I'm eat kids 🧌

The voice shot like liquid chocolate to the base of Mistoffelees’ spine, and his hips arched up off the armchair without his permission. Skimbleshanks’ fangs snagged against his throat, a sharp thrill of warning, and Mistoffelees dug his fingers into the arms of the chair so hard he could feel it creak.

He was pinned with only one point of contact: Skimbleshanks in his lap, straddling his thighs, and the tantalising promise every moment of something more as Skimbleshanks’ breath ruffled along the fur where his collar should be, setting it tingling and electric.

Mistoffelees still wasn’t sure about this. It was weird. Was it weird? Okay, sure, so he and Munkustrap had... this sort of mentor-with-sometimes-benefits thing... and there had been that one time with Skimbleshanks during the Ball, but everyone knew it didn’t count under the Jellicle moon, and... but Skimbleshanks and Munkustrap had this whole co-protector bond thing where they could practically read each other’s thoughts, the way you only got when you’d been friends for years and years and had grown into being a part of each other, and Mistoffelees was used to being on the outside, he was the quirky little magician that nobody was ever really comfortable around, and he was fine with it, he was. So why did they keep trying to... “Don’t think about it, Mistoffelees,” Skimbleshanks growled, soft and irresistible in his ear.

… to become a part of him too? Mistoffelees felt the heat and the weight of Skimbleshanks’ thighs shift on top of him, felt the flex of powerful muscles as Skimbleshanks leaned back; but the husky rumble of Munkustrap’s purr so close still came as a shock.

“You can’t stop this one thinking. You should know that by now, sir.” “And it seems I can’t make you stay where you’re told.” Mistoffelees could feel the light syrupy vibration of that voice right across his bare thighs where he was pressed in tight, could almost feel the quiver of it in the sensitive flesh right nearby, just where he wasn’t being touched, just where Skimbleshanks’ paws kept promising and never delivering. Munkustrap chuckled, deep and rich and tender. “I do apologise, sir. But you know me.” There was a pause, minute, a shift of air and the ripple of a sigh. “I like to touch.” Mistoffelees’ eyes flew open.

Munkustrap’s green-gold eyes glinted at him over Skimbleshanks’ shoulder, just the shade of a smirk. He was looming behind him, broad body pressed against the slender back, framing his orange-gold with dark silver. The hands that Mistoffelees knew so well were running their tantalising course over Skimbleshanks’ sides, down the sharp cut of his hip, up over his belly, just skimming over the first few hairs down there. And then down, dancing light and knowledgeable down over his thigh: brushing where he was pressed against Mistoffelees. Skimbleshanks’ eyes were pressed shut, like he didn’t trust himself to stay in charge, to stay grounded. Like they were a window onto the core of him, and Munkustrap’s paws could reach right into the centre of that and twist. Mistoffelees knew the feeling. “Mistoffelees,” Skimbleshanks rasped, the shreds of his self-control all broken up, and that was definitely hot. “You’ve opened your eyes, haven’t you?” It was all dire and stern with frustration, and Mistoffelees flashed his teeth right back at Munkustrap’s grin and leaned forward in the chair to cup his paws over Skimbleshanks’ knees, to run them up his thighs to meet Munkustrap’s, to nuzzle his mouth open and hot into orange fur under his chin.