#dadcatte

[top-shelf-whiskey]

[house-vexile]

~Night Training~

((Is this another excuse for me to use the wet clothes function in Gpose? Yes. Not even mad about it.))

[erogeist]

Feeling the urge to re-sub to FFXIV. I miss my catte wife.

[dutyfound]

“Oi, stop oglin’ me, will ye?”

[house-vexile]

((Sometimes I torture my poor son.

@pettankoprincess - does he look as uncomfortable as you imagine he would when dressed up? XD

Someone save him. Before he flexes and saves himself.))

[house-vexile]

[house-vexile]

81. “Hold still.” - Writing Drabble. Hope it helps you write!!

Drabble Challenge!

“Laras, I can’t help you if you keep wiggling around.”

No, Papa! You don’t understand! I got places to be! People to talk to! Stuff to do! The Seeker toddler let out an indignant shout at being picked up, his arms and legs flailing in the most untidy of martial arts. He’d escape! He could beat his father!

…Who was he kidding. Papa was literally the strongest person in the world.

Y’raos sighed when his son gave up relatively quickly, both out of understanding and out of trust. Cradling his son to his chest, the Nunh’s free hand rose to gently correct his son’s ear, turning the soft furred shell back out to the proper position.

No son of his was going to run around with his ears flipped inside out. Raos ruffled his son’s hair, pressing his lips near his son’s corrected ear. “Now you can go play,” he murmured to Laras, setting his child back down on the sandy beach.

Freedom! Laras grinned up at his father, letting out a muffled little giggle, and took off after his twin sister and the other children along the beach.

[house-vexile]

Entry #6: Live Up To The Name

Prompt #6: Identification

Who are you?

Calloused, war-hardened hands brushed the copper fuzz that dusted the tops of his children’s heads. Two pairs of floppy, soft ears wriggled at the sensation of a warm hand touching them, and a handful of weak, distressed mewls echoed up from the small wicker cradle.

Twins. No one had told him she was having twins.

Y’raos sighed, the back of his knuckles soothing the angry little wrinkles that had formed on his newborn son’s head, offering the same treatment to his daughter. Still too warm for his liking. The fevers weren’t improving as quickly as he’d like. The dark-skinned Miqo’te wanted nothing more than to dispel the heat that plagued his children, to make them healthy. Make them whole.

As whole as a family without a mother could be, at least.

“C’mon, sweetlings,” he rumbled to them, tracing the pad of his index finger down the bridge of his daughter’s nose. The little girl let out a wail, but weakened to little whimpers when her father’s rough finger drifted to the side to stroke her cheek.

He’d not expected the ache. The utter, disgusting, vile pain of watching -his- children suffer. Y’raos just wanted to hold them, murmur their names, calm them, -anything- to stop the struggling he could see them doing by the scrunch of their small faces. But all he could do was watch over them. Wait. Hope. Pray.

‘Don’t name them,’ the Shamaness had told him as he’d watched the tribe women remove their dead mother from the birthing room. ‘It will make it easier if they do not make it, my boy. I promise you.’ The thought made him ill, to not even grant a name to something he’d had a hand in making. His mind toiled over it for hours, fighting the urge to comply.

Even if they did not live, they deserved names.

“Y’laras,” he told the boy, using his thumb to wipe a little tear off his son’s cheek. “Y’sana,” he told his daughter, moving her blanket to keep her face uncovered. “Maybe it’s too early. And I’ve never been one to gamble. But this...I’m going to gamble on this.” Y’raos folded his arms on the edge of the crib, sitting down on the rickety stool to grant his back a bit of relief. “You shouldn’t have to live to earn a name. But if it works that way, then you two better make it to keep them. I can’t have it any other way.” Their little voices kept sounding out, one after the other, their lungs strong despite their high fevers.

“Please,” he whispered to them. “Don’t make me take the names back.”