#lil cats have brain scrampled eggs

[ancient-cats-unite]

Slime Class 101

Dockor Heaven teaches a bunch of toddlers how slimes work.

"Hehe! Funny teacher!"

Prof. Cat Jobs was being tormented by kittens. Lil Lion ran around him at high speeds, Lil Dragon Cat was muching in his ear, and Lil Flying Cat smacked his coffee off his desk. He was in hell. Cute kitten daycare hell.

The other kits were doing their own thing. Lil Tank Cat drew him and Cameraman together and ate a biscuit. Lil Macho Legs was getting pummeled by Lil Jamiera over apple juice. Lil Mohawk Cat and Lil Dark Cat were ripping the shit out of a plushie, giving out little war cries. Lil Island was chilling in his tank, drinking the water and pet fish.

"Oh golly, where is the doctor? I'm going around the bend!"

Prof. Cat Jobs looked at his watch, losing his mind. Docktor Heaven was supposed to be paying the kids a surprise visit with Slime Cat. Where were they?

Almost on cue, Docktor Heaven appeared right behind the professor. Prof. Cat Jobs yelped, falling out of his chair with the tiny tormentors.

"Thank god! I was on my wits end! How did you get in?"

"No matter! Where are the children?"

"Dobbor! They here!"

Slime Cat was in some sort of humanized form. It was quite unstable, considering how much it stained their clothing. He looked 6 years old, in a cute sailor outfit. A little sailor slime child with metal prostetics.

The mini menaces came off of Prof. Cat Jobs. Lil Dragon Cat was scooped up into Slime Cats hand. Dragon roared, while the others stared in curiosity.

"It tiney! The dragon tiney!"

"Yes, yes, everyone here is miniscule, Slime Cat. Now, can you get the rest of the kittens? Put them on the rug."

"Yes!"

Slime Cat scooped all the Lils up, one by one, and brought them to the middle of the room. Lil Flying Cat was a bit tricky to get, and so was Lil Island. Lil Lion went wild when he saw Slime, roaring affectionately. Slime Cat put everyone on the rug.

"All so tiney! Hi Lion!"

"Wonderful job, Slime Cat. Now go set up my projector. Professor Cat Jobs will start the class."

Prof. Cat Jobs was still recovering from the little attack. Though, when the tiny kits settled down, he got to indroducing the visitors.

"Uh, everyone, this is Docktor Heaven and their assistant. They're here to teach us about science! Take it away, Doctor."

Prof. Cat Jobs backed up, before full on sprinting out the childcare door. The tiny terrors looked at Heaven and their slimy accquaintance.

"Hello children, ever seen a human being crafted from chemicals? Well our tremendous Slime Cat is!"

"CHEMICALS!"

Slime Cat pulled out two empty glass beakers.

"Today, we'll show you how to create sentient slime creatures made from mixtures. But what exactly consists of a slime? This type of slime is 75% serotonin, 5% natural additives, and 15% water!"

Lil Island Cat raised his fin.

"Yes?"

"What the other 5%?"

"I'll get to that soon. Thanks to their high serotonin, Silme's happiness is contagious. Try looking at them with a straight face. They make wonderful emotional support. Make sure to take good care of slimes, as they are delicate creatures."

Slime Cat shone a derpy smile, causing Docktor Heaven to pat him on the head. The class gazed in awe. Slime Cat pulled up a diagram.

"Now, slimes are made from thick sap, moss, or unknown ressources. Our Slime is made out of sap and unknown origin. Usually sap ones have trouble coming out of their shell, but this enigmatic substance must have given them some confidence. Moss ones are crankier, and a slime purely out of unclassified liquid is incredibly happy, but defenseless."

Slime Cat showed a very disgruntled mossy green slime, a shy glossy yellow slime, and a beaming opaque white slime. Before they could go into more detail, the bell rang.

"Ah, I'm guessing your parents are picking you up now. Orders from your teacher say to prepare for dismissal. We'll resume tommorow."

