#those are some long whiskers

[translunaryanimus]

'The dragons they ride are far from the image typically conjured when one is asked to call to mind the visage of those grandiose beasts. While some do bear that familiar greenish hue, their scales are large and plated, and their posturing strikingly buggish. Their limbs, of which they posess six in addition to their wings, are three-toed and segmented, lending to an exoskeletal appearance. The beasts faces are split asunder by snapping, symmetrical mandibles, globular eyes, and long whisker-like antennae. Their tails are thick and fat, not long and graceful, and their multi-segmented shimmering wings fold like paper to quickly snap in and out of their deceptively small elytron. And yet, despite their fearful countenance, they posess great intellect and emotional awareness, and their riders often speak fondly of them as if they were a friend, not a mount" - Researcher Orane, describing the insectoid dragons often ridden for aerial combat.

More Images and World Lore under the cut

Closeup of their Lovely Faces

Lineart

Rehashed the general design of Skyfall dragons somewhat. The huge feral varieties do still exist but now we have rideable ones. Some suitably large kingdoms will keep a small wearle of dragonriders to serve as both airborne cavalry for combat against large monsters and other flying threats, and will often have them double as harpy falconers. The combination of a flying mount and a trained harpy in the air frequently leads to a deadly efficient, dynamic partnership, and the trio of Rider, Dragon, and Harpy often form an unbreakable bond that lasts for life. Outside of kingdoms where the practices of dragonriding and harpy falconry are common, spotting this trio is often considered a sign of bad luck, or an omen of war to come. On the funnier side, the 'thumbs up' gesture of an attacking dragon has been adapted by dragonriders to be a sort of insult. Starting off as a rather harsh 'I'd like to gut you', and eventually settling into the more playful but still offensive gesture widely used among whers today (especially among the younger dragonfolk). In our world, the closest equivalent would be sticking up your middle finger at someone.

[riddlesrizzler]

Jelly Cat

summary: you said you wanted a jelly cat characters: bf! mattheo. reader. mentions of theo and enzo warnings: none! word count: 1.1k

It had been a rough week-one of those weeks where nothing seemed to go right. You’d spilled tea on your favorite sweater, failed a potion that turned your eyebrows green for a day and a half, and your Care of Magical Creatures partner had bailed on you again. By Friday evening, all you wanted was to collapse into bed and not be perceived.

Mattheo noticed. He always noticed.

He wasn’t the best with emotions-not in the way you were. You wore your feelings like ribbons, tied delicately into your expressions and tone. But Mattheo? He kept his locked in a fortress behind his eyes. Still, when it came to you, he paid attention.

Which is why, as you lay curled up on the common room sofa, sniffling over your Transfiguration notes and hugging your pillow to your chest, Mattheo sat nearby, deep in thought.

“She’s been saying that word all week,” he muttered.

“What word?” Theo asked, upside down on the armrest of the couch, lazily flipping through a Quidditch magazine.

“Jellycat,” Mattheo said, frowning like it was some kind of riddle. “She told Pansy she wants one. She told Draco she used to sleep with one every night. She told me they make her feel safe. So-what the hell is a jellycat?”

Enzo, lounging near the fireplace and buttering a crumpet with his wand, perked up. “Is that like... a magical beast? Like a pudding that purrs?”

“No,” Theo drawled. “it’s like an enchanted kneazle. Don’t bring up third year again.”

Mattheo rubbed his temples. “I don’t care what it is. I just want to give her one. She’s sad. I hate it.”

There was a pause.

Then Enzo grinned. “What if we... made her one?”

Mattheo’s eyes narrowed. “Made her a... jelly cat?”

“Exactly,” Theo chimed in, catching on fast. “We charm jelly. Give it ears. A tail. Little paws. It purrs. It jiggles. It’s what she wants.”

Thirty minutes later, three of Slytherin’s most feared boys were sneaking into the Hogwarts kitchens, tiptoeing past sleeping house-elves and nicking every bowl of jelly they could find-raspberry, strawberry, even one suspiciously glowing lime.

Back in their dorm, Enzo sculpted. Theo transfigured. Mattheo supervised with the intensity of someone about to fight a dragon.

It was hideous. Absolutely horrendous. The thing had tiny licorice whiskers, two uneven blueberry eyes, and a tail that wobbled like it was drunk. But when Theo tapped it with his wand, it purred-a long, wobbly little hum that made Enzo giggle like a maniac.

“I can’t believe I’m about to give this to her,” Mattheo muttered, staring down at the abomination with the reverence of someone preparing for a proposal.

That evening, you were curled under your blanket in the common room when he approached, awkwardly holding something behind his back.

“Hey,” he said, suddenly nervous.

You blinked up at him, tired but trying to smile. “Hey, Matty.”

His heart melted a bit. He cleared his throat. “So, I know you’ve had a crap week. And I know you kept saying you wanted a... a jelly cat.”

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! Yeah, I love Jellycats. They’re these plush stuffed animals-super soft and cuddly-”

Mattheo blinked. “Wait... they’re toys?”

“Yeah?” you said, laughing softly. “I had a bunny one as a kid. I miss her.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he slowly pulled the thing from behind his back.

It jiggled.

It meowed.

You stared. “Is that...?”

“A jelly cat,” he said proudly. “Literally.”

It was the strangest, ugliest, most endearing creature you’d ever seen. A wobbly, red blob shaped vaguely like a kitten, with gummy bear paws and licorice whiskers. It purred again, then flopped over with a squelch.

You blinked. “You made this?”

He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “With Theo and Enzo. They helped. I just... I thought it would cheer you up."

You were speechless for a second. Then you laughed. Hard. The first real, full laugh you’d had in days. Tears prickled in your eyes-not from sadness this time, but from how much you adored him.

“Matty,” you whispered, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. “It’s perfect.”

He grinned, a little pink in the face. “You’re not just saying that because it’s technically alive, right?”

You hugged the jelly cat against your chest. It wobbled and purred like a satisfied pudding. “No. I love it. And I love you.”

He paused, eyes softening. “Even though I didn’t know what a Jellycat was?”

“Especially because of that.”

And from that day on, the literal Jelly Cat sat on your shelf. Wobbly. Melty. Slightly cursed. And every time you looked at it, you remembered how much your ridiculous, thoughtful, soft-hearted Slytherin boyfriend loved you.

[missmaymay13]

whiskers - l.hughes x fem!oc

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l.hughes x fem!oc | 10k

summary: whiskers was a quiet oasis for those who needed it. a place where everything else in the world just disappeared for a moment and you were able to just. breathe. what happens when a certain new jersey devil stumbles upon this place and can't leave?

masterlist

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The scent of freshly brewed espresso clung to Mallory White’s sweaters like a signature. No matter how many times she washed them, the faint aroma of dark roast and steamed milk lingered in the fibers, a soft, constant reminder of where she spent most of her waking hours. Whiskers—her aunt’s pride and joy—was tucked into a quiet street corner just off Ferry Street in Newark. It was the kind of place you only found if you were looking for it, or if you needed it in a way you couldn’t explain. A cutesy, whimsical blend of mismatched armchairs, crowded bookshelves, twinkle lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, and window seats that always seemed to catch the best kind of sunlight. Cats draped themselves lazily over the tops of couches, curled in the corners of shelves, or pawed at the steam curling up from customer mugs. Every one of them was adoptable. Some stayed a day, some stayed months, but all of them came to know Mallory’s gentle voice and steady hands.

She’d been working there part-time for years, ever since her aunt offered her the job to help cover books and groceries while she finished school. Full-time student, part-time barista, amateur therapist to half the neighborhood regulars—Mallory made it work. She always had. Psychology fascinated her, not just the clinical definitions or brain chemistry, but the little things. The way people picked at napkins when they were nervous, how eyes darted when a lie teetered on someone’s tongue, the unconscious rituals of grief, of joy, of healing. People told her everything. She had a face for it—open, calm, curious without being invasive. The customers who wandered in during slow mornings often left with more than caffeine. Confessions, vent sessions, old wounds cracked open over chai lattes. Mallory listened the way the cats did—quietly, patiently, without judgment.

Her life was quiet, a patchwork of routines and late-night study sessions, paper deadlines, and morning coffee grinds. She lived in a tiny walk-up two blocks from Whiskers, a third-floor studio with crooked hardwood floors and plants crowding every windowsill. Her rescue tabby, Clementine, ruled the place like a queen, sprawled across textbooks or wedged herself into the sink just to make a point. Mallory found comfort in the familiar—her regulars, the way the sunlight always hit the front window just right around 4 PM, the hum of soft jazz that played through the speakers when the place began to wind down for the night. She had her favorite mugs, her favorite playlists, her favorite pens for annotating psychology textbooks. Everything in her world had a place, a rhythm. Even the chaos felt choreographed.

Newark had never seemed small to Mallory, even though she’d never left it for long. She’d traveled a bit—trips to Boston for conferences, the occasional weekend in Philly with friends—but New Jersey was in her bones. It was in the cadence of her voice, the way she knew what joint served the best pizza at 2 AM, the way she rolled her eyes when people asked why she hadn’t moved to the city yet. Newark was home. It was messy and overlooked and constantly changing, but so was she. Her childhood was rooted in its cracked sidewalks, her adolescence mapped across its diners and bookstores, her adulthood unfolding in the scent of espresso and the soft, low purr of content cats.

Whiskers was more than just a job. It was her second skin. She knew every creaky floorboard and which chair the orange tabby preferred for his midday naps. Her aunt, Nora, had turned the place into a refuge, and Mallory—without even realizing it—had become part of the soul of it. She knew when a regular was having a bad day by the way they stirred their coffee, knew how to distract a lonely heart with a stack of books and a napping kitten. On weekends, families came in just to sit and laugh and maybe fall in love with a pair of green eyes and a twitching tail. Mallory floated through it all with practiced ease, pouring lattes and restocking biscotti, recommending paperbacks and refilling water bowls.

Lately though, there’d been a tug in her chest. A sense that something—or someone—was coming. Something she couldn’t name. Maybe it was graduation looming closer, the unknown pressing in now that her final semester had started. Maybe it was the weight of a future she hadn't quite mapped out yet, pressing against the edges of her carefully ordered life. Or maybe it was the way Clementine had taken to sitting in the window every night, watching the sidewalk below like she was waiting for something. Her tail would flick, her eyes fixed, as if she knew something Mallory didn’t. It made her uneasy, but also… hopeful.

Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was everything.

Whatever it was, it was on its way.

__

Jack Hughes was not having a good season. On paper, the numbers weren’t bad—solid stats, some strong games, the kind of season that didn’t raise alarms. But under the surface, it was a different story. The pressure was relentless, an invisible weight pressing down on him every time he stepped onto the ice. Every game felt like a test he couldn’t afford to fail. Produce. Lead. Win. Repeat. There was no room for off nights, no space for mistakes. The joy—the spark that used to fuel him—was flickering dangerously low.

So that night, with the sky heavy and gray over Newark, Jack laced up his sneakers and left his apartment without a destination in mind. He needed to breathe. No fans. No expectations. Just air. The city buzzed around him—cars, voices, the clatter of life continuing at its own pace. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and walked, letting his mind wander, his steps aimless but searching.

That’s when he saw it.

Tucked away between a boarded-up corner store and a laundromat with flickering lights, there was a shopfront Jack swore hadn’t been there before. The windows glowed with soft amber light, and the sign above the door read simply: Whiskers. It was quaint, inviting, oddly out of place in the gritty stretch of street. A place that felt… safe. Like the Room of Requirement from Harry Potter if it catered to coffee snobs and cat lovers instead of stressed-out wizards.

He pushed open the door, and immediately, the scent of espresso and vanilla filled his lungs. Warmth wrapped around him like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The bell above the door chimed softly, and before he could fully take in the space, a cat—an elegant gray tabby with white paws and an air of dignified authority—padded over to greet him. She sat in front of him, blinking slowly, tail flicking once.

“Oh. Uh. Hi,” Jack muttered, crouching slightly as if unsure how to proceed. The cat continued to stare, unimpressed but accepting. Missy, as he’d later learn, had that effect on people.

Jack stood up and glanced around, wide-eyed. The place looked like a Pinterest board come to life—string lights, overstuffed chairs, cat beds tucked in every corner, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that made the air feel thick with stories. It was the last thing he expected to find on a quiet walk meant to clear his head. And yet, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.

He thought he was alone until he spotted her.

In the back corner of the café, nestled into the cushions of a sun-drenched window seat, sat a girl with strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a loose, practical knot. A half-dozen cats lounged around her like they’d claimed her as one of their own. One lay across her lap, another perched on the back of her chair, while two more batted lazily at the dangling strings of her hoodie. Her eyes were glued to the screen of her laptop, fingers tapping away in focused concentration.

Mallory White glanced up at the sound of the doorbell, expecting a regular, or maybe someone looking for directions. What she saw instead was a tall brunette standing near the entrance like he wasn’t sure if he’d stumbled into a dream or a fever-induced hallucination. His eyes were wide, darting around the shop, lips slightly parted in bewilderment. He looked both exhausted and in awe.

“First time?” she called out, voice light but kind. She already knew the answer.

Jack turned toward her, nodding slowly. “Yeah…”

She smiled, something soft blooming in her chest. There was always something beautiful about watching people find Whiskers for the first time—especially the ones who clearly needed it. They came in burdened, distracted, lost. And they stayed, because something about the place told them they were allowed to rest. To breathe.

And for Jack Hughes, that was exactly what was happening.

__

Jack approached the counter slowly, his gaze sweeping over the handwritten chalkboard menu, though his eyes weren’t really reading. The place still didn’t feel real. Like he’d slipped into some alternate version of Newark, one where life moved slower and smelled like cinnamon.

Mallory stood behind the counter now, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a cat—Oscar—draped around her shoulders like a fuzzy scarf. She gave Jack a smile that didn’t force anything out of him, just offered something steady. Comfort without pressure.

“What can I get you?” she asked, pulling a mug down from the shelf.

He blinked, momentarily thrown. “Uh. Just… coffee? I think?”

Mallory bit back a grin. “Bold order.”

Jack laughed softly—an unintentional sound, like it startled him. “Right. Sorry. I’m more of a… dog guy.”

Oscar meowed in protest from her shoulders. Mallory feigned offense. “You can’t just walk into a cat café and say something like that.”

“I know, I know,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “I’m already on thin ice, aren’t I?”

“Extremely,” she teased, but her tone was still light, welcoming. “Lucky for you, the cats are forgiving. Mostly. Missy already gave you a pass, so you’re basically in.”

