★彡 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥…𝘚𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦? 彡★
𝘓𝘰𝘨 𝘖𝘯𝘦; 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦; 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 — 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯
THIS HAS BEEN EDITED IF YOU REMEMBER SOMETHING ELSE NO YOU DON’T.
tw: MDNI, no detailed smut (it’s brief, gossiping), reader is a virgin and a stupid oblivious one at that, mentions of suicide, jokes about racism and autism, mentions of drugs, swearing, cursing, witchcraft is implied (briefly, somewhat unimportant), whole things cringe, the whole shebang of stupidity and invincible canon violence and crass jokes.
Oh, and one mention of (y/n).
There may be typos. Idc. Tired of rereading this and double checking.
authors note: oh we are so back.
I did get lazy at the end. Sorry if it’s obvious, I just didn’t know how to end it.
um, yes so haven’t had the itch to write tbh. i mentioned it briefly, but i’ll just say it again. I had to put down my sweet cat on Friday and I’ve been crying like…nonstop. I miss my cat. My pretty, pretty calico with fur that fluffed up like a little lion.
But if I like don’t do something to distract myself, I’m gonna go more crazy than I am. Also, i may have kind of, sorta, accidentally made a poppet/effigy of myself for her along with a Polaroid of me, so she wouldn’t be alone in the grave/afterlife and would know I still loved her dearly. But I mean, in my defense, i did not know what a poppet was. And I think all the really matters is intent. So. Um….accidental witchcraft?
Promise I’m not like super crazy guys. Anywho, since I initially created Chancuex inspired by my little lion, this was needed. And if every chapter with this cat is bittersweet, with the vibe of “treasure what you have now, you’ll never know when you’ll lose it,” that’s why.
Also, for reference, these are the slippers your wearing. Deal with it. Yes, it’s a reference to my calico cat. Because I don’t know how to mourn like a normal person.
Alr, enough of that or I’m gonna sob. And if you think I wrote this last minute? You’re so right.
master list for this miniseries
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
It’s been about a month since you’ve taken in sweet, little Chancuex. He’s gotten bigger, fluffier, and god, you’ve never had cuteness aggression this hard before.
Especially, on days like this. Curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped as tight as possible, listening to your long-distance best friend as she gets ready for a date.
You’ve been sick all week, the congestion making you sound like a bitch who snorted coke for the first time and did it wrong. College had been long, and hard, and neverending—kind of like your best friends sex life, which is what you’re listening to as of right now. She’s telling it like she’s on a dudebro podcast, while you and Chanceux exchange glances of “…holy shit, in the auditorium??”
Or well, you are. Chancuex is more content to lay in your lap, and purr louder than a boat’s motor. But Chancuex always seems to understand the look, or at the very least—has learned to give glances like he understands. He’s mainly in it for the pets and the pieces of chicken you keep spoiling him with.
You don’t dwell too hard on that. As long as you don’t seem the only one scandalized during this FaceTime, you’re okay.
‘She’s a theatre major,’ you remind yourself. ‘She’s going to be freaky like that.’
“…so anyway, doors locked, we’re finally alone, and he’s got me bent over on this couch prop set up on the stage, fucking me like he hates me. Full on like we were doing a play on porno’s, probably sounded like that too. And like, for context, it was supposed to be a quickie since I had a lecture in 20 minutes—but girl. Girl, I did not go to that lecture. I was too busy being lectured on what a slut I am—”
Your eyes widened, though you really shouldn’t be surprised given her track record. You watch as she reapplies her mascara for the fifth time, since she lost the lashes you bought her for Christmas.
You glance down to Chancuex, who’s watching her like it’s his favorite TV show. Then you glance up at her again, covering Chancuexs ears, as if he could understand her vulgarity.
Spoiler alert; he can’t, and half the time, you can’t either.
“…okay, I love you, love the story, but there is a child in the vicinity—”
She crinkles her nose, brow furrowing as she stared back at you with disdain. Her hand pauses on applying her lip liner, rolling her eyes at your behavior. Because, you both know the retelling was getting good.
“Your cat does not constitute as a child, just admit your little virgin self is quaking in her boots—”
You gasped. Offended, scandalized, and on the verge of throwing hands—like a Karen being told that she was served by the manager instead of a regular, dead inside customer service worker that she thought she could get fired.
