy tried her best to shoo the cat out her open window, but there’s no moving her at all. 

They spent the rest of the night just staring warily at one another, a Marianne Faithfull record spinning lowly in the background. 

The next day, Lacy found flea shampoo in Melvald’s and washed the kitten in the bathroom sink in the dead of night. The little thing squirmed, a living sudball, biting but not harsh enough to break skin. 

“Cat, don’t be a difficult child!” Lacy hissed to her, rinsing out the bubbles so her fur was clean and flea-free, “We’ll wake up Gloriana de Vil, and then she’ll have you for a coin purse. You wouldn’t like that, huh? No?" Her voice slid into babyfied territory, her usual reserve no match for this tiny creature. "No, my little thing?”

The cat, gleefully ruffled through a towel, woke up fresh and shiny the next morning in the crook behind Lacy’s knees.

And that same day, Lacy passed the junk shop on the way to the Bookstore. In the window, she spotted a little leather band with a diamante heart. Just about big enough for a collar.

Every night, the cat scratched on Lacy’s window, seemingly knowing when Gloriana’s Valium would hit and she’d be safe to snuggle in beside her new companion. In the morning, she would sit on Lacy’s dressing table to watch her get ready for school, or for work, or once, a matinee engagement at the Hawk with one Eddie Munson. They were showing Excalibur, and Eddie fucking begged. 

Lacy had picked out these dangly earrings that the cat was fascinated by, jumping on her shoulder to bite at the swinging creatures. Lacy had been so preoccupied with humoring the cat that she hadn’t even noticed Eddie watching them through her open bedroom window– but the cat did. She scarpered out upon seeing him, diving into the hollow space under the Doevski trailer’s tiny porch. 

She watched Eddie with shining green eyes, all that could be seen under the clapboard. 

“Who’s the familiar?” Eddie asked, propping the van door open for Lacy. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” came the coy reply. “Come on, we’ll miss the previews.” 

It’s not that Lacy kept the cat a secret on purpose. It’s just that… she loved what they shared. Just the two of them. She'd had so much dirty laundry aired, it was good to have something just her own.

—

The day she went begins as unremarkable as the day she came.

It’s a Saturday evening, a thick, hot greyness hanging over the sky. Lacy’s languishing in her bedroom on a rare day of doing next to nothing, because it’s too humid to even attempt. She has her window open, half expecting company but half not. Her fountain pen trails idly on the paper stock of her journal. Nothing much worth writing down when the air feels this sluggish. 

Bang, bang, bang!

Someone’s door is getting a hammering. 

Bang, bang!

Must be the Munson’s. 

Little close, though. 

She heaves herself off the carpet to go check it out, opening the door to a breathless young redhead. Max Mayfield, Hargrove’s stepsister. 

“Can I–”

“That– that little black cat, with the collar? The heart collar? She’s yours, right?”

Oh, here we go. Lacy crosses her arms, bracing for the whole, your bitch cat scratched my dog bit. “Why?”

“She just… someone hit her with a car. Up the lot.” Max breathes hard through her nose. She’d run here. That strikes lacy, the pink bloom under her freckled cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Lacy’s neck suddenly feels very stiff. “Wh–what do you mean?”

“Come on. Come with me. Will you just come with me?”

Max’s sweaty hand links with Lacy’s paper dry palm and she drags her up the lot. This is the way I go to Ronnie’s place, Lacy idly thinks as her legs struggle to keep up with Max’s. Standing around with the bound arms of grown-ups raptured by impotence are Max Mayfield’s mother, that lady Nita who does Ronnie’s hair and Carl, the grizzled trailer park manager. 

In the middle of the loose gravel and sprouting grass is the little black cat. She is on the ground, and she is gasping. Wheezing. Skinned at the side of her tiny face, teeth missing. The diamante heart she wears glitters against the loose gravel. The blood glitters against the diamante. 

“Oh. Oh. Cat.” Lacy’s voice sounds as if it’s folded up in her throat. It feels that way. She doesn’t know what to do with her limbs. She doesn’t know where to step. 

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” the Mayfield mom says.

“Some asshole just came roaring out of here, didn’t even… didn’t even stop,” Carl nods gravely.  

“Nita’s cousin is a veterinary nurse. She’s on the way,” Max tells Lacy, level-headed and soberly. She is still holding her hand. Lacy notices the rough grey dog sitting close by. She stares at him, hazy-eyed, and he whines. His head drops to his two front paws and Lacy feels lightheaded.

“He tried to help,” Max says.

She feels her knees bend but does not register her brain telling her body to get on the ground. Cat is wheezing, wheezing, a high whine in her little cat throat that nearly makes Lacy echo it. She shouldn’t be out here. Who hit her? She shouldn’t be out here, she’s probably cold. She’s probably uncomfortable. 

“Can I please take her home, please?” Lacy asks in about as level a voice as she can muster, which is not very.

“It’s best not to move her, hon. She’s very hurt.” Nita, in her bright shell suit, kneels beside her on the ground. A little speck of blood gets on the fluorescent lilac of her pant leg and Lacy’s breath shortens.

“She is… she’s very hurt,” she whispers, half-reaching for the little feline, half-recoiling, “Oh, Jesus. You’re very hurt. You’re very hurt, Cat. Poor Cat.”

Nita hugs her, which she doesn’t know how to respond to, except to stiffly thank her and vaguely gesture to her stained knee. 