Jack watched her pour the coffee with a kind of reverence, like the ritual of it was grounding him. Something simple. Something normal.

Mallory set the mug in front of him, her voice dipping into something softer. “You look like you needed to find this place.”

He looked up, startled—not because she was wrong, but because she’d said it out loud.

He didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, lips pressing into a tight line before he picked up the cup and took a slow sip.

Mallory didn’t press. She just moved around him with quiet ease, giving him space while staying close enough to offer more if he wanted it. Eventually, he found a seat by the window. The same one she’d been curled into earlier, now cleared of cats. Like they knew he needed it.

The hours slipped by.

They started talking slowly, in fits and starts—about nothing at first. The coffee. The cats. The weather. But Mallory had a way of asking questions that made Jack want to answer. And she listened—not like she was waiting for her turn to speak, but like she actually cared about the in-between moments. The pauses. The sighs.

Without realizing how or when, Jack started to talk. Really talk.

About the season. About the pressure. The weight of being expected to be everything, every night. About how he couldn’t even remember the last time he played just for fun. How even on good days, he felt like he was chasing something he couldn’t name. He didn’t mention who he was. He didn’t have to. Mallory never asked.

She just sat across from him, legs curled under her, sipping tea and nodding quietly. When he stopped, she’d offer a thought, something gentle and reflective that didn’t feel like advice but helped anyway.

It was effortless. Unscripted. Safe.

And somehow, in the middle of that cozy café with jazz humming low and cats circling their feet, Jack Hughes—hockey star, exhausted athlete, public figure—let himself breathe.

When he finally looked at the time, hours had passed. The sky outside had gone from moody gray to a soft indigo. The shop was even quieter now, a few lingering customers curling up in corners with books and content kittens. Mallory stood behind the counter again, cleaning up with a rhythm born from years of closing shifts and late-night routines.

Jack stood, stretching like he was waking from a dream.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low but real. “For… I don’t know. This.”

Mallory looked over, smiling like she knew exactly what he meant. “Come back whenever. Whiskers shows up when people need it—but once you find it, it’s easier to return.”

Jack nodded, lingering in the doorway for a second. Then he stepped out into the cool night air.

And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

Not for a fan. Not for a camera. Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

__ Jack didn’t plan on going back to Whiskers.

Not really. It had felt like a one-time thing—some serendipitous stop on a bad day. But the next time the pressure swelled again, sitting on his chest like armor he couldn’t get off, his feet led him there without thinking. And when he opened the door, the same warm scent of coffee and cat fur greeted him like an old friend.

No one batted an eye when he came in. Missy trotted over to him again, dignified as ever, and gave his shoes a once-over before returning to her perch by the window. Mallory was already there, at her usual table in the corner, laptop open, hair pulled back, surrounded by open textbooks and cats who insisted on lying across her notes. She looked up when the bell chimed and gave him a soft, familiar smile. Like she’d been expecting him.

From then on, he became a regular.

He didn’t always talk. Some days, he didn’t even get coffee. He just… existed. Found the seat by the window and sat with whatever book he was working through, or nothing at all. Sometimes he stared out the glass, watched the city move in its chaotic rhythm while inside, everything was quiet. Safe. Still.

There were days he came after a loss, his body heavy and tired. Days he came before a game, needing to ground himself. And days where he just needed a reminder that there was more to the world than headlines and ice time. That there were places where no one needed anything from him.

Mallory didn’t pry. That was what he liked most. She always greeted him with that same smile, then returned to her work. Her energy was calm, a quiet presence that didn’t demand attention. He learned she was finishing up a psych degree, that she helped run the café with her aunt, that she was the kind of person who read three books at once and always had pens tucked behind both ears. He also learned she had a cat named Clementine who hated car rides and a soft spot for vanilla scones.

Their conversations were scattered and slow. Shared glances over their mugs. A dry joke exchanged when a customer knocked over a display. Quiet chuckles when a kitten decided Jack’s lap was the best nap spot. But mostly, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled.

Jazz played low in the background. Mallory’s keys clicked against her laptop. The espresso machine hissed softly from the bar. A cat would leap from one chair to another. And Jack, for the first time in months, felt okay not saying a word. Just breathing. Just being.

That bond—unspoken but steady—grew in the spaces between the stillness. In the shared routines. She would slide him a drink without asking. He’d bring her a croissant from a bakery he found downtown. Neither of them acknowledged the softness curling between them. It just existed. Natural. Unrushed.

Whiskers became his sanctuary. A place untouched by expectation or fame. A place where he wasn’t Jack Hughes, hockey star.

Just Jack.

And in that little corner café with cats lounging in the sun and Mallory humming under her breath as she typed, Jack found something he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for:

Peace.

__

It didn’t take long for Luke to notice the shift.

At first, it was small things. Jack stopped snapping at reporters after games. He didn’t spend as much time glued to his phone, doom-scrolling between practices. He started showing up early to workouts. Smiling more. Laughing, even. And not the hollow, media-trained kind of laugh either—the real kind, the kind that lit up his face and softened the edges of his exhaustion.

And then came the disappearing.

Luke would be halfway through a lazy off-day, sprawled across the couch, and Jack would toss on a hoodie, grab his keys, and say, “I’m heading out for a bit.”

“To where?”

“Nowhere. Just… around.”

Luke arched an eyebrow. “That’s not a place, Jack.”

“I’m just going for a walk. Or maybe a drive.”

He never offered more than that. No details. No specifics. Just vague, noncommittal answers. And then he’d come back three hours later like someone had hit reset on his entire nervous system—relaxed, clear-eyed, a little too peaceful for someone playing in a pressure cooker like the NHL.

It was starting to freak Luke out.

One afternoon, after a tough practice and an even tougher media scrum, Jack came home humming. Humming. He dropped his bag, cracked open a bottle of water, and leaned in the doorway with the kind of serenity usually reserved for people on vacation or heavily medicated.

That was the final straw.

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Are you doing drugs?”

Jack choked on his water, coughing so hard he had to lean forward, hand braced on the wall. “What? Are you crazy? No! Jesus.”

“I don’t know, man!” Luke threw up his hands. “You disappear for hours with no explanation and come back looking like you just won a million dollars. Or just got laid. Or both.”

Jack just laughed, which only made Luke more suspicious.

“So where do you go?” he pressed.

“Nowhere.”

“Stop saying that. You can’t just ‘nowhere’ your way into this weird Zen state. I know you. You're like a caged animal half the time and now you're… this.”

Jack shrugged, trying to hide the way his lips twitched like they wanted to smile. “It’s not a big deal.”

“If it wasn’t a big deal, you’d tell me.”

That part wasn’t wrong. Jack could tell Luke. He probably should. But there was something about Whiskers he wasn’t ready to share yet. Something about that cozy little corner of the world that felt untouched by everything else in his life. He wasn’t ready to let anyone else in. Not even Luke.

So he gave another half-assed answer.

“Just a spot I found. Good coffee. That’s all.”

Luke squinted at him like he was trying to see through the lie. “You don’t even drink that much coffee.”

“Maybe I do now.”

Luke groaned dramatically, flopping onto the couch. “You’re so annoying. Just admit you’re seeing someone.”

Jack didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to respond. His silence said enough.

Luke sat up slowly. “Wait. Are you?”

Jack finally met his gaze and smirked. “Didn’t say that.”

“You are! Oh my god, you’re totally sneaking off to see someone. That’s why you’ve been all floaty and weird.”

“There’s nothing weird about it.”

“Nothing weird about being in love with a barista and hiding her from your own brother?”

“I’m not—" Jack paused. "—in love.”

Luke raised both brows.

Jack shoved him with a pillow.

“Shut up.”

Luke grinned, already pulling out his phone. “I’m gonna figure this out.”

“No, you’re not,” Jack said, and for once, his tone was firm. “Not yet.”

There was a pause.

And then Luke looked at him, just a little softer. “Okay. I’ll drop it. For now.”

Because even he could see it—whatever Jack had found, it was helping. It was healing something.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

_

The truth?

Jack had fallen in love.

He hadn’t said the words out loud. Not even to himself. But it was there—in the way his feet carried him to Whiskers without hesitation, in the way he looked at her like she held all the quiet parts of the world in her palms. In the way just being near her was enough to make his chest loosen and his breathing slow. He wasn’t ready to explain it to anyone, not even Luke. Especially not Luke.

So he kept it to himself. Kept her to himself.

Until that night.

It was late. The apartment looked like the aftermath of a storm. Hockey sticks leaned haphazardly against the wall, gear dumped across the floor in a way that suggested frustration more than forgetfulness. A half-empty protein shake sweated on the coffee table beside a crumpled game schedule. Luke slammed the front door so hard that a picture frame rattled on the wall. He didn’t say anything right away, just paced—his strides tight, erratic, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

The Devils were out of playoff contention. And it had gutted him.

Jack watched from the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe like he wasn’t sure if now was the time to step in or stay out. Luke didn’t get mad like this—not usually. He was intense, sure. Emotional, absolutely. But this kind of fury? It felt heavy. Personal.

Jack didn't ask. He just said, “Get in the car.”

Luke frowned, thrown. “What?”

“I’m not asking. Just come with me.”

Something in Jack’s voice silenced him. A low, steady kind of calm that didn’t leave room for argument. So Luke grabbed a hoodie, still in his joggers and sneakers, and followed his brother out the door.

The drive was quiet. Newark passed them in streaks of streetlight and shadow, the car a cocoon of tension and unspoken words. Jack didn’t say where they were going. Luke didn’t ask. The only sound was the occasional click of the turn signal and the low hum of the tires against pavement.

When they pulled up to the quiet corner of the city, the streets were quieter. Whiskers sat tucked beneath a canopy of trees, its windows glowing golden against the dark like a secret waiting to be shared. The string lights on the awning flickered gently, casting soft halos across the brick sidewalk.

Luke squinted. “A café?”

Jack was already out of the car.

The second the bell above the door chimed, Luke was hit with a wall of warmth—coffee, cinnamon, faint vanilla. The soft lilt of jazz floated through the space. Cats lounged on cushions and curled in baskets tucked between bookshelves and furniture. Mismatched chairs, faded rugs, low lighting. The place looked like it had been pulled straight from a dream.

Behind the counter stood a girl. She had soft strawberry-blonde curls tied back loosely and wore a slouchy sweater that had definitely seen a few too many cat naps. A content gray tabby nestled in her arms like royalty.

Luke slowed his steps, eyes flicking from her to Jack. Was this her? The girl Jack had been seeing? She was gorgeous, effortlessly so, and clearly comfortable in this magical, cat-infested café. Luke felt a small, unexpected flicker of disappointment. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because it felt too… obvious. Too perfect.

Then Jack walked right past her.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said with a grin, reaching for the cat in her arms—the regal, unbothered Missy.

Mallory handed the cat over with a knowing smile.

Jack cradled Missy like she was made of glass, his entire demeanor shifting into something almost unrecognizable—softer, lighter, like someone had peeled all the pressure off his shoulders. He crossed the room, sank into his usual corner chair, and opened a book, Missy curling into his lap like she’d been waiting.

Luke stared.

That was the girl?

Jack didn’t even glance up. Just scratched behind Missy’s ears and exhaled like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

Then a voice called out, warm and curious.

“Hi J! Who’s this?”

Luke turned—and that’s when everything tilted.

Mallory was standing a few feet away now, closer. And suddenly, Luke saw her clearly. Her eyes, a shade of green that didn’t quite make sense. Her voice, melodic and kind. Her smile—soft, genuine, like she’d known you forever.

She extended a hand. “I’m Mallory. You must be the brother.”

“Yeah. Uh. Luke.”

She smiled and motioned for him to follow her to a small table near the window. He did.

And something shifted.

Mallory had a way of talking that didn’t feel like talking. It felt like being. Like she saw people the way they didn’t even see themselves. She asked about the game without pity, about his season without poking at wounds. Her voice was smooth, steady, laced with humor and grace. When she laughed, it was this low, genuine sound that settled something deep in his gut.

He didn’t even notice the time passing. Didn’t realize he was leaning in, actually smiling, until he caught his own reflection in the window and barely recognized himself.

Somewhere in the background, Jack flipped a page and shifted Missy on his lap.

He hadn’t said a word since they walked in.

Because he didn’t need to.

Whiskers did what it always did.

And Mallory—Mallory did the rest.

Luke leaned back, eyes still on her, and exhaled the weight of the entire season.

He got it now.

He really got it.

__

Luke started going back to Whiskers.

At first, it was innocent enough. Just a second visit. Then a third. Then one day he realized he was typing the address into his GPS without thinking. The café had imprinted itself on him—the warmth, the quiet, the smell of cinnamon and fresh espresso. But more than anything, it was her.

Mallory.

She was always there when he arrived, tucked into her favorite spot with a mug in one hand and her laptop open in front of her. Sometimes she was surrounded by cats, sometimes it was just her and the quiet music humming through the café. She always looked up when he came in. Always smiled. And Luke… yeah, he felt that.

Where Jack disappeared into Whiskers like it was a sanctuary, a place to go silent and still, Luke leaned into the space differently. He didn’t want to disappear—he wanted to see. To learn. To ask questions. And more than anything, he wanted to understand the girl who made a place like this feel like a refuge.

“Back again?” Mallory asked one morning, raising a brow as Luke approached the counter.

He grinned. “Addicted. To the coffee. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” She handed him a mug without asking what he wanted. She already knew.

He sat at the bar that day, watching her move through her rhythm—refilling the pastry case, whispering something to one of the cats, rearranging a stack of well-loved paperbacks. Everything she did had intention, but never felt rushed. She moved like someone who had nowhere else to be, even though Luke knew she probably had a dozen deadlines waiting.

“What are you studying?” he asked after a while, casually sipping his coffee.

She looked over, a little surprised. “Psychology.”

“Like… therapy?”

She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Something like that. I want to work with athletes, actually. Mental performance, pressure management, that kind of thing.”

Luke blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t peg me as someone who understands sports?” she teased.

“No, I didn’t peg you as someone who understands me,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

She looked at him for a long moment. And then she smiled. “Maybe I do.”

That was how it began.

He started showing up more often. Sometimes in the mornings, grabbing a corner table while she worked behind the bar. Sometimes in the late afternoons, when the light poured through the front window and caught the gold in her hair. They started talking more. Long conversations that drifted from childhood memories to late-night game rituals to their favorite kinds of cereal.

