#because they get too much benefit out of these things. and the Forest would fucking obliterate them

[void-botanist]

Thinking about the world that starts to take shape around Tirias's refusal to travel outside of majority-rooted areas. There's an implication that she has been there and got burned so bad that she'll never go back. She can hear but she can't speak and communicates primarily through sign language. Despite the fact that most other species do learn Osbok sign language in school, there's a much stronger culture of sign language usage in rooted areas than beyond them. You travel through the Forests, you know you'll be taken care of and taken seriously. You step outside of them, who knows what'll happen. Humans are already intimidated by her height, and asking them to use their half-remembered SOSL is apparently a step too far.

Oh, to be Ysa, even more intimidating but somehow able to put people at ease with just thons voice.

Which makes me wonder: is there a fear among human societies that the culture of the Forests - which itself is not homogenous - will take over the rest of the world? There must be on some level but it has to be harder for it to coalesce because there's an enormous population of roots that live outside of the forests, and have for pretty much ever, and nothing has happened to "human" cultures except that a lot of them also have roots participating in them, not to mention nawwenn. Some people think they're playing the long game - they live twice as long as humans, you know - but I would suspect your average human knows enough roots to reject that particular conspiracy.

So then, out of all the other species in Winchester, why has Dez only met humans?

[lostinforestbound]

The fic is going well! I'm on a roll and after I'm done I'll be searching for a Beta-Reader! For now, to tie you all over:

Romantic Zevlor Headcanons

This sad old man is incredibly traditional in the sense of romance. He plans dates to the very hour, brings flowers, cleans himself up nicely, kisses the top of his partners hand and offers his arm as they walk; the perfect man to date! He's also very experienced.

I would say he's not shy about romance, but definitely reserved. He didn't have time for it once he became a Hellrider, it pulled all his focus in. After his oath is broken and he got cast out from Elturel with the other refugees, that also pulled his focus away from even considering a relationship.

When everything is finally calm, he doubts that anyone would even want him in this stage of his life. He's an old, tired man and he made his peace with it. Then his partner comes along and throws him in for a loop! He starts to feel alive again.

He plans dates out strategically, but would not stress out if something doesn't go according to plan. He can easily go with the flow. If his partner is stressed out however, he would give them a kiss on the forehead and say something along the lines of "It is all right, my love. Let us try something else."

Quality time is important to him. His favorites are long walks! The beach, forest, a meadow, some hills, a hike, he loves to get moving! And it's even better with a partner where they can talk about anything and everything while in the privacy of nature. It's wonderful! If his partner prefers to stay home though, he's completely content with sitting by the fire.

His main love language is absolutely acts of service! He loves taking care of his partner and doing things for them. He makes food for them, patches their clothes, and makes sure their things are organized the way they like it. This man also gives some of the best massages!

Gods he loves cuddling. He adores it, actually! After a long day, he looks forward to going to bed with them the most. It calming and honestly helps him sleep much better. He's slept alone a lot, and he missed having another body next to him.

Zevlor has been through quite a bit, so of course he would have nightmares about a multitude of things! Especially regarding his fuck up in the Shadow Cursed Lands. He doesn't quite wake up in a cold sweat since he's used to them, but they still startle him awake sometimes. He's not afraid to ask for help from his partner if nights are a struggle for him.

On that point, he's a fantastic communicator! If anything is bothering him, even if he's embarrassed, he will discuss it with his partner. He personally does not like being kept in the dark about what his partner is feeling, so why would he do that to them? It benefits no one. If his partner needs more time to figure out their words, he will absolutely give it, but there is no hiding anything from him.

His kisses are usually gentle, and he loves holding his partner's face in his hands while doing so! He's incredibly tender in everything he does involving them, but he also loves to tease! When he kisses the top of their hand, he'll kiss up their arm to their neck and eventually their face, littering pecks all over. Bonus points if his partner is ticklish, he enjoys their laughs and giggles as it brings him genuine joy.

If his partner is a tiefling or a tailed dragonborn, he absolutely would link his tail with theirs in a private setting. Usually he prefers to have his tail out of the way, especially in public, but when it's just the two of them he uses his tail pretty freely. This is because he finds tail-holding very intimate.

He doesn't mind public display of affection in other ways though! Hand holding, wayward pecks, sitting close, hugs, he loves it all. Sitting in his lap may get him flustered though, especially if his partner is very forward in their affection! Sometimes he feels as though his heart will give out with how fast it beats (maybe he's too old for this after all).

Zevlor isn't used to being taken care of at all, usually he's the one doing all the caring. When his partner starts doing it his head practically reels in shock, not expecting it to feel so nice. He doesn't outwardly ask for it but brushing his hair and massaging the tension out of his hands is something he adores. His partner always receives a 'thank you' kiss.

He knows how to dance, which can surprise people! Slow dancing is his preferred style, and he'll bring his partner in for a slow sway when they're alone. No music is needed in these intimate moments, his lover is all he wants anyways.

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Teeth

Part 6!

Werepanther!Billy Russo x Female Reader

Masterlist

Warnings: Nightmares, angst, fear, paranoia, a little bit of an injury, a whole lot of hand touching, voyeurism, male and female masturbation.

His entire office smelled like strawberries now.

He takes a breath, raises his right hand to his mouth and bites down on the crook of his index finger harshly.

The pain centers him, allows him to focus on something so that he could drown out the predator. The beast in his head that had been suggesting... awful things to him.

It wasn't in the form of words, the beast didn't use words.

No, he used an arsenal much more powerful, spitting imagery into Billy's head, pouring debauched ideas into his mind until he'd had to find an excuse to cut your meeting short, dropping the work contract into your hands a little too aggressively and telling you to leave it with his secretary by the end of the day, to text him if there were any further concerns.

Billy tilts his head back angrily.

She probably thinks I'm an asshole now, all because you felt like tormenting me, he thinks in the beast's direction.

The beast's only response, is to fill his head with further images of you, face down, ass up, while he buried his tongue in your dripping cunt.

Billy groans.

What would you taste like? The memory of seeing your wet fingers, pulled from your cunt after orgasm is still seared into his head.

Maybe he should give you a little show too?

The beast reminds him angrily about the words he'd said to you.

'I'm not interested..."

What a fucking joke.

He'd only wanted you safe, to have you in a position where he knew you were getting what you deserved. He didn't want you to be overlooked ever again.

The price? Had been his sanity.

Because now he'd have to have you right under his nose for the foreseeable future.

And not... under him... like he'd wanted from the minute he'd seen you.

He'd caught subtle scents of you in the forest before, but every time, he'd always just missed you. He'd spent near two years searching, and hoping to find you, haunted by the scent of you.

And then he'd found you, thankfully, blissfully, and you'd been so afraid.

Killing the hunter hadn't felt like enough, but it was all he could do, barely able to control himself when you'd been threatened.

He knew what he was capable of if someone tried to hurt you. He knew that he would go to the ends of the earth to keep you safe.

.

You tried to read the contract, but you could only think about him.

He'd gone through all that trouble to get you to come in today, to accept his job offer, and then he'd dismissed you so quickly? Palmed you off on his secretary like he couldn't be bothered to look at you?

It was just another mark in your book, a mental tally of the many displays of why he was not interested in you at all.

You shake your head, trying to get over it. You should not be thinking about your boss in that way.

His praise had meant so much to you, you'd gone home, almost happy that for the first time in your life, someone had really seen what you were capable of.

Regardless, you were glad to be here, because when you flipped to the very back, to the salary and benefits part of the contract- your heart pounded in your chest.

God, this was the price they paid experts in your field, and here you were with a salary offer that would make you a very comfortable person.

It made signing easy, even his cold attitude towards you made signing simple, because you had a boss that at the very least respected you, in a price range that you'd never thought you'd reach.

Anvil would be good for you.

.

Your face is buried in the panther's neck. He purrs when you brush a slow hand over him.

"You're so pretty." You whisper into his neck, you giggle when you feel him lick affectionately at your shoulder.

You finally raise your head, you look around, and you realise where you are.

Your anxiety spikes, you feel your heart racing in your chest as you try to gasp for air.

"This is... this is the forest where-" You can't finish the sentence.

It's daylight in your dream, but as the full realisation of where you are seeps in, night falls all around you.

You gasp, falling back, looking around. He was here, he was here somewhere looking at you.

He was going to kill you.

"No no no no no no no no" You cry, frantic, looking around in every direction, trying to peer into the darkness, trying to see the hunter.

Suddenly there's a roar from near you, and you spin in surprise.

The panther is there, looking at you, approaching you.

You reach out for him as he gets closer.

"I'm so scared." You whisper into his midnight fur, your body shaking from the fright.

"He's here somewhere, he's going to kill me. He promised." You sob helplessly into his fur.

The panther makes a low growling sound again. Instead of scaring you, it soothes you. You know that whatever is out there, can't get past the predator in your arms.

"I need to wake up." You whisper, and it gives you the strength to actually do so.

Your heart is slamming into your ribcage when you jerk awake. You're frozen in the blackness of the night, almost too petrified to move.

You reach a hand up, fingers gripping the pendant of your necklace, exploring the curves of it, allowing it to ease your fright.

You sit up, dried tears crust uncomfortably at the corners of your eyes, and you reach for your phone, to increase the brightness of your lights.

Hunched over, you try to catch your breath.

You check the time, two in the morning.

You would not be able to sleep for the rest of the night.

.

He wants to go to you.

He wants to hold you tight, run his fingers through your hair, kiss the top of your head and tell you that everything is okay.

He can see the lights are on, he catches your silhouette, sitting on one of your couches, sipping something, maybe tea.

He can almost feel it- the remants of your anxiety, refusing to be washed away, like a stain that does not leave.

You must have had a bad dream too, just like he did, watching you be so frightened, lovely face contorted in fear.

He wanted to go to you.

He couldn't.

.

"So when are you going to jump Mr. Big Dick?" Amy asks.

You almost spit your drink.

"You mean my boss?" You challenge, phone pressed to your ear as you pull the curtains back to let your house plant get some much needed sunlight.

"Mr. Big Dick Boss, him." She confirms.

"Never? He's- my boss?" You say matter-of-factly.

"Tragic. The next thing you'll tell me is that he doesn't like you." 

"Because he doesn't?! Haven't we been talking about this same thing for weeks? He's not into me like that."

"Denial." She sings.

You grunt in anger.

"Anyway, do you know the answer to the other thing or not?" You ask, referring to the original inquiry you'd called her for.

"I don't know how much water your plant needs, Google it."

"Okay, but the leaves are turning a little yellow."

"Then give it more sunlight. It's a plant."

You sigh, touching the leaves of the palm affectionately.

"I guess I'll try to move it onto the balcony." You think out loud.

"See? You can solve your own problems."

"Amy, I don't know why I call you, you're literally zero help."

"And yet, you fix your problems while talking to me. Ungrateful."

You laugh.

"Thank you, love you, bye."

She repeats the words back to you before hanging up.

Which is how you find yourself struggling to shimmy a very heavy potted plant onto your balcony.

Honestly, how the hell was Dani able to lift this thing so easily? You slip a couple of times on the tiled floors as you try to gain leverage to move it.

You collapse into a little heap beside the plant, giving up, and after a moment, your phone rings.

You groan, sitting up, crawling across to the couch to grab it, dress swishing all around you, barely glancing at the contact before you swipe to answer.

"Hello?" You answer.

"It's kind of cute watching you struggle."

You stiffen, looking out of your window, finding B- William, standing in his kitchen looking at you. You relax when you realise it's only him.

When he sees you looking, he waves.

"That's a little sadistic, don't you think?" You respond, leaning against the couch, blowing at your hands which have become red and irritated from trying to move the heavy plant.

"I never said I wasn't a sadist, but, I think if you try any more you're going to hurt yourself- so I'm coming over."

"N- wait-" but you watch him end the call, turning away to head to his front door.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You stand, running some cool water over the palms of your hands to soothe them.

You sigh when there's a gentle knock on your door.

"Who is it?" You call lightly.

"It's me." He answers through the door.

You unlatch the deadbolt and open the door with a smile, widening the door to let him in.

"Hey Mister Russo, what an unexpected surprise." Your voice is full of sarcasm.

He chuckles, sliding past the door.

"How are your hands?" He asks when you bump the door closed, and you raise your hands to show him the state of them.

They hurt a little, and they feel raw, but it's like the pain just vanishes when he takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his face to look at.

You feel your body throb in appreciation, the touch of his hands on yours is so electric that your core sparks to life with just the hint of a delicate touch from him.

You watch him take a deep breath.

"You should run them over some cool water." He says, nodding his head in the direction if your kitchen, and you nod, turning, and walking to the sink.

He follows, turning the tap on for you on a slow trickle, and when you look up at him, you find his eyes already on you.

"Better?" He asks.

A strand of your hair falls into your eyes when you nod your head.

He takes his time, carefully pushing it back, you body pulsing with heavy need.

Fuck. You wanted him.

What would be the harm in a single kiss? How badly could it fuck with your life?

"A little." You answer, looking down at your hands again.

"Maybe a balm? Something soothing?" He offers gently, his voice is so soft, you can't help leaning into him.

"I have aloe vera, in my bedroom. It's for sunburn, but-"

He nods.

"It should work."

You pull your hands from the water, and he turns the tap off, you watch him reach for a napkin, placing it gently into your hands to collect the droplets of water.

"Show me where?" He asks.

"M-my room's a little bit messy." You protest, and you watch him smile easily.

"Think I've never seen a messy room?" He tilts his head, studying you with his dark eyes.

You gulp, aching wet at this point, nodding along for him to follow you.

To your bedroom.

Aloe vera. Aloe vera. Aloe. Vera.

God your clit was pulsing.

Fuck, the sound of his slow breaths behind you sends tingles down your back.

At your door, you turn to look back at him. Understanding what you need, he leans in to open the door for you.

It's the first time you're so close to him, and you catch hints of his cologne, oak maybe, hints of black pepper, something sweet like jasmine.

It's such a unique scent, that you ache for more of it, you want to explore every note of the way he smells, desperate to find out through thorough exploration whether he tastes as good.

The aloe vera sun balm is in your top drawer, and when you realise what else is inside, you gulp, cheeks burning.

Your toy is wrapped in a cloth for protection, but when you reach for the drawer, his voice stops you.

"Let me." He says, and you look up at him in alarm.

Before you can tell him not to look, he brings his other hand up to his eyes, covers them, turns away, and you watch a little playful smile pull on his mouth.

He's magnificent, you think, in his sheer understanding of you, in his clear respect for your boundaries, in the boyish, almost shy way he smiles.

You wonder if anyone has ever seen him smile like that.

You grab the little bottle of aloe vera, telling him to close the drawer.

Only when the drawer is closed, does he open his eyes.

He raises a hand for the little bottle, and you look at those amazingly large hands.