“Wrong! I’m not even wearing boots! I’m wearing the calico cat slippers Ma got me and don’t you dare say that Chanceux isn’t my baby—”
She snorts, loud and unapologetic and yea, not you’re not afraid to say it—in a really bitchy, condescending way.
God, she’s lucky you’re not there to smack her.
“Pookie—” she starts, sighing like she can burn away the frustrated amusement you bring her. “….i-…I don’t know if you need to get laid, or if you need to be tested for autism. I’ve been saying the latter for about five years now, I do hope you realize that.”
“…fuck off.” You mutter, pulling the blanket tighter around your frame. The chills that have been racking your body for the past week have been the bane of your existence—considering the fact that you haven’t had a fever at all.
She doesn’t even spare you a glance, applying her lip gloss and wiping off the excess lip stick on her teeth. “Kill yourself.”
“Dude, I’m not fourteen again. Stop reminding me of my failure.” It slipped out before you even realized you said it.
Then again, you’ve said worse. So has she.
But the silence taking over the call is leaving you wondering if maybe you said the wrong thing again. Or used the wrong tone.
You’ve been meaning to work on your tone—you tend to come off bitchy when you say things that aren’t intended to be bitchy.
She stares at you for a minute—unsure if she should backtrack before scoffing with feigned amusement.
She wants to laugh, but god, she doesn’t know if she should.
“….i’d just like to say, that if you ever get laid, I’m worried that it might be either an alien, or a murderer. Or both. On the somewhat bright side, I’m pretty sure you’d be into that. At least, considering that when I got you drunk for the first time, you spent it quietly sitting on my bed and reading the filthiest smut like…ever.”
This bitch really loved to push your buttons. Even if she was, in fact, right. You did get drunk for the first time, giggle stupidly and went onto tumblr for your nightly routine. Just because you’re camping and drunk, does not mean you can stop reading smut that would put even the filthiest porn stars to shame.
“….whats with the ‘if I get laid’, part of that? You think I can’t get laid?” You sassed, though you’re pretty aware of what she meant by that.
She looks you up and down, as if to say, ‘hun, look at yourself and say that again.’
Her gaze, like usual, stopped at your tits before winking at you. “….oh you can. Trust me, lots of people out there want you, lil miss sexy. No, it’s more of the fact that, um….you fumble. Really, really bad. You didn’t even realize I was flirting with you when we first met. And I was obvious.”
She was briefly into you when you first met. You, however, were just ecstatic to have a friend who liked to be really close to you.
Obviously, she no longer was into you like that. The two of you worked better as platonic soulmates.
But still, shame at your past stupidity and obliviousness burns at your cheeks. “…I just thought you were really friendly. And liked hugs. And maybe you were just being French when you kissed my cheek.”
She snorts. Cackles like a witch from Salem, rather than a city slicker from Michigan. “…..ok, well, I didn’t know that my best friend was the real life version of Adrien Agreste but here we are.” She pauses, glancing at the top of her phone as she got a notification, then back to you.
She had a gleam in her eye, one that you knew meant she was about to either call you a slur or call you something your not. “…also, really? Being French? That’s a stereotype. Racist.”
First off, you’ve seen her and her family greet people exactly like that. Second off, rude.
You raise a brow, and giving Chancuex a glance that said ‘yo mama about to get this bitch,’ before grinning back at your best friend.
“Ok, so, you don’t have a family portrait reminiscent of all the Marie Antoinette rococo paintings hanging in your parents living room?”
She pauses. Sighs. Regrets ever letting you come over and spend the night as often as you did.
Then, she glances back at Chancuex, grasping at wherever straw she can to forget that—yea your right.
She does have a rococo style painting back home. Front and center over the mantle.
“….i’d just like to remind you that your cats name is Chancuex Elias LeBeau. You didn’t even know French till I told you.” She corrects, trying to remain smug.
She’s not wrong. But she is takin’ claim for every name you gave him. When, first off, you also named him after Uncle Elias—something neither of you dare to bring up.
But he’s not the only person you named him after.
“Ok, but the LeBeau isn’t for you, it’s for Remy LeBeau, Le Diable Blanc, the Ragin’ Cajun—” you defended, even mimicking with an odd perfection of Gambit’s accent.
God, you were a nerd. But they never said you weren’t a nerd with impeccable impressions.
