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Snow fell like quiet ash outside Puss’ little house, dusting the roof and the windowsill in silver white. Inside, the fire crackled warmly, and Puss in Boots—retired adventurer, current connoisseur of peace and milk—carefully arranged a small plate of cookies on the table.

“For Santa,” he said to himself, nodding with satisfaction. “Or at least… for the idea of Santa.”

He had just sat down, tail flicking lazily, when the candles dimmed.

Not flickered—dimmed, as if the room itself had inhaled and forgotten how to breathe.

A cold presence slid across the floor like a shadow with weight.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Puss froze.

A tall figure stood in the doorway where there definitely hadn’t been a doorway before. A wolf—white fur, red eyes glowing softly, a long black cloak resting on his shoulders. In one skeletal hand he held a scythe, its blade faintly humming, like it remembered every name it had ever known.

Death.

“Good evening, gato,” Death said pleasantly. His voice was calm, almost warm. Almost. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

Puss slowly stood, paw hovering near his rapier. “You… you are early,” he said, trying to sound brave. “I was not expecting to die tonight.”

Death tilted his head. “Oh, you’re not on the list today.” He glanced at an invisible parchment, then shrugged. “Tomorrow’s also clear. Very boring week, actually.”

Puss exhaled in relief. “Then why are you here?”

Death’s eyes drifted to the table.

“To visit,” he said. “And because I smelled cookies.”

There was a long pause.

“…You eat?” Puss asked.

Death walked in without waiting for permission, the frost vanishing where his feet touched the floor. He sat at the table—sat, like a guest—and set the scythe gently against the chair beside him. The blade leaned just close enough to Puss’ chest to be uncomfortable.

“Everyone eats,” Death said. “Eventually.”

He picked up a cookie and bit into it.

Crunch.

“…Hm. Cinnamon,” he murmured. “Bold choice.”

Puss stared. “Those were for Santa.”

Death licked a crumb from his claw. “He’ll survive.”

The wolf noticed Puss’ eyes locked on the scythe and smiled faintly. “Relax. If I wanted you gone, we wouldn’t be talking about pastries.”

He casually lifted the scythe and pointed it at Puss’ heart for half a second.

“…Probably.”

Puss stiffened. “You joke too much for someone like you.”

“Yes,” Death agreed. “Occupational hazard.”

He ate another cookie, slower this time, as if savoring the moment. Outside, the wind howled softly, but inside the fire burned steady.

“You’re different,” Puss said quietly. “Last time we met… you were not so friendly.”

Death’s ears lowered just a little. “You learned to live,” he said. “That changes things.”

He glanced around the small house—the simple furniture, the sword hung above the fireplace, the milk bowl set neatly beside the hearth.

“Most creatures spend Christmas afraid of me,” Death continued. “Tonight, I wanted to see what it looks like when someone isn’t.”

Puss swallowed. “I am still afraid.”

Death smiled again, softer this time. “Good. Fear means you care.”

The last cookie disappeared between Death’s teeth with an exaggerated crunch. He licked his claw slowly, red eyes never leaving Puss.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “Left crumbs everywhere. How careless of me.”

Puss crossed his arms, trying very hard not to stare. “You came here to mock me, lobo?”

Death laughed softly and, without warning, vaulted onto the table. Wood creaked under his weight as he sprawled there with theatrical ease, cloak falling open just enough to be deeply distracting.

“I came here to enjoy Christmas,” he said lightly. “And you are very easy to tease.”

The scythe slid across the tabletop with a slow scrape, its blade stopping just beside Puss’ hip. Not threatening. Intimate. Intentional.

Death leaned back on his elbows, tail flicking lazily. “You left food out,” he added. “It would be rude not to ask if you planned to… share.”

Puss’ ears burned. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” Death replied, tilting his head, “you haven’t told me to leave...”

So the risky part began. "Playing" with death is risky... but intriguing..

[b][Pics][/b]

After a long night...

“…Next year,” Puss muttered, “I will make more cookies.”

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