Catfish - Blog Posts

here's something stupid: the catcatfish

some quick facts:

they're nocturnal and tend to roam around while awake.

they have keen senses of smell and hearing, but terrible eyesight. despite this, they also have a tapetum lucidum, making their pupils "glow" in the dark.

their fur is short, dense, and oily to waterproof them.

they prefer a diet of mostly meat and are attracted to strong-smelling food like fish, cheese, and anything fermented.

the elongated dewclaw on each front paw is sharp, flexible, and nonretractable. it injects a venom that causes respiratory failure and cardiac arrest in prey and, in extreme doses, humans. veterenarians typically remove the dewclaw venom glands during the neuter/spay procedure.

they grow to an average of 1m and 23kg (3ft and 50lb) but can reach up to double that length and triple the weight!

FISH-IFED MOON 😳😳😍😍💥🙏

((ALT COLORS UNDER CUT BC I CANT DECIDED WHICH ONE’S BETTER))

🌬UTTERLY

ADORABLE💗

After seeing the question about if the kids are spoiled- could you do a quick thing of Ace getting his first real toys.?

Here~

@sallychoasaura

Concept Art | LabBrewery/CatFish Fusion

God, I hate how this look... I'm going to fix it... And that means doing the whole thing again from scratch...

CatFish/LabBrewery Fusion | Husk X Baxter

Concept idea of a fusion between Husk and Baxter, I still want to work on it and see if I like the result...

@sallychoasaura

Since this tagged person above, got me thinking of CatFish long ago when I was making this fusion. Obviously being the trash shipper that I am, I made personal headcanons and AUs...

@sallychoasaura

I DIDN'T KNOW THE ANSWER COULD GET DELETED OMS IM SO DUMB, IM EXTREMELY SORRY PLEASE ACCEPT MY APOLOGIES! (ಥ_ಥ)

Bonus:

Okay but consider- Baxter x Husk. Just this grumpy old cat-bird-demon-thing having a soft spot for some socially awkward, nerdy anglerfish~ Something about it makes me happy. I'm going to call either catfish shipping or brewery-lab ships.

Their dynamics is interesting for a ship, I'd say it's adorable uwu 💙

850 850 850 850 850 850 850 850 850 850

I have $206 in ones and my 16promax on a stand ready to prove she’s telling the truth. But I’m not gonna stop when she starts squirting 💯 I’ll pay another $6 if I have too😂

Reblog with your area code if you're down to get a zip for $200 and fill my gas for $6 and fuck me still I squirt 💦all over his bed 😜🤪

How To Raise Catfish

Raising catfish is no doubt profitable, which is why a lot of livestock farmers are now raising catfish. To get started today in raising your very own healthy catfish, check out: >>> How To Raise Catfish For Profit...

If you not sure if catfish farming is for you, get a professional review of the best way to get started with raising your very own profitable catfish, check out: >>> Raising Profitable Catfish ...

Great catfish feed contains 32 to 36 percent protein, 6 percent fat, 10 to 20 percent starches, and 10 to 15 percent fiber. At least 8 percent of the apportion should be from fishmeal and all feeds ought to contain the suggested nutrients. Fixings utilized in causing feeds to change generally, contingent upon accessibility and cost.

Feeds are sold as coasting or sinking pellets and as finely ground dinner or disintegrates. Drifting pellets cost more yet are more steady than sinking pellets. They additionally empower you to decide if the fish are taking care of. On the off chance that they are not taking care of, discover the reason and right it.

Some accomplished fish ranchers favor sinking pellets due to the lower cost and they have figured out how to tell whether the fish are taking care of ordinarily by noticing the action of the fish in the taking care of regions.

There is almost no distinction in fish development between the utilization of coasting feeds and sinking takes care of. A few ranchers blend a limited quantity of gliding pellets with sinking pellets so they can notice taking care of movement all the more without any problem.

Fry should be taken care of when they leave the home or swim up in the holding tanks or tanks. Supper or disintegrates produced using a decent quality catfish feed is utilized fundamentally for fry. Fry may take the feed all the more promptly if a container of child food liver is added to each pound of feast or disintegrates. In screened holding boxes, feed just as much as the fry will eat in 20 or 30 minutes. In lakes, feed 2 to 3 pounds for every surface section of land every day. Continuously increment the amount of feed to the sum they will eat in 20 to 30 minutes. As the fry approach fingerling size and are taking care of well, seine and gauge an example of fish each 2 or 3weeks and change the feed to around 3 percent of the absolute load of fish in the lake.