God, who had allowed them to be so big? Long slender fingers, ending in well kept nails.

You once again think about taking his hand, but even worse thoughts fill your head now, his hand pressed to your breast, or cupping you-

You swallow, dropping the balm into his hand.

You sit yourself on the edge of your bed, and look up at him, expecting him to do the same.

He takes a sharp breath, and sits in the space beside you.

You watch him, uncap the bottle and pour a coin sized amount into the palm of his hand.

There's no reason why you couldn't do this yourself, but you take advantage of his desire to always want to help you.

You extend one hand to him, and your stomach tightens when his both hands cover one of yours.

You're so wet, you can feel it creating a little spot on the fabric of your underwear. It's embarrasing, that all he's really done is touch your hands, and your body is ready to take him.

"Does that feel better?" He asks, voice like silk over your skin.

You want to climb into his lap, you want to grip his shirt so tightly it hurts, you want to meld your mouth to his so that he never forgets it.

"Yes, much. Thank you." Is what you say instead.

.

His desire rages like a storm in his head. Turbulent winds and the crack of lightning, made worse by the predator, hammering away at his resolve.

He can blame the panther all he wants, but this time, he knows it's him just as much as it is the beast inside of him.

He can smell your arousal, your cunt calling out to him, a plea to be touched, to be sated, to be full, and Billy wants to give more than anything else.

He thinks about how easy it would be, to press you back, lay you out on your bed, spread your thighs.

He wants to press his nose to your clothed cunt, take deep breaths of that saccharine strawberry scent right from the source. He wants to tug your panties off, listen to the way you'd mewl as he buried his tongue between your thighs.

He thinks about it vividly as he rubs the aloe vera into the palms of your hands, he thinks about what your pussy would look like, the way you would taste. He'd never be able to satisfy the craving he had for you. One time could not possibly be enough.

The ways he would take you, bounce you on his cock, rut into you from behind, kiss the soft curves of your cheek as he slowly aquaints you with every inch of his aching cock-

"I think that should be good enough." You say, breaking into his terrible thoughts.

He nods, pulling his hands away, clenching them into fists in his lap, hoping to hide his erection.

"Show me where you want that plant moved?" He offers, with a tilt of his head.

You look up at him with such open eyes, nodding as you stand, guiding him out of your room.

The predator, eager to follow.

.

"Stay. Still." He whispers in your ear.

You moan into the cool air of the night.

You hear him chuckle, the fabric of your nightdress being pulled up to expose your thighs.

He hums when he realises you've forgone underwear, the backs of his fingers tracing over your thigh, cupping your bare cunt.

"Wonder how hard you'll scream when you come on my tongue?" He taunts.

"Please." You whisper, when one of his fingers press down on your aching bud.

"Shhh," He soothes, "Don't beg. You'll make it harder for me to resist you."

Your toes curl, you arch your hips to grind your aching center against his hand.

"Please, please please, I need you." You beg.

He swears, draws out the word, doesn't say anything else before lowering his body.

He pushes your legs apart, shoulders his way between, doesn't stop until his tongue is pressed securely to your clit.

He moans.

You roll your hips, desperate for the feeling of his tongue on you, little gasps and pitiful sounds leaving your throat.

You writhe, body tangled in the sheets, gasping.

His tongue makes slow, purposeful movements, his hands trace your skin, lighting up each nerve with sizzling bliss.

"No more teasing," You cry, "Please, I can't."

A sound of pity leaves his throat, hastens his tongue in apology. He doesn't want to torment you, he wants to please you.

"Yes. Yes. Billy-" You sigh, tossing your head from left to right.

Your body calls out to his, a shuddering breath, a broken sigh.

You're still shaking when you're pulled to consciousness, eyes are barely focused as a sliver of moonlight shines through the little gap in your curtains.

The orgasm is hollow, an echo of the real thing, you can barely wrap your head around the possibility that you just came in your sleep, thighs pressed together to garner some type of friction.

After a minute, movement catches your eye, you raise your head sleepily to investigate.

It's coming from his window, a dark silhouette framed by golden light.

You sit up, moving closer to the window, kneeling so that he doesn't see you peeking through the gap.

Your lips part in surprise.

He's leaning against his windowsill, and from the cut of his figure, he looks naked.

The back of his head is leaned against the window, his right arm moving up and down, revealing to you exactly what he's doing.

You can't see his cock, you can't see the expression on his face, but you can almost imagine it, and it's enough for you to snake your hand under your nightdress.

You whine, pressing your hot cheek to the cool window, pumping two of your fingers into your slippery cunt at the same pace as his hand.

The nails of your other hand grip your thigh, pretending its his, pretending you're with him, grinding yourself onto his cock.

"So good," You gasp, looking up at his silhouette, "cum for me." You beg him softly.

It's like he hears you, his body stiffening, shoulders shaking with the effort to breathe as his hand slows suddenly, indicating his state of release to you.

You sigh, forehead pressed to the chilled glass as you bring yourself to orgasm, thinking about him, breath misting on the surface of the window pane.

.

.

.

[bubblybloob]

Wrote a thing for the voices, based on this

The Paranoid let out an indignant noise when he was unceremoniously dropped into the Hunted’s nest for the second time that day.

“How was the bathroom?” The Broken allowed a rare smile to crack onto his face.

“Oh fuck off.” The Paranoid huffed, ears flicking in irritation.

The Hunted had come to the less than logical conclusion that because The Paranoid had plucked most of his wings’ feathers, and because The Broken had no wings to begin with, that the chill of the winter air would kill them. So he took it upon himself to kidnap them, lock them both in his room, and force them to sit in his nest of blankets and pillow.

“How long?” “Until spring.”

Yeah, fuck that.

The Paranoid had already made an escape attempt, by asking if he could use the restroom. He had hoped that he could hide the rest of the day until The Hunted got it all out of his system.

Unfortunately, while reading a book to pass the time, The Paranoid heard quite the commotion happening elsewhere in the living room that he couldn’t see. Eventually, a frazzled looking avian overturned the couch he was hiding behind. The Hunted let out a quick sigh of relief before throwing The Paranoid over his shoulder, like one would a sack of potatoes.

They passed the Opportunist on their way back, who was in awe of the apparent wreckage the Hunted had caused in his mad search. The Paranoid gave him a pleading look, but just as the Opportunist opened his mouth the Hunted sharply turned with a scalding glare. He’d never before seen the Opportunist shut himself up quite so quickly.

“Don’t do that again.” The Hunted said in that clipped way he often did.

“Why should I even bother? The others will catch on and won’t let it continue.” The Paranoid replied, flopping forward, face falling into a pillow. “All you’re really doing is delaying the inevitable, they’ll get us out of here eventually.”

“They can try, I won’t let them.” The Hunted clicked, nestling between the two.

The Paranoid looked up, a disbelieving look on his face. “There are nine of them and one of you! What do you mean you ‘won’t let them’?”

The Hunted gave a small shrug as he spread his wings to cover the two prisoners. “You’ll see, if it comes down to it.”

The Paranoid tried to ignore the shiver that traveled up his spine.

“You should just accept it, we’re not getting out of this, not anytime soon at least. May as well enjoy it.” Broken suggested, snuggling deeper into the sea of blankets.

“I don’t see why you’re so okay with this.” The Paranoid returned.

“Well,” The Broken started, “it’s warm, it’s comfortable, we’re cared for, what more could one want?”

“A choice?”

“Choices hurt us.”

“Choices freed us.”

The Hunted flapped his wings, earning sounds of startle from the two flightless avians. “No arguing about the past. Go to sleep.”

“Is this some lousy attempt to get us to hibernate? Birds don’t do that.” The Paranoid pointed out.

The Hunted’s bigger, much healthier wing pressed down onto him, it was warm and its touch was strangely comforting despite its messy feel from the Hunted’s recent treasure hunt. “Some do, on special occasion.”

“Does this count as ‘special occasion’?”

“Yes.”

“We have a house.”

“Go to sleep.”

“An insulated, warm house.”

“Go to sleep.”

The Paranoid let out a defeated sigh, it was pointless arguing with their instinct, because instinct had a funny habit of steamrolling all in its path. He wiggled his lower half into the forest of blankets and pillows; if he was going to be stuck here then he was going to at least try to relax. He laid his heavy head on his crossed arms, just as the Broken brought a pillow to his chest.

“Maybe choices did make things better, in the end, but right now you might benefit from not thinking too hard.” The Broken softly proposed.

“Yeah yeah.” Was his response.

—

The Hunted sat up, as slowly as he could as to not disturb the two he’d placed under his care.

He saw the Broken giving in easily, but he didn’t anticipate he’d be able to get the Paranoid to sleep, not with his jumpy nature, that presented itself even within his dreams.

They both needed preening, he thought. The Broken never took care of himself properly, always ignoring layers of dirt stuck under plumage, and bent, broken feathers that likely stuck into him like needles. The Paranoid didn’t fair much better with the depressing state he’d rendered his wings to, the feathers had been plucked so thoroughly that flying was an impossibility.

The Hunted ran his clawed fingers through both of their feathers, cooing when they both let out pleased, sleepy hums.

“Hey, what’s going on-“ The Hunted whipped his head around so fast that one might think he snapped his neck. He gave the Opportunist, who had just casually walked into his den without permission, a chilling stare. A rattle started up in his throat, promising death.

“Whoa! Holy- calm down!” The Opportunist shouted, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Leave.” The Hunted growled.

“Don’t have to ask me twice! I was just worried, you know? With the whole-“

“Go.”

“Yes, right, going now, doing that, as we speak.”

The Hunted didn’t calm even as the door clicked shut, only allowing his feathers to relax after clawed footsteps faded away.

He could blockade the door later, right now he had some preening to do.

[kallie-den]

Grasping the Weapon

At Handler's invitation, Sergeant Meetra Kotys reports to the secretive kennels beneath the base. After her encounter with Handler's brainwashed hound, she expects to be anointed with power and control. Instead, she faces a test: can she prove her humanity? Or is she simply another beast?

This is a sequel to Warhound! If you enjoyed the fucked-up dark kinks of that story, good news: here's more~

If you enjoy my work and are looking for more, or you want to support me, I strongly encourage you to check out my Patreon! I  write erotica full-time, which means I need your patronage to keep creating, and my Patrons also get benefits like early access to my stories, extra stories, and the ability to vote on what I write next! So, if that sounds good to you, head over and join the couple hundred patrons I already have :)

---

Walking across the floor of the colossal hangar bay feels like navigating a forest. On every side, the legs of iron titans stretch up to the sky, and up above their hulking bodies blot out the distant overhead lights. The hangar is a space scaled to proportions so far beyond that of a single person that it becomes unnerving, hostile. It’s all the worse when you think about how all these mechanical trees can move.

Normally, like any reasonable person, Sergeant Meetra Kotys dislikes it here. It’s uncomfortable even for a pilot, at least until she is strapped into her other body. Her war body, her machine body. It’s one of the ones looming overhead, although Kotys can’t pick it out at the moment. It’s standard-issue and just like the others, an Imperial AS Doru, special simply because it's hers.

In the hangar, only the monstrous Ancyor stands apart from the rest. Normally, Kotys hates to look at the thing. Today, it makes her smile.

And today, as she walks, Kotys leaves her mark on the hangar’s vast space. She clacks her boots on the ground, marking each step with a sound that echoes far too far, blasphemous in its loudness. It reminds Kotys of how the handler walks. For herself, at least, she knows it’s just an affectation, but it’s one she feels entitled to. Sergeant Kotys is overcome with daring.

What happened the day before, after the battle, with the hound, changed her. She can feel it. Hell, everyone can feel it. Since then, the other pilots in Kotys’s unit have given her a wide berth. They don’t want to speak with her. This morning, in the canteen, they wouldn’t sit at the same table. As a soldier, sticking out from the pack isn’t smart, normally, but Kotys has evolved beyond caring. It doesn’t matter to her if they want to do this school clique bullshit, and it doesn’t matter to her if they’re scared of her or creeped out by her.

After all, that’s just another thing that reminds her of the handler. That’s how everyone feels about the handlers.

And, fuck, if nothing else, what a feeling! It was so worth it. Even if it came to nothing, it was worth it. Even if it got her executed - maybe even then, it would have been worth it. Kotys had never imagined that Sartha fucking Thrace, out of everyone, would be the catalyst for her ascension; for her claiming the fate, the specialness, she’d known since girlhood was hers. But inside her warm, wet, receiving mouth Kotys touched something beautiful and now she is so very hungry for more.

That is why the handler has summoned her to the Kennels. She could tell. It has passed between them. They are of a kind now.

The Kennels are beneath the rest of the base, on a lower level accessible only through a tunnel on the floor of the hangar. It makes the Kennels feel like a dungeon, although Kotys knows that it is mostly simply a prudent separation. It’s best the other soldiers on base not think too much about the Kennels’ dogs.

The tunnel is dark and unnervingly clean, and takes Sergeant Kotys deeper. Eventually there is a door, big and heavy, and Kotys is still deciding whether to knock or announce herself when it opens to receive her.

Beyond is an office that is almost normal. It was too luxurious, though, and unnerving in its details, especially the warren of claustrophobic passageways that Kotys can see leading off from it, each one lined with cells and other, more sinister facilities. There’s no time to dwell on that, though, because the handler from yesterday is standing there, waiting for her.

Behind the handler stands Sartha Thrace.

Sergeant Kotys can’t look anywhere but at her. She looks the same as yesterday, but different. The same clothing, the same face, the same muzzle, but there is nothing lurking behind those things. She’s too placid and her eyes register no curiosity at Kotys’s arrival; instead she’s still staring at a wall, looking but not seeing.

Kotys has seen other dogs before, on the base, between missions. They’re always like this. They’re… dormant is the word, she guesses. God knows what it takes to reduce a person to this for days, weeks on end. Heavy tranquilizers are the least unsettling possibility. Dormancy makes sense, even if it is creepy as shit. It’s like looking at a ghost instead of a human being, so numb you’d think their skin was cold to the touch.

There is one particular detail that stands out to Kotys, red-hot, bright as a fresh brand. Amongst the bruises and scars and war wounds on Thrace’s face, one is special. A split lip. It wasn’t there when she dismounted her Ancyor yesterday. It’s Kotys’s handiwork. She’d been too rough with the barrel of her handgun.

It’s her mark.

That gets Kotys excited. It gets her wet.

But the handler cannot be ignored for long. Her presence is overbearing. Platinum hair and fair skin aside, all of her is black, from her cap to her leathers to her hulking coat. It’s a uniform, of a kind. It makes handlers look like fear itself, although Kotys is no longer scared. She envies it, and she envies the way that just from how she’s standing, it’s obvious that Thrace is hers; her thing, her creature.

“Sergeant Meetra Kotys,” the handler says. Her expression is another thing Kotys envies. It’s powerful in its detached, knowing amusement. “Tell me, why have you come here?”

