|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Nov 25, 2016 8:42 am
>>>What would you do, if I told you I hate you?
xx >>What would you do, if your life's on the line?
██████
▬ A closed Thread for nowSERENITY & LavvytheJackalope
▬ Flashback to Yuno when he was first kidnapped by Tacks, and his first meeting with Jon
▬ Setting: Tacks Warehouse, before most of its renovations were done. About 5-6 years ago.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri Nov 25, 2016 8:44 am
The fairy Noel Fenwick was muttering angrily under his breath, pressing the bag of frozen peas against his swollen eye. He supposed he really ought to just be grateful that the warehouse was already equipped with a lockdown room. Apparently in the old days it was common to lock up werewolves in the warehouse district en masse, so as not to disturb the general populace with the sounds of a vicious monster trying to claw through the walls. These days, of course, lockdown rooms were more commonly outfitted with soundproofing, so they appeared more frequently in common suburban homes. These days many cellars commonly doubled as werewolf lockdowns, at least in the newer homes. But not in the old warehouse district. Granted, he had purchased the old building for many of the same reasons they had been used in the old days; isolation and space. It was quiet now, of course. The boy was no doubt sulking, plotting what tactic he would use against the fairy next time he tried to open the door. At this point Noel was really just starving the kid; if he wouldn't let him open the door without giving him a black eye and trying to bolt, he wasn't going to get food. But he knew he couldn't go on like this forever. Even immediately following the full moon the werewolf had lashed out, when he was supposed to be weak and helpless.
Obviously he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew this time, but what could he do? He couldn't exactly open the door and shoo the kid home after keeping him locked up for a week. He'd already seen the amber alert for the kid. He was lucky, no one other than the boys immediate family was too hellbent on finding him, since he was a werewolf. But whether people decreed him a menace to society or not, people weren't going to let a kidnapper off easy. Repercussions aside, Noel was tenacious. This was an opportunity which had plopped into his lap. A werewolf who had run off of his own accord? The search wouldn't go on for long, everyone would assume he'd been killed (justly) in his rampage somewhere along the way. And having a werewolf to pit in the rings was perfect. They were known to be vicious, quick to build and keep muscle mass, and driven by bloodlust when permitted. And it wasn't as if the runaway was a scrawny specimen to begin with. He'd make a perfect ring fighter, if only he could somehow get the boy to listen! So he'd sent the text, and it was just a waiting game then. There was no telling if, or when, Jon would answer. He might just show up again one day, having gotten bored of whatever game he had been off playing in other peoples lives. But Noel knew that, sooner or later, he would come back. He always did. And some deep part of the fairy dreaded the day that he didn't, but until then he'd keep telling himself the day would never come. In the meantime he had no choice but to hold out without the psychics help for as long as he could. He'd backed himself into a corner somewhat this time, after all. But Noel, Tacks, was certain that Jon would know what to do. The younger man seemed to view peoples brains the way children view shiny toys, each one different and intriguing, some holding their novelty longer than others. Beyond that, the fairy couldn't hope to even begin comprehending how the mage thought. But however he did it, he usually had a solution for him. And, really, it was Jons goading that had finally given him the initiative to jump ship, taking off and abandoning the doomed Fenwick&Fenwick firm so that he could escape on his own. So the least he could do was help him out with this. Eventually.
Yuno, on the other hand, was busy.
He was only fifteen, big for his age, broad-shouldered but generally lean. In the first few days since he'd woken up from his rampage, he'd already gone through all the motions of beating himself up over his stupidity. The funny thing was, at first, he hadn't been afraid of what his captors might have in store for him, but he'd been more concerned with what his dad would say when he got back. He'd be grounded until college. Maybe even longer. He'd berated himself over and over again. How could he have been so stupid? Why hadn't he listened? Dad had told him, over and over, about how important it was to stay with him on the full moons, so why had Yuno deluded himself into thinking that, somehow, unlike literally every other werewolf in history, he could manage to control it without his dads help?? He wondered what his grandfather would do in his position. The elderly caim had often told him stories when they studied history about fighting in the war when he was a teenager, barely older then than Yuno was now. If Grandad had been captured and held hostage by the enemy, how would he have gone about escaping? So, having already run the course of agonizing over his past mistakes, he had then set himself instead to trying to focus on the best means of getting out. The last attempt had been a bust. Even though he'd headbutted the pinstriped smug-faced a*****e who kept him locked up, he'd slammed the door on his head as he'd tried to bolt out. On top of that, he hadn't opened the door again since, and that was last night. It was getting to be late afternoon by then, and the werewolfs stomach was growling louder every hour. He was young, and energetic, but most of the time he and his dad both required a lot of food to keep going. It wouldn't be long before he couldn't pull stunts like that anymore, so that meant he'd been put on a time limit. He needed to figure a way out of the lockdown room before he got to weak to move. He was sitting on the bare floor, cross-legged, arms folded over his bare chest. Most of his clothes had been shredded the night of the full moon, save for only the middle part of the pants he'd been wearing, so he looked somewhat like Bruce Banner after he got done being the Hulk. But his dark skin was completely unmarked and unmarred, so apparently he'd avoided getting any injuries during his rampage. That meant, that all he had to work with was what was in his pockets. So, a lighter, a paperclip, some lint, and the cap from a ballpoint pen. So…. Not much. It would be better if he had a rubber band, at least. Or, you know…. A blowtorch. He rubbed his temples with a hand, sighing. His head was still aching from having the damn metal door slammed on it. He guessed he should count himself lucky he had such a hard skull. Grandad used to say so all the time, although Yuno suspected he didn't always mean it as a compliment.