She winced, glancing anywhere but at you. Because, how the fuck is she friends with a comic nerd? Especially an X-Men comic nerd.
God, why didn’t you just stick to anime like she had?
She stands up, taking the phone with her and hovering over the hang up button.
“…ok first off, I don’t think you’ll ever get anyone in your sheets when you say that, with that kind of accuracy. Not unless they’re really freaky or live in their mom’s basement at 40 years old. Second off, as much as I’d like to keep arguing with you—because you are very sexy when you argue—the guy who fucked me like a feral dog, prone bone style in the auditorium—is on his way up to my dorm.”
This time, you didn’t even bat an eye at it.
“Love you too.” She cuts you off, trying to end the call before you say the usual.
“—bitch, I didn’t finish. Anyway, have fun, be safe, leave your location on, make him wear a condom and get tested for STDs after—”
She pressed the end call button before you could even finish your usual sex safety warnings.
You blinked, glancing down at Chancuex making biscuits in your lap. You shrugged, before pressing as many kisses as you could to your sweet baby’s forehead—making sure he knows you love and adore him.
“She hung up, Chancy. Guess, I’ll remind her to get tested tomorrow.”
Dogs may be man’s best friend, but this weird trash goblin in the form of a cat is yours.
“…wanna check on Mama’s pie in the oven with her? I’ll get you some cheese too? Yea. Yea you do. That’s my baby.”
You grinned, pressing a final kiss to his forehead and carried him into the kitchen.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
This week, this month has been absolute ass. And somehow, it’s the only thing Eve and Mark could agree on.
First off, when Thragg, Nolan, and Thula had summoned the both of them into the throne room—they were confused.
Because they hadn’t done anything….at least, that week. But the week before, Eve broke Mark’s wrist and gave him a bloody nose. Mark had thrown Eve into multiple pieces of training equipment, shattering them in the process, and leaving a gash the size of Thula’s blade on her calf.
But, wouldn’t it be a little late for that punishment?
Besides, both of them held back. Simply because Nolan would shatter every bone in Eves body if she killed Mark, and Thula would tear every tendon out of Mark’s body if he killed Eve.
It was known, through out the empire, that Mark and Eve could not stand each other. Hate doesn’t compare to the utter disdain in their eyes when their name is mentioned in the same vicinity as the others.
Viltrum is similar to earth in one aspect: if you’re not a part of the elite, you’re immediately less then.
Or, if you weren’t a Viltrumite, but a half breed or, in Eve’s case, a full human—well. You had to work twice as hard to prove your worth.
And if you’re competing with someone similar to you? You hate their entire being for being like you, and you cannot, no matter the stakes, let them be better than you.
Hence, the intense loathing.
But, when they find out the real reason they’re summoned—to go to Earth, and conquer it—together??
Well. One would be feral with anger. Except, it isn’t one, it’s both of them.
Stuck together, for an unknown amount of time, and the both of them sharing the credit of conquering a planet? It is their worst nightmare.
But you can never, ever tell the empire no. So, they glared at each other, but nodded and agreed to the Empire’s demands.
As soon as they left the throne room, however?
“…god, I hope someone maims you in the middle of it.” Mark mutters, running his fingers over and over again through his raven black hair. His usual dark brown eyes gleam with golden anger—no doubt the cause of Viltrumite wrath and the light bouncing off of the pristine white walls.
Eve doesn’t spare him a glance—to her? He’s not worth it. Instead, her eyes find her reflection in the window, pinning her fiery red waves back into her tightly woven braid—trying to find some semblance of control. Though, her usual juniper green eyes resemble corroded jade, and a hint of pink sparks flicker from her fingers.
“…If that were to happen, you’d be blamed, and Mother would love to rip out your larynx.”
Safe to say, both of them are livid.
It doesn’t die out either. The embers of their anger are still there when they prepare for Earth. They’re told to give updates on human technology and warfare, find new weaknesses in their defense, and notify the empire when they both deem it’s ready to conquer.
So, in other words, it may be a long while before they can conquer it.
Eve is pissed, and Mark is no better. But with them having human DNA, the empire thought it’d be easier for them to blend in and take over.
That, and no one else wants to go to Earth.
So here they are, in one of the smaller spaceships—considering that Eve wouldn’t be able to last as long as Mark would without air—and are now, somewhat peacefully, heading to earth.