She asked questions. Real ones. And Luke found himself answering, actually wanting to answer. He told her about growing up in a hockey family, about Michigan, about the pressure of always being someone’s little brother. She listened like she hadn’t heard those things a thousand times before. Like they meant something.

And sometimes, she talked too.

She told him about Whiskers—how her aunt had started it as a little dream project, and how she’d helped build it into what it was. She talked about losing her parents young, about how her aunt had raised her, about how cats were easier to understand than people sometimes. She laughed when he confessed he was still a dog person, and even more when Missy curled up in his lap for the first time anyway.

Luke didn’t realize how often he was showing up until Jack called him out one night.

“You’re there more than I am,” he said, lounging on the couch with his book, Missy sprawled across his chest like a queen.

“Maybe I just like cats,” Luke offered.

Jack didn’t even look up. “Maybe you like Mallory.”

Luke didn’t respond.

He didn’t have to.

__

It took Luke a few weeks—okay, maybe closer to a month—to finally ask Mallory out. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. But there was something about her that made him nervous in a way he wasn’t used to. She was grounded, graceful in her own soft chaos, and totally unaffected by who he was. She didn’t care about NHL stats or jersey numbers. She cared about whether he slept well, whether the cats had taken to him yet, whether he’d been kind to himself that week.

She saw through him, and he liked it.

So one quiet Thursday morning, when Whiskers was still waking up and the smell of cinnamon rolls hadn’t yet left the oven, Luke leaned on the counter and said, almost casually, “Hey, do you wanna grab dinner sometime? Like, just us?”

Mallory’s eyes lifted from her tablet, a smile already forming. “Like a date?”

He nodded. “Yeah. A date.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d love that.”

He didn’t dare take her to a coffee shop. No way. That felt too close to home, too close to Jack’s territory. Besides, it would be weird to take a barista to drink coffee, right?

So he went for the most classic, chaotic New Jersey move he could think of.

Pizza.

He picked her up that Saturday night wearing a hoodie and a nervous grin, and drove her twenty minutes outside the city to a tiny brick oven place tucked between a car wash and a liquor store. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was his spot. The one he’d found during his first year with the Devils. The kind of place where the booths were squeaky and the paper plates were flimsy, but the sauce was perfect and the crust had that exact amount of char only Jersey could do right.

Mallory eyed the storefront with an arched brow. “You’re taking a Jersey native to your favorite pizza joint? That’s bold.”

“I know,” he grinned, opening the door for her. “You’re either gonna be really impressed or never speak to me again.”

To his immense relief, she was impressed.

They shared a pie—half pepperoni, half plain—over a checkered tablecloth and canned soda. And it was easy. So easy. The conversation flowed like it always did with her—effortless, rich with little revelations and teasing jokes. She told him about how she once tried to make her own dough and ended up with a flour explosion in her apartment. He told her about the time Jack got into a screaming match with their mom over pineapple on pizza.

She laughed so hard she had to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes.

But it wasn’t just the laughter. It was her. Luke couldn’t stop watching her. The way her eyes lit up when she told stories. The way she listened—really listened—when he spoke. The way she saw the world with this quiet sympathy that made everything feel less sharp. Less scary. It was… admirable. Magnetic. And it was messing him up, in the best way.

He drove her home, walked her to her door, and lingered there with both hands shoved in his pockets, heart thudding like it was trying to leap from his chest.

“I had a really good time,” she said, voice soft.

“Me too.”

And when she leaned up and kissed him—quick, but sure—Luke felt like the entire world tilted into place.

Later that night, after Jack had already passed out on the couch with Missy on his chest and a documentary droning in the background, Luke stepped out onto the tiny balcony with his phone and scrolled through his contacts.

He called Quinn.

“Hey, you good?” Quinn asked after the first ring. “You never call unless something’s wrong.”

“No, it’s not— It’s not bad. I just… needed to talk to you.”

There was a pause on the other end, then the familiar sound of Quinn settling into a chair. “Shoot.”

Luke rubbed a hand down his face. “I think I’m in love. Like… really in love.”

Quinn didn’t laugh. Not at first. Just let that sentence sit for a moment before replying.

“With the girl from the cat café?” he said knowingly.

Luke blinked. “How do you—?”

“Jack talks in his sleep,” Quinn deadpanned. “Apparently a lot about Missy. And someone named Mallory.”

Luke laughed, the tension breaking like a dam.

Quinn chuckled too, but his voice stayed gentle. “So you and Jack are both in love, huh? One with the barista. One with the cat.”

“Don’t say that,” Luke groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Quinn was quiet for a beat. “You really like her?”

“Yeah,” Luke admitted, his voice quieter now. “I like the way she sees people. Like they’re all worth knowing. Like nothing is ever too broken. I don’t know how to explain it… She makes everything quieter.”

There was a smile in Quinn’s voice when he replied, “Sounds like she’s your Whiskers.”

Luke let that sink in. Yeah. Yeah, maybe she was.

“And what do I do?” he asked, suddenly young and unsure.

Quinn didn’t hesitate. “You hold on to it. You show up for her, the way she shows up for everyone else. And you tell her. Not with flowers or grand gestures. Just… honestly. You tell her when you’re ready.”

Luke looked up at the sky, the stars faint through the city haze. “Thanks, Q.”

“Anytime, little bro.”

Luke hung up, slid his phone into his pocket, and stood there in the quiet.

In love. In awe. In it—completely.

And somehow, not scared at all.

__

For all the time Jack and Luke spent at Whiskers, it had taken a few weeks before they formally met Nora—the soul behind the café, the woman who’d built it from scratch and passed down her love for quiet corners, cat cuddles, and warm mugs to her niece.

Nora was soft-spoken, but fierce in the most gentle way. She wore chunky knit cardigans and always smelled faintly of peppermint oil and flour. She had this way of looking at people that made them want to sit down and tell her things—stories, secrets, fears. Mallory was clearly her mirror image in spirit, molded by kindness and quiet strength.

“She’s the reason this place exists,” Mallory had told Luke one evening, her voice soft as they watched Nora teach a young couple how to coax a shy kitten out from under the armchair. “And honestly… probably the reason I exist the way I do.”

Nora wasn’t just Mallory’s aunt. She was her anchor.

So when Luke’s phone rang late one night, vibrating loud and angry against the nightstand, he answered without hesitation.

Mallory’s name flashed on the screen.

He answered with a sleepy, “Hey, Mal?” but was met only by ragged breathing.

“Mallory?” he said again, now sitting up straight, tension lacing his voice. On the other end, she was sobbing—hysterical, broken sounds that Luke had never heard from her before.

He was instantly alert. “Mallory—what’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”

But her words were tangled. Mumbled. Drenched in pain. Luke tried to focus, heart racing, trying to make sense of it.

Then, finally, through the tears: “Nora… she’s gone. Luke—she… she had a heart attack. They couldn’t—she—she didn’t make it.”

The words landed like ice water down his spine.

Without thinking, still holding the phone to his ear, Luke stumbled out of bed and crossed the hall. He shoved Jack’s shoulder once, then again, harder.

Jack startled awake, groggy and disoriented. “What the hell—?”

“Get up,” Luke said, his voice flat but shaking. “Something’s wrong.”

Jack sat up fast now, reading his brother’s face. The look in Luke’s eyes—he didn’t need more explanation.

“Mallory’s on the phone,” Luke said, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “It’s her aunt. Nora’s—she’s gone.”

Jack didn’t say a word. He just nodded, already pulling on sweatpants and grabbing his keys.

They didn’t speak in the car. Didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

When they got to the hospital, Mallory was sitting in one of those terrible plastic waiting chairs, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, her hands trembling in her lap. She looked so small. So un-Mallory. Like her light had flickered and gone out.

Luke approached slowly, kneeling down in front of her.

She looked up.

And then she broke.

She folded into him with a sob so raw it felt like it tore through the sterile white walls of the ER. Luke wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other anchored around her waist. She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

Jack sat quietly beside them, eyes glassy but steady. He didn’t speak. Just placed a soft hand on her shoulder.

Mallory had always been the one who knew what to say. Who had the right words at the right moment, the kind of comfort that wrapped around you like a blanket. But now?

Now she had none.

And Luke knew—this was the moment that mattered most. Because what do you do when the strongest person you know is suddenly falling apart?

You hold them.

You show up.

You say nothing, but stay anyway.

Hours passed in quiet fragments. Nurses came and went. The waiting room emptied. Mallory stayed curled against Luke, her tears dried but her eyes vacant. Luke stroked her back gently, murmuring things he didn’t even know he was saying—soft nothings, reminders that he was there, that she wasn’t alone.

At some point, she whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without her.”

Luke tightened his hold.

“What would you say to me if it were the other way around?” he asked, voice low.

Mallory was quiet.

“You’d tell me it’s okay to fall apart. That I don’t have to be strong right now. That it’s okay to lean on someone. So lean on me.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t pull away either.

That was enough.

__

When the will was read, no one was surprised.

Nora had always made her intentions clear in the soft, matter-of-fact way only she could: Whiskers would belong to Mallory. It had been her safe place before it ever became her responsibility. The deed was signed over, fully paid off, wrapped in quiet generosity and love. No debts. No catches. Just a little corner of the world with her name on it now.

But standing behind the counter alone that first morning, Mallory felt twenty-two in a way she never had before.

The keys jingled in her hand as she unlocked the door, her reflection in the glass looking slightly too pale, slightly too tired. She could recite the opening checklist by heart. She knew how to balance the books, how to feed the cats, how to fold biscotti bags just right. But knowing and owning were two different things.

She was still a student. She was still grieving. And now, she was running a business.

Her older cousin, who had flown in from Oregon the moment the news hit, was the only reason she was holding it together at all. He’d taken over the official business side—taxes, inventory orders, payroll—and left Mallory to focus on keeping the doors open, the espresso flowing, and the regulars feeling like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed.

Mallory pulled double shifts most days. Woke up at five to start the baking, stayed late after closing to do homework that never seemed to end. She hadn’t written a clean to-do list in weeks. The fridge at her apartment was empty. Clementine had started dragging her sock into the bed at night like a peace offering. And the exhaustion? It clung to her skin like sweat.

She didn’t complain, though. Because this place was hers now. And she had to make Nora proud.

Then one Thursday morning, after burning the muffins, forgetting to restock oat milk, and crying in the mop closet for twelve solid minutes, she stepped back behind the counter only to find two tall figures loitering near the espresso machine with entirely too much confidence.

“Morning, boss,” Luke said, already tying on one of the spare aprons.

Jack grinned beside him, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder. “We figured it’s time you trained us properly.”

Mallory blinked. “What?”

“You can’t get rid of us anyway,” Jack shrugged. “Might as well make us useful.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Luke was already setting up the grinder with perfect form. “I Googled it,” he said with a wink. “We’re basically professionals.”

“I don’t—guys, you don’t have to do this.”

“We want to,” Luke said, voice softer now. “Let us help.”

Mallory stared at them for a beat, her eyes glassy from more than just sleep deprivation. She could argue. She could pretend she had it all under control. But she didn’t.

And God, it felt good to let someone hold part of the weight.

“Fine,” she said, grabbing a third apron and tossing it at Jack. “But if you mess up the espresso, you’re on bathroom cleaning duty for a month.”

Jack caught it midair. “Deal.”

From that day forward, the Hughes brothers became part of the Whiskers crew.

Luke handled the register—charming customers, flirting with old ladies, remembering people’s orders like it was second nature. Jack took on espresso duty with laser focus, determined to master the art of a perfect pour-over. They bickered constantly over music playlists, tripped over sleeping cats, and oversteamed milk more times than anyone could count.

But it didn’t matter.

Because Mallory wasn’t alone anymore.

They filled the café with laughter again. With extra hands and clumsy help and early morning coffee runs. Luke took over breakfast duty some mornings so she could sleep an extra hour. Jack learned how to do inventory. Mallory caught them reading How to Manage a Small Business for Dummies one night after closing and pretended not to cry.

Whiskers stayed open. And somehow, through the chaos and grief and spilled oat milk, it thrived.

Mallory often found herself pausing in the middle of it all—hands dusted in flour, hair pinned back, cats weaving through legs—just to watch the two of them. Luke flirting with a regular who was at least seventy. Jack trying to argue with Missy about which stool he was allowed to sit on.

She’d never imagined she’d love two hockey players like this. Like family. Like breath and comfort and sunrise.

The truth was, she didn’t just love the Hughes boys.

She needed them.

And they showed up for her in every way that mattered.

__

It had been weeks—months, even��since Mallory had a proper night off. The kind where she wasn’t multitasking between homework and baking, or replying to emails with flour on her cheek, or falling asleep on the café couch with Clementine purring on her chest and the sound of the espresso machine still buzzing in her ears.

Sure, Jack and Luke helped. Constantly. Relentlessly. But they were still professional athletes. There were away games, long practices, press responsibilities. And Mallory, in her ever selfless way, refused to let them take on more than they already were. Especially since they refused to accept even a dime in return for the hours they clocked in as honorary baristas.

So Luke Hughes made a plan.

A real one. An honest-to-God, no-half-measures, operation-code-named “Date Night.”

He got Jack on board first. That was easy. Jack was all in, especially when he heard it involved breaking and entering—technically—with the emergency key Mallory had given them months ago.

Then came the cousin. Mallory’s older cousin, who had become the business brain of Whiskers, gave them the official stamp of approval. As long as nothing caught fire and all the cats survived, they had a green light.

And finally, the recruits.

By midnight, the lights inside Whiskers flicked on one by one, the glow pooling across the dark sidewalk like a secret. Inside, a sight to behold: a squad of confused but eager New Jersey Devils players, sleeves rolled up and eyes wide as they stared at coffee beans, brewing guides, and—most intimidating of all—Missy, perched atop the counter like a very judgmental manager.

“Okay,” Luke clapped his hands. “If we can run power plays, we can run a damn espresso machine.”

“Speak for yourself,” Curtis muttered, already holding the milk steamer backwards.

Nico Hischier, ever the captain and certified coffee enthusiast, took his training very seriously. He had a notebook. He had questions. He had already pulled three sample shots to get his “ratios right.”

Jack, self-declared floor manager for the evening, barked out orders with Missy balanced like a loaf of bread in one arm. “Dawson, front of house. Jesper, you’re bussing tables. Don’t look at me like that—you’re tall, you can carry stuff. Nico, stop trying to make foam flowers and listen to Luke.”

“It’s a leaf!” Nico snapped.

