cats

Bloodbriar: Of Cats and Lovers

Diana Von Reichsin — First Person

There is something quietly poetic about observing chaos from a place of control.

My black cat, Nocturne, and Terry’s Siamese, Selene, seemed to have discovered this philosophy independently. Or perhaps they were simply copying us.

I. The Morning Escape

I was preparing tea—herbal, lavender-infused, precise in every detail—when a sudden absence of movement caught my attention.

Nocturne. Gone.

I glanced at the window.

Sure enough, Selene was already crouched atop the garden wall across the street, her tail flicking with calculated elegance.

The two of them regarded each other for a moment, sizing one another up. Then, without warning, they slipped through gaps in the hedges like shadows.

I sighed.

Beckett appeared behind me, trench coat slung over his shoulder despite the fact we weren’t going anywhere. His surgical mask still perfectly in place.

“They’re off again,” he muttered, more as an observation than complaint.

“Yes,” I said. “And knowing them, they’ll be back with some sort of… story.”

II. Neighborhood Antics

The cats moved like dancers choreographed to a score only they could hear.

Nocturne prowled the shadows, black as midnight, slipping silently between fences and hedges. Selene, elegant and cream-colored with sapphire eyes, stalked her with the precision of a seasoned huntress.

By the time I and Beckett had reluctantly followed them outside, they were perched on the roof of the same abandoned gazebo we often avoided.

Nocturne nudged Selene lightly. She arched her back.

And then, unmistakably, they disappeared into the bushes together.

III. Observing Patterns

I watched them with interest.

The way Nocturne’s head pressed against Selene’s neck reminded me of Beckett when he allowed me to lean close during our quiet moments. The gentle nudges, the shared comfort, the tiny territorial claims—all eerily reminiscent of… us.

Beckett, noticing my gaze, smirked faintly under his mask.

“I see you’ve noticed,” he said, voice low.

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re saying the cats are… mimicking us?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Perfectly. Except with fewer words. And more teeth.”

I bit back a smile.

IV. The Teasing Interlude

Later that day, Terry stopped by with a casual air of mischief. Her Siamese, Selene, had returned with Nocturne.

Terry watched them curl together in the sun and sighed.

“You know,” she said with a wicked glint, “it’s almost… alarming how much the cats’ relationship mirrors your own. Nocturne nuzzles. Selene tolerates it. Very… submissive-dominant, if you catch my meaning.”

I froze for the briefest moment.

Beckett snorted under his mask.

“Indeed,” he murmured.

Terry tilted her head, grin widening.

“Oh come on, Diana, don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”

I raised my hand.

And twack.

A gentle but pointed smack to her forehead, executed with precision.

“There is nothing to pretend,” I said smoothly. “And I believe you owe me a formal apology for commenting on matters that are entirely private.”

Terry chuckled, holding her head.

“Fair. Fair,” she said, still laughing. “But admit it, the cats make a better pair than you two sometimes.”

I huffed, brushing an errant lock of hair from my face.

“Better in what way?”

Selene and Nocturne, oblivious to human commentary, had curled into a single heap of fur, tails entwined, basking in the late afternoon sun.

I stared at them, and then at Beckett.

His eyes, visible above his mask, were already soft. Amused. Content.

“Yes,” I said quietly, “they are… perfect.”

Beckett reached for my hand.

I allowed it.

V. Evening Reflections

That night, I watched the cats sleep. Nocturne’s sleek black form pressed against Selene’s pale one. Gentle purring, rhythmic, harmonious.

Beckett leaned close to me.

“Do you think they’ll ever get tired of each other?”

I laughed softly.

“Perhaps,” I said. “But I think they have learned the most important thing: it is far more comfortable to exist with someone who understands exactly how to keep you at peace.”

Beckett nodded.

I leaned my head against his shoulder.

Nocturne twitched in his sleep. Selene stretched luxuriously. Outside, the garden smelled faintly of lavender and nightshade. The world could wait.

Everything was as it should be.

VI. The Moral of Cats and Lovers

I suppose there is a lesson hidden in their antics:

Precision matters.

Comfort matters.

Presence matters.