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
The smell of sweet caramel apple pie hit your senses as you entered your kitchen, bringing you your own personal pie slice of heaven.
Oh stars, how you loved pie. Adding caramel? Oh, there was nothing that could compete to it.
Life may be hard, but it’s the little things that matter.
You set down Chancuex on your marble counter, next to his food dish. The window was left open a crack, spilling in the moonlight outside and the drifting breeze.
Your slippers padded against the hardwood floor, the plush ears on your cat slippers bouncing with every step. You have no idea where your Ma found these cute ass calico cat slippers, but you’re cherishing them.
Slipping on your gingerbread man themed oven mitts, you open up your oven and full on cackle at how good your pie looks.
“…yea. I’m fucking awesome. This pie is going to be my dinner for the next three days, fuck being healthy. Don’t have the money for that anyway.” You say, out loud, even though your only roommate is your cat.
You’ve reached the stage in your life where you talk to your cat like some crazy cat lady.
Ah yes, 18 years of normalcy down the drain—alright, you can’t lie to yourself. You were never normal.
You’d probably talk to yourself with or without Chancuex's presence. I mean, it’s not your fault if the only intelligent conversation you can maintain is one you have with yourself.
The sweet sound of the caramel bubbling brings you back to reality, pulling out the heavenly pie. With a bump of your hip, you shut the oven and place the pie on your counter to cool. Tossing your oven mitts next to the pie, you—like the pie obsessed weirdo you are, breathe in that heavenly scent.
With a content sigh, you go over to your fridge, the handle cool under your palm—and pull out the cheese you promised your sweet baby. Only to turn around and find him slipping out of the open window, and out into your backyard.
The maternal instincts kicked in.
You dropped the bag of cheese on the ground, without even bothering to slam your fridge door shut. Instead, you raced to your back door, rushing to undo the lock, and practically body slammed that door open.
Careless of whether or not it shut, you watched as your dumbass cat slinked into the forest behind your home.
You raced behind him, cursing up a storm. Stray branches flicked against your arms and face, a rose bush vine cutting your cheek. The slippers that you didn’t even switch out to actual shoes, kicked up dirt and rocks, mud staining the plush white.
Why, of all things, did you decide to move into your uncles old Victorian home? I mean, sure, it was the old family home before they moved up to Michigan, and yea, it would be cool to be connected to your past, but this is really fucking you over right now.
“Chancuex! Chancuex, stop there’s coyotes and bears out here, you don’t stand a chance you idiot—”
Of course, he doesn’t understand you. He’s a cat. Instead he continues bounding off, acting as if he’s on the hunt for something.
Or maybe, he thinks the two of you are playing a game. If, of course, the game was how fast a cat can give you a heart attack.
Blood pumps loudly into your ears, but not loud enough to not hear the crash, to feel the ground shake beneath your feet.
‘There is no way in hell there’s an earthquake out here,’ you think to yourself, despite falling flat on your ass. Startled, your phone falls out of your pajama short’s pocket, onto the cool earth.
And with a blink, you realize, you’ve lost your cat. And you have no idea where you are in this forest.
You pick up your phone, the damn thing only at 20% with two bars of data. There’s no alerts about an earthquake, but you don’t take notice of that.
Instead, you turn on your camera.
Because if you die in this forest, your dead set on making sure a) that someone can know who you are and find Chancuex, and b) know that you didn’t try to commit suicide by coming out here.
Especially since the last known conversation you had, you made a suicide joke and called your last attempt a failure.
So, you turn on the flash, hit record, and continue searching for Chancuex.
And like anyone in the science field, your immediate reaction is to log whatever’s happening.
Because, what the fuck is your life right now?
“𝘓𝘰𝘨 𝘖𝘯𝘦; 𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺, 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦; 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯—” you slipped, on what you assumed was mud. Instead, it was an old, lost tarot card, with a black cat in the arcana imagery.
Seriously, what the fuck is your life right now? Now you’ve got witches in your forest?
And they didn’t include you?
“…𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯..? God, who leaves tarot cards out in the middle of a forest? Fuck, Chancuex, where are you—”
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
“Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking stupid?!” Eve hissed.
“Oh, like it’s my fault that you can’t go without air in space?” Mark huffed, standing over Eve—as if that would deter her. Dirt and ash stained the both of them, Eve’s forehead dripping blood from the small cut on her forehead.
