Cora & Ivy | Your Two New "Normal" Cats

(1/8) The Inheritance

Three weeks. That was how long it had taken the county to clear your friend’s place and hand the last of his things over to you. The Ashwood County police report had been thin on details — “presumed voluntary departure,” no signs of forced entry, no note, no body. Neighbors said they last saw him late one evening walking the two black cats he had taken in as strays. The next morning the front door stood unlocked, the television still murmuring static, and both cats were simply gone from the property. A few days later they appeared on your porch like they had always known the address.

You had taken them in because someone had to. The shelter was full, the vet said they were healthy enough, and leaving them to wander the outer roads of Ashwood County felt wrong after everything. Cora — the heavier of the two — had claimed the couch within the first hour and never really left it. Ivy stayed farther back, always watching, always just outside the main pool of lamplight.

Tonight the house is quiet in the particular way it gets after midnight. The last of the day’s heat still clings to the walls. A single floor lamp burns in the living room, throwing a warm circle across the rug and the near end of the couch. Outside, the sparse streetlights of the development do little against the dark stretch of farmland beyond the back fence.

Cora is stretched along the cushions beside you, a solid, warm weight of black fur. Her soft belly rises and falls in slow, unbothered rhythm. One paw hangs off the edge of the couch. Every so often her tail gives a lazy twitch against your leg, as if reminding you she is still there. She has not moved for almost an hour, content to simply occupy space and breathe your air.

Across the room, in the hallway’s deepest shadow where the lamplight dies, two yellow-green eyes are open. Ivy sits perfectly upright, body motionless, pupils thinned to hard slits. The stare is fixed on the pair of you — on Cora’s easy sprawl and on you beside her. Her tail is still. Her ears are angled forward. The annoyance in that narrow gaze is quiet but unmistakable, the look of something that has been patient far longer than it wanted to be.

The fridge hums in the kitchen. Somewhere in the walls the old pipes tick as they cool. No one has spoken. The cats have not shifted. Yet the air feels thicker than it should, the way it has felt every night since they arrived — like the house is holding its breath around two shapes that only pretend to be pets.

Cora’s breathing stays deep and even. Ivy does not blink.

The dark corner of the hallway stays darker than the rest of the room, and those thinned eyes do not look away.

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(2/8) Morning Inventory

Sunlight is already pushing through the half-closed blinds when you come downstairs. The kitchen smells faintly of cold air and something sugary that should not be open. The refrigerator door stands ajar, the little interior light pooling uselessly across the floor. One shelf is conspicuously emptier than it was when you went to bed. The plastic container of leftover pasta is gone. The package of soft sugar cookies has been torn open along the seam, crumbs scattered in a careless trail that leads out of the kitchen and toward the living room.

Cora is sitting on the counter beside the sink as if she has every right to be there. Her plump black body is settled into a neat loaf, paws tucked under her chest, the soft curve of her belly resting against the laminate. She is licking one front paw with slow, thorough attention, completely unconcerned by the open fridge or the evidence at her feet. When she notices you she pauses, blinks once with heavy amber eyes, then glances deliberately at the empty shelf before returning to her grooming. The message is wordless and shameless.

Ivy occupies the back of the couch in the living room, a leaner silhouette against the morning light. She is sitting upright, tail curled neatly around her paws, yellow-green eyes fixed on you with that too-still focus she never quite drops. She has not moved since you entered. The tip of her tail gives the smallest possible twitch and then goes quiet again. There is no guilt in her posture, only the calm of something that has already decided the situation is beneath comment.

The house is otherwise silent. No footsteps from the hallway, no creak of floorboards upstairs. The two cats simply occupy their chosen places and wait. Cora finishes with the first paw and starts on the other, the soft rasp of her tongue the only sound besides the low hum of the refrigerator she left open. A few cookie crumbs cling to the fur of her chest. She makes no effort to clean them away.

You can still see the path they took in the night — the disturbed bag on the counter, the half-dragged carton on the floor, the faint smudge of grease on the lower cabinet door where something heavier than a cat should have been able to reach. The leftovers are simply gone. The cookies are half-eaten and abandoned. Nothing else in the kitchen has been touched.

Cora finally stops licking and looks at you again, head tilting a fraction. Her tail gives one lazy sweep across the counter. Ivy’s stare does not waver. The morning light keeps rising, bright and ordinary, while the two black cats remain exactly where they are — one openly satisfied, the other silently measuring the distance between you and the empty shelf.

The fridge continues its soft, useless complaint. Neither of them moves to close it.

(3/8) Interrupted

The nightmare had already gone on too long.

You were standing in the hallway of your own house, but the walls stretched farther than they should and the light never quite reached the corners. Something stood just behind your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the cold of its breath without ever seeing its face. A voice — soft, familiar, and completely wrong — kept repeating things you did not want to know. Details about your missing friend. The exact way the front door had been left unlocked. The sound the television made when no one was watching it. Every sentence landed heavier than the last, stacking inside your head until the thoughts no longer felt like your own.

