#Jezebel the Cat

[captainpirateface]

Missing my kitties who have left us...

[goryhorroor]

the best/questionable little (and one big) kitties in horror cinema

[emimii]

um um um @toki-toro oc jezebel… bcuz i like g..gir.,.ls maybe

[puppy-steve]

the "eddie feeds trailer park raccoons" posts made me remember my tags on this post so i cleaned them up and made this ✨ also on ao3

wayne takes him hunting one season and while eddie doesn’t particularly enjoy waking up before the sun and bundling himself in camouflage and traffic cone orange on a saturday, he does enjoy a good homecooked meal made with meat you hunted yourself. makes him feel good about what’s going into his body (though you’ll never hear him pass up burger king, especially if someone else is paying.)

eddie’s got himself a hefty prize pile going in the sled they brought, made up of smaller game.

(he’s only a little disappointed it isn’t deer season.)

wayne’s grumpy about it and says eddie’s got an advantage because of his age and his eyesight being better. normally, they’d be in the woods from sunup to sundown, but wayne’s gotta work the next day, a rare day shift, so they call it quits around three pm. wayne gets his last shot in and he goes to pick the animal up, lamenting the lack of a retriever dog as his knees crack and pop, when he hears a rustling in a nearby tree trunk.

ah shit.

a tiny, furry grey head pops up and wayne doesn’t figure it’s old enough to fend for itself yet. he motions for eddie with a flick of his fingers and puts them to his lips. he drops the body in the sled as eddie scruffs the raccoon kit and lifts it from the tree so it doesn’t put up a fight and scratch or bite him. they’re strapped for cash enough as it is and rabies shots are expensive.

“what do we do with it?” he asks, holding the thing up to eye level. it can’t be more than a couple months old, still completely dependent on its mother for survival.

wayne sighs and starts packing their gear. “got a buddy who works at the rehab center. we’ll take it there and see if they can do anything.”

the drive there, eddie keeps the little thing tucked into his coat. the middle of january still brings cold snaps and snow and the animal is shaking despite its thick winter fur. eddie thinks it’s kind of cute.

they were right about the raccoon’s age; around three months, wayne’s buddy estimates from her weight. she’s a female, which delights eddie for a reason he can’t explain. after she’s got her shots, he tells them that, legally, they need a permit to keep her, but since he and wayne go back a ways, he can let a few things slide.

so they go home and dig out an old cage to keep her in until she stops growling and hissing at them when they get close to her. she lives off a diet of eggs mixed in milk and has to be bottle fed. it’s eddie’s favorite part of the day because he gets to hold her and he thinks she’s getting used to it because she stops trying to squirm out of his arms and doesn’t bite him as often. (there's a photo on the fridge of eddie covered in ban-aids and holding her in one arm, giving the camera a thumbs up with the other, a giant grin on his face. 'progress!' is written on the bottom.)

he calls in a favor to nancy and asks if her mom has any of holly’s baby clothes and she is rightfully curious.

“it’s for a raccoon.”

“….right.”

he dresses her up and thankfully, nancy brings diapers (he doesn’t ask how awkward that particular shopping trip was) because the baby has started treating the trailer like her bathroom and wayne’s already threatened to throw her back out into the woods if he has to clean up another mess. so she walks around the place in her little onesie and diaper like the little trailer park princess she is and everyone knows who she belongs to. max has already claimed the spot for cool aunt.

eddie has to stop himself from buying a secondhand stroller.

unfortunately, he's spent the last couple weeks so caught up in the thrill of being a single parent, he forgets that he’s not actually single at all.

steve pulls into the trailer park on a cold, cloudy day and before he can even get a foot out the car, he’s greeted by a raccoon wearing a pastel pink onesie with white lace frills that’s clearly meant for a human baby. he blinks down at it, visibly confused, and looks around to see where it came from.

the trailer door suddenly opens and his boyfriend is yelling with all the energy of an exasperated parent, hands on his hips and a dish rag thrown over one shoulder, a baby bottle in one hand,

“jezebel munson, you get your furry little hind end back inside this trailer right now!”

as if the raccoon understood, it toddles toward the porch steps and eddie moves aside to let it pass, pointing inside. “straight to the couch, little missy!”

steve slowly follows behind her and stops at the last step, watching as the animal climbs a jerry-rigged set of steps next to the couch.