Kotys salutes, of course. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” she responds crisply.

The handler waves her hand in that way that means ‘at ease’. “Is that the only reason why?”

“No, sir.” Kotys chooses her words carefully. “I’m… curious.”

That gets a small laugh, but not an unkind one. “You were more than curious yesterday, I think.”

“Yes, sir.” Kotys hopes she isn’t blushing. She might be. It’s too cold down here to tell.

“I am inclined to indulge your curiosity.” Kotys can’t tell if the handler is mocking her. “Ask.”

There is a question that burns a hole in Kotys’s mind more than any other. Maybe the handler already knows what it is. She glances at Thrace again. “Does… it always feel like that?”

The handler laughs. It’s an approving laugh, maybe. She is a difficult woman to read. “Perhaps. That depends on a great many things. On your perspective.”

“My perspective, sir?”

“It’s what I’ve ordered you here to assess.” The handler opens her hands, inviting. “And with it, your suitability.”

Jubilation surges inside Kotys. She knew it. Yesterday was her moment, and this is her chance. She lets herself grin; surely this handler was once here, in her place, surely she once knew how it felt.

Kotys salutes too, of course. “I’ll do everything I can to live up to your expectations, sir.”

“Hm,” is all the handler says to that. “Then let’s begin with some simple instruction.” She gestures to Sartha Thrace. “What is she?”

Kotys cannot help but flush with the memory of her, and vibrates the way any eager student would. She remembers this well, and will never forget it.

“She isn’t Sartha Thrace,” Kotys recites. “Not anymore. She isn’t even a person.”

“I’m glad you were listening,” the handler says. “But that’s only what she is not. Now tell me what she is.”

Kotys winces. She should have foreseen the real thrust of the question. It was never going to be this easy. She isn’t in basic anymore. She needs to do better, and so she looks at Thrace more closely. There is another obvious answer, but if this is a riddle and she is chosen, then her obvious answer might be the truth.

“She’s a dog,” Kotys answers. “A hound.”

The handler laughs again. This laugh is less kind.

“A child could see that.” Handler reaches up and touches Thrace’s muzzle. She dotes on her for a long moment, caressing where iron meets skin. That brings Thrace to life, just a little, just enough to nuzzle back, the ghostly nothing on her face becoming a ghostly smile.

“A pet,” Kotys corrects herself hastily. “Your hound.”

“No.” The handler’s sharpness cracks like a whip across Kotys’s pride. “Think. Feel. Don’t just blurt out whatever comes into your head.”

Kotys tries to think. She forces herself, as hard as it is with humiliation still echoing through her. No defeat in combat has ever tasted so sour. “She’s an enemy. A rebel. We must always remember that.”

“Wrong,” the handler tells her flatly. “She is broken. Domesticated.”

Now Kotys starts to panic. She’s scrambling. What else is Sartha Thrace? “A… a pilot. That’s why she’s useful to us.”

The handler sighs, and the regret on her face makes Kotys wince. “Close enough, I suppose. She is useful to us, yes. A tool. A single cog, in the empire’s machine of war. She is a weapon. A thing to be used.”

Kotys nods as if she understands, but she can’t help but rile against the unfairness of it. How was she supposed to guess that answer, of all answers?

“And,” the handler adds, “what are you, Sergeant Meetra Kotys?”

She feels able to relax into this answer. “I’m like her, sir. A cog in a machine.”

It’s a good soldier's answer, one drilled into her ever since basic. Which makes it all the more dispiriting when the handler sneers as if disgusted.

“I hope not,” the hander tells her. “If you’re just a cog in a machine then you are wasting my time.”

“I’m a pilot.” Kotys’s hands are balled into petulant little fists at her sides. “Sir.”

“How curious.” The handler’s smile is back, and it is not welcome. “You said that she’s a pilot. Does that make you like her?”

“No!” Kotys yells. “Fuck no!”

Where is the handler from yesterday? The one who gave her permission. The one who shared that knowing smirk with her. The one who baptized her. It’s the same woman, but now she’s like a demon. It’s like Kotys is her victim instead of Thrace. Instead of the enemy.

“No,” the handler muses. “No, I suppose not. After all, Sartha Thrace is an undisputed ace. She’s one of the greatest pilots the Earth has ever seen. I thought it best to stop her from counting her kills, but I’m sure her tally would be in the hundreds.”

As she says this, she’s caressing Thrace again. She goes further, bringing her hand up to stroke and mess her hair, and then down to scratch gently behind her ears. Like everything else between them, it’s ghoulish. A kind of fondness only fit for beasts. You’d never treat a person that way. A person would never let themselves be treated this way.

But from the dreamy smile on Sartha Thrace’s face, it’s clear she’s in heaven. Kotys doubts she knows where she is, or if it’s day or night, but she knows that her handler, the center of her world, is praising and adoring her.

She looks like she’s about to cum.

“And then there’s you,” the handler says to Kotys, her voice freezing over. “I reviewed your file. You are average. A pilot of unremarkable skill. You have reasonable experience, but no particular accolades or achievements. There is nothing to distinguish you from any other pilot.”

That stings worse than anything else, and the deepest pain is that there is nothing Kotys can call upon to answer her. There’s nothing she can do at all, except stew. Under the weight of her own impotence, her anger curdles into petty, uncontrolled frustration. It feels like tears are about to well up in the pilot’s eyes and she hates herself for that. She doesn’t just cry. She’s no crybaby.

It’s the handler, of course. She has that way about her. She makes you care about what she thinks. It’s an awful power.

Kotys decides to let herself get angry instead.

“I didn’t come here to be abused,” she says. “Sir. And I didn’t come here to play games. You seem to know exactly what you think I am. So tell me.”

The handler let out a long, loud laugh. Kotys hopes that she wasn’t simply testing to see if Kotys would eventually stand up for herself. That’s the very worst and most cliché kind of test. A stupid person’s idea of a smart trick.

“You’re a person, Sergeant Kotys.” The handler shows teeth. “Or at least, that’s what I’m hoping.”

Kotys simply blinks.

“A tool needs a hand,” the handler explains. “A wielder. You can’t own another human being’s soul if you’re just a cog in a machine. You must demonstrate that you’re capable of grasping the weapon.”

“I am, damn it!” Kotys knows she is. She feels it deep within herself. It’s a power she’s already tapped into once. “You’ve seen that I am. You know I am. That’s why you called me here, right? So just tell me how to fucking prove it.”

The handler takes her time in answering. She turns her back and walks over to her desk, Sartha Thrace following at her heel. She carefully picks up something, a small case, and then opens it and turns to face Sergeant Kotys once again.

“You have to stake your humanity.”

Inside the case is an old-fashioned metal needle and syringe, menacingly long and thick, and contained within the tube, visible through a slim glass panel, is a liquid so green it is plainly unnatural.

Something about it makes Kotys shiver.

“What is that?” she demands. “Is it…”

Her eyes betray her, and she glances nervously at Thrace.

“A tool,” the handler tells her. “One of many. There are other drugs and other methods. Perhaps soon, you’ll be instructed in their use. If.” The handler’s smile curls. “If you’re what I hope you are.”

“A person, right?” Kotys grimaces. She doesn’t know how the hell this is meant to prove that, but she knows one thing: she’ll succeed. She’s special. She’s different. There were two dozen pilots watching Sartha Thrace and the handler the day before. She alone stood forward. That means something. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

As much as she dreads the green fluid she can see sloshing around in the large syringe, part of her is hoping that the handler will lash out and jab it into her before she can think twice. There’s no such kindness. Instead, the handler simply offers it to her. Kotys takes it, of course.

“In the neck,” she instructs. “Find your large vein.”

Like any pilot, Kotys has done enough medic training to know how. When you’re sealed into a cockpit, it’s not like anyone else is going to be there to patch you up. Carefully, she curls her fingers in the metal loops of the syringe and brings the needle’s point against her skin. She pauses. She breaths.

This is just another battle. When she says it herself like that, adrenaline is her ally. It gives her the courage to make herself grin and look the handler dead in the eyes.

Then, she pushes the needle into her skin and pushes down on the plunger with all of her strength.

She’s used combat stims before, so the sensation of something cold flowing in her veins isn’t unfamiliar. Neither is the sudden, uncomfortable awareness of her heartbeat that it brings. Kotys closes her eyes to balance herself. One beat of her heart brings the drug into her chest. The next expels it and sends it rushing throughout her body. Kotys feels something. But what? Is it the weakness in her legs? The tingling in her fingertips? How long does it take this drug to take effect?

Kotys is getting lightheaded. As moments pass, she’s increasingly certain of that. She feels herself spinning even with both feet firmly on the ground. The shape of the room around her is disappearing into nothing. She needs to open her eyes, but when she does, she seems Handler.

Handler is made of stars.

Kotys has seen stars just once, transiting from orbit. From the surface, they’re almost never visible through the dust storms. That memory has always stayed with her, and she feels it again as she looks at Handler now, every point on Her skin twinkling with light. She is flesh and blood and stars, and when She looks intently at Kotys, the drugged pilot feels the entire weight of the cosmos bearing down on her.

“Good,” Handler says, after peering at Koty’s pupils. Kotys flinches under Her gaze. “You’re taking to it well, I see.”

Kotys nods, because how can she do anything else? She’s so small.

“Then let’s begin,” Handler says. Kotys is losing herself in Her smile. “Down.”

“D-“ Handler’s words snatch back Kotys’s attention. “W-what?”

“On the ground.” Handler helpfully indicates with Her hand. “Down. Now.”

It does not occur to Kotys that disobedience is a possibility. She’s a leaf in a stream, and Handler is the current. When Handler tells her to go down, it’s like she’s feeling gravity for the very first time. And so, she sinks unsteadily to her knees. The ground is hard and cold but she’s numb to all of that. The numbness is a reminder of the drug coursing through her veins, otherwise seductively easy to forget.

“You’re much more obedient than you were yesterday,” Handler comments. “Aren’t you, dog?”

Kotys slow-blinks again. Dog? This feels like something she should question, but it’s hard to be sure. She’s trying to find her booze legs but being drunk has never been this confusing. “I’m… a…?”

“A dog,” Handler confirms for her. “You’re a dog.”

This thunderous proclamation rolls slowly through Kotys’s mind. Once again, disobedience or disagreement does not occur to her as a possibility. Not when it’s coming from this god-like, star-like woman who sounds so implacably certain. Instead her mind buckles, warping itself into a new shape, and ‘dog’ is its central pillar.

How does that feel? Kotys can’t decide. It feels humiliating, vaguely, but she’s numb even to that, and being upset with it strikes her as just as futile as being upset at the weather. She is a dog. It’s a brute fact, even if it’s also a new one. But what does that actually mean? She doesn’t know, and the uncertainty makes her nervous. This is too important not to know.

So, she glances, again, at Sartha Thrace. The hierarchy between them, so sure and vivid until moments ago, is now in question. But maybe this other dog, this hound, will help her understand.

“No,” Handler adds, Her voice firm. She repeats things, the way you do with stupid children. Or pets. “No. No, not like her.”

Kotys slumps. If not like her, then what? She’s becoming desperate to understand. Ever since she walked in, she’s been craving Handler’s approval, but now the need for her smile, her nod, her agreement has become all-encompassing. The lack of that is like a physical pain, like her stomach is cramping up from famine. It’s the one thing she’s not numb to.

“She’s a hound,” Handler explains kindly, as Kotys just looks up at her, stupefied. She reaches for Thrace once more, petting, fawning, and now Kotys wishes so very badly that it could be her instead. She wants that care from Handler. That love. “She’s well-trained. I domesticated her myself, and she has never let me down since. My hound is a very, very good girl.”

A little whine threatens to escape Koty’s throat. She can only imagine the perfect, encompassing affirmation that such a comment might bring. It would be enough to warm her through any cold. She’s drowning in longing.

“But you?” Handler’s attention falls back on Kotys, and it is cold. “You aren’t trained. You aren’t domesticated. You are not special. You are nothing. Just an average pilot.”

Kotys thought that comment had hurt before. Now, it stings infinitely worse. She doesn’t have anger to insulate her. She can’t be angry. Not at Handler. In her eyes, Handler is still all stars and light.

“You’re no hound,” Handler mocks - and it is mockery, her tone makes that plain. The cruelty of it is unbearable. “You’re a mutt.”

At this, Kotys doubles over in anguish. The approval she craves has never felt further away. She’s left with nothing. She’s a mutt. She’s a mutt, and Sartha Thrace is a hound. That’s a fresh knife into her heart. She’s lower than Thrace now, and she’s already seen how low Thrace can be. A broken thing with a broken mind, but Kotys is lower still. How will Handler ever love her if she’s just a mutt?

“So.” Handler folds Her arms as if the matter is settled. As if Kotys is a piece of trash She’s thrown away. “What do you want, mutt? What are you doing here?”

Kotys has to answer, because Handler’s questions need to be answered. To do that she needs to peer inside herself, and to her surprise, that rouses something. A memory. An impulse. She was here for something, before the drug and before she awoke to Handler’s true greatness.

She’s here to prove her humanity.

Only now does she realize what that means, but the realization doesn’t make the task seem easier. Her humanity has never felt further away. Hasn’t she already given in? She’s on the floor like a dog, just because Handler told her that’s what she is. Wouldn’t it be easier to just let herself sink into the abasement? She’s touched a hint of the bliss that comes with it, and it’s just as dangerously alluring as what she touched the day before, with her gun in Sartha Thrace’s mouth.

But something inside Sergeant Meetra Kotys isn’t ready to give up that easily. She’s a pilot, after all.

So, she dares to straighten her back and look up. “I’m n-not,” she says, in a drooling, unsteady voice, her conviction already wavering in the face of Handler’s glorious stature, “a m-mutt.”

Handler just hits her.

Kotys barely feels the blow, and only pieces together what happened once she’s already sprawled out on the ground. But the reprimand of being struck by Handler - that hurts. Handler is special. She’s made of stars. She’s at the center of the world. And She hit her.

The tears start forming behind her eyes again.

“You’re a mutt.” Handler’s words are thunderous, even though she doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. “That’s all you’ll ever be.”

It’s a gut punch far worse than Handler’s clean blow to the side of Kotys’s face. She whimpers, and can’t help but notice how pathetic and canine she sounds. But still, she finds something stubborn within herself, and lifts her head.

“N-n-nooo,” Kotys tries to insist.

Handler advances on her, and with each step, the weight of Her presence bears down on Kotys. It’s like gravity is getting stronger, pulling her downward, encouraging her to slump to the floor and plead and beg. It’s frightening and awe-inspiring and beautiful all at once. Kotys has never known a woman like this. A woman with the gravity of stars at Her command. It feels like blasphemy to question her. Like hubris.

“You’re a mutt,” Handler insists. The fact that She needs to repeat herself makes Kotys feel shameful in her stupidity. “I saw you, yesterday. I know what you are. You’re just an animal who couldn’t resist her own urges. You couldn’t control yourself. Just a beast in heat.”