It was already getting harder to think straight. He needed to focus. He lifted his yellow eyes up from his lap, scanning the little room for the billionth time. It was dingy and barren, old stone walls covered with deep gouges like a hundred claw marks that had started to fade. The floor was stone, too, leaving it incredibly uncomfortable to sleep or sit or even stand on for long periods of time, much less days. How many days had it been? Three? Four? A week? A month?? Well, clearly not a month yet, since he hadn't transformed again, but it sure felt like it could have been a month. On top of that there were no windows, so he couldn't even see if it was night or day. Even the door was just a solid hunk of metal, sealing almost seamlessly into the frame and stone surrounding it. Yuno had tried, in vain, to get at the hinges in the first day or two he'd been there, hoping maybe he could disassemble them and remove the door. But he had no such luck. Even if he'd been able to get past the seam and to the hinges, he doubted he could remove them with a lighter and a paperclip. He'd searched the room a hundred times, sniffing and tapping and pushing at every seam and corner, every nook and cranny, trying to find something he could use to his advantage. A fault, a weakness, a loose stone, anything. But, like most lockdown rooms, it appeared to be wholly impenetrable. Yuno stood up again, once more pacing the edges of the room, pressing his foot along the wall, checking for any loose spots and once again finding none. In the beginning, he'd worried about what his dad would say. But the more time passed, the more the reality of his situation sank in, and he began to worry that he might never see his dad again. It had seemed too surreal to be taken seriously, at first. The whole thing was like a cliché. Boy runs away from home, gets kidnapped by some stranger with a creepy smile, wakes up in a dingy lockdown with claw marks covering the walls. It was like some silly dream. So his fear had taken a long time to settle in. It had just been too laughable. But Yuno kept waiting for the punchline of the joke, and it never came. And the longer he waited, the harder it was to keep laughing about it. By now, when he told himself 'this can't be happening' he started to think it more desperately. This can't be real. I can't be in any real danger, can I? That's the kind of thing you read about in books twenty years after the fact, not the kind of thing that actually happens, not to me. Yet here he was. Trapped. Cold. Alone. And now, hungry. His stomach rumbled again, and his fear chewed at his insides. He had become afraid, and he did his best not to let it drive him to panic. Grandad was always telling him that panic was what ruined any good plan, but it was getting more and more difficult not to. So he sat down again, on the dingy futon mattress on one side of the room and took a deep breath, crossing his legs and resting the backs of his palms on his knees while he closed his eyes. Dad and Grandad both had always stressed to Yuno how important meditation was for thinking clearly, so each time he started to give in to panic he made himself sit again.
He focused on his breathing, feeling his energy moving up and down his spine. He couldn't give in to his fear. Fear and panic would be his ruin. He needed to be composed, and calm. Neither were his specialty, but faced with the very real reality that he might not ever escape, he needed to overcome that. So he exhaled slowly, trying to let go of the fear, but his hands trembled.
"Don't be afraid." He told himself "Feel it but let it go. How did that book say it...? 'Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death that....' how did it go? The little death that... 'leads to total destruction,' right, that was it. 'Fear is the little death that leads to total destruction.' I will not fear." And the more he said it, the more he started to believe it again. But Yuno had already done this meditation to stave off the dread several times. Each time it came creeping back, ice-cold, into his chest, he chased it off with his careful thoughts. But each time he did, it felt like the spell he was weaving over his own heart grew weaker and weaker, lasted for briefer and briefer spans of time. How long could he last? The werewolf pinched his eyebrows together, trying to stay focused. But his ears strained at every little sound on the other side of the door. He knew the fairy wouldn't come in again until he was either too starved to move, or he had some kind of trick up his sleeve. Nothing good could come of either option. Whatever came through that door next was bound to be trouble, and he needed to be ready. He needed to be calm. He needed to be unafraid.
"I will not fear." He repeated to himself again.
"I will not fear.
[[ooc; I already made a tumblr for Yuno in anticipation. >>;; ]]
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jan 01, 2017 3:44 pm
 ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
═════════════════════════IT'S SO EASY WHEN YOU'RE EVIL═════════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
He woke up, and his name was Matthew. He lived in one of those little-pink-boxes-for-you-and-me on the edges of the city, in one of the disgusting housing communities that popped up along the main road every few miles out in the suburbs. There were shrub azaleas in pink and red outside the front window, and his wife kept snipping at him to trim them down before their yard started to look like "some goddamn fairy jamboree." A real peach, his wife, and just a little bit of a racist. Tall and slim with a bubble of too-blonde hair, she was the kind who shoved the whole house out of bed on Sundays to make sure they looked good in the front pew of the Church, but sniffily whispered about how regular, honest humans could never seem to find a job in this country thanks to all the supernatural trash. She still had her old high school cheer-leading uniform in the closet, and liked to tell their daughter--five years old, already rubbing vaseline on her teeth to perfect her pageant smile--how important it was to follow the Life Plan. This seemed to involve Being Seen at All The Right Places, preferably with All The Right People. It was also incredibly important that she Marry Well, just like her mother. Kiss-kiss, dad was such a catch when we were young. Kiss-kiss, I'm joking, you're still a catch, honey. Kiss-kiss, she was also ******** the pastor every now and again, which probably would have bothered him if he was actually Matthew. The thing was, Matthew had been dead for months. Took a long walk off a short dock into some very deep water. A strange thing, wanting to high dive that badly without knowing how to swim. It had taken a little tampering, but humans-- well. Their minds were malleable.
And it was interesting for a few months, to leech in all the new secrets and shared memories and pretend that they were his own. It was something he did every year or so, the taking of a completely new and different life. The life of a thuggish drug runner, the life of a volunteer fire fighter. He'd written new roles for himself, insinuating himself into the lives of others. Becoming their friend, their new lover, their new rival, enemy, boss, master, murderer, and even-- once, before he determined how much he abhored it-- slave. But after a time, that became boring, too. No challenge, there, altering the production of neurochemicals to force certain emotions in response to his presence. No risk in catching the knowledge of what behaviors they liked or loathed so he could pretend accordingly. There was nothing new in it, nothing to learn. Nothing to pick free of the bones once he'd gorged himself on the first few days of the chase, the catch. Although he'd never admit it, he was very much his father's son. All about the acquisition.
People liked a smile, so he'd smile, lopsided and disarming. And his was an unconventional kind of face, wasn't it? Not good-looking, precisely, but striking. Memorable, until he wanted it not to be. Peppered, like the rest of him, in far-flung fields of freckles, like the sun tried to kiss him and he escaped. No Icarus, he. Not with the blueblueblue eyes, and the scruff of redbrown beard, the half-dreaded and threaded mess of hair too long to be quite respectable. On a handshake, he often felt how people looked at him and didn't take him seriously, didn't gauge him as a threat, for all his height and breadth of shoulder. And oh, that was fine.
How cheerfully he seems to grin. How neatly spreads his claws.
