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Summary
“We need to talk, Master,” Schwarzwälder barked, staring down at him with an expression that Licorice had never seen before. Though already close, Schwarzwälder closed any distance between them, pointing a claw to Licorice. “Tired of being called anything other than Choco Werehound Brute. Told you many times,” Schwarzwälder told him once again for another countless time. Licorice resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Sure, sure, whatever you say. Can I get inside now? I’m tired,” Licorice complained.
“Do you understand?” Schwarzwälder’s voice had a huskiness to it as the cake house moved just enough for Licorice to get to his bedroom, and Bat-Cat flew behind Licorice, leaning in uncomfortably close.
Almost absent-mindedly, Licorice murmured out a tired, “Sure, whatever you say, Schwarzwälder.”
That turned out to be the exact worst thing to say in the moment.
OR
Choco Werehound Brute and Bat-Cat are tired of Licorice deadnaming Werehound. Shenanigans ensue.