#there were little cat paws of mud all over the room and then i find a dead bird next to my bed

[istoleherheart-3008]

Yk what kind of dreams i am getting nowadays... Just extremely realistic visions of my house being dirtied and everything messed up... Is this a sign from God to keep my house clean or is this just my subconscious phobia(s) manifesting

[dtyfp2]

Feasts

The Great War

“You’ve got dirt on my dress!” You tell Robb as you brush away the little pecks of dirt. Robb doesn’t seem to care, instead he grabs a handful of mud and throws it at you.

“There, you’ve got more dirt on your dress now,” he laughs. In retaliation, you grab your own handful and throw it at him.

The fighting escalates, the Septa’s standing watch over you have no idea what to do. Are they playing? Should they step in? You have more mud on you then you’ve ever had in your life, but you’ve also thrown more mud than you ever have.

“…what’s going on down there? Robb!” His mother calls from the balcony. Robb is distracted by his mother, he stopped fighting with you for a moment, and a moment is all it took for you to shove him into the fountain.

The next thing you remember, the two of you are standing in front of your parents. One covered in dirt, the other dripping wet and seething. Your father thinks it’s the most hilarious thing ever. That was the Baratheon in you, you were your fathers daughter in that moment.

“Relax Cat, Cersei, they’re just being kids. If you think this is bad, you should have seen what Ned and I did growing up!”

———————————————————

“Princess?”

Robb is surprised to see you here. The two of you stand across from each other, having just bumped into each other around a corner.

“Robb,” you greet, glancing down at the direwolf who had been following him. The obedient wolf sat when Robb stopped. Now that you could finally get a good look at him, you find that he is handsome and is not yet so old that he has lost his boyish charm. He is tall, he takes after his mother in certain elements but the North is still evident in him, and he looks kind. He would make a fine husband, at least you hope.

“Are you lost?” He asks, noticing you didn’t have anyone with you. He also realizes you’re walking in the complete opposite direction of the feast.

“I think so. I brought Myrcella and Tommen to bed and can’t seem to find my way back,” you admit to him with a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh.

“It’s the other way, I can escort you back,” he offers.

“Oh, no need, it looks like you’re going somewhere. I’m sure I can figure it out,” you assure him, slightly nervous to go anywhere with that direwolf at his feet.

“I was just bringing Arya to her room, I guess she got bored and started flinging her peas at Sansa. I was heading back anyway,” Robb chuckles at his younger sisters antics. He motions for you to follow, and waits for you to catch up with him before he starts walking again.

“What is your Direwolf’s name?” You ask him, unable to keep your eyes off the, still little, puppy as he trots alongside Robb. Your mother didn’t like the wolves, she cursed and called them unnatural beasts once alone. You didn’t even know there were direwolves this side of the wall.

“Greywind. You can pet him if you’d like,” Robb offers, your apprehension obvious on your face. Robb stops and kneels down, whistling for Greywind to come and sit between his legs.

“He won’t bite, will he?” You ask, carefully kneeling down as well. Robb shakes his head with a laugh and your hand shakes as you outstretch it. Greywind sniffs your fingers first before licking at them, walking away from Robb to get closer to you.

“He wants you to pet him,” Robb tells you. Your other hand had been balled up into a fist by your side, but you work up enough courage to carefully stroke his back.

“He has big paws,” you comment off handedly as Greywind begins to raise his paw at you, as if trying to shake your hand.

“That means he’ll grow into a big direwolf. Bigger than the others,” Robb answers as he reaches out to pet Greywind.

“How did you find him?” You ask, laughing as Greywind flops down onto his back on the ground, happy with the attention he’s receiving. Your fear quickly dissipates, your hands no longer shake as you properly kneel down to give him a good pet.

“We came across a large stag that had been mauled, we heard some yipping and found 6 baby Direwolves whining for milk from their dead mother. They would’ve died if we hadn’t brought them in, so my siblings and I each took one,” Robb answers as he scratches Greywind’s stomach.

“How lucky, 6 wolves for the 6 Stark children,” you muse, glancing over at Robb for a split moment before looking away. He looked to be in his element, dressed warmly with the light of some torches brightening his face on one side. He had an easy smile on his face, nothing like the fake ones that surround Kingslanding.

His hand accidentally brushes yours and you’re quick to pull it back, standing up suddenly. Perhaps you reacted so obviously due to all your lessons as a girl, no one had ever touched you so casually before, no one besides your family. You don’t think Robb minded so much, perhaps this type of thing was normal to him, or it wasn’t such a huge deal. He simply looks up at you, slight confusion evident across his features, as if asking if you were alright.

You stumble over your words, you must look like a fish out of water as you try to think of something to say.

“You know, the last time we played, you shoved a bunch of mud in my face,” you remind him, your hands wringing behind your back. Is that all you could come up with?

Robb laughs out loud at the memory as he also stands, resuming his walk towards the feast. He had a nice laugh.

“If I recall correctly, you pushed me into the fountain after,” he remembers, his easiness quickly dispelling any awkwardness you may have felt earlier.

“That was your fault, technically. We were pushing and shoving and then you suddenly stopped, how was I to know?” You defend yourself jokingly.

“I was the first to throw mud, so I apologize,” Robb gives in.

“An apology 10 years too late, whatever shall I do with it?” You ponder out loud, eyes peeking over at him from under your eyelashes.

“Well, if you want to get into technicalities, princess, my mother made me apologize right after, so my apology was right on time,” he recalls. Yes, he has done so, you remember now. While he stood dripping wet, his mother whispered with him and forced him to apologize. It was a half hearted effort at best, it was obvious he didn’t want to or think you deserved it back then, but he did it because him mother asked him to.

The music from the dining hall now flittered around. You must be getting close.

“Your Northern feasts are nothing like the ones we have back home” you tell him, feeling slightly overwhelmed at the prospect of re-entering the hall. You felt as though you stuck out like a sore thumb in there. At first, it was obvious you were overdressed. Secondly, your hair was all wrong, it had been in a pretty undo but you had taken all the clips out when you realized no one else (besides your mother) wore their hair like that. At the thought of your hair, you lift a hand to readjust the flower crown still sitting upon your head.

The people inside the hall sang, chatted around, even danced! When did they even have the time to eat? The music was loud and jolly. The feasts you were used to were tame in comparison…and quieter. Much quieter.

“But I’m sure these ones are a lot more fun,” Robb grins as he stops in front of the door, pulling it open enough so you could walk in. You quietly thank him for leading you back before heading straight back to the front, surprised to see that your mother had gone. Your father, remained in the crowd, sitting with Northern women you didn’t recognize. That was certainly putting it nicely.

“Her Grace has retired for the night, princess,” Ser Selmy tells you as you approach, you thank him before sitting back down. Lady Catelyn remains in her seat, but the Lord Stark had joined her. They were holding hands, Ned Stark had obviously moved his chair closer to hers as they looked down upon their people.

“My Lord Stark, I’m sorry it has taken me so long to say, but I’m deeply sorry for your loss. My father says our Lord Jon Arryn was like a father to you both,” you lean over to say.

“Thank you, Princess Helen. He was a good man,” Ned nods solemnly.

“He was. My father told me to regard him as my own grandfather as a girl, since his father passed before I was born. Lord Jon Arryn always took a special interest in me. I can see how both you and my father turned out to be such brave honourable men under his watch,” you tell him. The Lord Stark smiles softly. You could tell he was a man of few words.

“And how is Lady Lysa, Lady Stark? I haven’t heard from her since we left Kingslanding. Is she well? Do her and Robyn have their health?” You ask after Catelyn Stark’s younger sister.

“She is well, princess. She’s returned to the Vale, where her son is now Lord,” Catelyn assures you.

“Good…the people of the Vale are good people, they’ll be well looked after,” you hum as you turn back to your forgotten dinner. You pick at a few pieces before turning back to the crowd of Northerners. They had slowed down, as had the music. Robb was sitting across the room with his uncle, Benjen Stark the Ranger. He must have made the trip down from the wall for the feast.

Your hands clasp under the table. You could still remember the feeling of Robb’s hand on your own, despite how fleeting the moment was. He was warm, you remembered, where you were cold-he was warm.

You remain distracted until a slice of cake is placed in front of you. Honey cakes, your favourite.

“I asked the kitchens to save you a slice. Eat a couple bites, Princess, I should then escort you to your rooms. You’ve had a long day,” Ser Barristan says as he hands you a fork. He could tell you were tired, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” you smile as you accept the fork and begin to eat. Oh, how you loved honey cakes.

When you finish, Ser Barristan Selmy already has a hand out waiting to help you up. You make sure to wrap up a couple cubes of meat for Balerion before getting up.

“Thank you for the wonderful dinner, Lord and Lady Stark, and for welcoming my family into your beautiful home. I’m afraid I must also retire for the night, I don’t think Ser Selmy will allow me to stay up any longer,” you joke, politely curtsying to convey your thanks.

“It’s our honour to host you, princess. Have a good night, sleep well,” Lady Stark smiles at you as she bows her head.

You turn and allow Ser Selmy to lead you back to your room, you thank him for his efforts and wish him a good night before closing the door and readying yourself for bed.

You call for Balerion from your window. He comes quickly and you lay out the food you had brought for him.

You’re laying in the dark when your door creaks open. The sound and the light pouring in startles you, but only for a moment because the sounds of Myrcella and Tommen’s feet pattering on the floor make it obvious why they’re here. Your two youngest siblings giggle as they jump into your bed, their Septa dutifully following as she also enters and lights a candle.

“I hope it’s alright, Princess, they woke from their sleep and wouldn’t go back down,” their Septa says apologetically as your youngest siblings hide under the covers on either side of you.

“It’s no trouble, Septa, thank you,” you laugh, glancing down at Myrcella and Tommen who both look rather triumphant.

“Helen, tell us a story,” Tommen begs as you lie back down.

“Yes, tell us a story,” Myrcella pleads as a lays her head on your shoulder.

“Alright alright, but only one story and you just sleep right after,” you bargain.

“We will,” they both chime. You adjust your blanket so it’s covering them properly while you think.

“Once, there lived a woman named Jenny…”

[play-rough]

Stop the ranpo and Atsu big brother Anons are getting to me IT'S SO CUTE ❤❤ but if I could I'd like to ask something kinda connecting

Do you think it's ever been a case where 2 of them were left alone big and one regressed because of an emergency, and by then time Kunikida comes back he's left with them all little and the agency an absolute mess? I find that idea so funny 😭

Like being around each other while at least one is regressed sets the others off? I imagine them trying to get snacks and drinks for the baby, Ranpo of course because he's the "biggest brother!" And like knocking over 8 things in the process. Spilling cereal in the break room, papers everywhere because they couldn't find their toys...Kunikida can never leave them all 3 alone again while one is tiny lol

(Btw do u have a 🐝 anon already? If not could I possibly be them 🥺)

You may absolutely be 🐝 anon, it is a title bestowed to the bravest of pollinators 😭

YES LMAO i imagine Kunikida takes a phone call and is like I will be back in two minutes, Ranpo you’re in charge. And he’s thinking, what’s the worst that can happen? Ranpo isn’t little, and he can handle entertaining Dazai and Atsushi for a bit. Famous last words 😭 they knock over a plant so there’s dirt everywhere (cat paw prints?? On the ceiling??) which turns into mud when it meets the juice from the sippy cup catastrophe, a bunch of reports are either illegible with fingerprints or somehow in the shreds bin 😭 Kunikida is in the other room like wow 😌 I haven’t heard the baby cry at all 😌 ignorance 😔

[cluelessatthispoint]