“It’s a blob, bro.”

The chaos was immediate. Cats weaving between skates left by the front door, espresso dripping unevenly, someone accidentally knocking over a bag of biscotti.

But the effort? Impeccable.

Luke taught them everything he and Jack had learned. How to pull a shot, how to tamp the grounds just right, how to gently nudge a cat off the register without being mauled. They practiced for hours, growing a little more confident—if not a little more competent—by the minute.

By 3am, the café was spotless, the lights dimmed back to their usual glow, and the boys slipped out the door with high-fives and groggy laughs.

The next morning, Mallory showed up just before opening with dark circles under her eyes, a bag full of books, and the expectation of another long, exhausting day.

What she wasn’t expecting?

A gaggle of very tall, very smug hockey players already inside, all donning matching Whiskers aprons with varying degrees of confidence.

She blinked. “…What the hell?”

Luke popped up from behind the counter, grinning ear to ear. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Why are you here?”

Before she could even process the full scope of the invasion, Jack appeared beside her with Missy cradled in one arm and a clipboard in the other.

“Team’s here. We’ve got this. Go put on something cute. You’ve got plans.”

Mallory looked around, genuinely speechless. Nico was fiddling with the espresso machine (and yes, proudly presenting his latte art to Jesper, who clapped even though it still looked like a leaf-shaped blob). Dawson was carefully arranging the pastry case. A cat was curled up in Timo Meier’s lap while he read a children’s book aloud like it was his own kid.

It was absurd. Beautifully absurd.

Mallory opened her mouth to argue. To protest. To insist that this was her café, her responsibility, her weight to carry.

But then she looked at Luke.

He stood there by the door, coat in hand, holding it open like a promise.

And suddenly, her knees didn’t feel so steady.

So she let herself be led out into the morning air. They walked hand in hand down to the docks, the world still waking up, the air crisp and quiet around them. Luke didn’t talk much. He didn’t have to. He just walked beside her, thumb tracing soft circles over her knuckles.

They stopped at the edge of the pier. Boats rocked gently in their slips. The water glittered like glass.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But you needed a break.”

She looked up at him, heart so full it almost hurt. “How do you always know?”

Luke gave a small, crooked smile and leaned in, brushing his nose against hers. “Because I read you like a book, remember?”

Mallory let out a breathy laugh, soft and full of wonder.

She kissed him.

And for a moment, the world held its breath.

Because she loved him. God, she really did.

And Luke?

Luke had known it long before now.

__

Whiskers was at max capacity—and Mallory was at her limit.

The café had quietly become one of the busiest fostering hubs in the city, thanks in no small part to the steady stream of attention it had been getting from hockey fans and latte art lovers alike. But lately? It was too much. Too many cats. Too few hands. Every time Mallory turned around, another furball needed medicine, food, or affection. She had tried to downsize, to slow adoptions until things were more manageable, but that only made the list grow longer.

And Jack? Jack was one tiny, blinking kitten away from adopting all of them.

“This one’s looking at me weird,” he said one evening, cradling a tabby in his hoodie like it was his newborn child. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

“Jack,” Mallory sighed.

“He said my soul is his home.”

“Jack.”

“He’s already named. Horatio.”

“JACK.”

But Luke didn’t laugh like he usually would. He watched from across the café, leaning against the counter, something quietly forming in the back of his mind. That night, Mallory passed out at the café desk again, face in a textbook, Clementine perched protectively on her shoulder. Luke tucked a blanket over her and pulled out his phone.

He had an idea.

And this time, he was going big.

Within a week, the Devils’ media team was involved. Actually, they were obsessed. Once Luke pitched the idea—an adoption event pairing each player with a foster cat—the social media interns practically burst into flames.

“It’s like… a cat draft.”

“No. No. It’s a cat red carpet.”

“Devils x Whiskers: Catwalk to Forever.”

“Stop, I’m going to cry.”

Plans moved fast. The team created promo posters. Luke personally organized the players, matching each one with a foster cat like it was fantasy hockey but furrier. The rules? Each player had to spend a few days bonding with their assigned cat, then debut them at the event in a themed outfit of their choice. Yes, even the cats had to be dressed up. Tastefully. Adorably.

Mallory didn’t know what hit her.

One minute she was trying to wrestle a tuxedo onto an uncooperative calico, and the next, she was watching Curtis Lazar strut down a mini red carpet holding a gray kitten in a sequined bow tie like it was a high-fashion handbag. Timo Meier wore matching sunglasses with his foster. Jack came out with “his” cat (Missy, obviously) in a black tutu and announced she was debuting her solo album.

But the true highlight?

Nico Hischier, cradling a shy orange tabby named Peanut Butter, who was dressed in a custom little captain’s jersey. Nico tried to act indifferent, but by the end of the night, he was lying on the floor feeding Peanut Butter treats and telling Jack, “He seems really chill. I mean… if no one else wants him, I guess he can come home with me.”

Jack screamed. Mallory cried. Missy blinked once in approval.

And somehow—miraculously—every single cat was adopted by the end of the night.

Families came, fans came, people who had never even heard of Whiskers until the Devils posted an Instagram reel of Jesper Bratt waltzing with a tabby kitten came.

And Luke?

Luke stayed in the background, smiling the whole time.

That night, after the café had been cleared out and the lights dimmed, Mallory found Luke sweeping glitter off the carpet.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes glassy.

“You did all of this.”

He shrugged. “You needed help.”

She stepped closer. “You got Nico to adopt a cat.”

“He loves Peanut Butter. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“And you—” she swallowed hard, emotion catching in her throat. “You made my whole heart feel so… full.”

Luke looked up at her, and for a moment, the whole café was still. The lights twinkled low, the faint scent of espresso and fresh catnip lingered in the air, and the boy who never really saw himself as anything more than a hockey player was suddenly the reason everything worked.

Mallory cupped his face in her hands and kissed him slow.

“You’re my Whiskers,” she whispered. “You know that?”

He smiled against her lips. “I was really hoping you'd say that.”

And from her cozy little café filled with love, fur, and far too much glitter—Mallory knew something with absolute certainty:

Luke Hughes wasn’t just the boy she loved.

He was home.

__

The morning after the adoption event was quiet.

For once, Whiskers didn’t open at its usual hour. A printed sign hung crookedly on the door, written in Mallory’s neat handwriting: Closed for the morning. Thank you for all the love. See you this afternoon.

Inside, the café was still. Sunlight filtered in through the front windows, scattering soft gold across the floorboards. A few of the permanent resident cats lounged in their usual spots—Missy on her throne of a cushion behind the counter, Clementine perched on the window ledge like a queen surveying her kingdom.

In the back, the tiny staff room smelled like fresh linens and vanilla. And in the corner, curled up together on the old loveseat that barely fit one person, let alone two, were Luke and Mallory.

She wore his Devils hoodie, sleeves swallowed over her hands. He wore a Whiskers apron that had definitely seen better days and smelled vaguely like cinnamon and cat treats. Their legs were tangled together, and Mallory’s head rested on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing.

It had been a whirlwind—the red carpet, the press, the laughter, the chaos—and now there was only this: the quiet after.

Luke stirred first. He blinked slowly, taking in the way the light danced in Mallory’s hair, the way her fingers curled into the hem of his hoodie like she didn’t want to let go. He didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

His heart was full. His world was soft. And she was here.

Mallory shifted, murmuring sleepily, “Are the cats making coffee without us?”

He chuckled. “Missy’s working the register. I think she’s unionizing.”

She smiled against his chest. “Good. It’s about time someone did.”

They stayed like that for a while. No pressure to move, no rush to clean or prep or respond to emails. Just silence, interrupted occasionally by a distant purr or the creak of an old chair settling.

Eventually, Mallory sat up, stretching and yawning like one of the cats. Luke watched her, chin resting on his palm, totally, hopelessly gone.

She caught him staring.

“What?”

He just smiled. “Nothing. You’re just… glowing. You know that?”

Her cheeks pinked. “I think that’s exhaustion.”

“Nope. It’s joy. And cat hair.”

“Mostly cat hair,” she agreed, brushing a tuft from her sleeve.

He sat up, hands finding her waist, thumbs pressing into her sides gently. “I meant what I said yesterday,” he told her. “You’re it for me. You always have been. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never have to carry anything alone.”

Mallory’s eyes stung. The good kind of sting.

“I love you,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “So much, it scares me sometimes.”

“Good,” Luke said. “That means we’re doing it right.”

A soft knock came from the front of the café.

They both froze.

Jack’s voice called out, muffled through the door. “If you’re decent, I brought muffins. If you’re not decent… I’m still coming in.”

Mallory snorted. Luke groaned.

But when they stood, when they opened the door and saw Jack standing there in sweats, holding a bakery bag in one hand and Missy tucked under the other like a furry football, Mallory smiled so wide it hurt her cheeks.

Because this was it.

Her home. Her people. Her peace.

And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[strawberrystepmom]

rock star!dante x pop star f!reader. cw: overt age gap (20+ years). veryyyy self indulgent, inspired by this au i've been yapping about for weeks. | wc: 1.6k/ reading time: approx. 7 minutes

“It’s not like Dante Sparda of all people is going to dress up to meet me.”

You wish that two hours ago your assistant Patty would’ve warned you to keep those words softer and sweeter in the event of needing to eat them. 

“Oh, you have to be kidding,” you mutter to no one in particular when his tall frame rounds the corner that will lead him to the conference room where you wait.  “A button down, seriously? I don’t even think he’s worn button downs for half of his Grammy acceptance speeches.”

One measly warning would have made the blow of standing here, casual as you’ve ever been in a summer friendly long skirt and just short of scandalously tight t-shirt with a kitten on it paired with sneakers, less embarrassing. You cast a side eye in your assistant’s direction. She holds her hands up innocently, clearly biting back a smirk, the pair of you watching Dante and his assistant and manager make their way down the floor to ceiling windowed hallway of your shared record company. 

“Maybe this is some kind of weird middle aged man power play? You know how they can be.” 

Your assistant adds in an attempt to seem helpful, tapping away at her phone to move around the appointments that are going to round out the rest of your day in case this one takes a little too long. The rockstar and his team are already around 10 minutes late, which is already testing your patience, and time is money when you have a million places to be.

You haven’t come this far in your career by wasting time, that’s for sure. Topping the pop charts for nearly two decades takes commitment and sometimes being willing to take a stand for yourself. When he comes in here, you’re going to chide him for wasting your time. He may have a career that began before you were even born but you are a busy woman.

The glass door opens and you turn toward it with folded arms, a brow arched high. A young man who must be Dante’s assistant enters the room with a polite wave and a woman who you recognize as his manager enters second, approaching to kiss each of your cheeks politely. “Always good to see you,” she whispers, familiar with your manager who is employed by the same agency that wasn’t able to attend the meeting today. 

And finally, the man himself enters the room with a freakishly handsome grin. All six feet, four inches of unadulterated man steps into your space and smiles down at you, wavy white hair falling over his face. 

“Thanks for waiting on us.” He reaches out to shake your hand. You take it without a word, smiling tersely. “I like your, uh, kitten.” 

If the floor could open up and swallow you right now that would be great. So not only do you look unprofessional now you’re the butt of the joke about it. Taking a breath, you plaster on your most dazzling for the public smile and decide to play along, pointing at your chest.

“Oh thank you! His name is Whiskers.” 

His assistant chuckles. You point at his broad chest and the slightly wrinkled shirt that covers it.  

“I like your shirt too but I didn’t realize we were going to be so formal.” 

There’s an edge to your riff that Dante picks up on, quirking a brow. “Oh this? I had some interview thing right before I came, that's why we’re late, otherwise I’d probably be wearing a kitten t-shirt too. Don’t worry about it.”

And just like that, he watches your shoulders fall from near your earlobes to their natural position. The wrinkle between your brows smooths out and your smile becomes a touch less rigid.

She’s a little high strung, the man often called a legend notes about you in the back of his mind though it’s more for amusement than it to be incriminating. He’s worked with dozens of people just like you over the years and he knows how to take the lead to ease your mind. This is easy, this is nothing, this is no big deal. The calmer you are, the easier this will be. 

Luckily, he’s a pro at playing a pacifier.

“So we’re just waiting on Clara now, right?” You ask, tone far less edgy than it was moments ago. 

As if on some kind of sitcom cue, Clara stomps into the room, armed with the clack of her Louboutins and her smart pantsuit, clapping her hands together with a smile. 

“God, how lucky am I to get to be in one room with two geniuses?” 

Those geniuses?

Dante Sparda, the God. The 51 year old rock and roll legend. A man who has an entire style of playing guitar inspired by the way he passionately picks his own strings. You, the sweetheart who has lit up screens with your smile since you were barely pubescent starting out in a girl group and eventually hitting the ground running solo at 15, landing you squarely at 30 years old with a more than impressive career.

Wearing your usual smile, nodding gratefully in her direction. “Oh, you’re too kind. We’re both grateful you asked us to be here.”

Dante chuckles, nodding along with you. He’s fine with standing back and letting you play the schmoozer if that’s what you want. The six of you stand awkwardly for a moment and Clara makes her way toward the head of the long table that occupies most of the space in the room, the rest of you following suit. Dante pulls the chair next to him out and nods toward it.

“All yours if you want it.”

Nodding, you slip onto the seat and put your hands in your lap. “Thank you, that’s very sweet.”

Dante shrugs and sits down next to you, placing his elbow on the table and propping his head up with his palm. 

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that if we’re gonna work together.”

So, this is starkly different from your last collaboration. Clara and your manager hatched an idea for a duet between yourself and an up and coming artist who wouldn’t even stay in the same room as you long enough to have promotional photos taken due to “his schedule”. They had to edit photos of the two of you to make it seem like you were ever around each other.

You work well alone yet the thought of having a collaborator who actually wants to work with you is mighty appealing. Especially someone as talented and respected as the man next to you.

“Alright, no more wasting time. We want the two of you not just a song but the song, for this…”

The flat screen behind the head of the table lights up when Clara presses a button on the bottom of the table. A video starts to play, opening with a black screen and filling gradually into white, empty space. You blink at the screen until you’re surprised by a loud sound that resembles that of an explosion and a tuxedo clad man appears on screen, martini in hand with a knowing smirk.

“So this? This is a spy movie.” Clara looks at the table, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, that spy. Naturally, we want sex appeal and who better to bring it than you two?” The executive points between the two of you, her red painted index finger stopping at Dante. “I mean, he’s the three time Sexiest Man Alive according to People mag,” her finger shifts in your direction. “And you have held a stronghold over the 18-32 year old men demo for almost a decade. It’s a match made in heaven.”