“eddie. what the hell.”

eddie turns to grin down at him, hands still on his hips. "we're parents now, stevie! meet your daughter, jezebel.”

steve can only sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose before accepting his fate and going inside for father daughter bonding time.

[murdleandmarot]

@toki-toro *emerges from the woods with sticks in my hair* Hiya :D!!

[bigboobshaunt]

Assorted good pics of the gals

[tailoringtay]

He's laying with his neck exposed. She's watching from a shadow. Slowly the assassin crept closer. Slowly she narrowed the distance. Stopped. Stood over him with eyes gleaming sharp and wild. His head was tilted back. His throat was right there.. She leaned down cautiously. Watchful of Tay possibly stirring. And then -- she put her teeth around the front. No pressure. Just warm saliva, and hot breath over his trachea. Bone mask obscuring her face. Why? It was too tempting.. It beckoned. She had to do it.

...... for science.

He didn't react to her approach. And, even as her teeth closed around his throat, he hardly stirred at all.

There was only a shift of his head, bangs falling haphazardly over his face as it angled to the left.

That, as well as a low, rumbling hum.

[captainpirateface]

I miss this beautiful little Angel so much.

[rahbid]

TARGET   :   GORDON, JIM. LOCATION   :   @batcaller​​​ ASSIGNMENT   :   cell phone headcanons.    

- what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone  ...   🐁. - what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone  ...

- what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone   ...   you know the music that plays when tom and jerry get into a chase sequence? that or where in the world is carmen sandiego. she thinks she’s very funny. - my muse’s last text to your muse   ...   Miss me?

[contritecactite]

Right now while the seasons are changing, there's about a solid hour of the morning during which I can't use my desk because the glare is too strong (sunlight from a window too high/awkward to cover). But you know who loves it? These guys.

They haven't quite recovered from being left with my old boss for a couple of months, and I don't think they ever will, but at least here they'll be safe from—oh. Oh no.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Men at Work!

Just a note, I know I mix phonetic and Cyrillic spellings of Russian in this. Mostly it's so that people can easily translate the more complex words directly.

Content: Masturbation, very mild protective/possessive behavior

It’s becoming a problem.

You think this from the overstuffed daybed recently purchased for the explicit purpose of feeding into aforementioned problem. Not that the porch is the problem, heavens no. If so much as a nail came loose, there’s a trio of men across the street all too eager to lend their hammers and bulging, glistening muscles to fix it.

Which, conveniently, is the problem.

Their muscles, that is. And how magnanimous they are with them.

Your house is nice. New. It took them three days to fix all the issues you’d been putting off for a day you were non-reclusive enough to schedule a handyman.

Your house is too nice and too new.

You’re feeding a Vegas buffet’s worth of appetites raised on old world sensibilities with no outlet for them to be expressed. There aren’t enough squeaky hinges, crooked cabinets, stuck windows, or leaky faucets in your two-bedroom for all that… chivalry. (Or whatever Krueger has that passes for chivalry’s surly cousin.)

They’ve taken to invading earlier in the evening for busy work before dinner. Cutting vegetables, tenderizing meat, cleaning dishes, setting the goddamn table.

Like, sirs, you’re a single woman with three cats and a sham of a personal life – the last time you saw a centerpiece on a domestic dining table was Christmas at your nana’s.

Until Konig shuffled in with a fistful of sunflowers and zinnias, promising that he double-checked that they’re non-toxic to cats. You didn’t have a vase, so you had to make do with an empty mason jar you were keeping for ostensible aesthetic reasons.

Now you’ve got an ongoing bouquet, kitschy salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like lemons that no one ever uses (as if your seasoning decisions are as good as god) and are contemplating cloth napkins like some kind of… of…

“Socialite?” you muse aloud. You glance at Rasputin. He blinks slowly. “Hostess? Woman of the night?”

You’re pretty sure Agatha didn’t mean that as a compliment when you overheard her gossiping to Margot yesterday. (She should really remember that if she can eavesdrop on you from her backyard, the same is true the other way around.)

You’re toying with an idea for a new series with your last one wrapping up and your solo-novel due for release come fall. Something about a rich young woman with a wild streak and her fantastically wealthy gentlemen callers…

“Scarlet woman,” you murmur aloud, eyes on the reason for your recent porch décor purchase.

Krueger is on the roof, cloth around his head to stave off the summer heat. Doing… something with shingles and a nail gun. Your face flushes with each flex of hard muscle, jump of thick tendons. The grip he has on that thing…

As inspiring as your neighbors are, they are also a huge (in many, many ways) distraction. Hence, they are a Problem.

