#request for kitty!

The evening sun could never quite reach the innermost castle courtyard. High and dark stone walls block the yellow dwarf long before its light could filter into the garden, leaving the cobbled pathways bathed in cold shade and temperature perfect for close, intimate holding.

Only stripes of rays through the thin slits of angled rooftops and tiered towers could decorate the pond and vineyard and oaks in gold.

From your place comfortably tucked into the far corner beneath the largest oak of the garden, and in spite of having spent seasons upon seasons here, you can't help but admire its fantastical beauty all over again as your company behind you is busy with his own entertainment.

Listening to the fast turns of his pages, and the here-and-there twitter of a bird, you let your eyes roam.

Paths that encourage lazy morning walks are bordered by weathered log and lit by the occasional firefly, winding throughout and across the expanse of the yard. Connecting every sight to see and place to lounge.

To the west, your left, is the elephant eared and cattail decorated pond, filled with koi of various speckled whites and oranges. A circled and fenced pavilion sits in the center as the most common resting place between you two, reached by with a bridge of rustic stone.

Ahead to the north is a vineyard, rich in purple grapes that you regularly rob whenever it is you're taking a walk out here. Layered with the type of plots you'd see in ricefields and separated by more rustic cobbled stone, which… You're not an expert, but you think it's an aesthetics design choice much more than an agriculture thing.

Your right is—

Blocked by an idly swaying tentacle. Almost agitated in its movements, actually, and a hair away from caressing the side of your face.

You imagine your company, of whom you're sat between the legs of under the garden's largest oak, has reached an upsetting part of his novel.

Mare's knee earns a gentle shake by you, in an effort to check in on him. All noise he makes in response is simply a disgruntled hum, a type of tone he only spares when he's containing how troubled he is.

Well… Now you're just sickly curious what the hell his book's out.

And though he could read your mind—which.. well. "I fail to understand what it is you find intriguing within such vulgar stories…"

…

You try to turn just over your shoulder to get a look at him, but the way you're sat is preventing that. Plus now that one tendril is actually holding your face. "So. I literally don't know what you're talking about."

"Pornography."

Excuse you? Is that one of your books he's reading?!

You can hear him place the book down onto the dirt with an audible and disappointed 'huff', and from behind he replaces the feeling tentacle with his two hands. Cupping your face.

He gently squishes your cheeks, "There will be no more of that within your library."

You're already trying to dislodge his condescending hands from you, "WHAT?" But all that does is earn your wrists restrained by his malleable appendages.

If he wants to start something, then by all means—"If you can't take the heat, then don't read about the heat, bro!"

Nightmare makes a noise at your inappropriate wordplay, and squeezes your face further in what could've been seen as cuteness aggression in any other scenario. Right now though is faux and exaggerated regret for being partners with someone crass.

You continue, though, because you live to bully him and push buttons, "I'm sorry, did the whole 'penis in va—'"

What that does is get you muffled by his palm.

…

And like he already knows you better, because he does, "Don't dare put your tongue on me."

Then where do I put it?

He drops his head to the back of your shoulder, and drawls out an annoyed groan. But you could hear the smile he's trying to hide.

Mm… You don't really like how he's finding such amusement in this, though. It's like you're not the real winner between this exchange, y'know? And if you're no longer permitted to lick him, then…

You swing a restricted elbow out best you could to catch his guard on something else, and during that split second opportunity where his hand loosened thinking he had to bind you better, you bite down into him.

…It's bone, as you expected.

But what you weren't ready for was nonchalance. Stillness. Indifference. Not even a deep-voiced squeak of protest from your king about biting him.

Nightmare's head doesn't lift from where it's resting on your shoulder, either.

All cues going to him truly being okay with this, but given his streak of absolutely caring for all things you annoy him with, you know this is a mask he's wearing.

But surely biting his hand should have elicited an immediate response, no?

So, naturally and with a taste for curiosity—a wonder for what he'll do if you push him just far enough—you put more pressure into it. Enough so that you have to focus on not straining your jaw, amidst the paranoid voice in your mind telling you to not hurt him.

But could he even be hurt? By you and your bite, at least.

…

Harder. Ignoring that thought of preservation, of trying to be sweet, like you want to hurt him. You have to know. What will he do? Anything?

…You're overexerting the muscles in your mouth, and still nothing.

Is he waiting for something? Does he like this? Why has he not reprimanded you for this yet? Or.. maybe he really just does not care, and you're hurting your jaw for nothing.

Confused more than anything, you start to loosen—

You nearly choke on a cut-off gasp, letting go of his hand the rest of the way, when he sinks his teeth into the side of your neck.

The living room is the absolute perfect temperature.

A slow day meant to be spent indoors with a loved one, doing.. pretty much not a damn thing in the company of each other.

It's comfortable. A preferred pace of literally nothing as you faintly register the fact a calm rain has started. The short-term and brain-deteriorating content on your phone all you were really caring about—without actually caring much about it.

Something you do to shut your mind off and pass a bit of time, really. A popular activity when you're sitting with Sans in the living room, butts imprinted on the cushions that sink.

