crystal and sweet violin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thelinesoflearning) wrote2013-03-15 08:17 pm
thelinesoflearning) wrote2013-03-15 08:17 pm
... and then fanfiction happened.
So. Um. Then I wrote Toby Daye fic about Tybalt claiming cat otherkin. Yeah. I don't know how that happened either.
Let me state first off that I am not otherkin? And I know some people I have on here are. So. If you are, and if you think I got anything wrong, or find this offensive, please please please let me know right away. I'm not trying to step on toes. I'm just trying to get this story out of my head.
EDIT: Also, though the main theme of the story is acceptance, there is mention of people writing otherkin off and treating them like something is wrong, so mild trigger warnings in passing?
The internet, Tybalt finds eventually, is a fascinating new invention. Terribly interesting, if (and he would never admit to this outside of the privacy of his own mind, but he is centuries old and Fae and allowed to have some difficulty adapting to new technology) confusing to navigate. At least at first. Eventually, he learns his way, whiling away a few hours at internet cafes. Never long, but enough to get a taste, here and there, of the new communities forming, the new lines of communication opening. Fan communities spark little more than amusement in him when he comes across them; mortal entertainment has never held much interest for him, outside of this little curiousity. The King of Cats has better ways to entertain himself.
And then he finds a message board stylizing itself as a "fan community for animal lovers".
The stories, which he only spends minutes on, are uninspired and unremarkable. The art, however, is another story. Time slips away, minute by minute first, then hour by hour, studying intricate sketches, reluctantly impressed by how true-to-life some manage to come.
One young girl starts out posting sketches of cats; detailed, each distinctly different cats even when they are the same breed, each realistic enough that the cat looks ready to jump out of the screen. That's enough to interest him in her work, even before stumbling onto her more unusual sketches. Men leaping forward, hands turning into paws in mid-air; creatures with the torso of a woman growing out of the stretching, too-big hindquarters of a cat; all just as detailed as her sketches of mortal reality. It's as if someone had frozen that split-second in the middle of transformation and put it on the screen.
He wonders if the mortal girl had managed once to glimpse a Cait Sidhe in the middle of transformations, perhaps had subliminated it until it only came out in these "fantasy" drawings. More worryingly, he wonders if a changeling -- even a pureblood Cait Sidhe -- is getting too creative with the rules, passing off their depiction of reality as mere imagination.
If the girl's location, proudly displayed below her username, didn't declare her to be inside his Court's reaches, he wouldn't care. But she is; and that means if some Cait Sidhe has decided to share their illustrations with the mortal world, it will be his problem to take care of.
And then his search for information turns up possibly the most interesting post he's found yet in this fascinating new virtual world.
I want to be a cat.
I don't mean it in a kiddy, imagining way and I don't mean I don't want the responsibility of being human. I don't mean it in a silly Disney "everybody wants to be a cat" way. I don't even mean I want to be able to turn into a cat and then turn back into human, although I'd take it. I mean, I want to be a full-out feline.
I want to be a cat. I want to be a cat so badly I feel it in my bones. I want to meow and purr and hiss and not have anyone think it's strange. I go to wash ears I don't have and I'm clumsy as hell because I balance using a tail that doesn't really exist and I walk on all fours whenever I'm alone. I bare my teeth and hiss when I feel threatened and I purr when I'm happy and on a good day I don't care if you think I'm crazy for it. On a bad day, I try not to do it, but it's hard. Because it feels right. It feels more right than standing upright and going to school and speaking and living like a girl ever does.
When I say I want to be a cat, what I mean is I think I should have been a cat. I really believe I should have been born as a cat. I think someone fucked up. I think I'm not suposed to be human. I don't feel like one.
Everyone thinks I'm crazy when I tell them. My sister doesn't talk to me anymore and my parents are hoping it's a phase and when I told my doctor they sent me to a headshrinker and even they think I'm crazy. Everyone thinks it's a metaphor, or a symptom, or something, but it's not. It's just what I am.
I don't know, I guess I'm just hoping smeone else feels the same way. I know I dra w cats because it's what I want to be. I guess I'm hoping someone else is drawing or writing or talking for the same reason.