i politely ask for heavy finding and taking care of a kitty

I have two loveable cats! I love this request! Heavy for sure seems like a cat person to me.

~~~~~~~~

Sitting down on the front porch of the base to watch the sunset was a tradition for Heavy. The way that the bright ball of fire sank behind the mountains to welcome the twilight was nostalgic. It reminded him of the sunsets he saw with his family when in the gulag. The air was slowly getting colder, and the hairs on his arms started to prickle at the sensation. The blazing red sun was almost at the setting point when he heard a soft noise from under a nearby bush.

mrrr

Straining his ears against the soft whistling of the breeze he heard it again.

mew

With piqued interest, Heavy slowly got up from his cozy spot, brushed off the dust from his pants, and calmly made his way over to the bush. Making his way halfway there, he could make out the small form of a cat. Its amber eyes stared at him warily. From what he could see the cat looked dirty and malnourished. Clearly not well taken care of; especially since it made its way out in the middle of the desert. A pang of pity welled up in Heavy's chest. No animal should be left out here.

Without warning the cat moved languidly from its spot and began to approach him. All traces of fear seemed to have fluttered away as the cat rubbed up against Heavy's dust and dirt-covered boots. A soft smile made its way onto his lips, slowly not to startle the cat he brought both hands to the underside of the cat. One hand supported the front legs and the other the cat's hindquarters; he lifted the skinny thing up into his big arms and slowly walked back into the base.

"We will get you cleaned up in no time, Da?"

The cat merely purred.

Ignoring the stares he walked back to his room and shut the door with his foot. Walking to the restroom located off to the side of his room, he gently set the cat down on the floor and grabbed a towel. dampening it with lukewarm water, he turned to the cat that stared up innocently at him. His large hands moved with grace and dexterity as he cleaned the matted brown fur of the unnamed feline. It reminded him of helping his younger sister clean up her face after falling in the mud.

"You are small, so very small."

The cat rubbed his head against Heavy's large fingers, prompting a smile from the quiet Russian. When the towel started turning a dirty brown color he pat the cat's head and placed the dirty cloth on the edge of the sink and slipped out of the restroom. Closing the door behind him and exiting his room he made his way into the kitchen. The only mercs in the kitchen area as far as he could tell right off the bat were Pyro, Demoman, and Engineer. Without missing a beat the Scot looked up at him as he made his way to where the canned goods were stored.

"Yae gonna have to name the wee thing."

The slur of words seemed to echo the other merc's sentiments. Heavy nodded slowly and resumed his search for the canned fish. If it was tuna; nobody could really tell. It had a horrible taste and the smell was unlike any other canned tuna he's ever had. Moving various cans out of place he reached his hand back and pulled out a can of fish. Closing the cabinet without a word the giant made his way back to his room and closed the door. Making his way to the bathroom he opened the door slowly, just enough to squeeze himself through. He sat down on the ground opposite the brown tabby and opened the can of fish. Sensing that the treat was for them the cat came bounding over to the large man and began to gently paw at his arm trying to reach the tantalizing treat.

"терпеливый, пациент" (Patient, be patient)

The little feline pawed at his hand till he lowered the can to the ground, seeing as he forgot to get a bowl he poured some of the fish onto his hand and let the cat eat to its content. Heavy leaned back into the cold tiles of the wall and listened to how the cat ate. Its little feeding noises made him happy. When there was nothing left in the can, Heavy slowly got up, washed his hands, and disposed of the empty can. Making his way over to his favorite chair he sat down and watched the cat from afar. The way it explored its new surroundings so carefully and cautiously made it seem like the cat was saying;

"Wait, I live here now?"

A soft chuckle escaped Heavy's lips. Turning over to the nearby table he grabbed his unfinished book and began to read. He read in silence for a while, but looking up from his book he saw that the cat was sitting down near his feet watching him. Almost as if it were waiting for him to read aloud.

Heavy looked back to his book and began to read in a soft voice. After a few minutes, the cat jumped up into his lap and curled its lithe body under his arms, its head gently resting on Heavy's large broad chest.

mew

"That is right little one, get comfortable."

Losing track of where he was in the book Heavy closed it and looked over the cover. Crime and Punishment, a good book. No doubt going to be a classic in the future. Looking over at the cat on his chest and back to the book cover Heavy was struck with inspiration.

"I will name you Fyodor"

The cat purred.

[abundanceofnots]

a fic with a them and a kitten 🐈‍⬛❤

DANGER!

His instinct wakes him up, the familiar voice inside his head screaming at him to abandon the peaceful slumber and take cover.

Mickey’s eyes flip open to the sight of two beastly orange beams watching him from the darkness, and he scrambles back on the bed in a panic, elbowing Ian right in the back in the process.

“Not in the mood, Mick,” he murmurs sleepily from his side.

With a somewhat self-soothing litany of fuck fuck fuck fuck, Mickey leans over to flick on the table lamp on his nightstand. The creature isn’t on the bed anymore, so it’s probably not a complete idiot with suicidal tendencies (Creeping up on a guy like that, who fuckin’ does that? Only killers and morons, that’s who.), and when Mickey peeks over the edge of the mattress, he finds it sitting on the floor, staring at him with unblinking eyes.

Groaning, he rubs his face.

“What did I say about lettin’ that dirty clump of hair in the bedroom with us?”

To his annoyance, Ian just nuzzles deeper into his pillow, apparently not too preoccupied with the fact that his husband was virtually mauled in his sleep.

“S’not dirty anymore. Gave it a little bath.”

“Yeah? Bet it can still give me like uh—” Mickey blinks rapidly, the motors in his exhausted brain working overtime. “—like uh, rabies or—or AIDS!”

Ian gives a prolonged sigh. “It doesn’t have AIDS.”

“You don’t know that.”

And he really doesn’t, because the way this cat came to (temporarily!) stay with them was almost identical to how all shitty things happened to them.

The short version? They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Ian was too much of a soft bitch to just walk away from the situation and forget it ever happened.

The long version is basically the same but in a bit more words. The vermin must’ve snuck into their apartment complex when they were coming back from the store, full arms of shopping bags obscuring Mickey’s view of his surroundings, and followed them all the way up onto the second floor, lured by the smell of their bullshit organic ham from Whole Foods—or the looks of Mickey’s juicy calves, who could really know for sure.

Mickey only noticed it when they stopped in front of their apartment door, and the thing curled itself around the toe cap of his right boot, hell-bent on digging into it with its sharp claws and kicking it with its hind legs.

And okay, back then, it was sorta funny. Mainly because this was the least predatory behavior Mickey’s ever seen in his life. There was just suddenly this thing—hardly a full-sized cat yet, covered from head to toe in mud that made her hair stick together in little hedgehog-y spikes—which already decided to take on a big scary shoe.

So obviously, Ian’s natural reaction was to start ovulating on the spot and claim they had to take it in.

Fuckin’ soft bitch.

“It’s starin’ at me,” Mickey remarks from the bed as he observes the cat-midget with a scowl. He really had to stop enabling Ian’s savior complex.

“Close your eyes.”

“What if it sneaks up on me again, slits my throat open?”

“You have a fat neck. It would have to dig real deep.”

Deciding the second-rate muff on the floor can wait, for now, Mickey turns to Ian. “Who’s side are you fuckin’ on?” he snips at the back of his head.

“My side,” Ian replies tiredly and then shuffles under his comforter to lie on his other side, facing Mickey. “Look, she was scratching at the door, meowing like crazy. You probably couldn’t hear it over your snores, but I did. What else was I supposed to do?”

Mickey watches him for a second. “I don’t snore.”

“Right.” Rolling his eyes, Ian hauls himself off the bed. “Must be my other husband, then. I always get you two confused.”

He takes out one of his older hoodies from the midsized wardrobe opposite the bed and lays it on top, fluffing it a little, so it forms an impromptu nest. Then, he gently grabs the cat and sits it on there, letting it sniff around the material for a couple of minutes before it finally settles down, leaning its head on its outstretched paws. Its eyes stay on alert.

“They like being high up,” Ian answers Mickey’s questioning looks when he comes back to bed. “So they can monitor us and the room at all times. Makes them feel safe.”

“The fuck did you learn that?”

“Google. Done some quick research last night.”

“Oh! So you become a fuckin’ cat lady in one night, but when I asked you to figure out how we could install a sex swing in the empty room—”

Reaching over him to switch the light off, Ian smacks a kiss on Mickey’s cheek.

“Goodnight, Mick.”

Reluctantly, Mickey closes his mouth, already feeling himself deflate.

Whatever. They’re getting rid of that thing later today.

---

“Hey! You’re early,” Ian greets him from the couch. His head propped up on the armrest is the only part of him that Mickey can see from the door, and it makes him chuckle. This way, Ian looks like a magician’s assistant.

“Yeah. The new guys aren’t so useless after all.” Having taken his jacket off, Mickey stalks closer to the couch, his lips already curling into a smirk. “Figured we could use the time better. Maybe take the new toy for a spin. Introduce it to my assho—WHAT THE FUCK is that thing still doing here?”

The surplus pair of eyes regard him from Ian’s chest, quite unperturbed by his outburst as it gets its chin and ears scratched.

“We kinda bonded,” Ian admits sheepishly.

“I can see that.”

In the daylight, and probably after another thorough scrub, the creature’s fur got a vivid, ginger color. Mickey would probably laugh at the resemblance if he wasn’t so set on hating this thing.

“I couldn’t just ditch her. Look at her!” Ian tries to argue, as if looking at it would solve the problem.

Nah, no way. He’s not falling for this dumb big sad eyes crap again. The last time he did, he ended up with a husband in a prissy apartment on the West Side. And now, on top of that, he’ll most likely have to share it with a tiny ass-licker—and not even the kind he likes.

“Bought some stuff,” Ian adds after a pause, motioning in the direction of the kitchen counter where a stack of cans stood next to a bag of dry cat food and cat litter. “She’ll stay with us for some time. Two weeks max, I swear. And we’ll try to find her a new home in the meantime.”

Mickey surveys the counter for another beat. “That’s for two weeks?”

“Mick’s a big eater.”

He swears his eyes grow three times their standard size at that.

“You named it ‘Mick’?” he asks reproachfully.

Ian grimaces. “Yeah? But not on purpose,” he explains apologetically. “I just started telling her about you, and she seemed to perk up every time I mentioned your name. I think she thought it was her name.”

“Great.”

“You said it yourself: Mickey can be a girl’s name, too. And it makes sense because she reminds me of you in so many ways.”

Mickey inspects the cat that’s supposed to be so much like him and finds that during their conversation, she fell asleep and was now letting out these low huffs against Ian’s T-shirt.

And sure, now, in her pacified state, just sprawled like that like a hairy-ass baby on Ian’s chest, Mickey could see himself calling her cute. Maybe. Whatever.

“Even if she looks like your long-lost sister?” he jokes.

“A ginger with Milkovich attitude. Kinda perfect, don’t you think?”

As Mickey watches his big softie of a husband tenderly stroke the cat’s fur, grinning at her as if he was already completely enamored with her, he realizes that he’s smiling, too.

Ah, shit. Mickey’s so fucked.

To be continued. Maybe.

[kiirokero]

Sit and Heal (JJK) (Teaser)

Pairing: Werewolf!Jeongguk x Witch!Reader

Summary: “You have scars, Y/n, both on your heart and on your skin. The one on your arm may be healed, but the one on your heart isn’t. Please. Let me lick your wounds,” Or: The wolf that visits you every afternoon is your shoulder to lean on as you realize it's time to learn to love and trust again, even if it’s hard.

Word Goal: 10k+

Approximate Release Date: Beginning-Mid May

Note: If you wanna be tagged when Sit and Heal comes out, just comment or message me :) Also, I was literally so anxious to post this, I’m so worried people will think it’s trash :)

   “Go home. You have others waiting for you, don’t you?” You spoke, and the wolf turned back towards the forest, where the trees grew thicker and the brush became more unforgiving. Again, the wolf looked towards you for a second, before it ran into the thicket. Gone. Its presence seemingly no more than an apparition. You felt like you met a ghost.

“Goodbye...”

Meow

“No, Yume,”

Meow

“No, bub”

Meoooww

    “Yume, it’s raining. We can’t go outside,” You scold the cat who is currently eyeing you while you prepare supper for the night. You caught a chicken the other day, so you were happily making some chicken soup. Or you were trying to, if it wasn’t for the black cat who was currently whining his heart out next to you. “You’ll get snatched up by that wolf if you go out there,” You playfully threatened.

    Yume grumbled out an annoyed mew, already familiar with the wolf you met and had previously rambled to him about the exact day you met it. It’s been about 3 days since your first run-in with the chestnut-colored wolf, and everything's been relatively normal. You did your daily spell work, foraged until the days turned to night, checked your snares with hope in your heart.

And you never saw the wolf again.

But life goes on, and you’re hungry.

    Meow... You sighed, dejected, tired of explaining to the cat that it’s cold, wet, and dark outside. Not the best weather for outside time. Meow. You put the spoon that you were stirring the soup with down, turning to the black furball with your hands on your hips. “Alright, out,” You groaned, shooing the cat away from the kitchen towards the living room. “It’s warm here, your favorite kind of temperature. Just lay down until dinner, okay? I’ll even put more wood on the fire,”

   You did as you promised as Yume begrudgingly got on the couch, still boring his green eyes into the back of your head. You grabbed some wood from the stack that laid next to the brick fireplace and threw it in. You flicked your wrist causing sparks came flying out towards the wood. The flames revived energetically, painting the living room in a serene orange glow, illuminating both you and the black cat behind you.

   You dusted off your hands, turning around to give Yume a kiss on the forehead. “Maybe tonight we can do a tarot reading for the two of us, yeah?” You bargained, earning a content meow from the cat. You chuckled, scratching behind the familiar’s ear before you went back to the kitchen.

   The rain furiously beat against the windows of your small cottage; the wind howling as it whipped against the old wooden boards. The house creaked and groaned under the power of the storm, but you knew your protection charm wouldn’t allow anything to happen to the cottage. Luckily, there was no thunder booming or lighting running bright white cracks in the dark grey sky, it was just the rain and the wind.

  You were humming the tune of a folk song you remember your mother singing as you chopped up some carrots and plopped them in the soup, unaware of the cat that was currently sneaking towards a window. Yume jumped up on the windowsill, expertly avoiding the terracotta pot filled with different herbs and flowers. The window was unlatched. An error on your part, but a perfect stroke of luck for Yume.

   Yume bumped the window open, causing the shudders to catch in the wind and bang against the wall. You jumped, dropping the spoon into the pot, splashing the soup around the stove and onto you. You hissed at the feeling of hot soup on your cheekbone, but ultimately ignored it, turning off the stove and walking back out into the living room.

   An icy chill met your skin as you entered the room, causing your skin to rise with goose bumps. You shivered. The fire was now a low ember and the curtains furiously whipped around in the harsh wind, rain seeping in and dripping onto the floor. You groaned, realizing that you probably forgot to latch it. “Just my luck,” You sighed as you closed and latched the window, turning to go tend to the fire again.

   That’s when you stopped mid-step, swirling around to look at the couch, noticing a lack of a Yume. “Yume?” You called out into the quiet house. No answer. Yume was a cat. It wasn’t like he was going to say “Hello” back, but he would come if called. Nothing. “Yume!” You shouted, a bit more panicked. Again, no sign of the furball. Quickly, you rushed through the house, checking every room. You looked under your bed, behind the dresser, under blankets, everywhere. But there was no Yume.

   Anxiety seeped into your veins like viscous tar, clogging up your lungs and throat. “Y-Yume...?” You choked out, your mind and heart running a mile a minute. You felt tears well up in the corner of your eyes. They burned as they ran down your cheeks. You sat down on the couch, covering your face with your hands as you tried to calm your breathing. With each inhale you choked, coughing with trembling lips.

   “It’s okay, it’s okay. Yume probably went outside. He’s a smart cat, it’ll be okay,” You whispered to yourself in a shaky voice, taking in a few more gulps of air. You willed yourself up on trembling legs, stumbling over to the coat rack. “It’s okay,” You sighed out once more, throwing on your raincoat and boots, stepping outside into the ferocious storm.

   Wind licked the wet trails of your tears as rain battered against your body. Trees bent over to the will of the storm, looking ready to snap, as their leaves rustled together producing an eerie symphony that made your hair rise. The sky was void of any light from the stars or the moon, covered in a thick layer of intimidating grey clouds. “Yume!” You called out into the night, desperate to see any sign of the lean cat. Nothing again.

     You continued to call for Yume, walking deeper and deeper into the dense forest. It was getting darker the further you walked away from your cottage, making it hard to see the sharp stones and slick moss that covered the muddy forest ground. You reached into your pocket, fishing out the amulet that you always had on hand. It glowed. It didn’t give off light like a flame, but was enough to light your way.

    The amulet let out a soft green hue as you continued to call for your cat, voice progressively getting more desperate. “Yume! Please!” You shout with a trembling voice, the biting cold and gripping fear threatening to push you down to your knees.

Meow!

   You gasp, whipping around in a circle, trying to spot the source of the noise. You felt dizzy as you continued to turn, straining your eyes to peer through the thick trees and bushes. “Yume!” You yell again, continuing to turn in circles. “Yume! Please... Baby please,” You cry, bending to the will of your aching heart, falling to your knees. The wet, sloppy mud seeped through your pants. The rain splashing dirt on your face. But you couldn’t care less. “Yume...” You sniffled.

Meow

   Yume called back, his call sounding just in front of you. You looked up, expecting to see just your little black cat with his green eyes and soft fur, but what was actually in front of you threw you into a living nightmare. You froze, your heart dropping as you hyperventilated, lungs burning from the cold. You couldn’t move. Your eyes locked onto the scene in front of you, like a cruel form of torture.

There, Yume was hanging by his scruff, in the mouth of a giant wolf.

    “Yume!” You shrieked, finding your voice again. You reached out for the black cat, shying away when you registered that a wolf was right there. “Nonono, Yume, please...” You lamented, covering your mouth as sobs threatened to bubble their way out of your throat.

   But instead of the wolf dropping a dead carcass at your feet, it gently let Yume down, allowing the cat to run over to you and lick at your tears. You sniffled, reaching out a shaky hand to pull Yume towards you. You buried your face in Yume’s fur, letting out the sobs you were desperately holding in.

    Yume let you hold him in the chilling rain, licking your face to comfort you. “You’re okay... You’re okay,” You choked out, hiccuping on air. Mew... Yume spoke up, nudging his sopping wet head against your cheek, as if saying, “It’s okay. We’re okay” Even if in your brain you knew everything should be fine now, that you should stop crying and get back home, you couldn’t move. Your tired heart chained you in place like a rock sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

   It felt as if all the strength you were fiercely clinging onto while you wandered though the forest had slipped between your fingers like sand. You wanted to lay there in the mud and stay there until morning, but you knew you had to get yourself together. Yume was shivering, you were shivering, and it was dark. Yet you couldn’t move. You sheltered Yume inside your coat as you tried to pick up the scattered pieces of yourself, .

Whine...

   You lifted your head from where you buried it in the wet cat's fur, catching the eye of the wolf you’d forgotten all about. It looked at you with drooping ears and a bent head, like a scolded puppy. It whined again, lifting one of its paws like it was going to step forward, but opting not to, hesitating. “You found him,” You whispered out, voice scratchy from the sobs that had wracked through your throat.

