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jades-typurriter · 9 months

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Chasing Your Own Tail

A piece written about an OC that me and @lenn-ey brainstormed together! Tailmaws, sharing a brain and body with thoughts that aren't entirely in your control, and the ways in which we try to reel them in.

Please go check them out!! AND READ PRAGMATIST TOO

CW: it's not self-harm exactly but they're very very mean to themself

My alarm rings. 7 AM sharp, Wednesday morning. My eyes slowly crack open—I can already tell it’s going to be one of those slow mornings, the kind where you wake up at the wrong point of your sleep cycle and have to navigate your whole routine half-asleep and with a dull headache. Before I can muster up the energy to roll over, my tail sweeps out from under my blanket, knocking my clock off of my nightstand. Knocked everything else off my nightstand, too. Crabby after lackluster sleep like that, I guess. Come on, Tux. You gotta get out of bed.

I plod down the hall from my bed to the bathroom, my tail dragging across the floor behind me the whole way. I huff, frustrated; I don’t want to get out of bed, but there’s no point being that petulant about it. I’ve got to be at the office soon, and that means cleaning up already so I can get on with my morning. The knob squeaks and the water steams. My tail swishes behind me, discontentedly, as I disrobe. After I make a quick trip to place my clothes in the hamper where they belong, the water is warm enough to stand under. I step in, letting the glass door swing shut behind me and let out a yelp—my tail’s caught in the door! I see that “slow” wasn’t going to be the right word for today. No, today was going to be a real slugfest.

“Alright,” I mutter, shouldering open the door. “You’re being real uncooperative this morning. Will you just get in here?”

She doesn’t dignify me with a response, other than to keep swaying side to side—shaking “no” at me.

“We don’t have time for this.”

Still nothing.

“We have work—”

She cuts me off, opening her maw just enough to stick out her slobbery tongue and blow a fat raspberry up at me.

“Oh, you’re going to be like that today? Fine,” I growl, gripping her a few inches up from the base and hauling her into the shower paw-over-paw. As she tries to stay out of the water, she scrapes against the edge of the door, which smacks shut with the bwom of a vibrating pane of glass. She lets out something between a growl and a whimper, snarling at me, but it’s too late: most of her top is already soaked, and she’s gonna smell like wet dog all day if she doesn’t let me get in there with some shampoo and finish the job. She’s still not happy about having to get ready for the day—neither am I, and we both know it, but she doesn’t seem to care—but she surrenders for the time being. I set about getting us the rest of the way wet, and the worst trouble she gives me for the rest of the shower is a scowl.

After drying us off (she at least plays along for that part of our routine, because she likes feeling like a freshly-tumbled towel after being blow-dried), I set about getting us dressed. A sharp black pair of slacks, a crisp white blouse, and a simple choker, unadorned except for a small metal hoop. Clean and professional. I smile at myself in the mirror, satisfied, gray eyes peering back at me between my bangs, chic little curtains of straight black hair. I pick up a collar from my dresser and reach down to wrap it around my tail. She matches with me now, though her collar is a few sizes bigger—her mouth is nearly as big as my torso, and she has fur a few inches thick on top of that. I glance at the clock. We are, predictably, running behind. Not much time for breakfast.

Hustling into the kitchen, I… really don’t want to cook, even if I did have time for it. Not even out of the house, and I’m already feeling drained… We’ll keep it simple. I look for some bread to jam into the toaster, and start shuffling through the fridge for jam. While I’m elbow-deep in the shelves, my tail creeps up to my hip, sniffing at a few slices of leftover cake.

“No,” I scold her, “We don’t have time for dessert. You already wasted plenty of time dragging your feet about showering.”

She turns toward me, pulling away from the cake (and the puddle of drool forming on the lowest shelf of the fridge). With posture somewhere between a wilted leaf and a half-deflated balloon, she gives me a plaintive grumble.

“I don’t care if it’s easier than cooking, we’re not having cake for breakfast. Toast is also easier than cooking. I can manage toast. I’m managing toast right now.”

She cocks a little to the side, skeptical.

“So what if it’s technically more steps? It’s just waiting. I don’t feel like being queasy from too much chocolate all morning, and then having a sugar crash at work. No.”

Even if it would be a nice treat after a rough morning, I know I’ll regret it later. One of us has to be responsible. I turn my eyes back to the higher shelves, still looking for the jam; my tail’s been a pain, but she hasn’t been rowdy enough lately to warrant constantly wrestling with her. At least, right up until she lunges past my waist, diving MAWFIRST INTO THE CAKE.

I drop the jam (which I had FINALLY just found) in my haste, throwing both paws around the midsection of my tail and pulling back so hard we fall flat on our rear. The jam—and a whole lot of glass—are all over the inside of the fridge and the floor. The cake looks like it had a brief conversation with a woodchipper: tooth marks the length of a finger and the width of three rake across the half of the cake that survived. My tail’s maw is covered in chocolate frosting, like a toddler on their second birthday. She seems tempted to take another hack at it, to pounce so ferociously that she hauls the both of us backward the fridge by our butt, but she settles down after a moment’s consideration. Wonderful! Now, while I clean this up, she won’t make me even later to work.

Thankfully, her behavior is better once we get to the office. Usually, she fidgets quite a bit. She constantly swishes around my chair and pokes around at the things on my desk; a chew toy sometimes keeps her occupied, but not always. Today, she’s just sleepy, whether it’s from a full belly, a poor night’s rest, or sheer boredom. Even then, though, she manages to be an inconvenience, draped across the better part of my desk. I shimmy my keyboard and mouse over, facing my monitor at an awkward angle. Not too difficult to work around, but it would be lovely not to have to work around her in the first place. Then again, seeing her having such a relaxing time just reminds me that I wish I could sleep through today, too.