Nita’s cousin arrives in a shiny blue Sedan, and they help her safely move Cat back to Lacy’s trailer. She is nestled in a towel with a faded print of Minnie Mouse on it, and they put her up on the Formica table where Lacy and her mother never meet for a meal. A quick flash of fear that her blood might stain the tabletop is soon killed by the sound that poor Cat makes. 

On the left side of her face, her beautiful green eye is reddened. 

A hard tangy smell wedges itself deep in Lacy’s nose and she doesn’t blink for a long, long time. 

Nita’s cousin, the veterinary nurse, a woman with a terrifically soothing voice who she thinks is called Stacie, checks the cat’s vitals. It’s very quickly assessed– too much damage. Spinal. Abdominal. That’s where all that blood is coming from. Paw crushed. She’s still making that terrible wheezing noise. 

Rage against the dying of the light comes to mind and Lacy wants to hit herself. Not this. Not sentiment. Not now.

Cat hangs on til the bitter end.

“How old is she?” Max asks, her voice either very quiet or very far away. Lacy cannot tell.

“I don’t– I don’t know. I don’t know.” Lacy looks to the lovely, warm-voiced woman who could be called Stacie. “How old is she?”

“She's very little. Can’t even say she’s reached her first birthday, hon.”

Lacy feels sick, and sicker, and sicker. Tunnel vision shows her nothing but the cat, once with the highest trilling meow, sputtering. 

Cat reaches her paw out to Lacy a final time, and she lets go.

Lacy tearfully exhales a noise she’s never heard herself make before, and asks everyone to please, please wait. Please. 

They wrap Cat in the tartan scarf. 

Max hovers near Lacy, her arms bound tight around her chest, as if shielding herself from the sadness seeping from the walls. 

“Do you want me t–”

“Did you see who hit her?” Lacy asks Max. A clear and loaded question; she’s asking if it was Billy. Billy and that fucking weapon of mass compensation he calls a car.

For a split second, Max looks angry at the flash accusation, even though she knows the kind of putrid her stepbrother is. But she tamps it down; she’s a better woman than Lacy is, for a middle schooler. 

“I didn’t recognize the car. Just… some fucking asshole,” Max swallows. “If I see him again, I’m putting sugar in his gas tank.”

Lacy just nods and makes some vague-mouthed attempt at a thanks for everything, Max, Stacie, Nita. Nita is hesitant to leave her alone, as is Max, but Stacie ushers them out. Leaves her number, just in case Lacy should need anything. 

Lacy spends what feels like an eternity staring at the yellowed plastic of the phone nailed to the kitchen wall. She realizes she’s got no contact for the one person she wants to call. Her hand hovers over the scarf-wrapped cat like she’s trying to cast some kind of impotent spell, and she reaches for the open smokes on the table behind her. Lacy spends what feels like eternity under the awning-covered picnic table, chain smoking and sniffing sulfur from clouds that refuse to break. 

—

The van’s lights finally flood the ground at her feet. Eddie emerges, slinging himself out of the van in that loose-limbed metal marionette way that he has. His Hellfire shirt cuts a stinging image in the dark. 

He spots her immediately, in that way that makes her sometimes think he enters spaces accidentally looking for her. 

Sometimes she does the same.

“Well, what have we got here? A little dark night of the soul with the Marlboro Ma–... Lace?”

Some sliver of moonlight cuts through the tear streaks in her makeup and stops him up short.

“Eddie,” Lacy croaks. Her throat is ashen, her eyes are ashen, her head is pounding. 

“Hey, hey…” His voice tunes right down into an immediate soothe, arms hovering around her like they aren’t quite sure how to ring around her yet. “Oh, hey, hey, what the shit? What’s the matter?”

Her throat thickens. “Oh, this is stupid.”

That makes him put a firm grasp around her shoulders. He smells like excitable sweat and Mountain Dew– the Hellfire Club special. “What’s happened, sweetheart?”

A rough sound comes out of her nose. “You know that… you know that stupid cat that’s been coming around my trailer–”

“The cat you’ve been pretending not to have?” She should abhor how perceptive he is.

“Y… yes. She, w– well, someone hit her. With a car. It’s s– she didn’t make it–’

“Oh, holy shit.” Eddie wraps her up in his arms, her head pressing hard into the joint of his shoulder. Lacy’s eyes screw up harder, as if she could push them to the back of her skull. 

“They just hit her, Eddie, and they kept going–”

“Holy shit.”

“And I didn’t– and, but, Max Mayfield, she came to get me and– it was just, I didn’t hear the door in time–”

“Come on. No, no. Come on, baby, inside. Up, up, atta girl.” Eddie about props her up, steering her right into his trailer. Lacy’s preset Wayne alarm goes off–is he here, doesn’t he hate me, I don’t want to die tonight too–but Eddie’s quick on the buzzer. 

“Night shift, sweetheart. You’re safe. Siddown.”

“It’s so stupid.” She drops in slow motion onto the Munson’s sagging couch. It aches to move.

Eddie sinks in right beside her, leaving no room for a draught between them. He’s running warm, no doubt hopped up on caffeine and campaign mischief. 

“Hey. Not stupid. Not stupid.” His voice is featherlight. He tucks the tiniest lock of hair behind her ear. 

“I loved that little thing.”

“I know you did. Well–I didn’t have the privilege of knowing you did, really, but you… obviously did, Lace. Shit.”

“Fucking little bitch,” Lacy says, voice a roux of incredulity and betrayal. “I loved her.”

