mat and cat

iamnotoneofthem  asked:

Hello, yes, can I ask for Dadsona with cat (or dog) ears and a tail and how the dads would react to that? Maybe that mutation is rare, but known, so they've never seen "one" before!

So, in this AU cat mutations are pretty rare and most are high class. There are a few that live in lower classes. And when I say a few, I mean a very few. at mutations are awfully rare. They are not mistreated, but that doesn´t mean they aren´t sold in black markets and so. Also I would assume that Dadsona also has cat characteristics (e.g. purring, cat reflexes, flexibility, la la la)

I hope this was what you expected if it wasn´t please tell me so I can change it^^

Robert Small

-Wouldn´t really mind

-If you could look over his addictions, then he can act as if you were a common human being

-But he still loves certain aspects of the whole mutation

-For example, he likes laying in bed on saturday morning, pulling you to his chest. He would let silence consume the air between you too, but then his hand just… wanders to your ears. He would scratch and rub them until the silence in replaced with your purrs

-He finds that your purrs are better than the silence every now and then

-Honestly, this guy doesn´t care a lot about your rarity

-Oh boi he gets hella protective when you two go out and people stare at you as if you were a trophy or a lot of cash

-Would give you his jacket to hide your ears/tail

Craig Cahn

-So fucking proud you made it this far

-Cat mutants tend to get sold to rich families or become property of very rich people, but you kept pushing through difficulties

-You always thought he knew, since you technically told him while you two were high one night in your dorm

-Looooves your ears

-Liiiiives for your flexibility. One day, Craig entered his home, all sweaty from working out. He was just minding his own business but then he sees you lying on the couch with you fucking leg behind your head (all cat owners know this is the most basic cat thing their cats do) and he just… doesn´t know. He wants to see how much more you can bend.

-For exercising purposes, obviosly… maybe more

-Would highly encourage you to hide your tail and ears to prevent any attacks

Brian Harding

-Finds it adorable

-He was impressed when you showed to be a completely responsible and independent person

-Maxwell loves you. You not so much

-You remember in Brian´s second date, when the boat tipped? Yeah… Brian didn´t willingly take you into his arms. You clung to him as if your l i f e depended on it.

-Loves when you get grumpy cause then it´s funny to tease you and when your ears are flat

-He liked to take you outside so you can play around

Hugo Vega

-He´s very respectful of your rarity

-As expected, he does profound research on cat mutants so he can make sure to not feed you something that made you sick or anything like that

-He read of catnip and instantly thought of Ernest… sadly. Though catnip has more… unexpected effects on the user

-Ernest also knew of it and got curious if it would work on you

-That day, Hugo came hom to see you rubbing yourself against the floor with passion, your pupils dilatated and not responding to his calls.

-You´re not a fan of Duchess but that big pup just seems to love you

-Hugo secretly hides to see her pinning you to the ground and giving you her dog love while you cringe. He only goes to your aid when he hears your growls

Mat Sella

-He´s a cat person. He´s also a (Dadsona) person. Great mix

-He feels soothed by your presence

-Carmensita teases you by making cat toys and trying to make you use them

-He enjoys the fact you can´t handle hot drinks but still try to drink coffee

-Fun fact: it´s been scientifically proved that a cat´s purr and petting them can help calm anxiety

-Thus, you are both his boyfriend and his therapy cat. And it´s been actually working, whenever he starts feeling anxious, he reaches out for you and there you are.

-Now that he´s retaken on his music, he enjoys when you are beside him. Keeps him grounded, you know?

Joseph Christiansen

-Oh dear

-Did the trip with his yacht end up horribly

-It´s no longer the fear of whales, but the absolute fobia of being surrounded by your archenemis: w a t e r

-Joseph finds it amusing how you stereotipically hate water

-He was caught off guard when you first met, he almost dropped the plate of cookies

-”If I make you uncomfortable, don´t feel forced to come around, tends to happen. Not everyone is fine with a man having a pair of cat ears, you know”

-He had never been more dedicated in getting close to someone. He understands what it means when people judge you before knowing you. He´s had many people avoiding him because of his pastor estatus.