And not just for you. On your right, you catch the flutter of curtains from your peripheral. Lisa taking another peek – to be properly scandalized, probably. (You’re not really sure what the neighborhood biddies tell themselves when they decide something is Simply Not Proper.)

“We’ll have to start charging admission,” you muse, sipping a strawberry mojito.

Curled up far too close for the weather, Little Guy chuffs and stretches. You smooth a fingertip up his little nose, between his eyes, and over the crest of his empty head.

“Jezebel,” you mumble. He yawns, tongue curling and pearly fangs gleaming. “Trollop.”

An annoyed grunt pulls your eyes forward again. Nikto is standing halfway up the porch, one foot planted on the last step like a sexy Russian Captain Morgan. His thighs stretch his workpants oh-so-nicely. There’s a smear of white paste across the material – caulking, maybe?

(You could do with a caulking too.)

“Has someone called you these?” he asks. “Who?”

You laugh. What would he even do if someone had?

“No – well, not to my face, anyway.”

He snorts, shoots a withering scowl at Agatha’s property anyway. You spin your pen around your fingers and try not to bite your lip at the way his shirt is clinging from sweat.

“Aren’t you hot?” you fuss. “You’re going to pass out.”

“Nyet, we have been in worse,” he replies, finishing the short journey up the porch. He pauses in front of you, taking in the sight of you and your cats. What does he think, seeing you lounging about all day while he and his friends(?) are working so hard? If it’s something negative, he’s never let on.

“Still,” you insist, “have you been hydrating?”

“Da, the water runs.”

You blink, put together pieces to assume he and the others are chugging tap water (probably right from the faucet) when necessary. Well, that just won’t do now, will it?

“No, no. Hold on. Rasputin, hold him hostage.”

And like the little angel he is, Ras gets up, stretches out, and begins rubbing his face all over Nikto’s pants. With him distracted, you hop to your feet and scurry inside. The house is almost uncomfortably cool after most of your morning spent outside, but you’ll only be a moment.

There’s a large ruby pitcher waiting in the fridge from last night, complete with various berries floating at the top. You use two hands to heft it out, set it on the counter, then flit to your cabinets for the travel cups you invested in for on-the-go wine sipping. Nice and insulated.

You pour a cup for each of them, stow the pitcher away again, and carry all three in triangle-formation back outside. (Maybe you should get a tray? The antique store in town probably has something pretty and lemon-themed to match the salt and pepper shakers…)

Nikto hurries to help as soon as he sees you, plucking the extra cup from your hands.

“I saw this recipe and wanted to try it since it’s been getting hotter.”

He blinks at you, then the juice.

“You don’t have to try it now, I just thought—”

Your voice abandons you as Nikto tugs his filtration mask down. The skin beneath is warped and scarred, discolored in some places. When he raises the edge of the cup to his mouth, the skin of one cheek stretches distressingly thin. You can see the individual indents of his back molars pressing against the flesh as he drinks.

You understand why he’s been hesitant to show you; it’s not easy to look at. Which makes you all the more determined to flick your eyes back to his and ask, eagerly, “What do you think? Too sweet?”

As he swallows, throat clicking, you think you hear him grunt something.

“Hm?”

“Nyet. Not too sweet. Is good, пчела.”

You grin even though you’re not sure what it means. All three of them have some nickname in their mother tongue that you can only hope is complimentary and not because they forgot your actual name.

“Good, then I can bring some to K and K while you help me with lunch. That’s why you came by, right?”

He nods. “Nearly noon.”

“That late already!” you say. Wow, staring at hot, sweaty men really makes time fly. “Alright, I was going to make chicken wraps and latkes. Could you start peeling potatoes? You know where everything is, da?”

“Da.” He clicks his tongue, luring Rasputin in and stirring Guy awake. “Come, малышу, before we leave you out here for vultures.”

“Nikto!” you scold. “Don’t threaten him.”

“I do not threaten. It is what will happen.”

You swat at his arm, but at least Little Guy has been lured into Nikto’s reach – if by nothing else than a hand has been offered and cats are helpless to resist a good sniff. Nikto scoops him up while you turn to flounce down the stairs.

“Make sure Susan doesn’t get out!” you call over your shoulder.

She was roused by your quick turnaround to get the juice cups and will certainly be stalking the door now.

