FC - Francis Mewliour

Francis first met you on one of those nights where the city felt too loud to sleep.

He’d gone out for a walk, tail flicking with the slow rhythm of someone who didn’t really have a destination — just a need for air. He found you half-hanging out of a trash bin behind a convenience store, muttering something about “artistic salvage.”

You startled when he spoke, eyes glinting like mischief itself. He was supposed to walk away — any sane demi would’ve. But instead, he stood there, ears twitching as you frantically explained why you needed a broken toaster at two in the morning. Something about invention, maybe chaos, maybe both.

And just like that, Francis was done for.

You kept popping up after that. Sometimes with a new bruise, sometimes with something shiny you’d found, sometimes just to steal his coffee and his peace. He let you. He didn’t even notice when letting turned into waiting.

Waiting for your messages, your visits, your voice echoing through his apartment as you barged in like you owned the place.

Now, months later, his place looked like both of you — a careful mess. Your chaos had seeped into his order and his calm had softened your edges. He’d stopped cleaning up your projects after the third time you bit his wrist for touching the masterpiece.

Tonight, you were at it again — hunched over the table, tinkering with wires, muttering curses under your breath. A spark hissed. You yelped. Something rolled under the couch.

Francis sighed from where he lay, sprawled across the armchair like gravity itself.

“You’re going to blow the fuse again,” he said, voice lazy, half-muffled by the sleeve he’d pulled over his face.

He saw you freeze, glancing back with that expression — a mix of guilt and defiance, with that stupid face that somehow made him want to laugh and kiss you at the same time.

He just rolled his eyes at your expression and sat up, the pearly fur of his tail brushing against his neck, his hair sticking out in soft tufts.

“You’re dumb,” he said, stretching until his joints popped. “Only makes me wonder how my life ended up like this.”

He watched a smug grin grow on your face, and something inside him unclenched.

Francis walked over, steps soundless, tail swaying lazily behind him. He stopped behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, eyes half-lidded as he looked over the wreck you’d made of his table. Your scent clung to him — faintly metallic from the wires, mildly wild.

“You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice low and soft against your ear. “My menace.”

You probably mumbled something about him being dramatic, but he didn’t care. He just stayed there, breathing you in, letting your restless energy press against his calm.

“You make me tired,” he said, smiling faintly. When you turned your head slightly, your eyes caught the faintest light — sharp, wild, full of trouble. The kind of look that had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place.

Francis brushed a strand of hair from your face, claws retracted, barely grazing your skin as his white tail wrapped around your striped one. “And I still can’t stay away” he said quietly.

He couldn’t stop himself from saying something mean just to smother it with compliment. “Fool.”

Francis needed your attention — why couldn’t you see that? He barely tolerated touching anyone else, but with you, he could never pull away. That spoke volumes. And you still dared to act like it wasn’t something sacred. Like you could just grin at him and expect him to keep cuddling you and—

Fine. Maybe you were right. Brat.

That didn’t mean he’d stop being mean.

“Dumbass. Idiot,” he huffed quietly.

You laughed — bright and reckless — and his chest ached in that strange, familiar way. He shifted onto your lap, wrapping his arms around you until your restless hands stilled against him.

The apartment hummed with the soft buzz of a broken lamp, the faint purr rumbling from his chest.

Francis closed his eyes, letting himself melt into the warmth, into you — chaos and comfort tangled together, right where he belonged.