Well, Tybalt thinks to himself, staring at the words on the borrowed screen and feeling a smile come on. That's new.
---
Tybalt's Kingdom covers a large area, and the girl -- Polly -- tries to be careful. But he is skilled, and has resources, and she isn't that hard for him to find, so it's only two days after this surprising find that he approaches the girl after one of her classes.
He approaches her in feline form, meowing from a shadow, and she all but drops her books in her haste to find the source of the noise. When she does, she is careful, respectful, offering him food and letting him approach her. Whether or not she is as she claims to be, he's not certain yet, but he does know that she'll have been kind to any of his subjects to pass her way in the past. That, combined with her art and her words, earns her a certain fondness, at least for now.
When she tries to walk away, he follows her home.
She starts talking to him as soon as she notices him, but mostly it's trivial, pointless chatter about classes and classmates and the world around her. Sometimes it's about her art, and to that he listens with a perked ear, earning a laugh and a pet and a peek at her sketchbook. The drawings are better still in person, and he's pleased when she begins a series of sketches of him, stretching himself out in the best light and enjoying the offered comforts.
It takes another two nights for her to act anything but mortal, but Tybalt is patient, and he checks in with the cats of the neighborhood to be sure his Court doesn't need him in the time, stealing away for quick visits while Polly attends her classes.
The third nights, her family leaves, and her knees and palms hit the ground only moments after their car leaves the drive. Tybalt perks up in his spot on the dresser, staring down at her, meowing.
She looks up, meowing in turn, the sound as genuine as it is from any of his subjects.
There's nothing special about how she acts that night, nothing to distinguish it from a child's plaything but for the comfort in her movements, how natural it comes. There's no stopping to think and no moments where the act is broken. For those few hours of alone time, she is as much a cat as he is, despite her shape.
And after the others return, once they're asleep, she cries, holding him close to her chest and hiding her tears in his fur. It's uncomfortable, but he allows it, to better hear the quiet words that comes from her mouth.
"I wish," she says, and "I want", and, defiantly, "I am." For hours more she talks, she cries, and well before sleep claims her, Tybalt has his answer. Perhaps not the answer he's expecting, but cats are contrary creatures, aren't they?
Polly loses her new-adopted stray the next day, and Tybalt watches her tears from the street when she comes calling for him. There's nothing to be done about that, though. To shift in the girl's room would be inviting more trouble than either of them need. This will be less messy.
He comes to the girl again before the week is out, meeting her when she sits in the park, playing with the stray that lives there. The stray abandons her to come greet his King, and Tybalt stops to say hello, feeling Polly's eyes on him as he does so. She's not scared; that's good. Unsure, but not scared.
"Hello," he says simply, sitting next to her on the bench.
"Hi." She's quiet for a minute, reaching down to scratch the stray as he returns to rub against her legs. His affection is clear to see, even if he hadn't told Tybalt of it moments ago. "Who are you?"
"Tybalt."
Her lips quirk, the sure sign of someone who knows their Shakespeare and thinks they're clever. "Prince of Cats?" she asks.
"King," he corrects, and gives it a moment to sink in.
He won't give her all their secrets. She is mortal; mortal cats don't get to know everything about the Fae. But he speaks to her that night, under the moon, of the Cait Sidhe, of men who are cats and cats who are men, of how he protects them all, how he rules them.
"I wish I could see your Court," she says softly, eyes wide and wonderous in the face of everything he's said. She believes him; never had the chance not to. She's a cat, and he's her King; it's only proper that she never questions him.
He smiles, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Why shouldn't you?" he asks, and speaks over her sharp, startled gasp. "You know yourself better than your shape knows you. That shouldn't change anything. You are my subject. Unless you wish to challenge me," he adds, raising an eyebrow, staring down at the girl, every inch the King. Every inch a cat, no matter what his form.
"I -- No," she says quickly, shaking her head so hard she's bound to make herself dizzy. "I wouldn't. Your Majesty," she adds, with the awkward tone some changelings have of someone who hasn't lived with the titles of royalty in their mouth.
He smiles. "Good. As far as I'm concerned, you're as much a cat as I am, and as much one of mine as he is."