Use ;a-inch pellets for fingerlings from 2 to 6 inches in length, ~6-inchpellets for fish up to one-half pound, and JB-inch pellets for bigger fish. Pelleted catfish feeds ought to have great strength and stay flawless for in any event 10 minutes in water.

Table 3 is an overall manual for the every day measure of food to take care of fish (in view of assessed weight) as indicated by the water temperature underway lakes.

Table 3.- Typical spring, summer, and fall day by day taking care of timetable/e1 (For divert catfish underway lakes loaded with 5-inchfingerlings and collected as I. I-Ib fish.)

Water Feed stipend Feed recompense per day2 temperature Percent of complete Stocki ng rates

Date at 3 ft Fish size weight of fish in lake 2,OOOiacre 3,OOOiacre

a steadfast heart will conquer

summary: you show up at frankie’s doorstep in the middle of the night after your boyfriend gets violent. he invites you in and lets you stay with him.

pairings: frankie morales x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of bruises

At midnight, you speak in fragments.

“I’m at your front door.”

He’s more asleep than awake. He doesn’t have the brain to question you.

“It’s raining.”

He can tell. He can hear it through the phone and from his bedroom window.

“Can you come let me in? Please?” You ask, and before he can say anything, you hang up. He stares at his phone, but figures there’s a girl at his front door, waiting to be let in.

He takes a second to unlock the door, in his groggy state, and sure enough, there you are, in all your midnight glory, on his front doorstep. It’s more romantic in movies, he thinks.

There’s nobody outside except for you. The streets are desolate, and the lamplight is obscured by the pouring rain. It thuds off of your car that’s parked in his driveway, and he knows it’ll bleed in through the crack in the door that doesn’t quite meet the frame.

He’ll help you fix it tomorrow.

But right now, you lean into him, slowly, and wrap your arms around his neck. You're wet, he notes. Wet and cold. He’s sure you're soaked down to your socks. Hair, jacket, shoes, all dripping onto his hardwood floor. You're still on the steps, so he pulls you in, but you refuse to untangle yourself from him. The wind sounds even harder now with the two of you inside.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he mutters, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He pulls back to look at your face, but you're buried deep in his chest. He wishes it was under different circumstances.

The pouring rain punctuates every silence. He can feel you shaking.

You don’t answer.

He lets you not answer.

There’s a storm brewing in his chest. He has a sickening premonition as to why you’re here. He tries to ignore it, but his gut instinct is always right.

He shuffles awkwardly to close the door, and it muffles the rain. He can hear you sniffling now.

“What happened?”

There is only moonlight streaming in from the window over the couch. You keep your face buried in his chest when he flicks the light on. It’s harsh and bright and he grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you back to look at him but you don't remove your face from his warm, dry chest.

So he waits.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, softer, in your ear. You rub your forehead on his worn t-shirt, and his arms find their way around your shoulders.

You find the strength to look at him from somewhere deep inside you, eyes red and swollen, eyelashes dark with tears. You squint almost imperceptibly, adjusting to the light. You’ve never felt more safe than in his embrace. Your noses almost touch.

The last and only thing he wants to do is kiss you.

He notices the red mark right away.

On your temple. His eyes soften. You watch him look at you, almost like it’s the first time.

“He hit me,” you say, congested from the tears.

Like he doesn’t notice. Like he doesn’t feel anger shoot up into his chest, heat and warmth and fire in his fingertips, down the back of his calves and aching his face. His sickening premonition coming true. He can’t come up with a single reason as to why he would do this to you. It makes fury throb in his bones. He can see your boyfriend throwing the punch and it makes him want to vomit how enraged he is.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks sincerely.

“Want me to hurt him? I’ll hurt him, you know I will. I’ll hurt him so bad,” he trails off, jaw hard and teeth grinding. Nostrils flared and lip twitching.

“No.”

He watches you rest your head on his chest, the side that your good-for-nothing dick stick didn’t punch, and he’s so careful with you, soft hands and rigid muscles.

“I just...” you start, and he’s listening. He’s listening to every word.

“I didn’t want him to hurt me. And I didn’t want to hurt him. So I... left. I went and sat in the CVS parking lot,” you admit. He figures you needed someone to talk to. He wanted someone to listen to. He’s wide awake now. He still has fight in his blood, so he repurposes it. He holds you, securely. Strong and firm.