“No, dumbass, it’s your fault we crash landed. You weren’t paying attention to the environment when it was your turn! And now, we got hit by some fucking meteor, and can only hope we weren’t spotted and that we’ve landed on Earth!” She hissed, throwing her hands in the air.
They were undeniably good at remaining stoic soldiers like anyone else. But, put together? They slowly lose their composure the longer they’re in mutual vicinity.
“Can’t land anywhere else like this nearby! Neighboring planets cannot sustain plant life. We are on Earth—”
Eve cuts him off, pointing down at what seemed to be a black cat, with white star shaped patch of fur on his forehead.
Mark jumped as it brushed against his leg.
“Pussy.” Eve grins widely.
“Fuck you!” Mark said, his eyes narrowing at her.
“I was talking about the cat, but you spoke it, not me—”
The cat, instead plopped in front of Eve, tilting its head curiously. Like it knew something she didn’t.
And meowed. Loud. Like it wanted to attract predators, or something worse.
Eve picked it up before it could meow again, covering his mouth—but it was too late.
They heard it. The sound of twigs snapping, heavy breathing, and a weird sound similar to sobbing.
Mark is immediately on the defense. Fists raised, eyes glancing across the foliage, trying to pinpoint where the opponent would appear.
Instead? You appeared with a yelp, tripping on a loose rock and tumbling down the hill—landing in front of both of them, and the crashed ship behind them.
You blinked, dizzy, trying to catch your breath between sobs and panting breaths.
You lifted your head, noting the two…oddly dressed people in front of you. And, not even sparing them another glance—your eyes locked onto your cats.
Relief flooded your expression, and with a pained groan you stood, in an attempt to reach your cat.
Mark and Eve, despite their hatred for earth and humanity and one another—shared one thought.
‘Holy shit. She’s pretty.’
Mark swears he hears that one song his mom played all the time—something about whispers, love, and jazz.
Mark’s brain isn’t making thinking or remembering anything easy right now. He just knows that it’s good.
Though the fact he felt like he couldn’t breathe or think, was—or rather, would be a concern.
Eve swears that you weren’t real, you looked too beautiful, too ethereal to be real. Then, you moved.
She should not feel as sick as she does. Though, it can be blamed on the crash—the way she studied every facial feature you had? That gave her away.
“—I’m so sorry, that’s my cat, he’s stupid and I’m stupid and I left the window open and he ran out and—”
Oh my god. They died. They had to have. This—….this had to be an angel, from Mrs. Grayson’s story times with them.
Though, they weren’t sure if angels were supposed to cry, or have twigs in their hair, or bleed like they do.
You picked up Chancuex, a relieved grin on her face, your hands brushing against Eves arms and a literal chill ran up her spine.
That immediately cut out every fantasy and thought about you from both of them.
Because, holy shit, you’re a human.
You’re not even paying attention to them.
You figured they just thought you were weird, mud and dirt clinging to your slippers, sticks and a leaf in your hair, sobbing like a madwoman and holding your cat like he was the key to life.
Such is the life of a crazy cat lady.
“—sorry, for interrupting whatever—are you cosplaying? Looks nice.” Your eyes finally landed on them, actually taking them in.
they looked pretty—but they were dressed….well, futuristic. Kind of alien like.
Probably from an anime your best friend likes. As far as you’re aware, it’s not in any comic you’ve read.
“…Gosh, sorry if I interrupted a photoshoot—….” You glanced around, looking for cameras. Instead, your eyes landed on the crashed spaceship behind them.
‘Don’t mention it, don’t mention you know, and maybe you’ll be fine. Just leave. Leave. Do not be a basic empathetic white bitch in a horror movie. This isn’t predator. Your not going to say or do anything to get you killed—’
It was too late. You took too long and well, your obviously staring between them and the spaceship behind them.
Mark and Eve share a glance. Protocol technically says any threat must be eliminated.
But….your the furthest thing from a threat. No weapons, and are literally in a forest with nothing but pajamas on.
They can spare you. They will spare you.
Because no where did protocol say what to do when they weren’t encountered by a threat.
Therefore, creative liberty.
Therefore, they can do whatever they want with you.
taglist: @sobbingscripter @sleep-is-my-enemy