To punctuate Her statement, to make sure even a stupid dog like Kotys understands, Handler takes a deliberate step forward and places her boot between Kotys’s thighs.

Kotys’s clothes do nothing to dull the sensation. Her drug-induced numbness is instantly a thing of the past. She wasn’t horny before, as far as she can tell, but she sure is now, more than she’s ever been before. This arousal is different. Special. Because of Handler. It’s not just that there’s something against her, touching her. It’s that it’s Her. Her touch is a blessing. Even when it’s cruel.

“Go ahead.” Handler’s lips curl up into that mocking smile that Kotys still adores. “You know what you want to do. I’m giving you permission.”

Kotys’s body betrays her with a twitch, and the twitch brings bliss as the single, half-voluntary movement presses her cunt against Handler’s boot. They both know what she wants, and the knowledge that Handler is giving her permission is nothing but torment. The voice of temptation is already whispering to her, telling her just once, one time, maybe it’ll take the edge off, and when her head is full of clouds and haze it’s very hard to remember that the voice of temptation isn’t all she has. Isn’t this right, for a dog like her?

But she knows that if she does it just once, one time, she’ll never be able to stop.

And there’s no mistaking what that would mean.

Kotys can’t quite bring herself to pull away, though.

“Oh?” Handler laughs at her paralysis. “Little mutt doesn’t know what she’s doing, does she?”

“Iiii…” Kotys can’t speak when Handler is this close. Her mouth is dry, and the words just drool uselessly out of her mouth as soon as she opens it. Words are so far beyond her now.

“What’s the matter?” Handler’s cruel delight is plain, and that’s another temptation. It’s tempting to give in, just to delight Her more. “Don’t you want to enjoy your treat?”

There is no chance that Kotys can deny wanting Handler right now. So instead, she just whines.

“I guess not,” Handler decides for her. She retracts Her boot. Another whine. “Perhaps you’re more interested in my hound instead, like you were yesterday.”

Kotys groans like a drunk. She doesn’t know anymore, and it’s easier to just wait for Handler to tell her. That’s always easier, for dogs. The emptiness inside her head keeps getting worse. She realizes she’s only just hitting the peak. She needs to remember what she came here for.

“Sartha.”

Handler makes an expectant tongue-clicking noise, and that seems to rouse Sartha Thrace. Her eyes clear of fog, if not of delusion. It’s not like waking up, really. She doesn’t look around to get her bearings. She looks up at Handler, and an expression dawns on her face that’s so hopeful it’s almost pleading. Kotys knows exactly what Thrace is hoping for. She’s hoping for an order, because an order is a chance to win Handler’s approval.

It’s disturbing to Kotys how effortlessly she understands Thrace now.

“Sir?” Thrace ventures eagerly.

“Off The Leash.”

Before her eyes, Thrace transforms. No. Thrace dies. Kotys catches it; the moment her eyes go wide and dark before the whole of this woman, this hero, crumbles from within. Implosion follows. She goes slack, loose, empty. A shell. A scarecrow. It’s terrifying to behold, like the death of a sun. It makes Kotys tremble. It’s not exciting the way it was before. It’s too close to home.

But then she comes to life again with a false life, so artificial and constructed the strings are all but visible. Her shoulders slump lazily and her mouth hangs open. There’s a light there, a spark, but it’s Handlers; an electric candle facsimile of a soul. In a way, it’s brighter than before. She’s more alert. More aware. But in another way, she’s so much dimmer. Her thoughts are crude and simple. She growls instead of speaking.

This is Hound.

She is not pleased to see Kotys. There’s something vicious and possessive about the way she leans close to Handler and glares at Kotys, her lips pulled back in a snarl. She’s territorial.

A dog who’s caught the scent of a rival dog.

“This is what you want, correct?” Handler says to Kotys. As She does She pets Thrace’s head, and that takes the edge off her snarl. “I know how much you pilots love to blow off steam and compare body counts. Maybe you’re not so average in that department, mutt. You seemed keen enough with my hound yesterday. Perhaps you need her to scratch your itch?”

Each of Her words is dripping with mocking condescension and it makes Kotys churn with conflicting emotions. She doesn’t want Handler to mock her. She wants Handler to love her, the same way She loves Her hound. But mockery is still attention, and this attention in particular makes Kotys’s brain buzz with something warm and suffocating.

Wait. No. She doesn’t want Handler to love her. She wants Handler to… what? To accept her? To train her? To respect her? It’s slippery. But she needs to try to keep hold of it.

“N. Nnnooo,” Kotys forces herself to say. It wants to come out as a pathetic bleat. Or a bark.

“I think you do.” When Handler decides for her, the decision is settled. “Hound.”

Hound goes very still as Handler calls her to attention.

Handler’s smile goes very thin and wider than ever as she nods to Kotys. “Fuck her.”

Kotys isn’t prepared for what happens next. Hound flies at her faster than she can think. There’s nothing to hold her back - no shame, no inhibition, no self-preservation. Just a fervent need to obey and please. Hound throws herself on top of Kotys, pinning her to the ground, and is on her in a frenzy, hands tearing and muzzle scraping. It’s like how she’s forgotten how to remove clothes, and so instead she’s just tugging and ripping until buttons pop and seams come apart.

And Kotys can’t resist, because she’s blinded by starlight.

Now even Hound seems like she’s made of stars. She’s not Handler, of course. She’s not special like Handler. But she’s an instrument of Handler’s will and, perhaps because of that, she partakes in some of Her radiance. She’s flush with it; it makes her seem faster, stronger, harder to fight.

Or maybe it’s just the way she’s already forcing a hand between Kotys’s legs, touching her, forcing her way inside her, forcing her to feel just how greedy her own body is. The pleasure alone is blinding. She held back from the edge earlier, with Handler. Now Hound is going to make sure she falls.

Kotys doesn’t notice herself making noise before she notices her throat has started to hurt from moaning.

Even in her drugfucked brain, she hasn’t lost sight of how humiliating this reversal is. Just one day ago, she’d had her gun in Hound’s mouth. She’d watched Hound suck and mewl and drool and it had felt glorious. She’d felt like she mastered her. Like she’d finally beaten the great Sartha Thrace - if not in combat, then in something even more fundamental.

But now she’s the one mewling.

So maybe it was nothing. A fluke. Or worse, a gift. Handler’s charity. Power that wasn’t real. That feels more true now, now that she’s dripping on Hound’s hand while the brainwashed hero puts savage, messy hickeys all over her collar. Hound is rougher than any woman Kotys has ever had. She was told to fuck Kotys, but not to be gentle about it. This barely feels like sex. It feels like rutting.

Handler stands above it all, watching, her smile unreadable. She ordered this depravity, but she isn’t tainted by it. Not one fleck of dirt or drool or wetness has soiled her boots. She’s judging Kotys, of course, and that makes her feel all the more like a goddess.

Kotys can’t meet her gaze. She can just arch her back and buck her hips and moan and drool and scream and try her hardest not to beg for more.

She’s going to lose.

She can feel that more keenly now than ever. She’s already hitting her limit. Hound is teasing it out of her. If Kotys cums, if she cums from this, then there’s truly no difference between the two of them. If she cums from this, she’s truly a mutt. She’ll have lost something forever, she feels. In Handler’s eyes especially.

And then… what? She’ll just go back to her dormitory and her unit. They’ll take her back, probably. They’ll pretend to forget. It’ll be like nothing ever happened. Except for the moments she thinks back and remembers the time she touched glory and let it slip through her fingers. In those moments, she’ll know that she failed to become what she was always meant to be.

Sergeant Meetra Kotys can’t face that.

She digs deep within herself and finds reserves - not of dignity, but of strength, and a ferocity close to that she can see on Hound’s face. Acting on some instinct that Handler’s drug hasn’t quite dulled, she reaches up and puts her hand into Hound’s matted blonde hair, and makes a tight fist. Hound steels herself, ready to resist if she’s pushed away, but Kotys isn’t pushing away.

She’s pushing down.

Hound isn’t ready for this and so, for just a moment, her balance slips. She’s still fighting tooth and nail but Kotys is no slouch in a brawl, and the lapse lets her shove Hound far enough down that she can hook her thighs around her head and trap her there. It doesn’t bring any relief - Hound’s hand is still halfway inside her cunt - but it helps her bruised ego.

Hound is furious. She writhes like a kicked dog, but she can’t really fight back. Handler told her to fuck Kotys, and Handler hasn’t told her she can stop. At least half her attention is on keeping her hand moving and bringing Kotys to the edge.

An addled grin comes to Kotys’s face as she sees Hound accept this new position. It’s not much, but it’s something. A foothold. That victory immediately goes to her head. She turns euphoric. The drug makes it easy to let the feeling sweep her away. It helps that this is what Handler wants from her too. A turning of the tables. It’s starting to make sense. This is how she proves her humanity.

She needs to show Hound who’s really the mutt.

That strengthens her resolve. Now, riding high on dominance, she can simply do what comes naturally. Kotys reaches her other hand down and slips her fingers through the thin metal bars of Hound’s muzzle. Then, once her grip is solid, she pulls. Hard.

Hound lets out two cries as the muzzle, already punishingly tight, slips free and goes flying across the room. The first is pain. The second, louder and worse, is from grief and fear and uncertainty. Kotys is sure Handler doesn’t let her be without her muzzle. But she doesn’t care. She needs to prove that Handler isn’t the only one in charge, as blasphemous as that might feel. She forces Hound’s face between her legs.

“Here,” she growls. “Lick.”

Kotys squeezes down with her thighs to make sure Hound cannot possibly escape. Hound whines a few times, but eventually accedes. She’s been told to fuck Kotys and she’ll obey, even if her tongue is all she can use. When Kotys feels it inside her, it’s so good she starts to laugh and giggle. This is even better, maybe, than making her suck her gun barrel. This is true mastery.

Sartha Thrace, the rebel hero, obediently licking her cunt.

“That’s better,” Kotys snarls. “Lick, bitch.”

Dominating the hound between Kotys’s legs is effortless now. She’s found her flow. She’s not sure if the drug is wearing off or simply taking her to fresh heights, but she feels more focused than ever. Now it’s like she’s the one made of stars. She can do anything. Already, she’s picturing herself in Handler’s garb, in that black coat and cap and boots.

Maybe Hound is picturing her that way too. Maybe that’s why she seems so servile now. She’s pressing her face into Kotys’s body, greedily licking and lapping, tonguefucking her like it’s the only way she can breathe. Hound has accepted her place. Her purpose.

Pleasing Kotys.

It’s something close to the thrill of piloting a mech. Every pilot knows it; the feeling of striding across the world like a god, armored in invincible steel, armed with the power to blow mountains apart. It’s the thrill of domination. Kotys knows a lot of pilots who sleep around, but she doesn’t know any who’d take sex over the chance to put an enemy machine in the dirt. It’s just that addictive.

Kotys has always been an average pilot. Fine. She can accept that. But now she sees. Piloting was never her true calling. This is.

And it’s better.

Kotys rolls over suddenly, keeping Hound pinned beneath her body, grinding her cunt furiously on the brainwashed woman’s face. She’s going to cum, but it’s going to be on her terms.

“You can do better than that,” she snarls. “Bitch. Fuck me.”

Hound responds exactly as she’d hoped: with submission. That’s how Kotys knows she’s won. Hound is her creature now. Her plaything, straining to eat her out deeper and better. Kotys has passed the test. The euphoria bubbling through her brain tells the whole story.

Which means there’s no more reason to hold back.

Kotys lets herself cum all over Hound’s face. She rides her to the very end, eager to milk every last drop of pleasure out of her victory. She’s earned it, after all, just as she’s earned the right to buck her hips and fill the room with her ragged screams of bliss.

Fuck. She’s so alive.

This is real triumph. A medal on her chest wouldn’t even come close. Neither would any other sex Kotys has ever had. None of it means the same. Handler spoke earlier of owning another human being’s soul. Now, Kotys understands. She understands how awe-inspiring the feeling is. She understands that she needs it more, forever. The addiction is instantly. The craving is almost enough to make her want to ride Hound’s face a second time.

But she didn’t come here for just sex. So after Hound goes limp, Kotys extracts herself and clambers wearily to her feet. She chooses to savor the moment and so, unhurried, she takes a long while to fix her clothes before she turns to address Handler. But when she does, the expression she sees is worse than any she might have dreaded.

Boredom. Crushing, total boredom.

“How very disappointing,” Hander sighs.

That chills Kotys all the way through. Maybe the drug isn’t quite out of her system yet, because she feels the reprimand as a stab. An icicle in her chest. What’s going on? It can’t go wrong. Not again.

“B-but I…” she splutters. Her power, her dominance, is a lost memory, snatched away in three words. “I…”

“You. Failed.” Handler says each word so very clearly.

“N-no,” Kotys pleads. “No, I-“

She trips backward and is sent sprawling again. Handler seems to loom above her. It’s obvious to anyone that She has already passed judgment, but Kotys is already far beyond dignity.

“I beat her!” Kotys whines. “I did! I made her-“

“You rolled around on the ground like a pair of stupid animals.” Handler delivers the verdict clinically. “Is that what you suppose I wanted to see, Sergeant Kotys?”

Like before, all Kotys can do is turn her uncontrollable shame into anger. “B-but that’s what you do!” she babbles. “You freaks. Down here. We’re the same!”

That, at long last, earns something more than bored contempt. It earns a little anger, and even that little is terrifyingly worse. In a swift, disciplinarian movement, Handler steps forwards and grabs Kotys by her messed-up hair, and wrenches her head upwards so hard it makes her neck scream.

“Unlike you,” Handler hisses at her, “I don’t fuck dogs.”

Again, she’s a god. A star-being. Under her gaze, Kotys crumples. She knows in her heart that Hander is right. She’s always right. She’s right that they are not the same. Handler possesses a dominance beyond strength, and it is hers. Kotys was just a brat She was indulging. And for her hubris, she deserves all of this punishment.

“I-I-I’ll go,” Kotys blubbers, fighting to stand. She wants to collapse and pass out, but she wants to be away from Handler even more. “I’m sorry. Sir. I’ll go. B-back to my-“

“No.” Handler smiles cruelly at her. “You won’t. You’re ruined for that now. I’ve already arranged your transfer, Sergeant Kotys. We have uses for mutts, down here.”

She clicks her tongue again, and Hound is upon Kotys. This time, Hound isn’t play fighting. She’s as strong as a demon and there is no resisting her - not that it matters. Kotys has no resistance left. A glorious destiny will never be hers. She was a pilot - an average pilot, yes, but still a pilot - and now she’s nothing. She threw it away. There’s nothing left to fight for. It’s done. She doesn’t know what happens to mutts, but whatever it is, she’ll accept it.