But it-- being Matthew-- was getting old. He'd pored for nights and nights over the dreams and deep feelings of the little blonde wife, drawing them in with a voracious curiosity, but unable to understand much of what there was inside her. There were obstacles in so many of the dolls he played with. Pieces that fit wrong and had to be whittled down or hacked off. Impulses that were unexplained. Like the daughter-doll. Inexplicably terrified of thunder, she would curl her tiny body between his chair and the wall at the advent of any storm. And he'd tried, several times, to correct this behavior, in all manner of ways. Once, he'd explained to the girl that thunder wasn't the thing to worry on. Thunder wasn't the part that could kill you. That was the lightning, which would stop your heart or burn you to death or something. ********, he wasn't a scientist. But then, of course, she was scared of the thunder and the lightning, which, he tried to explain, was just stupid. The lightning was outside. Any moron could see the lightning was out there, not in here. Finally, he moved the chair away from the wall. Forbade her to go to her room so that she couldn't hide under her bed. All that succeeded in doing was to make the child curl into a ball on the livingroom rug, where she promptly wet herself.
Of course, that was the point at which his darling wife drew the line. The argument was just so boring, so frustrating. He couldn't understand why she was angry. She wouldn't let him touch her long enough to see it.
It was just a rug.
But they were only human, and it was easy-- so easy-- too easy-- to start the car in their closed garage, there where the air conditioner's intake could send the carbon monoxide into every room of the house just a little at a time. He'd never done it that way before, and the only unsatisfying part was in being unable to watch it happen. He always liked to see it, if he could. There was something to learn every time, something new. At times like those, he felt that he might almost understand. And the best were when he could hold them, and feel them slipping away-- all the little pieces and parts coming unconnected inside, like a watch running down. They'd expect to see their whole life in a flash, but usually it was just one thing. Just the one, big, important thing. Their reason. Their shining moment. Some, he'd let them see it, let them take that one last thing with them into the dark where he couldn't follow anymore. Others, he'd shove it away, turn their last moment into something depraved and watch them recoil and wonder-- did it matter, either way?
But, naturally, safety was the first concern, wasn't it?
He'd left by the front door, locked it, and walked three miles in casual sandals, just a tanktop and some jeans. Hopped a bus with the money in his pocket, and rode across three states, always arm-to-arm with the stranger beside him, and no matter who they were, they were eventually eager to hand over a twenty or a ten. Cashless neighbors tithed half a sandwich, or bought him a meal at rest stops on their cards. He never did like that system, never approved of how traceable it was. An old loon he'd hitchhiked a ride from once upon a time said it was all part of the Mark of the Beast. He'd liked that one. Let him keep his life and his car and even the memory of having had that conversation. The charming ones, the amusing ones, they had no reason to fear. He could be a benevolent God.
Just ask Noel Fenwick.
But the thing about Gods with cellphones is that they may forget to charge them, say, when taking a ramble through the Midwest after recently offoading a wife and child. They may only come across a compatible charger a week later, in the apartment of some slag that they met at a bar. Cute girl, except for the big, broad scar along one cheek where it looked like somebody put a fish hook through and just pullllled. It made her smile hilarious and her self-esteem piss poor, which probably contributed to how happy she was to have an arm around her shoulder. By the time they got upstairs, she'd known him three years, and they were practically family, so her hopes and expectations were a little different then, which is how he didn't wind up with the clap. That night, he made mac and cheese from the box and asked when Chloe was going to start working on her music again, and she said, s**t, don't start in on that.. but ******** around on her keyboard through most of an episode of Very British Problems. So, by the time he saw the text, he was already wrapped up in whatever that was. He'd leave in the daytime for "work"-- which was mostly finding new cash receipts and returning s**t from right off the shelf, no mental magic required-- and come back in the evening to someone who was.. entertained? He never could pin down what her response to his presence was. The closest he could understand was an amalgam of safe-not-bored-well-rested, which he'd experienced in dolls before, but only when he pressed and pushed and tied things together in their heads. Chloe, he'd only given one seed of belief. You know me. And her little mind, starved for companionship, had grown it into whatever this was, with nothing to nourish it but hours of Netflix and bad instant meals and a lack of physical pain.
It was interesting, if pitiful. He wanted to study it, and understand it. He wanted to learn it.
But there was also the text from Noel about his little werewolf problem, and Chloe wasn't going anywhere. She'd lived in the same place, worked the same job, eaten the same kind of food, for years. She was predictable and dependable and had the kind of kicked-dog devotion that would ensure she would never quite stop waiting for him to come back if he left. So he did what anyone would do. He abandoned her.
Oh, don't sob over it. She has thumbs. She can fend for herself.
Although, he may have stolen her car.
Car to bus, bus to train, train to cab, cab to that place on 8th and Francis that always gave him heartburn, but sometimes a good chicken-fried steak was worth it. And then a long walk, nice and relaxing, down into what used to be the old Industrial district.
Used to be, there was freight in and out every hour of the day, going into the canneries and processing plants and coming out in trucks. Good old American business. Father used to say, when he still remembered he was father to a psychic mage, that anymore, properties like these were useless. No one wanted to convert them into housing because the neighborhood had gone to hell, no one wanted to use them for their original purpose because it was far cheaper to hire sweatshop labor across the globe and just pay the shipping cost. It was better to dispose of that kind of lost investment, instead of letting it continue to hemorrhage money in maintenance and insurance. Best was to sell it back to the city, recoup some of the loss. But if they wouldn't take it, you could always gift it to them instead, as a historical site-- all that old, brick architecture, back from when it was still favorable to build the reinforced lower floors. More werewolves back then, before they were able to test for it in the first trimester. Some liberal would probably turn the place into a museum, point to all the gouges and claw marks, and talk about inhumane treatment.
Well, that hadn't happened.
Largely because, of the three warehouse spaces John St Jude used to own, if one were to look at the paperwork he signed in gifting the properties to the city, they would appear to belong to a Mr Simon Saez, with finances handled by a Mr P. Chypps. With the consequence of neither being a real person, the buildings themselves quickly fell into absolute disrepair-- saving, partially, the one that he lost (intentionally, he will always claim) in a horrible game of Trivial Pursuit to his only "friend", his occasional partner in crime, the only person to know his true name-- and remember it.
So, he felt well within his rights, walking in through the front doors, striding into the echoing main room roughly a month later than he'd first been asked for help, having offered not so much as a "Omw" in reply, to bellow through cupped hands, "HONEY, I'M HOOOOOOOOME~!"
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
══════════════════════YOUR TEARS ARE ALL THE PAY I'LL EVER NEED══════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Jan 02, 2017 12:28 am
T a c k s
The past month had been torturous for all parties involved.