My boss stops by my desk and lets me know that the team is having a meeting soon. Something about updating each other on the status of all the smaller jobs going into our current project. I’m not prepared for a presentation—I didn’t know I’d have to speak on my work, to say nothing of the state I’m in after my morning—but I tell him I can have some notes in the next few minutes and at least give everybody an outline of where I stand. Reliability and punctuality, while painfully difficult sometimes, are paramount.

Of course, that makes the weight of my tail all the more dead. She doesn’t wake up, no matter how much I shake her, make noise at her, or threaten to find some kind of punishment if her doesn’t come along so I can get my job done. Instead, I have to carry her with me into the meeting room to avoid tousling up her fur by dragging her (especially after cleaning her twice already). If that weren’t embarrassing enough, the entire time I’m speaking, my tail is flopped on the floor next to me like roadkill. Answering questions, on the fly, in front of a group of people, is plenty difficult when they can’t tell that you’re half-asleep; it’s much, much worse when they can see how much you’d like to check out already. She. Snored. During one of my colleagues’ updates.

At least the rest of the day goes by mercifully quickly (after dragging this stupid thing back down to my desk). I log off, clock out, and start making my way home before my phone buzzes. One of my friends—one of my best friends, really—wants to hang out for a bit. I suggest the park that’s on the way from the office to my place, and they’re already in the area, so it works out just fine. I haven’t seen them in what feels like forever… Between work and taking care of myself (and my tail, which… makes both more challenging), I haven’t had much time for socializing. If there’s anything that would be lovely right now, it’s a friendly face. I can’t wait to see them again…

Unfortunately, neither can my tail. The second we turn a corner and find them sitting on a bench, she surges forward, almost dragging me to the ground again. Instead, I dig in my heels and dig through my bag. If this stupid thing gets to my friend, I just know she's gonna slobber all over them, and maybe knock them to the ground. Worst of all, if she’s so desperate to see someone, what’re they gonna think about me? What does it say when I get done with a simple day at work, and I’m exhausted and my tail is whimpering like a sad puppy in their lap? It’s humiliating. It’s unacceptable.

I pull a leash out of my bag and hook one end of it to the collar around my tail. I thread the other through the loop on my choker and pull it like I’m starting a chainsaw. My tail makes a strangled sound, and then she’s pinned up against my back by the leash, which means she can’t get into any more fucking trouble. I clip the other end of the leash through one of my belt loops, dust my hands off on my pants, and plop down on the bench next to my friend. Who cares if I look like a squirrel with her pinned up behind my head like this? I pretend like they didn't just watch the whole affair—like they’re not still staring at me—and greet them with as much composure as I can muster.

“Heyyy. It’s been such a long time! How’ve you been?”

“Uh, how have… you been?” They ask, looking concernedly down at my lap. I realize I’m digging my claws into my thighs. “You seem. Tense.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, pressing my lips together and offering a thin, unconvincing smile.

“You don’t think you were being a little harsh on your tail there, Tux?”

“Please. You don’t know the kind of trouble she’s been getting into. She’s made my life so much harder recently; really, she needs to be disciplined.”

“I just watched you give her whiplash. That seems like being too rough with yourself.”

“Sure. I wouldn't be this rough to another person, but I can treat myself however I want, can’t I?” My tail whines in response. She’s still straining to get closer to my friend, who leans past me to look at her, worry continuing to write itself all across their face.

“You know I wouldn’t mind if she wanted some pets, or whatever. I mean, how long have we known each other? I’m more than comfortable with the both of you.”

“Look, I just—she won’t control herself, so I’ve got to keep her on a short leash!” I huff. “Even if I have to do so literally. We don’t have to make it your problem that I’ve had a bad month—” I let slip, turning away as an eyebrow shoots up on their forehead. ‘---Bad day. It’s… embarrassing. And it’s our own fault, anyway. Even when my tail isn’t giving me a hard time, I can’t get myself to do what I have to do, some days. I just have to keep myself in line. Keep both of us in line.”

“Tux, bestie,” they softly offer, reaching out to put one hand on my shoulder and to pet my tail with the other. “If being so hard on yourself worked, like, period, wouldn’t it have worked by now? How long have you been struggling like this?” I don’t answer for a few moments, and I don’t turn back to meet their eyes, either. I cross my arms, trying not to seem like I’m outright clutching at myself, as the gears turn in my head.

“I don’t want to talk about it, but. I take your point.” I reach down and unlatch the leash from my waist, and my tail whips straight into my friend’s lap. I can tell she’s straining not to wag full-tilt; that would take her out of their reach, and they’re really pulling out all the stops on petting her. Both hands, from her maw to her base at the bottom of my back, the works. We talk about a few other things for a while, even though for a long time I still can’t bring myself to turn around or relax my shoulders. They listen patiently as I complain about work, and about a million other little things that have been irritating me, but that I won’t admit have been wearing on me.

Talking to them is good for me. I need to go out of my way for them more often; I know they would for my sake. They’ve always been supportive like that. Someone as understanding as they are is always nice to talk to, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, being shown some kindness instead of just tightening up further and further is… relaxing. Eventually, I swivel around on the bench.

“Hey. Do you think I could… have a hug too?”

“Dude, of course.”

I lean in, and they wrap me up in their arms. My tail wraps the both of us up, still panting happily and drooling all over my nice work shirt, but it’s fine. Honestly, she knows what I want just as clearly as I know what she wants. They’re one and the same, more often than not. It’s just nice to be able to indulge ourselves without worrying, every once in a while. Certainly less conflict that way.

#writeblr #trans author #furry fiction #tailmaw #indie author #original writing #short story

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