And if Terry continues to tease, she will receive further twacks.

The cats, at least, do not speak.

And in that, they—and we—are perfectly happy.

End.

Bloodbriar: Of Kittens and Quiet Chaos

Diana Von Reichsin — First Person

The garden smelled faintly of lavender and nightshade as I sipped my herbal tea. A gentle wind rustled the curtains and the late afternoon sun streaked across the lawn.

Nocturne, sleek and black, and Selene, elegant and cream-colored, lounged in the sun, tails intertwined, still the perfect reflection of us—silent, deliberate, intimate.

But now… they were no longer alone.

I. The Arrival of the Litter

Small squeaks and pitter-patters announced the newest development: kittens. A small litter, scattered between the two mothers, tumbling over each other, tails flicking, fur already hinting at the personalities they would inherit.

Nocturne’s little black fluff, precise and calculating even at this age, pressed against Selene’s spotted cream-and-brown kitten, while Selene’s own offspring mirrored her elegance and quiet pride.

Beckett crouched beside me, trench coat pooled around his knees. His hands hovered over the kittens as if they were priceless artifacts—and, in a sense, they were.

“They’re… perfect,” he muttered, voice muffled by the surgical mask.

I smiled softly.

“Yes,” I said. “All of them. Entirely.”

II. Belly Rubs and Purring

I carefully scooped up a black kitten—Nocturne’s smallest—and held it in my lap. Its tiny paws flexed against my palm, tiny claws barely perceptible. I ran my fingers over its belly. The kitten purred, soft and melodic.

One by one, I obliged all the others. Tiny heads pressed against my hands, little legs flailing. Beckett smiled faintly from behind his mask, placing a protective hand over my own as I worked through the litter.

There was a rhythm. A peace. A quiet intimacy.

III. Terry’s Predictable Interruption

Of course, it did not last.

Terry’s voice rang from the gate.

“Good heavens, Diana. It’s… concerning how often your cats—well…”

She trailed off, gesturing vaguely to the kittens wrestling on the lawn. “You know. Mating. Very… productive.”

I froze, eyes narrowing.

Beckett huffed a laugh behind me.

“Very… productive indeed,” he said, voice low.

I grabbed the nearest book—a hardback—and swatted it lightly but firmly against the top of her head.

“Please refrain,” I said smoothly, “from commenting on private matters again.”

Terry yelped, laughing anyway, and backed off slightly.

“Oh, come now!” she said, eyes glinting. “It’s just… adorable. And so reflective, isn’t it? Of… certain, shall we say, human dynamics?”

IV. The Playful Reminder

I rolled my eyes.

But the kittens continued their own business: pouncing, tumbling, chasing shadows. The mirrored elegance of their movements—the subtle dominance of Nocturne’s smallest against Selene’s proudest—reminded me again of our own relationship. Subtle, precise, intimate, affectionate… with playful dominance, boundaries respected, safety preserved.

Terry edged closer anyway, daring to tease further.

“Really, Diana, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair quite so… well, assertive in the front and compliant in the back,” she said with a mischievous grin, nodding toward me and Beckett.

I huffed, lifted my pen, and jabbed it gently at her arm, spinning it so it was both a correction and a joke.

“You are insufferable,” I said, with perfect calm.

Beckett chuckled softly. “You could say… she has not learned the lesson of the cats yet.”

V. Harmony Restored

I returned to the kittens, crouching to gather the largest black one in my lap. Its purring vibrated through my fingers, a rhythmic reminder that some things in the world could be carefully controlled—and perfect.

Beckett sat beside me, mask in place, watching the kittens as if their well-being were a measurement of peace itself. And in a sense, they were.

The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched. The kittens chased each other through the grass. Nocturne and Selene lounged nearby, elegant and satisfied.

And all around us, quiet, controlled, perfectly maintained, was peace.

Terry, still laughing despite my gentle twacks and pen jab, muttered something about “lesson number two on the nature of love reflected in animals,” but I paid it no mind.

I returned my attention to the kittens, hands running over soft fur, and whispered softly to Beckett.

“They are entirely happy. And so are we.”

He squeezed my hand, just slightly, but with unmistakable approval.