He says it simply. “I think we’ll go north.” His hand comes down and pats my head. For half a heartbeat, the world goes white hot. My ears twitch under his palm before I can stop them, one flattening, the other angling toward him instinctively. My tail stiffens, then sways once, slow and deliberate, betraying far more than I would ever admit out loud. I freeze.
Then his thoughts brush mine. Fishing. Time that is not being hunted by clocks or people. Not strategy. Not escape routes. Just… stillness. I tilt my head slightly under his hand, studying him from the corner of my eye, ears adjusting, pupils narrowing as I read him properly now. The bond hums low and steady, and his intent is clean. No test. No trap.
North. Marshland. Driftwood Hollow breathes ahead of us, even if we cannot see it yet. Wet ground that moves when you do. I straighten slowly, letting his hand fall away without pulling from it, reclaiming my posture with quiet dignity. My ears lift properly now, alert and curious rather than pinned. My tail loosens and curls behind me, thoughtful.
The temperate forest thins without ceremony. Trees spread apart, roots clawing wider, ground softening underfoot until every step has weight to it. The air grows heavier, wet in a way that is not rain. It smells alive. Rot, water, insects, old growth that never truly dies. The threshold is not marked by stone or sign. It is felt in the bones.
My ears lift higher as soon as we cross it. Marshland listens back. I slow instinctively, tail rising slightly for balance, eyes scanning reed lines and shallow pools where reflections lie badly. I feel his thoughts brushing mine again, calm now, curious, already settling into the rhythm of a place that does not rush. Then I hear it. Not a sound exactly. More like a movement in the wrong direction.
Fourteen.
They come out of the reeds and low scrub without aggression, without haste, as if the marsh itself exhaled and they simply stepped forward with it. Mires. I know the breed. Not predators in the usual sense. Opportunists. Survivors.
They are wolf sized, yes, but wrong in the way your mind keeps tripping over. Long bodies low to the ground. Thick hind legs that push more than leap. Heads blunt and heavy, eyes wide and dark. Their movement is slow and uneven, almost crocodilian, but then one turns its head and the illusion breaks completely.
Goat sized rabbits. I hear from master's thoughts. That is exactly it. I hear the comparison form in his thoughts before he finishes shaping it, and it almost makes me snort. Almost. Ears twitching independently. Thick matted fur dark with marsh water. Flat teeth visible when one opens its mouth slightly, not in threat, just breathing.
I stop fully now, lifting one hand slightly, signalling him without words. My tail stills, ears forward, body loose but ready. Not hostile. Not yet. They are not hunting us. They are investigating us the way marsh creatures investigate anything new that might be food, shelter, or irrelevant. Their heads bob as they walk, noses twitching, ears rotating. One stumbles in the mud and nearly faceplants. Another bumps into it and squeaks softly, irritated but not alarmed.
“They are slow,” I murmur quietly. “And stupid in a very specific way.” My tail flicks once, amused despite myself. “They think if they keep moving forward, eventually the world will explain itself.” The nearest mire stops about ten paces away, water dripping from its fur. It sniffs. Its ears twitch. It looks at my tail with what I can only describe as profound confusion.
“I’ll fetch dinner, Master,” I purr, letting that dark, twisted joy ring through every syllable, each word spat out through a smile that promises violence. “You want them alive, or do you want to watch them bleed?” I don’t wait for an answer, his mind is already writing it for him. He wants to see, wants to measure me, wants to feel the world bend under our will. The mire herd stares, eyes milky, thick bodies bunching in confusion.
I stalk forward, slow, every muscle shuddering with the need to impress, to dominate, to wipe away the memory of my shame in a flood of carnage. They’re still moving, heads twitching, not clever enough to know they’re already dead. My ears are flat, useless, but my mind is knife sharp, tuned to every twitch of Master’s thoughts.
His hand brushes the back of my neck, a lightning flick. I jolt, half tensed to whirl and bite, but the pressure is only a tap. He leans in, so close, and he whispers with that cold, infuriating mastery, the voice of someone who never doubts a single word, “Looks like you’re a defensive kitten now, not an offensive one.”
Oh, the game. The nerve, mockery wrapped in silk, not a single tremor in his tone. I feel his heartbeat spike beneath that perfect mask for a half breath, a ripple of adrenaline barely twitching his pulse, but even as I snarl and snap around for more, he’s already buried it. Perfect control. Always so goddamn careful. Always so clinical, so composed. But I catch the shadow of it, because nobody’s faster than me. Nobody can hide from me, not when I’m inside their mind, teeth bared and claws hooked in their secrets. The scent of his excitement, that buried shiver of delight, flashes through him before it’s gone.
My ears flatten, tail lashing in the mud behind me, and I arch my spine, letting every drop of rain, every filthy splatter, every insult and injury become a badge of pride. I’m shaking with the urge to tear into the next thing I see, to prove I’m never, ever just the tame little pet he pretends I am, not even for a heartbeat. But the tap on my neck, the closeness, the murmur, he knows exactly how to flip the leash. Defensive, he calls me. Defensive, as if I’m on the back foot, as if this is some contest of will I could ever lose.