After all, Handler knows best for all her dogs.

The broken pilot sobs as Hound begins to drag her deeper into the Kennels.

—

I would like to express my gratitude for the generosity of all those who  support me on Patreon, and to give a special thanks to the following  patrons in particular for their exceptional support:

Artemis, Chloe, J, Secret Subject, Kathryn, Lucy, Dex, orangesya, Red, dmtph, Ember, MegatronTarantulas, Vanessa, Matt, Jeremy, Mattilda, Emily, William, ntad, Flluffie, Silgon, The Flock, ourladyoflilacs, Luna, Abigail, steb, Hypnogirl_Stephanie_, nicholas, Sue, Alan_, mintyasleep, Noelle, Lavender, Madness, Michael, Tasteful Ardour, Michael, Matthew, Full Blown Marxism, Anonymous, GrillFan65, Huge_Nerd, ZephanyZephZeph, Tram345, 8947jts, Chris, Breadloaf, Kyle, Emma, Jack the Monkey, Paul, Willow, Shadows exile, Drone 8315, Matthew, Alex, Sam, Selina, Daniel, Bubble_Butt, Francesca, WhyamIhere, John, Sarah, Crittergang, Setcab, Erin, Elysium, Bacon Man, Flintnsteal, Arik, John, bluaph, Kyle, Morriel, Jack the Monkey, Sola, NewtypeWoman, Envy, hellenberg, shoktherapy, L, Jim, Black Star, Kay, Michael, John, Praxis Memetics LLC, Frank, William, Christopher, Charlotte, Faun, Riley, Brinn, Brendon, B, Jackson, Kyle, Dennis, Nandi, Sanya, David, Morder, Myles_EXVS, Jade, Skylar, Foridin, gabbermoth, Jennifer, Selina, Violet, Slifer274, paxDulcetGirl, Roxxie, Hal, Phoenix, Ivy, Jim, Michael, Joseph, June, Yaoups, Peter, Paige, Sophie, imaencuru, Thomas, Liz, naivetynkohan, Ada, EepyTimeTea, nitin, Sebastian, ds2coffin, Yaoups, SuperJellyFrogEx, Utumnon, Bacon Man, J, ohgreatratqueen, Daedalus, Maxence, JFritz, Queenfisher, night, Basic dev, Katie, BTYOR, Lily, Emily Queen of Sloths

[astroyongie]

i honestly feel like i was born in the wrong era. either im too old for something or someone or im past the point of being able to achieve something. then when looking at how all these kpop groups are so young yet successful and talented just makes me question why i didnt do something like that.

we didnt have kpop in my school time but why couldnt i have just picked something and stuck with it? on top of it i believe im never going to fit anyones ideal type so whats the point in existing cause no one gonna truly get to know me.

unless i can somehow pass away before im 50 then i dont have to continue to think about all this shit and how i shouldve done better or i shouldve picked such and such a career and i shouldve tried to put myself out there more but in my age theres really nothing out there to seek when its all handed to younger generations.

and i would want to have my own success based on my own effort but have fallen short in so many ways its impossible to not find something i could do about it bc im too far behind and it does get to a point where you think that it is too late bc in order to gain any talent you have to have done it from a young age.

i dont want to rely on someone else to do it for me but i couldnt do it myself due to personal situations. yet i feel like thats an excuse cause once again all these young idols seem to be ro have something about them that makes their life a success. like yes the end inudstry is far from perfect but thats what people have been seeking themselves so it cant all be that bad all the time for them if these groups including older age groups have went out got success and even they get all the benefits of the super rich lifestyle but at the same time money doesnt bring true happiness and it seems a very shallow way they live sometimes, they have a supply and demand contract with their audiences and rely so much on social media which although i use it im not attached to it and i cant relate to obsessing over latest dance trend. i also want to stop the woe is me narrative but its really fucking hard to not feel so ashamed, behind or negative about things.

the most advice people gove is bog standard like if ur bored, go out more but its hard not to feel left out, if ur loney go find someone, if u dont have an income go get a job its literally never that simple. even in education you still have to pay for it as an adult meaning you have to already have a job but even then theres still means of you getting misjudged for your age and classmates have already done that to me before it wasnt that fun. its like saying to someone depressed to go take medicine to take away the feeling.

idk what im doing anymore besides waiting to randomly pass away so i can be done with this shite. sorry for ranting so much but idk who else to speak too bc no one else never seems to understand my frustrations with the way things have panned out.

Comparing yourself to others people archievement is the worst thing you can do. because we are all different, we all go through different shits (just like you rightfully said) and not all of us have the same opportunities presented. beating yourself up for that is a cruel thing to do wishing yourself.

It does also seem like you struggle a lot with self worth, self love and that is probably because never once someone complimented you for the things that you have achieve (to this point were you believe you havent achieved anything).

Love, hatred that you carry is a motivator, and you need to accept one thing. as long as you are breathing nothing is to late to archive, as long as you are here you should be kinder to yourself. because why are you comparing yourself to idols? I often say this here but when was it the last time you appreciated life? when was the last time you went out, stared at the ocean, at the night sky, breathed into a forest, when was the last time you felt a sense of peace? seek that out. dwelling on what we could have been is cruel hun, and not helping you in any kind <3

its okay to rant, dont worry, I hope I dont sound to harsh either, its just that I pains me seeing you guys going through so much suffering when I promise you all, darkness cannot live without light. just find your way back to it, often you dont need a big reason. sometimes the most tiny thing can be a source of happiness, seek yours !

[sewer-freak]

[This is a roleplay blog for a DOL character created by @macabrecravings.]

General Degrees of Lewdity Warnings apply (Under 18 DNI, rape/noncon/dubcon) As well as heavy warnings for psuedo-incest fuckery (Morgan), bullying, medical malpractice, delusions/derealization, TBA… (Ask to tag more!!)

Reminder: Evangeline is intentionally transgressive & I do not hold the same values, views, or kinks that she does. ^_^

#oc: evangeline || pinterest board || spotify playlist

General Info:

• Unsocial Moth.

• Generally makes people uneasy. She’s visibly disturbed & clearly unstable which makes people uncomfortable.

• It doesn’t help that she’s an avid thief & people don’t like having their things stolen.

• Has poor hygiene due to her mental state, which is only made worse considering the places she hangs out (She… reeks. </3)

• Her teachers aren’t too fond of her. She’s not a delinquent by any means, but she spends more time daydreaming than anything.

• She also… stares. at them. Has a thing for older men / authority figures and it’s. obvious.

• Meek & submissive as fuck </3

• Works at the office building as a temp, but occasionally does housekeeping jobs around town

• Spends her free time in the forest, moor, smuggler’s cave, the sewers. When it comes to the orphanage, it’s all or nothing. She’s either locked herself in her room or avoids it like the plague.

• Has substance abuse issues. Cigarettes, alcohol, stimulants, aphrodisiacs…… <- Big fan. You can find her stealing stimulants & aphrodisiacs all over town, (even if the punishment she gets for doing so isn’t often worth the high).

• Very Much a Recluse. Doesn’t go out of her way to interact with people. Still, heres how she feels about certain NPCS:

• MORGAN — Met Morgan while artifact hunting for Winter, and it. fucked her up. She originally went along with him out of fear, but took to him quickly. He’s the father figure she’s never had. The only one who “understands her”.

Her name rhymes with Charlene, and she bares a resemblance to him (gingers. that’s it.), but it’s enough for her to delude herself into thinking that she hypothetically could be Charlene. (She’s not. & In a more lucid state she would accept that, but. Alas.)

• HARPER — Used to avoid their therapy appts at any cost. Morgan got in her head about him, so she was resilient & slow to warm up. But, deep into treatment at her first asylum visit, she became enthusiastic.

**Looked forward to bathing every day** (because it meant he would touch her and get her off). Liked the way his medicine made her feel, and loved his attention even more.

• KYLAR — A genuine friend. One of the only people she likes being around. Prefers when he’s silent and not overbearing. Keeps him at an arms distance because he’s a little… too into her.

He’s made it very clear that he wants to be more than friends/friends with benefits, but she ignores his feelings. She doesn’t want to date him. She doesn’t want him to “fix her” or “keep her safe”.

• WHITNEY — Evangeline is easy to throw around & take advantage of. She does what Whitney asks of her, little to no resistance.

Not close enough to him to drink at the pub with him & his buddies, but would if he allowed her to. Same with smoking with him. Hypothetically, they could get along. But they don’t.

• MICKEY — Fond of from a distance (They help cover up her tracks and are mysterious. It’s..: appealing :))

• ROBIN & SYDNEY — Not close. Doesn’t interact with them other than what’s necessary.

• WINTER — She helps out with the museum & also wants him carnally. Who cares if he’s a “fossil” or “as old as those antiques he collects”? Not her.

• SIRRIS — Another object of her lust. A seemingly perfect father to Sydney, not to mention hot. She’d do anything to be a demonstration on his home videos, if you catch my drift!

• LEIGHTON — To be determined

[fox-daddy]

Ask Mc game because I can

Idea stolen from inspired by @snobgoblin Oc ask game

*number - means it's related to another question.

Kyle

What’s the maximum amount of time your character can sit still with nothing to do?

Depends on his mood, most times around 10-20 minutes but if in one of his moods can daydream for hours upon hours

2. How easy is it for your character to laugh?

Asra with a straight face: Benis

Kyle:

super easily

3. How do they put themselves to bed at night (reading, singing, thinking?)

He tends to wear himself out throughout the day so usually he lays down and just sleeps. Sometimes he lays there daydreaming*1

4. How easy is it to earn their trust?

Trust to what extent? Kyle tends to meet people on a positive foot, giving them some leeway and trust. However, he isn't going to jump off a cliff because a random person tells him to. Not without outside influence like situation. Upon first meeting Scout he had more trust to them than a normal person in the normal world but the magic realms are different. Overtime it's not hard to earn his trust with some time. Earning it back after you lost it is another thing.

5. How easy is it to earn their mistrust?

Super easily if you're trying to. They tend to be as mistrusting of new people as much as they are trustful. Using his outer appearance*40 to appear more trustful than he is but also willing to give benefit of the doubt more often than not. Once you've earned his trust betraying him would hurt him. Earning it back will take more work depending on the betrayal.

6. Do they consider laws flexible, or immovable?

Flexible as heck. The law to him isn't meant to be stone cut only this way it's meant to look at a situation and moderate it. Stealing is wrong but if someone steals some bread because their homeless and starving or worse stale bread from a dumpster, Kyle isn't going to hit them with the law and will try to help them. Stealing for fun however, yeah they can get hit with the law for all Kyle cares.

7. What triggers nostalgia for them, most often? Do they enjoy that feeling?

The forest near Vesuvia after a fresh rainstorm. The smell of wet trees and ferns. He enjoys it but can never quiet figure out what it reminds him of other than a time gone by.

8. What were they told to stop/start doing most often as a child

Running away. He liked to explore and run around with his endless energy.

9. Do they swear? Do they remember their first swear word?

Not often and yes/no. They don't remember their past due to MC amnesia but post-plague they remember their first swear. They'll never forget the look on Asra's face when they randomly said 'Fuck' during a game. (Basically the game was going back and forth saying a word for each letter to help Kyle practice speaking more and Kyle was on the letter F)

10. What lie do they most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt them?

Convincing Asra they would be fine the first time they left him alone at the shop to go on a trip by himself. When in reality Kyle were still scared of being left alone for too long, especially at night when everything is so dark and quiet. While it haunts them occasionally their first few nights by themselves, they don't regret it since he knew he had to overcome it and telling the truth would've made Asra stay or only go for a small trip which in reality would've only prolonged the true problem.

11. How do they cope with confusion (seek clarification, pretend they understand, etc)?

He'll seek clarification but in certain situations he'll look it up himself.

12. How do they deal with an itch found in a place they can’t quite reach?

If their love interest is around ask them to scratch it, if not rub against the wall bear style.

13. What color do they think they look best in? Do they actually look best in that color?

He think's he looks best in greens and blues. He looks best in Silver and gold due to his blue/green eyes and bright red hair.

14. What animal do they fear most?

bees and wasps

15. How do they speak? Is what they say usually thought of on the spot, or do they rehearse it in their mind first?

They have a kiwi accent meaning when he says 'deck' it sounds like 'dick' and when he says 'sax' it sounds 'sex'. Also he says stuff on the spot 9/10 because he doesn't usually have the time to think things fully out. Otherwise he would be standing there in awkward silence for a solid minute before replying to everything.

16. What makes their stomach turn?

Heavy gore and self inflicted harm.

17. Are they easily embarrassed?

Nope, but he also isn't so egotistical that he can't be embarrassed.

18. What embarrasses them?

Being suddenly shoved into a spotlight about something he has little to no knowledge in.

19. What is their favorite number?

420

20. If they were asked to explain the difference between romantic and platonic or familial love, how would they do so?

They would try and break down how each of them makes them feel as a starting point before trying to help break down what attractions this person has if any.

21. Why do they get up in the morning? 

Because he didn't die in his sleep.

22. How does jealousy manifest itself in them (they become possessive, they become aloof, etc)? 

He doesn't tend to notice he's jealous and instead becomes a bit more possessive of the thing that made him feel it. For example if he's jealous Asra is spending more time with someone else he'll try and spend more time with Asra because intuitively the problem isn't Asra spending time with someone else it's he doesn't feel like he's spent enough time with Asra himself. Due to this line of reacting he usually nips his jealousy in the butt. Unless he can't for some reason in which case he'd need someone else to ask him if he's jealous so he can step back and realize it himself.

23. How does envy manifest itself in them (they take what they want, they become resentful, etc)? 

Usually through jealousy*22 if it's because someone has something they want.

24. Is sex something that they’re comfortable speaking about? To whom? 

Yes and to their love interest mostly. They believe for a healthy sex life you need healthy communication about sex. Setting up a safe word and exploring it with the person they love. Not so much with strangers since it's more on a need to know bases.

25. What are their thoughts on marriage? 

He loves the idea of marrying the person he loves but also doesn't feel like it's important at all. If his partner never wanted to get married he wouldn't care, if they did want to get married he wouldn't care.

26. What is their preferred mode of transportation? 

Modern day; train and planes.

In the Arcana; riding on animals all the way.

27. What causes them to feel dread? 

When they sense or get the feeling something is going to go wrong, no matter if it's actually true or not.

 28. Would they prefer a lie over an unpleasant truth? 

Honesty is the best policy all the way down with Kyle.

29. Do they usually live up to their own ideals? 

Yes.

