#thinder

#justiceforAndrewTateWeatherman

He is just trying to do his job, dammit!

When Cinder gets pregnant, Thorne is the first to know (besides Kai and Iko cuz Iko would figure it out by herself)

Cinder has done an amazing job having not met any of the other people in her building. She can’t recognize them by face, she doesn’t know their names. It’s an achievement. 

Until the elevator.

Until something moves under the shirt of the man standing next to her. In opposite directions. 

She tries to keep her eyes trained on the door, willing it to open on any floor, any at all, to get rid of him or for her to just go ahead and go up the stairs upstairs. Because that’s weird. And she doesn’t want to know, and she doesn’t want to hear explanations. 

But he also keeps his gaze trained on the elevator doors, face blank. Carefully blank. 

His shirt meows. 

His brow furrows.

Cinder turns to look at him with an incredulous look, eyebrows lifted and a scowl marring her face. Well, the scowl was a permanent fixture if she was being honest. He’s handsome, and she hates that this is her first thought when looking at him. It’s true. His blond hair is perfectly tousled, the playboy version of a “wink I just got out of bed wink”. His jawline is impeccable, his mouth soft, and his chest is definitely moving in weird directions, which is where her gaze eventually drops to.

“You know cats aren’t allowed? You could get evicted,” she tells him.

“I don’t have cats.” He clears his throat. “That would be irresponsible.”

A tail sweeps out from under the hem of his shirt. Another meow. If she looks close enough, she can see the bobble of two heads with four little ears. But if she looks closely enough, she is definitely eyeing his chest, and that’s just weird. 

“Your chest is large.” It sounds as weird out loud as it does in her head, but the words are out of her mouth before she can think about it.

“I work out.” He grabs his chest, two hands over two heads, very gently. “You like?” He waggles his eyebrows, and his generous mouth sweeps into a cocky smirk. 

She gags.

He grins.

The elevator dings, and it’s her floor. Relief begins to set in, but as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again. Because he steps off of the elevator after her, with his weird meowing pecs. And he follows her down the hall.

“What are you doing?” If she sounds hostile, it’s because she is. 

He looks confused, and it’s an adorable look. “My apartment?”

“On this floor?”

“Yeah, it’s 405.” He has both his hands pressed to his stomach now, and she catches the briefest of winces as a small claw digs into a finger. 

She’s in 407. They are neighbors. Real neighbors. And he has illegal cats, smuggled in as sentient breasts. Her nostrils flare.

“Give me one of them.”

“What?”

“One of the cats. I’m in the apartment next to you, and you’re starting to bleed through your shirt,” Cinder tells him. 

“Fuck.” With a sigh, he lifts his shirt and very carefully removes a black kitten, all fluff and anger. He would, of course, give her the one that looks like it could eat everyone around them whole. But she cups it in her real hand and holds it close to her, fingers rubbing behind the kitten’s ears. The other cat is slightly larger, a short haired orange cat that seems much more subdued than their sibling. “Are you going to turn me in?”

The kitten is purring, eyes half lidded. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll let you come in and play with them,” he tells her in a sing-song voice, as if that’s really going to entice her, being alone in this dummy’s apartment with him and his cats. 

But that purr. 

“Maybe.”

His grin is all relief and real, and it makes him more attractive. “I’m Thorne, by the way.”

“That’s your first name. Really.”

“Carswell is actually my first name,” Thorne admits.

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