   The wolf tilted his head in confusion. You would’ve too. Why are you talking to this animal like their Yume? Yume was special in a witchy way. He was your familiar. Like a loyal companion, but sassier. Yume was in tune with your emotions 9 times out of 10. Yume played around with you when you were happy, snuggled you when you were tired, and comforted you through times of panic and sadness. Yume understood you because he was made for you.

A wild wolf wasn’t

    Yet, that didn’t deter you as you continued to speak. “Thank you...” You sniffled. You took a closer look at the wolf, looking it up and down. The same golden chestnut fur, now soaked and illuminated in a hue of green from the amulet that currently laid in the mud. Despite the lack of light, its yellow eyes seemed to glow. “Ah, you’re that wolf that was stuck in my snare...” You said, and the wolf took your friendly tone as an invitation to get closer.

   Slowly, it approached you, ears and head still down to look less intimidating. You were too emotionally exhausted to be scared again. That, or you subconsciously trusted the wolf more than you thought. “You must be cold,” You commented, staring at the wolf saturated coat. The wolf nudged at your own soaked coat, as if saying, “You too,” and you softly chuckled. It nudged you again, this time on your side, trying to get you to stand up. You didn’t. You couldn’t find the energy too, but the wolf kept nudging.

   You gradually stood on trembling legs out of annoyance, tiring of the wolf’s persistence. You held Yume in your arms, still under your coat, as the wolf tugged at your dirty pant-leg. You took a step forward, and the wolf went on ahead until it realized you weren’t beside it. It jogged back, pulling on your pant-leg again. “You’re a weird one,” You mumbled out with a small smile, indulging the wolf by following it.

     The wolf led you through the rain and mud. Looking back occasionally to check if you were still there. You didn’t know where it was leading you, but the trees thinned out, meaning you were moving away from the thick parts of the forest that are easy to get lost in. The storm continued to beat down on the three of you, creating a thin veil-like fog that hindered your ability to see.

    But the wolf seemed unfazed as it continued to walk without fault, walking until an orange glow pierced through the fog. Your eyes widened when you realized it was your cottage. The wolf had led you back to your cottage. “Wha? How did you...?” You breathed out, looking down at the wolf who was now looking at you.

    The wolf was definitely odd. It seemed more aware than the average lupus, like it could hear and understand you. Like it knew what you needed. Strange, no doubt, but you were a witch, you experienced strange things all the time. Hell, the entire forest you lived in was renowned for being supernatural and “dangerous” as in, magical.

    Birds often brought you pretty stones and flowers, the squirrels liked to share their food with you, and the plant life seemed to come alive around you. Nothing in your life was “normal”, it was all strange. The wolf was probably like the birds and squirrels. A forest helper of sorts.

So with that rationalization, you left it be.

    You walked up to your porch, opening the front door and letting a wet Yume free in the house. You turned around, locking eyes with the wolf once again. It was a few yards away, sitting in your front garden, looking even more humongous next to your tiny daisies and tulips. It was waiting for you to go inside. “It’s cold...” You said, “And your wet...” The wolf tilted its head once again, unmoving. “I have towels... And a warm place to sleep until the morning,”

The wolf stayed seated.

“Come on,” You coaxed, patting your leg as an invitation for the wolf to move closer.

Slowly, the wolf stood up, trotting up to you and cautiously stepping into the house.

“It’s okay, they can’t hurt you anymore,”

“Just because they’re gone doesn’t mean the scars don’t burn,”

Out Now! 

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 1: Foster

The polycule finds themselves in the company of a stray kitten that Estinien fetched from a back alley from who-knows-where.

And they're going to rehome her. No, really, honest. They're not keeping her, or anything lol

Word count: 1,900

~*~

A rare rainy day off in Ishgard— on a rarer day off, no less— had left Serella happily cuddled up in bed, under the blankets. Joined by her betrothed, and their beloved Violet, what time wasn’t spent idly dozing, was a warm, floating haze of hands and lips brushing idly where they found skin. Though they were swathed in the overcast, pale light that spilled in through the curtains, its chill was far from them, the roaring hearth, gilding the gloom where it collided, its warmth reaching beyond its light. The perfect picture of coziness.

Which was why she was particularly miffed, when their dearest Estinien stumbled in through the door, soaked to the bone, and holding his bundled up jacket to his chest: it meant that she had to get up, to investigate.

As Estinien caught his breath from sprinting in the pouring rain, his paramours all collectively, if sluggishly, opted to disentangle themselves from the blankets enough to see what on earth had made him bluster in so.

Aymeric was the first to rise from their little nest of blankets, ambling over gamely. Serella wasn’t far behind, though stilled when she heard him melt over whatever it was that Estinien had bundled into his coat.

An animal, then.

Sure enough, she neared just in time for Aymeric to reach a hand out, and be met with a sooty paw reaching up to curl its little bean toes around his index finger. He cooed again, and his posture melted further toward the bundle—ah, it was a cat, then.

“Hello, little love,” Aymeric greeted, his voice turned sing-song, and pitched a few notes higher, as it always did when he greeted an animal.

Already, Serella knew this was trouble.

All the more, when Hyana gasped as she scrambled to free herself from bed fully, hissing and cursing as a blanket stuck stubbornly to the pointed ridges at the end of her tail. Freeing herself, she stumbled over eagerly, completely blowing past Serella as she did.

After giving the two of them a few more moments to coo, she and Estinien passed a look between them, and silently agreed that it was time to be the responsible ones. For a change.

“Alright, alright, what do we have here, then?” Serella called, gently nudging them away to give the little creature some breathing room.

“Creature” almost seemed an apt description for the cat nestled within Estinien’s coat: covered in rain water and mud, it was almost impossible to tell what the cat’s true fur color was. It trembled, even pressed against Estinien’s chest—must still be cold. Those large eyes squinted up at her, as the little kitten sniffed and sneezed at her proffered hand. The cat’s shivering made its purr sound tinny, like it rattled the poor thing’s lungs just to do it.

“A bath first, before we do anything else, I think.” She said aloud.

With a breath to steel herself, Serella accepted the bundle of cat and coat in her arms, when Estinien relented to her. Despite the shivering, and the wetness of its fur, the kitten felt warm against her chest, when it immediately snuggled up to her body warmth. Reminding herself that they already had two dogs and a cat—two cats, technically, if she counted Duchess back at Borel Manor—Serella rounded the corner out of their bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Her polycule trailed in on her heels. It was hard not to liken them to a gaggle of Scholasticate kids, all crowding around the door to watch. It warmed her, how even the most standoffish of her loves couldn’t resist the draw of a cute animal.

The bathtub would be too massive, for the little kit—the sink suited just fine. Hyana was kind enough to fetch their bottle of feline shampoo, and set it on the counter for her.

As she let the water run to get a bit warmer, Serella lifted the kitten, gently, to hold it—her, Serella realized, with a glance—at eye level.

“You won’t like me for this,” she warned the kitten. “But that’s alright, it’s only temporary.”

The kitten squirmed, and licked the tip of her nose. Ignoring the way her insides turned to softened butter, Serella dutifully set to work, carefully bathing the kitten.

Unsurprisingly, the water was, at first, most unwelcome, and the cat had no scruples with voicing her complaint and trying to clamor out of the sink. For such a small thing, her wailing meows of discontent were rather loud—good. That meant her lungs were healthy. Once the warmth of the water sunk into her skin, however, she relented, somewhat, though instead sat in the shallow, warm water, and vibrated from the intensity of her disgruntled, rumbling meows.

It was hard not to liken her to a rat, watching her quake with the effort of vocalizing her displeasure. With each careful massage of Serella’s fingers into the kitten’s fur to wash away the grime, however, her true coat began to shine through.

As it turned out, her fur was still mostly black—save for her white capped paws, and her underbelly, all the way up to her chin. All downy soft, thin fur, in a sleek coat. Once she’d gotten a chance to dry out, under the careful ministrations of Aymeric drying her down with the softest, fluffiest towel he could find, she was actually a rather beautiful cat.

When she still shivered, as she finished drying, Aymeric would brook no negotiation, and immediately bundled himself—and her—back in bed, with the blankets. It seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be, as she promptly loafed herself upon his chest, and shook with her purrs.

“We need a name for her,” he said, not taking his eyes off the little kit, as her eyes began to drift shut.

“Absolutely not.” Serella tutted. “It isn’t responsible for us to take in another cat—here, or Borel Manor—and no, she doesn’t look ready to be a road companion, before you even entertain suggesting it.”

“Act like you don’t want to keep her.” Estinien scoffed. “You didn’t even ask me how I’d found her—you do that, when you do something I don’t like. You ask questions.”

“She’s a stray, you found her, and brought her here. What else is there to know?” Serella huffed, and even to her, she sounded a touch defensive.

“We can’t just turn her out after a bath, either, though.” Hyana argued, in the gentlest tone Serella had ever heard from her, as she snuggled up to Aymeric’s side to offer her hand to the kit. “She’ll have to stay for a while.”

“Until we can responsibly rehome her, of course.” Aymeric hastily added on, unconvincingly.

Serella wrinkled her nose when Estinien made a noise of agreement, even as the both of them also crawled in bed.

Once they had hemmed him in on all sides, Aymeric piped up, “But we have to call her something, in the meantime.”

When Estinien reached out to pet her, both of her paws shot out, to wrap around his hand. Her claws pricked at his skin, as she tried to force his hand over to her head. He snorted.

“Krile, perhaps? The little snot seems keen on getting her claws in me.” He grumbled, with no real venom behind his words; he hadn’t even taken his hand back.

Alas, he had already been lost to this kitten’s wiles, it seemed. Probably was, the moment he found her.

“I’ll tell Krile.” Hyana replied in that same, cooing voice, not even deigning to look at Estinien, as the kitten wriggled across the broad expanse of Aymeric’s chest, to bump her forehead against Hyana’s.

It was fascinating, watching how all three of them—powerful, stalwart warriors, all—had turned to puddles under the might of this singular kitten’s cuteness. Danuja, Vardr, and Rhalgr were already getting jealous, she realized, when she felt their collective, agitated curiosity on the fringes of her focus.

“Menphina,” she suggested, before she could stop herself. When all present turned to look at her, she elaborated, with a wry twist of her lips, “She’s certainly charmed all of you enough to warrant it.”

“…Menphina.” Hyana tried again, speaking it to the kit instead. At the curious mrr the cat trilled in response, Hyana nodded. “She likes it. It’s settled, then.”

When the weather improves, I’ll put up signs, she resolved to herself, just as the kitten laid her paw atop Serella’s hand, over Aymeric’s heart.

To her credit, she did. But the problems that trickled in after that came threefold: there was little demand for a beautiful runt, all the more of an indeterminable breed of cat. What demand there was, was often in the interest of Menphina being a “practice pet,” for a child. Fearful that that would translate to unsupervised children treating her like a toy, until she was injured, Serella would be the first—and firmest—to rebuke such offers. Add to all of that, the kitten’s propensity for extended bursts of high energy, that demanded that she be played with, ruled her out for any of the elderly candidates that applied, looking for a calm housecat.

To say that she had no success finding a suitable home for Menphina, would be a gross understatement.

Every time, she would come home, and Menphina would have to crawl out of the collective fur of Vardr and Rhalgr, just to trill up at her in greeting. And every time, Serella would have to scoop her up, and tell her how sorry she was, that it wasn’t meant to be, for that applicant.

“There will be others,” Serella reassured her, every time.

A few moons down the line saw Menphina still very much fostered in their care—to the point, that she was tucked close, huddled in the bend of Serella’s knees, as she’d curled up on the couch with a book. She’d fallen into a sort of pleasant lull, where her focus was on her book, though she could still pick up on Aymeric and Hyana chatting amicably in the kitchen.

At the mention of the date, in the midst of their conversation, Serella’s ear perked; she couldn’t recall the exact date, that Estinien had hauled this scrawny little kit in from the cold, but as she looked down at Menphina again, now filled out on good food and loving attention, she realized, with dismay, that she had not been strong enough.

“You were never a foster cat, were you?” She grumbled accusingly at Menphina.

The kitten looked up at the sound of her voice, and gave a questioning mrr?

As though she didn’t know what she had done. Smiling wryly, Serella gave her affectionate scritches between her ears.

“No, I suppose you never were, at that.”

Taking this as an invitation, Menphina unfurled herself with a long stretch that morphed into a yawn, and scampered up Serella’s hip, and settled in on the curve of her side, as though it was just for her.

Groaning, Serella let her head hit the back of the couch, as she finally admitted her defeat loud enough for the household to hear: “We’re keeping the cat.”

Amidst the giddy celebrating, she swore she distinctly heard the clink of coin being exchanged—they’d gone and taken bets, on how long it would take for her to crack.

Gremlins. Hellions, all of them. Hers. How she loved them, as they were—Menphina included.

[redux-iterum]

A Kindling: Chapter One

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Rusty jerked awake and banged his head on the bottom of the armchair he lay under.

His immediate reaction was to hiss and duck down again, silently bemoaning each residual wave of pain between his ears. The armchair, just tall enough to allow him space to crawl underneath, shifted above him. The top of his human’s head appeared upside-down to peer at him curiously, mane dragging on the floor. He blinked at them and they chuffed, eyes crinkled, before the head disappeared again.

Rusty waited for the last achy throb to fade away before he crawled out from underneath the armchair, stopping to stretch between his human’s feet and shake his fur out to the irritating dinging of the bell on his collar. He felt fingers gently scratch at his neck and between his shoulders, to which he responded with an obligatory purr. The fingers lifted away as the human trilled something in a high pitch. Rusty’s pelt brushed against one of their legs as he turned and headed for the next room.

His food was still there, in its bowl. Rusty ignored it completely, even as his stomach gave a hint of a growl. The stuff tasted terrible and never seemed to make him full. Not for the first time, he reminisced about his last home, where he had been given something soft and much more delicious.

His mind started wandering on the topic of new and old sensations, as it always did, and he distantly felt his feet carrying him through the overly-warm kitchen and to the flap in the door he’d learned to use on his first few days in this house. He barely paid attention to where he was going; he was in the throes of his dream, before he had been startled into the waking world.

It was always the same: he would be prowling through a place he had never been, yet felt right at home in. The place changed every time he dreamed. Sometimes the grass was tall enough that he had to rear up to see ahead, sometimes it was unending stone formations that curved oddly smoothly and arched above his path. Usually…

Rusty pushed through the flap into the night, walked across the yard with cut grass that irritated his pawpads, and leaped onto chairs and pots until he was at the top of the fence that separated him from the outside world.

Usually, it was what he saw ahead of him—a thick forest, so dense with trees and ferns and bushes that it was impossible to track any potential trails to follow, and rich with the scents of the wild. Even from this distance, through the dark and the petrichor from the rain, those scents seemed to find him at all times of the day and night.

Rusty breathed deep, enjoying the freshness of the damp earth and the many, many smells he could not identify from the forest. It was close. Very close—

“There you are!”

Rusty blinked in surprise and turned his head to see another kitten in the next yard, who did a much less graceful job of getting up onto his fence, scrabbling and puffing for air every time he had to heft his considerable weight to meet with his friend.

“I didn’t think you’d be out this late, Smudge,” Rusty said once he had finally sat down on the rail and was catching his breath.  

“Well, I was looking for you all day,” Smudge said, letting out one final huff before sitting up straight. “Were you inside the entire time? What were you doing?”

“Ehm…” Rusty cocked his head sideways a little in thought. “Sleeping, I guess. I was having a lot of nice dreams. I suppose I didn’t want to wake up.”

“Very unlike you, bud.” Smudge gave him an amused look. “Even the old homebody down the way asked where you were today. He said you weren’t around to scare his prey off.”

Rusty snorted. “He’s never caught a thing in his life and we all know it.”

“Well, neither have we,” Smudge said. “Just a matter of time with you, though, I suppose.”

Rusty frowned. “You could catch something one day, too—”

Smudge blinked slowly, unimpressed, and motioned with a paw to his own chest and belly. He was quite different from Rusty—black-and-white and much softer and rounder. He looked like how he lived, never moving far from his bed and food bowl if he could help it.

Rusty, ginger and much wirier, persisted. “Still, you never know.”

“S’pose we don’t.” Smudge glanced out at the forest before them. “Though I wouldn’t dare try, myself. Not over there, anyway, since you keep looking that way.”

“There aren’t really any other places to hunt, though,” Rusty said. “Unless we wanted to go—”

“’We’,” Smudge muttered.

“’We’.” Rusty nodded. “Unless we wanted to go further into the neighborhood and try that park.”

“Eh.” Smudge rolled a shoulder like the very idea of walking that far pained his limbs. “There’re probably ferals out there too.”

Rusty did not respond to this. He was looking back into the forest, thinking. He’d heard stories of feral cats living in those woods—wild giants that lined their borders with the fur of trespassers and ate the bones of helpless kittens and house cats. He’d been warned many times by the adults in his neighborhood to stay away from them, and to run as soon as he saw a hint of their eyes or caught the scent of strange plants and cut wood (whatever that smelled like, he wasn’t sure). Apparently there were even more feral colonies far away, but he knew nothing about them. What everyone was concerned about was the group in the forest.

“Mind a nibble on your thoughts?” Smudge said, jerking Rusty back to the present.

“Just—” Rusty looked between his friend and the woods. “Just wondering what’s in there.”

“Probably nothing good.” Smudge wrinkled his nose distastefully. “A bunch of mud and bullies, I’ll bet.”

“Really?” Rusty looked at Smudge sideways, head tilted a little. “I’ll bet there’s a lot of prey and adventures waiting past those trees.”

“Ohhh,” Smudge said with a grand sarcasm. “Lots of good times in there?”

“All of the good times,” Rusty returned. “And if there are cats, I’ll bet they’re not as bad as everyone says.”

Smudge huffed an amused breath. “Tell you what, you bring one back for me to see myself, one that’s real nice and friendly, and I’ll personally take you to the park tomorrow.”

A spark of something lit up Rusty’s mind. “You know, I might take you up on that.”

All of Smudge’s snarky demeanor vanished in an instant. “Rusty, I was joking.”

“Well, I’m not.” Rusty bunched up and looked over the fence, eyeing the best place to land.

“Don’t—” Smudge puffed up out of the corner of his eye and his volume rose. “Rusty, don’t.”

“No, no, we have a bet.” Rusty jumped and landed with, he proudly noted, barely a stumble. “I’ve got to go find you a feral.”

“They’ll eat you alive!” Smudge protested, looking genuinely anxious. “Come back here! I wasn’t even serious!”

“See you in a while, Smudge!” Rusty called over his shoulder, and started off at a trot through the soft, uncut grass.

“Rusty!” Smudge shouted, but Rusty didn’t look back. He simply padded along, ignoring his friend’s yells, only pausing for an instant as he hit the treeline before pushing his way past a fern. The forest swallowed him and Smudge’s voice faded away.

Rusty stopped a few steps in, eyes wide. The trees, he knew, were always taller than the houses, but up close they seemed to scratch the sky—he wasn’t sure he was even able to see their peaks from here. Some smaller forms of them, much more delicate and thin, fought their way out of the brush that covered almost every bit of ground. The ferns, soft and broad and fringed, took up what the brush didn’t, and patches of incredibly soft grass soaked up what little moonlight they could catch. Everything was vibrant, fresh, alive.