Eddie snorts and pulls her right close. She crumples up and sobs good, like the sounds she makes can’t quite fill the cavern this has created in her. Lacy sobs until her head can’t take it anymore, a wet spot and a streak of mascara left on Eddie’s Hellfire shirt. 

But Eddie is sweet and patient, and strokes her hair and doesn’t comment on how ugly she probably sounds. Not at all. 

After a little bit, he asks, “Lace. Where’d you find her?”

“Uh. She must be– must’ve been just a stray, you know, from around. I found her giving shit to the Mayfields’ dog.”

“Huh?” Eddie’s brow leaps.

“Yeah,” Lacy breathes, lowly and mirthfully.

“But how did you two…”

“I don’t know. She just locked eyes on me and ran right around my ankles. Right into the trailer before I could stop her and headed straight to my room. I flipped, of course, because of Gloriana but then she hopped up on my bed and did that kneading thing they do? With their nails?”

“The–” Eddie imitates it on her shoulder, his thicker fingers with his blunt nails no match for Cat’s talons. Lacy’s inclined to tell him to keep doing it, though.

“Yeah. Sniffing around. And I just watched her in the doorway. I didn't know what to do, so I tried to shoo her. But she didn’t give a shit. She just curled up in my– my tartan scarf and fell asleep. Like it was her place all along.”

The corners of his mouth press downward, an expression that makes her heart lurch. 

“She didn’t wanna leave, huh? She wanted to stay with you.”

“She did. She did. Shit.”

—

“Times of strife call for special privileges.”

“Oh, Christ, the fine china.” 

The Garfield mug filled with two thumbs of Bev’s finest fell-off-the-truck well whiskey and three cigarettes later, a slack-limbed Lacy rubs her face against Eddie’s shoulder. 

Any other day, any other planet, that’d be cause for some considerable pants action but… it’s difficult. To see her like this. All shocked and scraped out. 

“You want to hear a stupid conclusion I came to the other day?” Lacy says steewpid with empty-stomach drinking vitriol. “Just the other day.”

“You know I love stupid,” Eddie polishes off the last of his drink from his I Heart Nabraska (real spelling error) mug and pours them both another. “Hit me. Just not in the groin.”

“I didn’t understand what unconditional love meant before this goddamn cat.”

It checks out, Eddie thinks. Her parents and their affection with strings attached. Her old friends, worshiping a facade. No one really saw Lace at her worst and loved her anyway. At least, not until– 

“No shit?” He blames his roughed up voice on the liquor. 

“Mm. I expected nothing of her. Every time she left I thought, well, that’ll be it. I expected nothing. And I loved her all the same. Unconditional. No strings, no compromise.”

“No pretending.”

“No bullshit. Ride or die.”

“‘til the bloody end,” he raises his mug to cheers her, and Lacy winces. Eddie’s face crumples, apologetic. “Yeowch. Okay. I’m sorry.’

“No, it’s– I'm just pissed her little face got messed up so bad,” she sniffs. He gazes down at her and wants to poke the pudge of cheek that’s wedged against his shoulder. “I was gonna taxidermy her one day.”

“Really?” Eddie's voice comes out a little pitchy.

Lacy hops immediately on the defensive. “Yeah.” 

There’s a lot of bizarro stuff Eddie can get down with, but the whole uncanny valley of the animals thing always weirded him out. “You were gonna stuff the cat? Give it, like marble eyes and shit?”

Lacy, on the other hand, sits up straight.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. We were going to grow old together, and either I was going to taxidermy her or she was going to eat my body when I died.”

The glassy eyes and indignation are additions to a long list of things that make Eddie feel a gold rush of serious affection for this girl. “Oh, honeybear, you are so creepy.”

“Well, everyone says that about cats!” Lacy yelps, wedging another cigarette between her lips. She rubs at her eyes too, the red rims looking stingy and painful now. “That if they’re left alone with a corpse, it’s like an all-you-can-eat, seconds at the breakfast bar type of deal. And everyone gets so goddamn squeamish about it too, I mean, come on, I'd rather she eat me than starve.”

“Warped. Digressive,” Eddie says, his mouth curling up.

“Spare me your five-cent words, I'm pragmatic.”

“You’d let your cat treat you like a church cookout and you’re calling that pragmatism?”

“Of course I would. She's my girl.” She flinches, head shaking. “Was.”

“Is,” Eddie insists. “You know, whole cat-eating-your-face thing… That’s basically a sacrifice to Bastet. Totally transcends mortality.”

She sinks back into the couch and instinctive motion has him throwing his arm up so she can tuck underneath it. 

“Know what I called her?”

“This’ll be good.”

“Cat.”

“This’ll be bad.”

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s, you fucking neophyte. ‘If I could find a real life place that made me feel like Tiffany’s, I’d buy some furniture and give the cat a name’. Holly Golightly in that bare apartment.”

“I spy a parallel being drawn here, sweetheart.”

“Well, good fucking eye. No… um, I think I finally got what she meant when I moved into…” She gestures, hard, with her cigarette toward the door. Toward her own trailer across the way from the Munson’s abode. 

“Mm.” Eddie shifts in his seat. It kind of bugs him sometimes, the idea that she might still look down her nose at the trailer park despite having adapted to it pretty fucking fluidly. Comes with being a chameleon, he guesses, but he wonders if there’s not part of her that’s still wrinkling her nose. “Not exactly the picture of refinement, yeah, yeah.”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. She’s as close to undone as he’s ever seen her, her mascara caked and flaking under her eyes and her hair all a rumpled mess. Only time he’s ever seen her as close to the edge before this was the last night she’d stormed this trailer. “I don’t know if I've really found my Tiffany's. Maybe this is it.’