At the moment, Tacks only had a single compliant slave; a shapeshifter named Nero who had already been broken into obedience by Crownless. While he planned on amassing more fighters soon enough, most all of his plans had come to a grinding halt thanks to his newest 'addition.' At this rate, the fairy was seriously considering just tossing the boy in a death ring to get rid of him. He was powerful, sure, but he had no clue how to fight. He wouldn't last long at all in death matches, and then he could get rid of the problem all together. He was plenty eager to wash his hands of the stubborn boy, but Tacks was stubborn too. Starving him had been effective enough at curbing Yunos habit of trying to hurt him and bolt. Every time he'd done it since the black eye incident, he'd cut his meals for the next 48 hours. On average, he was only feeding the werewolf one small meal a day - and that was only if he behaved. He'd given up flat-out escape, it seemed. At least for the moment. But even with that habit out of the picture, Yuno swore up and down, over and over, that he would never, ever, do as Tacks told him.
"I'd rather die," he'd said, "-than become a slave." And even though Tacks hadn't taken him seriously (after all, teenagers would 'rather die' than do most household chores, it seemed), the werewolf had apparently meant it. No matter how much he'd starved him, he wouldn't cooperate. Eventually the fairy had been forced to relent and give him food despite his disobedience when the werewolf went a full week without eating and still wouldn't do as he was told. So even though Yuno was weakened, physically, that small victory had been enough to steel his resolve, it seemed. So their stalemate had continued. He'd shoved Nero in the lockdown with him once to try and gauge the werewolf, and possibly teach him a lesson. Nero wasn't the most physically intimidating, but the little shapeshifter had the fear in him, and he was quick and deft, agile with his transformations. He'd been a brawler before he pissed off Crownless and wound up on their business end, so he fared pretty decently in the rings. Not to mention he was twice the werewolfs age. But even in spite of his superior skill, and Yuno being malnourished, the shapeshifter still came away with a broken wrist before he was able to stomp the werewolf down. And even then the child wouldn't budge, only threatened to break Neros other wrist through split lips and bloodied gums.
And one thing Tacks had noticed; it seemed that the boy had not cried. Despite being young, isolated, and having every reason to. Perhaps it was some kind of steadfast pride. Or maybe he had wept, and was only good at hiding it, but it didn't seem likely. Even when Nero had laid into him, the boy had still spouted threats and curses, swore loudly yet again that he would never bend. Among other things. Yuno had threatened, promised, repeatedly, that he was going to kill him when he got out. He never got much more creative than that, but he was always voracious about it. Things like that really tempted the fairy to just get rid of him, and the body, and be done with it. Of course the boy had only gotten more desperate as time went on. Sooner or later something had to give. And Tacks told him through the door, over and over, that his only options were obedience or a body bag. He'd spit at him the last time he said it. In the meantime, as he'd been able, Tacks continued to take Nero to the rings, gambling and placing bets, and very usually dusting those he hung around at the end of the night so that they wouldn't think twice about gambling with him again next time. It was a nice trend he'd picked up. He let his gambling friends remember him when he lost, but always dusted them after he won. So most folks tended to think the fairy had a bad losing streak. Which, of course, made them want to bet against him more. So things had been going well enough on that front, even if Nero lost as many fights as he won, as scrappy as he was. The fact that Yuno managed to break the fighters wrist even without any ind of skill was testament enough to his strength, and that steadfast stubbornness could be applied so beautifully to the rings. If only there was a way to make him listen. But maybe it really was impossible. He was nearing the end of his rope when the cat came back.
Jon coming 'home' was always a point of relief for the fairy, even during the times when he didn't have an angry pubescent werewolf locked up against his will. The man was nothing short of infuriating even on the best of days, and he had a tendency to go from 'cuddly kitten' to 'hungry jaguar' at the drop of a hat. It was always startling, seeing the psychics facade drop when he got annoyed at him, or tired of playing whatever game he was at. But in spite of all of that Jon was, by all accounts, Tacks only friend. Honestly, he had been the fairys only friend for years, long before he abandoned his former life and colleges. Leon had, of course, been more dead weight than anything. And while the other St.Jude children had been amusing to varying degrees, Jon had been the one who fascinated him. And Jon was the one who made the young Noel feel like he was his own person, a being whole and separate from his twin. Special. Jons 'secret identity' and jumping from home to home fascinated the young fairy. It was like watching the neighbor tell you he was going to run away with the circus, and then actually going out and doing it the next day. It was mad, and somehow inspiring at the same time. Of course, he had not been immune to wondering exactly how the psychic had gone about altering his twins memories of him. Still, those were images from the past. The conundrum confounding him presently was much more pressing, and the sound of Jon bellowing like an obnoxious husband in an old cheesy home life sitcom was an even more welcome sound than usual. No less annoying, though. Some things never changed.
It was still daylight, so Tacks had been asleep. Naturally, all of the rings and gambling underground faires took place strictly at night, and those were the places where Tacks made his living. He'd been nocturnal for some time now, despite having left the firm less than a full year ago. Last he'd heard about Leon was that his trial had been expedited and he'd been convicted. Poor stupid sucker. Jons voice echoing off of the largely empty warehouse space was plenty to rouse him from his sleep.
Three sets of ears heard the man announcing himself. Only two knew what it meant, and only one was happy about it in the slightest. Tacks didn't bother changing out of the sweatpants and tank top he'd been sleeping in, silver-white hair fluffy with static bedhead and eyes still half-lidded from sleep. He pushed open the door of the little space he'd converted into his bedroom (it had, apparently, served as the warehouse office in the past), rubbing at his face in a manner he didn't realize mirrored his twins when the older fairy cried. He didn't smile at the psychic when he saw him, red-brown hair all wild and ablaze as usual, standing there as if he was right where he belonged, like he always had been, always would be. It was cruel, really. Every time Jon left, Tacks was left with the distinct feeling that this time, he may never come back. He always hoped that, it Jon ever did get bored enough of him to leave for good, he'd at least do him the courtesy of erasing his memories of him. But, because that was what he would want, he somehow doubted that would be the case. He lived in perpetual fear of the day Jon left for good. But, apparently, the day had not some yet. It had taken another ******** month though, so he didn't let any of his relief show on his face, instead crossing his arms with a frown. Any other time, he might have favored the psychic with some stupid banter to play along, but he wasn't in the mood. Hadn't been for about three weeks. But he knew better than to say something like 'where were you?' Implying that Simon ought to do something, ought to be somewhere, only ever seemed to make the psychic petulant at best, or angry at worst. Tacks didn't like being around his friend when he was angry. Instead he just sighed, leaning against the doorway to his makeshift bedroom.