In your typical position of you sat upright and flush to the backrest, while Sans… He takes a much more cuddly approach. Something you would have taken for your own, but he long established you as his teddy bear before you could protest.

..Not that you would have objected.

His legs slung over the arm of the couch, head tucked into your lap, and a little on his side facing away from you so he can read his Kindle.

The situation perfect for mindlessly scritching his skull as you just as mindlessly watch video shorts. The two of you parallel playing in content silence, snug as a bug.

…

Up until the random and unfiltered stories turned to something that actually sparked a coherent thought and an interest.

Super cute and various trends girlfriends record and do with their boyfriends. 'Would You Rathers', something where they try to finish each others' sentences, a.. 'Blindfold Kiss Challenge'? And…

The worm thing.

You forgot all about the fabled worm thing…

Would Sans do that with you?—Why was that even a question, of course he would. In a soulbeat. Dumbass cutesy shit is what he lives for. Y'all have even baked a cake with you blindfolded and him muted, so.. Like…

Movement from your lap draws you out of the one train of thought you had, though you quickly find a new one upon looking down to see what it is he's doing.

Getting impossibly more comfortable on you. Like he belongs there, on you, in your care and against your warmth.

You're struck with cuteness aggression, but you keep your hands to yourself for now.

During his adjustments, he caught your soft gaze in his peripheral, and he stops to more properly turn his head and look up at you.

His smile shifts lopsided upon 'catching you' looking at him all sweetly, and his smirk opens to prompt, "yess..?" Hoping to get something out of engaging you. Maybe a little compliment about how cute he is, because why else would you be gazing down at him like this?

But.. all he gets is a stupid and horrendously blunt question, with a tone of voice as neutral as possible, "Would you love me if I were a worm?"

…

…

He quirks a brow, though there's no other change in expression the way he's staring at you.

You push, not any deterred, "Serious inquiry."

Sans' smile very quickly changes to something bordering on insanity, his eyesockets squinting in absolute mirth—the change so fast you get a little whiplash of surprise—the type of face you've come to recognize as 'you hit his autism jackpot with this one.'

What has he done?

"i just gotta show ya somethin'."

He's already standing up, Kindle long-gone to his Inventory, and your hand is taken to pull you up to your feet with him.

You're.. being dragged to his room?

The smile he's sporting is audible, "been waiting for this question."

"Literally what? What does that mean?"

His door is slammed open, and he drops your hand to jog in.

"Sans."

You know he is absolutely vibrating with excitement when he puts in the physical effort to get on his stomach(?) and reach far beneath his bed.

Sans slings out a few sweaters that were folded, a box of Jordan's with.. you ignore the price tag you caught a glimpse of. Some heavy textbooks you could squash a horde of roaches with in one blow, more clothes (?).

Three over-flowing folders. Unnecessarily fancy ones made of brown leather, corners decorated in gold trim, and is the type with the three rings that hold papers in place.

He sits up onto his knees with them in hand. And while kicking his things back under, catches you staring weird. "what?"

Pointing at his alpha-wolf-CEO-ass folders, "How much did you spend on those?"

"garage sale. 5 gold each."

Huh.

The used-to-be-expensive folders get thrown onto his mattress, where—with excessive and giddy flare, paired with a wink at you—he swings the first one open.

Front page is labeled "The Varieties of Glass Enclosures: The Pros and Cons to Each Kind".

…Ain't no way.

He begins his presentation, "so," flipping through to pictures of different glass jars and bottles, "starting off small, we got these. cutesy and portable, sure—something i think you'd like to live in if you were a worm, but the lack of space would make it difficult to spoil you rotten. and also, a lot of these have such narrow openings, so you wouldn't even get to have a cool rock."

You're given a very pointed and serious look, "you need a cool rock." Turning back to his folder, "so these are a no-go."

He skips about twelve pages to get to aquariums that could take up an entire garage, "you'd be a worm, so i imagine it'll be okay for me to commit federal fraud under your credit lender to buy you the best of the best."

"while we're here, could you please pick out an enclosure for yourself? it would really save me the stress on my heart organ if you did it yourself. i'd hate to inconvenience you with any poor choices i make."

"…" Safe to say you're blanked the hell out.

He playfully pushes, "…well?"

You pinch your brow and shut your eyes, trying to figure out if this is real or not. "Can I decide later?"

A shrug of bony shoulders tells you that's not a problem at all, "yep!—ah, while we're also here, and something i think you'd have a far easier time deciding on than your permanent place of stay…"

Another folder is taken from the pile, and opened up to a random page somewhere in the middle.

Clothes he's drawn pictures of. And as he goes through the papers, you see he's made dozens. "how about we pick out some wormy clothes for you? something nice and presentable!"

There's five packages out in the open on their front steps, and it's well past 8pm right now. These boxes must've been here a million years (one full day), what is Edge's problem?

May as well nab them and do the boys a favor. Your one good deed before you go and bother the snot out of your boy toy.

On polite reflex, and with a very weird grip on three of five packages in both arms, you go to knock on the door—before remembering that you can just walk the hell in.

What're they gonna do, throw a bone at you?

Most Edge will do is—

You open the door, and he's already looking at you from the open kitchen, dish apron strapped on and a soapy plate in hand. "WHAT IS IT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING ON MY PROPERTY SO LATE AT NIGHT?"