“Double-wide with a busted water heater? Should we also check for a gas leak, Doevski? You’re mental.”

“You’re being obtuse,” she says, suddenly pointed like a dart. A flash of his regular serving of Lace. “The Tiffany’s in question isn’t honest-to-god Tiffany’s–she says it's the quiet, the proud look about it. That’s what calms her down when she’s got the mean reds. And I…”

Eddie can feel that he’s wearing that infuriatingly bemused expression he tends to slide on when Lacy is mid-reveal of a profound thought. He can tell by the way she’s starting to glare at him. 

“Shut up. Listen. I– I think about it like this. It's 6AM. The sun’s just cracking the sky. It’s quiet, you can barely hear the birds. There’s a hundred identical units across this lot, each one of them housing different lives. Carl in the management shack. Nita in the home hair salon. Granny Ecker and Ron. Everyone interconnected. Everyone… everyone looking out for each other, a little.”

Right. She’d mentioned how Nita and Max and them had rallied around her and poor Cat.

Still, Eddie can’t help a bad thing. He flips his hand in a flourish, gesturing to himself.

“Presenting the great exception.” For all this inter-connectedness she spoke, of, wasn’t nobody looking out for little old–

“Shut up, Eddie. You know half this park has your back by writ of being related to Wayne, you’re just too much of a contrarian woe-is-me to see it. And you’re a pain in the ass on top of that.”

He stifles an argument she would win with a pinched lemon sour face. “Noted. Go on.”

“Anyway,” she exasperatedly huffs, passing him the remaining half of her cigarette, “I sit… on my porch and I have my coffee. And I have my little cat. And I know you’re across the way, probably asleep. It's quiet. And there’s pride in that quiet. In that quiet, I've felt more at peace than I have my whole stupid flimsy life. I can't explain why. I'm a cynic, we know this. But it might be fucking… Tiffany's.”

Eddie’s fingers drum against the crown of Lacy’s head as he considers this. Framing this as some kind of surprise utopia. This skidmark on the outer edge of town. Except, she’d said it in a fashion that made him want to set an alarm for six in the morning.

“Buy some furniture and give the cat a name. Shit.” 

“Shit.”

He finishes the last of the cigarette she’d passed to him and takes another sip of shitty, awful, rotgut whiskey.

“... we can find another cat, y’know,” he mutters tentatively, resting his chin on her head. “I’m kind of a–” Don’t you fucking say pussy magnet. Eddie. Don’t. “--a feline whisperer.”

But he’s got grounds, unfortunately. The feral cats around the lot take to following him around like he’s a bigger, hairier feral cat. This might have something to do with him carrying loose salami in his pockets as a younger man. That reputation never really goes away among the feral cat colonies. 

“Those mean and scary strays,” Lacy mumbles into his chest. 

“Not so mean and scary. Just used to having their boundaries up, is all. Can relate.”

“Can relate.”

“I could unscary one for you. There’s this one little dude, one eye, three and a half legs, I call him Snake Plissken and he–”

“Oh, Eddie,” she sighs; it makes his heart ka-chunk, “There is no other cat. There’s just Cat. She was perfect.”

“Well, she had hefty goddamn standards to meet if she made this much of an impression on you.” Eddie’s mouth twinges. “I’m real, real sorry, Lace.”

“I need to bury her.” The finality with which Lacy breathes it out makes them both sag further into the couch.

But Eddie doesn’t show a lick of hesitation.

“So let’s bury her. You got a spot?”

—

They pull up at Lover’s Lake. 

Cat lies in Lacy’s lap, slowly stiffening and losing warmth. Lacy’s fingers stay crooked in the little space under her chin that she would tilt up, up, up for her to tickle. It makes her queasy to think about it too much, and to think about it too little makes her cry. She straddles the line between sick and sad and Eddie plays the radio real low in the truck. Some sad sack station. ‘Don’t Forget Me’, Harry Nilsson. Pathetic fallacy eeks out of the speakers, not used to playing anything this low and slow.  

Lacy directs Eddie into the underbrush as they edge off Holland.

“Right over here.”

“This is a nice spot. Not too public.”

“The water. She’d like to see it.”

“The water… for your cat.”

“You know they can swim? Cats can swim. Everybody thinks they hate water, but they can swim.”

She notices that he doesn’t quite swallow that scoff in time and mutters, “Yeah, and they probably hate every second of swimming.”

“But they can do it.” She's driving a point home. It’s about subverting expectations. Stupid.

“Yeah! Yeah, they can swim,” Eddie says, half-way humoring her as he helps her out of the van with Cat, “and if you ask them, they hate every second of it."

“Stop being pedantic.”

“Stop trying to have something to say about everything!” 

They both blink at the slight blow of Eddie’s exasperation. Everything feels a little weird and wired and raw right now. He pulls a shovel out of the back of the van, huffing through his nose.

“You’ll rue the day I don’t have something to say about everything,” Lacy winds up, indignant and stepping to him with that poor little thing cradled against her. Her eyes narrow and his index finger floats in her face. She can’t quite place where this is bubbling from, and nor can he.

“You’re staying overnight with me, okay?!” Eddie snaps. He means business. He’s got the finger out. 

“Huh?” It comes out her mouth a garbled little protest.