"So, you are still alive then." Hell, for all he knew, Jon had tossed his old phone and never even gotten his message. Or maybe he'd seen, and simply hadn't been interested enough to come back sooner. Maybe just now he had only come home because the idea had tickled his fancy for the moment. "Did you get my message?" Message. Singular. He never sent Jon more than one at a time, if he could help it. He wasn't some doleful damsel pining constantly after the man, after all. He wouldn't be the clingy one who started barraging the younger man whenever he felt ignored. Even if there was a pissed off werewolf locked in his warehouse. That just wasn't how it worked.
Across the way from Tacks office bedroom and through a separate storage room, was the lockdown door. Inside, Yuno was curled up on his cot, eyes open, staring at the door, listening. Tacks didn't often have people over. He only ever saw the fairy and, occasionally, the shapeshifter. He'd become familiar enough with both of their smells by then that he could recognize them on scent alone. The voice which so loudly declared 'I'm home!' did not belong to either party. He could hear Tacks speaking, but couldn't make out the words. But he had a feeling it couldn't bode well for him.
[[ooc; pfft, sorry, not a lot to this post aside from 'ugh, about time, Jon, dammit.' ]]
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Jun 25, 2017 2:28 pm
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
═════════════════════════IT'S SO EASY WHEN YOU'RE EVIL═════════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
"What, no kiss..?"
It was a joke, and one that only Noel, of all the insects crawling on the Earth's surface, would ever understand completely. The tone he used as he strode through the wide, echoing front space of the warehouse, held a kind of playful disapproval, like he'd expected the fairy to come bouncing merrily to greet him at the door. No, that was a dog. Dogs did that. And that was something he'd never done, yet-- a complete rewiring. Turning something entirely into something else. The psychic had been striding in to meet the ivorette, but paused, briefly consumed by the thought. Like a light going off, his expression blanked, half-dreaded head ticking at an angle that meant his attention was already on something else. Not five minutes back, and he was already considering the next adventure. The next experiment. Could he make a dog? Not out of some metamorphoses-- that would be hardly a challenge at all. But anyone off the street. Another mage, or an advesper. What were the things that made a doll, and what were the things that made a dog? That would take watching. That would take delving into all the strings and snipsnipsnipping away at quite a lot of them. How did the strings look in a dog's head? He'd never considered that, either. Never looked. Messy things. Jon had never bothered with them. Nor had Simon. Or Jacob. Or Matthew. Even in the households where the yards were fenced, he'd always just done away with whatever pet diverted his host's focus from him.
But it could be a new project.
A pet project.
Ha.
The sound came out of his mouth, like it had been jarred from him, a single shard of laughter without so much as a detail connected to it. No context for what had captured his train of thought. No reason for him to be amused. But a second later the freckled face was grinning, Cheshire wide. Jon brought both hands together in a hard clap, the noise sudden and boomingly loud. It made his palms sting, but it was the effect that mattered, and the effect was unsettling as all hell.
"Thank you for coming all this waaaay, Simon." He sing-songed, as though correcting the fairy's greeting, which really had been less than sparkling. As dead and flat as his eyes had been just a second ago, there flashed in the deep blues a kind of manic energy as he moved closer. He had almost a foot on the fairy, and it was a simple thing to stride across the concrete floor. A bit more odd was how he answered himself, continuing the conversation as though it were just par for the course. "Oh, Ticky-Tack, did I interrupt your beauty sleep?"
And right back to the voice he'd used to narrate Noel-- a posh, slightly sneering tone that was all uppercrust disdain.
"You know very well that you did, you monster, because you've come upon me in my dressing gown!"
Sweats and tanktop. But Jon had never been overly troubled by the reality of a situation in his life. A possible side-effect of altering the perceptions of others to fit the picture he wanted to paint. Noel was the only exception, but it didn't mean that the psychic behaved in a way that even approached normalcy in the fairy's presence. On the contrary, it sometimes seemed that because the older man knew who he was, the copper-haired miscreant didn't put for the effort of a facade at all, and just ricocheted madly from one train of thought to the next.
"And what a lovely gown it is. Pink suits you. The ruffles are a nice touch. Really brings out the bags under your eyes and where is the werewolf?"
(( I take all the blame for this, and I am sorry. ))
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
══════════════════════YOUR TEARS ARE ALL THE PAY I'LL EVER NEED══════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Jun 27, 2017 5:28 am
T a c k s
Tacks had never been like his brother. Leon was perpetually blind to what was going on around him. It made him stumble blindly into social situations and make a fool of himself. Well, it ought to have, at least. Usually the people around them were charmed by his bumbling idiocy. Like watching a kitten with brain damage bump into corners, what should have been a frustrating display was instead met with protectiveness and choruses of "D'awwww"'s from those around them. Well. That was a rant for another time. The point was, he wasn't blind to the strange way Jons eyes wandered, here then there, focused and then far away. Here and there, never lingering anywhere too long. 'What, no kiss?' he asked. Hah. The fairys eyes narrowed at that little comment. Like hell did he want the same fate as the rest of the fools who the psychic laid lips on, his bumbling brother included. He always wondered about that, in the back of his mind. But, again, that was in the past, and the present was what concerned him.
"Yes, ha ha, very funny, Jon." He rolled his eyes at the little charade the mage played out. Maybe that was just the norm for a man who literally changed reality to suit his needs. Quietly, the fae glanced down to make sure that he wasn't wearing a pink ruffly nightgown all of a sudden, as if it were some sort of prank the mage would pull with him. He shook his head, pushing messy silver white hair back and out of tired, annoyed gold eyes. "Or, what, Simon now?" He canted his chin westward, waving for the mage to follow him as the fae plodded along barefoot across the concrete floor.
"He's in one of the old lockdowns, near the back. I can't let the damn thing out because he just won't listen." He hissed, voice dripping with venomous frustration, the kind of infuriation that came with trying to solve the same puzzle a hundred times, only to hit the same road block each time. And he'd been chewing on this puzzle for a month. It showed in the tired lines under his eyes, and the ashy pallor of his cheeks as he walked. He stretched his arms over his head as he went, slowly going about the motions of waking up. "I tried to have Nero teach him some manners, but the mutt just broke his damn wrist. I've tried starving him, scaring him, bargaining with him, everything! I'm at my wits end. I'm starting to think it might be better just to use him as bait and be done with it..." But even saying it out loud, it was obvious that the fairy didn't like the idea one bit. It was his pride. Everything was a game, and he hated to lose. Much less a game of stubbornness. That was practically his forte.