Yell.

Stepping through the frame with no care at his threatening volume, you move to plop the packages down on the nearby sidetable they keep keys and bags and whatnot on. Taking your sweet time, really. "If you didn't want intruders, you should consider locking your doors. You literally never do."

"NO, I DON'T CARE FOR THAT." You can still hear him even as you go back outside for the remaining two boxes. "YOU SHOULD NOT BE OUT SO LATE IN THE EVENING! IT IS DANGEROUS BY YOURSELF."

…Oh, "That's awful sweet, I think? But it's not like I walked here."

He just grunts. Loudly, of course.

"I will be walking up to your brother's room to mess with him, though. Good night."

Another, louder grunt.

…

He bids a bit more of a 'proper' goodbye that you hear from where you're already at, way up the stairs around the corner, "THANK YOU FOR THE PACKAGES!"

"Yep! Whatever!"

Red had a lock on his doorknob a few months ago til a petty squabble ended up in the lock being removed for a smooth handle, much to everyone's (Red's, mostly) displeasure.

Edge's displeasure in the sense that he was torn a whole new one in a fist fight, and Red's because he no longer has privacy.

Sucks for him.

You open his bedroom door wide like you own the place, and there he is. Back turned to you and lounging in his messy yet incredibly comfortable nest of a bed.

It's remarkably dark. His black-out curtains are doing the most phenomenal job of snuffing out the lights. You only know Red's on his bed—and can see him—is because he's got his phone on and shining bright enough to illuminate the immediate space of him and his bed.

You're only not over by his side already because you're afraid of what could possibly be littering his bedroom floor. He doesn't deal in laundry hampers.

And also he has a winning streak of chucking things at Edge whenever he barges in, like what you've just done.

Red doesn't always look to see who it is before he throws things, so, for precaution you're staying put in case you have to dodge—although you really could have knocked to avoid the whole thing. But there's simply no fun in playing it that safe, y'know?

The mattress creaks as he props on an elbow and looks over his shoulder, a lone red eyelight breaking through the dark and silhouetted by the brightness of his phone.

Okay, that's intimidating.

He squints, "the hell's yer deal? quit standing there and git o'er here."

…You're going to ignore how calm he's being. It's hard to clock a man's behaviors when he switches up so frequently. All that 'he throws things' talk and for what? "That's tempting and all, but how clean is your floor?"

You quickly find that the answer is it's not alright to traverse blindly.

Red makes the whiniest grunt ever, not wanting to move, but he'll do it for you. Begrudgingly rolling (flopping) over onto his back and the other side of the bed to reach across to his nightstand, where he taps the base of his touch-lamp and it comes on.

The first thing your peripheral catches is the laundry hamper with pants slung over it. Rest of his dirty wardrobe is on the floor.

An attempt was made, you suppose. You'll train him yet.

Your attention's caught by his little audible huff, and you make eye contact with him again.

His expression is soft, a face reserved for you alone, but his voice and attitude remain grumpy like he's afraid of being caught lacking, "what d'you want?"

"Preferably to take my anger out on something." You make your way over, doing what feels like parkour around his clothes.

Red starts to visibly sweat at the double-meaning implications, which you've worded on purpose to mess with him, and he chooses the safer option, "…in, like.. what way? am i about to get my shit rocked?"

He lightly flinches when you start getting into bed with him, immediately going into nervous ramblings, "woah there, cheetah—i get i'm in boxers, but i ain't one. you don't—"

"Oh my God, shut up and make room."

Red shrinks in on himself and promptly sits up, "yes, dear."

He shuffles all the way to against the wall, making sure he doesn't take any unnecessary amount of blanket with him so you can have your share, and you make yourself right at home in his space. In his bed. Under his covers and taking one of his pillows like it were yours.

Or, well… It actually is yours.

He never owned more than one pillow before meeting you. And after finding that you'd be sticking around longer than any relationship he's ever had, he went through the trouble of making his space welcoming.

Starting with spare pillows.

And also with his attitude.

Red's grown softer. He readily lays out his arm in offering for you to rest your head on instead of the pillow, which you take.

It would've been uncomfortable, given he's got no meat on him, but his jacket is so thick that it makes up for all of it.

Now, you're not sure why he's wearing his thick ass jacket inside whilst lounging in his bed like he plans on falling asleep soon, but whatever. His ways of living are sometimes lost on you.

He greedily tucks you into himself with a shimmy of his arm you're on, and he scoots just as close to meet you halfway.

The blanket's fyumped over the two of you, nice and cozy, and he draws his phone back out. High in front for you to see clearly, too.

"wanna watch wi'h me?"

It's… is that Bumblebee from Transformers? On YouTube?

He clocks your only slightly judgmental expression and flicks your forehead with the arm you're resting on, "it was a free movie, git off your high horse."

"Yeah, but how many times do I need to offer you the streaming service I already pay for? It takes nothing to make you your own account."

"shut up and watch the movie, dipshit."

You don't think your eyes could roll any farther back, but when he rewinds the movie to the beginning for you, and adjusts himself to be able to scratch your head, you very quickly decide his insolence can be forgiven.