Damien Bloodmarch

-”Love, I ordered a victorian collar they used to put on cats, can you try it on?”

-He knows you´re a human but wants to have fun

-He´s careful to keep your fur well kept if you´re too lazy to do it

-Also Damien is a fanboy, he has fanfics, the cat mutants/nekos are not a rare thing in the community, he is busting with them fantasies

-Cats weren´t really liked in the Victorian era, another reason why he is thankful to be alive in this one

-He is the most understanding out of all the Dads about you being a cat mutants and understand if you aren´t very willing to let him pet you or make comments on it

-He knows how it feels when people treat you as a freak

noxfauna  asked:

The dads react to Dadsona bringing home a box of mewling kittens.

Craig: A whole lot of sneezing. Turns out Craig has quite the allergy to cats. Sure, they may be adorable but unfortunately they aren’t going to be fully compatible without some medications. 

Brian: In all honesty he isn’t the biggest fan of cats. They just aren’t compatible and the universe hasn’t allowed it yet. If Brian and a cat ever got along, y’all might need to check what universe you’re in. 

Damien: Did someone say cats? Damien loves all kinds of animals and cats happen to be one of them. He’d be all over the kittens and would help care for the little kitties whenever he could. He just can’t resist them!

Hugo: Hugo would be in love with how cute they are. Duchess Cordelia might not agree at first but she would warm up to them. Dadsona would probably catch Hugo being smothered with kittens on the floor. 

Mat: You have no idea how hyped Mat gets over baby animals. He’d be fawning over them and Dadsona would really have to do something to actually get Mat’s attention. Mat would experiment with baking homemade cat treats that he could sell at his coffee shop like gifts for pet owners.

Robert: He wouldn’t really know how to react at first. He’d just see their big eyes and he’d stare at them for a while. Robert would eventually end up snuggling with one on the couch and would see if Dadsona would let him keep one.

Joseph: Joseph has mild cat allergies but since they’re so cute he’d push through all those sniffles and watery eyes. All in the name of giving those little kitties some much deserved attention. 

dogs-on-logs  asked:

tell me more about half dead sidewalk cat

it’s this man!! this handsome boy!

about 10 yrs ago, my sister found a starving matted lump of cat on the sidewalk. he had no front claws, & was EXCESSIVELY friendly

my personal theory is that Marmaduke was taken away from his mother/littermates far too early, because he doesn’t understand cat body language at all but he communicates with human fluently. like, he understands that staring deep into our eyes & rapidly approaching (something that reads as “OH GOD, THIS MAN IS ATTACKING?” to other cats) is the best way to grab our attention

in any case, his ungodly stare/ deep purr/ zombie-appearance was enough to convince my sister to carry him home. my dad doesn’t like cats, but he’s also a gigantic softie, and because this skin-and-bone cat began puking everywhere when given food, my dad decided that shelters would immediately euthanize him & that we just HAD to adopt him

a decade later, Marmaduke has turned into an arthritic old man with intense thyroid issues, but he still has that horrible stare + purr combo down pat

The Rugistry

So my friend was DMing for the first time and made a dungeon on the fly. We had a two people party and were in the first room when:

DM: there is a pile of stuff in the middle of the room, and a tapestry hanging on the wall. It’s not really a tapestry, though, it’s more of a welcome mat with a cat on it.

Me: Okay, I want to check behind the tapestry.

DM: the real tapestry is in the pile.

Me: I meant the rug one.

DM: the rugistry?

Me: yes, I want to check behind the rugistry.

DM: the rugistry has a cat on it and a “fuck you” under it, underneath the rugistry is just stone.

Me: … On our way out I’m going to steal that rugistry.


Me: aw man, I forgot to steal that rugistry.

  • someone: hey whos your favorite dream daddy character
  • me: *blog theme is joseph*
  • me: *half of my reblogs are joseph*
  • me: *has made 50 fucking posts analyzing joseph*
  • me:
  • me: mat sella is my one true love and nothing will ever change that

@cobaltmoony needed some fluffy Bucky and cat.

Well… there’s Bucky and cat..

He’d had so many names over the years (many years, far too many years). The Fist of Hydra. James. The American. The Asset. Jerk. The Winter Soldier.