More than that, though, were the scents, so numerous and strong that they threatened to knock Rusty off his feet. Even the trees clouded his nose, and he understood instantly what smells the adults were talking about. The ferns and grass were almost delicious, and the packed soil under his paws smelled not only of rain, but of something that made Rusty’s stomach growl. Something like what he had eaten in his old home.

He wanted to find it.

Without quite understanding what he was doing, Rusty lowered his body into a half-crouch and he tried to pinpoint the scent past all the others. Experimentally, he opened his mouth, and the air brought him a taste that seemed to be coming from his right. He sniffed, turning slowly, ears swiveling.

Something rustled in the ferns, and something else lit up in his head.

Very slowly, very carefully, Rusty moved forward, trying to track the scent as he went. His shoulders brushed against the fronds, but luckily, they made no sound (“Luckily?” What was he trying to sneak up on?). He cursed in his head when his feet shifted the soil and the rustling stopped. He paused, and the rustling eventually continued, as did he.

He closed in on this unknown target, until he ducked below a fern that was blocking his view. In a little clear patch of ground, he could see something tiny and brown scuttling back and forth, digging at the earth or chewing on grass. It had a long, naked tail and wide ears, and Rusty had a vague idea of what it was supposed to be, based on a toy he had at home that looked about the same, save being much more brightly colored.

Again, not having a clue why, Rusty crouched further, eyes focused on the animal. He kept as still as possible, waiting for an opportunity to… do something. The animal was entirely unaware of him. He lifted one paw and took a step, pulling himself closer.

The bush ahead of him violently shook and the animal darted into the undergrowth.

Rusty straightened up, greatly annoyed. He glared at the bush, now catching a scent of something else. Something that was also familiar, but still as new as the rest of this forest. And, going by the continued shaking, something quite large.

Rusty had a faint idea that he should probably run.

[braiawrites]

Lost & Found

Summary: Admittedly, taking in a strange stray cat is not the brightest idea one might have when one lives in a world of faeries and magic and mythical creatures straight out of old wives’ tales. But no one told this to Jude Duarte, and so taking in that cat is exactly what she does... || From this prompt by @newblood-freya

Genre: Soft, Feel Good Fic

Words: 1862

Rating: sfw

Links:

Fic Masterlist

CHAPTER TWO

Prompt by newblood-freya

Read it on AO3

Writing Masterlist

Send me an ask!

***

Admittedly, taking in a strange stray cat was not the brightest idea one might have had when one lived in a world of faeries and magic and mythical creatures straight out of old wives’ tales. 

But it had been cold and rain had been pouring down in sheets, and the poor scrap of a cat had been huddled in a pathetic little ball among the trees of the Milkwoods, its pelt growing soggy in the onslaught. 

And if that weren’t pitiful enough, dawn had been creeping ever closer, and—while darkness was dangerous in the human world—nighttime in Faerie was quiet and as generally peaceful as it could get in a land where a wrong turn might spell death-by-endless-dancing. Yes, in Faerie, the darkness meant safety, whilst daylight brought dangers from stories untold. 

Consequently, when Jude had stumbled across the sopping black cat—literally, tripped over the thing, as it had lain in the dimming shadows—she had made the somewhat-horrible decision to have mercy on it. She was, regrettably, only human, after all.

“You look as lost as I feel,” she had admitted, crouched before the little creature, hand outstretched. It was staring at her with dark amber eyes, crouched low amongst the wet grass.

“Come now,” she coaxed. “I won’t harm you, little one.”

The animal had sidled up to her, somehow managing to seem hesitant and haughty all at once, and she had scooped it up and held it to her chest, wrapping her coat around its shivering body. 

She ran the rest of the way home.

~ ~ ~

Jude wasn’t entirely sure how Madoc would react to her bringing a cat into his house—she had a vague fear that he might view it as a meal, and a brief image of the lizardlike guard who had taken the tip of her finger for a snack flashed through her mind. 

She couldn’t leave the poor thing in the stables, lest the stablehands find it and kick it out, or one of the larger, carnivorous mounts decide to gobble it up, and so she slipped in through a servant’s door, pausing for a moment beneath the light of a torch set into the wall to peek into the folds of her jacket at the warm, wet cat huddled against her chest. 

“Alright in there?” she asked it, and smiled as the glowing amber eyes blinked back. 

Carrying her boots so as not to track mud through the halls, Jude tiptoed up the stairs to her room. She ducked into a guest room once, when she heard voices down the hall, but most of the manor was asleep by this time. 

As she snuck through the corridors, she felt, for a moment, like a normal human girl in a normal human world, perhaps creeping in late from a party.

“Sometimes,” Jude breathed, turning in to her room and closing her door behind her, “it’s nice to just pretend, don’t you agree?” 

The cat mewed, its little voice creaky.

“Exactly. You get it.” She plunked the creature on her bed as she stripped her coat off and slung it over a chair. The cat jumped down. It had left a little wet patch on her blankets.

“You poor thing,” she exclaimed, “you're soaking!” 

Grabbing a towel from the bottom of her wardrobe, Jude sat on the floor and pulled the cat into her lap. It sat patiently as she rubbed at its ears and shoulders, running the towel over its long, thin body. It closed its eyes as she patted at its soft cheeks.

“Cats are funny, you know,” she remarked to it. It opened its amber eyes at the sound of her voice, looking up to meet her gaze. 

“So delicate,” she scratched the animal on it's fine jaw bone with a single finger, “and yet, if you were to fall out my window, you could walk away perfectly fine.” 

The cat gave what Jude could only interpret as an indignant squawk and dug its claws into the damp fabric of her leggings. 

“I'm not going to throw you out my window,” she laughed, stroking its soft head. “Don’t you worry your pretty little kitty mind.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, the only sounds Jude’s breathing and the cat’s rumbling purr as she stroked its drying pelt, until Jude began to shiver in her damp tunic.

The cat meowed, climbing off her lap and kneading its paws on her leg until she went to grab a dry nightgown, and then turning its back to her as she peeled her wet tunic over her head. 

What a strange cat, she thought as she shimmied out of her leggings. She smiled. They were already covered in cat hair. 

~ ~ ~

Being a human among faeries, Jude had to fight for each moment she spent on the Isles of Elfhame. She had long ago learned that knowledge, while dangerous, was also powerful, and she had made it a priority to know what she could about the goings on of the Faerie court. 

So, naturally, when the palace messenger had arrived with urgent news, Jude had taken it upon herself to learn what he knew. He’d refused to divulge anything to anyone except the General himself, and so Jude found herself crouching outside Madoc’s office, her ear pressed to the door as the messenger began to speak.

“What do you mean the prince is missing?” Madoc rumbled. His voice carried a level of concern that Jude could not believe was entirely sincere. 

“His Highness Prince Cardan has not been seen nor heard from in three days,” the messenger boy repeated. “High King Eldred wishes you to conduct a search.” 

Despite herself, Jude found she held a modicum of respect for the boy; she would have snapped something smart at Madoc’s senseless question, and probably would have received a threat in return.

She held her breath, listening for the Redcap’s next words.

“Where was he last seen?” Madoc sighed. “Or who spoke with him last? Do you have any useful information for me?”

“Only that he was last seen with a pixie girl during the Full Moon Revel four nights prior to this. The girl has been detained but she hasn’t spoken.”

Jude’s chest tightened at the thought of the insolent prince wandering off with some pixie. The girl had probably been tortured for information, although if it were up to her, Jude would have provided ample compensation to the girl for having spent any time alone with Cardan. 

Against all conscious efforts, the thought of the prince’s long, slender fingers sliding up her skin crept into her mind, accompanied by a picture of his face—his cruel mouth and his dark eyes—jeering down at her. Her stomach lurched and she wrestled the nauseating images from her mind.

Madoc’s armour clinked as he marched toward his door. 

Jude spun on her heel and ran. 

~ ~ ~

“Kitty, I’m back,” Jude called into the empty darkness of her room. She tried to pitch her voice softly, but her nerves were still frayed from the messenger’s news.

The cat slunk out from under her bed, a living shadow with bright eyes, and watched intently as she set two small bowls down for him against the wall. 

After dashing away from her foster father’s office, Jude had stopped by the kitchen to find some water and scraps of meat for her furry visitor. 

By the time she’d made it back to the relative safety of her room, the faerie boy had already left, as had Madoc. If he had caught any sign of her presence outside his door, he had either deemed it irrelevant or had decided he would deal with her later.

The cat mewed, stretching up to hook his claws into her leggings. He had devoured the meal. 

“Someone was hungry.” Jude gave a small laugh and scooped the feline up. During the few days he’d been with her, she’d discovered that she quite enjoyed his company. He was a friend she could confide in without worrying her secrets would get out, and more than that, he was a presence she could stand to be around.

Jude pulled off her boots and plopped cross legged onto her bed, cuddling the cat in her lap, stroking his silken fur. 

“Enjoyed dinner?” she asked him.

He said, “Mrrow,” and yawned in her face, showing off long, sharp fangs. 

“Oh, really? And how was your day?” she hummed, to which he grumbled in response. She liked to make idle conversation with the animal, as though she understood him.

“Well, my day was lovely, thank you for asking.” She thought for a moment. “But it was a bad kind of lovely. You know when you get a bruise and it hurts but you keep pressing on it because you like the pain? Like that, but opposite. Like the sun is making the clouds shimmer, and it’s beautiful, but those clouds are going to cause a flood. The sky is still lovely, but it’s the kind of lovely that hurts.”

The cat’s eyes were fixed on her, shining that bright amber as he stared in the way only cats could. It made her uncomfortable.

“No, I suppose I’m not making any sense, am I?” She pulled the cat onto her chest as she lay back, staring up into nothingness, and stroked his back. She pretended the deep rumble of his purr was the thunder of a summer storm, shaking the earth before bathing it in a warm rainfall.

“I’m worried,” she admitted at last, shattering the spell. “It’s been three nights since he’s been in class, and I wonder where he could have gotten to. Why he’s not coming—not that I care about him, specifically. I just like to keep an eye on what he does and the specific messes he decides to make.” 

The cat looked at her sidelong, his gleaming amber eyes pinning her with a look that she couldn’t quite place, although it was decidedly human. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolded, although the cat, being a cat, did not heed her request.

She sighed. Outside her window, the sky began to lighten as dawn crept closer, the daytime sky stretching up to meet the stars through fog and wispy clouds. Her kitty snuggled into her, tucking his head beneath her chin.

“I wonder if maybe he’ll never come back,” she mused, watching as the first drops of rain tapped at the glass, sparkling in the lamplight. 

The cat purred, sounding as though he agreed, which Jude found unfathomably funny.

“I think you and I get along rather well,” she told him.

“Mrrmm,” the cat grumbled, patting at her face with soft paws. He turned his amber gaze on her and she smiled, scratching the cat behind his ear with one gentle finger. She felt warm and content, listening to his purr, feeling his small weight atop her chest as she breathed.

“Maybe,” she hummed, letting her eyes drift back to the rain outside, “we were meant to find each other.”

The cat’s rumbling purr echoed in the space of her room, and Jude felt like she was home.

***

A/N: Alternatively titled Catboy Cardan 2021 but I somehow I felt like that didn't fit the vibes... Anywhomst—thank you, lovely human, for reading my self-indulgent Jude Gets A Cat fic! It had no plot and I did not proofread it, but I hope you enjoyed nonetheless!! If you have the time, I'd love if you reblogged and left a comment to let me know what you thought. Thank you again for reading, lovely, and I send my best wishes your way!

(PS: Please let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list!)

Tagging:  @stardustsroses @nahthanks @jurdanhell @my-one-true-l @thefolkofthefic @newblood-freya

[starlightsearches]

Fences - Modern AU Neighbor! Hux

@aramanna asked: Neighbor!Hux fanfic? Your dog wanders into his yard and you start talking after clearing up the mishap?

Hey friend, thanks for the request! This is kind of a modern version of a post TROS Hux, where he’s a little healthier, I think. The reader is a teacher because I’m a self-indulgent bitch 🥰 Also, I’ve never seen Peter Rabbit, but reading this again I feel like this might just be Thomas McGregor. Let me know if I’m right, I guess 😂😂😂

Warnings: discussion of a family member passing away, mentions of hospice care, maybe language?

When Armitage Hux isn't working, eating, or sleeping, he is in his garden. Which, for him at least, was a lot like work. Even so, he found that it relaxes him; there was something about being outside in the evening light—watering his flowers, picking stray weeds—that made everything clearer. He never had space like this when he lived in the city, but now that he’s away from it all, taking care of this space; it’s made him a better lawyer. Whenever he’s stuck on a case, feeling like he's exhausted every possibility, a few moments with his hands in the soft soil helped him unearth the perfect solution to his problems. 

And sometimes you were there, in your own backyard, of course. He wouldn't watch you—that would be wrong—but he couldn't help but notice you through the little gaps in the chain-link fence. Sometimes he found you in your hammock stretched between two trees at the back of your house, your legs the only part of you visible as you swayed in the breeze. Or occasionally you’d spread out a blanket on warm summer days, soaking in the sun as you read.

Every so often he'd get the wild idea that he might say something to you, before changing his mind, or losing his nerve. He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to you since you moved in next door a few months ago—only visiting your doorstep on the rare occasion that your mail was delivered to the wrong house, or he wanted to borrow a cup of flour, or he needed some milk. Lately he’s played with the idea of approaching you about replacing the fence that runs between your houses—a terribly ugly chain link fixture—but he’s been putting that conversation off for some time now, waiting for the right moment.

Today could be the day, though. It’s a quiet Saturday, the last rays of sunlight stretching over the thick green grass, the air alive with the smell of earth as the water trickles from his hose over his many flowers, the sound only interrupted by the occasional passing car.

Hux listens more closely when a new sound is added—the slam of your back door, and then a series of gleeful yips, but he doesn’t let himself turn around just yet, choosing instead to feign indifference for a few more moments. This is the real reason he’s been putting off the conversation about the fence. Your incredibly enthusiastic new puppy has given him twice the opportunity to spend time with you. If you could call it that. 

He turns now, after what he thinks is an appropriate waiting period, and you catch his eye, offering him a slight wave, which he returns—with the hand not holding the hose, this time. You’re attention pulled away from him for a moment as you watch the little corgi zip around your small yard, but Hux keeps his eyes on you, appreciating the way you light up with laughter at the dog’s antics.

He could talk to you right now, if he wanted. Could strike up a conversation about something inane, like the weather, invite you over for a drink, or maybe dinner sometime. He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone, after all—hasn’t noticed any overnight guests, hasn’t seen you picked up for any dates. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Your door slams again, pulling him out of his fantasy world, and he turns back to see your yard left empty. Another missed opportunity. Hux doesn’t let himself feel too low about it; there’s always tomorrow.

He wakes early on Sunday morning—always awake before the sun rises—and that suits him just fine, padding through his empty house to the kitchen. Grey light streams in through the windows as the quiet morning sounds fill Hux’s ears: water boiling on the stove, the quiet rustle of cat food as he scoops some more into Millie’s bowl.

Where is Millicent? he wonders to himself—she normally sprints into the room at the first sign of her morning meal, but now he sees no sign of her. Hux wanders into the living room, eyes scanning the floor before he finds her by the sliding-glass door at the back of the house, her eyes watchful, tail swishing back and forth.

“What are you doing, Millie?” he asks, and she turns to look at him with her wide, intelligent eyes, offering him a soft meow in response. He really has to stop doing that, talking to his cat. It’s just another testament to the adverse side-effects of living alone. Millicent stays by the door, turning her eyes back to the glass, and eventually Hux caves, walking to the window, hoping to see something more interesting than a stray bird or squirrel.

Hux gasps as soon as he sees it, yanking open the sliding glass, not bothering to find shoes before he steps out onto the cool, wet grass—still damp from the early morning mist. A soft cry falls from his parted lips while he takes in the damage. His garden, it’s ruined.

    He picks his way through the clods of dirt that litter the grass, trying to get a better look. There’s not a flower that’s been left undisturbed, every single one of them ripped from the dirt, mangled, crushed. Totally unsalvageable.

    The headache that blossoms behind his eyes is all too familiar as it rears its ugly head. He thought he had left it behind with the Order—the unpleasant reminder that there’s so little he has control over, that something always goes wrong. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

    Hux hears the little yip from the far side of the yard and turns to look, hoping to catch the culprit that had destroyed all his hard work. He sees the bushy little tail, wiggling as the intruder paws through the soft, brown earth, and he recognizes it immediately. His suspicions are confirmed when he turns the other way, notices the gap created at the bottom of the fence that separates your property from his. 

    The dog yelps when Hux grabs him and immediately begins to squirm, trying to get free, but Hux holds on tight, stomping back through the grass all the way to your front door, breathing hard. He knocks three times in loud, rapid succession, and he only has to wait for a moment before it opens.

    As soon as Hux sees you, his anger vanishes, and a cacophony of other emotions takes its place. Embarrassment is first—you’re standing there in your pajamas, squinting into the first rays of sunlight peeking up over the houses across the street as you rub some leftover sleep from your eyes, and Hux just now realizes that he is also still in his sleepwear: an old t-shirt and some boxers, a ratty, blue robe thrown over his shoulders.

    “Hello, Armitage,” you greet him with a smile, the sound of his name on your lips bringing a blush to his cheeks. You’ve always called him Armitage, ever since one of his stray bills had found its way into your mailbox, and he’s never had the courage to let you know nobody calls him by his first name. “Did you need someth-”

    You gasp before you can finish, finally noticing the writhing little dog in his hands, and you reach for it immediately, pulling it in close to your chest. “Noodle!” Hux tries to process the exclamation before he realizes you’re still talking to the corgi—that must be his name. You turn your attention back to Hux and he pulls his robe closed over his pajamas, wrapping his arms over his chest. He needs to tell you about the fence, his garden. He can’t let himself get distracted.

    You’re talking again before he gets the chance to formulate a sentence, holding the little dog against your hip like a baby, where he rests without wiggling, occasionally licking at your bare arm, looking up at you with his soft puppy eyes. “Thank you for bringing him back, I didn’t even realize he had gotten out of the yard,” you say, “I didn’t leave the gate open, did I?”     Hux pauses, wondering how he should break the news to you. You still haven’t noticed the dirt covering the little demon’s paws, and you look at him with such innocence that for a moment, he thinks he should just leave and take care of the mess himself. 

    His silence says enough, your face falling when you first realize what it could mean. You look to the dog’s paws, then see the mud caking his fluffy little legs. “Oh no, he didn’t . . . “

    “You should see for yourself.”

    Hux watches as you take in the wreckage that was once his garden. You don’t say anything for a few minutes, just standing, staring. He had been so angry when he had first seen the carnage, but looking at it for a second time, he can’t find any of the leftover rage anywhere inside of him, especially not now, as he’s seeing it through your eyes. You look like you’re about to cry.

“I’ll pay for a new fence,” you say, turning to look at him with such urgent sadness, “and I’ll buy you new flowers. I’ll plant them all myself.” 

