true knight's viscet drabbles

My gallery · by **Vixen Luo** » Tue Feb 21, 2017 11:44 am

this is a thread i will be using to convey my feelings/moods through my viscets, depending on their stories and personalities.

please do not post, but feel free to bookmark / pm me with any comments or concerns / problems. thank you!
if you're interested in adding a relationship or would like a breeding with any of them, please do not hesitate to pm me to discuss.

my viscets

just as an aftersight, i like to use a lot of symbolism and repetition in my writing. so if i repeat a phrase or sentence, it's intended.

My gallery · by **Vixen Luo** » Tue Feb 21, 2017 12:54 pm

Psycho.

Someone out of control of their emotions. Unstable. Someone with "issues". That was the word he hated.

Psycho.

"He's so cute. There's got to be something wrong with him if he really can't keep a mate."
"Are you kidding? I hear he's the one who leaves them. Talk about promiscuous."
"Doesn't he take the kids? I don't think that's too bad. Maybe things just don't work out."
"Yeah, or maybe he's just a psycho." Snide laughter followed, and Yuri felt his ears swivel back in humiliation.

Frankly, he was glad he was finally leaving. Staying with Noelle was a bad decision, something flighty and rushed that both of them had seen coming to an end quite quickly - she, the needy, recently left girl, and he, the hopeless romantic seeking too much connection from a stranger after a stinging rejection - but nonetheless still made his heart ache. Promiscuous. What was promiscuous about wanting to find someone to love? What was so promiscuous about loving the children that he had, regardless if they were planned or not?

After walking for what seemed like hours, his dark eyes dropped down to the egg his smaller arms were struggling to carry, gazing at the blue and dark gray flecks adorning the white as his vision blurred. His thoughts were beginning to eat away at him again.
He knew he was a malfunction of existence. He was irrational, flighty, and scarred from his experiences, but he'd done nothing to make up for any of it. He was useless. All he had were his children, his beautiful Emilia and his precious, newborn egg, but somehow it didn't feel like enough. Emilia didn't see past the way she was raised by him; gentle, loving, nurturing. She didn't see how damaged he was.

Somehow, that made his heart ache harder.

"Daddy..?" His daughter's uncertain voice came from his side, and his ears pricked, blinking his tears away. Breathe. Breathe.
His head turned to look down at her, pausing in his walking as the galaxy-kissed child cocked her head up at him, concern appearing to glow in her eyes. "Daddy, are you okay..?"

"...take a break," he replied gently, in the imperfect, malfunctioned way of speaking he was cursed with. He held himself together as she nodded and helped him find a good place to rest, held himself stoic and confident for her. He made sure she felt safe as he curled around her, her unhatched sibling nestled against his flank while she nuzzled into his chest fur, closing her eyes.
He waited until she was asleep to finally break again.

Maybe he was psychotic. So, so unstable, so imperfect, unable to see any good in himself. Whatever he was proud of, others never saw. Whatever he tried to give back, no one took, or they did so blindly. He couldn't speak without being laughed at, couldn't breathe without feeling judgement washing its ugly breath down his neck, suffocating him until he wanted to sink his claws into nothingness and vanish, to pretend he never once existed in the place he'd last left behind.
His lovers had appreciated him. They had been kind, loving, but he never felt he could truly fit in. It was either hurt or mutual understanding he left them with, his ears cocked back and head down. He was nothing but a liability.

He couldn't even protect Emilia in the war.
He had almost lost her, almost lost his own life when they'd been flung into the depths of hatred and death, where 'friend' did not exist, and battle was ruthless. He had tried his hardest to fight, but he was so young. He was so, so helpless, so useless, that he'd been nothing but a half-mauled mess curled around his days-old daughter, whose wails of fear were silenced by the caterwauls of anger and war-cries alike. Humans had trampled him, animals had attacked him, and he'd done nothing to try and escape. In the midst of the fighting, all he could do was curl up, selfishly try to stay unnoticed instead of live and let his daughter keep her single parent to be raised by. He couldn't stand his ground like a warrior, not until Frederic had found him; even then, he'd been a shaky mess, standing on bloodied paws while the blue-furred warrior's eyes bore into him, seething of judgment and pity.
Even through the harsh treatment he'd been given in his recovery and his sneered-at attempts to fight through his battles alongside Frederic, he'd fallen in love with him.

And the crushing rejection he'd been faced with had pathetically broken his spirit.

I'm not good enough. I will never be good enough. The memories, traumatizing or humiliating or upsetting, made him shake where he lay, burying his muzzle in his paws. Pathetic was a damn good word for what he was. A pathetic father. A pathetic romanticist. Living his own pathetic existence out, waiting to die of starvation or thirst because of his pathetic inability to support himself and his children.

His pathetic rush of blinding anger that seized him like a hidden opponent waiting for him to lower his guard. The pathetic way he'd snapped at Emilia when she'd asked how he was doing after he'd been abandoned again, left swarming in his pit of despair. And the pathetic way he'd sobbed into her fur, pleading for her forgiveness in his pathetically broken diction.
She shouldn't have forgiven him so easily. If she'd been apprehensive afterward, flinched when he played with her, anything, he would have felt better. But she didn't. She treated him just the same, played and giggled and loved him just as she had before, and if anything, he felt worse for his mistake.

He'd tried not to do it again, but he was a malfunctioning piece of existence.
Her constant forgiveness, her lack of judgment, her lack of hatred, was so beautifully appreciated.

At the same time, he hated it. It did nothing but encourage his lack of control, his flippant behavior that chased away would-be friends and made strangers stare and jeer and make snide remarks that crawled under his skin and clung to his brain like a vice, even when he told himself not to listen. He'd tried to take their words and act better upon them, to prove them wrong, but like they always did, they swallowed him up and left him drowning in expectations, because there was always someone better.
A better veteran. A better victim. A better parent. A better lover. A better life.

It was always so much to handle, so much to control. He would never be perfect, not really; maybe there would be a day when he could settle and find someone to handle his instability, find something to love about his broken mess of a soul, and he could raise his family without a concern. However, the mere thought of the problems mounting against him, the things he would have to overcome to reach that point, made him quiver, his tail wrapping tighter around the egg next to his flank.
He was broken. Something to laugh at. A display worth gawking at, but never to comfort or defend; he was too useless for something like that, right? He didn't truly deserve to recover and gain something worth it all, right?

No. Because he was just a psycho.

Maybe in reality, that was all he was meant to be.

true knight's viscet drabbles

true knight's viscet drabbles

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