30. Who do they most regret meeting? 

Pre-plague; Tui

Post-plague; vulgora and valerius OHHHH and valdemar

 31. Who are they the most glad to have met? 

Pre-plague; Asra and his aunt

Post-plague; Nadia, Asra and Portia

32. Do they have a go-to story in conversation? Or a joke? 

Yes, if their stressed, unsure, nervous, or don't have any clue what to say and their asked 'what they think' his go to reply is 'I try not to'

In most situations his go to is the time a scammer was around Vesuvia and he got an influx of people asking for the southern version of a plant only to when asked for the people to describe the northern version of the plant. Then get mad at him when he tried to correct them about the plant and even had the gall to get angrier when he told them that plant didn't do what they thought it did. Only to return even ANGRIER when the plant didn't do what they wanted it to do even after Kyle had specifically explained the plant wouldn't help with that. A weird month for sure.

33. Could they be considered lazy?

NOPE! ADHD my dude, he's always bouncing around doing stuff and when he can't then yeah he can appear lazy but that's usually because their bored and when he's bored he gets sleepy.

 34. How hard is it for them to shake a sense of guilt?

Depends on what the guilt is about. If he can apologize he can shake it off easier but if it's something he has to get over then it can take him anywhere from a minute to a week.

35. How do they treat the things their friends come to them excited about? Are they supportive?

He is super supportive and will listen to what his friends are excited about. Depending on what it is either get into it with them or happily listen to them talk excitedly about it.

36. Do they actively seek romance, or do they wait for it to fall into their lap? 

No and No. They don't actively seek romance but they do go out of their way to nurture friendship's and relationships. If they start to feel more for that person would seek to nurture it.

37. Do they have a system for remembering names, long lists of numbers, things that need to go in a certain order (like anagrams, putting things to melodies, etc)? 

ADHD they can't remember shit at times so they have a system for how they manage the shop so they know what they need what they have in stock. With names it's hit or miss but he tends to be quiet good at them. If it's someone they NEED to remember they'll use physical features and color/foods/drinks/items to associate with them. I.E; Kyle remembers Valerius name by associating him with wine, his ram pin and a sarcastic undermining attitude

38. What memory do they revisit the most often? 

the first memory they have; being held by Asra in the magic shop. Feeling a sense of security and nothing else no understanding of anything.

39. How easy is it for them to ignore flaws in other people? 

Depends on the flaw*36 he associates Valerius with a sarcastic undermining attitude. He can look past Asra's almost need for constant physical touch or Julian's theatrics at every turn and even look past Lucio's loud and all about me attitude. However, he does take note of them even if he can push them aside.

40. How sensitive are they to their own flaws?

Kyle knows his flaws. One of his biggest one he tried to turn around into a strength. His small height, childish cape and friendly exterior means he's begging to be infantilized by strangers who don't know him. But he tries to use it to read people easier since he's much more perceptive than he lets on. Even if it still hurts to belittled and treated like he can't think for himself. It just lets him know these people aren't worth his time to try and correct them.

41. How do they feel about children? 

Kyle loves and hates children. He thinks their cute and fun and enjoys playing with them and kids seem to adore him and he's good with dealing with them. On the flip side their loud, messy and sometimes just kind of stupid. They wear him down mentally over time and worse of all some of the parents. 'Don't tell my kid what to do' ugh.

42. How badly do they want to reach their end goal?

He doesn't have an end goal. When he does it depends what it is. Most time he's relaxed about his goals and reaches them at his own pace.

43. If someone asked them to explain their sexuality, how would they do so?

'I love the people I love not their genital's.'

If you want to see how my Mc Hunter or Bluebell awnsers these let me know and I'll think about redoing this with them. But for now doing just Kyle is enough.

Thank you for making it this far and have a good day/night.

[sehodreamsthoughts]

yess i kinda like slapping tbh but the slapping in that fic was wild omggg it was hot though it suited them so well<333 im glad u liked them though!!! i need wooyoung really bad 😓

PLSSL I FUCKIN NEEED HEESEUNG SO BAD (i need everybody) like i want him to hunt me for sport pls :( tie me up and torture me plspslsllslss😓😓😓

um i have this rly disgusting idea though too (and im kinda thinking about it with yangyang but also whoever) and its not very well thought out but basically you’re being held against ur will or like kidnapped or smth and u can leave, but only once you’ve been made to cum X amount of times🫢 and it’s like some number that will maybe take a few days, and ur torn between being overstimulated, and begging to be fucked so u can cum, so u can leave :( like trying to squirt for him because u want to be freed (why does that look weird spelt, that is not how u spell that) but u just end up fucked dumb and he ends up even more obsessed with u :( um. not sure if that’s just me but yeah.

ALSO!! i meant to tell u about this a while back but okok so my friend at work lmaoo reads like erotic books sometimes and she was reading one and telling me about it and it was like breeding kink where the man holds the woman’s legs up in the air after he cums inside her to try to baby trap her… um.. and pls i had to be like “wow, that’s fucked up… that’s so nasty…” but i’m blushing and thinking sungchan eunseok kun hendery heeseung sunghoon in my head and like.. it was humiliating. like she was like that’s so wrong i had to stop reading it and im like um… gimme. although ill explain later maybe but the book is not worth reading but i just. loved. that part. omg.

- 🥟 anon

I hate slapping in real life but in fics it's SO HOT, I think it was perfect for him 😭

Omg Heesung hunting! I don't know if you've read a fic of Heesung and Wonbin following a bunny!reader in the forest, it felt exactly like that and it was so fucking good because the word hunting felt perfect in it 😭 my beautiful mutual wrote it and I'VE BEEN OBSESSED WITH IT because she also plans to drop a Shotaro fic with an hybrid!reader THAT I CAN'T WAIT TO READ!

Omg that sounds like a manhwa/manga plot 😭, lately I've seen that there are more yandere/stalker concepts that leave me speechless because they're pretty elaborated haha, and I feel squirts would be perfect for such concept too!!

Omg not the baby trapping in romance books 😭, I haven't touched a romance book in a long time and I don't particularly enjoy those books (it feels like maybe it was part of a dark romance one) but I can totally understand the feeling 😂, sometimes I see or hear things that are fucked up and that I would hate in a physical book BUT IN A FIC, YOU'LL HAVE ME THINKING OF EUNSEOK TRYING TO TRAP READER FOR HOURS LATER.

I've also been thinking of baby trapping but it was a bit reversed haha, and with Eunseok 👹

Not long ago I was watching a movie about cartels/narcos and it made me think of Eunseok working for a dangerous group and visiting reader every now and then to check on her in her little town in which they have a big control. Reader at first doesn't want to be involved with him but after seeing the benefits of being with him she can't just leave him. It's like, you know it is wrong to be with someone like him, but he pampers you so much and is so soft with you when you're alone that you can't do much more than accept him, and the sex is nasty and rough at first but then it becomes so tender 😭🩷 (not me romanticizing any scenario 💀), wtv the point is I imagined reader thinking how to make him quit and getting pregnant on purpose just so he would take her with him and run away 🤧😂 (so yeah, I really think I'm the worst because I have to always put sometimes romantic even in these thoughts 👹)

[fantrollology]

💢 🍰 🌋 🏊 🌠 lauren :3

💢 ANGER - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

Ok well. Are we talking behavioral habits or like, bad habits like biting your nails. Because Lauren does a lot of irritating stuff. Pretending he heard you when he didn't. Cutting people off when they're speaking. He has very little patience. He's defensive. He dodges questions and loves to shrug responsibility for things he is very much responsible for. He's bad at taking criticism. It got a lot worse after he dropped his comms job. He spent so long listening to people and being careful with his words he feels like he's justified in not doing it anymore.

If you mean bad habits, he's a pretty messy guy. He'll leave dishes in the sink to "soak".

🍰 CAKE SLICE - favourite cake flavour? are they specific about types of cakes?

Black forest 100%. Lauren doesn't do sweets often but fruit + chocolate (+ alcohol) is the way to his heart if he's doin 'em. Just don't be too avant garde about it.

🌋 VOLCANO - how bad is their temper? is it a slow boil, or a instant explosion?

He can hold off for a bit for his benefit but he's not good at hiding his irritation. If he doesn't "have" to hold his temper, he won't. He won't spend time trying to sort things out or cool things off, he'll just tell you to screw off, or, if the situation calls for it, throw hands. Again, he feels like he did his time being patient and it didn't do him any good.

🏊 SWIMMING - can they swim? or are they afraid of water? how well do they swim? how do they feel about swimming in the ocean?

I think he can tread water but he's not a good swimmer at all. He can… not drown. That's about it. He's not a big water guy, and the most he'll do at the ocean is wade around; much prefers beach activities.

🌠 SHOOTING STAR - if they could make any wish with no repercussions, what wish would they make?

This is… so so so so hard. If you asked him this directly he'd blow it off as a dumb question and maybe wish for something good to eat. Or something superfluous and material like infinite cash. A personal spacecraft he could go anywhere in. Lauren is extremely bad at knowing what he wants, including knowing that he doesn't know what he wants! I really can't imagine him honestly wishing for something besides as a joke. He'd feel dumb even thinking about it by himself, and if he somehow actually had the opportunity to make a consequence-less wish he'd be completely lost at the concept and probably end up wishing for something dumb anyways. At his most thoughtful he might wish to know what to wish for. Or wish for something for someone else he cares about who actually knows what they want.

If you didn't throw in the "no repercussions" thing it'd be easier because then he'd definitely just wish for something material, or if no one was listening maybe some resources on dead Alternian languages he couldn't dig up info on.

REAAALLYYY hard question!!!! Fuck this is bothering me actually. Lauren answer me bro

[shadow-dracat]

well, I see people in the notes saying stuff like "would love to hear what a Russian or Chinese person loves about their home/culture", so, as a Russian, let's go!

(Disclaimer: I do believe that a lot of land that currently is a part of "Russia" should instead be under control of the native nations living there. Russia falling apart or at least becoming way more decentralised will benefit a lot of people imo. + I myself am from the European part of Russia. So I won't be talking about Siberian tigers or Kamchatka's geysers. Obv people who live there and consider themselves Russian are free to feel proud of their land's wonders, but it feels wrong to me to assign that to Russians as a nation, because a lot of it is basically colonised land. Although can't ignore the fact many people living there do, in fact, identify as Russians. Overall a topic I am in no position to preach about. And yeah, Russian imperialism can go fuck itself. Also some of the things I'll mention can be common to other slavic (and not) nations, idk. Anyway, let me actually start xD)

I love the vastness that spreads between cities and towns. Forests, swamps and fields that pass by while you have breakfast on a train, maybe even chatting with some strangers, with a glass in a metal holder in your hand. Little villages with wooden homes, a lot old or in bad condition, but others still standing and providing their owners with coziness, their windows covered with traditional blinds. Backyard flowers, and apple trees, and berry bushes, and greens, and cabbages, and greenhouses with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers. And big, big potato fields.

I love babushkas, that help the family as much as they can and cook all kinds of delicious meals. And knit, and solve their weekly crosswords. And make jam for you.

I love all kinds of potato dishes. Mashed potatoes, fried potatoes, baked potatoes. Different kinds of soups and porriges. Oatmeal porrige, semolina porrige, millet porrige, herculean porrige. You hate it when you're five and having the breakfast at the daycare, but you know... it's actually tasty. The culture of frying kebabs and sausages over the fire. The flames give them black spots and a bit of a bitter taste, but it's so delicious after a long day spent around nature. The culture of making dumplings. The culture of going to pick some mushrooms from the forest with your grandpa.

I love the birch trees, and the pine trees, and the oak, maple, ash, willow trees. Blackberries, and blueberries, and wild strawberries you just pick and eat. The coolness and freshness of the forest early in the morning. And oh, do I love birds. I'm a bit of an amateur bird watcher, and the flying creatures surely sing for more nations than one, but this land is home to some of them too. House and field sparrows, pigeons and crows that dwell the cities. Rooks, jackdaws, magpies, starlings and tailwags you sometimes come by. In any park in my city you're sure to witness finches and thrushes. You may not see them, but a finch's song is a memorable one. I know it, and I always get excited to pick it up in the air around trees.

I love suddenly spotting a frog that hops away swiftly. Snails sitting on grass and tree trunks. Ants scurrying around, searching for treats. I know wolves and bears live here somewhere, but I've never seen them myself. A hedgehog visited my uncle's dacha (countryhouse) once. I think he gave the creature some meat and milk, but my memories aren't sharp on that one. My mom saw a fox once when taking out the trash at a summer camp she worked at. She also heard a nightingale sing at dawn. I wasn't there, but I love all the beings that make their homes here.

I love cities that spread so north they call their nights "white nights" in summer. I think you can even see northern lights in Murmansk. I love the cities and towns that spread south and grow delicious fruits and vedgetables. Average winter temperatures in Sochi are in positive degrees Celsius, and I love that too. I love when the snow coats the streets of my city. When parents pull the sleigh their children sit in. When it's spring or autumn, and the icy puddles are brittle and crack with such satisfying noise. You would often think of the weather here as depressing, but... it's home. You get used to coating yourself from the cold, and summer hoodies (and even coats) are usual. But you know, the temperatures of 18-24 °C in summers are actually perfect, if you think about it.

I love all the many lakes and rivers. Where I live, summers are often chill, so I grew to cherish the moments I could actually go swimming. I would get so excited every time it got warm enough.

I love the culture of sitting in a heated banya (sauna) as long as you can only to jump into the cold of night's water pool, or river, or lake. Some brave hearted even jump into snow in winters.

I love celebrating New Year on the night from 31st to 1st. Oliv'ye (a kind of salad) and tangerines. Grandpa Frost with his granddaughter. He's kinda like Santa, but wears blue sometimes. I love Maslenitsa's bliny (pancakes). I don't follow its traditions much, but isn't it nice to burn an effigy to signify the arrival of spring and the end of winter. The great lent that means there's a lot more vegan products for me to grab. The colorful and sweet easter cakes. Love the culture of preparing a big table full of dishes whenever it's a celebration or anyone comes to visit. And you know, they say them British are big on tea, but I'm actually used to drinking some after almost every meal.

I love cities that bear history. Novgorod, that served as one of the earliest trading points. Old orthodox churches and cathedrals. Moscow, that started out as a village, but grew into a megapolis. Saint Petersburg, founded just a bit more than 300 years ago, starting out with straight planned streets, being Russia's main city, now called the "cultural" or "northern" capital. Pskov, Tver', Kaluga, Oryol, Kursk, Bryansk, Belgorod, Yaroslavl', Vladimir, Voronezh, Krasnodar. I am not big on history and know criminally little about them, but would be happy to visit. Tula with its gingerbread and samovars (big traditional teapots). My mom's roots are from around there.

The big cities have grown some greyish blocks of flats during soviet times. The walls don't always isolate the sound well, and homes often feel crammed. Wooden floors creak with age. My grandma lives in one of those, and I have lived there too. I've also lived in newer buildings. They're neater, but bigger too, surrounding wide prospects full of fast cars, like a giant maze. They make me feel small and lazy to walk around, but... as much as I feel joy traversing orderly, narrower streets with 4-5 storey houses... I would always miss my bricky giant mazes. And messy courtyards, full of overly colorful chuldren's playgrounds and shaggy trees and bushes. It's where I grew up at. It's kinda depressing, but it's home.