“You’re not going home alone. There. Not tonight.” All he’s missing is a patented and that’s final! Flashes of a night spent curled against him attack Lacy’s frontal lobe. 

Yes, is her immediate reaction. She wants that. That warmth he’s thrusting toward her, that security. That comfort. But, one problem. 

“Wayne.”

“Wayne’s not back ‘til morning and also, who gives a good goddamn shit?” Eddie froths. “I don’t. My room, my mildew, my rules. Okay?”

She feels shaky in this, his insistence to tug the safety blanket around her. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

His shoulders sag. He nudges his sneaker against the hilt of the shovel. It’s very quiet out here, save for the crickets and the sounds of their heartbeats in their ears. 

“Look at us,” Eddie smirks, his mouth twisting for facetiousness, “Fuckin’... Shitkicker Gothic out here. Let’s get this cat burial on the road.”

Lacy nods with a heavy head and starts into the underbrush. Eddie matches her step for step. They end up in a secluded spot deeper into the wooded area. Nature’s bay window looks out onto glittering Lover’s Lake. And if you look right up, the trees open up to a tiny patch of sky. Smattering of stars. Just enough for Cat. 

“I don’t mean to be disgusting, Lace, but I really hope you’re not burying Cat at a hotspot for fingerbanging.”

Ambiance shattered. Almost. Lacy glares at him.

“No. People begin to exhibit signs of wigging-outery the closer they get to that weird house on the bank, so they never get past second base here. This is… a perfect boundary for her.”

“Ah,” Eddie nods, his chin resting on the shovel handle. “One paw in the world of lakeside makeouts and the other in the land of the working class criminal.” At Lacy’s puzzled head shake, he gestures to that dilapidated looking house across the way. “S’uh, Reefer Rick’s place. Really clean marker of the social divide you got here.”

“A fault line,” Lacy says. Yeah. That feels good.

“With a lovely view.” Eddie jerks his head toward the flat rocks at the water’s edge and sinks the shovel into the soft soil. “Go sit with her.”

Lacy does. Cat wrapped in her stiffness, her head hidden in the tartan shroud. Lacy’s heart aches, that she’ll never get to run her pinkie finger down the perfect slant of her tiny nose again. Not without feeling blood matted against the fur. It’s not fair. None of it. It was so close to real, this thing they had. 

What's wrong with her that the bottom keeps falling out of good things like this? 

“Is this your first?” Eddie gently calls over the soft shoveling of soil.

“Cat?”

“Death.”

Lacy doesn’t have to think on it. Any relatives other than her mom’s estranged sister were dead before she was cognizant of what it all meant. Her father didn't have any family to speak of. Not even a foster sibling or two he was still in contact with.

“Yes.” A beat. “Is this your first?”

“Death?” Eddie grimly parrots.

“Grave.”

“Why, yes.”

“Hopefully your last." She's arch.

“Ah, with your blessed presence in my life, Miss Doevski,” he says, “something tells me it won’t be.” 

She smiles into her shoulder, down at Cat, across the water.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

There is no being ready. There is no way to easily unplug from the faux-reality of holding something once soft now rigid, the netherealm of not knowing whether your beloved is coming or going. Up, down, left, right. sideways. Maybe Lacy ought to toss Cat in the water and see if she’ll swim. 

She joins Eddie at the neat little grave he’s dug and is hesitant. 

Throat closing. Head pounding. Stomach tightening.

Shit. Fuck. 

Nerves or bile or both rise and she can feel every nerve ending in her hands. 

A clear of a throat that isn’t hers.

“May I?” Eddie’s holding his hands out. He takes Cat. Lacy watches his ringed fingers gently taper through the tuft of her furry side. Glistening blue-black in the moonlight. He might’ve mouthed the words, ‘Aw, soft,’ but she can’t be sure. 

“Well, Cat,” and she can tell a classic Munson missive is about to kick off. Lacy knits her fingers together as if in prayer and looks down at her feet. Tries not to look at Eddie, with his insistent arms and undefeatable presence, cradling Cat. “It sucks that I never got to know you, but I understand you had some kind of third-wave, kill-all-men feminism thing going on which, practically I'm shit-scared of and conceptually I guess I respect.” He clears his throat again. “But I know that you were… loved, even if your presence wasn’t a whole to-do. I mean, damn.”

Eddie bends his head nearer Cat’s, affecting a stage whisper that makes Lacy roll her eyes. Affection. Affection. Affection.

“You lucked out, Cat. You picked a really good one here. I know it. She likes to play the shit that matters, the nice shit she does, close to the vest instead of showing off about it, but… ‘Deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised’. Aragorn. By the way.”

“Nerd.”

“Please shut up, I am not finished, you are being rude,” Eddie pokes in this clipped tone Lacy knows is supposed to be an impression of her. He drops it as soon as picks it up, everything about him softening.  “She was lucky to have you, but you were luckier having had her.”

Oh. The breath shakes in her lungs. Oh. 

A moment or two passes before Lacy realizes she’s been frozen. It’s time.

“You wanna–” Eddie softly suggests, “Or should I–”

“Oh, wait!” Her collar. Lacy’s nails unpick the leather strap, sliding it away from Cat’s throat. Eddie catches the shimmer of the diamante heart and shakes his head. 

“Farewell, the fanciest cat Forest Hills has ever seen.”

With gentle and careful hands, Eddie lowers Cat into the dirt. Lacy might choke if she tries to speak, but then he catches her trembling, nerve-raw hand in hers. 