He led the freckled psychic to the single locked door. It was an old fashioned lockdown room, with thick (mostly) soundproofed walls. Back in the day they used enchantments to keep the werewolves anguished howling muted, and those had long since work off. These days Yunos swearing and barking could be heard within the warehouse if he was determined enough, but at least it couldn't be heard outside their walls. Still, it was damn annoying when Tacks was trying to sleep. The full moon was coming up soon, and the brat got more loud and terrible with each passing day. Tacks stopped at the door, an intimidating slab of solid, burnished metal, secured with heavy bolts. There was a single, barred slat on the doors face, covered and latched, which the fairy easily undid, opening the small rectangular port and waving a hand for the mage to peer in and take a look at his issue.
Inside the room, Yuno had been watching the door intently, listening to them men approach. He'd been pacing back and fourth madly. The starvation, in conjunction with the moon growing fuller each night, had whittled him down to a thin, anxious restlessness at all hours. He'd taken to screaming his lungs out and swearing and snapping at random hours. Partially, it was to let off some steam in the only way he could. And, partly, he knew it annoyed the fairy. As the fae opened the little viewing port, he fixed his yellow eyes on the two of them through it. His eyes were sharp, fierce, full of hunger, desperation, and razor sharp intent. It was the way a starving predator looked when it was sizing up risky prey, deciding how desperate it really was. Unconsciously, his upper lip curled some, showing teeth. Being locked up in a mostly empty room for a month did wonders for reducing a person (particularly an animalistic race) down to his basest instincts. So he snarled, low and threatening, at this second, new intruder. Tacks, unimpressed with the display, simply shook his head. "See? This is what I've been dealing with. Every damn day with this brat. And don't even get me started on the noise."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 29, 2017 8:28 am
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
═════════════════════════IT'S SO EASY WHEN YOU'RE EVIL═════════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
The fairy wasn't playing the game right. He knew it as soon as the little peephole opened and the dog inside started snarling, all bared teeth and narrowed eyes. If Jon knew anything, he knew dolls. Knew how to fold them into other, more pleasant, shapes that suited him better and amused him more. Ticky-tack looked like a mother with a fussy newborn-- and Oh, he'd played that game before, hadn't he? How long could a doll not sleep? How long could he keep convincing her that the infant was crying when it wasn't? Honey, come back to bed. As soon as she'd get up, she'd find the little parasite quiet and snoozing happilly. Her own rest broken. Everything. She'd given up everything to make this tiny sack of pink skin. Kicking feet. Tiny teeth poking through bloodred gums, gnaw-gnaw-gnawing at tender nipples because it always wanted something else from her, didn't it? It was never enough. Not enough to surrender her body for nine months, not enough to balloon out with aches and cravings and the pure unadulterated suffering of a birth. No, now she was a milk cow, and the little thing, the little vampire, always sucking more out of her, til it bloated up like a tick. Til it rolled over in its warm little blanket, and let out a tiny burp, and went to ******** sleep. Like she couldn't get. Like she'd never get again. Because every time she laid down, every time her eyes closed, every time she slipped deep under, the screaming would start. Until she was hollow-eyed and hysterical. And Jon would say, You lay down-- I'll take him. She was so grateful for the help, so worshipful, so adoring. Crying over it. Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you. I just need a little help. I just need a little sleep. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
And she'd lay down. And the second she closed her eyes. Screaming. Even with the infant in Jon's arms, even with the image right in front of her eyes, where she could see it. Happy baby, sleepy baby, Z-Z-Z. She'd stumble stupidly back to her bed and collapse, just to restart the cycle all over again. It took three weeks before she finally strangled the kid. After that, she was pretty boring.
Tacks had managed to last longer than that, which was interesting. Of course, maybe that had something to do with the fact that a mostly-grown werewolf was a lot harder to snuff than some puny mage-let.
"Of course he's loud! He's starving to death in a dark closet. Or maybe he isn't." That little trill of a laugh again, and the psychic closed the viewing hole with a clang, just to pull it open again. Open and shut, open and shut, filling the small space with the loud, echoing sound of metal on metal. When he finally stopped, the port was open again, and he favored the boy behind it with a broad smile, freckled cheeks rounding slightly. The expression didn't quite get to his eyes. "Schrodinger's wolf, do you know what an oubliette is?"
It was a companionable enough question, but rhetorical, because a moment later Jon mused, scratching at the beard along his chin, "From the French, "oublier." To leave. To neglect. To bury. To forget." All of the hail-fellow-well-met went out of his voice on that last word, turning it into a twist of a particularly sharp knife. Perhaps the most unsettling thing wasn't even his tone, as much as the way his expression never changed. The mage was still smiling, still utterly nonthreatening with his mess of half-dreaded hair and big, blue eyes. He looked like he'd walked off of a beach somewhere after surfin' some totally righteous swells, dude. Who could possibly be intimidated by that? But there was an assuredness to Jon. A take-no-prisoners-- Ha!-- confidence that said some caged up werewolf wasn't an issue for him.
"This." The psychic tapped at the door with one finger, "Is your oubliette. And if you are a very good puppy, and eat your veggies and stay in school and don't do drugs, one day you'll be allowed to leave it. Do all kinds of fun things. Chase cars. Play fetch. Rip other, lesser dogs apart and ******** their corpses. THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS!"
If possible, the grin stretched wider. It looked like it might just zipper all the way around to the back, and leave the top of Jon's head lolling off. But just as that was starting to become a concern, the smile winked out like a light. A shift so abrupt as to be thoroughly off-putting. Because if anyone in the room had been stupid enough to think that the psychic's expressions were, on any level, genuine, then they couldn't delude themselves anymore. And like the look on his face, the tone of his voice flattened out. No more jokes.
"If you are bad. If you do not listen. If you make noise. Je t'oublie ici." He doesn't bother to translate the words. He pushes them through the door. Sending his own thoughts has never been the problem for Jon. Not when he focuses. It's other people's minds he can't hear without touching them. No, it's simple enough to let the meaning rebound inside the teenager's head. I forget you here. I leave you here. I bury you here. "And you will die slowly. And any unfortunate soul that ever thought to look for you will never see you again. Am I understood?"
