Morning, because if it was a good morning I would be amab, with a pretty dude in my bed
This whole "being human" thing is becoming annoying
The WanderingSoul
me :((
What would you prefer to be called or addressed as? Just God or you also have a name?
Never thought about it. The species i created sees me as their creator and I hear a lot of terms from them, ranging from creator, through stuff like master, and ending up on god. I guess you can make something up too, I genuinely don't mind any term
I miss my angels so much :((
2.warm or cold ocean water
Definitely cold. Lukewarm if must, but these deep ocean waters kinda stick with me. The lower it gets the colder the water is, and that's something I really like.
Also the og post:
[masterlist]
it doesn't look like it but this is a comfy drabble, i promise!! the inspo (and wish for some comfort) is from @whumpcloud. you've read this already but here <3
CW: dehumanisation, abandonment issues, pet whump, self-loathing
It is still dark outside when Mutt wakes up, drenched in sweat, panting from memories that haunt his brain. A moment later, he realises what woke him up, as the night sky is lit up by a flash of lightning, a growling thunder following only moments later. Mutt can feel the rumbling deep down in his bones, making him shiver.Â
He had been locked outside once during a thunderstorm, the punishment still fresh in his mind. Bound and gagged, of course, so he couldnât draw attention to himself with his pathetic whimpering and keening.
There had been rain and hail, soaking him to the bone, making the Mutt even more susceptible to the unforgiving cold seeping into his joints. He had wanted nothing more than a shred of his old Masterâs mercy, as the thunder rolled over him.Â
Mutt shakes his head to rid himself of the memories, his fingers twitching. He wonât be able to fall back asleep, he knows, but he needs to be fit enough to serve his Master in the morning!
Almost on auto-pilot, Mutt gets out of bed. He has to be careful when standing up, his mangled legs still struggling to hold him up. When he walks to his door, he no longer avoids stepping on the rug.Â
Aimlessly, he wanders onto the dim corridor, the old wood creaking under his irregular and heavy steps. Mutt tries not to be too loud, lest he wakes Master up. Fatigue tugs at his eyelids, making them droop, and his stroll does little to clear his muddy mind. He stumbles around, losing time.
Suddenly, he feels something cold and hard and when his eyes focus again, he is holding the handle to his Masterâs bedroom in his ruined hand, the door already opened a crack. Just barely, he can see the sleeping form of his Master, curled up under the covers, her hands loosely clasped together in front of her face and ohâ
He is Atlas now, isnât he?
As if in a trance, Atlas enters her room, still not quite here, not quite there. Something pulls him forwards, a pressure getting stronger with each step, like a moth fluttering towards the light. He forces himself to stop a couple of steps away from her, ignoring how empty it makes him feel.
Hasnât she given enough for him? Must he now also take her sleep? Her rest?
Atlas forces his mind to blank and himself to stop, to turn around as silently as possible. She needs her rest for all the troubles heâll inevitably bring her in the morning, when he canât get a hold of himself, canât do the things a human is supposed to do. He canât keep taking and taking and taking from her, but some part of him craves her presence so much and he despises himself for it. Maybe he will never be anything but a Pet but for some reason he canât place, that seems so intrinsically connected to his very being, he only feels whole when heâs with her.Â
For a moment, he is outside again, chained and gagged in the freezing rain, thoroughly unwanted. This time, it is Atlas who holds the key, dangling it just out of reach from his desperate self. He understands his old Master now, he thinks, understands why he locked a creature like him out. It is only right.Â
Before he can take another step, he hears a sleepy groan right behind him, freezing up. Atlas fears looking around, fears seeing Masterâs hateful gaze, even though he canât conjure up a fitting image, no matter how hard he tries. He still does âof course he doesâ his breath catching in his throat.Â
With her eyes still closed, Aveline has lifted one arm to hold her blanket up, as if inviting him in. Like a man dying of thirst discovering a miracle oasis, Atlas stumbles closer. It seems too good to be true and if there is one thing he has learned, itâs that no good ever befalls a Pet like him. Still, he wants to hope.
âFor me?â Atlas croaks into the dark, as hushed as his damaged vocal cords allow him.Â
Her response is nothing more than a drowsy mhm and a light, lazy gesture with her hand. Hesitantly, Atlas steps closer. He shouldnât know how this goes, should be overwhelmed with the very real possibility of doing this wrong and subsequently being thrown out. But he isnât.
The movements feel like second nature, even as he navigates his bulky frame first onto her bed and then into the embrace of the much smaller woman. Atlas doesnât have to think, his body moves on its own, which is undoubtedly a good thing because if he allowed himself to process what he was doing, heâd surely panic.Â
As he lays down on his side, Aveline lowers her arm to cover him with the blanket too, then settles it over the side of his chest. It should be the worst crime a Pet like him could commit, to lay his head on her soft pillow, to curl up against her warm body, to feel her snuggle up against his marred back. But for some reason, it doesnât feel like a crime. It just feels like home.Â
Atlas deflates in her arms, sighing. Her touch is tender, not restricting, tethering Atlas to this world, as sobs start to build up in his chest against his will. If he cries now, he will surely ruin the best thing his life has ever allowed him.Â
Maybe this is a dream and tomorrow he will wake up alone in his own bed but none of that matters in this moment. Unconsciously, his crooked hand searches for hers, clinging to it. Aveline squeezes it back, as a couple of stray silent tears start to escape his eyes.
Her body is warm and she holds him tight. Atlas can feel her resting her head softly against the nape of his neck, whispering that Everything is going to be alright.
Atlas sniffles, his tears soaking into the pillow. They lay like that for a while, Avelineâs thumb stroking soothingly over the back of his hand, careful with the raised scar tissue.
Pets like him arenât made for this kind of comfort, this all-encompassing warmth; her kindness feels like an unbelievable gift. Heâd do anything for her, Atlas decides, as his eyes grow heavy and start to slip close. He canât hear the harsh thunder anymore, canât feel the cold rain.
Atlas knows he doesnât deserve it, even as he falls asleep, butâ
He wishes someone had been this kind to him before.
When he takes off his shirt, I go like âYIPPEEE!!!â
Finally talking about them, I really like doing that
I personally refer to them as hounds, and I think the latin species name is roughly something like "Canis latrans scelus". You can doubt me on that, my memories are fuzzy as hell
An average hound looks akin to this
With some skintone and hair variations based on the type. We have three type of hounds, Dune mix, Northern Mix, and Grassland/steppe mix
If a hound Is healthy, their hair will be rather shiny, and will wrap into these "doll" like curls
Their favorite foods are mostly meat, milk, and spicy things, but they won't turn down something like a cake.
They love set routines, especially these which involve tons of physical activities, from martial arts to running, and overall spending time outside.
One of the hellhound names I remember is Salo, meaning "the first". It's gender neutral
You can make an oc of this if you want
Me