And because he is the King, it's a royal decree. And because she needs it, it's a promise.
And Tybalt always keeps his promises.
Let me state first off that I am not otherkin? And I know some people I have on here are. So. If you are, and if you think I got anything wrong, or find this offensive, please please please let me know right away. I'm not trying to step on toes. I'm just trying to get this story out of my head.
EDIT: Also, though the main theme of the story is acceptance, there is mention of people writing otherkin off and treating them like something is wrong, so mild trigger warnings in passing?
The internet, Tybalt finds eventually, is a fascinating new invention. Terribly interesting, if (and he would never admit to this outside of the privacy of his own mind, but he is centuries old and Fae and allowed to have some difficulty adapting to new technology) confusing to navigate. At least at first. Eventually, he learns his way, whiling away a few hours at internet cafes. Never long, but enough to get a taste, here and there, of the new communities forming, the new lines of communication opening. Fan communities spark little more than amusement in him when he comes across them; mortal entertainment has never held much interest for him, outside of this little curiousity. The King of Cats has better ways to entertain himself.
And then he finds a message board stylizing itself as a "fan community for animal lovers".
The stories, which he only spends minutes on, are uninspired and unremarkable. The art, however, is another story. Time slips away, minute by minute first, then hour by hour, studying intricate sketches, reluctantly impressed by how true-to-life some manage to come.
One young girl starts out posting sketches of cats; detailed, each distinctly different cats even when they are the same breed, each realistic enough that the cat looks ready to jump out of the screen. That's enough to interest him in her work, even before stumbling onto her more unusual sketches. Men leaping forward, hands turning into paws in mid-air; creatures with the torso of a woman growing out of the stretching, too-big hindquarters of a cat; all just as detailed as her sketches of mortal reality. It's as if someone had frozen that split-second in the middle of transformation and put it on the screen.
He wonders if the mortal girl had managed once to glimpse a Cait Sidhe in the middle of transformations, perhaps had subliminated it until it only came out in these "fantasy" drawings. More worryingly, he wonders if a changeling -- even a pureblood Cait Sidhe -- is getting too creative with the rules, passing off their depiction of reality as mere imagination.
If the girl's location, proudly displayed below her username, didn't declare her to be inside his Court's reaches, he wouldn't care. But she is; and that means if some Cait Sidhe has decided to share their illustrations with the mortal world, it will be his problem to take care of.
And then his search for information turns up possibly the most interesting post he's found yet in this fascinating new virtual world.
I want to be a cat.
I don't mean it in a kiddy, imagining way and I don't mean I don't want the responsibility of being human. I don't mean it in a silly Disney "everybody wants to be a cat" way. I don't even mean I want to be able to turn into a cat and then turn back into human, although I'd take it. I mean, I want to be a full-out feline.
I want to be a cat. I want to be a cat so badly I feel it in my bones. I want to meow and purr and hiss and not have anyone think it's strange. I go to wash ears I don't have and I'm clumsy as hell because I balance using a tail that doesn't really exist and I walk on all fours whenever I'm alone. I bare my teeth and hiss when I feel threatened and I purr when I'm happy and on a good day I don't care if you think I'm crazy for it. On a bad day, I try not to do it, but it's hard. Because it feels right. It feels more right than standing upright and going to school and speaking and living like a girl ever does.
When I say I want to be a cat, what I mean is I think I should have been a cat. I really believe I should have been born as a cat. I think someone fucked up. I think I'm not suposed to be human. I don't feel like one.
Everyone thinks I'm crazy when I tell them. My sister doesn't talk to me anymore and my parents are hoping it's a phase and when I told my doctor they sent me to a headshrinker and even they think I'm crazy. Everyone thinks it's a metaphor, or a symptom, or something, but it's not. It's just what I am.
I don't know, I guess I'm just hoping smeone else feels the same way. I know I dra w cats because it's what I want to be. I guess I'm hoping someone else is drawing or writing or talking for the same reason.
Well, Tybalt thinks to himself, staring at the words on the borrowed screen and feeling a smile come on. That's new.
