#he is lisa's cat

[neishroom]

his name is Napoleon Dynamite for obvious reasons

[gaytor-golf]

This is a desperation post bc one of my kitties is sick and we cant afford a vet visit right now😔 if ur interested in commissioning me just dm me here or on Twitter under the same user :p

I've literally never priced anything before so if it's confusing I'm sorry but here are some examples of my art and how I priced them

😔 also if ur willing to give a random teen on the internet ur mailing address I can do prints as well :3

I can do any character or oc, I can draw couples (no NSFW sorry) furries, literally anything pleasee🙏

Goober short for gubernatorial (deadpool 3 reference)

[that-foul-legacy-lover]

I had an epiphany

The new event the cat petting

Cat sitter reader working for that place and finds fl and nurses him back

Everyone keeps telling them "no a 12 ft monster is not a cat!!!"

Reader: he's a cat!!!!!!

Pls pet FL on the nose...

alright listen, i know the event is super simple and sort of just filler but i adore the cats' animations when you pet them,,, arghhgh they're so CUTE

all you were doing was looking for a stray cat someone had told you about, that's it; you weren't trying to find an otherworldly beast, although some would argue that cats are little beasts in their own right- it just sort of happened, the exact cat you were looking for curled against the prone body of an injured Abyss monster, meowing and looking up at you curiously. well, no matter, your boss was talking about expanding the cat shelter to include creatures of all types, so you carefully drag the Abyss beast back to the building, apologizing all the while as the cat watched judgmentally from your shoulders. the other kitties come over to sniff the new resident curiously, the stray cat on your shoulder hopping down to join the rest as you get to work patching up the monster's wounds, earning a few pained whimpers, and you stroke the creature's hair with a gentle hush

you and the cats quickly become accustomed to your new friend- after all, to the kitties, the beast- or Foul Legacy- is just an armored oversized cat. he's also apparently a lovely sleeping place, since more often than not there'll be a cat curled up either on his head or shoulder or chest. Legacy absolutely adores you, following you around the shelter the moment he can walk and curiously admiring everything. the moment you sit down he snuggles his head against your lap and the other cats all hop up and join him. the only concern is that an enormous Abyss monster could scare off potential customers, but you insist that he's a cat. of course you know he's not really a cat, but he's cat-like enough with how he purrs and kneads his claws and bumps his forehead against yours, so he's staying. even if your boss does yell at you, the kitties have never looked happier <3

[opossumbucket-atnight]

sparkle on its sunday! don’t forget to characterize ur favs in ways that only make sense to u !

[deermook]

Ok is warrior cats MD too niche or is there an audience for that because im going insane rn I have the names, roles, and colors/cat breeds all planned out for every major character

[mermaidsirennikita]

reasons why Leo Hathaway is the West Ravenel Blueprint but much better, 1:

—Leo is impaled with a piece of wood and has what is basically ye olde surgery but immediately after is like “a little impalement isn’t gonna stop a man from dry humping Catherine Marks”

[wazzappp]

Cringetober day 6: Neko

You know I had to do it to em

[dandelion-wings]

What are your chronic illness headcanons?

I mean, I'll be honest, I'm sort of vague and broad with all of them? And will go with different specifics for different fics or fantasies, though I have a... fraught relationship with medical research (it's the medical anxiety) and also kind of prefer not to be too specific; as someone with chronic conditions of my own I personally dislike reading too-specific fictional accounts of them, and I also don't want to risk misrepresenting something I'm not familiar with.

That said!

Jean: There's lots of things that fainting, weakness, and vertigo, which are the only canon symptoms we have, could originate from, but I like to give her a heart condition! Being very vague on what, but generally at minimum an arrhythmia or something that it's a symptom of, because that's one I'm pretty familiar with, and also can be easily identified in the field (for hurt/comfort purposes) and have some hand-waved treatments. It is badly exacerbated by her stress level, which is also great for hurt/comfort.

Lisa: Either chronic fatigue or something that causes fatigue as a side-effect. I am very broad, and usually also very vague, with this one--the longer we go without that "her lifespan was halved" thing actually getting brought up in canon the more I assume that Hoyo decided not to go with it after all, but it's always lurking as a Possible Cause if it does come up in canon, and I often prefer to leave that open. (It's also I'm not something I'm personally familiar with except as a side effect of other conditions.) I had several continuities in my head where Lisa was chronically ill beforehand, but @canonical-transformation's excellent Girl Underwater solidified it for me as my dominant and permanent headcanon, whether or not it actually comes up in something I'm writing.