Those shoulders park back up toward your ears, tension evident from your posture. That’s the last demographic you want to be popular with, all too aware they aren’t listening to your music to understand what’s on your heart but this isn’t the time to give an impassioned plea about sexualization. 

Sensing your discomfort, Dante slides his hand across the table and leans in toward you with a brow raised. Despite holding your own for as long as you have been, you feel strangely disarmed by him and that charming and easy going nature and further eased by the boyishly mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Whatcha think? Can we manage that?”

You want so badly to be annoyed and to shrug him off yet heat rises in your cheeks, forcing you to look down for a moment seeking composure. Just a single breath, it’s all you need. One passes and you look into Dante’s eyes, avoiding glancing at his smirking mouth lest he get the wrong idea, smiling back at him.

“Yeah. I think we can.”

Maybe you need to be thinking about your reach with the 33-55 year old demographic next.

“Then book it!” He claps excitedly, making Patty jump in her seat on the opposite side of you. Clara claps along with him and the room erupts in cheers, encouraging you to giggle and clap with an unrestrained shrug.

“If sexy is what you want, then sexy is what we’ll give you. Right?”

This is the moment when you notice Dante is staring right at you, thumbing the corner of his own mouth with a smirk. 

Familiar heat rises in your cheeks once again and you shrug coquettishly, spinning side to side in your chair. “I’m just along for the ride.” 

He chuckles again, a sexy, low rumble in his chest.

“Well, I promise I’ll make it an easy one.”

The chatter of the room picks up around you though it feels totally ignorable when he’s sitting next to you which could prove to be dangerous during this process. Or nothing at all if you choose to ignore that warmth in your face and the blue of his eyes.

[blueberrybirdsworld]

The Cat Distribution System 2/5

Summary:

When a stray kitten adopts Lando Norris, the self-proclaimed cat hater accidentally starts a soft-launch spiral with his secret girlfriend the ballerina Ariana Riverria.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, SMAU

Warning : none, just yeah the kitten will be different in some pictures

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

CHAPTER TWO :

@landonorris "does bringing a cat on a boat dangerous ?"

@landozoned: sir that is a BABY what if he falls overboard 😭

@maxfewtrell: do you even OWN a cat carrier or is it just vibes now??

@pietra: not the yachting kitten era

@charles_leclerc: cat has better balance than me respect

@catdadconfirmed: peak chaotic cat dad energy I love this journey for you

Texts messages :

Ari 💃:

HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST IT????

Lando 🧡:

hello to you too 🧡

Ari 💃:

DID YOU ACTUALLY BRING CHARLIE ON A FREAKING BOAT??

Lando 🧡:

he likes the breeze. he’s a sea explorer now.

Ari 💃:

HE’S A CAT NOT A VIKING. WHAT IF HE FELL IN?? WHAT IF A SEAGULL TOOK HIM??

Lando 🧡:

he had a towel nest. and snacks. and I almost bought him cat-sized sunglasses.

Ari 💃:

you're out of control. i'm changing your name in my phone to "Captain Whiskers"

Lando 🧡:

you’re just mad he likes it. he purred for an hour and fell asleep like a sailor off-duty

Ari 💃:

oh he’s yours now. emotional support kitten. you two are inseparable.

Lando 🧡:

...help?

Ari 💃:

nah. enjoy your new title: maritime meowther 🐱⚓

@landonorris "long week. swipe for serotonin."

@landozoned: so we’re just pretending the kitten is normal now?? cool cool

@maxfewtrell: how is he not suffocating in your arms bruv

@catdadconfirmed: serotonin delivered, thanks lando

@alexandralovely: lando norris and his son. i’m crying.

@arianariverria "Sunday snuggles ✨"

@pliésballet: WHERE did the orange one come from again???

@kitteninfirst: they’re siblings now and I won’t hear otherwise

@balletnation: honestly the cats are soft-launching their humans at this point

@pietra: cute cats. suspicious caption.

But nothing broke the internet quite like Ariana's story one quiet Thursday night.

It was only up for three minutes. Just long enough.

A grainy photo, snapped from the side: Ariana curled up on a grey couch, head resting on someone’s shoulder, half of her face hidden in the crook of a hoodie. A ginger kitten sleeping across both their laps. The boy’s face wasn’t visible, but his profile was unmistakable to those who knew how to look.

The post was gone by the time most people refreshed their feeds.

But not before it was screenshotted.

Twitter Thread by @balletxf1 :

[1] OKAY WAIT.

[2] That Ariana story??? The one she deleted?? I’ve done the work. Let’s investigate.

[3] Zoom and enhance. That hoodie? The McLaren one Lando wore two days ago in his Twitch stream.

[4] The kitten? Lando's one.

[5] The arm? The watch? That is Lando Norris.

[6] Not to be dramatic but I think we just got a full soft-launch slip

@f1girlies: I KNEW IT. I SAID IT IN JANUARY.

@balletinthepit: we were fed. accidentally. but fed nonetheless

@landoffline: y'all analyzing shadows like CSI and winning

@catloverxoxo: obsessed with the fact the kitten is the one exposing them

@formulapirouette: Lando and Ariana are co-parented a cat it’s canon

Text messages :

Lando 🧡:

did you mean to soft-launch us or are we just on autopilot now?

Ari 💃:

I didn’t mean to post it omg my finger slipped

Lando 🧡:

sure sure sure

Ari 💃:

I DELETED IT IN 3 MINUTES

Lando 🧡:

that was enough. they CSI'd the hoodie AND my watch

Ari 💃:

ffs. it’s the cat. he’s the problem

Lando 🧡:

you mean our son? our fluffy, chaos-bringing, matchmaking menace?

Ari 💃:

oh so now you LIKE cats suddenly?? mister "i don't trust anything with claws" is now a cat dad who brings Charlie to boat trips, gaming streams, brunch dates ??? 😹

Lando 🧡:

i plead temporary insanity caused by toe beans and purring. this is not who i was. he changed me.

Ari 💃:

i’m blaming him forever. he soft-launched us. not me

Lando 🧡:

fair. he’s grounded

Ari 💃:

grounded and cuddled. he’s on my lap right now

Lando 🧡:

traitor

Part 3

[huntingcupid]

SAILOR SONG WITH MEGAN SKIENDIEL

my mom says that she's worried, but I'm covered in his favor, and when we're getting dirty, I forget all that is wrong, I sleep so I can see you 'cause I hate to wait so long, I sleep so I can see you and I hate to wait so long

⌗ MEGAN — fem!reader, angst, fluff, death, suicide, academic pressure, mental health issues, reader misses megan, megan loves reader, etc...

⌗ SYPNOSIS — befriending the class nerd/smartest was weird to some, but you'll do anything to feel the same way when you first met megan, see her for the first time again, feel her, just for a minute longer

⌗ CUPID — i am so fucked rn, life has been HELL, heres some angst

people knew megan as the smart, ace student — the one who joins every extracurricular, the one most hates due to how smart they were, i mean the girl got at least 9 medals per school year or semester, she's always buried inside her books, writing in a handwriting you barely understood nor anyone, most of her classmates would ignore her or poke fun at her, calling her grandma — because she worries so much and knows more than most of the class

yet you knew her as the funny, nerdy and especially soft person, the type to send you memes or pictures of cats and dogs when your sad, the type to make you handwritten letters when you accomplish something, megan was more than an academic achiever, she was a person who was down to earth, the kindest soul ever — you two weren't meant to get close, at least that's what megan believes

you two met when you got paired with her for a project, luckily megan already understood the subject more than you, but you really got to know her when you two went to her house to finish it

“we just have to add this here” megan says, holding a pen between her fingers as she looks over the board filled with equations that you two would be presenting in the next week, “hmh, how'd you do that” you ask not really understanding anything on the board, only agreeing to megan since you knew her she was a genius

“oh just like this” megan replies smiling softly as she points out how to solve it, adding extra notes for you to understand, you nod finally understanding the subject a bit more — “wait it's that easy?” you mutter in disbelief — “yeah they explain it way too complicated in school” she chuckles

you look at her for a moment she seemed to be happy and you finally saw her whisker dimples, you've never seen the girl happier, you thought to yourself that megan was arrogant but it turns out she was just kept to herself, megan looks back at you smiling but she tilts her head, “why is there something on my face?” she asks confused — it was so adorable, she was adorable, “nope, you look cute when you smile” you respond, the girl blushes and turns back to the board scribbling random numbers

hours went on and you weren't bored but intrigued with the girls manners and personality, megan seemed to soften up on you, showing you her collection of figurines of sanrio items, her most cherished one her pompompurin teddy that sat on her bed — megan was honestly so calming she was like a cold breeze of air on a hot sunny day, you wonder where her mother was since the house was empty, her mother was the type to be scary in those awarding days, you've heard her say somethings to megan about grades yet maybe your just being judgy

the front door rattles and you saw how megans mood immediately drops, the sparks in her eyes suddenly vanished, “oh my moms here” she awkwardly says going to the front door, you follow closely — greeting her mother, “hi ma'am I'm here for a project” you said, she didn't say anything back only flashing megan a look of disappointment — “go to my room megan” her mom says in that strong icy tone, megan only nods

you went to megan's room waiting for her, but you heard her mother scream at her, the door to the room was closed but it was audible — “megan!, what are these grades! — do you want to fail?!, is that it!” the woman screams — you gulp, feeling helpless since you couldn't just intervene, “is this what you give me back? after I pay for your school and give you a house to stay?” she follows, thirty minutes pass before megan went back into her bedroom

she flashed you a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, her nose was red and so were her eyes, they were puffy and obviously wet with tears, she didn't utter a word only sitting beside you, writing on the board to finish it

“megan, c'mere” you murmur, opening your arms, the girl melts hugging you tightly as she cries into your shoulder, her hands drop the pen, as she murmurs things about being disappointment “shh, I'm proud of you, okay? don't chase impossible expectations” you murmur to the girl, whom only nodded too consumed in her emotions, she sniffles and you hug her tighter kissing the top of her head, as you whisper praise in her ears

behind the smart girl, the academic achiever, was a girl who only want to make her parent proud, megan was so brave and strong to handle all of this and still manage the bullying she got in school — you left later that night, hugging megan and reassuring her before so

that night you two chat on Instagram, sending endless memes that weren't even that funny but made you two crack up, megan then sent you a paragraph, it shook you since it was random, it read

[mei_mei] “y/n thank you for being my friend, i know it's random, but i hadn't met anyone like you, you know how to comfort me and make me feel safe — thank you for seeing me more than just a arrogant student, or and over achiever — i don't know how to explain it but you get me on a level i never thought possible, just thank you for loving me”

you felt a tear run down your cheeks reading it, you sniffle responding right away, typing something about loving her too

the next week you invited megan to go out, hang out in the park — “mei, wanna go take a picnic later?” you ask tapping your pen on your notebook as you two listen to a boring lesson, “sure!, can i bring strawberries?” she asks — “yes the more food the better” you replied smiling softly

later that afternoon you sat in the park waiting for the girl, you have laid out a picnic blanket, various drinks and snacks laid out — and a digicam to take pictures, you sat admiring how lovely the park was, birds chirped and kids laughed running around, you heard the leaves rustling behind you, you look and see the girl

“hi!!” megan cheerfully greets bringing a plastic bag with strawberries and chips — she places it on the blanket, “here have a bite” you offer a bite of your cookie — megan takes a bite smiling as the crumbs stay at the corner of her lips, “yum” she replies

you two watch as the sun slowly set, your food getting finished, megan rests her head on your shoulder as she wrote in her notebook, it felt peaceful for once, away from the loud and annoying classroom,

“y/n, here” megan hands you a piece of paper, it was folded neatly, sealed with a kiss, her pinkish lipstick on the cover, “don't open it yet, i'll tell you when” megan says, she seemed very serious so you agreed, “yes miss, now lets finish the food so i can walk you back home” you replied giggling lightly, megan nods eating some strawberries

after you two finish the food, you offer megan to walk home, to which she agrees, “let's go?” you ask after folding the picnic blanket and placing it in your bag — “mhm!” megan hums, walking hand in hand with you, she pops open her airpods case offering you the other pod — she played various songs eventually landing on blue by yung kai, it felt perfect, she was perfect — the walk was quiet, as megan's hands warms yours

you two make it to her house and she waves you off, sending a flying kiss, “bye y/n!” she sends off — “bye mei!” you replied before walking away, the letter still in your bag, you wondered what it contained, what it may say — yet you respected megan and kept it safe

the next few weeks megan seemed happier than ever, she would hang out with you often and give you random items, from her collection which you thought was cute — she kept telling you how much she loved you, and adored your strength which you adored in her too

during lunch break you two escaped up to the school rooftop, it was empty most of the time, and the breeze made it comfortable — “i packed you some fruit snacks” you tell megan who instantly lit up in joy, “really!?” she replies, you nod handing it to her, she opened the pack and took two right away

you two ate in silence only the scribbling of the pen on a notebook heard, megan was solving something which you didn't bother trying to understand, “y/n is that my letter?” megan asks pointing to the paper in your bag, “mhm, when am i getting to open it?!” you ask hoping she'll finally allow you — “soon!, just wait” megan murmur back, though her eyes seemed to dart around, a flicker of guilt in them

you didn't press further, understanding her yet still curious — “y/n, you know i love you no matter what right?” megan asks looking up at you — her eyes seemed to be teary and obviously she was sad yet for what?, “yes of course, mei you're scaring me what's happening” you worriedly hugged the girl who bursts into tears in your embrace — she struggled to speak for a minute before she sniffled and said “nothing, I'm grateful that i met someone like you in my life” she replied, which you smiled at, “me too” you respond hugging her

that night megan sends you a text at 2 am, it was pouring outside, and it was unusually colder — there was this feeling in your gut, something is wrong

[mei] “y/n, can you open the letter now?”

