Must Love Cats - 3b
anonymous
December 11 2010, 05:05:47 UTC
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
Arthur was currently curled up on his couch, a pen in one hand, his battered and dog-eared copy of Macbeth propped against his knee. Every once and a while, his pen-hand would flash down, writing down notes or the occasional theme idea. Shakespeare was absolutely fascinating.
He looked up at Alfred, who hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. He was on the floor, his legs curled into his abdomen, leaning forward so that his chest resting on top of his hands, which were placed palm-down on the floor. His chin was resting on the white carpet of Arthur’s living room. He hadn’t even bothered to ask the idiot what he was doing.
Victoria, Arthur’s beloved little British Shorthair, was in a similar position, her nose a foot from Alfred’s, her little paws curled up under her chest, in a half-crouching position.
Alfred’s tail twitched. Victoria’s mirrored the motion. Alfred’s ear swiveled, and then Victoria’s copied. It was like a game to the two of them.
Finding this display of behavior more than a little odd, Arthur observed the two quietly for a few moments, before something finally happened:
Victoria pounced.
Alfred jumped with a yelp as the cat’s arms wrapped around his neck, her front paws flexing uselessly at the skin. Arthur had made sure she was de-clawed, at least in the front, before he took her home. Her back claws, however, were another story. Victoria twisted her body so that her back paws were on Alfred’s chest and throat, and began kicking vigorously, an irritated growl escaping her throat.
“What the-Victoria! Victoria, stop that!”
Alfred grasped at the now-howling feline, attempting to untangle her claws from his shirt with a yelp of pain. “Ow! Damn it, not fair, you little-“
Arthur gasped as Alfred threw his little girl across the room, where she landed, puffing up in protest and anger, on an armchair. She hissed loudly at the half-man, swatting at the air in an offended manner. Arthur had never seen her like this. Usually, his Victoria was such a mild-mannered, sweet little thing! What could have possibly gotten into her?
The Briton rushed over to the still snarling and bristling feline, soothing noises escaping his throat as he gently scooped her up into his arms. He gently scraped his fingers down her back, smoothing the ruffled silver-gray fur. “Shh, calm down, love,” he cooed. “I won’t let that prat hurt you again,” he promised.
Victoria, for her part, made herself comfortable in her master’s embrace, resting her paws on England’s shoulder, and her small, rounded face on top of them. A quiet purr began in the back of her throat as she slowly calmed down.
“W-what are you talking about?” Alfred asked incredulously. Surprisingly, his tail was approximately four times its normal size, the hair sticking on end. Even his ears seemed to have filled out slightly. “She attacked me!”
“And then you threw her,” Arthur stated dryly, glaring at the American, again stroking his cat soothingly. “She’s not even an eight your size, you brute.” The Briton continued stroking the cat in his arms, leaning his cheek against her shoulder and murmuring to her gently, his book now abandoned on the coffee table. He turned his back to Alfred, still murmuring to his cat in hushed tones, obviously rather miffed.
Victoria peered over Arthur’s shoulder, back at the rather hurt-looking American. He could practically feel smugness radiating off of her small form. As if mocking him, she rubbed her head against Arthur’s neck, a quiet trill of pleasure escaping her little throat.
Alfred pouted, glaring at the bright green eyes that stared back at him, not even attempting to hide her mirth at the situation. She was all over his Arthur, and from how he was acting, he didn’t mind in the slightest. That little… How dare she act as if she were Arthur’s mate! That spot was for Alfred!
Blue eyes narrowed, meeting the acidic green gaze that looked back at him evenly. Arthur continued whispering softly to her, stroking her back, pausing to scratch at the base of her tail. She pressed her legs against the Briton’s chest, her back arching in pleasure, and she snuggled into her master’s neck a little more affectionately, her eyes never leaving Alfred’s.
Arthur was currently curled up on his couch, a pen in one hand, his battered and dog-eared copy of Macbeth propped against his knee. Every once and a while, his pen-hand would flash down, writing down notes or the occasional theme idea. Shakespeare was absolutely fascinating.
He looked up at Alfred, who hadn’t moved for nearly an hour. He was on the floor, his legs curled into his abdomen, leaning forward so that his chest resting on top of his hands, which were placed palm-down on the floor. His chin was resting on the white carpet of Arthur’s living room. He hadn’t even bothered to ask the idiot what he was doing.
Victoria, Arthur’s beloved little British Shorthair, was in a similar position, her nose a foot from Alfred’s, her little paws curled up under her chest, in a half-crouching position.
Alfred’s tail twitched. Victoria’s mirrored the motion. Alfred’s ear swiveled, and then Victoria’s copied. It was like a game to the two of them.
Finding this display of behavior more than a little odd, Arthur observed the two quietly for a few moments, before something finally happened:
Victoria pounced.
Alfred jumped with a yelp as the cat’s arms wrapped around his neck, her front paws flexing uselessly at the skin. Arthur had made sure she was de-clawed, at least in the front, before he took her home. Her back claws, however, were another story. Victoria twisted her body so that her back paws were on Alfred’s chest and throat, and began kicking vigorously, an irritated growl escaping her throat.
“What the-Victoria! Victoria, stop that!”
Alfred grasped at the now-howling feline, attempting to untangle her claws from his shirt with a yelp of pain. “Ow! Damn it, not fair, you little-“
Arthur gasped as Alfred threw his little girl across the room, where she landed, puffing up in protest and anger, on an armchair. She hissed loudly at the half-man, swatting at the air in an offended manner. Arthur had never seen her like this. Usually, his Victoria was such a mild-mannered, sweet little thing! What could have possibly gotten into her?
The Briton rushed over to the still snarling and bristling feline, soothing noises escaping his throat as he gently scooped her up into his arms. He gently scraped his fingers down her back, smoothing the ruffled silver-gray fur. “Shh, calm down, love,” he cooed. “I won’t let that prat hurt you again,” he promised.
Victoria, for her part, made herself comfortable in her master’s embrace, resting her paws on England’s shoulder, and her small, rounded face on top of them. A quiet purr began in the back of her throat as she slowly calmed down.
“W-what are you talking about?” Alfred asked incredulously. Surprisingly, his tail was approximately four times its normal size, the hair sticking on end. Even his ears seemed to have filled out slightly. “She attacked me!”
“And then you threw her,” Arthur stated dryly, glaring at the American, again stroking his cat soothingly. “She’s not even an eight your size, you brute.” The Briton continued stroking the cat in his arms, leaning his cheek against her shoulder and murmuring to her gently, his book now abandoned on the coffee table. He turned his back to Alfred, still murmuring to his cat in hushed tones, obviously rather miffed.
Victoria peered over Arthur’s shoulder, back at the rather hurt-looking American. He could practically feel smugness radiating off of her small form. As if mocking him, she rubbed her head against Arthur’s neck, a quiet trill of pleasure escaping her little throat.
Alfred pouted, glaring at the bright green eyes that stared back at him, not even attempting to hide her mirth at the situation. She was all over his Arthur, and from how he was acting, he didn’t mind in the slightest. That little… How dare she act as if she were Arthur’s mate! That spot was for Alfred!
Blue eyes narrowed, meeting the acidic green gaze that looked back at him evenly. Arthur continued whispering softly to her, stroking her back, pausing to scratch at the base of her tail. She pressed her legs against the Briton’s chest, her back arching in pleasure, and she snuggled into her master’s neck a little more affectionately, her eyes never leaving Alfred’s.
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