Kaeya: You mean my son Kaeya who has every (mental) disease? :P More seriously, leaving aside that you can posit so much going on in his head (though I do lean towards depression), alcoholism is in fact a chronic disease, and another one that I am pretty familiar with. I've also seen the argument that the tendency to write him as a sickly kid, which I often do (on the theory that if he's from underground, another preferred headcanon of mine, he probably never met 99% of Mondstadt's usual diseases beforehand and they would've run roughshod over his immune system), should probably lead to him having physical/immune issues as an adult, which I find plausible but generally don't go too far with just because he already has enough going on.

Anyway, Lisa is 100% honest and upfront about her problems and expects accommodation, as she should; Jean admits she has a condition because it's pretty hard to deny, but minimizes it to a deeply unhealthy extent; Kaeya has nothing wrong with him and wonders why you would imply that he does. Obviously this list is also in order of how difficult it is to help/treat them from the outside. Barbara appreciates Lisa deeply, wishes Jean would cooperate more but is doing her best, and isn't even touching Kaeya because that's waaaaaaay above her paygrade.

[nordicbananas]

ponyo ponyo ponyo fishy in the sea

[dutybcrne]

Nothing will ever make me crack up more in fics than Diluc sabotaging Kae's attempts to get alcohol bc he has an unhealed injury Luc somehow found out abt

[fauville]

thinking abt dima introducing nate to his snakes. that is all

[junipum]

have my house chars w partner pokemon list. based on vibe or silly reason

[himbos-hotline]

you ever watch the simpsons and get hit with the human experience being to love things?

[waugh-bao]

I imagine that after Mick flashed/danced for Charlie and Keith took off his shirt, as they waited to come back out for their encore Charlie said “oh yeah? Well look at this!” He then gently lifted his shirt, revealing just a two inch strip of a small, mildly hairy tummy. The concert then had to abruptly end as Mick swooned and Keith needed to be immediately transported to hospital for displaying symptoms of a cardiac arrest. “I…I almost saw his bellybutton,” Keith said before having an oxygen mask put on his face.

[bonafidehero]

So I haven’t really said anything about this but just wanted to let all my mutuals and friends know that things are not going good right now. My sweet baby boy Grisly is in heart failure and is getting worse every day. It’s extremely draining and heartbreaking watching the little creature you’ve had since you were 19, who’s been there with you every step of the way in your life, die right before your eyes.

He was a relatively healthy senior dog just a month ago and now he’s declining rapidly. There are good days and bad days, and I’m just trying to make it through everyday without a panic attack. Every little change in his condition is torment. 😔 Truly, I don’t think I’ve known grief until this, anticipatory grief is no fucking joke.

So I’m sorry I’m extra quiet 🖤 thats just how I deal with things and I’ll hopefully feel up to socializing soon.

[charliemwrites]

Part 2!

Finally finished moving house so hopefully I’ll be updating semi-regularly again.

Content: brief and non-descriptive explanation of Rasputin’s backstory (injury and illness)

Agatha is over again.

You don’t know why. She doesn’t like you, your cats, or anything as far as you can tell. It seems her primary motivation for talking to you at all is to exercise her role as neighborhood matriarch. She “keeps tabs” on everyone, but especially you - the unmarried woman living alone that keeps odd hours.

A rebellious part of you wants to roll your eyes and make snarky comments whenever she sniffs at your life choices. The same part of you that would make scenes at holiday dinners or slam doors when you were a teenager. That girl has long been smoothed and polished - or maybe just worn down. It’s so much effort to make rude, nosy, traditionalists clutch their pearls. Much easier to smile in their face and do what you want anyway.

Still, that part of you itches at the surface sometimes. Makes your eye twitch.

“I know your generation is different but that’s just not the type of neighborhood we live in,” she’s saying.

You’re a bit foggy from a late night patching plotholes and haven’t registered much of anything she’s said. You really just want to go inside and stare at the TV until words make sense again.

“What do you mean?” you ask, for once not feigning your confusion. But of course this is the one time she doesn’t buy it.

She looks down her frail little nose at you, cornflower blue eyes baleful. You don’t feel scolded, but you sense that you’re supposed to.

“Now you know just what I mean. People will talk.”

People always talk, it’s an unfortunate byproduct of the human condition. Like a deaf bird, you’ve never understood all the chatter.

“Talk about… the buttercups?” you wonder, pointing at the blossoms. You’re quite proud of them actually.

Agatha puffs up and hisses out a breath. “You ought to keep to this side of the street. Away from those men.”

You blink. Men…?

A bang comes from across the street, followed by rough German cursing. (At least you think it’s cursing.)

Ah. Those men.

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.”

It comes out of your mouth automatically, innocent excuses for something you remind yourself you don’t need to justify.

“I’d rather they didn’t feel welcome,” she snips. “Better they sell that awful house and go somewhere else.”

You flick your eyes over her bony shoulder. Konig passes by a window, massive biceps on display as he lifts something outside of view.