Sure enough, you faintly hear him cursing in Russian as you reach the end of the yard. Luckily, you see him closing the door with all three of your demons inside, so you continue across the street.

Krueger hasn’t noticed your approach, his back to you, so you stop at the edge of the property to watch for a moment. Yep, just as good this close, too.

“Krueger!” you call. He doesn’t turn. You huff and try again. Nothing. Christ, you’re starting to think he’s ignoring you on purpose. “Sebastian!”

His head whips around alarmingly fast and finds you right there on the ground. No need to look around at all – sometimes they remind you of their profession in the oddest ways.

“Ja, ja, no need to shout,” he replies.

You open your mouth to do just that, but he’s already scaling down from the roof. You’re stunned into silence as he slides down to the edge of the roof, catches the edge, and swings down to the ground. Lands with barely more noise than one of your footsteps. It’s quick yet so graceful.

You stare (gawk, more accurately) as he saunters up, pants sinfully low on his narrow hips.

“What did you need, bienchen?” he asks. “It is too early for lunch.”

You stutter for a second before your brain reboots.

“What was that?!” you demand, a little shriller than necessary. If you don’t shriek about this, you’re going to shriek about that gorgeous chest and the tattoos and the everything else, and you absolutely cannot do that. “That was so dangerous! You’re going to break a leg!”

“You worry,” he scoffs. He shakes his head, but there’s a wicked, knowing grin at the corners of his mouth and his eyes are far too bright. “That was a little jump.”

“It was not!”

“It only seemed big because you are so little, but it was nothing for me.”

“You’re not that much taller!”

“It is sweet to worry,” he coos, “but it is too hot for it, yes?”

You scrunch your nose at him, not sure if you’re annoyed or turned on or both. (Probably both. It’s annoying how hot he is. And how hot he knows he is.)

“If it’s so hot, then here.”

You all but shove the cup at him. He takes it with a flicker of genuine surprise, sniffs at the liquid, then takes a sip. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest, raises the temperature another few degrees.

“My mother used to make something like this,” he muses, expression softening. You blink, lean in automatically for a peck to your cheek. “Danke schön.”

“Bitte,” you mumble, mouth drier than Reggie’s garden.

His eyes crinkle, mouth hidden by the edge of the cup as he proceeds to chug the rest of it. A droplet slips down his jaw and skips down to his collarbone. You force your eyes away before you’re driven to do something irreparable by thirst.

“Is Konig inside?” you ask. “I have a cup for him, too.”

He grunts confirmation, tongue curling around a blueberry to coax it into his mouth.

Yep, alright, that’s about as much as you can take.

“Scooch, before the punch goes warm.”

“Punch?” he repeats, arching an eyebrow at you.

“That’s what it’s called in English. Punch.”

“That seems like it would cause misunderstanding.” Except he’s grinning as he says it, like he cherishes the idea of someone confusing the two words and starting a fight. Considering how often you catch him and Konig smacking at each other, that’s probably not a stretch.

“Just please don’t swing on anyone, yeah?”

“Only because you ask so nicely,” he croons.

You click your tongue at him. “Wipe off before going in, I don’t want Shithead to stink after crawling on you.”

He barks out his usual sharp laugh and tugs the cloth – his own t-shirt – off his head to mop up his sweat. You make a mental note to tease him about sunburn later as you slip past him.

You can hear Konig singing off-key upstairs when you open the door. The house is sweltering, only mildly cooler than outside with none of the fresh air. You grimace as you pause at the bottom of the stairs; the boys have warned you that it’s dangerous up there and it’s best not to go wandering.

Thankfully, it doesn’t sound like he’s using power tools at the moment.

“Konig!” you call.

“Is that you, biene?” he calls back.

You grin. “Who else would it be, huh?”

You hear his footsteps right over your head, track his gait until the first heavy boot on the stairs. He meets you at the bottom with his usual ventilator on, but he tugs it down when he sees the cup in your hand.

“Is this for me?” he asks eagerly.

“Yep! Tell me what you think!”

With none of Nikto or Kreuger’s hesitation, he knocks back a big mouthful. Licks his full lips as he lowers it, eyes bright as they land on yours.

“This is perfect,” he chirps, “so refreshing! Thank you, biene!”

You beam right back, flushed with pride that all three of them liked the recipe you “happened to find” when you saw the temperature projections for today.

“There’s more back home,” you offer, “come out of the heat.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles. “I will wipe off first.”