Once, he had even been Bucky.

He still is, according to Steve. Steve who has lived too long, and has his own string of names trailing in his wake. Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. Stevie. Star Spangled Man with a Plan. Punk.

Steve is still Steve, he may even be Stevie. He’s not Captain America anymore, not since the Winter Soldier appeared at his window, metals fingers pressed to the bullet wound in his stomach, scratching at the glass to be let in, like some kind of stray animal.

Steve, Stevie, still had no sense of preservation. He should have closed the blinds and left the thing that had tried to kill him months ago bleed out on the fire escape. But no, he wrenched open the window and dragged the assassin into his home (for fuck’s sake Stevie).

The Winter Soldier had bled all over the bedsheets, and as far as anyone was concerned died there, leaving a ghost.

The ghost of James Buchanan Barnes.

Steven Grant Rogers, Stevie, Dumb Punk, gave up his shield. He had picked it up to save Bucky once, and put it down to the same ends.

They didn’t so much live as warily co-exist in the apartment, on the corner of a street both familiar and strange. They had lived there before, Steve told him, but the building got torn down and they built a new one. Best thing for it, Bucky had said. The old one was a death trap. His mouth did that sometimes, opened up and words spilled out, unexpected and sweet and bitter. Like a head full of firecrackers, memories popping and snapping and if too many went off at once it made him flinch. Made him shiver and tuck himself into the smallest. darkest corner of the apartment, like a stray animal.

So Steve filled the refridgerator with the kind of things the ghost used to eat. Filled the shelves with books that the ghost used to read. The apartment was never silent, a radio in the kitchen, the volume turned low, played big band and swing and jazz, things the ghost used to dance to.

Steve was always so damn stubborn.

Baby steps, the therapist said. Small victories.

He’s killed presidents, and now he’s supposed to feel pride when he walks downstairs to get the mail. He’s brought down governments in a single night but barely manages three stops on the subway.

But it’s worth it, worth all of it and more to see the way Steve lights up when he comes back upstairs with the mail and announces the mission suffered zero casualties. When Steve’s hand wraps around his on the crowded subway and squeezes.

So he walks down to the corner store for milk when they run out, and eats at least once a day, and all the other little things that keep the furrow in Steve’s brow from running too deep.

And he doesn’t punch through the metal side of the dumpster when it starts rustling.

He had managed to pick up orange juice from the store. Not the nearest one just across the street from the apartment, but a bodega two blocks away. When he walked past the dumpster down the nearby alley (old habits die hard and he’s more likely to enter Steve’s apartment by the roof than the doors on the ground floor) it rustled at him and let out a pathetic whine.

Bucky had lifted the lid and found the cat.

The thing was not much more than a scrap of fur and fleas. He had no idea what colour it was, its coat dingy grey and matted. It still had a mouth on it, giving him a half-hearted hiss as he pulled it out of the garbage by the scruff.

The Ghost stared at the cat, and the cat stared back. Then bit his finger.

He offered it a metal fingertip and it bit that too, not even slightly dissuaded by the way it’s teeth skidded over the metal plates.

For the first time in seventy years, Bucky smiled.

The bodega stocked catfood, though Bucky had no idea if the cat preferred the wet stuff in cans or the dried kibble in boxes, so he bought both, the cat safely zipped up in his jacket, it’s flat little head poking out. It’s oversized ears swivelled back and forth as Bucky held out a can of chicken chunks in gravy in one hand and salmon pieces in aspic in the other and told the cat to make up it’s damn mind.

“Mrrr,” the cat said finally, which Bucky chose to interpret as ‘both’.

He pays for the items and walks back out onto the street. The cat makes itself comfortable, borrowing down into his jacket and going to sleep. It’s needle-like claws prick at his thin shirt, digging in whenever he turns too sharply or moves any faster than a walking pace. Since Bucky doesn’t want to be completely perforated he walks slowly down the street rather than take to the rooftops, and anyway he has a bag of catfood.

Steve didn’t look up from his spot on the couch when Bucky slipped through the apartment door and kicks off his shoes, though Bucky would bet good money that he’d spent the whole of Bucky’s absence at the window, quietly worrying.