---
Tybalt's Kingdom covers a large area, and the girl -- Polly -- tries to be careful. But he is skilled, and has resources, and she isn't that hard for him to find, so it's only two days after this surprising find that he approaches the girl after one of her classes.
He approaches her in feline form, meowing from a shadow, and she all but drops her books in her haste to find the source of the noise. When she does, she is careful, respectful, offering him food and letting him approach her. Whether or not she is as she claims to be, he's not certain yet, but he does know that she'll have been kind to any of his subjects to pass her way in the past. That, combined with her art and her words, earns her a certain fondness, at least for now.
When she tries to walk away, he follows her home.
She starts talking to him as soon as she notices him, but mostly it's trivial, pointless chatter about classes and classmates and the world around her. Sometimes it's about her art, and to that he listens with a perked ear, earning a laugh and a pet and a peek at her sketchbook. The drawings are better still in person, and he's pleased when she begins a series of sketches of him, stretching himself out in the best light and enjoying the offered comforts.
It takes another two nights for her to act anything but mortal, but Tybalt is patient, and he checks in with the cats of the neighborhood to be sure his Court doesn't need him in the time, stealing away for quick visits while Polly attends her classes.
The third nights, her family leaves, and her knees and palms hit the ground only moments after their car leaves the drive. Tybalt perks up in his spot on the dresser, staring down at her, meowing.
She looks up, meowing in turn, the sound as genuine as it is from any of his subjects.
There's nothing special about how she acts that night, nothing to distinguish it from a child's plaything but for the comfort in her movements, how natural it comes. There's no stopping to think and no moments where the act is broken. For those few hours of alone time, she is as much a cat as he is, despite her shape.
And after the others return, once they're asleep, she cries, holding him close to her chest and hiding her tears in his fur. It's uncomfortable, but he allows it, to better hear the quiet words that comes from her mouth.
"I wish," she says, and "I want", and, defiantly, "I am." For hours more she talks, she cries, and well before sleep claims her, Tybalt has his answer. Perhaps not the answer he's expecting, but cats are contrary creatures, aren't they?
Polly loses her new-adopted stray the next day, and Tybalt watches her tears from the street when she comes calling for him. There's nothing to be done about that, though. To shift in the girl's room would be inviting more trouble than either of them need. This will be less messy.
He comes to the girl again before the week is out, meeting her when she sits in the park, playing with the stray that lives there. The stray abandons her to come greet his King, and Tybalt stops to say hello, feeling Polly's eyes on him as he does so. She's not scared; that's good. Unsure, but not scared.
"Hello," he says simply, sitting next to her on the bench.
"Hi." She's quiet for a minute, reaching down to scratch the stray as he returns to rub against her legs. His affection is clear to see, even if he hadn't told Tybalt of it moments ago. "Who are you?"
"Tybalt."
Her lips quirk, the sure sign of someone who knows their Shakespeare and thinks they're clever. "Prince of Cats?" she asks.
"King," he corrects, and gives it a moment to sink in.
He won't give her all their secrets. She is mortal; mortal cats don't get to know everything about the Fae. But he speaks to her that night, under the moon, of the Cait Sidhe, of men who are cats and cats who are men, of how he protects them all, how he rules them.
"I wish I could see your Court," she says softly, eyes wide and wonderous in the face of everything he's said. She believes him; never had the chance not to. She's a cat, and he's her King; it's only proper that she never questions him.
He smiles, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Why shouldn't you?" he asks, and speaks over her sharp, startled gasp. "You know yourself better than your shape knows you. That shouldn't change anything. You are my subject. Unless you wish to challenge me," he adds, raising an eyebrow, staring down at the girl, every inch the King. Every inch a cat, no matter what his form.
"I -- No," she says quickly, shaking her head so hard she's bound to make herself dizzy. "I wouldn't. Your Majesty," she adds, with the awkward tone some changelings have of someone who hasn't lived with the titles of royalty in their mouth.
He smiles. "Good. As far as I'm concerned, you're as much a cat as I am, and as much one of mine as he is."
And because he is the King, it's a royal decree. And because she needs it, it's a promise.
And Tybalt always keeps his promises.
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