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
══════════════════════YOUR TEARS ARE ALL THE PAY I'LL EVER NEED══════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Jun 29, 2017 1:10 pm
Yuno wasn't sure what to make of the newcomer peering at him through the door. He'd been expecting some sort of grim reaper executioner type. Some new hammer for the fairy to bring down on him to try and force him to behave. But instead what he got was this... weird, smiley, freckeldy putz. Neither of the men were particularly intimidating, but that certainly hadn't stopped Tacks from making his life a living hell. So despite how goofy the new man looked, Yuno kept on his guard, kept his eyes on the stranger and his movements, as if expecting a gout of flame or a bolt of electricity to strike him down. That was what he was expecting next. Someone to use some kind of magic to hurt him. Tacks had been trying to force him, so naturally, escalated force was to be expected. He wasn't like his dad. Big, strong father, a veritable wall. People trying to hurt the caim were like moths bumping into a lightbulb. tink tink. So tiny and ineffectual, the man never even blinked at them. Yuno wished he could be half as solid and unmoving as the man, now. His dad was always so calm and composed. He had no idea how he did it. Even when Yuno snapped and yelled at him, he never raised his hands in anger, never signed out curses at him. He'd just asked him why he felt that way, what was bothering him, and did he want to talk about it? He'd started to wonder if he was even capable of real anger. Sometimes it frustrated the young werewolf. But his father wasn't there, couldn't be the perfect unmoving wall to defend him from the new stranger and whatever tricks he had up his sleeve. So Yuno had to be the wall instead. God help him.
"Gh-!" The werewolf winced at the loud, repeated metal clashing in the small chamber, ringing loud and painful in his very sensitive ears. He resisted the urge to cover them, not wanting to let the men on the other side of the door know how much the loud screeching and clanging bothered him, because then they'd never stop. Like obnoxious toddlers, he was certain they'd just repeat it over and over. Like a shitty joke or pun. Ugh. Yuno hated puns. Almost as much as he hated the sound of that loud metallic clash in his ears over and over. His head was practically spinning by the time the dreadlocked newcomer stopped, the sound still ringing in his head.
"Schrodinger's wolf, do you know what an oubliette is?"
Yuno furrowed his brow, understanding neither the reference nor the word. Oubliette? It just sounded like gibberish. But even as he wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth to snark at him, the redhead was continuing, going on whether the werewolf knew the answer of not. Something about the stranger was off putting. Maybe it was simply Yunos animal instinct, but watching the man, hearing his voice, watching his wide, happy, soulless grin, made the hairs on his neck stand up, hackles raised. Something wasn't right about him, he just couldn't place what. His instincts put him on edge, like a horse around a snake. They told him 'This is dangerous, stay away from it.' Not that he had much choice in the matter. He'd been in a dangerous position for weeks. It must have been getting close to a month, because he could feel that tension in his muscles building up again, the hunger in his belly, the rage. Even with barely enough food to eat, he wanted to move, to bite, to tear. The lack of stimulation was maddening. He'd tried working out, but without food everything burned and made his muscles over sensitive and sore. He'd started trying to control his own body better as a way to occupy his mind and energy. He could hardly meditate anymore, after all. He'd remembered what some of the lycans who came to visit his father told him, abut how it felt to shift. Like a dream that you woke up to and it was real. It wasn't creating, it was remembering. He tried to remember how it felt, the muzzle, the paws, the teeth...
"From the French, "oublier." To leave. To neglect. To bury. To forget."
Yuno narrowed his eyes, watching him. He didn't miss the marked shift in tone. It was completely off kilter, like a sudden shift in the gait of an animal that shouldn't have been feasible. Suddenly three legs instead of four, with no break in stride. It was incredibly off putting. But Yuno was already getting the gist of what he was getting at. Next was the bargaining, just like Tacks had been doing. If you're good, x. If you're bad, you'll die in here. Same as day one.
"-one day you'll be allowed to leave it. Do all kinds of fun things. Chase cars. Play fetch. Rip other, lesser dogs apart and ******** their corpses."
That made his eyes go wide, shocked. He'd glared, impassive, through the list of stupid dog activities, annoyed at worst, but little else. But one of those things was not like the others, and the imagery startled Yuno. Who the ******** said something like that? The idea made him balk. Rip people apart and ******** the corpse? Who the ******** said things like that!? Who the ******** thought of things like that?! Clearly disgusted, Yuno made a face at him, more put off by the minute, leaning back against the far wall, as far from the door as he could manage. Something was very, very wrong with this guy. Both of them, of course. But especially this one.
"Je t'oublie ici."
Yuno cocked his head, furrowing his brow, not understanding what it meant. He heard Tacks going off in angry french sometimes, but that wasn't one he'd heard or understood. But before he could get too far with his train of thought, it was interrupted. He practically jumped at it, the sound of someone elses voice inside of his head. It was deeply, profoundly disturbing, on a level that he wouldn't ever be able to articulate. Someone in his head. Uninvited, impossible to silence or stop, even if he put his hands over his ears. It was an incredible, terrifying violation. So simple, in and of itself. Just explaining what the words meant. But also telling him that he could be there, in between his ears, whenever he pleased, and there was literally no defense Yuno had for it. He could reach inside of him whenever he wanted, and the thought was legitimately terrifying. Startled and a little panicked, the werewolfs expression likely gave his feelings away. He'd never dealt with a psychic before.
"Am I understood?"
But the fear was quickly overridden by Yunos primary, predominant emotion - rage. Fueled in part by the waxing moon no doubt. The fact that this man was able to make him afraid at all only served to heighten his anger, his intense, burning hatred for all things, but especially him, in that moment. So he narrowed his eyes again, fixing them steady on the redhead and mustering all the venom that a fifteen year old could manage to spit them into his words.
Outside the cell, Tacks shook his head, annoyed. He didn't speak, only waved at the door and giving Jon a 'you see this s**t? This is what I'm talking about' look.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun Aug 13, 2017 9:39 am
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
═════════════════════════IT'S SO EASY WHEN YOU'RE EVIL═════════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Fear wasn't a thing that Jon felt, at least in the traditional sense. The stimuli that kicked the fight-or-flight response into gear for other living creatures usually took on different roles in the mind of the psychic mage. He wasn't aware that this could work to his detriment. Jon didn't even realize that he didn't understand fear, or that fear could be a healthy thing. Like Matthew's daughter hiding behind that livingroom chair, he could recognize the signs of someone being afraid; had used it to his own advantage a thousand times, either by erasing the memory of a doll's cause for worry, or by looping it inside their head, to be played over and over again in response to certain actions. But empathizing was impossible. He'd never felt it himself. It was even possible that he couldn't. The few instances in his life where the feeling should have presented itself triggered altogether different responses. Jon knew how to be angry, or indignant. Particularly when the actions of lesser creatures infringed on his right as their supreme manipulator. He hated a plan to go awry, hated not getting his way, but he'd never yet come into a set of circumstances that he couldn't twist-- one way or another-- to his own benefit, eventually. So when the child behind the metal door decided not to play nicely-- decided, in fact, to be a rancid little c**t, after all the warning Jon had so thoughtfully and kindly given him--
"Leave him in there until he's hungry enough to eat his own s**t."