“That’s- that’s not necessary,” Hux stutters out a response, looking away from you, back to the destroyed flower patch. He can’t stand to see you like this, so torn up over a silly garden, and with every passing moment he grows more and more sure that you’ll never want to speak to him again after this, if he doesn’t make things right. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You reach out to him, your grip firm where it rests on his arm. “Please,” you say, and you’re not just asking, you’re begging, “please, let me help. I can fix this.”

Hux looks down to the place where your hand rests against the arm of his robe, watches the way your fingers flex against him, and his heart softens, lifting his eyes to meet yours again. He gives you the smallest nod, watching as your face lights up with joy, relief, and for a moment, he finds himself feeling incredibly grateful for your silly, little dog.

                    ___________________________________________

Hux looks back, as he wanders through the aisles of his favorite greenhouse, checking, once again, to make sure that you’re still following him before placing a few marigolds in the cart with a small cough. You had admitted pretty early on in your negotiations that  you didn’t know much about gardening, but you had still insisted on helping, and Hux just couldn’t say no.

    You’re easy to be around, he finds quickly, despite his nerves. He had been afraid that the rest of his day would be filled with awkward silences and stilted conversation, but words flow like water between you. You had spent the drive here telling him stories about your students, about what life was like before you moved, about the family and friends you left behind, and how much you missed them.

    “Why’d you leave?” he asks absentmindedly, searching through the pansies for the healthiest of the bunch, his eyes searching for you again when you don’t immediately respond.

    “My grandmother,” you begin, suddenly melancholy again, “I used to live with her every summer here. She left her house to me when she passed. I don’t know if you remember her.” 

    Hux thought back, easily conjuring the image of his old neighbor in his mind. She was a sweet lady who dropped off cookies to his porch when he first arrived at his new home, or occasionally asked him for help hanging a painting, carrying in her groceries. She had been the one who had found Millicent, when she was still a stray. He still remembers how sheepish she had looked, asking if he would take care of the little kitten while she found it a new home. I’d look after her myself, she had said, standing on his doorstep with the little orange bundle in her arms, but I’m not as young as I used to be. 

    “I remember her,” he says, and you smile again, “ but I didn’t know her that well.”

    “She liked you-” you push the cart forward a little, nudging him with your shoulder as you pass, and the contact leaves him struggling for air, “I called her a lot, when she first started to get sick. She always talked about your flowers,” your voice grows thick, and you clear your throat, “she insisted that they put her hospice bed by the big window in the kitchen, so she could still see them whenever she wanted.” 

    You keep walking, steps a little more hurried now, maybe so he won’t see you tear up. Hux follows closely behind, still trying to process everything he had just learned. He could make sense of your reaction to the flowerbed fiasco now, why you had looked so distraught. 

    “She mentioned you,” Hux says, walking quickly to catch up with you, “now that I think about it. She’d tell me I’d have to stay for dinner some night, so I could meet her favorite grandchild.” 

    You laugh, your eyes lighting up in a way that makes his heart drop to his stomach. “That sounds like her; she was always quite the matchmaker,” you respond, before your eyes grow wide with embarrassment, and you realize what you’ve just said. Hux can feel his cheeks grow warm as well, and neither of you breathe, staring at each other in the middle of the aisle. He can scarcely let himself believe it, but it’s impossible to deny, the way you glance down at his lips, your own parting in response. Hux leans in, just slightly, just enough to feel the heat of your skin. He’s not sure if it’s your perfume or the air of the greenhouse, but everything smells like flowers, and desire, a heady scent that goes straight to his head as he watches you close the gap between his face and yours, your eyes still focused on his mouth, your breathing hard.

    There’s a slight cough, and then a giggle, and you both turn at the same time, looking to the end of the aisle. Hux can feel his blush grow deeper when he sees the intruders, a group of girls—high school age, he thinks—watching you with wide eyes and mischievous grins.

    “Sorry,” one of them says, and the other two break into fits of laughter again, “we were just trying to get through.” You move the cart out of the way good-naturedly as they move past, barely able to contain their laughter as they glide by.

    You look at Hux again, but the moment is lost, to his dismay. You clear your throat, looking back at him with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Is there anything else that we need?” you ask, and he scans the cart in front of you, absolutely overflowing with flowers.

    “I think that’s it,” he says, turning back to you. “Let’s go.” 

                   ___________________________________________

    Golden rays of sunlight pour in through every window in Hux’s kitchen, the warmth of the day just beginning to fade into a quiet, twilight-kissed evening. You’re resting against his kitchen counter, eyes wandering around the space, but Hux keeps his eyes on you as he pours some water into a glass. You’re glowing, he thinks, and it’s not just the sunset. Your eyes are brighter, skin glistening with sweat before you swipe the back of your arm over your forehead to collect the stray perspiration. A soft breeze blows in through the open windows, a breeze that smells like freshly-planted flowers and the first inklings of nightfall. 

    Hux hands you the glass, and you take it with a smile, drinking deeply. You had both worked through the heat of the day, side by side, planting and watering and cleaning, everything about it natural, easy. He had shown you how to remove the plants from their temporary pots, brush the soil from their roots—watched as you created small indentations in the new dirt, the gentle work of your hands, and he thought back to the greenhouse, and the smell of flowers and your skin. 

    You finish draining the glass, wiping away a stray droplet of water that travels down your neck before you catch it with your fingers. He moves in closer. He doesn’t want to lose this moment. 

    There’s a stray smudge of dirt on your cheek, and he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, pulling his attention to you.

    “Thank you, for this,” you whisper, and you smile at his confusion, “for letting me help. I would have felt really guilty if you had to do that all alone.”

    “Don’t mention it,” Hux is thrumming, his heart a live-wire. Just being this close to you has filled him with fire—twin sunsets, one inside his chest and the other flooding through the windows. 

    “I’ll get the fence repaired, as well,” you set your glass down on the counter behind you before lifting yourself onto its surface, sitting with your legs dangling, leaning forward so you can look him directly in the eyes. “Or we can get it replaced, if you’d rather-”

    It’s more than he can bear, this small talk, more than he can take to be so close to you and be forced to think of you being so far away, to have you anywhere but with him, in his kitchen, his garden, his bedroom. He kisses you before you can finish your thought, before he can think about being alone again while you’re on the other side of the fence—a whole life-time away.

    “I don’t want to talk about fences anymore,” he mumbles against your lips, barely able to hear himself over the sound of your breathing, intoxicated by the feel of you. You pull him closer, wrapping your arms more tightly around his shoulders, and suddenly, fences are the furthest thing from his mind.

[snowbellewells]

Self-Promo Sunday: “A Litter More Than They Bargained For”

Hey there friends and shipmates! I’ve taken a couple of weeks off on the Self-Promo Sunday posts, but I was looking back through some of my older pieces and found this fluffy one shot offering from a couple years ago. (It was part of the amazing @cspupstravaganza event in 2019.) I didn’t make it any cover art before, so I’ve added that to it as well. Taking place sometime post- season six; Hope is present and a toddler, but Henry is still there as well. That makes it canon divergent future fluff, I guess? Apologies if you’ve read this one before, but maybe you’ll get a little smile from revisiting it.

Also available on both AO3 HERE and on ff.net HERE

“A Litter More Than They Bargained For”

One pet she could have handled. One pet would have been perfectly manageable. A single, sweet-natured, reasonably well-behaved small pet - maybe a cat or a rabbit or even a hamster - wouldn’t have really changed anything about their lives in the seaside house or their daily routine that much. In fact, she and Killian had already been discussing a surprise for Hope in the form of a kitten from the litter her mom and dad’s barn cat had recently birthed, completely charming their pre-schooler upon her first visit to them at her grandparents’ farm.

Somehow, instead, all of Emma’s best-laid plans had been inverted and overturned, as so often seemed to happen in their chaotic magical town. When they had gone into the station that particular morning, they had found a large, mud-caked, burr-riddled dog tied to the bike rack and whining pitifully upon first sight of them. Emma was too disgruntled at the culprit for figuring out that their whole three person department were soft touches for strays as she charged foward to untie the poor beast, to even realize that the critter was already rooting into her affection. Needless to say, rather than their intended adoption, they had managed to take in a shaggy, slobbery mixed breed almost as large as a Shetland pony, with at least some Irish Wolfhound in its ancestry, according to the shelter attendant.

Gleefully mimicking that last declaration in her toddler voice, Hope had leaned over out of Killian’s arms to reach for where the huge hound lounged panting on the exam table, tongue lolling and tail thumping happily as she babbled, “Wolfie! Wolfie!” and patted along the dog’s back and shoulders as well as she could.

The thick, scruffy grey fur covering the animal’s lanky form did indeed resemble a wolf to some degree, and Kililan chuckled good naturedly at the easy moniker their daughter had seemingly bestowed. “Well, it would seem our little love has already christened her, Swan,” he commented lightly.

Emma wasn’t fooled by the casual demeanor covering her True Love’s words. She felt her last chance of finding a more suitable home for a dog of that size outside the town limits (preferably with acres for it to run) fade as she realized that her husband, as well as her little girl, was already attached. Killian wanted this dog more than he would admit.

Reaching out to stroke the gentle giant’s head resignedly, Emma reluctantly admitted to herself that the poor stray really was a sweet dog, despite her astonishing proportions and the amount of extra responsibility she herself would no doubt be taking on. “Hear that, Wolfie?” she questioned, looking the dog in the eyes rather than either member of her family, whom she could feel nearly vibrating with excitement beside her, “I guess you’re as good as ours.”

Henry only confirmed the permanence of the decision when he got home from the high school after his editors’ meeting for the school paper. Though a dog had never been something he had particularly asked for - they had spent so many of his growing up years being flung from one realm to another, either trying to rescue some member of their family, or seeking the needed magic item to fight some new villain, that it hadn’t left a lot of time for house training puppies or taking one for leisurely evening strolls. Still, as Henry came up the walk and saw Wolfie stretched out on the porch, Hope cuddled against her side and Emma and Killian curled together on the porch swing, the way her nearly adult son’s face had lit up and he’d rushed forward in excitement had shown Emma that kids didn’t really grow out of loving dogs, no matter their age.

Ruby, or perhaps the irrepressible brunette’s inner wild animal, seemed to find their new addition, and the rather obvious name Hope had latched onto, especially entertaining. Due to Wolfie’s size, the Jones clan now ate outside at the patio tables when they stopped for breakfast on the way to drop Hope off at Ashley Hermann’s Pumpkin Seeds Daycare, and before Henry took off for class and they headed on for the station. Her mother’s best friend didn’t even try to hide the fact that she saved back either bacon, sausage, or ham especially for Emma’s pet each day, laughing when after about a week Wolfie came to her the moment she exited the diner’s front entrance, before she could even reach their table, and began nosing at her pockets for the expected bounty.

However, it was Granny herself who startled them with a matter of fact question about a month after Wolfie had joined their family. The diner’s proprietress had come out to wait on them herself that morning, a real nip in the air as November neared, and explaining that Ruby was lying in for a while after the full moon the night before. Her half-spectacles perched on the very end of her nose, eyes sparkling with every bit as much pep and mischief as her exuberant granddaughter when she neared their table, sleeves rolled up to her elbows despite the chill and a pencil tucked behind one ear.

“The usual, Captain?” Widow Lucas asked with a playful nod to Killian, “or are you and your crew feeling adventurous this morning?” While awaiting their answer, she reached into her apron for her order pad, also pulling out a juicy ham bone for Wolfie.

“Here you are, darlin’ girl,” she continued, bending to offer it to their canine companion, much to Wolfie’s approving delight as she barked a ‘thank you’ and took the treat into her drooling jowls with an almost humorous care, then immediately dropped to hold it between her massive paws and began gnawing away.

When Granny stood to face them again however, a knowing smirk was painted across her face, taking their breakfast order seemingly long forgotten. “You don’t have a clue that dog is carrying a litter of pups, do you?” she asked, shaking her head at what she seemed to think was their dense naivete.

Crossing her arms, Granny watched a variety of reactions cross the four faces before her. Henry looked awed and curious, while Hope practically bounced on Killian’s knee asking, “Puppy? Puppy! We having a puppy?” 

Killian’s brows rose in surprise, and Emma was already shaking her head in disgruntled exasperation. “Really?” she sputtered, narrowly eying the diner owner as if she might be playing some sort of elaborate joke at her expense.

Then, plunking her head down to rest on her arms crossed on the table, she sighed as her daughter contiuned to chortle in delight and Henry and Hook laughed heartily, in spite of their manful efforts to hold back for her sake. “Why am I even surprised?” Emma muttered. “Of course, she is.”

***

From there, they learned that apparently the shelter owner did not have it out for them, but that it can be genuinely hard to tell when a dog is expecting until they are quite close to their due date. It also turned out that Granny’s lupine sixth sense had been right on the money. Within another couple weeks, they could see for themselves that Wolfie’s stomach was rounding and she was nesting in corners throughout the house, particularly favoring the warmth of the laundry room between the dryer and the wall. Seeing as how canine gestation was only eight or nine weeks from start to finish, and their mother-to-be was already showing, it was a bit of a scramble to prepare, knowing the litter of pups would soon be on its way.

As had become typical since Wolfie’s arrival, this too went well beyond what they had expected. On the night they returned from Hope’s Thanksgiving Play at the preschool to tiny yips and whimpers greeting them the second the door opened, the entire Jones family was stunned to discover eight small wriggling bodies jostling for place against Wolfie’s exhausted form where she lay curled into the mound of old blankets and towels they had created for her once her fixation on her laundry room nest become plain. Various rather wetly bedraggled and squirming balls of grey, black, white and mottled mixes of those three colors in coat greeted their eyes, prompting Killian to comment rather drily, “Well, now there are nearly enough of us to crew a pirate ship.” He chuckled, shaking his head, as he added, “Mayhap we can give them proper nautical names this time, rather than letting Hope call them the first word that pops from her mouth.”

“Paaa-pa!” their daughter protested indignantly, stomping her little foot on the linoleum tile and placing chubby fists on her hips. “I did not!” In her two braids, beaded headband, and fringed brown “Indian” dress from the play, she made more an adorable than a threatening sight as she intended, but Killian nodded to their daughter dutifully all the same. “My apologies, little lass. Of course you didn’t. I must have been mistaken.”

Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head at his mannered playfulness with Hope, though her heart warmed inside her as well, loving that their little girl had never known anything but a devoted, adoring, present father, who might have to be pulled back from spoiling Hope at times, but would never let her down or abandon her. The two of them could melt her every defense, just as Henry had always done. Even if it did sometimes leave her trying to be the voice of reason, Emma didn’t truly mind.

Henry, for his part, snorted inelegantly at their nonsense, crouching to pet a nervous-looking Wolfie on the head and scritch under her chin the way she liked. “Don’t worry, girl,” he mumured soothingly. “We won’t hurt them. You’re all safe here.”

Her son grew thoughtful for a moment, mulling something over, then looked up when he asked excitedly. “What if we did pick nautical names for them all? Like Jack and Jib and Scurvy?” He was grinning from ear-to-ear now, as his Author’s love of wordplay awakened - an expression Killian quickly mirrored.

“Aye, lad, those are great! And perhaps Scoundrel and Buccaneer as well?”

“Hey, hey, guys,” Emma broke in, trying to stop their now-steaming train before they got any more carried away. “Let’s not get too into naming them. The families who adopt them may not be looking for pirate dogs.”

But her husband and son were already on a roll, adding Barrie (in a nod to the Englishman who had created Killian’s literary counterpart) and Doubloon to the list of potential puppy monikers, and not paying her words the slightest bit of attention.

***

Finding homes for their doggie brood proved more difficult than Emma had hoped. If nothing else, it had worked out that they were being weaned just in time to join a family for the perfect child’s Christmas present. And, much as she had intended for them to have a quiet little tabby kitten padding after her through the house rather than a train of panting, yipping, running and tumbling balls of shedding fluff, the pups were sweet and incredibly cute. So she couldn’t understand how every time she thought she had someone poised to take one home, it fell through at the last moment.

With a sigh, she turned away from the sidewalk where old lady Hubbard was walking away. Still cradling Cutlass and Matey to her chest, one in each arm, Emma crossed the porch to sink onto the porch swing with a dejected air. She bent to press a kiss into each of their soft, fuzzy foreheads, murmuring what good babies they were and that it wasn’t their fault. Intellectually, Emma knew it was rather ridiculous to be trying to comfort two puppies who were now playfully rolling and tumbling in her lap, not the least bit concerned at the interview’s outcome. They really had been particularly good as their potential new owner had arrived to meet them; sitting calmly without barking or jumping up, sweetly licking the elderly woman’s fingers affectionately when she offered them, and looking even more adorable than usual with their coats freshly bathed and brushed, so black and silky that their fur nearly shone. All their neighbor had seemed able to focus on though was that they might get under her feet and cause her to fall. When Emma had spoken to her before, the older lady had seemed so anxious for some company now that the last of her many children had left the house, but once she had arrived to see the puppies, all she kept saying was, “I’m all alone out there. If I fell, I might lie for days, unable to get up, and no one would know.”

Emma shrugged her shoulders and ruffled the pups’ fur once again; annoyed, but not sure what to make of the situation. Standing, she was about to take the two little rascals back inside when Killian arrived home for the evening.

“They’re both still here?” he asked curiously, one eyebrow arched in question.

Something niggled at the back of Emma’s mind with his question, whispering that he didn’t seem especially suprised. Shaking her head in silent answer, Emma ushered man and dogs back into the house and headed toward the kitchen, where she still had all of the dog dishes to fill.

“Ah well, Love,” Killian replied, something about his voice just a shade too nonchalant. “Perhaps it’s for the best. As energetic as these scalliwags sometimes get,” he laughed and scratched Matey’s belly when she rolled over to bare it in supplication, “they might have proven a walking hazard to one of advanced years.”

Emma was about to question him further, shocked that Killian had hit on exactly what had stopped the potential adoption, but at that moment Wolfie and the other six of her offspring burst into the kitchen and set up a chorus of barks and howls for their dinner, toenails clicking on the floor and tails thunking against the cabinets. So it wasn’t until later that night, as she was speaking to her mother on the phone, bemoaning yet one more failed attempt at finding the pups permanent homes, that the niggling puzzle piece at last slid into place.