[you] “yay! — I'm excited :)”

[mei] “i love you”

[you] “i love you too”

you rush to your bag searching for the letter, crumpled up and a bit dirty you opened it, you turn on your lamp and started reading

| hello y/n, if you are reading this it means i have done it, before you ask what is “it” please read this okay? — y/n you had made my life so much more brighter, more worth living, important even, you saw me at my lowest, and still decided to stay, I'm not easy to understand but you did your best to understand me, thank you for that, y/n what ever happens next is not your fault it never will be, i have been in the worst mental space for years, and i wanted to end it, and tonight i am ending it — its not your fault, i can't handle it anymore y/n, at least you know im leaving this world that i am happy because of you — y/n i love you so much, i wish we meet again, soon, in another universe, okay?| love megan.

you panic, what does this mean?!, where is she? — megan?, you stare at the letter tears uncontrollably washing over your face your heart sinking, your hands shaked grabbing your phone

[you] “megan!, please don't”

[you] “megan I'm here we can talk, my love please!! — don't leave me”

[you] “i can't lose you”

you run out of your apartment, running through the rain as you tried your best to see through your blurry eyes, your heart thumped against your chest — you reached her house after 15 minutes, you didn't feel tired only worried

you knock on the door, banging on it even — “megan!, megan!” you scream, you probably looked crazy, yet it didn't matter, megan's mom opens the door and you bolted inside, your pyjamas dripping onto the carpet below, “what time is it, get out!” megan's mom screamed

you don't listen, only going to her room, you open the door, bracing yourself for whatever you may see — there she was, megan as lifeless as a doll, her eyes were wet from crying, her phone open to your contact, she was laid in bed pills scattered across her hands — you run to her side putting her head on your lap as you craddle her

“megan wake up, please” you beg, yet nothing, her mother rushed in crying seeing her child dead, you kiss the top of her head, whispering “i love you, i hope i find you in every universe too”

a day passes and it's her funeral, not many people came, yet you stayed there, just in the process of acceptance, you sit there for hours on end wondering how you could've made her last longer, live longer

yet it all circles back to that date in the park, she had this planned long before you came, it just happens that instead of feeling dread megan felt happy for her last few weeks

you would give up everything just to relive those weeks, just to hear her laugh again, see her smile and show her whisker dimples, her pompompurin teddy sat on your lap, still smelling like the girl, it hurt

it hurt to let her go, “i sleep so i can see you, soon right mei? — i hate to wait so long” you murmur

wc: 2.2k words

[marzipanandminutiae]

I genuinely think there were far more trans people in 19th century western history than we're aware of, simply because of the nature of how most LGBTQ people lived their lives back then

namely, though of course this varied WILDLY by time, place, cultlure, race, gender, etc., in relative secrecy

if you go back far enough, legal identifying documents were barely a thing for many people. and even if they existed, circumstances in which they'd be checked were few and far between. surveillance was nowhere near what it is now simply because of technological limitations. and due to those same technological limitation, people were more used to accepting at face value the identities of people with bodies that varied from the norm

Gilbert and Sullivan mention, in their 1885 song "I've Got A Little List," the singer's "auntie with a mustache" (albeit in a negative context). not "well, I don't hold with all this woke DEI nonsense and have we checked Auntie's genitals and what's the marker on this alleged woman's passport?" is it very probable that the auntie was cisgender? yes. there are plenty of reasons for cis women to grow more facial hair than is average, ranging from genetics to PCOS to post-menopausal hormone shifts. before HRT, in a time with few readily accessible safe hair removal techniques (though they tried, and electrolysis had been technically available- at ruinously expensive rates -since the 1870s), you'd be more likely to encounter cis women with facial hair who chose not to try removing it. and you assumed all women were cis. so your set concept of A Woman included, potentially, facial hair, and it was less likely to make you question someone's gender

EDIT: wow okay so that is NOT an original G&S lyric! it's so borderline in terms of Poor Taste that I assumed it must be 19th century. nonetheless, references to old women with whiskers and moustaches abound in Victorian and earlier literature, so the point still stands

besides which, for a very long time, personal questions along the lines of "what's in your trousers/skirt" were considered HIGHLY impertinent

so, while there would be a world of trouble if a trans person was caught or if suspicions began to arise about their gender for some reason- the past was not a trans-friendly utopia by any means -it was often somewhat easier to fly under the radar than it generally is today. the transphobic powers-that-were were less aware of this possibility and therefore not on high alert for it, generally speaking

and since most trans people then and now want to have jobs and social circles and families and do things to which being trans is incidental, while trans, it wasn't likely that they'd call attention to themselves in a time when Closet = Safe. indeed, most trans people from that era that we know about are only publicly known because their death wishes to be buried without autopsy were not respected. I'm thinking of Dr. James Barry, Charley Parkhurst, and earlier the Chevaliere d'Eon [no, that's not a misspelling; it's the feminine form of Chevalier since she was a woman]

(you hear about more transmasc people in the history of this era because it was harder to establish an independent life as a woman, at all, without some kind of support network/establishment of Reputation in the area where you were living. unless you were a sex worker, and while we do know about some transfem sex workers of the era, the specifics of their identities are often obscured behind salacious news reports of Man Disguised As Woman Tricks Other Men Into Doing Icky Gay Things. so figuring out whether they saw themselves as women or crossdressing men can be difficult. Mary Jones comes immediately to mind)

how many similar wishes were respected? how many people slipped through history with their gender variance unremarked-upon? there's literally no way of knowing- which is good in terms of immediate postmortem respect, but leaves historians of queer subjects nowadays with a herculean task

I think, in light of all that's happening right now, I just want to remind everyone that trans people have always existed, will always exist, and are an integral part of humanity's fabric

[ronearoundblindly]

Codename: Agent Alpine

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!Reader Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You finally get an outfit that can transform with you between cat and human whenever you wish.

Warnings for mentions of nudity but nothing overtly sexual. Steve's got the hots for ya 😉 that's about the size of things... WC ~600

“It looks…like leather,” Steve marvels, seeing the collar turned over and over in Bucky’s hands, a blue strip with red stars.

“It looks a little obvious,” Bucky balks.

“What’d’ya want?” Tony snatches it back and starts attaching it gently—but securely—around your neck. “Plain Jane black? Nah. She deserves something special.”

“Something gaudy and on-brand,” Natasha offers helpfully. 

“Exactly…” Tony steps away from you so you have space to shift.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t a compliment,” Steve mutters before turning to you. “Would you like us to turn around? Just in case it doesn’t work quite right?”

The idea is simple: like Tony Stark’s nano suit, a coverall dress of sorts will spring from the collar when activated by your transformation. When your neck expands, so does the collar and the garment. When your neck shrinks, the clothing retracts.

At least you had the forethought to request your ‘uniform’ not be skin-tight and shiny because that may flatter Nat but would be more embarrassing than nudity for you. It’s taken so long to get good at shifting that this group has seen you naked on what might be categorized as ‘many’ occasions: Bucky the most, because you live together; Steve the least, because he’s kind enough to shut or cover his eyes; Tony and Nat…equal, because they’ve been taking the measurements, readings, and scans to build the functioning collar.

You? You try not to think about that and focus on doing a Big-Girl-Task.

The gist is that if you feel that being a human benefits you, your body turns, and if you feel being a cat benefits you, your body turns. Fear is just easier to handle in a smaller body that can go unnoticed, hide, and run away more easily, and since you were never sure that being human around Bucky wouldn’t land you out on the street or worse, you weren’t convinced it would benefit you until you needed more weight, size, and strength to take down Duplicate. Controlling those base emotions has proved difficult. You’re ready now, though, totally ready.

Steve nods in acknowledgment when you shake you head, whiskers flat against your face in determination.

This is it, the moment of truth.

So you step up onto your back paws, think about how you could reach between these two workbenchs with your human armspan, and shift.

The nano tech doesn’t feel like microscopic metal robots—it’s like real gauzy panels that drape from your neck to your ankles, a flowing dress with breezy bell sleeves, all in snow white, sheer in some places, opaque in all the right ones. In all fairness, Tony Stark does know a thing or two about fashion. You should never have doubted him.

“Hot damn, pretty lady,” Bucky cheers. “Looking good!”

Tony cocks his head to the side. “Do we think it needs a belt?”

Nat slaps his hip.

Steve, however…oh poor Steve, he’s dumbstruck with a goofy smile. The affectionate awe makes you preen, giving a quick spin in your new ensemble, the skirts wafting like you’re Marilyn Monroe except you’re not hit by a gust of wind from below. Steve seems to be.

He huffs out all the air in his lungs and forgets to inhale again. He crosses his arms over his broad chest and covers his mouth briefly, collecting his thoughts before locking eyes with you through blond lashes. Those eyes, they are dark and adoring.

“How about it, Cap?” You ask with perfect innocence.

Steve chuckles, clearing his throat and licking his lips.

“That’ll do, babygirl. That will definitely do.”

[Next Part: Lineage]

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers Series List; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @creat0r-cat @navs-bhat

@bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp

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@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

[annie-writesstuff]

Come here, kitty, kitty! - Sylus

Summary: The Evol cats have had enough of Sylus and his mistreatment, so this time, instead of giving him cat ears and a tail, the punishment goes further as he is completely turned into a Caracal cat.

Warnings: Long fic. Cat puns. Fluff - Literally and figuratively lol. Reader literally adopts a lynx for one night :p. Reader is economically poor (I'm sorry.) Reader is not MC. If anyone ever reads this, I sure hope you enjoy :3!

Part Two

This was simply... Catastrophic.

Sylus feels a hint of regret because his actions led him to that position right then. Pawing and hissing at the Meow's Café door.

It doesn't budge an inch.

Not even his Energy manipulation Evol was going to be useful, simply because it had been supressed whenever those evil Evol cats had turned him into that... creature.

He doesn't have access to his phone either, not in that form, and therefore has not contacted either Luke and Kieran or Miss Hunter.

Sylus feels, perhaps for the second time in his life, helpless. He is aware his fur would protect him from the cold, but that does not mean he wants to be alone and out during the approaching snow storm.

He sits down in front of the double glass doors. Someone is bound to go in or out anytime soon, right?

Right?

It seems his calculations were wrong.

How long had he been sitting there? It must have been close to an hour. Why are there no clients?

He stands up, unconsciously stretching, before looking around. Well, he wasn´t going to get anywhere if he simply sat and waited.

His paws quickly take him down the road. It is uncomfortable. He isn't used to the frozen sidewalk, but he pushes through, until he finally sees a person standing in front of a food cart.

Whatever they are selling smells absolutely delicious. Since he hasn't eaten in hours, his normally luxury palate is craving for whatever this person is selling.

Slowly, he approaches, and lightly paws at your black snow boots.

¨Hm?¨ You look down, your half eaten chicken skewer in your hand as you spot a... very unique looking cat. "Oh! Hi there!" You smile, crouching down and gently booping his nose with your index finger. "Are you hungry?"

Sylus hesitates.

What the hell is he doing? He is no stray cat.

But... he is indeed hungry, so he simply looks at your hand expectantly, his vermilion eyes not moving away from the juicy looking meat.

Your giggle reaches his ears, and he bristles in response.

How... irksome.

Carefully, you take one piece, blowing on it a few times, before offering it to him on your palm.

His nose makes quick work, and after a few sniffs, he easily devours the entire piece. Not bad.

He looks at you, awaiting another piece.

To his surprise, your oblige, feeding him until only the stick of the skewer was left. He licks his snout and whiskers.

He jumps away when your hand comes closer. Now, just what do you think you are doing?

Immediately, you retreat. "Sorry." You say, as you stand up. You pay the vendor, before waving at the cute cat.

Wait.

Where are you going?

Sylus immediately follows. He was not going to be outside during that snow storm. You had fed him. He is now your responsibility, and he isn't about to let you leave without him.

So naturally, he stalks after you.

You stop, and turn. A soft smile adorns your lips. "Ah. Coming back for more?" You tease playfully.

If cats could look annoyed, this cat sure does.

Chuckling, you bend down, offering your hand palm up and letting him smell you.

Fine. Just because it seemed you were his only ticket out of this situation. He moves closer, looking as dejected as his feline features allow him as you gently pet his head.

He couldn't say he hated the sensation. Unlike some other people he had encountered earlier when he had first transformed, you are actually being mindful of how sensitive his ears are.

For a brief moment, he allows himself to feel at ease. Not that he is ever going to admit it, but he is enjoying the attention, if anything by the purrs leaving the very back of his throat as he nuzzles into your hand. It's warm and soft.

When you stop petting him and continue walking, he follows again.

You look up at the sky as you hasten your pace. Snow is starting to fall... You don't want to be caught in it. So you jog down the street.

The pitter patter of paws makes you turn again.

Before the cat could react, you scoop him up, tucking him inside your coat, zipping it up so only his head is visible. You smile at the somewhat dumbfounded look the cat gives you. But he doesn't protest nor tries to escape.

This is a bit embarrassing. He had never been caught so off guard before!

He can feel the erratic beating of your heart agaisnt his small body as you hurry towards where he supposes is where you live.

His red eyes scan the dilapidated building you are approaching.

This has... got to be a joke.

Purrhaps he has chosen the wrong human to take care of him.

It is too late anyway, as you walk inside. The walls look like they had seen better days, as you go up the stairs, a lot slower than your brisk walk earlier.

There isn't even an elevator?

Pathethic.

You huff and pant, and his eyes scann the state of this floor. Yeah, it looks equally old.

You fumble to get your keys out, and push open the door. "Home at last!"

You throw the keys over a bowl, though you miss and instead hit the table. Not that you care much as you get rid of your boots and snow-covered coat, gently placing your newly found freind on the floor.

Sylus looks around curiously. He is used to luxury and opulence wherever he visits, so this is a new for him. How can you live in such... place?

The fake wooden floor creaks under your every step, the wall´s paint is falling off, and it is almost as cold here as it is outside!

You approach a small sized screen, which Sylus soon realizes is actually a heater when you press a button to turn it on. A fake image of a fireplace shows on the screen as the small machine starts to work.

You must've been sleeping in front of that heater. He can see a sleeping bag, blankets and some plush toys placed in front of it.

He can only assume that the apartment heating is no longer working. That isn't surprising considering the state of it.

The sound of pans and clatter of utensils catch his attention, and he quickly rushes to the kitchen. He sits at the entrance, wondering if you are cooking something.

You had given him the thing you had been eating earlier, and that makes him feel a bit guilty.

In his defense, he was hungry, and although he could've hunted something, he was still at the heart of Linkon city. It would've been very troublesome to try to get food for himself.

The smell of meat and spices reach his nose. His whiskers move as he smells the air.

Well damn, the aroma was delicious. He is still hungry.

He watches as you sing whilist you mix whatever food you are cooking - he guesses meat and veggies?

This is an atipical sight for him. And he can't help but observe, his heightened senses glued to your every carefree move.

Many questions run through his head. What led to this? Why are you living in that old apartment?

Are you happy?