“'I don’t like love as a command. As a search,'” it slips out of Lacy in a murmur, “'It must come to you, like a hungry cat at the door.'”

Eddie’s brow furrows, waiting for her to cite…

“Bukowski. By the way.”

“Nerd.” 

Lacy sprinkles the first fistful of dirt over Cat’s prone, resting body. It really seems like that, in the dark bed of soil. Cool, restful. And in the heavy swathe of this night too. 

Eddie only lets her hand go to cover the rest of the grave. 

Once he’s done, he twists the shovel in the dirt. “You wanna mark it or anything? So you can come back?”

“I don’t know,” Lacy says. Is there a way to address the gap she feels between her and the resting place? Probably not yet. “Don’t know that it’ll really do anything for me.’

“You’ll know where to find her, though. If you need.”

“Oh, yeah. you don’t forget a spot like this.”

Eddie slings his arm over her hunched and shivering shoulders, shaking against a chill that doesn’t exist. He leans into the crown of her head–not quite a kiss, but an utterance. 

“Gracefully done, Lace. She’d be proud.”

God, she hopes so. 

Silly little cat. 

They follow their track back to Eddie's van, arm in arm, the two-person funeral match plus one shovel. From up the embankment, a light flickers on. Some heavily obscured figure seems to wobble in silhouette, like it’s waving. 

Eddie slides off a two-finger salute to the spectre. 

“Friend of yours?” Lacy squints.

“That’s Rick. If you’re lucky, I’ll never have to introduce the two of you.”

Eddie helps Lacy into the passenger seat. She sits there, arms feeling weighted and empty. 

“Eddie.” His name crackles in her mouth.

“No, no. Don’t mention i–”

“You were the only person I wanted to see. After it happened. You were the only one. I couldn’t call you at Hellfire or anything. I wouldn’t have wanted you to leave, but you… I just wanted to see you.” 

Something about that statement makes her feel incredibly lonesome. 

Until he takes her hand. Swallows hard and kisses it gentle. 

“That is… an honor I don’t rightly deserve, Lace.”

“Bullshit.”

“Let’s not make, like, a whole thing of it.” Eddie inches out this pained smile that Lacy needs desperately to wipe off his face, somehow. To replace it with something that doesn’t look like it’s pinching him. He has to know. “I’m glad I could be here. For you. For Cat.”

“Me too, Eddie.”

[leavingautumn13]

Where does Pumpkin best like to be scratched, and does she have favourite sunning spots?

pumpkin likes her cheeks and between her wings scratched the best. she does not allow belly rubs.

she spends a lot of time on the deck of the ship when sunlight's available. she likes sleeping on the railing next to the stairs that lead down to the crew cabin--the rest of the crew pets her as they walk by. she also likes sleeping in the window of euphemia's cabin or in the cockpit windows if the ship is in transit.

[righteous-pines]

Chivetiger joined the clan long ago under the lead of Pinestar, but his life as a loner isn’t even a distant memory now. Though he spends much of his time alone, thinking up dialogues and stories in his head that fill his chest with pounding excitement, he is often the cat others in the clan turn to with their problems, as he always seems to have a hypothetical on how to handle everything. He’s happy to spit out his opinion on the matter, and then be left alone, no other conversation necessary. He can often be found in a shady corner, off to himself, sorting his collection of shiny rocks and mumbling softly to himself in little voices.

[killerchickadee]

We have a kitty at the adoption center who I posted about last week I think. Very very shy. Spends literally her entire day hiding in her little house. Except.

Oh no

She loooooves me.

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

ugh had a conversation w someone and i thuink i upset them but also i was in the right

[smile-files]

i think one of the main issues with me making a fursona or whatever is that my brain doesn't like things without some semblance of logic (like i can only suspend my disbelief so much)... like i can't be an anthropomorphic animal... because those don't exist in real life... and it wouldn't make sense for them to exist in real life... so then i either stick to something quote-unquote "more plausible" (eg. mothman, who's a cryptid), or formulate a whole new, fictional world within my head that anthropomorphic animals could feasibly exist in... so in the end i end up doing so much worldbuilding nonsense just to justify to myself why i'm this animal or whatever :'D

[dovedrangeas]

thinkin about how many times in my childhood it should have been Obvious i have Something Going On

[fmhobeus]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.

[medicinemane]

If only there were a cranberry bog near me, I could probably go there and be like "listen... I actively like spiders... you should hire me", and then maybe I could get a nice job with the benefit of working collaboratively with spiders if I understand things correctly

[sukunasweetheart]

idk something about trueform sukuna bothering his angry and weepy wife. hes been making too many teasing remarks for the day and youve had enough. he drags you onto his lap and mockingly asks you "what's wrong, my love? throwing another tantrum?" and your frown gets deeper, and you attempt to push his face away, trying to get that shit eating smirk of his out of your sight, along with his four eyes that narrow at you in amusement, clearly having his fun with your tears and moodiness.

your wrist gets easily bound by his stupidly large hand. stupid! you start squirming, trying to get out of his grasp, and he chuckles, knowing that you can't. not that you truly want him to just let go of you, anyway. you're angry, and yet you can't help but want his attention to be on you.

sukuna watches you eventually stop squirming around, because you know that you'd only tire yourself out. "well, did you get everything out of your system?" the satirical question fires you up again, but you just decide to ignore him, looking away from his eyes.