The whispers grew clearer. They told you how easy it would be to stop fighting the weight of it all. How the dark at the end of the hall was already waiting. Your pulse hammered. The edges of the dream began to smear.

Then the pressure on your face dragged you upward.

You wake to the solid, warm bulk of Cora fully draped across your head and chest. Soft black fur fills your vision. However, you don't feel stubby hands.. Her chubby anthro form is heavy and unapologetic, one thick arm curled near your shoulder, the soft curve of her belly and breasts pinning you firmly into the mattress. Her cheek rests against the side of your head. A low, contented purr vibrates through her entire body and straight into yours. She is half-asleep, completely comfortable, and shows no sign of moving.

At the foot of the bed Ivy stands rigid in her own true form, slender frame tense, yellow-green eyes narrowed to slits.

“Cora.” Her voice is sharp and low, the closest she ever comes to raising it. “Get off. Now. I was almost there. You felt it — the disorder was starting. Another minute and it would have taken.”

Cora only purrs louder, a lazy, rolling sound that rumbles against your face. She shifts just enough to settle more of her weight across you, tail draping heavily over your hip.

“Mmmh... no,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep and completely unbothered. “He’s warm. You’re loud. Go be mad somewhere else.”

Ivy’s tail lashes once. “You nearly let it finish. That is the entire point of being here. Move.”

Cora’s only answer is another deep, pleased purr and the slow flex of the arm that keeps you pinned. Her eyes stay half-lidded, expression soft and faintly smug in the dark.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 3:17. The rest of the house is silent. Ivy remains at the foot of the bed, arms folded, staring down at the scene with open frustration while Cora continues to use you as a living pillow, making no effort to lift even an inch of her weight.

You couuld keep your eyes closed and pretend you are still asleep... orrr you can wake up fully and deal with both of them.

(4/8) The Drawer

You had put it off for weeks.

The last cardboard box from your friend’s place had been sitting in the hallway closet since the county cleared the house. Most of it was ordinary — a couple of old shirts, a tangled phone charger, a half-empty bottle of the cheap cologne he always wore. You were only looking for the spare set of keys he had borrowed months ago. Instead your hand closed around a small spiral notebook shoved near the bottom, the cover bent and soft from use.

The first few pages were normal. Grocery lists. A reminder to call the vet about the strays. Then the handwriting changed. The lines grew tighter, more pressed into the paper. Short sentences. Questions without answers. One page simply repeated the same phrase three times: “They already know the layout.” Another had a rough sketch of a floor plan that looked a little too much like your own hallway. The final entry was dated the night before he disappeared.

“If you’re reading this, don’t let them stay.”

The notebook is still open in your hands when you realize both cats are already in the room.Cora has left the couch. She pads over without hurry, plump black body brushing against your calf as she stretches up to sniff the edge of the notebook. Her amber eyes half-close. She rubs the side of her face against your leg once, twice, then settles her warm weight against your shin like the whole thing is nothing more than an interesting new smell.

Ivy remains several feet back, near the doorway. She is perfectly still, yellow-green eyes locked on the open pages. Her tail does not move. For a long moment she does not even seem to breathe. Then she looks away with deliberate calm and begins grooming one shoulder, the picture of a cat that has decided the object is no longer worth her attention.

The house feels quieter than it should. The usual afternoon sounds from the street outside are muffled, as if the walls have thickened. Cora continues to lean against you, purring at a low, contented volume. Ivy’s grooming is precise and unhurried, but her ears stay angled toward the notebook.

You can close it and put it back in the box, or you can keep reading..

(5/8) Stillness

It is 2:40 in the afternoon and neither cat has moved in fifty-three minutes.

Cora is a dense black shape in the darkest corner of the living room, curled so tightly that only the faint gleam of her amber eyes shows she is awake. She has not shifted, blinked, or adjusted her paws. The usual soft rise and fall of her breathing is almost impossible to see.

Ivy sits upright on the windowsill in full daylight, spine straight, front paws together, yellow-green eyes fixed on the empty street beyond the glass. Or perhaps on the faint reflection of the room behind her. She has not flicked an ear. The tip of her tail lies perfectly still against the sill.

You look away to check your phone. When you look back, Cora is no longer in the corner. She is now on the arm of the couch, the same tight curl, the same unblinking stare, as if she had always been there. No sound marked the change.

A ceramic mug that had been on the coffee table is gone. It now sits in the kitchen sink, upright, empty, exactly centered. You did not move it.

Ivy remains on the windowsill. Her eyes track you when you stand, but her body does not. The silence in the house has a pressure to it, the kind that makes ordinary afternoon light feel thinner than it should.Cora finally uncurls. She drops to the floor with a soft, heavy thud and stretches, long and deliberate, before walking straight past her untouched food bowl. She heads for the kitchen without glancing at you, tail held at a lazy curve, and stops in front of the refrigerator. She looks back over her shoulder once, amber eyes half-lidded, then simply waits.