I twist around, wet hair plastered to my cheeks, blue eyes wide and wild as I stare straight into his. The wind cuts through the marsh, and I smile, slow, dangerous, all sharp teeth and wicked promise. “Defensive?” My voice is a purr tangled with a snarl, “or just clever enough to let you think you’re in control, Master? You like the illusion, don’t you, the little game where you get to tease, to push, to act like you could ever make me back down?”
I run my claws, slow and deliberate, just beneath his chin, tracing his pulse, feeling the faintest flutter of excitement. Even when he buries it, even when he tries to become a statue, I taste the ghost of it in the air, in the way he smells. “You want to see me defensive? I can be your shield, your knife, your rabid houndnbut I never, ever forget what I am. And I never let you forget it, either.”
I bare my teeth, gaze never leaving his, tail tightening, claws flexing just enough to leave little warning scratches along his cloak.
His thought cuts across our bond, cold, sharp, and so damn patronising it makes my tail bristle. What a stupid cat. Oh, he thinks he’s so clever. He lifts the copper iron crossbow, deliberate, no hesitation. His movement is clean, practiced, unreadable, except to me, because I feel the sneer in his mind, the calculated flick of irritation and mockery. I could tear out his throat for the insult, and it makes my heart beat faster. My ears snap forward, rain streaming off the tips, hunger and fury tangled up tight inside me.
He pulls the trigger. 6, +3, +2 (Proficiency), +4 (Copper-Iron crossbow) = 15 total.
The bolt whistles through the wet, ugly air, thudding into the mire beast’s hide, right above the foreleg, punching clean through flesh and bone. It isn’t quite the showy, theatrical slaughter I crave, no messy spray, no flailing death throes, but it’s good enough to silence the thing, send it tumbling in the grass, back legs twitching for a heartbeat, then still. Dead. I can feel his satisfaction, tight, cold, deeply suppressed, but there. He won’t show it, won’t smirk, won’t gloat, but he likes having the last word, always.
He reloads with perfect, mechanical calm, like there’s nothing at all interesting about what just happened. But I’m already circling him, stalking through the marsh, mud, grinning, claws out, letting every ounce of humiliation and thrill crackle through my body. “Stupid cat, am I?” I purr, lips twisting into something wild, dark, delighted. “I’ll show you what a stupid cat can do when you take your eyes off her.”
All I get in response is "Focus".
That single word, “focus”, snaps through my skull, sharp and final, no room for argument, no allowance for games or pride. He doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t need to. The command rings out across the bond, cold as steel, absolute, the kind of voice that would snap a lesser thing’s will in half. My claws pause mid air, hovering just above the sodden mire, the smirk still frozen on my lips.
My tail flicks, hard and sudden, splattering rain and muck across his boots, just a hint of rebellion, just enough to show I’m not some broken thing waiting for orders. But I obey, I always do when he says it like that, when the leash goes taut. Ears flatten, muscles coil, eyes narrow. I snap out of the haze, out of the bitter pleasure and humiliation, and fix my gaze on the marsh, the remaining mire beasts, the world around us. Every sense sharpens, claws flex, hunger twisting in my gut, every nerve set to serve, protect, deliver.
The mire beasts are sluggish, plodding closer, their hulking shapes nothing more than shadows at the edge of the marsh, heads low, eyes empty.
The five foot leash of the bond is suffocating, less a limit, more a compulsion. I can’t stray further. Wouldn’t even if I could. Instead, I close the gap, until it’s barely a foot between us, body pressed so close I can feel the heat of his arm, my sodden fur brushing his cloak, tail wrapped tight around his thigh like a chain. Each step he takes, I match, a living shield. Every flicker of his thoughts, I taste, cold, ruthless, but also the suppressed thrill he’ll never let anyone see.
He lifts the crossbow, rain streaming down his brow, expression unreadable, except for me. I’m always reading, always feasting on the taste of his mind, the little cracks in his control. He fires. The bolt snaps loose, but this time the angle is off, the tension wrong, a tremor in his grip, maybe my tail grazed his leg at just the wrong moment, maybe my breath on his cheek sent something spiralling off axis.
d20 roll, 3, +3 Dexterity, +2 Proficiency, +4 Copper-iron crossbow = 12 total.
I hear it in his head, the flicker of annoyance, the calculation, the way he’d like to blame anything but himself, but there’s only me here, the only variable that ever really matters. I lean in, close enough for him to feel my hot breath against his ear, a purr twisted with mocking laughter and glee. “Whoops. Did I distract you, Master? Maybe I should stand even closer, keep you honest.”
My claws graze the small of his back, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim, to remind, to provoke. My tail tightens further, ears flicking with manic, spoilt delight. “It’s not my fault you can’t keep your hands steady when I’m this close. Maybe you should let me handle the killing, and you can just watch. Or would that bruise your pride?”