"you're so annoying..." you chide him, clearly still upset, still angry. you don't want to cry but the tears sting your eyes and you can't stop the ache in your throat. he cradles you and grins like a cheshire cat. "oh, don't look so sullen. acting like a spoiled princess." you hate how he speaks to you condescendingly, knowing that it gets on your nerves.

"i hate you. leave me be," you scowl, fighting off all four arms of his, but they only wrap around you tighter. sukuna smirks with a softer look in his eyes, wishing he could squeeze you harder without hurting you. "hate, hm? just who're you trying to fool?" he croons at you, wiping the tears off your face with one hand.

you start resisting a little less, and he observes those small cracks forming in your defiant attitude with glee. "look at you. becoming pliant with my touch." your anger has been exhausted, and now you're in the mood to be loved... just a little bit. you refuse to smile, but your body relaxes.

"yes... relent yourself to me," sukuna murmurs, before his searing lips reach your jawline.

he likes to bother you, but appeasing you is equally as entertaining.

[wallflowerglitter]

Ugh I loved Heartbeat, and I was willing to forgive the many plot holes but wtf was that ending?

[teaboot]

As someone who learnt english as a second language via textbook, I have to say "flying by the seat of my pants" is a hilarious idiom xD

It's the first time I've seen/heard it.

Could you share another one you like using?

Idk about idioms specifically, but there's a bunch of phrases I learned from my mom!

Lord love a duck! (Incredulous, like 'oh my god')

Lord suffer in sheep dip! (Sheep dip meaning sheep poop. Incredulous, but for annoying things- like 'are you kidding me?')

Is there a piano tied to your ass? ('Don't be lazy, do it yourself')

Someone's cruising for a bruising. (You're picking a fight.)

I don't give a rat's rip. ('I don't care'- a rat's 'rip' is it's butt crack.)

Pull up a stump! (Get yourself a chair, sit down.)

Everybody out of the pool! (Get out of the car)

I'm flying by the seat of my pants. (I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it.)

Don't go blowing smoke up my ass. (Don't over-compliment me, don't flatter me, don't stroke my ego, don't tell me positive lies)

Looks like it's gonna rain on our parade. (A storm is coming.)

Sorry to rain on your parade. (I've given you bad news- can be used sincerely or sarcastically to denote sympathy for incurring a bad mood.)

Better button that lip. (Stop talking.)

Someone's gonna stick a boot up your ass. ('Stick a boot up your ass'- fight you, beat you, kick your ass.)

Stick that lip out any further, and a pigeon'll shit on it. (Stop whining.)

Suck it up, buttercup. (Stop whining.)

Dumber than a fence post. (Very stupid.)

The back forty. (The wild or forested area behind a rural home. The 'forty' being forty acres, or farmland.)

Don't go begging for a fat lip. (Whatever you're saying or doing is going to bother people and get you in trouble.)

What on God's green earth (What the fuck)

I'm sweating like a pig in a porta-potty (like a pig in a plastic outhouse- I'm very warm, it's hot here)

He thinks the universe flew out of his ass. (He thinks he's more impressive than he is.)

Your mouth wrote a cheque your ass couldn't cash. (You promised more than you were capable of providing.)

You've got a horseshoe up your ass. (You're very, very lucky.)

Taking a dirt nap. (Dead.)

Pushing (up) daisies. (Dead.)

Give me forty acres to turn this rig around. (I need time and space to move this large, heavy, or unwieldy thing. Usually about navigating a vehicle. Taken from a song lyric.)

Jesus take the wheel. (God help me, I can't handle this, I give up.)

Gone belly-up. (Has died.)

We've got a floater. (This one is dead.)

Herding cats. (Trying to organize chaos, managing an impossibly complicated situation.)

I've got a black thumb. (I am bad at growing plants, all my plants die- reference to having a 'green thumb', or being good at growing plants.)

Stop trackin' floor cookies. (Floor cookies are bits of animal shit that fall off your work boots- 'tracking floor cookies' means wearing your boots in the house; take your shoes off at the door.)

Running around like a headless chicken. (Frantic, disorganized, stressed out by many tasks or panicked by a big situation.)

Spinning my wheels. (Waiting around for something to happen, getting nowhere, frustrated by inactivity, not making any progress towards a goal.)

He's gonna blow a gasket. (He's going to lose his temper, he's going to be angry.)

They'll tan your hide. (They'll punish you severely; usually through violence. Specifically in reference to a spanking.)

He's a few bricks short a load. (He's not clever / he doesn't think things through / he's crazy)

Not the sharpest tool in the shed. (Not the smartest person. Very dumb, clumsy, or absent-minded.)

I'm not going to bail you out. (Not going to save your sinking boat- not going to help you out of your bad situation.)

Looks like things are going south. (The situation is growing worse.)

I'll start making tracks. (I'll leave now, I'll start working, I'll get going.)

He's fucking the dog. (He's not being productive, he's doing a bad job, he's made things worse, he's screwing around.)

He's making puppies. (Less graphic version of 'fucking the dog'.)

Plant your ass. (Sit.)

Playing grab-ass. (Procrastinating- accomplishing nothing, slowing people down.)

He couldn't find his ass in the dark. (He's stupid, ineffective, underqualified, or incompetent.)

He couldn't pour water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel. (He is unbelievably, comically dumb or ineffective. He can't do anything right.)

One foot in the ground. (Dying, or half-dead.)

I'm kicking rocks. (I'm not doing anything productive.)

I'm hauling ass. (I'm running away.)

Madder than a wet hen. (Very, very angry.)