The kittens mewled in anger. However, they obeyed. Once everyone left, Prof. Cat Jobs came back.

"They left! You did a terrific job. Are you coming back tomorrow?"

"Yes, we still haven't finished our lesson. I wish you a good day, Professor."

Prof. Cat Jobs packed up and went home. A poorly drawn "KICK ME" sign was taped on his coat. Docktor Heaven carried Slime Cat in their arms, making the kid babble.

"We go home?"

"In a bit Slime Cat. Gabriel is almost done his outbreak. I'll take care of cleanup later, go back to base, alright? Saki should be done school."

"Yay!! Bib sis Saki! Bye bye!"

Slime Cat went home, small droplets of slime trailing behind.

-------------------------------

//HUMAN SLIME CAT TIME WOOOOOOOOOOO//

//Also sorry for being dead, enjoy some Docktor Heaven teaching literal babies about how their kid works.//

[ace-of-hearts-and-spades]

My brain is scrampled eggs right now but DUUUUUUUUDE you have done it again. Your fics never fuckin miss, they are so fucking juicy and tasty and God u are keeping The Passenger fandom well fed thank u for ur service 🙏

Random lines and bits and excerpts that knocked me on my ass under the cut:

Okay first off I love Randy and Benson half-kissing-half-wrestling when the phone starts ringing. It's so Them, I can envision it in my head. I can see the shitty wallpaper of the room and hear the mattress springs that are almost too old to even squeak and see Randy's lil look of panicked distress. Just. Agh. So good.

"Aw." Benson stretches like a cat, folds his arms behind his head, all ribs and armpit hair and lean lines of muscle. "Now wouldn't that be a shame."

This is genuinely such a good image. Insane to me how u know to pick just the right words in a scene to elicit a certain vibe. GUH. Also, "Aw. Now wouldn't that be a shame," is such a Benson-ass line it's killing me.

He remembers his erection at that moment, the worst possible moment, and blushes so hard he can feel the blood trading places. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his lap like she can see through the phone.

AND THIS IS SUCH A RANDY THING TO DO DSJHDGSJDSSD

Benson is such a little shit, distracting him while he's trying to talk to his mom. Dynamic of all time tho, I'm a sucker for this shit.

His back is crosshatched with pink scratches, a familiar set of eight nail marks etched into his love handles.

WHAT IF I EXPLODED WHAT IF I LAUNCHED MYSELF INTO THE SUN??????????

Benson takes one last drag on his cigarette before he holds it up for Randy to take. He blows soft and slow along the length of Randy’s dick, runs his hand down the back of his leg. 

Why is this so hot. Huh. What.. Why is this. Hrm. Okay. I can accept this. I can accept whatever awakening this is. Sure. Alright 🧍

He doesn’t do it, not often, usually can’t let go of the voice in his head screaming cancer.

He's just like me fr!!!!!

Okay that's all I got rn because as mentioned before. Scrampled egg brains. Regardless. Fabulous incredible mind-blowing stunning work as always Meg <33333333

a different kind of hang-up

Randy's mom calls while they're in the middle of something, again. Benson tries his best to get Randy off the phone.

2.6k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. blowjobs. smoking. Benson being a menace lol he can't handle not being the center of Randy's attention. read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

Benson just can't keep his hands off him, even when his mom calls.

The phone rings for so long, so long, before Randy can get to it. The second it starts up Benson recognizes the ringtone and tightens his grip on Randy's hips, sags on top of him with his full weight. He pushes his tongue into his mouth with intentional fervor because he likes fucking around with fire and Mrs. Bradley is a five-alarm inferno.

Randy makes a panicked sound and tries to wriggle free to no avail. He taps Benson's chest, but Benson takes the hint and throws it away unopened, snags Randy’s wrist and pins it to the bed.

Randy twists his arm out of his grip and gives him a shove, leans his head away. "Benson–please–I gotta get this." He makes a grab for the phone on the nightstand.

"You really don't," Benson murmurs, taking hold of his jaw with one big hand and pulling his lips back into range.