“Hey Buck,” Steve muttered with a forced nonchalance that fools no one. “You get lost?”

“Mowr,” the cat answered.

Steve’s head snaps up, “What-”

“I founds it in the trash,” Bucky blurted out. “It’s greasy and cranky and smells like crap but…” he falters at the complicated run of expressions that passed over Steve’s features. “You seem okay with taking in strays,” Bucky finished weakly.

Steve frowned silently, and Bucky tensed up, one hand curled protectively around the lump of fur under his jacket. Something in Bucky’s expression seemed to settle him though, and he dropped the book he was reading on the coffee table.

“We’re gonna need more stuff,” Steve announced and pulled out his phone.

He wasn’t Captain America anymore, but that didn’t mean Steve couldn’t get things done when he put his mind to it. Twenty minutes later a harassed looking SHIELD agent dropped off several boxes of random crap that were supposedly essential for cat ownership.

Bucky couldn’t understand the need for a litter tray and unscented, clump-forming, biodegradable whatever-the-fuck to go in the tray (cat’s went outside, right?), or the twine-wrapped wooden kitty adventure playground thing. The collar, okay, fair enough. The shampoo and the flea drops, fuck yeah.

Steve read the instructions on the bottle carefully and gave the cat a wary look. “You’ve got the vibranium arm, you can hold it.”

They covered the bathroom floor with towels, and Bucky placed the cat carefully in the bath, where it gave him an unimpressed look and sat down to wash itself.

The disdain might have been more effective if the cat didn’t stop every time it licked itself to twitch and flap it’s tongue.

Bucky poured a little shampoo into his hands and coated his fingers before rubbing them into the cats matted fur. It gave him a curious ‘Prrrp’, but didn’t freak out until Steve turned on the showerhead, checking the water temperature on the inside of his elbow.

The cat hissed and yowled and bit Bucky’s metal thumb, sending half the tub water onto the floor in its thrashing. Bucky pressed his hand between the cats shoulders and it flattened itself on the bottom of the tub while Bucky rinsed off the soap. Underneath all the grime was silky black fur with white paws and chest and a splodge of white on his nose.

Bucky wrapped the cat up in one of the towels until it was a damp and squirming burrito, it’s nose poking out of one end. Bucky cradled it in his arms, murmuring softly as he carries the cat out to the living room and sits down on the couch. The cat bites his wrist half-heartedly, teeth skidding over metal plates. Steve watched silently from the doorway as Bucky carefully dried the cats fur, working through the tangles with his fingers until it curled up in his lap and falls asleep.

Bucky glanced up when Steve sat carefully on the couch beside him, silently waiting for permission before reaching over to stroke the cats still-damp fur.

Bucky thinks of his first night back, when the Winter Soldier bled to death on Steve’s white linens. It had taken days to heal, the bastardised version of superserum that crawled through his veins forcing out the bullets and knitting flesh and skin back together.

Steve had carried him, bridal style, to the bathroom and placed him in the tub. It hadn’t mattered, ghosts couldn’t feel the washcloth passing over bruises and scar tissue. Ghosts didn’t lean into the touch of hands in their hair, carefully rinsing away shampoo. Ghosts didn’t sigh at conditioner being massaged into their scalps, large, gentle fingers teasing out the knots and tangles.

Ghosts didn’t fall asleep on the couch, wrapped in towels and blankets, half listening as their failed mission made endless phone calls in a hushed voice, pulling apart the pieces of his life and putting them back together again with a ghost shaped hole in the middle. In the heart.

The cat purred in it’s sleep, it’s claws flexing rhythmically, leaving pinholes in Buckys jeans.

Piece by piece, everything falls into place

“He needs a name,” Steve murmured.

The cats head was pillowed in the palm of Bucky’s metal hand, fingers curled loosely around it’s fragile skull. It had one paw wrapped around Bucky’s wrist, holding him in place. As if he could even consider leaving.

Such a fragile little thing, and yet it trusted him. Trusted him to keep it safe and warm and alive.

Bucky glanced at Steve. “He?”

It’s not the thing he wants to say. There aren’t words in any language for that. There isn’t time enough in their artificially extended lives to explain it all.