Fat chance you may just fall asleep like this, actually. He's warm, and the attention to your head and fingers through your hair is lulling.

You dip your head a little farther into the crook of his shoulder, right into the dense fluff of his hood. It's nice. He's nice.

He follows, tilting his head to nudge yours gently in a nuzzle, "comfortable?"

There's a warmth in the air of your room that wasn't there before. And no, it's not originating from the heater you had just turned on a few moments ago, nor is it you suddenly having gotten warm beneath your several blankets.

It's the type of heat in the atmosphere that you're intimately familiar with. That holds and hugs and cuddles you far better than any weighted, heated blanket could.

The magic that signifies Dust has just shown.

You sit up the smallest bit in your bed, pushing back the corner of a blanket, and there he is. At the foot of your mattress, both hands in his pockets, posture low in some type of stalk (his standard pose), and staring right down at you.

Or what you think is right down at you. His face is obscured yet again. Can't even see his eyelights shine through.

Not quite sure what else he could possibly be lookin' at, though.

You draw a hand up to your forehead to make a lazy 'flip the hood' gesture, but you're ignored. And the best response you could come up with to being dismissed is to ignore him in return, rolling over in bed and tucking yourself back in. Like he's not even there.

He disliked that.

Dust is a man of… well, he's a needy attention hog, but he doesn't want to be the one to work for any of it. So, he's not a fan when you make him have to put in effort to get what he wants.

You hear his slippers 'thunk' away against something, the weight of his steps as he nears you, and then there's a dip in the bed where he hiked a knee up.

"move."

You couldn't possibly roll your eyes any farther north. "I'm too tired for your shit." But, alas, you make plenty of room for him.

"doubt you're tired."

Yeah, sure, whatever. He's not any better about sleep. "Leave me be."

You're ignored. He quietly and greedily takes the space beside you without any hesitation, like he belongs here—and you could probably say that he does.

Although he doesn't pay any of the bills around here, so you'll continue to lightheartedly specify the 'probably' in belonging in your space and home.

He most definitely does. It's just that you both haven't put a label on anything yet.

Dust snags the end of the blanket from your offered hand, and dips himself right beneath, already shimmying himself to get up close to you with no care in the world.

You get about two seconds to process that he is particularly NEEDY tonight before he goes as far as to lock his arm with yours(?).

The side eye you give him gets ignored—the avoidance a trend between y'all—and you feel as his gloved hand drags across the skin of your forearm. Dust's phalanges find your palm, pressing into the give of it, and then slides the last bit upward to your fingers where they twine.

He's holding your hand all sappy-like, but also there's zero pressure. His hand is lax and hardly even holding you, really.

You give him a small squeeze and shift your head to face him, but he's looking straight up at the ceiling. His eyelights and expression are visible, though.

The red of his eye is hardly there. The blue's blown out like he's enjoying himself, but his brow is tense.

Can't help but tease him for not holding your hand properly, though, "Got plans to be emotionally constipated all night?"

He makes a soft noise in response. Probably a grunt.

You simply squeeze his hand again, "Thought so—"

Turns out you were wrong. And you're yet again reminded that Dust is indecisive. But what he did figure out is that laying right beside you and touching your arm isn't enough.

He has a concept of personal space, sure, but after you've previously convinced him that he deserves things (a long time of work), Dust has become unpredictable.

And increasingly clingier.

He suddenly sits up, almost startling you, and there's no time to waste when he's already moving to crawl on top of you.

The space between your legs and across your body becomes his resting spot.

There's a small battle he has with the blanket to try getting it perfect over the both of you, and after deeming that to his standard, he drops his head to your shoulder and settles down, his arms sprawled outward and feet probably hanging off the bed.

He's like a… you want to say a 'cat', but you don't want to offend him.

You feel him exhale his discarded tension against your skin like it was punched out of him, and the remainder of his weight is put on you when he relaxes.

Dust is heavy, but not so much that it's uncomfortable. If anything, you could probably describe it as 'grounding'.

You're just glad he can find comfort in you. Or, well… on you. Your relationship—whatever it is—has been hard. But things get better, and things have gotten better.

He lets you cup the back of his clothed head in one hand, and your other you press to the center of his back to keep him to you.

You smooth your hand up and down him, trying to see if you can take a peek beneath his hood. You can't. "Y'alright?"

Seems you don't get to have any answers this time around. All he does in response is turn his face to press into your neck, and grumbles incoherently against your skin.

So, naturally you decide to dote a little extra on him, since he's chosen to act all cute and whiny.

You hug him the slightest bit firmer to you, and tip your head the very short distance needed to kiss him on the top of his skull through his hood.

He immediately tenses.

Like he wants to sit up and get off of you, which you brace and ready for, already arming yourself with an apology for upsetting him—but after a small and quiet beat, he settles again. Going fully lax once more.

He decided he liked it.

Shifting your hand placement to hold the back of his neck instead of his head, you gently and slowly massage him there while you pamper the rest of his noggin in small and noiseless kisses; although on his fabric and not his actual skull, since he's not quite presenting that real estate to you.