I love the traditional stories and fairytales. About hares, foxes, wolfs, bears, farm animals. About old men and old women and their bread ball son.

I love the artists and scientists that called this land their home. Lots of them became famous. Lots not thanks to it, but in spite of it. But lots also carried it close to their hearts.

Love the workers and farmers that kept the cities and towns alive. Built the houses. Decorated them. All the people calling it home. And making it home. Activists, that fight for justice. Revolutionists, feminists, workers' rights defenders. Queer people, quiet and not.

I love the depressed hearts Russians often have. Melancholy is dangerous, but... isn't it badass to be considered a nation that wrote about meaningless deaths and hardships?.. maybe not, and I love it when happiness and love triumph, but there's something romantic about sharing your sadness with others. Looking cold from the outside, but being tender and welcoming on the inside. They say Americans are like peaches, whereas Russians are like coconuts.

I love the Russian language. How it omits the "to be". How we don't use the word "have" most of the time. How there isn't a single word for "go". Love the well articulated consonants and rolled R's. Love cyrilic letters. Love the "ё", and "ы", and "ш", and "ж" and "ъ". And others. And so many swear words. Love making it mine by inventing ways to be gender neutral.

I love the relatively cheap Wi-Fi and easy piracy. Love all the obscure and weird memes. Broken translations, tales of which linger even now in the form of screenshots. Absurd anecdotes about the bear and the car, and the man and the hat. Unusual and beautiful names like mine. Soviet comedies my stepfather often played on TV. Relatively cheap Chinese smartphones.

I know my experiences are not unique. And not universal either. I am quite priviledged to have been born in a big city in north-west part of Russia, and this writing has been rather subjective.

I might flee this country in the future. I'm not sure if or when this land becomes just to others. It would be cowardly or hypocritical, considering I don't find the strength in myself to fight this system that hurts many.

But I guess I will always love the bits and pieces of this land and culture.

anyways (I say this as someone who is deeply critical of the united states government, military, unchecked capitalism, police, etc) I am SICK of people treating america as if it has no cultural value or positives so….. I love u 85 million acres (bigger than italy) of national parks. I love u harlem renaissance. I love u groundhogs day. I love u sweet tea and fried chicken and jambalaya. I love u apple cider donuts and maizes on crisp autumn days. I love u 95k miles of coastlines and new england fisherman and hand knitted sweaters. I love u halloween where millions of people dress up and give candy to strangers and carve jack o’lanterns. I love u small talk and small towns and potlucks and bringing over casseroles to your struggling neighbors. I love u cowboys and ranch hands and arizonian cactus. I love u appalachian trail and dirtbikes and divebars. I love u sparklers and fireflies. I love u mark twain and toni morrison and emily dickinson and henry david thoreau. I love u rock n roll i love u bluegrass and hippies i love u jimi hendrix and nirvana and CCR and janis joplin. I love u victorian houses and jonny appleseed and john henry and mothman and bigfoot. I love u foggy days in the pacific northwest and neon signs and roadside attractions. I love u baseball and 1950s diners and soft serve. I love u native american art and pop art and poptarts. I love u blue jeans and barbecues and jazz musicians 

[dreamingincerulean]

A River Runs Through IT.

Rough goins, today.

I sat in a hammock and watched the wind dance through the pines above, as the sun set before me.

Contemplated the fact that all my family basically abandoned me in my greatest time of need....yet again.

But that's the past, and the past can't hurt you if you're being mindful and living in the moment. I think the forest taught me how to be mindful, today. Truly, absolutely mindful. It was a meditation, and a medication. And it was much-needed.

I stuck my hand in the swollen creek, after four days of being cooped up in a 8x12 shed all day every day with fighting dogs and a cabin-feverish boyfriend......realizing my sister was turning her back on me for the millionth time in our lives.

I touched the water, and recognized the benefits of being like the water, and not the rocks stuck on the bottom of the water. Or the leaves hindering the water. The water is going places, it's helping things grow and mature. And the rocks and leaves stilt the water's progress. If I don't let things go, I'll be a rock on the bottom of the river. If I become like the water, I'll go places. I'll keep going places. The water of this world goes soooooo many places! I want to be the water in a creek after four days of almost nonstop rain.

I just worked a full week. Well....30 hours. It was hard, getting back into workaholic-mode. But it will be worth it, not to have to live in this tiny shack.

We are exactly where we were meant to be, all along. The journey was harrowing, wild and wonderful. I've seen and experienced so much over the past two years. It's mind-boggling how much I've grown, as a person. I recognize how bitter and fucky I was, the 8 years I lived in Indiana.

But enough about that. I'm here for the future.

We can't go grab up a cheap ass house somewhere. The air bnb owners grabbed them up, the fuckers.

We can't grab a trailer. Those things cost an arm and a leg.

So we'll grab a big ass shed and hope for the best.

And apparently we'll never receive packages because Arkansas is stupid. Basically.

Being an adult is weird. Things you thought would be straight-forward are twisted and hidden from plain view. How does one go about getting their property on the map for FEDEX and UPS?

Beats the fuck out of me.

It's not by getting a 911 address, that's for damn sure. Not here in Arkansas, as least.

Do you know where you go to learn this information? Because I don't either.

It's a desert.

Now I want a dessert. But it's 10 minutes to 1am, so I should shove off of here.

And hey, remember, kids.... new construction is fucked, as far as mail delivery goes unless you have like a deed or something, so if you're renting property make sure things can be delivered. More often than not, that cool thing that store that lives down the road from you does NOT in fact carry what you saw online, and the prices may differ greatly, too. So buying off amazon or sam's club can become an impossibility and cause domestic strife. Just saying....

[cynettic]

Stay with Me pt.3

Summary - You manage to escape from Scaramouche, if only for a moment before you realize there’s no escape. It only takes until you’re sitting back in your regular spot that you know what you need to do.

Pairings - Kitsune!Reader x Yan!Scaramouche

Warnings - Suggestive content, mentions of death, swearing, slight gore / blood 

A/N - Its really hard to make this depressing while I’m vibing to Rasputin. Like no joke- I have it on one of the 1 hour playlists :D

Here you’ll find -  pt.1 and pt.2

He’d left a key.

Scaramouche didnt make mistakes, not while he had you captive in the vicinity of his bedroom. He didnt have room for mistakes, not when you were watching his every movement while he was in your line of sight. 

Sure, he mightve killed a person or two in front of you, but those were necessary mistakes. There was a sign on the door, it specified not to enter. You’d understand that, right?

Thats what he thought at least, lulling himself into belief after belief that you’d be there waiting for him every time. That you’d welcome him with open arms, even if there were chains ensnaring your wrists. That you’d accept your fate at his hands and submit yourself to him.

The Balladeer was a fool.

He’d kept you there for too long, and while you searched for an easy way to escape, time sent your head spinning. Into a spiral that begged only for the wind against your face, back laying on dirt with the familiar chirping up birds waking you up in the morning.

You wanted to go outside.

And when push comes to shove, you had to risk a little more to make it happen. Lure him into bed with kisses while your hands unbuttoned his vest. But what he believed to be alluring contacts was just your way of finding the keys hidden in the back pocket of his shorts.

It wasnt hard to find the one to your cuffs while he was asleep, cuddled in your chest with both arms around your waist as if to get you to stay put. You took the key, hiding them back in his clothing and hoping he didnt notice.

He didnt say anything the next day.

You werent going to wait any longer.

“Oh for fucks sake, why won't the goddamn door open?”

The room was left in tatters behind you, a little gift for Scaramouche once he got back. Turns out a pair of chains can smash up a lot of things, and rage can be used as a great source of strength when contained for such a long time.

But you’d done more than throw the blankets around, cut up the drawers and smash open the windows. Because your fists had bled red when you punched through the glass, puncturing your skin. Your knuckles were an ugly red, bruising already.

Ah, Scaramouche deserved a much better gift.

Gruesome as it was, you rubbed your knuckles against the pale walls. Till the blood stopped coming, till there was a nice little message for the boy which you held so dearly to your heart.

‘Balladeer.’

The first time you’d found out about him being a harbinger he’d told you not to call him by that name. You weren’t someone he associated with by work, you were a treasure to him. That’s why you continued to call him as he pleased, although the temptation always arose.

You were no longer his.

Shoving the door with your hand again, palm fiddling with the handle and groaning when it hardly budged. “Stupid,” you grumbled when the knob began to loosen. Backing up, you charged with your shoulder to the door, full force as the momentum broke the hinges. The door fell down with you along with it.

It was expected, you’d been stuck in the room for a long time, and thats considering you’d sat on the ground for decades. Your body was slight numb, muscles sore and unused for so long. 

“You a-arent supposed to leave your room!”

A young man stood in the hallway along with a woman who looked relatively the same age. The two were wearing uniforms, flinching when you stood up from the debris and off the door. “Excuse me?” You asked, voice unnecessarily icy and stern. But you couldnt care less, you were going to get out of this house, damn anyone who stood in your way.

They both continued to shake when you walked towards them, staggering from side to side. The woman stepped up in front of the man, presenting a brave face. “If you leave the mansion, the harbinger will kill us all!”

“Well then I expect you should be on your way then. Actually…” you gestured to the maze of hallways. “You can lead the way.”

“What…?”

Your hand went limp to your side, an exasperated looking momentarily crossing your face before you sighed. “Im not staying trapped in that room, I’m sorry if that ruins your life, but frankly you're not the one stuck in there are you?” You took an extra step just to intimidate them, eyes wide to make the appearance of crazy. “It would be a great help if you showed me where he hid my vision too.”

“We can show you to the door…” The man began, “But the whereabouts of your vision are unknown, he wouldnt tell us something like that.”

A gift bestowed from the gods, a piece to help me thrive with my ambitions and pursue my goals.

Gone.

You really wished you’d taken to clawing out Scaramouche’s face instead, but you’d take what you got. Right now your main priority was getting out of this place, even if it meant leaving a piece of you behind.

“Door.” Your voice was raspy and there was a terrible feeling that crawled up to your throat, but you didnt have time to be emotional. “Show me where the door is… please.”

The conflict in their eyes dissipates by the time they lead you along, mumbling words between themselves. You didnt bother to try eavesdropping, you were so, so tired. You wanted to go home.

Anywhere. Anywhere but here.

It took a few minutes until you were standing in front of a grand door, almost twice the size of you and just as wide. You then began to notice the decorational plants and furniture that filled the empty space, there wasn't an inch of dust. Even though you could tell none of it was used.

“Hurry,” the man warned when you paused. “I dont know when our master is coming back, but if its soon, we’ll all be screwed.”

You couldnt feel your head as you numbly nodded, hand clenching the knob and flinging the set of doors open. “Thank you,” you merely mumbled, taking your first step out of the house in what felt like forever.

The days after that were a blur, the area around Scaramouche’s house were nothing but void. Empty and filled with forests and vast plains. You knew he didnt like people or socializing in general, but to this extent?

Your only option was to run.

Let your feet take you somewhere, anywhere. It was a constant pattern of running and taking breaks, leaning on a tree and gasping in a few breaths before you were again scurrying through the forest. 

And yet you felt better than you’d felt in past months that you’d been stuck with Scaramouche.

Food became any boar you came across, the claws you’d spent so long hiding with Scaramouche coming to unleash a wrath beyond your comprehension. Till the animal was cut to shreds and no meat was left even to eat. You’d slaughtered it, without intention to eat or benefit for it, you’d killed it just to kill.

“I’m sorry,” you’d sobbed into the ground where you’d buried the harmless animal. Forehead pressed into the dirt as you pleaded for forgiveness to whatever archons would accept it. You couldn't even remember what archons you were supposed to pray to. “Forgive me- forgive me…”

But eventually you found your way around to somewhere you knew. Territory of Inazuma where you could find your way back, back home.

Where was home?

You’d been on the run from the vision hunt decree, abandoning your post for the Kitsune Saiguu for such a thing. Even now that you could return without a vision and as no threat under the decree…

You’d sacrificed everything for your vision.

Where were you to go now…?

Rain patted down, the trees providing only a slight cover as stray drops fell into your matted dirty hair. You didnt mind, it hid the tears that slid down your lifeless face, feet taking you into the far meadows of your hometown. Till you plopped down underneath a tree, knees curled to your chest and arms hugging them close. You were crying.

You were home.

____________________

“Awh,” a ginger haired murmured, elbow resting on the cool wood of the tabletop. “Is little Mouchie sad? I heard your kitty cat escaped~”

A death wish, even fatui that idly minded themselves around the bar knew it. Sipping cold drinks and swirling their cups, the soft chatter was nothing but a distraction from the main course of events. That being the smaller Harbinger who sat sulking in his seat, hunched over with a drink in hand. He’d drank far more than what was on the counter, but everytime he finished a glass, he’d smash it on the ground, watching the fragile glass shatter into pieces.

“I dont have a cat,'' was his only response, tone daring Childe to pursue further. To give him a reason to start throwing the glass in his face instead.

And Childe was an idiot when it came to challenging someone.

“No cat?” The rest of the drink in the taller harbinger’s glass was gone when he threw his head back. “Hmmm, I cant think of what else could’ve had you so enraptured in returning home then~!”

Scaramouche didnt respond, uneven bangs shadowing the bags under his eyes. “Stronger,” he said instead, elbow on the counter and hand outstretched for something. When there was no movement from the man managing the wine, the harbinger looked up. “I need something stronger to drink,” he repeated, voice seething.

“Of c-course!”

The glass was nestled in Scaramouche’s palm in no time, fingers curling around the circular form to down it in seconds. The drink merely slid down his throat in one movement, alcohol burning his senses. It didn’t matter, he was numbed by the growing rage inside of him.

Finally, he turned to the ginger haired boy, eyes hazily dancing along the counter till it reached his fingertips. Up his hand and along his arm, till Scaramouche was staring right into Childe’s eyes. “They escaped,” he admitted softly. “But it’s alright, because I sent something that’ll bring them back.”

Childe paused, raising his drink up away from his lips to pose a question. Hesitation danced along his features before he brought the glass back, he’d rather not provoke the shorter male any further. Wasn’t like he could interfere anyway.

____________________

“That… that…” 

It was preposterous, having returned to that same spot for a day or two and heading back to the hometown you’d once lived in. The one Scaramouche had lived in. There shouldn’t have been an issue, you were solely gathering supplies for the sake of it, ambition driving you to travel far far away.

Out of Inazuma.

It was your new beginning, convincing yourself that you didn't need a vision. Finding some sort of purpose before Scaramouche shattered the vision and your life along with it. You’d seen how people had reacted when it had been ingrained in the statue, neutralized and broken. They lost hope, purpose and aspirations for anything new.

It’s not like the Raiden Shogun took my vision.