“I was gonna fight back... but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, I really didn’t.” you say. He closes his eyes. He steadies his breathing. How could someone so sweet, so powerful, so kind, end up with the exact antithesis of all of those things?

“I know,” he reassures, “I know you didn’t.”

You sigh shakily into his chest. He’s there for you. He’s steadfast and unwavering. You could collapse into him and you trust he would catch you, help you up, dust you off, or in your case, dry you off. But you don’t. You stand strong with him, and you let herself be supported by him. You yourself whole still. Shaky, and faltering, but whole, all by yourself. With him there, you feel a little steadier, resolute in your decisions. He supports you, and you love him for it.

“Can I stay here?” you ask.

“Of course,” he replies.

His clothes don’t fit you, but you don’t mind and neither does he.

Your hair smells like roses and rain.

You take his bed; he takes the couch.

It’s hard for him to fall asleep there, but he doesn’t mind that, either.

It’s four AM when you wake him up for the second time this morning. The grogginess is stronger than before, it seems. You’re on your knees in front of the couch, face level with him, and he jerks back in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” you say, placing a hand on his chest. His bare chest. His shirt is somewhere, he doesn’t care where. It got hot, he recalls.

“Y’scared me,” he mumbles. Would this girl let him get any sleep?

“Come sleep with me. I feel bad,” you say.

“Woke me up ‘cause y’feel bad?” he asks, and you can tell he’s irritated, but tired more than anything. Sleep carries heavily through his voice.

“No,” you clarify, “I woke you up ‘cause I had a nightmare.”

Now he’s the one that feels bad.

He lets you lead him to his own bed, but he makes a pit stop on the way to use the bathroom. He finds you curled up under his covers, staring at the doorway, waiting for him.

He smiles and joins you. He sleeps on his back. You sleep on your stomach.

He has one pillow. you have one too.

You both listen to each other breathe.

You throw an arm over his stomach. He rubs his thumb over your hand.

It’s not storming anymore, but you can both feel the electricity in the sky.

The old, squeaky mattress creaks as you move, swapping your pillow for his shoulder. It’s not as bony as you thought it would be.

You only wake up when his alarm goes off on the nightstand beside you.

You groan, and realize you’re curled up with someone in a bed that’s not your own. Your face aches as you relive the events of last night.

He wakes up when you shift to turn off the alarm, taking his time to notice you.

“Hey,” you say, in his shirt.

“Morning,” he yawns, not in his shirt.

“Thank you,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“No no no, don’t do that, don’t make it...” he trails, sitting up in bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes again. All things considered, he got some decent sleep. He thinks it might have something to do with the warm body that was pressed up against him all night.

“No, really,” you say. You sit criss-cross on your side of the bed, and he has to remind himself that it’s his own bed (singular), not your bed (plural), and the whole bed is his bed. But for now, he can say it’s your side of the bed. At least to himself.

“Thank you for being there for me.” you say finally. He smiles at you.

“Of course.” He whines as he yawns, and things are okay for now. The storm is over.

“You want breakfast?” He asks, getting up and stopping at his dresser to put on shorts. His boxers were fine last night, but now that the sun is shining through the window, it’s kind of weird. He pulls on a shirt too.

“I have taquitos,” he says walking into his kitchen, and you squint at him, hot on his tail.

“Taquitos for breakfast?” you ask skeptically, and he makes his way over to the freezer.

“Taquito time is all the time.” He clarifies, taking the cardboard box from underneath a tub of ice cream and a bag of frozen peas. He freezes, before he turns around to look at you.

“Do you, uh, want some ice for that?” He says, and it takes you a second to realize what he means.

You touch the bruise softly, applying light pressure and wincing when it hurts.

He notices and puts the box down on the counter, wrapping the peas thoroughly in paper towels before handing them to you.

You nod a thank you, and hop up on his counter, holding them to your face.

He notices his shirt on you again, and his shorts on you, and how domestic this would be if that mistake hadn’t laid his hands on you. Though he does admit, you probably wouldn’t have been here in the first place without that run in.

He thinks he’d rather never see you again rather than have you come to him hurt like that.

He moves over to you, and carefully moves your head away from the cabinets holding the dish ware so he can open it. There’s tension in the air. He plates the taquitos and you listen to the buzz of the microwave as they warm up.

Neither of you touch your respective phones while you eat your taquitos. There are decisions to be made that will have consequences. You glance at your phone, but look away each time. Your eyes never meet. You both focus on the plate of miniature crunchy tortillas made with fake corn, filled with beef that was probably artificial. Neither of you mind.