“They’re nice,” you say. Nice to look at. Krueger’s face alone quite makes up for his conversational shortcomings.

“The only reason men like that act nice is because they want something,” Agatha snaps. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

Yeah, soooo respectable when Bertram rifles through your mail or Lisa looks into your backyard.

“Well,” you muse, “better to be on good terms with them, I think. They're not the type you want to piss off.”

That defiant streak lights up at the way her face sours. If only she knew what sort of words you use when it’s just you and the cats.

“You’ve just proven my point. Those are not the type of men young ladies should associating themselves with.”

You have to try very hard not to scrunch up your face. One blessed day, people will stop referring to you as “young lady” in that insufferably condescending tone. You can’t wait for that day.

Some of your mounting irritation must show on your face because she takes on a sickly sweet “teaching” tone.

“Neighborhoods are like gardens. Everything grows best when the rows are kept separate. That’s why the farmers plant them that way.”

You glance pointedly at your own yard, where the flowers are blooming in haphazard sprigs wherever you tossed the seeds. Agatha’s lips get thin.

“Best that you stay on this side of the street, missy. That’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

She spins on her heel and stalks off like a particularly drab bird. You stand on your porch for a second longer, face contorted in annoyed confusion. You don’t even have strong feelings about the three men; the simple act of someone - Agatha of all people - labeling them as “Off Limits” makes them instantly more appealing.

Maybe you should see someone about that or something. Then the pathetic cries of Guy through the window lure you back inside.

It’s nearly sundown when there’s a knock at your door. Still agitated from your talk with Agatha, you puff up like Shithead when Rasputin sits on her favorite toy. March up to the door, fling it open - and come up short when you see the three men looming on your doorstep.

Before you can recover, a little gray blob scrambles past your ankles, crying like the sky is falling.

“Oh!” Konig gasps in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, Bubchen!”

And all 6-foot-plus of Austrian instantly folds to scoop Guy up. You’ve barely managed a now-useless shout of alarm when Shithead wedges her fat head between your calves. Behind you, Rasputin politely screeches his little chainsmoker call.

And somehow, in the chaos of fumbling for furballs, you end up with all three men in your foyer.

Guy is purring away in Konig’s thick arms. Shithead is attempting to scale Krueger’s tight cargo pants. And Rasputin is pawing the air at Nikto, visibly calculating the jump to his wide shoulders.

Which leaves you with the clean serving platter you dropped off just yesterday. You blink at it for a moment, then glance at them.

“So… the cookies were good then?”

“Very good!” Konig rushes to say. Krueger and Nikto each nod, almost comically solemn.

“We have no baking or cooking skills,” Krueger continues, “so tell us what needs fixing.”

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. The house. He wants to fix your house. It’s surprisingly sweet, and you laugh a bit, shaking your head. “You don’t need to do that, I was just-“

“Is custom,” Nikto interrupts.

Konig nods with all the enthusiasm of a bobblehead as Krueger crosses his arms. (Whatever effect he’s going for is ruined by Shithead clinging to his pocket and screaming.)

“In our country, we bring gifts as guests. Our gift is repairs,” he explains.

You arch your brows playfully. “I don’t remember inviting you to be guests.”

He arches his brows right back. “We did not invite you either.”

Well shit.

“Okay, okay. I guess there’s a couple things…”

Konig perks up. “We would be happy to help, Biene!”

It’s strange having men in the house. You think you should be more nervous about it, can’t remember the last non-family man allowed into your space. Especially alone.

There’s a sharp awareness, of course. Hard not to be aware of them. It’s not just that they’re big, dwarfing all of your you-sized furniture. There’s a presence to them, something felt but not seen by your untrained eye. Maybe it’s in the set of their shoulders, the way they stand with both boots firmly planted. Maybe it’s the precise way they speak and move, not just separately but as a unit. Acting more like a collective consciousness than as individuals.

Whatever it is, you couldn’t ignore them if you tried. And you’re definitely not trying.

You set Krueger to work on the kitchen cabinet you’ve been meaning to replace. He clicks his tongue at the tape-and-lean method you’ve been using to keep the old one in place. Shithead immediately sets to work helping by gnawing at his shoelaces.

Konig is stationed in the guest bathroom, where the sink doesn’t run right. Guy comes mewing into your arms when he’s set down, effectively tattling that his new friend is mean and awful for withholding affection for even a moment.

You try not to visibly hesitate when you corner yourself in your own laundry room. Nikto has followed you right in, seemingly unaware that he’s invading your personal space. He’s not even looking at you though, eyes zeroed in on the dryer you point to.

“It’s not heating up, so the clothes stay wet or take forever to dry,” you explain.