Randy lets out a frustrated grunt that gets lost in Benson's mouth and shoves him again, harder, with both hands and a knee for good measure. Benson relents, topples lazily to the side and gives him this goofy, satisfied smirk that makes Randy’s stomach do a flip and he just can't deal with that right now.

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he complains as he sits up and snatches the phone.

"Aw." Benson stretches like a cat, folds his arms behind his head, all ribs and armpit hair and lean lines of muscle. "Now wouldn't that be a shame."

"Hi Mom," Randy says, hoping he sounds perfectly even-keeled and normal and not like he's been rolling around with another man in a motel bed. He remembers his erection at that moment, the worst possible moment, and blushes so hard he can feel the blood trading places. He grabs a pillow and shoves it over his lap like she can see through the phone.

"Randy, I don't like this." His mom starts every conversation like this these days. 

Randy bites back a sigh. "I know, Mom."

"This isn't a normal thing. Friends don't ask friends to help them move across the country last-minute without a plan."

They've been through this so many times he's lost count. At least his story gets more solid every time he repeats it. "I told you, Brian doesn't have a support system. I'm just trying to do a good deed." Brian is Benson, because Benson can't be Benson, because Benson is wanted for murder. 

Randy feels the mattress shift behind him and stiffens when calloused fingers brush against his skin. His mother's list of grievances fades in his ears as Benson worries at the waistband of his jeans. 

"Randy," Benson sing-songs softly at his hip. "Tell her you're in the middle of something."

Randy waves him away, tries to ignore the scratch of his beard and his lips on his skin and tune back into the conversation at hand. "You’re a kind and responsible boy, honey, people will take advantage of that." 

"I understand, Mom, but I'm–"

He feels the pinch of teeth on his waist, jerks and bites back a yelp. 

His mother is alarmed. "Randy? Are you okay? What happened?"

Randy scoots down the bed away from Benson, shoots him a dirty look. Benson rolls onto his back, runs a hand through his hair and flashes Randy an upside-down grin. 

"I'm fine, Mom. Stubbed my toe."

"Sorry," Benson says innocently. "You look fucking delicious, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Are you walking around barefoot? I raised you better than that, Randy. Where are you even walking, aren't you still driving?"

"Yeah, we just–we stopped to grab some food and…stretch our legs a little bit." 

Benson sits up suddenly and Randy flinches in anticipatory distress before he even speaks. "We can stretch something else if you want," Benson offers with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Randy grits his teeth and ignores him, picks frantically at the seam of the pillow in his lap. 

"I bet you're eating like absolute garbage. All that fast food isn't good for your long-term health, you know. God knows you had plenty of that at–well. God knows you've had plenty of that." 

She clears her throat, recovers from the near-miss of mentioning the incident. The new incident. She’s had years of practice at sidestepping the elephant in the room, but nobody’s perfect, and this is a much bigger elephant. Randy has to admit that it's convenient, not having to dodge questions because they aren't being asked. 

"Where are you now?" she says by way of a subject change.

Benson crawls across the mattress on his knees and winds his arms around Randy’s waist, leans heavy against his back and sets his chin on his shoulder. He smells like sweat and nicotine. Randy grips the pillow like a lifeline. 

"We're, um…well, I think we're–"

He knows where they are. He knows exactly where they are. Eighteen miles outside of Glasgow, Kentucky. He knows where they're supposed to be, too, according to the fake route he mapped to sate his mother's anxious curiosity. He just can't quite remember what he told her last time, because his brain's still sloshing around in oxytocin and Benson’s kissing his neck, rubbing his chest, thumb catching on his nipple again and again. 

"I-I think we're about 40 miles from Benson," he says loudly, as though the volume adds certainty. 

"Benson?" his mom repeats, sounding alarmed, and Benson chuckles in his ear. 

"Careful," he mutters. 

"Branson!" Randy elbows Benson off of him and stands up, stumbles away from the bed. "I meant Branson. Sorry, I fuc–I messed up." He cringes.