Like I said I'm not sure that these are all idioms but they're all the phrases and sayings from my childhood that I can remember right now

EDIT: Cannot BELIEVE I forgot my mom's favourite

52. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which gets filled first. (Wishes don't come true by themselves)

Plus some more I forgot:

53. You make a better door than a window. (You're in the way of my view.)

54. You can take a long walk off a short pier. (Go fuck yourself.)

55. He's about as sharp as a bowling ball. (He's stupid.)

56. Scoot your poot. (Move over.)

57. Not my first rodeo. (I know what I'm doing.)

58. He's built like a brick shithouse. (He's broad and sturdy and very strong, solid.)

59. I smell bacon. (I saw a cop nearby.)

60. I don't want to hear a peep. (Stop talking.)

61. You're thinking with the wrong head. (You're making bad decisions because you're horny.)

62. I'd lose my ass/head if it wasn't tied on. (I'm very absent-minded, forgetful.)

63. That went down like a lead balloon. (That situation was bad.)

[charliemwrites]

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

Next

Masterlist

[screeching-bunny]

I'm intrigued by the idea of yandere priest harem.

Just a bunch of sexually repressed men that now have a tangible person to 'worship'.

Yandere! Priest Harem

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Thoughts, Bad Writing, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Reader is Referred as ‘You’

Tags: @endism

What the fuck. You can’t believe it but you accidentally started a cult. You weren't sure how but you managed to do it. Everything about it was planned perfectly for you. From the moment you were kidnapped to the moment where you gave in, there was always some sort of routine that the priest followed that seemed almost robotic. Every word or phrase spoken to you seemed somewhat rehearsed as if they were doing everything in their power to make you pleased and happy. Everything that you requested or asked for was quickly met. Did you just say that you were hungry? Don’t worry, wait a couple more minutes and a feast will be made just for you. Did something catch your eye while you were shopping? In a couple minutes it is purchased and given to you. Never in your life had you seen a group more downbad people then these priests. They are incredibly whipped for you and treat you as if you were some kind of God.

Although you were kidnapped you soon learned to just accept the role as their false God. Why? Well to simply put you were just plain lazy and if being kidnapped allowed you to live a luxurious life without needing to work then so be it. Screw having a job and screw having to pay for bills. You will accept this position with grace and take advantage of it however you would like. The only thing that bothered you was why the hell were people joining this stupid cult!?!? By now you expected the stupid priests to run out of money by now due to your spending habits but why on Earth are people still continuing to donate to them!?!? There just always seems to be a never ending supply of money!!!

“Did you see them? The God of this religion is such a cutie. Do you think I have a shot at becoming a priest? Hell, I wouldn’t even mind being a sacrifice to them.” (Go away).

“I just donated my entire retirement fund to them. It’s so worth it. Did you see how cute their sneezes are? I could literally just die!!!” (Then die).

“I shook their hand a few days ago with my right hand. I haven’t washed it since.” (Gross).

Dammit that's why. You're so called “followers” were nothing but a group of some weirdo simps. The only thing that you ever did around this place was give speeches to your cult that came right out of your ass and they would eat it up everytime too. It is so bad that you could literally say that the Earth was flat and they would go to war to defend that you were right. You’ve never seen a group of more stupider people. As of right now you were currently giving out one of those bullshit speeches to your followers.

“... which is why cats are superior over dogs. If you have a cat tell them I said pspspspsp.”

One of the priests raises their hand, “Can you repeat that whole thing again? That was super cute and I forgot to press record.”

Another priest responds with, “Don’t worry I caught it all and I’ll send it to you later. In exchange, can I have that limited edition picture of them sleeping with a teddy bear.”

Another voice shouts, “Wait! I have some never seen before photos of them. Are you willing to trade it for the limited edition picture?”

“...”

Later that night you soon discover that there is a “trading card game” going around the cult using your pictures. You weren’t even sure how they even managed to take these photos but they somehow have them and how were these mass produced without you even noticing!?!? Why are they out of stock and why are they so popular!?!? Everyday is a never ending migraine for you. Just when you thought the priests couldn’t disappoint you even further, they always manage to prove you wrong. If they weren’t the ones feeding you, you would have been long gone by now.

Waking up always felt like a struggle most of the time. Like it literally was a struggle because there was always someone in your bed with you. They would constantly cuddle up to you as close as possible and make it difficult to leave the bed with their weight holding you down. By the time you wake up breakfast is already made and there is someone constantly fighting to decide who gets to feed you. After breakfast, you stroll around the gigantic garden that was funded with the money of taxpayers. Afternoons are spent giving out wack speeches and talking to your loyal followers. Dinners are the same as breakfast and there is competition on who gets to bathe with you. Quite often these end up turning physical fights between everyone. During the night you're out like a light and it’s a repeat of everything the next day.

Every passing day makes you so concerned for the mental health of others. There is just no way that any of these people are mentally sane. They have to be on drugs or something. You refused to believe that these were rational adults that are contributing members of society. No matter how much you try to change your personality, they always find a way to coo at you. On the days that you act like a brat you are met with the responses of, “Oh my god look at them pout that's so adorable!! Now step on me–”. On the days you act lazy it’s met with, “You don’t have to move I’ll do it all for you! Just let me lick your–”. Are you acting happy today? Well that's met with, “Your smile is so radiant! You know what would make your day better if you let me suck–”. In the end though it really doesn’t matter because their main goal in life is to forever worship your being whether you like it or not.