He grunts in acknowledgement, then nods to Rasputin, who has taken up residence on the washer. His one golden eye blinks slow and serene at the two of you.

“What happened?” he asks.

You hum, softening in pleasant surprise at the question.

“I’m not sure how he lost his eye. It was infected when I found him. But I know for sure the tail and leg are from getting hit by a car.”

You sigh, scratching at Rasputin’s chin. A rusty purr starts up as he tilts his head, revealing some nasty scars around his throat.

“The vet said that that’s probably from a fight with another cat,” you add.

Guy steps from your arms to cuddle up to Rasputin, shoving his face into his ragged ear. Grooming time, then. That’s as good an indication as any that Nikto’s probably safe enough.

“I ran down from an office building to save him.” You blink hard, eyes stinging just from the memory. “But anyway, he gets to rest and be pampered now.”

When you glance up from Rasputin’s happy little face, you almost startle at the sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. Your face feels warm, even though you’re not embarrassed.

“I’ll, um, get out of the way,” you say, clearing your throat. “Keep an eye on things, Ras.”

With the men occupied, you find yourself once again at loose ends. You drift towards the den, but it feels awkward to sit on your ass watching TV while your neighbors fix your house.

You check the time on your phone - ignoring the text from your mother - and figure it’s not too early to start dinner.

“Will I be in the way if I start cooking?” you ask Krueger.

He flicks you a dimissive glance. “A little thing like you?”

You scoff and cross to the fridge. “You could have just said no.”

“Nein,” he snorts.

Rude bastard, you think - though not without fondness, unfortunately. The surly attitude is already growing on you.

There’s meat and spare boxes of pasta and veggies - that’ll work. You start tugging out ingredients, mentally doubling portions for your guests. They look like they work out even beyond the construction labor, hopefully you’ll have enough to satisfy their appetites.

“So what’s the plan with the house?” you ask as you get to work. “Just fixing it up to sell or…?”

“We will live there, the three of us,” Krueger answers. He swipes a screwdriver from Shithead’s batting paws. “Somewhere to stay when we are not working.”

You hum, biting back the next obvious question, loathe to become as nosy as the rest of your neighbors. Still… getting to know people, right?

It sounds like they expect to travel a lot. You can’t imagine them as business types - not in the traditional sense anyway. Though the image of Konig sitting in a tiny cubicle does make you smile a bit. Between their statures, their clothes, their shoes, and the occasional nasty scar, you take a guess.

“Are you guys military?”

“Contractor,” Krueger corrects.

You perk up. “Wait, really?”

He scowls. “Does it sound like a joke?”

You huff and turn back to the veggies you’re cutting. “No, no. I just - you know about guns and knives and things, then?”

He pauses. You shoot him a curious glance, only to quickly look away at the intense scrutiny directed your way.

“Yes,” he answers slowly.

“Then… could you maybe answer some questions…?”

His eyes narrow. “Questions?”

You keep your gaze on the cutting board. “Okay, wait, it's not suspicious. I’m a writer and it’s hard to google very specific questions sometimes. It’s just easier to ask an expert in person.”

Never mind that majority of your readers would never know the difference. It bothers you when things aren’t accurate.

He makes a considering noise. “A writer?”

You flush. “That’s what I do. Why I’m always home? I publish fiction.”

He stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. You peek his way, shocked to see a task you’ve been putting off for weeks already done. Hell, it looks sturdier than the rest of the cabinet doors, too.

“And your fiction requires knowledge of guns and knives and ‘things’?” he asks.

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Sometimes…”

“Fine. I will answer your questions,” he allows.

You beam. “Thank you!”

He grunts, snatches a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth.

“What else needs doing?”

Dinner ends up much more pleasant than expected. Nikto abstains from eating, you assume because he doesn’t feel comfortable removing his ever-present mask, but he sits at the table with Rasputin in his lap. He speaks little, and has that intense gaze that prickles at your freeze instinct, but you grow used to it as the meal progresses.

Konig, however, becomes chattier with food in his belly. He’s much more forthcoming when he answers your polite and totally casual questions - though you notice Krueger kick him under the table once or twice.

You suppose he gets you back by effectively announcing to the others what your career is. Which just kicks off the usual line of questioning about how and why you got into writing. Still, there’s no judgment from these men that make their living in labors of blood and sacrifice, where you expected censure. You only find genuine curiosity and intrigue, good-natured questions. Not even Krueger makes backhanded comments about it not being a “real” job.

Before you know it, the moon is high and you’re sending the three of them off, bellies full and a little friendlier than before. Nikto nods to you (and Rasputin) as he leaves, a big Tupperware of his dinner portion in hand.

You tell yourself it’s not anticipation that goes through you, knowing they’ll be back with it soon.

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