After breakfast, or what could be sufficed as breakfast, he watches you finally check your phone.

“seventeen missed calls,” you read, “and thirty something texts.”

“Wow.”

“Not as crazy as I expected,” you note.

“Wanna see if he left any batshit voicemails?” you ask, grinning. He’s less than excited. Your smile falters as you read the texts.

“What? What’d he say?” he asks, getting up from the table to read over your shoulder. You make no move to hide the texts from him and something like relief floods his veins for a split second.

“Nothing,” you clarify, “just that... he’s so sorry… how he’s such a terrible person, that he’ll never do it again.”

He stares at you.

You ignore the messages and lock your phone.

You look up at Frankie.

“So?” he asks.

“So?” you ask back. He clears his throat.

“What are you gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, grabbing the empty plate and sliding past him. You turn on the faucet in the sink and wait for it to get hot.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but you don’t respond.

You add soap to a sponge and start washing the minimal dishes there: a bowl, a few spoons, your plate, a whisky glass.

He stands by you, grabbing a hand towel from the countertop and wiping the dishes down before putting them away.

“Why don’t you have a drying rack?” you ask, as he puts away the last of the glasses.

“I dunno,” he says, “I don’t have that many plates and forks and stuff, so I just dry it and put it away as I go.”

“Hmm,” you remark, and turn off the faucet. He hands you the dish towel and you wipe your hands dry before folding it and placing it on the counter. You look at him and sigh. The elephant in the room is demanding your attention.

“What do you think I should tell him?”

He stares at your bruise, and he feels the anger from last night bubble up in his throat again.

“That you’re gonna send me to beat him the fuck up.” He says, and you roll your eyes, staring at him endearingly.

“I’m not getting back together with him.” you say, and he feels his heart do some weird stuff in his chest.

“It’s over for us. I’m breaking up with him the next time I see him.” you say, a finality in your words that make him confident you would do as you said.

“Good.” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one side.

“Should I go see him today?” you ask.

“Do you want to?” he questions. You sigh and shake your head.

“You’re no help.”

“Hey! I’m so much help,” he defends, and you smile at him.

“Sure.”

“I can go with you if you want,” he says seriously. You stare at him.

“If you want,” you offer, and he nods his head.

“Okay.” you say.

He watches you grab your phone and your now dry clothes and make your way into his bathroom. He listens as you close the door and waits until he hears the water start running, accompanied by soft music.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose and takes a second to examine the thawing bag of peas on his kitchen table.

He smiles to himself as he makes out the lyrics of your song.

As he puts the bag back in his freezer, he runs a nervous hand through his hair and stares at your car in his driveway.

He wants nothing more than to bruise you up himself, his mouth on your skin, his hands on your hips.

But that thought is fleeting. He gets closer to the bathroom and can hear you singing clearly, and he takes a second to listen before he speaks.

“Hey, I’m gonna go take a quick look at your car, okay?”

The water turns off.

“What?”

“I’m—I’m gonna go look at your car!” he says loudly, “the leaky door!”

There’s quiet for a moment before you’re unlocking the door, in only a towel. His towel.

“Thank you!” you beam, and with one hand clutching the towel to your chest, you hand him your car keys.

“They were in my pocket. It’d be kinda hard to get in without them,” you joke.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He grins lopsidedly, keeping his eyes a respectable distance from your naked torso.

With a smile, you close the door in his face.

The music resumes, as does the water, and Frankie breathes.

It would be a miracle if he made it through the day without sending someone to the hospital.

This was supposed to be for MerMay... Better 3 months too late than not at all, right??? Hahaha! *cries*

“It’s just business yes yes, no hard feelings yes?”

That little cute shit catfish from Final Fantasy 14: Stormblood.

He’s cute but he’d let you die for a dollar.

🐊✨⛓️

HE GOT A FISH!!!!

Here are some Cat-Fish! each priced differently, first come first serve. Payment Via PayPal

10% sales tax applies to this purchase

personal Use only. for commercial licensing, please inquire

1. Koi 35$ OPEN

2. Russian Blue 35$ OPEN

3. Goldfish Kitten 25$ OPEN

4. LionFish 45$ OPEN

5. BobCat Beta 35$ OPEN

please message or Comment to Claim!

Catfish fella

2024

2019

Redesign of a character I made for @webbyisheres back in 2019! Silly catfish guy