It was Munkustrap's first time at a club.
Now, it sounded like a cliche waiting to happen. After all, he was an uptight prude who was drinking alcohol with plenty of other legal partakers all about him. Any cinematic picture would have him falling over himself drunk, with a stripper curled enticingly around his arm as he finally lost his inhibitions and succumbed to nature's calling, before waking up the next morning with said woman beside him declaring they were in a relationship.
But none of this was to come about. After all, Munkustrap was well off adult. He was thirty one years old, and had finally been convinced by his brother to accompany him to a bar. He had obliged, and so far it wasn't a regretful event. He and Tugger had merely sat in stools, discussing things in only slightly elevated voices as they sipped at their respective glasses.
"I don't know why I said no all these years," Munkustrap finally commented, a soft smile curling his lips. Tugger gave a booming laugh, attracting several queens from a nearby table.
"It's not as bad as your wee head imagined it, eh?" Tugger chuckled, giving Munkustrap a soft nudge. "Did you think I came here, got shitfaced, and fucked everything in sight?" Tugger stopped, taking in the side-eye his elder brother was giving him. "Oh, pooh, brother. I detest drunken sex. It complicates things way too much."
"Well, that and you have a job and a reputation. Strange queens and toms waking up in your bed aren't exactly ideal," Munkustrap countered. Which was true. Since Tugger had cleaned up the mistakes of his youth, he did still sleep around, but not as frequently. And he was much better at hiding the evidence of his affairs.
"Whatever," Tugger huffed, downing the last of his drink. "I think I'd better head home, speaking of. I've got a student tomorrow. And he's a cute little thing," the coon chuckled, lips pursing thoughtfully. "He's just barely legal, and they taste better tender."
Munkustrap's look clearly spoke his words for him.
"Oh, c'mon," Tugger griped, "I said he was legal."
"And a student!" Munkustrap exclaimed, finishing his glass as well. "I'm sure that's illegal, or, if not, his parents won't be pleased!"
"Doesn't got parents," Tugger countered, smirking. "He has a ridiculous uncle that postures and poses, and a weird sister that I just find lurking around corners." Tugger shrugged. "Neither of them would notice or care if I gave him some... After-class teaching?"
"You're despicable. Leave the feelings of kittens out of your cock." Munkustrap snapped, arms crossing. Any haze he had was quickly cleared by Tugger's ridiculous words. Flirting with a kit - honestly! How could his brother be so stupid?
"I'm joking, brother," the coon sniffed, tugging at his mane. He was almost pouting, like he'd done since they were children. Munkustrap wagged his head back and forth, before he and his brother both dismissed themselves from one another's company. Tugger had a ways to drive to reach his hotel, and Munkustrap lived in a simple apartment a few streets over, easy enough to walk to.
Hitching his coat up, and carefully pulling the zipper into place, he watched his brother speed out of the parking lot, before he himself began the trek home.
"Ah c'mon, Misto, dontcha wanna prove yourself once and for all?" Plato demanded, perching himself precariously atop a trashcan. "You could really join us if you'd just do a solo mission."
"I don't know," Mistoffelees replied, his eyes closed as he quickly turned away from Plato. "I just... I'm perfectly okay with standing on the sides and assisting, but actually partaking in a crime..." the tux's voice dwindled, and he stared down at the trash littered ground.
"Assisting and abiding are just as bad as actually doing the crime," the patched tom replied, eyebrows raising with his point. Mistoffelees flushed momentarily, before giving a cool, deft shrug. Plato sighed, and hopped off the can. "The Boss is always watching," he murmured, "just remember that. If you don't do it soon, he'll grow suspicious."
Without an outward sign of recognition, Mistoffelees strode slowly away. He made sure he didn't move to fast, nor too slow. He was always monitoring his speed, his stature, and his position at any point in time. After all, living with an uncle like his gave you cause for worry, especially with the lifestyle they led.
Posh and perfect, and so Mistoffelees and his sister had to act. It was a bad enough that Bustopher - his uncle - considered he and Victoria a stain upon his social career, but then he had to retain them in his home or lest face judgement from anyone who knew of their existence. So he had illegitamate children from his floozie of a sister, but he had to nurture them and constantly play the loving, wonderful uncle.
Mistoffelees could've vomited.
But Bustopher probably could as well.
So Mistoffelees spent more and more time away from the mansion, forever wandering, forever exploring. He'd found a group of rag-tag thieves and criminals, all fairly young, and had eagerly taken up in the thrill. He couldn't ever bring himself to stoop so low as to actually commit a crime personally, but the tux had his ways of helping. Standing guard, pulling people close enough to shadows for an inquisitive paw to reach out, or simply finding a way to pick locks, or use resources and money to fuel their needs. It was fun, somehow, being a part of something Bustopher could never control.
But here lately, the gang's allusive boss had begun to probe about Mistoffelees, demanding answers and sending his lackies to question their new comrade. At first, Mistoffelees had deflected comments, or given haughty responses. After all, their ring leader never truly appeared, so Mistoffelees had no troubles.
However, as of late, the questions were becoming more and more frequent. He couldn't avoid them as easily, and he was often left giving them half-truths and unconvincing reasons why he couldn't finally commit a true deed.
And he didn't know why, really. After all, he'd helped with enough of their crimes, right? Why not just take the final plunge? What morality was their left for him. He kept trying to convince himself that by somehow never truly stealing he was better and therefore still good. He truly didn't know why.
Perhaps it was because every time he went to do it, he was somehow paralyzed, thinking about who their parents were, what their life was, if they had any kids, did they have a hard job, did they work hard for their money? He was constantly plagued by such thoughts.
Maybe, though, it was time for him to actually try.
Munkustrap was stumbling at this point. It was partially from the drinks, and partially from fatigue. And he still had to wake up early the next morning - how lovely. It had seemed like a good idea though, brotherly bonding and whatnot. In a way it had been successful, sure, but now the poor tabby felt a throbbing headache, and his stomach was churning horribly at this point.
"Everlasting," he mumbled, turning on to the last street. With a burst of relief, he realized his apartment was extremely near. Giving a little extra oomph to his step, the tom began moving with a purpose, eyes fixated on the prize, and his eyes lighting with triumph at the thought a soft, warm, loving bed -
-shoved into his pants?!
Stopping dead, Munkustrap looked down, eyes widening as he heard a distant quiver of "Oh shit", before he finally took in the situation. The ghostly white hand of some young tux was currently enveloped in the fabric of his pants, for some reason that the hazy eyed Munkustrap could just not piece togther for the life of him.
"Who, exactly, are you?"
Ah I haven't written in forver. So I'm a little rusty.
We'll see how this goes.
Will be Munku/Misto because this coupled needs love