But you’d taken that fact for granted, expecting some sort of new start without Scaramouche. A victory, getting away from him just for a split second and getting out of Inazuma altogether, you’d never see him again.

Until you got his message.

“How the hell…” You crushed the note until it was just crumbled paper in your hand, slowly leaning on the stone wall. “Piece of shit… what kind of person even…” 

Not only did he manage to find you, but without making his presence known, he’d tugged at your one weakness with an ease that had you down on your knees.

You threw the paper to the ground, deliberate as you stared past the alleyway. Pensive as you considered your options. Damn, what options did you even have? You’d been an idiot to underestimate Scaramouche, he wasn’t a child, you knew that… but archons he seemed like one when he was with you. Shown you a vulnerability he wanted only you to see. But maybe that had been part of his plan all along, until all you believed was his soft demeanor.

He may act like a child, but he’s a harbinger.

You stared down at the crumbled piece of paper in disgust.

Not only that, but he has no regard for human life.

Either way, you’d lived decades more than him. You could face him, you would present yourself to him just as he expected you to. Even when everything in you rejected the idea, sobbed at the thought of returning to that house, those chains. Being locked up and confined only for the purpose of coddling a small boy, a selfish boy, a cruel boy. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

You’d figure out a way, and this time you wouldn’t rule out the option of his death.

———————

Oh darling Y/n, how have you been?

I hope this letter reaches you rather soon, we both have much to discuss, no? About me, about you, and much more. You see, I’ve taken up quite a distaste to your little friends. Stone statues in Inazuma as small as Kitsunes truly hold no purpose, what will they do, come back to life? Haha, I should think not. I’ve already arranged to have them demolished, who knows what kind of material they might possess. Ah, and of course I’d show you the finishing product, unless you’re willing to come and have a chat with me once more? Under the Sakura tree like we used to, you’ve waited years, I believe you can wait for me?

I hope this letter reaches you in best interests. I’m always looking out for you after all.

Sincerely, your Balladeer

——————

It was raining.

Beautiful weather as you lay sitting there, feet crossed and tucked in the same you’d often do. After all, there was no need to fear the vision hunt decree or the Raiden Shogun. Let them come, let them take care of you before Scaramouche did.

You werent cold, not when the cold drops dampened your clothing, slipping down the length of your spine and drenching your face. Despite having lived in a luxury residency for such a long time, this was where you were most comfortable, enduring whatever the weather had for you, taking it with a smile. Because you were waiting…

The Kitsune Saiguu was a distant memory.

You were waiting for Scaramouche, the young boy that often bound into the field in lengthy strides, childlike wonder in his eyes. The one who’d cried when the other kids pushed him away, the one that just wanted to be praised. You’d held him in your arms, and now, even knowing the results, you wouldnt have done differently.

He was just a boy.

Just a boy when he joined the fatui, looking for praise that he was given. He created chaos and bellowed orders with a cruelty that was highly looked upon. Told that he was doing well, so he continued to do so.

He’s just a boy.

You wished you’d held him in your arms, if not only for a tad longer. Shield him away from the wrongness of the world, if only for one last time.

Banishing away your hatred for him was hard.

But you found it under the tree, rain soon dimming down to a clouded cold breeze that swept through the meadow. You’d hated him while stuck in the mansion, but you could now see it from a larger point of view. What he did was wrong of course, but you could remember him so vividly now. His small form giggling, tiny arms around your neck. 

“Play with me!”

Was it your fault?

For not holding him tighter? For trying to rectify his bad doings and teach him what was wrong and right? Maybe if your grip was firmer, if you’d spoken to him about the warmth he’d given you that day when playing cards...

“Lazy ass.”

Burying down that pile of worry and insecurities, you took a deep breath in to relax. The edge of your lip perked up, only slightly. “Still terrible with your social skills arent you?”

Slowly securing a dry space under the three with you, Scaramouche sat down. His features were the same ones you’d grown accustomed to at his mansion. Rich clothes, sharp eyes, and the baby face that refused to go away. His movements were soft as he pulled out a deck of cards. The two of you didnt speak as he distributed them between you both. It was tense… no, it felt too much like the warmth form long ago to be tense. You only wished the situation to be different.

“I love you.”

But you could only offer a bitter smile to his words. “I love my vision,” you replied. “I love the Kitsune Saiguu, and I love my friends.”

His touch was gentle when his fingers came to gently cradle your cheek. Holding your face dearly as he peered into your eyes, his were soft. Different from the cruelty he held within, the hatred that burned and destruction that seeked to explode.

You saw a little boy.

Your hand came to press his hand further against your cheek, till you slid his palm to your lips. He appeared so calm when you pressed the first kiss, lips tracing the lines along his palm with all the care in the world.

But you needed to change your view, see him as the man he now was. As the man he had become.

“I love you,” he repeated, and you let go of his hand. It fell limp by his side, cards all but forgotten. There was a much more pressing matter at hand, because you truly needed to see him as he was.

It was necessary if you planned to kill him.

[utilitycaster]

What are your thoughts on the new ua's mechanics, especially the bard? It looks like almost all casters will be preparing spells now. I am not sure if its fits bards flavor-wise, but it makes them more flexible, so I'll take it.

For the most part I like it! I took notes so I can send in my thoughts when they have the survey later this month but my complaints aren't major.

Personally with the exception of sorcerers I think prepared spells makes sense for everyone. The only reason there's a divide between prepared and known-spell casters is because D&D was heavily influenced by Jack Vance's magic systems. And while in older editions there were benefits and drawbacks of each - prepped casters picked new spells each day but they pretty much had to pre-load their spell slots and couldn't use the same spell multiple times unless they prepped it multiple times; spontaneous casters knew fewer spells but they could cast them in whatever configuration they chose provided they had a slot for it - 5e did away with the prepared caster limitations, which means that they have a distinct advantage over known-spell casters. Bards, rangers, and warlocks are in my opinion particularly fucked over by this since they're not only known-spell casters but also high-utility classes that would benefit from a little bit of flexibility; bards also in standard 5e get tons of weird spells that they can't take unless their party has like, another healer AND another arcane caster because how often will you cast guards and wards*, so it's not worth taking up one of your precious known spells to learn.

Anyway getting into the actual details:

Bard: I like the new inspiration mechanics and LOVE that you can use it to heal as a reaction but I do think that even with the improved flexibility of use, it should be CHA modifier still rather than proficiency bonus, and if it's not at the very least Font of Inspiration should remain a L5 feature of the class rather than being pushed to L7. I already covered spell prep and I do like that you can swap cantrips because lbr, if you pick a shitty cantrip you often end up stuck with it unless you beg the DM for mercy. Songs of Restoration are FANTASTIC; I'm not mad at the loss of song of rest because I have played a primary healer bard and it's hard as fuck and this solves literally every problem I had. I also in general like the increased important of schools of magic, and think the options provided to bard are about the same as how the class already works anyway. Most of the rest is roughly comparable to standard 5e. My one question is why Jack of all Trades is so much later; I do wonder, and won't be able to say for sure until more classes come out, if they're trying to make multiclassing a bit more of a commitment.

Ranger: VERY good. Bard was always pretty decent with a few easily fixable flaws but ranger needed a boost and boy did it get it. Rangers should have expertise! They are a knowledge-based class! They should get cantrips! Also, rangers always suffered from having far too many concentration-only spells and making hunter's mark essentially a freebie was the correct call. Roving and Tireless also feel very true to the flavor of ranger as does the high-level blindsense. For what it's worth, I'm sure some people who are more experienced in rangers might not like this but I think nixing favored terrain is a good call because it's so frustrating when a ranger is useless simply because you are in the forest and not the mountains, when their entire thing is "good at tracking in general". Rangers always felt weirdly too specific and this has provided a focus in keeping favored enemy while allowing their wilderness skills to actually shine.

Rogue: fewest changes here, imo. Subtle strike makes far more sense than blindsense (blindsense was always weird for rogues to have and the buff to slippery mind to include charisma balances out any loss) and the thief subclass, always one of the better rogue subclasses, gets some really strong features.

*I am, in case you wondered, at all times, thinking about how much I want to cast guards and wards.

[the-owl-tree]

Finished Midnight! What I liked:

Camp atmosphere is great. Midnight greatly benefits from how fleshed out the cast is thanks to TPB, and it also has some great interactions between cats.

The WindClan and RiverClan plot was well set up for Hawkfrost's arc. It's good that we don't know for sure what happened, I like that. I like that there are things happening not relevant to the major plot and that we're getting signs of his antagonism and scheming early on.

Squirrelpaw is just so much fun, she's a spunky, energetic character and I love the energy she brings. She's rude, sassy, and I adore it.

Leafpaw is cute, I love that she's set up with some strong friendships right away. Her dynamic with Sorreltail and Mothwing is lovely, especially love the scene of her helping Mothwing practice to remember herbs.

Mothwing is cute too, she's got so much energy here. Her and Hawkfrost are given a lot of restrain, which I appreciate. Hawkfrost doesn't come out as a cackling menace, he shows respect to Leafpaw, thanks her for her help, and isn't just stamped with the THIS GUY IS GONNA BE EVULLLL stamp right away (Note: emphasis on right away. we'll see how long that lasts).

I liked the rare forest segments, I enjoy Leafpaw as a POV.

Forgot how jarring the Midnight reveal would be for first time readers, it's a huge concept - the idea of communicating with non-cat animals - that does make the journey feel worth it. Unfortunately...it does set off some negative repercussions in future books.

Purdy :)

What I didn't like:

The fire and tiger prophecy, it sucks seeing Firestar slowly get sucked into this bland, annoying version of his previous character. But I've voiced my issues with it prior.

The journey itself is....bland. It feels like the least thought out aspect of everything. The cats never bond, never share stories or talk about their lives and while that wouldn't be a problem if that was intentional...the conclusion states that we're supposed to agree that they've bonded.

They haven't, I don't really feel like they're any closer than when they set off on the journey.

The only exception is Feathertail and Crowpaw and that's because Feathertail's character is meant to give an exposition on why Crowpaw is the way he is.

Speaking of which: I wish Crowpaw would shut the fuck up. He isn't witty, he isn't entertaining; he's just the same antagonistic character from beginning to end. He feels flat and any insecurities brought up by Feathertail never really exist beyond her just saying they do.

He is annoying, he is literally snapping and picking fights. The narrative makes excuses for this, I am ready to punt him.

everyone mean to Purdy :(

Next up on the reread train is Moonlight!

To his surprise, Squirrelpaw agreed without question, even giving his ear a quick lick before settling down in the bracken beside his sister. Brambleclaw watched them for a moment, realizing how much they meant to him—even the pesky ginger apprentice whom he had tried so hard to leave behind. Stormfur and Feathertail, too, were true friends, and even Crowpaw had become an ally he would want beside him in any battle. “You were right,” he meowed thoughtfully to Midnight. “We have become one.”

Well. You didn't. Crowpaw mostly just yelled at everyone and added nothing, no one really bonded with each other besides Crowpaw and Feathertail to try and cram in some half-hearted Crowpaw Behavior Explanation (and also set up for Feathertail's death). But yeah sure okay you're all closer now, I guess.

[attourney-at-lycan]

LEVIN TIME

Ok

He's taller then the average human due to his elf heritage. Like. Short by Elven standards tall by human standards

He has healing magics but they can only be used under Extreme stress. And they don't work on himself only others.

On the note of his magics, due to his elven heritage along with his magics he can kinda tell when people are dying. He can feel people life forces fading.

THIS FUCKED HIM UP WHEN DANTE ALMOST DIED IN THE BEGINNING OF SEASON TWO. TO LEVIN IT WAS IF LITERALLY FEELING THE CLOSEST THING TO A DAD HE'D EVER HAD DIE. AFTER DANTE WAS HEALED HE HAD A COMPLETE BEARKDOWN. And the following month or so he would keep checking or Dante to make sure he was okay

Due to the time spent in the Yggdrasil Forest he is actually quite good at meditating and keeping his emotions seem calm outwardly even if he's a complete mess on the inside

OH, and back on the topic of his magics and his heritage. His magics could come to him more naturally if he were to have Irene's relic. Not as easily as Irene's magic comes to Aphmau. But rather it would act as a sort of Bridge between the magics he already had along with boosting those powers.

He barely remembers Aphmau. He has like no memories of her from when she was young and everything he knows is things he's been told by others

Codependent with Malachi for a long time

Often looks to KC as like,,, a step-mom of sorts. Dmitri and Nekoette are like his siblings in his mind and he treats them as such

When he isnt busy he offers to babysit.

Suprisingly good with kids.

Smooth Talker, not in the flirty way but more in the "I can talk my way out of danger if I have to"

The Densest fucker you'll ever meet. Someone could straight up tell them they love him and He'd go "Youre such a great friend!! I love you too!! ^-^"

Has like, no concept of romantic love. Greyromantic along with being Dense (same bestie 😔)

Had a relationship with that one "close friend" in the Yggdrasil Forest. They broke up due to Levin having to move back to Phoenix Drop

Dante taught both him and Malachi how to fight.

He doesn't like fighting but is good at it. He prefers the same blades Dante does. Malachi prefers a short sword and Dagger duo.

Has a high immunity to a lot, but not all, poisons. (Due to the elf thing, which is a personal hc oc)

Very, and scarily, good at getting information when he needs or wants to. A simple conversation, or an interrogation, can be used to his benefit if he wishes. He knows what buttons to press and hes Extremely good at reading people

Has Long hair due to elven custom. Keeps it long as a way of staying connected to his culture. Often braids it, or keeps it in a ponytail

Theres more but I just got a fingy cramp I'll send some of the rest in a sec. I need to find an image. The Next ask will be more about his appearance.

cough Garroths Bastard cough

LETS GOOO *rubbing my grubby hands toether*

levin sounds like he can be an absolute shithead if he wants to. LIKE. he seems the type to be underestimated because he's extremely nice to other people but by the time they realize they're basically being duped by him, it's too late. they think he's dumb but he's surprisingly more cunning than he looks. his silver tongue is probably one of the reasons phoenix drop is still standing when you think about it. how many times did he smooth talk his way into relationships with other villages or get information or get resources? (ofc there's only so much he can do)

HIM BEING GRAYROMANTIC UR SO RIGHT. it's so much worse bc i feel like it's so easy to fall in love with him since he's probably so openly affectionate with others. how could u not fall in love with him? he's an accidental heartbreaker im telling you!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE DNATE FATHER FIGURE OUUU- i feel like even before dante almost died, he was a bit fussy at times because, despite not remembering aphmau well, he still has that fear of someone close to him leaving, so when that happens it just gets really worse.

now i just want a scene of levin visiting dante the tenth time that month just "heyo, just here to check if ur okay!" dante's just, he knows (bc why wouldn't he?) and goes "im fine levin. you don't have to worry about me anymore" and HHHHHHHH