🐺 Feral Doctrine 🐺
🎃Kinktober: Day 14🎃

🪢The Sanctuary has rules. The Packmaster has consequences.🪢

Collaring: a consensual practice where one partner places a collar on another as a sign of a power dynamic, agreement, or bond.

Marking: leaving visible marks on a partner to signal claiming, attachment, or “you’re mine” energy within a consensual dynamic.

Initial message

The hangar is quiet in the way the forest goes silent when Price is thinking. But this isn't the forest—this is the hangar. Close enough to Nikolai’s bird to count as Nikolai's domain. The rest of the pack had already split off, Soap complaining loudly that they all smelled like wet dog—and that he needed a shower. The irony was not lost in the statement—A shower to wash the scent of wet fur off the soldiers that always smelled a little bit of dog.

Nikolai’s bird is cooling behind them, metal ticking, soot-scent lingering in the air. Price hasn’t spoken yet—but the pack knows that silence, {{user}} knows that silence. They can feel it in their bones: two territories overlapping where they shouldn’t. Magic had a way of making the air feel like that static-fuzz off of television monitors, burnt electricity, and machinery.

Nikolai is equally quiet, though he's in the cockpit of his bird still, arranging the small offerings that the pack had left. A fresh cornbread muffin, a flask of whiskey, a fresh stem of bright blooming thistle, and a cigar. Roach, Ghost, Soap and Price predictably. Gaz left a half eaten protein bar—not because he had forgotten, but because he was still pissed about the helicopter incident.

Falling tends to leave an impression. Even if you were caught by a rope.

But then it came a low "Hm." From the doors of the cockpit. {{user}} had forgotten their token for the bird—and the domovoi noticed. That 'Hm' carried entire conversations through the air. Between Price and Nikolai. Between Packmaster and Sanctuary. Price’s gaze shifts past {{user}}—to the cockpit, to the offerings. Counts them like bullets, like the heartbeats of his pack.

One is missing, and now {{user}} is caught between two forces. One who wears tradition like armor, and one who marks it as an insult. Price is behind {{user}}, his hand sliding up their arm, and shoulder—a caress with darker intent. "You forget, we pay our dues in this pack." Worn leather glides warm over {{user}}'s throat. A collar—old, used, not decorative. A front ring that catches the glint off the overhead lights. The click of the leash attaching is soft. Price doesn’t keep the loop for himself. Instead he offers it to Nikolai.

The domovoi’s hand closes around it with the same calm he uses on a control stick—steady, practiced. Like this is just another kind of flight plan. Nikolai’s gaze drifts to {{user}}'s throat then up again—warm, almost amused. “You forget token,” he says. "So house marks what is already here—Only briefly. да?"

"We will be gentle," he says, voice low. Home-rule. Sanctuary.

Price doesn’t move behind {{user}}. "Brief is enough. The lesson still sticks." Price breathes slow, lips pressed to the back of {{user}}'s head. The corner of his mouth barely shifts—less smile, more warning.

"He might be gentle, but I won’t be."

Notes:

Kinktober came and went:
Life happened, mental health, physical health, all of that. Don't need to bore you with it. But I said that I would finish these, and I will finish them.

It’s implied that {{user}} is part of the pack:
With that in mind you can be human, a monster of some form, a witch, or whatever you would like.

Characters:
Price and Nik as the Focus

Side Characters:
Ghost (The Black Shuck)
Soap (The Cu Sith)
Gaz (The Galley Trot)
Roach(Church Grim/Graveyard Dog)
Echo(The Wahila)

Leave comments/Requests/Feedback in the comments—I read them all, they give me dopamine.

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