His breathing is slow and soft on your neck as you love on him, his body and posture relaxed and loose, the tension having completely faded under your attention.

Though, per the usual, he's a greedy son of a bitch.

Dust finally brings his arms forward, looping them around your shoulders as he sits up the very slightest bit—just enough to be able to lift his head and look at you beneath lidded eyelights.

You don't move away when he draws himself closer, his blue'd out and fuzzy lights leaving your gaze to drop to your lips, and he presses his own to you. Soft, unhurried.

There's the smallest bite to your bottom lip, but it was hardly felt, and even abandoned in favor of kissing you slowly a second time. Like he quickly realized doing it sweetly fit the vibe far better.

And only those two kisses was what he wanted.

He's just as slow falling back to rest himself on you, moving his arms to wrap around your waist instead of your shoulders, and the energy in the room changes to a far more satisfied one.

Maybe the two of you will actually drift to sleep at a decent hour, with the comfort of each other.

If his mouth's not busy with some part of you laid out across whatever surface looked most fun in the heat of that particular moment, he's talking. Would still talk even with his abnormally hot tongue busy kitten licking into you, fully understanding that the vibrations of his vocals are only making it harder for you to keep yourself composed, but y'know… Him seeing the lined welts along your thighs from him keeping you held open is always a really pretty sight for his lack of eyes. If only he had a better habit of keeping his phone charged…

In the midst of sweat-kissed blankets on your bed, nearing your first finish, he knows. And however y'all ended up (typically tame positions, oddly enough), he finds some way to dip his head closer to the side of yours, "c'moooon—" his voice starting to clip, but he's playing it off, "c'mon, c'mon. yer getting there, ain'tcha? yeahh, bet you fuckin' are."

And when you try squirming away from his quickening pace, his rougher handling, the bruises being left for his later entertainment, he just cackles under his labored and choppy breath, "nope—i know, i know." Feigning sweetness, but his upturned smile is giving him away, and so is the way his blunt fingertips dig stingingly deeper into your skin to steady you still, "but don't it feel sooo good? hehhe… yer doin' fuckin'—angel-damned perfect, so stop moving." Every syllable accentuated with a pant, a reflexive squint of his eyes as he struggles, a well-placed and harder ram into you.

You're seeing red-tinted stars behind a black curtain. And hearing how the closer he gets, the less he has to say.

You vaguely register the way his head is hung, his Soul warbling, jaw clenched and posture tighter. He's not smiling anymore. His game's off, he's losing himself in you, it's become too much for him just as it became too much for you more than half an hour ago.

His breath was punched out a baker's dozen thrusts ago, but he knows you've got another one in you. He's holding off just barely to see how you flinch and jerk and weakly paw so pretty under him.

Killer's dumbass remarks and baiting have effectively turned into labored grunts, groans and growls into your skin. And speaking of G's… He doesn't tease when you're both at the end like this. You don't often see him work so hard at something. He wants it to be as good for you as you were so good for him.

Blood might have been drawn from how tightly he gripped at you while you were gripping him, but that's just something of a bonus to lazily kiss away while you're both coming off of it.

He has the stamina leftover to wholesomely dote on you as you come back to him with a voice he's already started to miss, low-lidded eyes he's excited to look into, a smile he can't wait to kiss.

The heat of your back porch patio would have been too uncomfortable if you didn't have this stand-up fan.

Sure, it's shaded with a ceiling, and sure you could have just done this inside, but sewing by hand is most enjoyable when you're kicking off—rocking back and forth—on the ceiling-vaulted bench swing.

Here and there sounds of birds, the muffled noise of neighbors equally minding their business, cars passing on by.. The creak of your swing's chains. Your fan working double-time, giving an almost lulling white noise sound.

Hands steadily moving, you steadily moving as you absentmindedly swing in this peace, fingers non-stop with busywork you begged him to let you do.

Mending Dust's jacket of its abhorrent number of cuts and rips.

It's nearly finished, too. You've not been keeping track of the time, but given he's not yet out of his shower, it's at least been a while.

You'd say an hour and a half, give or take.

He… mm.

Dust takes the longest showers you've ever seen. It's almost comical if you weren't so genuinely baffled. And also concerned…—for the cost of resupplying your soap so frequently. Like, hello? He's so expensive.

When you got into this relationship, you didn't think he'd assert himself as a cute little sugar baby.

…He's not actually one in the fricking slightest, but internal banter is how you're choosing to cope.

At least it gives you time to make the final stitch in the final tear.

In time for the back door's hinges to alert you of a presence—statistically Dust's, right? You look up to see who it is, just for that good paranoid measure, and…

It was Dust, yeah, but not wearing what you were expecting.

Instead of a regular lounge fit you were imagining he'd put on, or at least his everyday get-up minus the jacket—it's the everyday get-up, PLUS an identical blue jacket on.

Visibly cleaner. Newer. Like it was literally just freshly acquired from a four-arm rack at a clothing store.

…What. What?

Then what was the point in letting you go through this trouble if he had a replacement?!

He's already crossed the patio and to the bench swing with you. Taking a seat, fishing his phone from his Inventory, and crossing a leg over the other.

All lax and content beside you. Not a tense 'muscle' in his shoulder or anything.