“Well,” Snow offered hesitantly, “I’m sorry it fell through, Sweetie, but you know Mrs. Hubbard isn’t all that steady on her feet these days…”

Suddenly, it all added up: Mrs. Hubbard’s unexpected concern with puppies tripping her up around the house, how Ashley had at first thought they might take one of the puppies, only to be convinced by someone that mice would be much more fitting for class pets at Cinderella’s daycare, and how Aurora and Philip’s second child, Hope’s little friend Rory, had suddenly decided she wanted a white Persian kitten whose hair she could put a pink bow in, “like ‘Rie from ‘Ristocats” Aurora had explained in her daughter’s own words when she’d called to tell Emma.

“Oh my word!” Emma shouted, startling her husband, kids, and the pile of dogs sprawled over them in the living room where they were watching tv. “It was you all, wasn’t it? My whole family has been working against me this entire time!”

Looking sheepishly guilty, Killian and Henry both wordlessly shook their heads in denial. Her mother floundered for a defense for a few seconds and then simply fled by ending the call. But when Emma’s eyes came to rest on her daughter, Hope merely grinned widely, a shameless glint of mischief in her green eyes, and nodded her head in confirmation.

“Why?” Emma sputtered.

“Then the puppies are all ours!” her toddler chirped happily, falling back against Wolfie’s shoulder with a giggle, to which Wolfie merely huffed at the impact, then nosed Hope a bit further from the edge of the couch, as if she had one extra pup to watch out for and was making sure the child didn’t fall.

“We’ll see about that,” Emma grumbled, staring each of them down in turn. But, when she flopped down on the armchair in the corner, trying to hold onto her righteous indignation, and Scoundrel came over to check on her, pawing at her leg until she picked him up, and then nudging his grey snout flecked with white patches into her armpit as he stretched out across her chest and promptly fell asleep, Emma was smart enough to know when she had lost the fight.

They were the family with nine dogs now - an entire seaworthy crew.

Tagging a few who may enjoy (or enjoy again!): @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @thisonesatellite @artistic-writer @hollyethecurious @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @thislassishooked @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @ohmakemeahercules @scientificapricot @gingerchangeling @teamhook @revanmeetra87@resident-of-storybrooke @elizabeethan @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @xsajx @donteattheappleshook @darkcolinodonorgasm @winterbaby89

[iloveyou3thousand]

alpha wolf tony is in a feral rut and chases peter until he knots him

I got a little carried away with this I have to admit so I hope you enjoy. Heed the tags!

CW: ABO dynamics with Alpha!Tony and Omega!Peter, werewolf anatomy/biology, knotting, mild dubcon between two otherwise consenting partners because of Tony’s rut, mild angst with a happy ending

—————————————————————————————

Peter had never seen Tony go into rut before, and he always assumed that it was because of his age. It wasn’t a bad thing, nor was it meant to be insulting in any way – it was just the truth. There came a certain age for both Alphas and Omegas where some natural, biological bodily functions either slowed down, or stopped entirely. Omegas’ fertility decreased and their heats stopped, and Alphas’ ruts disappeared.

It was different for every person. Some Omegas stopped experiencing heats in their forties, while some continued to have them well into their sixties, although they did usually decrease in intensity and duration.

So Peter used to think it was because of Tony’s age. It wouldn’t have surprised him if it had been.

Little did he know that Tony’s ruts were few and far in between, and the most intense he’d ever see.

He first started noticing that something was different with Tony about a week before the full moon was due. They were planning their monthly outing with the team when Peter joked about something, and Steve went to slap a hand on his shoulder as he passed behind him, but Tony, who was sitting next to Peter, suddenly snatched Steve’s hand out of the air before it could even land on the Omega’s shoulder. Tony then held it for a moment as the room fell quiet, and Steve slowly retreated, holding both hands up in silent bargaining.

A second later, it was as if nothing had ever happened, and Tony seemed perfectly normal again.

Peter was able to brush it off then, but that wasn’t all.

Tony grew progressively more possessive of Peter over the few days leading up to their full moon trip. To the point where Peter was actually starting to wonder if maybe he was pregnant, and Tony could smell it on him before anyone else could. Peter was showing no symptoms though, and he had been on birth control throughout his last heat.

Tony would growl at people who touched Peter, glared at those who came too close, and he’d scent Peter in front of everyone. It felt similar to the time surrounding Peter’s heats, when Tony would get a little extra protective of him – but he’d never displayed anything like this before.

Full moon came around, and the team got ready to leave. They were going to drive down to a nice patch of land they hadn’t been to before, explore some new areas and sniff out some new scents. It was basically enrichment. They’d gotten permission from the pack whose territory it was, and they were all excited.

All except for Peter. Because Peter knew that there was something wrong with Tony.

Everyone had seemed to notice, and yet no one had said anything about it. Peter couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Only Nat had commented on it once, and all she’d said was that running around new territory would do him good, that he just needed to get some pent up energy out of his system and he’d be good as gold.

Peter couldn’t stop worrying. Tonight was especially bad, because Tony was tense all around, stuck so close to Peter that the Omega might as well have been permanently glued into his lap. He held Peter more firmly than before, kissed him less, always seemed to be keeping an eye on the people around them.

Peter hoped that Natasha was right and that Tony needed to get some energy out. The full moon usually did good things for their kind.

As they arrived, tensions grew, but not just in Tony. Everyone was excited, the moon rising in the sky, making them all feel some type of way. They couldn’t wait to shed their skin and run. It was no surprise that when they got to their destination, everyone was pouring out of the cars before they had even come to a full stop, if only to take deep breaths of the air around them, new and unfamiliar.

They didn’t have a plan beyond this. They were just going to run. That was the whole plan.

Peter kept a close eye on Tony while everyone was getting undressed as much as they were comfortable with, chatting among themselves and waiting for the full effect of the moon to kick in to make the shift more comfortable.

Some couldn’t wait and shifted right on the spot.

Peter wasn’t one of those.

He undressed and went to wrap his arms around Tony, who had also gotten naked, but Tony wouldn’t even look at him.

Out of all the things that had been concerning in the past couple of days, that was definitely the most worrying one.

The moon appeared high up in the sky from behind some clouds, and the rest of the pack became restless. Shifts were starting. Peter could feel it, too. The itch beneath his skin, the urge to dig his hands into the mud, to sniff the nearest tree, to run and hunt and be. He gave in when he could see that Tony was about to, too, and within seconds he fell to all fours, stretching out leisurely to shake off the remainder of that uncomfortable feeling pre-shift.

Beside him, Tony dropped. Peter looked at him hopefully. When Tony gave him a gentle nudge with his nose, he thought that things were okay. Maybe this was what he’d needed after all.

But it was short-lived.

Once everyone had shifted, they ran. The large pack divided into smaller groups, which encouraged them to put their senses to good use and find each other in the middle of the forest. It enabled them to play games, like faux hunting each other, and following trails.

Relieved that Tony seemed to be doing fine, Peter stopped paying so much attention to him, and focused instead on enjoying himself while the full moon lasted. He wanted to get all of his energy out, and this was the perfect way to do it, surrounded by the sound of heavy paws hitting the damp ground, and leaves rustling from bodies that passed through the underbrush quickly in the night. He lived for this. For the wind in his fur and the feeling of the moon shining down on his back, giving him renewed energy.

He was so caught up in that deliberating feeling that he didn’t notice Tony got left behind, and he didn’t notice until he was already miles away.

Peter stopped and looked over his shoulder. The rest of his group kept going, oblivious to the two members they had lost along the way, and within seconds Peter was completely alone.

It was eerie, once alone. Sure, Peter had heightened senses, which meant that he was able to pick up on much more than he would have if he’d been in his human form, and yet… That was actually what made it scarier. He could hear the breeze pass by every leaf around him, every mouse scuttering under the forest bedding, every squirrel breathing softly in their nest.

And yet he couldn’t hear the wolf sneaking up on him nearby until it was almost too late.

Peter’s nails dug in the dirt to push himself off into a quick sprint when suddenly he realized he was about to get jumped. He was off in a matter of seconds, heart beating wildly as he ducked under branches and hopped over loose logs, trying to make an escape from whoever was following him. Like this, he couldn’t smell them, so he couldn’t identify them, and it didn’t feel like play hunting.

They weren’t this stealthy when they played. They always gave each other some kind of forewarning, or a headstart, or they stopped immediately after they had successfully spooked each other.

Whoever was chasing Peter, was chasing him with a purpose. And it was terrifying.

Peter was young and agile and he had energy for days, but even he was quickly running out of breath. Whoever was coming after him had a kind of stamina he had never seen in another wolf before. They had to be young.

They had to be from another pack.

Peter made the mistake of trying to look over his shoulder while he sprinted. He startled when he saw the snarl on the other wolf’s face and lost his footing, sending him tumbling through forest bedding, struggling to put his legs back under him and keep going.

It didn’t matter anyway. The wolf was on him in the blink of an eye, teeth harsh around Peter’s neck. If he’d gotten hold of his throat Peter was sure he would have been dead in an instant.

He let out a distressed sound, and for a second, just a split second, it was as if the other wolf paused, as if he had a moment of clarity wherein he realized what he was doing. Peter took it as an opportunity to scramble to his feet and keep going, pushing away from the other wolf and picking up his pace once more.

They played their cat and mouse game once again until Peter was starting to run out of breath. He knew his feet wouldn’t carry him much farther, and in his panic he’d only brought himself further away from his pack. The other wolf was almost upon him again, and Peter was starting to realize that the only way out of this was to fight. Defend himself. Injure the other, if he had to. He just had to do something.

So Peter stopped dead in his tracks and tackled the other wolf, sending him flying. It gave him the opportunity to look at him for a second while they were both getting up again, and when he laid eyes on the other properly for the first time since the chase had begun, Peter felt a ridiculous wave of relief wash over him.

Tony.

It was Tony.

Peter was about to snap at him for scaring him like that, when he realized that Tony wasn’t easing up. His shoulders were still tense, back arched, feet apart, head low – ready to pounce. His lip pulled back in a warning snarl and Peter found himself slowly backing away, his blood running cold.

What was going on?

Why was Tony acting that way?

If only he could have communicated with him properly, he would have been able to ask. But as it were, he could only give him a questioning look, which Tony responded to with a low, feral growl that sent a shiver up Peter’s spine.

With every step Tony took forward, Peter took one backward, the tension between them growing until one of them would inevitably burst the bubble and snap.

Peter could smell him now. The wind blew Tony’s scent in his direction, affirming that he was who Peter thought he was, and also that something was…afoot. Not wrong, necessarily. But something was definitely happening. Tony’s scent was stronger, more overwhelming, pouring out like he was trying to impress someone, lure them in.

Maybe that someone was Peter?

It was slowly starting to dawn on Peter that maybe this was a rut. What else could it possibly be? He sure couldn’t find an answer to that question. So it had to be a rut. Which meant that Tony’s only objective right now was so fight, or to fuck.

Peter desperately hoped that he wasn’t here to fight.

Surely he’d recognize that it was Peter who was standing in front of him?

Peter gave a soft whimper in the hopes that if Tony wasn’t seeing through his rut-induced haze, he could break through it a little bit, and help him realize that he was looking at Peter, not just any other wolf. He was looking at his soon-to-be-mate. They had spent a few of Peter’s heats together already. They had been together for a while. They had even talked about bonding.

Tony seemed to blink for a moment, and his snarl faded when he paused in his tracks for just a second. He didn’t stop entirely though, but when he took another step forward, this time he didn’t look as threatening as before. Now, he just looked like he was about to pounce, and not in a way that would result in Peter’s throat potentially getting ripped out.

Peter made to turn and make a run for it again when Tony launched himself, and Peter was caught before he could make a clean escape. He was wrestled to the ground, Tony’s teeth snapping, trying to get a hold of Peter’s neck so that he would submit.

Peter could struggle all he wanted but when Tony’s jaw clamped down on the back of his neck the right way, hard but not too hard, he almost immediately went spineless, panting heavily while Tony readjusted his grip to keep him pinned in place.

Not like Peter would think of going anywhere else. He knew the two ways that an Alpha could get through their rut, and this was much preferable to the mere thought of Tony hurting others in their pack, and others hurting his Tony. Besides… He’d never seen Tony liked this. And the way he grabbed him made Peter feel particularly weak in the knees, his body already preparing for what he had now realized was awaiting him.

Tony positioned himself, chest along Peter’s back, hips already thrusting as he tried to line up. He held Peter still as he sought out his entrance with the pointed tip of his cock where it slid out of its sheath. Peter whined when Tony found a nice, warm place to bury his cock, shoving its full length into Peter’s pliant, waiting body. Tony’s hips thrust faster the second he’d bottomed out, paws framing Peter’s hips for leverage as he forced their bodies together again and again.

Tony growled lowly behind Peter, as if he was daring non-existent surrounding wolves to come near his mate. Not that Peter knew what was happening around him. He was too caught up in the feeling of Tony forcing his cock into him again and again, and the beginnings of his knot at the base, catching on his tight rim every time Tony rocked his hips.

It didn’t last long, but it didn’t have to. Tony let go of his neck and howled sharply when he popped his knot into Peter before it could expand too far. It grew until it firmly locked them together, and Peter could feel how Tony released inside of him, pumping him full of his cum until Peter practically saw stars, his own cock unsheathed and dripping weakly to the forest bedding below.

But that wasn’t all. When Tony’s howl echoed through the forest and Peter was about to give a howl of his own in return to the answering ones that could be heard in the distance, he didn’t even get the chance to. Tony snuffled at the back of his neck as if he was in search for something, something deep in between Peter’s fur, and when he found it he bit down. Hard.

Peter yelped when he could feel Tony’s teeth dig so deep that they drew blood.

Suddenly, the most overwhelming feeling of belonging washed over him, overshadowing the pain of the bite and making it seem like it was absolutely nothing in comparison. He felt love, adoration, disbelief, wonder – it all came crashing down on him, all at the same time, and all directed right at Tony.

They were mating.

Bonding.

Tony had marked him for life.

Their bond solidified when Tony’s jaw loosened up and he started nuzzling and grooming Peter, lapping up the blood that came free, cleaning his fur of the stains it had created while Peter himself was still struggling to get through everything he felt at that moment and process it all. They were still locked together, and now they were unified in another way, as well.

It had all happened so quickly that Peter’s head was spinning with it.

Thankfully, in the thirty minutes that it took for Tony’s knot to go down, he had some time to process everything. By the time Tony sheepishly stepped away and cleaned himself up, leaving Peter in the grass for a moment, Peter was exhausted. First the running, then the knotting, and then the mating – it had taken all of the energy out of him. It was a miracle that Tony still had enough in him to stay in his feet.

Tony joined him on the ground, wrapped around him protectively like one would do to their mate, and started grooming him again. Like this, it almost felt as if Tony hadn’t just been rut-crazed, as if he hadn’t taken Peter and hadn’t given in to that constant urge of mark, claim, bite, take, mine.

Peter buried his muzzle into Tony’s fur, and allowed his eyes to close.

It was too much. Everything was too much. He would deal with it tomorrow.

.

Peter woke up to the underside of Tony’s very human jaw, contrasting a clear orange sky above them. He blinked slowly, and tucked his face a little further into the crook of Tony’s neck to avoid the early morning sunlight as best as he could, yawning.

He realized a couple of things in quick succession. He was sore was the first thing – and in many places at that. He was naked was the second. And Tony was carrying him was the third.

Peter wrapped his arms a little tighter around Tony’s neck and curled up a little closer. Tony knew he was awake because he looked down at Peter for a second, and Peter absently thought that he would have enjoyed a soft little good morning kiss on the head, but maybe it wasn’t that kind of morning.

Peter kept his eyes closed the rest of the way, relishing in the warmth radiating off Tony’s body, though he could hear it when they were nearing the cars. The others were already up, probably getting dressed if they hadn’t already done so, getting ready to head back home. The full moon was over, and the next one wouldn’t be for another month.

As they neared the group, Peter could hear they went quiet.

“What happened?” He heard Natasha ask.

Tony’s silence on the matter was concerning, and it had Peter crack open an eye.

“Is he okay?” Someone else asked – that might have been Rhodey.

“He’s fine!” Tony growled, in a tone of voice that startled Peter fully awake. He opened his eyes and looked around to see the rest of their pack staring at them as Tony continued to carry him toward one of the cars.

Once in the backseat, Tony kept Peter in his lap, held him close firmly, almost as if he was afraid of letting him go. He draped one end of a blanket around the younger man’s shoulders and wrapped the other end around his legs, before he pulled him against his chest again.

“Tony?” Peter asked softly, cautiously, “Are you okay?”

“I said—” Tony started in the same tone as before, something low and threatening and scary, until their eyes met and he seemed to realize who he was talking to. Tony swallowed visibly, and took a deep breath, before he pressed a kiss to Peter’s forehead. “I’m sorry, baby,” he apologized when he’d noticed Peter’s spooked look, “You’ll be fine. I promise. Everything is okay.”

It wasn’t an answer to Peter’s question, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to ask again.

.

Nobody said another word to them as they drove home, and Peter was too uncomfortable in the tense silence to say anything, so it was quiet in the car all the way back. Even though Peter suggested he could walk by himself once back at the compound, Tony insisted that he carry him, and Peter didn’t feel like it was his place to say no for some reason.

Bruce intercepted them while they were on their way to the quarters they shared together, offering medical assistance, which Tony coldly brushed off.

It was odd. Peter didn’t feel any pain, and he was pretty sure that if Tony had been injured, he wouldn’t have been able to carry Peter like this. Why did everyone seem to think that something was wrong?

When they got upstairs, Tony silently took Peter into the shower. They stood together under the warm water, and Peter felt strangely floaty while Tony touched him so reverently, washing the dirt off his skin and out of his hair for him. He was being so careful, so gentle. Peter loved it, enjoyed it thoroughly, happy to just go along with everything that Tony wordlessly suggested they do.

Peter only paused in his tracks when he passed by the bathroom mirror on his way out.

Something caught his eye, and he stepped back to check his reflection again. It was only then that he realized there was a large, fresh bitemark on the back of his neck. It was clean now, from the shower, but Peter could imagine that if it was as new as it looked, that had to mean that it had looked far, far worse before the shower.

Peter’s breath hitched in his throat, and Tony was by his side in a second.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, and Peter realized that he was crying. He’d probably watched him, watched the way Peter had looked at himself in the mirror and reached up to tentatively touch one of the punctures in his skin. “Petey, baby, I am so sorry.”