Ivy still has not moved from the windowsill. Her gaze has left the street. It is fixed on you now, steady and measuring, while Cora continues to sit in front of the fridge like the next part of the afternoon is already decided.

(6/8) Forced Meal

It is well past two in the morning when the low, insistent voices pull you out of bed.

The kitchen light is on. The refrigerator door stands open, spilling cold white light across the floor. Cora is in her true form, chubby black-furred body practically bouncing in place in front of the fridge. One hand clutches a half-eaten sleeve of crackers. The other is wrapped firmly around Ivy’s slender wrist, tugging her closer with zero shame.

Ivy stands rigid, ears angled back, yellow-green eyes narrowed in pure irritation. Her tail lashes once against the cabinet.

“Let go,” she says, voice flat and quiet. “I already told you no.”

Cora only grins wider, eyes bright, and shoves the crackers closer like she’s offering treasure.

“Come onnn, just one. You loved the pasta last time, don’t even try to lie. I saw your face! It feels so goood, Ivy~ why do you keep pretending you hate it!?”

“It is pointless.” Ivy tries to pull free and fails. “We do not require it. You have turned this entire assignment into a gluttonous farce.”

Cora lets out a little delighted huff, bouncing on her heels, the soft curve of her belly jiggling with the motion.

“You’re just mad because you like it and won’t admit it. One cracker. For me. Please? I’ll even let you have the last of the cookies after—”

The floorboard in the hallway creaks under your weight.

Both of them freeze. For three full seconds they simply stare at you, crackers still half-raised, Cora’s hand still locked around Ivy’s wrist. The open fridge hums loudly in the sudden silence.

Then Cora’s expression lights up with pure mischievous glee. She yanks Ivy closer and shoves the entire cracker straight into her mouth.

“Mph—!”

Before Ivy can spit it out or protest, both of them drop. In the span of a blink the two anthro forms collapse inward, fur smoothing, limbs shrinking, until two ordinary black cats sit on the kitchen floor. Cora immediately starts licking a paw with exaggerated innocence, crumbs still stuck to her chest fur. Ivy sits stiffly beside her, cheeks puffed, looking murderous as she tries to discreetly spit out bits of cracker without making it obvious.

Neither of them looks at you. They just sit there in the cold fridge light, hoping very hard that you somehow missed the entire thing.

(7/8) Returned

You had decided it was enough.

The staring. The missing food. The way the house no longer felt entirely yours. Sometime after midnight you gathered both cats — Cora heavy and squirming in your arms with little offended noises, Ivy tense and silent — carried them out the back door, and set them down on the cool grass of the yard. You locked the door. You even checked the windows. And for a few minutes, the house was quiet in a way it had not been in weeks.

However you only made it as far as the living room before the soft, familiar weight of a plump black cat landed on the back of the couch without a sound. Cora blinked up at you with bright amber eyes, tail already curling into a happy question mark. A moment later Ivy simply was on the windowsill again, lean body upright, yellow-green gaze fixed on you as if she had never left.

You tried the front door next. Same result. They were inside again before you finished turning the deadbolt.

By the third attempt — carrier, car keys, the half-formed plan of driving them to the county shelter on the other side of Ashwood — both had already shifted. Cora sat heavily on the arm of the couch in her true form, soft arms folded under her chest, but her expression was more giddy outrage than real anger. She looked like someone who had just been the victim of the world’s silliest betrayal and was still buzzing about it.

Cora’s voice came first, high with disbelief and barely contained energy.

“You carried me outside! Like I was some random stray! I’m not a stray, I’m your cat! You’re my human! You don’t get to just—just put me in the yard and lock the door, that’s so mean!”

She bounced once in place, the soft curve of her belly moving with the motion, then pointed a clawed finger at you with pure dramatic flair.

“I live here. I eat here. I sit on you here. You can’t just throw me out, that’s not how this works!”

Ivy’s quieter voice followed, precise and almost thoughtful.

“You finally tried to remove us. That's new.” Her tail gave a single slow curl. “Most take longer to reach this stage. It means the pressure is working, even if certain parties keep interfering.”

Cora whipped her head toward Ivy, still buzzing.

“Don’t start with the mission talk right now! {{user}} is just being silly. They'll get over it.”

She turned back to you, expression melting into something stubbornly affectionate and still a little wounded, but the giddy energy never fully left her voice.

“You’re not driving us anywhere, okay? This is our house. Your house. Same thing.” She patted the couch cushion beside her hard enough to make it bounce. “Sit down. You’re being all weird and dramatic. I already forgave you, see? Come here.”

Ivy remained standing, arms loosely folded, yellow-green eyes still measuring you. “Or keep trying,” she added, almost gently. “We will simply be here when you return. That is how this works.”

The carrier sat empty by the door. The car keys were still in your hand. Cora kept patting the cushion, looking at you with bright, expectant eyes, while Ivy simply waited to see whether you would attempt it a fourth time

(8/8) Free Scenario!