You hear him opening up Minecraft. The main menu music that you only need to register a few notes of to recognize because of how often you two play together.

If you were to stab him with a small sewing needle, would it do anything to bone?

He goes into the survival world you share, and he starts opening and closing all of your chests. The noise making you lose what composure you had, and your brow twitches.

You finally ask, "So.. where'd ya get that?"

He stops his semi-annoying onslaught of looking for an item he's misplaced, and turns his skull just enough to see what you're talking about.

And when you point to his jacket, and then a much more vague gesture to the one in your hand..

"infinite jackets."

—No, right, that makes sense!!!

Dust returns to his game, and you're just as quick to continue interrogating him. Not out of anger or malice or.. maybe frustration, but nothing severe. It's more such raw confusion that you can't place.

The type of bafflement at something where it feels you can only relieve the fog in your head by being theatrical and dramatic, "So. Help me to understand something, right?" Your voice raised a pitch, "What was the point in letting me fix your crap if you have infinite jackets?"

But he doesn't answer. You don't get whatever closure your reflexes were seeking.

You hear him begin to mine stone, and then the creaks of the swing's chains return. What you didn't realize had stopped until he only now took over the kicking for you.

He kills a skeleton in his game, and you briefly wish you could do the same.

With his old jacket in a tighter grip, you snap up the rest of your belongings, and then use the momentum of the swing to push off and to your feet in one motion.

Leaving, marching off inside in a huff that already makes you feel better, "Okay, I'm gonna do whatever I want to your jacket! It's mine now, thanks!!"

Slamming the door shut behind you, not letting him get a word in. Although he wouldn't have to begin with.

…

He didn't answer any questioning because he thought it was cute of you to do something like that for him.

You were quick to recall a popular pet name of his, and had gotten to work. In… what you think to be pettiness? Wanting to pull a reaction from him?

Not that you even remember the purpose of this anymore.

You had, at some point in your endeavors deep within your sewing machine, forgot about what brought you here.

All of your supplies lain out, along with a blue pillow case you tore up for its fabric (a spare you got for Dust), and a 3g pillow you pull apart for its stuffing when making other crafts.

So locked in on a project the past two hours that you've lost sense of everything outside your room.

..Well. You kind of need to be, when operating something that could so easily go through your finger.

And after all the crafty labor, the problem-solving creativity you've hard-earned from past practice and experimentation, and an annoying amount of pulling stitches to re-do it all.. It's done.

With one last and very firm tug to the ears, borderline abusing them to see if it's actually done, and will stay done for a long time—it is.

Quick to put it on, excited to bask in the euphoria of having finished a project (and also to stand up straight), you don't even bother zipping it up before you're already playing with the ears that… you find drapes all the way down to your chest.

Okay, that was an oversight and not how long you meant for the ears to be, but it's still cute and fun!!

Rocking back and forth, side to side, watching them bounce and swing and sway..

And then you bump into something hard behind you.

Dust, who you forgot was here, had at some point entered the room under your notice and was right there watching you for an unknown amount of time.

You back away on startled instinct, hitting the desk, knocking over your chair, the bunny ears swishing hard and fast; before it all finally settles. Your heartrate, too.

The two of you staring at each other.

"I literally forgot you were here. Hi. Hi?"

You're graced with a hum in the back of his throat, but otherwise no actual response. Meanwhile, the staring contest goes on.

Eye contact not any broken when he takes the two steps into your space to reach a hand for you—for the ears you've desecrated his past(?) jacket with.

He looks at you a little longer before being the one to glance away first. To the ears, where he gives them a small tug that takes you an inch with it.

You want to hit him with a snarky 'Okay, buddy.' But your desire to see where this'll go overrides the sass.

Wondering how he'll react, what he'll do, how he'll handle what you did. Staying put where he has you by the ear, and letting him explore what you've done to his hood.

But you can't read him. Not this time, at least.

…Up until he suddenly loosens his hold, and you catch an amused huff under his breath.

With the long and draping ear still held in his lax palm, his tone having a.. flair to it? If you didn't know him so well, you wouldn't have noticed the change in voice.

"swap me."

You blink, "…What?"

He lets go, though not bothering to take a step back as he starts to strip his newer hoodie off. And like nothing is wrong with his behavior, now clad in just his light grey turtleneck, he offers you what he was wearing.

"trade."

…You do. Mindlessly, because a part of you has decided that blanking out and doing as told would be better than questioning his impossible behavior ANY further. Taking off your bunny one, and you swap.

His grab carrying a wisp of excitement that you notice, but he just.. holds it in his one hand. Looking down at the lump of fabric like… You don't know, actually.

He's being weird—and he's gone. What. What?

Dust shortcutted away out of literally nowhere. No cue, social or otherwise; just gone.

Okay.

Well. Another morning without word from Dust.

You don't know what it is Dust does when he absolutely fucks off like that, but.. whatever.

Not picking up your calls or texts, either.

He'll eventually come around, you suppose. He's never vanished longer than a week, and it's been…You don't remember.

Like, what, three days? He's fine.

Not quite sure why 'three days' was so hard for you to remember. Maybe because you've only just woken up not long ago.