Benson laughs, delighted. "Randy Bradley," he says in a mockery of Mrs. Bradley’s disapproving tone. 

"Randy Bradley," his mom says like an echo. "Watch your language." 

"Sorry. I’m sorry." Randy stalks away, pacing the length of the tiny room, shooting Benson a look of combined irritation and desperation that ultimately reads as pain. "It’s been–I didn’t sleep well last night." 

"You gonna tell her why?" Benson asks slyly.  

Randy flushes red hot, throws the pillow in his direction and misses by a mile. 

Benson winces. "Yikes, babe." 

He flops on his stomach and reaches for the cigarettes and lighter on the nightstand. His back is crosshatched with pink scratches, a familiar set of eight nail marks etched into his love handles. Randy feels a detached sense of something like pride in spite of himself. 

"We gotta work on your aim. Tone up those arms." Benson makes a jerk-off motion to help paint the picture. 

Randy drags a hand across his face. His brain is fraying at the seams. "You can’t smoke in here," he mouths at Benson, who looks him dead in the eye as he lights up and smiles around the cigarette. 

His mother is waxing vitriolic about the dangers of sleep aids. Randy heaves a harried sigh. "No, Mom, that’s–I don’t even know where to get benzos." 

"I do," Benson says helpfully. Randy shakes his head. Benson apparently takes this as an expression of doubt rather than exasperation. "I do," he insists. 

"So how many more days until you get to San Diego, hmm?" his mom says. "You’re not making very good time, honey. Just because you don’t have a job to come back to doesn’t mean you can just roam the countryside like some deadbeat hippie." 

"I know, Mom. It–it’s about the journey." 

"Fuck yeah it is," Benson agrees. 

"Brian’s never been out of Louisiana and neither have I, so we’re…we’re just seeing the sights together." 

"And how long will you be seeing the sights?" 

Randy leans against the wall, knocks his head back against the plaster. "I guess…I don't know. I’ll keep you posted, but…we’re not really on a schedule." 

Benson gets up from the bed and pads over. He invites himself into Randy’s space, boxes him in against the wall, touches his face, touches his ribs. He blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he looks him up and down. 

Randy can feel his own heart thudding in his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his body and its proximity to Benson’s. It’s Pavlovian, almost, the way he draws him in like that. Derails his thought process like a punch to the gut.

"So what, this road trip just goes on forever?" 

"No, Mom." Benson hooks his fingers into Randy’s waistband. Randy meets his gaze, kind of forgets what he was saying. "Just, uh…just until we get to California, and then…and then back again." 

Benson takes another drag and exhales slow, opens his mouth and lets the smoke curl up and out. Randy breathes it in on reflex. His mouth waters. 

"Hang up the phone," Benson murmurs. His dark eyes are on fire. 

"It–I–I’ll be home before you know it," Randy says. 

Benson leans in and sideswipes Randy’s jaw with his chin, worries at his earlobe with teeth and tongue. "Randy." His voice is gravel and satin. The cigarette glows between his fingers in Randy’s periphery. He reaches further into his pants. "Hang up the phone," he whispers. 

"I hate to say it, but I just don’t believe you, Randy," his mom says. Her voice drips with disapproval, cold around a core of genuine concern. He knows she’s biting back so much more that she’d like to say, and he loves her for that. For trying to give him an inch even though he’s taking miles and miles. 

"I promise I’m okay, Mom," he says, tilting his hips towards Benson, who puts the cigarette between his lips and starts unbuttoning Randy’s jeans. "I would tell you if I wasn’t. I just…this is just something I need to do. Something I–I want to do." 

Benson catches his eye, winks at him. "Hang up," he mouths as he sinks to his knees. 

"Randy," his mom sighs. He closes his eyes and can picture her shaking her head. "I just worry about you, sweetheart." 

Benson’s pushing his shirt up and tugging his pants down and dragging his tongue up the ridge of his hip. Randy can feel the heat on his waist from the cherry between his fingers. In another life, that would scare him so bad it'd make him sick, the chance of getting burned. He feels differently about it now. Knows Benson won't hurt him, not without cause. Knows he could take it if he did. There’s something seductive about that, the power of that. The trust.