Peter looked at Tony with concern in his expression and slowly wrapped his arms around him.

“Hey,” he murmured, “It’s okay. I don’t—Why are you crying? Tony?”

The Alpha buried his face into the crook of Peter’s neck and kissed at his skin, over and over again, around the wound, careful to skim along the edges.

“I lost control,” Tony confessed, “I was in rut. And I lost control. And I bit you. I should never have allowed myself to do that.”

Peter shushed him gently and ran his hands through Tony’s damp hair, kissing at whatever skin he could reach when the memory of last night came rushing back to him. The fear of being chased, then the realization that it was Tony, that he was in rut, the knotting, and finally the biting. The bonding.

“You mated me,” Peter breathed out in a rush, and held Tony that little bit tighter, “I’m really yours now. All yours. Your Omega.”

His tone of voice had Tony look up in confusion, frowning through his tears. Peter sounded happy. He sounded ecstatic.

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Peter beamed, eyes brimming with wonder, “I’m your mate!”

Tony searched his face for a moment, blinking away the wetness in his eyes and taking a shuddery breath.

“I bit you without your consent,” he argued, “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

Peter gave a sympathetic smile, and kissed the corner of Tony’s mouth, “Because I’ve wanted this for ages. And yeah, I didn’t explicitly say that you could do it at that moment. But haven’t we discussed this before? And hasn’t it been clear that this is something that we both want? Weren’t we just looking for the right opportunity?”

“But that wasn’t the right opportunity.”

“It was an opportunity. And you took it. And frankly, once I got over the crippling fear that I was about to die before I realized that it was you chasing me, it was…kind of hot. I mean I enjoyed it.” Peter gave a sheepish smile.

Tony looked at him like he was crazy.

“Tony,” Peter said, pulling him closer with both hands on either side of the older man’s neck, “I love you. And you love me. And these gaping holes in the back of my neck? They’re just proof of that.”

Tony didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t protest. He just sighed.

“Still,” he said, “I’m sorry I scared you, and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Well,” Peter replied simply, “Apology accepted. Now, I’m starving, and I’m pretty sure you are too, so how about we get something to eat?”

Tony could only agree. After all, he had to take care of his mate.

“Your wish is my command, my Omega,” he teased softly.

Peter smiled.

“I sure hope so, Alpha.”

[whumpster-fire]

Athanasia Part 3: Trust Born of Desperation

Tansy’s story continues! More “comfort” except really it’s just field medicine whump because she’s still pretty terrified of John.

Tansy’s refsheet

Part 1

Part 2

CONTENT WARNINGS: Animal Whump, monster whump, mention of past animal cruelty, infected wounds, amputation mention, marginally competent caretaker, painful caretaking, potty emergency

Jonathan Markeley stared at the strange animal in disbelief. When he’d first found her, he half expected the little creature to speak to him. It wouldn’t be much stranger than anything else. He’d thought better, and dismissed it as fantasy… but there was no question she could understand him, at least more than an animal should have been able to. He watched the way she flinched at the word ‘cut,’ her ears flattening.

“Damn this night,” he muttered.

Her foreleg was near ruined, broken so badly the bones came out the skin and then left to rot until the wound was a mess of pus and scabs and dead skin and flesh. It should have just closed on its own, if the creature had the same power to heal from nearly any wound that he did, but in the state she was in he had a hunch she was so starved and weak that she couldn’t. And she’d bitten down on the limb like she was trying to chew through it, like she knew what he was suggesting.

He supposed he could try it right now, just the little hatchet he used to cut firewood and the old floorboards. Perhaps it was better to – he knew a wound that festered like that could go bad fast. He’d lost friends, comrades, like that. Just a small wound, but just a day later a man’s whole arm could be weeping foul pus, and another day and he’d be dead. Nothing a surgeon could do but cut it off. A hatchet was crude, but the mess she’d make of her leg trying to chew through it would be no better than the mess it was now.

He also knew that it was a terrible idea. Whether or not she was trying to get him to cut it off now, it would end with blood everywhere, and a panicked animal trapped in a small room and screaming fit to wake the dead. He still had his ears peeled in case the innkeeper’s son was on his way up after the noise she’d just made. If she was discovered, that wasn’t good news for either of them.

Better to take her out into the fields to do it. That way the poor thing would have somewhere to run. But the thought of releasing her half-starved to death and with only two good legs was heartbreaking. What would she do in that state besides starve? Now that he saw how bad the wounds were he had half a mind to bring the hatchet down on her neck instead. But he had a feeling that wouldn’t work. Not if she was like him. Not that he knew for certain that losing his head wouldn’t kill him. Probably not, but he didn’t plan to try it. And he was worried he’d end up finding out if he was caught with whatever she was. They’d put her in that cage on an executioner’s gibbet for a reason. Probably not a good one, but likely one they’d punish him over.

The sentence wouldn’t be death at first, most likely. Lashes, branding, or mutilation. But if they didn’t run him out of town before the marks healed, if they found out… witchcraft would be the first word on every tongue.

But he had to try something. He couldn’t just leave her to drown in the mud. And he’d already taken the risk by bringing her in here. He figured he’d clean and dress the wound as best he could for the night and pray that it improved or at least didn’t get worse. But he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, or pleasant, for either of them.

~~

The creature tries not to bite. She tries so, so hard, but he is pinning her down and grabbing her and wrapping a cord tight around her muzzle She thought he wouldn’t hurt her… she thought he wouldn’t hurt her! But he has to. She knows he is trying to help her, but knowing does not make the fear go away. She growls and hisses, and snaps at him, but she closes her eyes and holds still for just that terrifying moment before it is too late and she cannot bite him anymore.

He takes the tools, one by one, and holds them over the fire. She remembers the agony of being pinched and torn and cut by hot metal, and struggles and writhes in his grip, but he is too strong, and he has to bind her good legs to her body.

It hurts. It hurts so much. He is touching the wound, and digging in it with metal tools and cloths soaked in boiling water. Small pinchers pull out maggots and bits of dead skin and flesh. Shears snip away skin and fur and little bits of the jagged edges of the bones, and the hooks and blades poke and prod and scrape. She clenches her jaw so hard her teeth are nearly broken further, and writhes and thrashes around.

“Sshh… ssh… you’ve got to hold still. Hold still or it’ll hurt more.” His voice is tense with concentration. But she cannot hold still. It hurts too much… it hurts too much…

But finally it is over. He holds her leg straight and wraps it up tightly in cloth and straight bits of wood and metal. Fresh blood wets the cloth, but he wraps more over it, and the red spot stops growing eventually. It feels a little better. It has the sharp, stinging pain of a fresh wound, but the pressure on it helps some. He wraps her broken back leg like this too, after washing her again. It still cannot bear her weight, but it does not hurt quite as much anymore.

He cuts away the cords binding her legs and jaws. But she does not bite or try to run. Her weak struggles, and just the fear itself, and the cold because she is still soaking wet and it is only really warm close to the fire, have left her so tired she cannot move. If not for the constant crashes of thunder outside, she is not sure she could even stay awake. She drinks a bit more water when it is offered, but she barely thinks about it.

But he takes more dry rags, and rubs them back and forth over her fur, soaking up the worst of the water and fluffing it up. She is still damp, still shaking, but he pulls the thin blanket off one of the beds and wraps her up in it, and pulls her into his lap. He feeds more wood to the fire and sits with her next to it. The wind outside keeps howling in the chimney and stirring it and sending sparks through the room. She flinches every time, and eventually he gives up and moves her to the other bed.

The creature almost falls asleep in his arms. The pain and the noise of the wind and the storm, and the feeling that this is still dangerous to be this close to a human, slowly fade away. She is so tired… so tired… but she is roused almost too late by the nearly painful discomfort of her bladder. She does not notice the feeling at first, because it has been such a long time since it mattered. Even in the old cage there was no choice besides trying to only wet the bedding in the corner farthest from where she had to sleep, if she wasn’t hurt too badly to get up when they threw her back inside. The new cage was so small there was no choice at all. She was glad the floor was only bare wire even though it cut and scraped her paws. And they gave her so little water that she did not have to go very often.

When she does notice, it is sudden, and it almost hurts. She kicks and claws frantically at the blanket, afraid she will not even be able to get it off of her in time, and as soon as she is out of it she scrambles to the edge of the bed and crashes painfully to the floor. She has always had the instinct to only relieve herself far from the nest or burrow so predators cannot follow her scent as easily, and never, ever inside. And an ancient memory, almost forgotten, surfaces as well. This is a house, or something like a house, and she remembers that the entire inside is like a bigger nest. She limps aimlessly around the room, starting to panic. There is no way out. The door is closed and the man with the whip is somewhere on the other side, and the window is barred with wooden shutters and anyway she cannot jump that high with her leg hurt like this. They will know she is here and they will find her and do something worse like locking her in another cage and throwing it in a pond so its weight drags her down, but she cannot wait any longer!

She is about to give up and hope that a wet spot will not be discovered under the bed, when a hand stops her from going under and pulls her back. “No. No, not there, not there. Can’t believe I didn’t think of this… damn it...” The man drags something else out from underneath, a small metal basin, and holds her over it.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re housebroken, at least,” he mutters after he sets her back on the bed. “If you have to go again, wake me up. Don’t try to use it by yourself, it’ll tip over.”

She blinks slowly at him. The words are little better than noise. Her eyelids are so heavy it takes all of her strength to keep them open. She drags herself to the far end of the bed and collapses, too tired to even turn the bedding into a makeshift nest. Her fur is still damp, but she makes only a halfhearted attempt to groom one paw before she curls up and buries her face in the blankets.

It is still cold in the room. She is not shaking as badly, but she still occasionally shivers, and curls up into as tight a ball as she can. But something soft and heavy is laid over her, with just her head poking out. Slowly, the shivering stops, and sleep finally takes her.

~~

Jonathan was exhausted after the day’s journey. The storm had made travel miserable, and he’d gotten into town much later than he’d hoped. He didn’t sleep in a real bed often, and usually when he did his head barely had time to hit the pillow. But tonight he tossed and turned for a while. He was afraid his movements would wake the creature curled up at the foot of the bed, and when they didn’t he had to check twice to make sure she was still breathing before his mind let him sleep.

He still wasn’t sure what she was. He’d thought the strange creature was a cat at first, when he saw her lying there in the mud by the side of the road. But when he got closer, it was clear even in her bedraggled state that she wasn’t quite like anything he’d ever seen or heard of. He’d known from the instant he saw those eyes up close, from the instant his lantern went out and he saw that they weren’t just reflecting the light but glowing, that she wasn’t anything normal. Even then he’d thought she might have been some sort of marten or something, just… different, in the same way he was different from other people. But now that he’d gotten her cleaned up, he was sure that if she even had a kind it was nothing he’d ever seen nor heard of.

She had the long, slender body of a marten or a polecat, but she was a bit bigger – at least, as far as he could remember since it was a long time since he’d seen a marten. Probably about as long in body as a cat, but skinnier. Much skinnier right now, and she felt as light as a feather. With her fur soaked and plastered to her body with mud it was heartbreaking how the skin clung to her bones, but now that she’d been bathed and dried it was harder to tell. Her paws seemed a bit like a cat’s, but with all five toes, and longer and more spread out, and the forepaws seemed almost like they could grasp things. The claws were mostly blunted or broken, but the intact ones were hooked, and sharp as needles.

She didn’t have the tail of a polecat or even a marten, though. It was longer than her body, long enough that she could wrap it around herself like a scarf, and covered in bushy, fluffy fur with a pattern of ash-white and charcoal gray rings along its length. This pattern continued onto her body, where it became a series of dark stripes than ran approximately crosswise like a tabby cat’s, but branched and merged and broke up irregularly. At her belly they faded to speckles of gray just a bit darker than the rest of the fur, but they continued into a pattern of irregular banding on her legs.

He’d never seen an animal with a head quite the shape of hers. The snout wasn’t the broad triangular shape of a polecat or stoat; it was more slender, a little like a fox’s. The skull seemed unusually wide even with the fur slicked down, and more so now that the long, fluffy fur on the sides of her head had dried out, but long whiskers extended just as wide. Her ears were an unusual teardrop shape that was at its widest an couple inches out from her head, and tapered to a narrow, but still rounded tip. They seemed too big for her head, and twitched and swiveled when they weren’t flattened against her skull in fear.

And then there were the eyes. They weren’t the beady eyes of a stoat or polecat: they too seemed enormous even with her fur no longer slicked down. They had the same slit pupils as a cat or a fox, and were the same unfortunately-striking yellow as his own – not amber brown, but a color like the eyes of an owl or a hawk – and the iris took up the whole eye, with the white only barely showing when they moved.

There was a piercing intelligence in those eyes. He’d only caught glimpses of it, because most of the time the poor thing was on the edge of passing out, but in those moments that it was clear she understood him, her eyes were so inhuman and yet more human than any animal he’d ever seen. The way she’d cried was so human.

And they’d locked her up. They’d starved her and left her rotting alive, and by the looks of it tortured her.

It was enough to make Jonathan wish he had any of the powers he’d been accused of possessing in the past. Anything more than the power to merely stay alive.

A/N: Jonathan didn’t totally think the whole hiding a wild animal in his hotel room all night thing through. Or the attempting field medicine on a wild animal in a hotel room thing through. He’s lucky Tansy’s as well-behaved as she is.

[calitraditionalism]

Arc Three: Chapter Two

(AO3 counterpart here.)

The entire group was silent for what it seemed like was forever before they eventually reached a small grove, just in time for the rain to peter out. A pocket in the clouds revealed the moon, turning everything into silver and black silhouettes, droplets sparkling like tiny moon shards.

“We ought to pause here,” Darkpelt said, and her voice was like a shout in the quiet.

Redheart sighed almost under her breath. “This is far enough from the settlement, yes.” She turned around and gestured. “If everyone can-“

“What did you mean?” Littlepaw blurted. “What’s StarClan really?”

Redheart stayed patient. “We can explain once we’re settled.”

“Not that being settled will help at all,” Beetlefoot muttered.

Greyleaf narrowed his eyes. “You have no idea how right you are.”

The silence resumed momentarily as everyone positioned themselves so that they were in a loose ring. Redheart still looked exhausted, and Greyleaf on the verge of fight-or-flight. An uneasy air needled through all of their damp fur and caused their skin to prickle.

“I don’t mean to put any pressure on you,” Darkpelt said with a weaponized casualness, “but I won’t hesitate to help in your capture unless you explain yourself thoroughly. And perhaps after that, depending on how crazy you are.”

“We should arrest them now,” Beetlefoot snapped. “They caused a death and a lot of trouble.”

Surprisingly, Littlepaw gave him a sharp look. “I want an explanation, too.”

“Go on,” Mistface said before Beetlefoot or anyone else could speak. “You’ve got a story. Tell it.”

Redheart, looking relieved for the prompt, lifted her chin high and sat down. “As I said, StarClan is a monster. It’s not a group of our ancestors – it’s already devoured them.”

“That’s all it wants,” Greyleaf growled. He was still standing. “To eat souls. It’s had us all under its paw for generations, swallowing up everyone who goes to it thinking it’s the afterlife. That’s why we have it so good. If we’re complacent, it’ll get more of us to gorge on.”

Complete silence. Awkward, doubtful looks were exchanged. Mistface could see Flyfang internally trying to find a polite way to call the two of them insane. He didn’t blame her; it was just because he knew Greyleaf well enough that he wasn’t immediately passing this off as crazy ramblings built from a lifetime of nightmares.

He was considering that as an option, though.

“Brother-“ he started.

“You don’t believe us,” Greyleaf interrupted, suddenly and alarmingly aggressive. “Fine. We didn’t expect you to. So let me explain some things to all of you.”

Redheart seemed just as surprised as Mistface felt when Greyleaf broke through the circle and stood in the middle, turning back and forth to look at everyone as he spoke.

“Here’s some things that don’t make sense,” he said. “Why do we have it so good here? Why aren’t there any predators around to pick us off? Why is nothing a struggle beyond a slightly long walk?” He suddenly got angrier, tail lashing to one side. “Really think about that. Does any other place in the world have it so well as we do, for absolutely no reason? Why are we so special that we get paradise? And the prey! How do we have so much? It makes no sense!”

Mistface tried again. “Greyleaf, listen-“

“No, you listen!” Greyleaf whirled around to face him with such force that for a split second Mistface was afraid he was going to be struck. “I’m trying to break this down for you! Do you know how much prey one cat eats in a day? More than you’d think!”

Laurelclaw was the one to speak now. “What-“

“Three to five meals!” Greyleaf shouted over him. “We all eat enough to get as fat as a kittypet, every single day! And how many cats are in this Territory? Hundreds, at least! That’s an uncountable amount of mice and squirrels and birds that need to produce babies daily just to keep up the numbers! And yet there’s plenty of prey to go around, right?” He looked back at Mistface, fur bristling. “Plenty of full-grown animals! We never need to go after their young! We never even see their young!”

Mistface opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Greyleaf was pacing now, his claws digging into the mud. “We should have starved years ago! Generations ago! We should have all died out after being forced to eat each other!”

Redheart winced and shuddered.

“Greyleaf, you’re not hearing yourself.” Flyfang’s ears went back. “We have the prey StarClan gives us-“

“That-“ Greyleaf jerked his head to look at her now and she flinched. “That is my point! Weird how we have so much prey from StarClan, isn’t it? Life doesn’t come from wishes and dewdrops! You need a soul for there to be life! And there’re only so many souls you can use! Where do those souls come from? Where? If normal prey souls return to normal prey, then where does StarClan get special souls to give to all the created prey we eat to survive? You can't just make something from nothing!”

No one said anything. Something very dark and horrible started tapping its claws on the back of Mistface’s mind, but a defensive sort of confusion blocked what it was whispering to him.

Greyleaf took a shaky breath and turned slowly, eyeing everyone. “But there’s plenty of cat souls, aren’t there? So many of us being born every day, some of which don’t make it to old age. And that prey, that’s made for us by StarClan… prey that’s clumsy on its feet, and slow, and confused…”

The tapping claws began to scrape. The voice crept over the blockade and murmured in Mistface’s ear.

“Don’t even need the whole thing, do we?” Greyleaf went on. The angry expression was giving way to utter terror. “They’re fat, sure, but they’re nice and small. And they’ll just come right on back in no time, won’t they? Won’t miss a thing.”

“What are you saying?” Flyfang asked, in a voice that made it very clear that she already knew and was dreading the answer.

Redheart shut her eyes painfully. “StarClan doesn’t just eat our souls. It uses them to grow larger and stronger, so it can keep eating, and keep growing. It can do whatever it wants with what it has.” She swallowed thickly. “Such as tear a soul to pieces and send it back down to us as food.”