Dust used to not come back for almost two months, so wow, what an improvement!

…You shouldn't be so snarky this early in the.. 9am is not that early, calm down.

—The air shifts.

Turning to greet your (intruder) GUEST, this routine of him showing up unannounced a normalcy between you two, though he can still somehow manage to catch you by surprise.

Though this time, the 'surprise' being he's wearing the bunny ear modified hoodie.

The exaggeratedly long fabric framing his face as he keeps his head and posture low, looking up at you from beneath lidded sockets.

Morning sunlight from a window creeps onto his cheekbones, revealing a dusting of lilac flush. Barely there, but you see it.

He lifts his head the slightest inch, and the ears shift with him.

"morning."

…Dust Bunny.

The karaoke on the other side of the bar is becoming increasingly harder to ignore.

It had been a very simple endeavor of tuning it out when you first walked in with Horror about half an hour ago, ready to modestly party in celebration of Birch's first job (and to lightheartedly bother him), but now the atmosphere is downright unbearable.

Or.. maybe you're just becoming irritable.

You weren't paying attention to what Birch was mixing into the colorful and fun drinks you were pointing at.

You wanted to challenge him and his brand new mixology certification, and chose what looked like the two most aggravating drinks to craft up.

His face was so focused and tensed that you could've sworn you heard a band in his braces snap. Aside from what you think needs to be another visit to the orthodontist to get that checked out, he made your drinks like it was childs' play.

It certainly looks like Birch earned that certificate.

…Anyway, you think there was tequila in both of them. That's what you were trying to get at.

Tequila gets you pissed off for, like… about half an hour. You can walk this off in a minute, it'll be fine.

You're sure the karaoke sounds great… But you still want to snap the microphone from out of that girl's hands.

There is very suddenly a gruff and drawling voice that sounds almost inside of your head, but it's actually just to your immediate left. "i c'n almost smell the anger on ya, l'il."

You look over in time to see him menacingly sit up a little in his bar stool, almost.. posturing? What?

"…You can?"

"no." And then he casually waves over his brother like he didn't just purposefully startle you.

You hate this guy.

Horror's a piece of shit sometimes, but he's also really cute, so you suppose he can be quickly forgiven.

Birch comes bouncing over—almost literally—"MORE FRIES?"

Your most recently emptied glass is gestured to, "two of whatev'r the hell ya gave 'em. red sparkly.. shit."

The bartender's eyelights comically squint behind his large glasses, looking deep into Horror's with a serious everything that tells you Birch is very suddenly in protective brother mode. "ARE YOU SURE? IT'S GOT… …" Birch suddenly leans obnoxiously forward at the hip, and honest-to-God genuinely whispers, something you didn't know he could do, "It has monster alcohol…"

You butt in, "I drank monster alcohol?"

A large and nicked hand drops onto your head in the worst head pat ever, "yer fine." And back to his brother, "i'll take it."

"BUT YOUR… REGULATION…"

His huh?

Horror just shrugs at whatever that meant, and you audibly hear Birch gulp in response to what seems like his older brother's bad decision(?).

You'll ask later. Sounds like Horror's not gonna be the 'designated shortcutter', which is fine. You guys can catch a bus when you're done bugging Birch, it's cool.

He's sloshed.

And during the lecture you just front-row witnessed Birch lay out on Horror, you learned that this intolerance is only applied to monster alcohol.

A monster could get a fix—a minor one, typically—on human alcohol, but your beverages aren't the same.

What gets a monster actually drunk is the magic within their drinks. It spikes their mana lines, giving them that inebriation.

And that mention of 'regulation' you overheard was apparently Horror's issues regulating his mana. Originating from his injury. A disability(?). So… in short, his tolerance was critically shot.

Both boys thought it would be alright enough for Horror to have some liquor, because he's a pretty tough guy and it's been years since the blow to his head, but wow that didn't work out—

Your barstool is almost pulled out from under you when Horror grips the frame of it and jerks you toward him.

You would've gotten immediate vertigo if he hadn't dropped his heavy head atop your's, shocking you out of the minor dizzy spell from being yoinked.

…There's a purr building within his throat, which you very vividly feel rumbling against the crown of your head where he's aggressively nuzzling you.

Okay. This is becoming an issue.

Well..! Not really, no. You live for his attention and his overwhelming cuddles, but maybe not at a bar and in front of his younger brother.

He pulls at your middle and nearly yanks you off your seat and onto his, which would have been his lap because he takes up his entire stool.

You managed to catch yourself with a hard palm to his shoulder, keeping yourself seated where you're meant to be.

Let's not get Birch fired on his first day off training. You need to get Horror home before a scene is caused.

You catch the lanky one's attention when he circles back, waving your wallet at him in a signal.

He takes the briefest of glances at Horror, his rapidly deteriorating state, his grip on you, and immediately nods in understanding. Yeah, the bear's got to go. He knows his brother'd be safest with you.

…Okay, but am I safest with him?

The bus ride home could not possibly be any farther away from your place. The road feels so unnecessarily stretched out.

It's not all that crowded in here, although there's plentiful enough people looking at you for you to feel more claustrophobic than what's actually encompassing the entirety of you.