“I got a, uh, eyeful when he was thrashing around in the tub,” Steve mumbles. “Definitely he.”

Ghosts don’t have names. They have identities - The Weeping Woman, The Headless Horseman, The Winter Soldier. Not names.

Bucky isn’t a ghost’s name.

Bucky shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Steve knows him too well to fall for it. “You pick.”

Steve takes a long moment to consider the cat. Bucky watches him from the corner of his eye. The lines of Steve’s face, the curve of his jaw. Things that ice and time and mind-wipes couldn’t erase.”

“He’s your cat, you choose,” Steve says finally.

Bucky huffs. “I’m bad at names. You’re the one who came up with Bucky. You pick.”

Steve lights up, and for a moment Bucky can’t look at him. It’s like staring into the sun.

“You remember that?”

Bucky bristles under Steve’s look of surprise. “Yeah. ‘Course I remember.”

Steve turns his face to Bucky’s neck and has to take a deep, shuddering breath.

Bucky waits for Steve to pull himself together, Steve’s breath, hot and damp against his skin raising goosebumps.

Really, it’s frankly embarrassing. A former spy and a decorated military tactician, and neither of them had figured it out yet.

You don’t go against your commanding officer and damn well walk into enemy territory in a stage costume for a friend. Seeing an old friend doesn’t break seventy years of Hydra programming.

You don’t hand over your shield to a guy dressed like a bird for a friend.

“Tom?” Bucky asks.

Steve snorts, still hiding in the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s not very creative,” he mumbles.

Bucky shifts and turns to Steve, pressing his lips to the top of Steve’s head.

“Orange Juice.”

Steve’s head snaps up, and he meets Bucky’s eyes. “What?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth ticks up. “I went out to get orange juice.”

Steve coughs out a laugh. “Seriously?”

Bucky gives him a mock glare. “You gotta problem with that?”

Steve shakes his head, his eyes bright.

“You want to keep him?” Bucky asks softly.

“Yeah,” Steve nods.

“You want to keep me?” Bucky murmurs.

Steve frowns. “You’re not a thing, Buck. How many times do I gotta explain-”

Bucky leans forward and kisses him, soft and brief. Steve falls into a shocked silence.

“I mean…” Bucky whispers against Steve’s soft, warm lips. “Do you want to keep me?”

For a second, a heartbeat, Bucky thinks that he’s made a terrible mistake. Steve lets out a soft breath and kisses him back.

“Yes,” he chants between sweet presses of lips. “Yes. Yes.”

anonymous asked:

the dads when they find out that the dadsona has an emotional support cat

[thank you for the prompt anon! hope you enjoy and feel free to send in asks/prompts]

🎣Brian :
He’s worried for you all the time, but is relieved to know that you have your cat to keep you company and soothe you. Occasionally brings Maxwell over to your place as well and the cat and Maxwell boop noses.

🏋Craig :
In college you had a cat as well, but only for a short while because the college wouldn’t allow it (you didn’t have enough money to go to a physician and get a note to be prescribed an emotional support animal). Glad that you finally have one of your own and less stressed out.

🐶Damien :
Sometimes people would come to the shelter to adopt a dog as an emotional support animal. Sometimes he brings treats over for the cat when he visits and also checks up on you on a daily basis to make sure that you’re alright.

📚Hugo :
Understands the need of an emotional support animal and encourages you to share your feelings/stresses with him as well. Does his best to listen and tries to make friends with the cat.

💒Joseph :
Allergic to cats, so he’s sneezing and has watery eyes when the cat climbs onto him and leaves the all over his clothes. Otherwise, since he’s a counselor of some sort in church he talks to you about your emotions and stuff and of course, prays for you.

☕Mat :
Brings the cat way too much treats again, as a reward for being there for you. You think that the cat may have gained some excess weight. Mat’s really thankful that the cat does help you and sometimes sends you his favourite lullaby records.

🔪Robert :
Sometimes when he thinks you’re not listening he whispers to the cat to make sure it takes care of you when he’s not around to do so. He thinks the cat is a psychic medium because sometimes it stares off into space and meows loudly at shit.