Of course, Benson’s hand on his ass and spit on his skin count for something too.

"Randy? Are you there?"

"Yeah…yeah. Sorry. I know that, Mom, I know you worry," he says. "And I’m sorry about that." 

It sounds hollow, even to himself, but he means it. He wishes it was different. That he didn’t have to lie. But that’s not an option, not for Benson, and he can’t be without him. They’re a package deal now and he likes it that way. Wants it that way. Wants him.

"Please, baby," Benson mumbles against Randy’s stomach. He sounds as desperate as Randy feels.

He bites his lip, combs his fingers through Benson’s greasy hair. "I gotta go, Mom. I’ll call you at the next stop." 

"Promise me." 

Benson takes one last drag on his cigarette before he holds it up for Randy to take. He blows soft and slow along the length of Randy’s dick, runs his hand down the back of his leg. 

The smoke wafts up to his nose and Randy white-knuckles the phone. He’s so hard he can’t think, can’t possibly wring one more coherent sentence out of his lust-addled brain. "Yeah, I–I promise, Mom. I love you." 

"I love you, honey." 

Randy ends the call and throws the phone in the direction of the bed. He misses again, dimly registers the thunk as it hits the wall. 

"Fuck, Benson," he breathes at the same time Benson says, "Fucking finally," and wraps his mouth around him. Randy groans and slumps against the wall, lets Benson pull his hips closer. He likes being put where he wants him. 

"You're gonna get me in trouble," he says again, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He needs it bad after all that. He thinks he can taste Benson’s spit in the filter and he closes his eyes, lets his brain go blank. 

Benson comes off his cock with a pop and looks up at him. "But I always get you back out, right?" His tongue slides in circles. 

It's miraculous every time he does this, puts his mouth on him like this. Randy's wished for a miracle for a long time. This wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but who is he to turn it down, with its long lashes and bad language and hands all over him all the time?

"S-so far so good." 

Randy takes another drag, feels the high sweep up and over him. It makes him dizzy, makes him giddy. Erases any guilt about lying to his mother and makes him feel good, better than ever, or maybe that’s the man on his knees in front of him. 

Benson tilts his head, takes him in. "You’re hot when you smoke, by the way." 

Randy chuckles weakly. "Yeah?" He doesn’t do it, not often, usually can’t let go of the voice in his head screaming cancer. But Benson showed him how and he doesn’t cough anymore and in fact, he likes it more every time he tries it. "My mom would lose her mind." 

Benson pulls a wry face. "About the smoking, huh? Just the smoking?"

Randy smiles shyly. "Maybe some other stuff too."

"What can she say, she raised a fucking degenerate. And I, for one, am glad she did." 

With that, Benson decides the conversation is over and puts his mouth to better use. Randy gasps and moans as he takes him slow, inch by inch, hot and wet and relentless. 

He braces himself against the wall. He can barely stand, legs already shaking. Benson’s always telling him he’s easy, and he can’t tell if that’s supposed to be good or bad, but either way, he likes being the way he is. Benson’s fingers dig into the meat of his ass and hit a bruise, sending a sharp thrum of that off-key pleasure straight to his dick. Benson might be right. He might be a degenerate.

He flicks the cigarette butt into the nearby sink and makes it, which is lucky. Maybe his aim isn't that bad after all. Benson has him down his throat to the hilt, which is also lucky. He knows that someday their luck might run out, like gas, like cigarettes, like his mother’s patience, but it sure doesn’t feel like it, not now.

Randy puts his hands on him carefully, the way he showed him, cups his skull and scrunches his hair gently like he's precious, because he is. Benson makes a sound that strikes at his core and he almost loses it right then, but he doesn’t. Not yet. For a second he thinks about miracles, and then he can’t think about much of anything anymore. 

The list of things he can't mention when his mother calls gets a little bit longer.