That last question catches him by surprise. It isn't normal for him to care about someone he just literally met. He guesses being in such a vulnerable position makes him see things differently.

He is used to every interaction being an exchange. He never works for free - nobody he knows does.

Yet... you had fed him and brought him to your home... in exchange of what?

He can't give you money or power. Not while he is a cat, at least... But you don't know who he really is, so it is obvious you aren't looking for something akin.

¨C'mon. Let's eat together!" You call as you walk towards your makeshift room in front of the heater.

His legs quickly carry him to you. He settles comfortably over the sleeping bag and the numerous blankets, the gentle light coming from the heater screen makes him feel... cozy.

"I read that Caracal cats are carnivores". You say, as you grab some meat strips from your bowl and place them in a smaller plate you had brought from the kitchen with you. "And you also eat veggies. They say carrots are good for your vision, so I cooked you some!"

That is very... Thoughtful.

He looks at the plate of food.

It isn't a five star meal, but... You made it for him, and he isn't going to let it go to waste.

He eats with gusto, his tail unconsciosly swaying.

After you return from the kitchen after taking the dishes to the sink, he wonders what kind of routines you have.

He would've called you boring every other time, but he finds it fascinating just how simple your lifestyle is.

You don't live in a castle or mansion, but you give him such pretty smiles, he could've been easily fooled.

You spend a few minutes in the bathroom, and come out wearing your pajamas. He can see they are a bit old, the color of the fabric is fading, and there are a couple holes in it. But they are clean and fresh. He can still smell the lingering scent of laundry detergent and softener.

You sit down on the sleeping bag, and yawn once, twice. You put your phone over a small holder, and put on some cartoons while it charges. "Ready for bed, Red?"

Red?

Is that his 'new' name?

Ah. The color of his eyes. That must be it.

He huffs as you pick him up and crarefully craddle him against your chest.

"Oh? You have a scar? What happened to your eye?" You ask softly, your thumb gently skimming over it.

As a reaction, he hisses, biting you hard enough to draw blood. His fur standing up as he meows threateningly.

And when he calms down, he looks at you, his small chest heaving up and down as he realizes what he did.

He hadn't meant to...

Sylus half expects you to kick him out, let him go.

But instead, you hug him closer. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Your voice is so sweet and gentle, and he doesn't understand your reaction at all. He looks at you, his vermillion eyes searching for any hint of dishonesty.

But he finds none.

Guilt revolves in his stomach as he looks at your finger, the clear mark of his fangs marking your skin. He licks at the small puncture wounds, silently apologizing.

The scar in his eye is a touchy subject for him. He's aware he overreacted - or better said, instinctively reacted, but that was no excuse. He never wanted to hurt you.

Your eyes stare at him, and once again you smile. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize. I shouldn't have been so careless."

You lie down on your sleeping bag, and tug the blankets around your body, still hugging the Caracal to you. "I hope you are comfortable." Your grip on him is loose, so that if he wants to move, he can.

"Have a goodnight, kitty." You press a tiny kiss to his wet nose, before easily drifting off to sleep.

He remains awake for a couple more minutes. He takes in your features now that he has you so close. You're not wearing make up, but there's a light blush on your cheeks. And your slightly messy [h/c] hair cascades over the side of your face. Overall you look peaceful.

Sylus wishes... he can feel like that too.

He curls closer to your chest, hoping to see if he can steal a bit of normalcy from your life and bring it into his.

He sleeps so soundly, that he doesn't realize is daytime... and the cat's Evol has worn off - majority of it, at least.

He still conserves his cat ears and tail, but he's defeinitely back to his human form.

When he wakes up, he immediately notices what has happened. You look a lot tinier than you did last night, and the sleeping bag doesn't fit all of him anymore. "Hm."

He wonders how you'll react once you wake up and see that you have a naked man-cat (Cat-man?) holding you.

A deep chuckle escapes his lips. "This will be very interesting, won't it, Kitten?"

[slugbeaker]

Some moments I enjoyed from ACOK that kind of further solidify how alienated from Ironborn culture Theon has become. We see it of course in the bigger moments like him just not enjoying any of the reaving he is originally assigned to do with Dagmer and Aeron. But there were two smaller moments that stood out to me too.

"The walls of Winterfell were behind him, but Ser Rodrik faced them squarely and could not fail to see. Theon watched his face. When his chin quivered under those stiff white whiskers, he knew just what the old man was seeing. 'He is not surprised,' he thought with sadness, 'but the fear is there.'"

Even in the midst of using Beth Cassel as leverage to prevent Ser Rodrik from attacking the castle, and after Theon has become a known child killer by all the north, he is still only able to feel sadness when his plan to use Beth works as planned and makes Ser Rodrik hesitate because he is hurt that they are not surprised he would do something like this. Theon has spent ten years of his life among the people of the north and Winterfell specifically and has always to some degree been looked at as a ticking time bomb of a threat, a boy they do not doubt will return to the Greyjoy way if given the chance. Theon has unfortunately proven them right and while that WAS his intent, to show his loyalty to his blood family and the Ironborn, all it has brought him is the realization that he hates to be viewed in this manner near as much he did being viewed a hostage. It excuses none of the more awful things he does in ACOK, but he really is the Prince of Being Caught Between a Rock and a Hard Place in this book lol. Despite how hard he tries, Theon cannot commit to one lifestyle over the other and it leaves him with nothing. The other quote is when the Boltons come and slaughter Ser Rodrik and his men, 'saving' Theon and the Ironborn:

"The crows came in the blue dust, with the evening stars. "The Dothraki believe the stars are spirits of the valiant dead," Theon said. Maester Luwin had told him that, a long time ago.

"Dothraki?"

"The horselords across the narrow sea."

"Oh. Them." Black Lorren frowned through his beard. "Savages believe all manner of foolish things."

Theon tries to say, in his own way, some kind words for the dead that the Boltons are responsible for, these men who he used to serve with side by side. In his mind, words from a warrior culture similar but not the same to the Ironborn, where the dead may be remembered as stars, is probably another way he is trying to assuage his guilty conscience. These men are dead because of him after all. But this is not how an Ironborn is meant to react to violence and Black Lorren appears uncaring at best and put off at worst from Theon's attempt to eulogize these dead northmen. Also of course the irony of him considering the Dothraki savage people when to the rest of Westeros the Ironborn are VERY much considered savage as well.

This isn't even really a thought out analysis lol I just was struck by these moments on .y reread. Theon is....sensitive. And no matter how much he tries to shove that down, and no matter how awful he can be, and he CAN be, he cannot change that part of himself. He's not that guy. Hopefully coming to terms with that in the final two books is a part of his reclaiming his identity storyline.

[dragon-ascent]

Can you imagine Zhongli bumping noses with and nuzzling you like a big, clingy cat?

Oh absolutely! I assume you mean him in his dragon exuvia form (though to be honest, human form Zhongli could totally do those things).

Zhongli never really was particularly clingy throughout his long lifetime, but now that he's been able to relinquish his burdens, he has the time to indulge in things he truly wants. Like you, for example.

So yes, now he's clingy.

"Zhongli..." you whine, as his whiskers tickle you for the nth time today. "Can you let me go now? I need to go to work."

Your husband is coiled around you stubbornly, a sea of shimmering brown scales and amber fur. He nuzzles you again, murmuring in a reverberating voice, "No." He then proceeds to affectionately boop your nose with his own snout.

"Why not?"

"Because I said so." His long tongue reaches out to lick you, but you manage to finally worm out of his grasp (probably because he's licked you enough times for you to be slippery enough to wriggle away). This makes him droop a little.

You register the way his golden eyes stare at the floor forlornly. "Oh come on, darling, don't look so sad."

"I cannot help but be sad."

"And I can't have a big dragon all over me this early in the morning!"

"So I may be all over you at night, then?" Zhongli asks, perking up as his tail also wiggles in excitement.

"No!" you exclaim, exasperated, and your dragon husband droops yet again. "Zhongli, now is not the time for dragon shenanigans!"

Zhongli tilts his head. "Very well." And just like that, his form shrinks, scales turning to skin and horns turning to hair. Only his eyes remain constant, and once he's turned back into a man, your man, he wraps his glowing arms around you tightly and begins to nuzzle you again.

At first you're bewildered, but then you sigh, melting into his touch. There's no winning with him. He purrs in delight at this, ostensibly some traces of his dragon self still apparent in this form. Lovingly nuzzling his now-human nose against yours, proud of his little victory over you, Zhongli smiles softly.

He was always good at getting what he wanted, and that included you.

[crescenthistory]

Hi Carina! It’s the anon who referred to your fanfics as poetry if you remember lol.

Number 1 I still stand by that and it’s even more enforced after reading your most recent poly!postwar!marauders I was hooked!! And number 2 I finally have a proper request for regulus and whiskers - perhaps some scenario where reader comes to regulus all scratched up and he p a n i c s but treats her (the scratches are from some random student’s pet cat that decided they suddenly wanted that specific patch of sun reader was napping on or something silly like that) and it’s just a mix of fluff and humor?

You totally do not have to do this specific prompt especially if you think of something similar but better, I 100% trust your vision. Also I’d like to be 🧸 anon for future posts if that’s ok with you. Once again thank you for blessing us with your stories and sorry for the long message haha❤️

of course i remember, that is my favourite compliment to date 😭 all i want is for my writing to be considered poetry, thank you so much. i'll add you to the list as 🧸 anon my love, feel free to share your age and pronouns too<333

Words: 1.5k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, no use of y/n, light injuries, some blood, physical and emotional hurt/comfort, established relationship, mentioned bsf!sirius, idiots in love, like literal soulmates, some cat telepathy bc i can lmao

A/N: more of whiskers and shadow can be found starting with this fic ! the cat pictured below is @nrthernsong's sweet Echo who is my whiskers faceclaim, exactly how I picture her<33

Regulus heard that something was wrong before he saw it.

The past hour had been spent on the sofa closest to the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, alternating between lazily reading his current paperback and dozing off. You had grown restless and given him a sweet forehead kiss before whisking out the door, assumedly to run out your leftover energy chasing mice and climbing walls. The mere thought made him smile, but he was far too comfortable to join you, and you were sleeping over in his dorm tonight anyway.

He figured it was no harm; he enjoyed knowing that you were doing your own thing and would be coming back to him. That you were such a fully realised person with your own desires, impulses, life and friends – even if one of those friends had to be his very own brother. That you were such a remarkable individual and kept choosing him every day, with every ounce of that self. It was as good a way as any to spend the evening.

That was, until he heard the desperate clawing of familiar paws against the stone common room door.

Apart from his usual doomsday gut feeling, he found it strange that you weren’t transforming back into yourself to open the door and walk in. Though, he told himself, you clearly could not transform in the still half-filled room, and perhaps you just wanted to remain in cat form without giving your animagus status away. Yet, your scratching seemed almost fervent, even over the sounds of chatter and laughter, which told another story.

Regardless of why, Regulus shot up out of his seat from the second he registered the noise as coming from you, hurrying across the floor. A wave of dizziness hit him from how fast he went from a reclining to borderline-sprinting position, but he pushed it down without a second thought.

When he opened the common room door and a white and grey figure sped in past him at an unbelievable speed, he realised what the problem was. 

Because your usually beautiful, fluffy fur was ruffled all about and there were distinct streaks of redness across it. The blood was striking against the already blinding white, and Regulus could not fight the way his breath hitched. 

“Amour,” he all but hissed, speed walking after you to where you had hid away in the first available corner.

Despite remaining mostly aware of your human self, once you were in your animagus form, certain animalistic tendencies took over. It was how you were able to communicate so efficiently through hisses and pets, but also why in states of panic, you would seek out physical shelter to hide beneath rather than coming to him for protection and comfort like you otherwise would.

Uncaring of how he looked running after a cat and murmuring to it as if it was a person, Regulus followed you, crouching down on his knees before you when you hid beneath an armchair against the wall. He couldn’t see you well in the darkness, but he did see a pair of yellow eyes shine out at him, so stunning that the fear in them should be illegal.

“Mon amour.” Regulus decided to forgo any reservations, and laid down on his stomach with his cheek against the floor so that he could be face to face with you. “Darling, what happened to you? Are you alright?”

The whimpering sound you made shot straight through his heart, drawing a rather pathetic coo from him.

You curled further up into yourself. Regulus inched his hand forward so that it was close to your face, but you made no move to butt your head against it like you usually would. Your eyes seemed to be pleading with him, but in this form, Regulus couldn’t read you as well.

In this form.

Regulus suddenly knew what he had to do.

Before that though, he retracted his hand in favour of letting his fingers curl around his wand. He brought it up to rest before you, slowing his movements down so as to not alert you in this frightened state. Even in a moment like this, you still trusted him entirely, and only blinked slowly at him while you shivered. He brought the tip of his wand up to rest just above your red spots.

“I’ll make it better, amour, I swear,” he mumbled, almost as if to himself. With a light graze and two whispered incantations, Regulus spelled away whatever shallow scratches you had across your beautiful fur and cleaned up the blood that had stained you so unjustly. 

Though he could not be certain, he thought he heard a sigh escape you. This time, when he put his wand down, you leaned your patterned forehead down against his fingertips. Worry was still clouding most of his mind, but his lips did twitch at the sentiment.

“I’m not leaving you.” He declared before saying anything else, not wanting fear to take over you once more. “Just stay right there, lovely, and I’ll be right back for you.”

Regulus almost stumbled when he pushed himself up onto his feet and near-sprinted up towards his dorm, taking the stairs three steps at a time. If you were startled, he could neither see nor hear it, and fully intended to soothe you in a mere moment.

The second he was out of sight of any other students, Regulus twirled into his own animagus form, Shadow.

At this new level of elevation and with the animalistic instincts taking over him, Regulus felt the wave of concern spark in him anew. While he could sense when he spelled away your injuries that they were not serious, the thought of you scared ached throughout him. On speedy onyx legs, he leaped back down the stairs with just one thought swimming through his mind.

Amour, amour, amour.

You must have smelled Shadow on his way to you, because even before he saw you, he picked up on the keening noise you made at the approach of your mate. 

Still sheltered carefully beneath the armchair, you were perched up on your front paws, staring eagerly towards where Shadow was pouncing towards you. This time, you let him slip beneath the seat and into your hiding place without any hesitation. On the contrary, you made space for him, and as soon as he was within reach, you curled up against him, hiding away.