Horror is a brick wall of warmth, on what is metaphorically like all four sides of you.

Instead of the three combined seats you guys typically take up together (because he's a big boy and needs two), it's been narrowed down to that simple two—he is almost sitting on you. Enough so that a seat's been freed up.

His far leg is slung over the both of your's, almost folding himself over you, his arms right around your shoulders in what could look like a chokehold from another angle, and you're right back with his head on top of your's.

The purr is stronger, and this time audible. He sounds like a big, happy predator cat.

He could also be mistaken for a motorcycle in the distance.

Thinking of him as an oversized, cuddly cat is funnier, though. You feel like you're his childhood kitten toy that he's found after all these years, and he doesn't want to lose you again.

…Remembering cute cat videos like that is a really good distraction for the fact that you're being cuddled to death on public transportation.

His next purr cuts to a grumble that you feel vibrate your head, and you get squeezed into what's just about to be a true chokehold.

You frantically tap at his forearms like you're tapping out of a wrestling match—"Horror."

And then he whines.

Stars have actual mercy. You're never letting him drink again. In fact, you're restricting his diet to WATER just to be safe.

"We're almost home. You can go to bed soon." And water. You're going to make him have water.

…Wait, what helps monsters come off mana spikes?

A quick phone call balanced between your shoulder and ear as you juggle a bear and house keys… isn't pretty.

In fact, it's almost like you're inside of a fever dream. You've taken care of Horror before, sure, but he's gone actual 'baby mode'.

Is this typical of drunk monsters? Or is this something specific to him? …Actually, you really think you're okay not knowing.

You are babysitting an overgrown dog that would only feel close enough if he were buried beneath your skin.

…Clifford. Clifford The Big Red Dog.

Well, you've got his next Halloween costume in mind.

You should consider your obituary next. And maybe a set of keys that isn't so horrendously hard to wrangle. You can not for the life of you unlock your front door, and it doesn't help that you're being insistently tugged left and right by your boyfriend.

—All this tugging has distracted you.

You fix your phone before it slips from where it's pressed to your ear, offering your (not really) free hand for Horror to occupy himself with. "Sorry, what did you just say, Birch?"

There's the clatter of customers in the background, but he's making the multitask work just about as well as you are, "THE ONLY THING HE CAN DO IS SLEEP IT OFF. THERE'S NO 'QUICK FIXES' FOR MONSTER ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION LIKE THERE IS WITH HUMANS."

"You must be lying."

There's a pause. "WELL… YOU COULD GET HIM TO DRAIN UP HIS EXCESS MAGIC, BUT I WOULD IMAGINE THAT'S NOT ON THE TABLE WHEN HE'S UNDER THE INFLUENCE AND CAN'T MAKE PROPER DECISIONS FOR HIMSELF."

…Ah.

You finally get the key in the damn knob, "Yep, sounds like we're going to sleep—"

You're yanked. Broken through a shortcut right inside, dropping everything to the carpet in your panic, the both of you crashing sideways on your couch, just as you proclaimed victory against the door and made a plan.

"HELLO?" Birch calls out from the floor.

…

A third drink is about to be required. You're on the cusp of losing your marbles.

There is finally a stillness.

It did not take a whole lot of effort to convince Horror to free you from the couch. The prospect of a more comfortable space piqued his interest so fully that you were lifted with a speed typically reserved for someone smaller than him.

He made the mightiest work of bringing you bridal into your bedroom, where he placed you in the middle of your mattress and then laid himself right on over you.

You'd whine about needing a blanket, but he is radiating enough heat for you to be genuinely comfortable.

It's nice. You're finally away from the chaos of it all and are somewhere you're much more in control of.

…Well, you're not really in control of what's happening, but it's leagues better than what you originally had to work with.

He's listening to more of what you're saying. He's quiet and still. He's being all sweet.

Horror's mellowing out. He must be enjoying the privacy and safety of your bedroom, too. A familiar space. Dim-lit and comfortable.

You certainly feel that way about safety and comfort. And you're loving being out of the spotlight of public.

You're out of that horrible situation. It's okay to relax and be still. To allow yourself to be held and used as his source of comfort.

He's being used as a source of comfort, too, so it's not like you're being scammed.

Horror makes a move, suddenly deciding he wants more of you.

You're scooped clean around your middle, where he squeezes and pulls at like he's about to lift you from the bed, and he does.

He takes you upright with him and then drops to his side, again taking you with him.

The two of you now facing each other. The black iris within his red eye the roundest and most blown out you've seen of him. Again reminding you of a very big and happy cat.

It's warbling, too. Something you very intimately recognize as an affectionate expression; one he looks at you with often.

And then, while tucking you under his chin and in his arms, he grumbles, "i love you.."

…

You don't think you've ever been more parental over a boy in your entire life. You have got to give this man everything you have.

His hug is returned. The most enthusiastically you've moved since the start of this shit show.

As far around his upper body that you could wrap your arms around, you couple it with doing your best to twine his heavy legs with yours, which he happily helps with.

And to top it all off, you decide to draw a hand upward to the back of his head, massaging the base of his neck.

He melts in to you even farther, his deep purr returning.