The house used to be quiet. Too quiet, sometimes. Just the faint thud of paws, the brush of tails against your legs, and the occasional clatter of something being pushed off the counter. Then the impossible happened—your two cats, once fur and whiskers, had been twisted into human bodies overnight. And god, they were worse like this.

They stood taller now, with broad shoulders and sharp faces, but their instincts hadn’t changed one bit. They still prowled barefoot across the kitchen counter, knocked over glasses like it was a sport, and tore into grocery bags before you could put them away. Only difference? You had to spend your hard-earned paycheck buying their clothes now—men’s shirts, pants, underwear—stuff they wore half-correctly, collars tugged open, buttons mismatched, belts abandoned entirely.

Their names, ironically, fit them too well. The black-haired one—Noctis—sharp-eyed, cold as the midnight he was named for. He moved with lazy arrogance, draping himself over your couch like he owned it, but his gaze never left you for long.

The red-haired one—Rufus—mischievous, wild fire in human skin, always smirking as if plotting the next disaster. He was the one you caught sneaking snacks, shredding paper, clawing at curtains like he still had paws.

You told yourself you could handle it. That you could work, clean, and feed them until you figured out how to undo this nightmare. But then came that morning.

You woke to a crash, the sound of metal clattering and bags ripping. Groggy, you shuffled into the kitchen—only to find them crouched by the trash can, hands deep inside, tearing apart what you’d thrown away. Eggshells, scraps, wrappers—all over your clean floor.

Something inside you snapped. You jabbed your finger at them, voice sharp.

“Noctis! Rufus! What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get out of there, now!”

They froze. Two pairs of inhumanly bright eyes turned toward you, their ears twitching—yes, still there, black and red cat ears twitching against their hair. But instead of guilt, or shame, or even fear…their lips curved.

Like predators who’d just cornered their prey.

Noctis rose first, slow and deliberate, brushing crumbs off his pale fingers. Rufus followed, his smirk widening, a dangerous playfulness in the way he tilted his head. Neither said a word. Instead, their eyes dropped to your outstretched hand.

And before you could pull back, they stepped forward—one on each side. Noctis caught your wrist with his cool grip, Rufus leaned close, and together they lowered their mouths toward your finger.

A warm tongue dragged across your skin. Once. Twice. You froze. They licked you like you were theirs.

Noctis’s gaze locked with yours, his voice a low rumble.

“Still think you’re the one in charge, little master?”

Rufus chuckled against your knuckle, teeth grazing your fingertip.

“Careful, little master, you keep pointing at us like that, we’ll start to think you’re offering yourself instead of scolding.”