He doesn’t answer, not out loud. But I’m not moving. Not a step further than this, the leash of the bond ironclad, my body pressed so close to his that I might as well be wearing his skin. Let the mire beasts watch, let the world watch. This is my place.
I bare my teeth in the rain, wild and savage.
They close in, the mire herd drawn by blood and noise, water streaming off their filthy hides, stupid and hungry and slow. One is already dead, sprawled in the muck with a bolt jutting from it, its blood melting into the mire. Another limps, medium wounded, the Master’s last bolt slicing a shallow gash down its haunch, blood bright against the pale, swollen skin. The rest surge forward with a clumsy, animal hunger, no real malice, just the idiot brutality of prey too stupid to realise it’s already lost.
But my world narrows to the violence at hand. Master’s command still echoes in my head, focus, yet the way he stands, the heat radiating from him, the taste of his frustration and hidden excitement, all feed that old, spoiled cruelty deep inside me. I bare my teeth, eyes wild, tail locked around his thigh so tight that no force in the world could pry me loose. Defensive? Maybe. Claimed? Always.
I shift my stance, rain matting my fur, spear gripped tight, and I let the bond surge. The psychic charge makes my every sense burn sharper, Master in my head, his pulse, his tension, his calculation. I exist for him, and right now that means protect.
Dexterity +4, Proficiency +2, Copper-iron spear +4, Protective Fury +2 to attack, +6 damage when defending Master, Yandere Devotion advantage on attacks.
d20 17 = 29
I lunge at the closest mire, spear driving through its shoulder, the copper-iron tip punching through hide and muscle like rotten canvas. It gives a shriek, buckles, and collapses, spasming, blood blooming in thick oil around its legs. I twist the spear free, every movement an act of pure, ecstatic violence, claiming this kill for him, letting the bond between us hum like an exposed nerve.
Second Attack d20: 14 +12 = 26
The wounded mire tries to stagger away, but I’m on it before it can limp two steps. My spear arcs in a perfect, savage slash, slamming through its side with enough force to pin it to the marsh. I feel the bones give, the life shudder out, and I bare my teeth, laughter bubbling up, half cruel delight, half sly, victorious glee, half pure animal savagery.
The last survivors hesitate, stunned, blinking at the carnage. Blood spatters across my arms, painting the blue of my cloak with muddy red, my tail bristling but never leaving Master’s side. I glance back, eyes bright, breath coming hard, every heartbeat thundering in time with his. My kills. His approval. My world.
“Defensive kitten, Master? Tell that to them.” My voice is low, mocking, just for him, just for us because in the end, nobody gets closer than me. Nobody gets to see me like this feral, victorious, covered in stink and gore, all of it for him.
Three dead mire beasts now, the rest pausing at the edge, wary, uncertain. And I stand between them and Master, spear dripping, tail curled, ears flat, daring anything, anyone, to come closer.
Mud still thick on my legs, fur clinging in heavy, rain-soaked clumps, I stand triumphant amid the carnage, tail curled possessively around Master’s thigh. The mire beasts, those grotesque rabbit crocodiles, have learned fear, three corpses sprawled in the marsh are lesson enough. The survivors hesitate, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring. Then, with a chorus of low, guttural squeals, they waddle away, truly waddle, hindquarters bobbing comically, slow and defeated, the stench of blood and steel in the air enough to break even the dull-witted hunger of their tiny, rotted brains.
I let my spear hang loosely, shoulders high and heaving, lips curled in a satisfied, blood flecked smirk. Every nerve is still tuned to Master’s pulse, every sense wrapping around him, feeding off the afterglow of violence and his silent approval. I turn my head, ready to gloat, maybe to taunt him with another line, make him admit I’m more than just his defensive kitten, that I’m still the most dangerous thing within five miles.
But I never see it coming. There’s a blur, a shift in his shadow, the kind of movement only he can make, silent and precise, stripping away any tell in his thoughts so cleanly that I can’t even catch the warning flash. Then his hands are on me, sudden, overwhelming, impossible to anticipate. He’s hiding from me, really hiding, masking his detection, his intent, pushing everything behind an iron wall of discipline so absolute I can’t even feel the ghost of it on the bond.
My claws flex, tail rigid, every instinct shrieking to fight, to twist, to punish him for trying to outpace me. For a heartbeat, I’m airborne, weightless, the world spinning, rain trailing from my fur like a thousand icy knives. His grip is iron, the kind that says he could drop me or break me or hold me forever, and that every option belongs to him alone.
I snarl, half laughter, half indignant outrage. My ears flatten, every muscle straining for purchase, and I claw instinctively at his cloak, but it’s no real attempt to break free. I can taste the challenge in him, the deliberate concealment.
Inside, I’m howling, part humiliation, part awe, part gleeful, manic hunger. He can hide from me. He wants me to know he can. My pulse is a wildfire, racing, claws curling uselessly in the air, tail snapping as I land, either on my feet, or sprawled, it hardly matters. I twist to glare at him, blue eyes wide and burning, lips peeled back in a furious, spoiled grin.
