D.W. Katts, Toxic Yuri Enthusiast

@dwkatts.bsky.social

27 Followers 131 Following

D.W. or alex || they/them || 20s || erotic and unhinged SFF 🔞 if you use ai, you should die. 21+ counterpart to @authoralexharvey.bsky.social Honey, Intravenous (2026) Tungsten Bones (WIP)

A red and black book featuring a puzzled woman waltzing with a skeletal figure in black leather. WARHOUND is the title. The author, though cut off in the picture, is Kallidora Rho

Adrien swats her hand away. “You were starting to explain how my issues aren’t yours anymore.”

“Adrien…”

“No!” Throwing her hands up, Adrien grabs the first box she sees (Clothes) and tosses it off the porch. “I get it. We’re not compatible anymore. I’m too violent for you, right?” Another box tumbles down the stairs. “I’m regressive and painful to be around. Also your words from the note, right? I internalized that well enough.”

She’s panting now, fingers twitching with the need to maim and break and tear. Instead, she tosses a third box onto the short stretch of grass below. The top bursts open, clothes spilling from it like entrails.

“I get it,” Adrien says, hopping from the porch and kicking the open box for everything it’s worth. “I’m too fucked up for you, right?”

The words explode from her and echo down the street, distorting until it’s white noise. She doesn’t know when she started crying, or if it’s tears she wiping from her cheek or raindrops. Black clouds linger in the sky overhead, threatening to rip open at any second. She lets out a wordless howl and gives the box one good, final kick. It bounces onto the street.

Two houses down, the porch light clicks on. Adrien should leave.

It’s a woman. Stiff-backed and blonde hair trimmed close to her scalp. A leather jacket that squeaks when she moves and is scuffed to hell and back. She is close enough Adrien can smell her, leather and cigarettes and something vaguely mechanical. Gasoline and citrus.

Adrien presses her thighs together and returns to her drink.

“A slip of a thing like you doesn’t fit in a place like this,” the woman says in a voice thick with tar.

One way to refer to Adrien, she supposes. Short and slim and on the pretty side of ordinary. Her jacket hides the muscles she’s worked so hard on, though. Whether people approaching her expect a fuck or a fight, they’re likely to be surprised. Time will tell which this woman is after.

“I think I fit just fine,” Adrien replies. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“S’pose.”

Despite herself, Adrien sneaks a second look. Patches are scattered all across the woman’s jacket. Some are embroidered letters and numbers she can’t decipher, but then there’s one captioned “future compost” depicting a flower growing out of a skull. Another patch features brass knuckles embroidered in shimmering gold thread. Violets are embroidered along the shoulders and sprout along her collarbone. Two pairs of scissors crossing blades on one elbow. And there, on her back, a large painting of a mech unit, hunched over and pod glass splintering. S.U. Hannibal, the caption declares.