The reaction was immediate – Laurelclaw and Littlepaw cried out in shock, Beetlefoot took a step back with wide eyes, Flyfang flinched and hissed, and Mistface’s mouth dropped even further.

“You’re insane,” Beetlefoot said, voice cracking. “You’ve both gone insane. StarClan wouldn’t do that- no one can do that-“

“You haven’t been paying attention,” Darkpelt said suddenly.

All eyes went to her. She was standing stiffly, and her eyes were large with her pupils constricted like she was staring into the sun, but her voice was calm and steady.

“StarClan wants as many of us as possible,” she said. “That’s how it feeds itself. Right?”

“Yes,” Redheart said wearily.

“So recycling bits of souls to keep a growing population fed is the perfect way to get back more than you put in.” Darkpelt’s tail shivered. “With three cats, you take one dead one and split it up how you need to. That creates at least three or four meals, and then the soul comes back to you however many times you use it. Then those three cats have kits, and then they die, and you have three souls to use to feed those litters. Then those litters have litters, and…”

“No, this…” Laurelclaw was shaking. “It can’t- it’s too horrible to be true.”

“Oh, you think that’s horrible!” Greyleaf gave a half-deranged laugh that was more like a snarl. “We're not done yet! What about everyone who doesn’t get to come back down here to be killed and eaten? What happens to them while they’re stuck in this thing’s- in whatever passes for its stomach?” He started pacing again. “Some of them come back down whole, and they get to be stuck in a leader’s body when they get nine lives! Sure, fatten up a rare treat or eight! Worth it for how many other souls it gets to devour!”

“Our leaders are being possessed?!” Littlepaw cried.

“Wrong!” Greyleaf turned to her. “They’re doing the possessing! Smothering what remains of those souls so they get to live a little longer! What about the rest? What do they get to do?” His eyes bore down on the apprentice as he took several steps towards her. “You were a seer apprentice, right? Remember how a cat that was long dead always came to you in dreams? Remember how it was the same cat all the time? Remember how they told you you’re safer here than anywhere else?”

Littlepaw stared back at him, starting to shake, her eyes bulging with realization.

“Greyleaf,” Redheart said quietly.

At once, Greyleaf backed up a couple steps, giving Littlepaw some room and breaking the eye-lock. Redheart moved to stand beside him, changing who was looking at Littlepaw now.

“StarClan is massive, and it’s clever.” She was mellower than Greyleaf, and much more morose. “It knows how to make you the most comfortable in your dreams. Whatever cat will put you at ease, have you stay complacent, it will send a visage of to you. No one else comes, is that right?”

Littlepaw seemed to remember something, and said weakly, “The other day, I had a nightmare where something dark in the distance told me that ‘it’ wanted me to think I’d woken up. And the cat- the cat I always saw, Meliclight- she wasn’t acting right, and then she was screaming…”

“You didn’t tell me about this!” Flyfang turned to her in shock. “When did this happen?”

Littlepaw didn’t quite look Flyfang’s way. “Two or three days ago. I thought it was just a nightmare, but then… Redheart, what she said, it made something light up in my head…”

“What dark thing did you see?” Redheart asked, gentle.

“I- I don’t know.” Littlepaw’s voice leveled a tiny bit as she thought. “It could have been a cat, but it was so vague and like a shadow.”

“Oh, for-“ Greyleaf tossed his head up to the sky, exasperated. “They did it again.”

“Who did what?” Beetlefoot sounded both testy and worried.

“The Runagate visited you,” Redheart replied to Littlepaw.

“The Runagate?” Laurelclaw almost squeaked. “The demon?”

Greyleaf looked back down to scowl at Laurelclaw. “They’re not a demon. They’re the farthest thing from. They’re trying to save us from a demon. Always have been.”

“The only soul StarClan can’t catch,” Redheart said softly. “And they’ve been running around the Territory warning us as well as they can. No one believes, because StarClan always manages to hide the truth.” The faintest tremor went through her body. “But not from us. Not from me. The Runagate is why I even had the chance to start this plan to leave in the first place.”

Again, it was silent. Mistface watched everyone’s tense bodies, raised fur, stiff tails and horrified expressions. Despite not feeling any better himself, he forced himself to relax.

“So how did this happen?” he said. “How did y’all learn about this, Runagate or otherwise? And how do you know it’s all true?”

Redheart and Greyleaf looked at each other. Then Redheart nodded and returned her gaze to the other six cats.

“I should start,” she said. She took a breath, shut her eyes as if reliving a painful memory, and opened them again. “It begins with a death."

[gotta-love-alejandra]

Veda and Ever

I wrote a very gay story about Ever, a non binary forager who lives in a cottage with her cat, and a large lesbian, Veda, who has traveled her whole life with her her pet wolf. They meet one day and both of them question whether or not they want to spend another day apart.

I don't write very often, so its not very good.

In all seriousness I am really proud of this, I hope you like it.

Word count: 2078

Ever woke up knowing that today they need to go out and get some wild herbs. They have an entire garden full in their yard, surrounded by forest. They practically have an entire bush of herbs growing in their kitchen, but the onions that they were growing just weren't blooming as much as they’d hoped, and they needed some for the stew they were making tonight.

They hopped out of bed, opened their wardrobe, grabbing a pair of overalls, an earthy colored top and a golden colored beanie they crocheted themselves. After they dressed, they walked into the kitchen being met by Chamomile, a light grey cat with pastel purple eyes they had found wandering about their garden all those years ago. Chamomile jumped on the table and nudged Ever with her head, asking to be pet, Ever complied, patting her head a few times.

“Today we have to go out and find some onions for our stew, '' they remarked mostly to themselves. Chamomile replied with an understanding mew.

On their way out, they grabbed a pair of boots and threw the beanie on their messy, raven black curls, and headed out the door. Followed by chamomile walking out of the small cat door Ever had made. Walking away from their small little cottage in the middle of the forest, they ventured on, determined to find what they needed for their stew.

After walking nearly 5 miles Chamomile pawed at Ever’s feet, asking for them to turn back. “I know we’ve been walking for a while, but I need the onions for my stew!” When Chamomile gave no response other than a very disapproving look Ever knew that it was time to turn back. They hadn’t noticed, but now that they had taken a moment to stop, they’re legs were beginning to ache. Ever had turned to the mark on the tree that they had placed so as to not lose their way and started to follow it. After taking a few steps they noticed that Chamomile wasn't following them anymore.

“Chamomile?” They called out to the cat, asking for her to follow. When they turned around to look at Chamomile they noticed that she was eyeing a large bush, “Did you find something?” They asked, stepping towards the gray cat, when suddenly a large wolf leaped from inside the bush growling. Chamomile immediately took a defensive stance in front of Ever, who had taken a few steps back in surprise. When all of a sudden they heard a voice coming from the direction the wolf had.

“Dex? Where did you go?” The voice belonged to a woman, her voice was deep, sounding slightly gravely. The woman walked out from where the wolf had, “Oh, there you ar-” She looked up from the wolf and saw Ever, with their small frame and slender body. Immediately, she felt a need to protect them from anything that came their way, it was almost as if it was instinct was telling her that she needed to protect Ever.

Ever looked at the very tall woman that stood in front of them, taking in her Broad shoulders and muscular build. They noted the sword sheathed on their left hip. They stood silently for a few seconds, neither of them saying a word, when Ever eventually broke the silence.

“H-hi, My name is Ever and this is my cat Chamomile.” They gestured to their cat, who was still holding a defensive position now standing closer to Ever.

“I’m Veda” she shot out her right hand asking for a handshake, which Ever accepted. “This is my wolf Dexter, I swear he won't bite.” She said, noticing Ever’s nervousness. “I didn't know anyone lived around here, I can leave if you want”

“No, it’s ok. Would you like to come have a cup of tea with me?” Ever offered; truthfully, they were lonely and Veda was one of the most handsome women they had ever seen. They didn’t want her to leave, not yet.

“Oh, Are you sure?” She replied, growing nervous under the gaze of Evers beautiful hazel eyes.

“It would be my pleasure. Although we are quite far from my house, do you mind walking?” they asked now wishing they had walked father so that they and Veda could spend more time together.

“No, not at all” Veda replied with a warm smile. Ever couldn’t help but notice the way her light brown hair complimented her amazingly, honey yellow eyes.

They walked in silence for most of the way, both nervous and stiff. Ever, being too caught up in their thoughts, tripped on a branch in front of them. Before they knew what happened they realized that they were pressed against Vedas chest, she had caught them.

“Woah, are you ok?” she asked letting go of them, wishing she could hold on to them for just a moment longer.

“Yea, yea I’m good. Thank you” They paused, “for catching me.” they said, continuing to walk.

“You're welcome, I'm glad you're ok.” Veda replied following Ever to their house.

The rest of the walk went pretty smoothly, filled with awkward glances. Once they arrived at Evers house they walked directly in only stopping to take off their boots, covered in mud. Veda stopped halfway on the stone-paved walkway, admiring it all. The house was round, only one floor, and was made with dark wood, the roof was a faded red. There were plants everywhere, some for decoration, some were vegetables or herbs.

“You can come in.” Ever remarked sarcastically from the open doorway, pulling Veda out of her thoughts.

“Oh, yea. Right.” she muttered, embarrassed. She walked into the door, “Your house is beautiful, by the way.” She was met with cream colored walls with dark, faded green accents and a burnt orange couch. Further in the house was a kitchen and dining room with a table next to the window.

“Take a seat, I’ll get the tea ready.” Ever said while cutting a few leaves from a plant next to the stove then filling the teapot with water. Huh, mint Veda thought to herself. She turned around and realized most, if not all, of the chairs were too small for her to fit in. She moved the chair sitting on one end of the square table and sat on the floor with her legs crossed.

Both Veda and Ever turned when they heard a loud thunk come from the living room, Dexter had bumped into the table and knocked off a glass.

“Oh jeez” Veda said as she stood up, bumping into the table that she was sitting at, almost knocking over the potted plant that was sitting in the center. She scrambled to grab it, catching it before it rolled off the table. She met Ever’s gase as they burst into laughter. Confused, Veda asked “What?” with a bashful smile.

“It seems my house is too small,” They said between giggles.

“Yea, Yea it does.” Veda chuckled .The teapot wined, reminding them both of what they were doing.

“Here. You stay there, try not to break anything,” they laughed, “and I’ll serve us tea.” They turned around and grabbed the teapot from the fire and poured their drinks. One small mug for Ever and a larger cup for Veda. Grabbing the honey and both cups, they took their seat at the table. “Would you like some honey?” they asked, handing Veda her larger cup.

“No, thank you.” Ever nodded in response and proceeded to put some in their tea, grabbing the honey wand, placing it in their cup and stirring.

“So, do you live around here or are you just passing through?” Ever asked, wanting to know more about the amazing woman sitting at the table with them.

“No- no, I don’t live around here, or much of anywhere really.” she said with a sigh. Ever tilted their head, not understanding the answer she gave. “I don’t really have a home,” Veda continued, “I travel everywhere I go, I haven't found a place I want to settle. So, I go from place to place, looking for somewhere to stay” She sighed, “haven't found it yet.” She didn't know why she was telling them all of this, but sitting there looking at their face she couldn’t help but feel like she could trust them with it all.

“Wow, that must be hard. I can only imagine.” Ever replied, worry etched on their face. “Why don't you stay here?” they paused seeing the concern on Vedas face, “Just for a few nights.” they suggested. “Wouldn’t it be nice to sleep in a warm bed, even if its just for a few nights.” Ever looked at Veda, who was silent. She couldn’t help but notice the hint of desperation in their voice.

“I really don't want to intrude, you’ve already been so nice.” She said, carefully standing.

“ No- Please.” Ever interjected standing with Veda, “Please don't go yet, I would love to have you here for a few days.” They paused sitting back down, Veda soon following. “Honestly, it can get pretty lonely out here, I don’t get many visitors” Veda hated seeing the way their shoulders slumped, and the way they wrapped their arms around themselves lightly.

“I understand that, the whole being alone thing.” Veda said, mindlessly petting Dex, who was laying next to her. Looking at Ever, Veda knew she couldn’t leave, not yet. Something in her gut told her that she needed to stay. “Okay, I’ll stay, even if it's just for a few nights” She said with a smirk.

Ever’s eyes lit up and they excitedly rushed over to their bedroom and came out with more blankets than one person would ever need. They plopped them all down on the couch and turned to look at a surprised Veda. She had never been cared for like this… not since Val. She walked over to the couch and sat down, even though it was smaller than what was comfortable, and started to feel the blanket that was on top. It was soft, and seemed to be knitted or crocheted.

“Did you do this yourself?” She asked, the blanket was very well made. Veda had never had time, nor the materials to learn. Her life had been too sporadic, always moving from one place to another, for her to learn not essential skills.

Ever, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, reached over and touched it. “Yea, I made that myself, took me almost 4 days.” She chuckled remembering, “My fingers were sore for a week after that,” They looked down at their fingers and flexed them, reminiscing the pain. They sat in silence for a while. Ever made their way off of the floor and grabbed a book for themselves and looked to Veda, “Do you want a book to read?” They grabbed the book they were currently reading.

“I’m not much of a reader.” Ever nodded, turned to the shelves and started looking for one of their favorite books, The Land of War and Fire, once they found it they scurried back over to the couch and handed Veda the book they had retrieved. “This is one of my favorites, I think you’ll like it.” they smiled so wide Veda had no other choice but to smile back, their happiness is contagious.

“The land of War and Fire,” Veda read aloud, “Sounds interesting.” They both sat in silence enjoying their books. The only sounds were the soft taps of Chamomile walking about, and the soft turning of pages.

It was getting late, Ever was not a night person, you would find them in bed by 10:30. It was no surprise that when Veda looked up from her book Ever was fast asleep, book in hand. Veda looked at the sleeping beauty in front of her and admired how peaceful they looked while they were sleeping. Though Ever wasn’t an anxious person all their stress carried in their shoulders, tensed and raised slightly. Now, they were completely relaxed.

Veda very slowly got up and grabbed the book from their limp hands, marked the page and set it on the coffee table in front of them. She had been accustomed to staying up late, instead of going to bed she continued reading the book Ever had given her. She enjoyed every word she read. Hours later she lay in the same position Ever had, book laying in limp hands.

A/n: I really hope you enjoyed this story, if you want a part 2 please let me know!!!

[sharktofu]

Come Home with Me: AO3

Eventual Steter with a green-eyed kitten. Chapter 1/?

Everything changes during one stormy night. Well, that's a bit overdramatic, but mostly right. Kinda.

The rain is pouring down on Stiles, who spent most of the night running through the pixie-overrun forest with his trusty bat. 

He's tired, he's hungry and he's so soaked his socks are now new layer of his skin. 

Aaaand he hears a meow.

That heart-wretching, small, pathetic meow that he knows he cannot ignore. He wants to, he's covered in pixie guts and he has an exam tomorrow morning (today). He just wants to leave and collapse on his bed in all his drowned glory.

The meow repeats, even smaller this time.

Stiles spins on his heels, throwing droplets of water around him, and stares in the emerald green eyes of a cat.

(He lets out a sigh of relief, because it would be just his luck if it turned out there's no cat, but something really Stiles-hungry.)

Actually, it looks more like a kitten with how tiny the little beastie is. Its black fur clings to its frail-looking body and he looks positively miserable, but its tail wags from side to side like an angered cobra.

Stiles is fucked. Totally, completely fucked.

"Here kitty, kitty," he coos at the kitten as he slowly drops to his knees. For a split second he thinks about mud and his poor jeans, but in the end his whole outfit is beyond saving. 

Lydia would be pleased.

"What do you even say to get the cat?" he muses, when the kitten keeps meowing from a safe distance. It's pathetic, seriously. "Come here, little dude. I've got an old tee calling your name... I can even throw in my pillow, but only if you come right now so we don't have to drown in this goddamn rain."

Whether were it Stiles' warm and careful words or maybe the sudden lightning that struck nearby, but finally the little stray jumps - first in fear and then into Stiles' open arms. In a flash the kitten finds its way under his hoodie.

"Ungrateful bastard," Stiles hisses, when little claws come out to play. He peers under the fabric and the little darkness stares right back at him. It even starts purring. "Damn, you're cute."

He left the car at home, so they have to carefully make it out of the forest and back into the civilization on foot.

"You're cute and you know it, little heartbreak," Stiles baby-talks the whole trek home, completely blasé how crazy he might look. He stopped caring years ago, he's not gonna start now. Too little, too late and all that.

The house is dark and empty, but at least it's warm and dry. The clock on the wall laughs at Stiles, showing it's almost 4 am.

"Rude," he mutters under his breath. His father must still be on his night shift, which makes sense as it's still night. Duh.

Stiles drips water everywhere, walking to the bathroom, but there's nothing he can actually do about it right now. 

The hot shower calls him by name, but so is his hoodie. Well, not quite. He'd probably have a heart attack, if the cat called him by his given name. 

He sighs, deep and resigned, and strips out of his clothes, gently extracting the kitty. He then starts to very carefully dry its little body. 

"I'm gonna take you to Deaton later and hope to fuck you're not chipped," he tells the tiny furball, who is set on catching his fingers with its baby paws. "It'd be really stupid to murder someone over a cat."

The kitten looks up and blinks at him with its big green eyes. Somehow it looks offended.

"Of course I would, what are you, stupid?" he snorts and the cat rubs against his fingers. "I'm just saying it'd be stupid, not that I won't do it."

The beastie yawns at Stiles and he cannot stop himself from dropling a soft kiss on the top of its head. The little ears twitch and Stiles melts. 

"You need a name, little terror," he decides, gathering the cat in his arms and moving to the kitchen. He drops it on the floor and watches fondly as it scurries around the room, sniffing everything.

Stiles looks through their dishes, searching for something to put in some food for the cat. He emerges victorious with a shallow bowl that would be perfect and pours in some milk. He puts it on the floor near the kitten and it trips over its little paws, running to the bowl. 

Stiles heart grows three times. He hates it.

His new baby dives in and Stiles coos at it, completely lovestruck. Sue him, he gets attached quickly - he deserves it for single-handedly getting rid off of the murderous pixies, while he should be studying for his Psych exam.

"What about Taylor?" he asks, rummaging through the fridge. He doesn't know what's suitable to eat for kittens, but he can't let the little guy starve. Or girl. "You need a gender neutral name, because... Well, because I said so, so there's that."

"Maybe Charlie? Like Weasley, because you can be a magical cat. It wouldn't be the strangest thing that happened in my life," he finds some bacon strips. Not turkey, so he needs to have another long talk with his father. Though, they're perfect (probably) for his new housemate. "Okay, you're not a Weasley. Obviously. Hmmm... What about Ezra?"

It must be it, because the kitten looks up from his bowl - from the strips of delicious meat, and that reminds Stiles, how hungry he is - and rubs against Stiles' outstretched hand. 

Stiles' heart thwas and he hates it. Gods, but the cat is adorable.

He sits there, starstruck, staring at the little furball, when his phone rings. He runs to the bathroom, where he left it, cursing whoever might be calling him. 

Turns out, noone is. It's his alarm, reminding him to get the fuck up, because he has an hour-long drive to get to the campus. 

That's what he gets for spending time at his dad's, when his landlord takes care of the lack of heating in his flat.

"Fuck," he swears, looking at the time. "Ezra, pack your bags, we're going shopping!"

He sprints around the house, collecting his stuff and cursing all the known gods, while Ezra happily munches on the becon.