With your face burrowed into Shadow’s furry neck, he could finally feel you sigh out in relief, any tension and fear seeping out of you. It was exactly what he had been hoping for, exactly what he wanted, no needed to accomplish.

Your love was true in any form, but the connection the two of you shared in animagus form was different from anything Regulus could even think to communicate through words. He had yet to find any relevant literature on animagi explaining the bonding experience you had in animagus form, but perhaps this was one of the things in his life that Regulus didn’t need to intellectualise.

Instead, Shadow curled back up against you, keeping his head over yours in a protective manner as he held you close with his paws. Absentmindedly, he began grooming your fur, placing every strand back down in the correct direction, ridding you of any evidence of whatever tussle you had suffered when roaming the castle. Certain places of your fur seemed to demand more of his attention, and though Regulus could not prove it as he healed and cleaned you up magically earlier, he had a creeping suspicion that was where you had been scratched up. So he didn’t resist it, instead doting on you exactly how he wanted.

Beneath his touch, you were becoming soft and pliant once more, purring loudly and occasionally looking up at him with the yellow eyes he had come to love so. His Whiskers. His amour.

Using the very bond he had no words to explain, Shadow asked you through some odd form of cat communication and animagi telepathy: What happened?

Your grunt and huff communicated what he had feared. Mrs. Norris.

Shadow made a hissing sound directed at your shared menacing nemesis before doubling down on his efforts to soothe you, nudging you over onto your back so that he could groom and kiss along your neck and chest – your most vulnerable areas in cat form, showing you just how safe you were now. 

This was part of what occasionally living as a cat entailed, but Regulus would be damned if he did not care for you as if it was a tragedy each and every time. Spelling out I love you with every lick and pet and nudge and purr.

Based on the lovely sounds you were making and how you seemed to melt into him until you were one and the same, you loudly claimed I love you too.

Regulus could rest easy with you safe and sound in his hold, content just to have you near him, any anger subdued for as long as he was comforting you. In the meantime, he was dreaming up how a certain big black dog might have a little chat with Mrs. Norris.

[ultravioletbrit]

“hurt” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 496 words

Regulus is standing with James, Sirius and Remus in the Forbidden Forest in the middle of a thunderstorm. He took the potion a few minutes ago, he can feel his second heartbeat, but for some reason he’s nervous to make the switch.

“Nervous?” James whispers. Curse him for being able to read Regulus so well.

“No.” Regulus lies.

“Don’t worry, it’ll only hurt for a second until you get used to it.” James tells him.

“That’s what they all say.” Regulus rolls his eyes.

“Reggie! No. You are too young for jokes like that.” Sirius scolds him.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t joke about that.” Regulus says with feigned sincerity then turns to look at James. “You’re very good at prep. It doesn’t hurt unless I want it to.” Regulus overdramatically reassures James.  

James’ eyes go wide but there’s a hint of amusement in them.

“REGULUS!” Sirius shouts.

Remus snorts a laugh.

“MOONY?!” Sirius gives Remus a look of betrayal. He crosses his arms over his chest with a dramatic huff and looks back at Regulus. “Just fucking switch already.” He mumbles.

“Oh, we do.” Regulus says smirking at Sirius’ appalled expression but before he can respond Regulus closes his eyes and focuses on his second heartbeat.

There’s a moment of discomfort as Regulus feels his body shrink to the forest floor and then he’s looking up at the other three.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Sirius’ voice is the first thing Regulus hears.

“He’s so cute.” James coos and Regulus assesses his new form.

He looks back and sees a long tail swish back and forth. He looks down at two small paws and picks one up to examine it closer. He stretches the pads and five sharp claws appear and he turns his head to smirk up at Sirius. Or as much as a cat is able to smirk.

“You did that on purpose.” Sirius grumbles as Regulus switches back.

“Pretty sure I have no control over it.”

“Knowing you, you’d figure out a way just to spite me, you little–” Sirius steps forward and Remus wraps an arm around his waist pulling him back.

“Careful, those claws can probably get pretty sharp.” Remus says.

“Don’t worry Sirius, I have a reason to always keep my nails nice and short. So, I’m sure the claws won’t get too bad either.” Regulus tells him with another taunting smirk.

“Why do… OH MY GOD!” Sirius shouts when he sees James pull his lips in to hold back a laugh. Sirius grabs Remus’ arm and stomps out of the forest.

“You’re mean.” James kisses his temple. “But you were very adorable.”

“I was not adorable. I was mean and fierce and intimidating.” Regulus says as they start walking.

“Sure you were, kitten.” James wraps his arm around Regulus.

“Do not call me kitten.” Regulus glares at him.

“Whiskers?”

“No nicknames.”

“Fluffy?”

“No.”

“Mr. Meowsers?”

Regulus just glares at him and James continues to list ridiculous nicknames as they make their way back to the castle.

[thrasherella]

Cat!hybrid girl seduces mouse!hybrid boy at a house party

...

She'd been with a rat before, but never a mouse, and he was definitely a mouse, no mistake. Those large, velvety soft looking round ears, short stature; he was a good foot shorter than her, and just a little bit chubby. So small, but so goddamn cute.

She couldn't help herself.

They had momentarily locked gazes from across the room at the party, pupils dilating in her bright green irises as a small smirk tugged the corners of her lips, whiskers twitching slightly as she maintained that contact with his deep brown eyes and made her way over to him, slinking her way through the small crowd of their friends gathered in the living room.

"Hey,"

"Hey."

She leaned in, supporting herself with her left forearm against the wall, looking down at him playfully. "Enjoying the party?" her fluffy, inky black tail gave a mischievous flick, wrapping around the side of her waist and brushing against his thigh lightly.

He was very clearly nervous, shrinking back against the wall, hands sweaty in his pockets as he looked up at her with a shy smile, a little electric thrum sparking at the spot her tail touched him. Holy shit she's hot, and she's a cat...keep it together man!

"Y-Yeah, just, hangin' out; how about you?" his own long, thin, sparsely haired tail thumped gently against the wall, and she gave a little chuckle, momentarily flashing those sharp canine teeth...

"Oh I'm having a great time," she leaned in closer, practically pressing her breasts into his face as his cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink, his gaze momentarily dropping to the cleavage popping out of her low cut top. "I can think of a few ways to make it even better though, if you wanna join me for some fun..."

...

A few minutes later she had him in the bathroom, stripping him of his dark hoodie and pulling down his pants, his cock already leaking precum as he sprung free of his fabric constraints. The blush never left his face as he stood somewhat awkwardly in his baggy white t-shirt, jeans around his ankles, his eager dick poking through his boxer shorts.

Fuck why was he so cute?!

"Well, what are you waiting for nerd? Put it in already..." she bullied him playfully, getting down onto all fours in front of him, tail now high in the air as she pulled her skirt up over the curve of her ass to expose her bare cunt to him; she never wore panties.

"Yeah, just like that...mmhmmm, aaall the way..." he followed her instructions, slowly pushing his surprisingly thick cock inside her tight, wet folds, his breath coming out in small pants and huffs.

"Mmmmm yeah, that feels sooo good...pump it in and out, just like that...do you think you can go harder? Oh fuck yeah, mmhmmm...right there, keep going..."

[myunghology]

OUT OF MY LEAGUE. rui kamishiro soft intimacy hcs. (non-sexual you freaks). newest work — bf texts with akito!

literally the definition of a boyfriend who gets cuteness aggression from you. rui always wants to be touching you in someway-- he always wants to pinch your face and poke your cheeks to see your face get red :(.

I AM A BIG BABY TALKER RUI TRUTHER. not those cringe ones though, like the type to do it just to piss you off or get reactions out of you! loves doing this especially when you're mad at him, specifically when you give him silent treatment.

love love looovesss your smile so much i swear. the type of boyfie to smile just from seeing yours. plus points if you have dimples, even more if you have those whisker dimples because it reminds me of his iconic :3 face.. truly the cutest pair chat!

oh, and especially when you laugh because of him. he just looks at you with total adoration for you it is actually so sickeningly sweet to everyone. and thus his cuteness aggression happens HAHAHAHA

ok so everyone thinks that rui's body temperature is cold as a headcanon but to me i say he-he-hell nawh. like yes, he's fair but i don't think he's cold.. body temperature wise. i just feel like he'd be such a comforting person to be with to the point that he's so warm.

^^ this makes a great excuse for hugging him. especially if you're a naturally cold person-- or.. a person who gets cold easily, basically. his arms wrapped around your waist while yours are around his neck is so real! if you can reach.. LOL?? (ik i can't be laughing but let me have my moment).

the type of boyfriend who'd lend you any type of his clothes; especially when you're cold etc etc. even tho it's so clear HE needs them more than you do, he still insists because he feels bad you're shivering so much from the cold, as he offers to buy you a warm cup of hot choco <3

yes, he is your personal chair. also adores it when you sit on his lap, are we surprised? even when there are so many seats available in the place you're in, he pulls you down onto his lap by grabbing your wrist. it's actually quite cute when you realize, after you think it's annoying.

wow long awaited moment.. moving on to kisses !

rui's kisses are honestly so soft and gentle :(. he loves leaving kisses everywhere on your face, but especially on your lips! if you wear some sort of chapstick or lip balm that's flavored (or even not, he just wants to kiss you.), then he'll use it as an excuse.

sucker for repeated kisses, bro will NOT give you room to breathe afterwards, he will literally pull you in even closer-- if that's even possible at this point, just to kiss you deeper. wow..

@myunghology : 40 DAYS AND 40 NIGHTSSSS IVE WAITED FOR A GIRL LIKE YOU TO COME AND SAVE MY LIFE!!!

[suguann]

REDAMANCY—JOHN PRICE

✎. You tried not to grow feelings—you really did. Feelings make things complicated, but you can’t help it. | wc. 1k+

tags. fem!reader, getting together, strangers to fwb to lovers, mild smut [18+ only]

masterlist

“John, I…” You hesitate and allow your fear to get the best of you. “We’re friends, right?”

With his sweaty forehead pressed against your shoulder, a tangle of pointy knees and elbows, you can’t bring yourself to ask him to stay. It’s never been about staying or soft-spoken words between the sheets, but things feel different from the first time he picked you out from the crowd in a bar and fucked you up against a dingy bathroom door.

Maybe it’s just you. 

The fluttering in your chest when John stops by your office at the clinic as soon as he makes it back to base, how he wraps his hand in your hair and kisses you in the entryway for everyone to see—two thick fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet as he peels your uniform out of the way to wrap his mouth around a nipple and cup you between your legs.

Perhaps it’s the softer things: a kiss on your forehead before he leaves, another souvenir from one of his missions on your bookshelf, flowers for the vase on your counter.

You tried not to grow feelings—you really did. Feelings make things complicated, but you can’t help it.

John’s just…John.

He’s quiet for a moment, then two, and you wish you could see his face until he nods, whiskers sending goosebumps across your shoulder blades. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

Somehow, you feel like you hadn’t said the right thing as he gets up and slips his jeans over his thighs—the taste of whiskey and cigarettes still on your tongue long after he’s gone.

You hadn’t believed him—still don’t.

Not when he rushes into the emergency room a few days later—some of his tactical gear still in place—right after you get into an accident, panic written all over his face. He glances at your torn scrubs and the bandages across your shoulder, assessing the damage. And when he finds that everything on the outside looks fine (or as fine as a few scrapes and bruises can be), his shoulders visibly relax—if only by a minuscule. 

This is your answer.

"It’s not as bad as it looks. You should see the other guy."

His mouth tilts ever so slightly, worry still etched across his features. "Is that right?" 

The nurse looking over your chart arches a brow at you, and heat blooms across your face, forgetting that you’re not the only two in the room. 

John clears his throat. “Could you give us a minute?”

She smirks. “Of course. If you need anything, I’ll be at the nurse’s station.”

Once the nurse leaves the room, it goes quiet. He slowly approaches the hospital bed like he doesn’t know what to say, picking up the clipboard the nurse left on your bedside table. 

“I was chasing my neighbor’s dog—Gizmo, you remember him; he likes chasing the mailman—when a moped knocked me out,” you tell him, the painkillers turning your thoughts into a tricolor ball of playdough. "Did you know I almost bought a moped once? I can't imagine why. Those things are a deathtrap with tiny wheels."

He makes a grunting noise in lieu of an actual answer.

You watch his eyes shift over your chart, thinking it’s now or never—

"Do you want to go on a date? With me?"

He glances up and stares at you with wide eyes. "Do you want to go on a date?" 

"Well, I…” You lick your lips, glancing wildly around the room. “You don't?"

"I just didn't think you'd want to."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"A number of reasons, actually. One, I'm older than you," he ticks it off like a grievance on his finger.

"So? That's never bothered me.” Then you smile. “Fucking older men is all the hype now, didn’t you know?"

John ignores you and holds up another finger. "And…"

"And what?"

He drags a hand over his mouth. "I, uh, well… I’m not good with relationships."

"That doesn't bother me either."

"It should."

"Why?"

"Because you're young.”

You roll your eyes. "You say that as if you're old. "

"Love, I am old. You can find someone better."

Love. You ignore how that makes your stomach flip pleasantly.

"You know, you play a poor devil's advocate. I’m already looking at the man I want."

He sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed with you. "Okay, let's play a game of what if." When you nod, he asks: "What if I took you on a date? Where would you like to go?"

"Hm,” you hum. “How about I tell you what I like?"

This makes him crack a smile. "That wasn't the question."

"I like music,” you tell him anyway. “Sometimes I like to go to the art district, even though I know nothing about art. I enjoy corny walks on the beach, and I don't mind flowers."

"I already know you like flowers."

“Then it should be easy.” Your lips twitch, thinking of the tulips he brought you the other night still sitting in your kitchen window. "And what if I said yes?"

"I'd say…” he sighs, reaching for your hand to delicately trace around your scratched knuckles with his thumb. “I’d pick you up from your place once you feel better. It'll probably be too cold for the beach, but maybe I’ll take you to this nice place Gaz mentioned a few weeks ago. Then I'd bring you back home,” his eyes trace over your bare collarbones and down to the top of your pants, “and make up for lost time."

You bite your lip, your heart fluttering wildly. Hopeful. Knowing it’s no longer a game.

(Was it ever? Maybe it was two people who never really knew how to find each other—who had to grow together.)

"So, it’s a date?"

“Yeah.” He kisses the back of your hand. "It's a date."

You wonder if you should get used to the pain in your cheeks from smiling so much—not that smiling from being happy is a terrible problem to have.

“Took you long enough to ask.”

“Took you long enough to say yes.”