You hum agreeably, watching him slip back upstairs with great enthusiasm. Konig in a tank top and those tight cargos… summer really is delivering this year.

That evening, you sigh as you recline across your huge bed, naked and cooling off with the night breeze rolling through your window. Ras and Shithead are happily distracted wrestling each other in your forgotten towel, and Little Guy is snoozing on his personal pillow.

You stretch out, feeling a bit decadent and indulgent with moonlight spilling over your body, and let your hands wander. It’s not the high-efficiency sleep-oriented wank you usually rush through, not this time.

You unspool memories of the day with each brush of your fingertips over moisturized skin. You hum as your skin tingles, imagining Konig’s calloused palms in place of yours. He’d be so surprisingly gentle, you’re sure. Big, strong hands but he’d play with you like a precious toy. Plucking your nipples and scratching his blunt nails over the plush of your hips.

As your breathing picks up, you see Krueger’s broad shoulders flexing behind your eyelids. Imagine them bullying between your thighs, hooking your knees over. That bright glint in his eye as he smirks against your cunt. Can practically feel the curl of his tongue around your clit, eating you out messy and mean.

You’re already halfway there when you curl two fingers into your pussy. You’re so wet that your fingers slip and slide, squelch lewdly as you rock your hips, trying to find just the right angle.

You imagine Nikto clicking his tongue at your struggle. Almost hear his low, hoarse voice chiding you for doing his job while he takes over. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, you have to press a third in just to maintain the fantasy.

You want to lean back against his broad chest while he strokes your walls, listen to him and Krueger and Konig talk about you like you’re not even there, debating if you should come. Ignore you as you beg and whimper, big hands pinning you down while they draw it out.

Please, please, please…

You clap a hand over your mouth just in time, hips jerking so hard that it makes your wrist ache.

Whoops.

Well, you doubt anyone heard. It’s pretty late, and you’re on the second story anyway.

Already sleepy, you’re too lazy to close the window after a pre-bed stop in the restroom. It’s such a nice night, after all.

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Masterlist

[c4rdsharp]

@rahbid liked for a starter !

“ my apologies, miss. “

Luck waved a hand to clear away the drifting plaster and dust – an all - too familiar consequence of the life he lived. Something clattered loudly behind him. He wasn’t sure what. It sounded a little like wood. Perhaps one of the shelves had finally caved in after that loudhouse of a spectacle. If there was any glass left after all that gunfire, it was broken now.

at least none of the patrons were severely injured.

Most of them had run out the second those men pulled out their guns, but there were a couple of stragglers still left even after the din had died down. It wasn’t that long of a fight – yes, they were taken by surprise, but Luck’s men acted quickly and, within seconds, the responsible gunmen were now being carried below the establishment. The incident was no more than the usual – years spent dealing with turf wars had led to banality with this excitement. What was more troublesome was dealing with the aftermath.

i could pretend that i'm irked by the professional inconvenience it causes us, but really . . .

He just never liked dragging civilians into their gang disputes. So, that is why he’s here now, apologizing to the young woman who had been minding her business upon entering. Thankfully, her and none of the other remaining patrons had noticed Luck take injury during the skirmish. If they had, they would’ve been wondering why he had not a single drop of blood on him anymore. None of his own, at least.

“ if i had known such an attack was to be coming, we would’ve kept our establishment closed. we will remunerate half of your drinks, if any, and also cover any medical bills you may need. if you are injured, i can direct you to the nearest medical office. please refrain from talking about this incident with anybody, especially the police. you’ll get caught in more trouble than it’s worth. “

Some of that was a threat, but Luck was too tired to really put much emphasis on it. Has he really lived so long to no longer care how others perceive him?

“ if there is anything you require, please let me know. “

[vampirecorleone]

Horror Character Appreciation - Jezebel the cat in The Sentinel (1977) dir. Michael Winner

[bigboobshaunt]

LOAF 3 COMBO

[biracy]

I haven't made fursonas for my human characters in a while but I like to think I avoid this okay! Seren has been fursona'd as a skunk, a Xolo dog, and a Tasmanian devil, and she's Nuyorican. Sometimes a fursona is more about straight-up "vibes" as they say than anything else. It doesn't even really need to look like the human design. Go wild

I love animal versions of human characters but the second-worst animalification design trope is easily that a person in an international cast HAS to be turned into an animal from the country/area they're from. The first-worst animalification design trope is when white characters gets to be green or blue or something but the one black character HAS to have black or brown fur