The words were strangely pleasant, at least in their tone. The mage said it the way someone else might enthuse that Delilah simply must come to their garden party. The weather is so fine, and everything is in bloom. There will be the very best canapes.
Except that Jon, smiling as broad as a crocodile, leaned forward toward the slim viewing window, blue eyes brightly smiling in his harmless, freckled face. Like the werewolf in the cell couldn't possibly be of any consequence to him. What was the little b***h going to do? Try to get an arm through to choke him with? Oh, that would be a sad mistake. The contact would serve the psychic far better than the boy could possibly be aware. And Jon, never having suffered any substantial injury, believing wholly in his own godlike power over others, didn't honestly believe that he could die. That was just a thing dolls did when they got boring, and Jon was never going to do that.
"What you do, ticky-Tack, is you send one of our boys--" The fairy's current ringers, of course, being their shared property, as far as the mage was concerned. Tacks wouldn't have them if Jon didn't tweak their obedience and memories. In that light, they were presents, and the gambler should be grateful that the psychic bothered to favor him that much at all. "Down to the slumrat nest this little c**t comes from."
Still, that cheery tone, absent of any kind of caution. His face, so close to the open slat in the door. He was speaking to the fairy beside and behind him, but that merry, dancing gaze never left the trapped werewolf. Looking at the boy, it was possible that his current squalor was just the result of being kept prisoner in a strange, dirty place by people whose faces he tried to break when they came in to feed him. Sure. But the posturing, going right from that pleasing flicker of panic into an attempt at defiance-- that was all lowborn impoverished pride. Dolls with money and connections offered those things up almost immediately. They believed in negotiating, in dealing, because they had something to barter that might get them off the hook. Jon hoped the kid never planned on playing poker, because it was easy enough to see: he had nothin'.
"And what they do.. is they ask around for our puppydog. Have you seen Spot? He's about yea-high, dreads, pissy attitude. Even this kid will have somebody who says, Wait, how do you know a*****e Shitforbrains?"
His hands came together in a loud, booming clap. It was a sound he liked, if the grin on his face was any indication. But the thing about Jon-- about Simon-- about Matthew-- was that he only liked things for a Limited Time. His tone shifted again, all the happyfuntimes running out of it. Back and forth, back and forth, the odd pendulum of the psychic's visible mood.
"And that's the one you scoop up. Put them in a nice room right down this hall, where they can yell nice chats to one another. And every time puppy pisses the carpet, it's his little friend that gets their nose rubbed in it."
A beat later, and his face lit up again, turning slightly to look at the fairy.
"Ooh! Or family! Family is good. Nero can still play all kinds of games with a broken wrist!"
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
══════════════════════YOUR TEARS ARE ALL THE PAY I'LL EVER NEED══════════════════════
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Aug 14, 2017 6:11 am
"Kill him."
Yuno was exhausted. He was hungry. He was frightened. But more than any of these things, he was angry. The anger was something ever present in his life, always in the back of his mind. Sometimes it was distant and quiet, and other times it was loud, pulsing with every beat of his heart running heat through his veins. Sometimes it felt like all he had in his existence was anger and anger alone. Anger that his dad just couldn't understand, no matter how many feeble attempts he made. And see, the thing was, he felt that kind of anger all the time, without any real reason to be angry. His blood boiled when his pencil lead broke in the middle of him writing song lyrics. He nearly broke his best friends fingers when he lost a game they'd been playing out on the street. He snapped a chair leg when his dad got onto him for not doing his chores. The anger just found things to lash out at, looked for reasons to boil over and rip through the surface, even on good days, when he wasn't feeling the pull of the moon. Honestly, living with his dad, the patron saint of god damn patience and pacifism, he'd had very few reasons in his life to be really, truly angry. Weeks ago when he'd run out of the house, his anger had been a culmination of every annoyance and injustice that his dad had plagued his life with since the day he was born. That anger had been fifteen years in the making.
"Kill him."
That anger paled in comparison to this anger.
Because this anger was being fed, stoked by every word that tumbled out of the doofy redheads motormouth, each worse than the last. The threats of further starvation were annoying, but that was nothing he couldn't handle. He'd already bested the little albino shitlord on that, and he'd keep doing it. That, or die of stubbornness. Frankly, that seemed like a good way to go. Or maybe the real, true fear of death just couldn't be truly appreciated by a teenager who had never known it in his life, not really. But no, the psychic wonder just had to go on, had to try and intimidate Yuno with all of his threatening banter with Tacks. Strike one was calling him a slumrat. God he ******** hated it when people called him that, because it was always some snooty uptowner who didn't know his a** from a hole in the ground, talking like he was somehow so much better than him just because he was born three miles north. His dad always told him that it was more of a reflection on the person saying it than it was on him or Yuno, but what the young werewolf got from that was that those asswads deserved to get their asses kicked in, more than most. Then, he called him a puppydog. A minor annoyance, but that was rapidly piled up with the implication that hardly anyone knew or cared about him. That part stung because it was true. Yuno had only one good friend, his dad, and his grandfather, and one of those was dead. His dad seemed of the opinion that he needed to be sequestered away from everyone else, like he was some kind of freak. Each new jab and insult stoked a fire in the werewolfs gut that had his irises widening and his lips curing back to show his teeth. His rage had never been so justified, so vindicated, so necessary. He could feel that pull vibrating all the way down to his bones, amplified ten times over by the draw of the nearly full moon overhead. What had the old lycan said? Like trying to remember a dream. And Yuno could remember so many of the dreams, laying across his fathers chest, breathing slow and steady. Big paws, long claws, wide snout full of teeth. He could envision it so clearly then that it was almost startling. He could do it, take that smug skull between his jaws and crush it. It'd be like biting into a particularly ripe grape. And he'd get to feel those bones crunching, and the blood pour hot through his teeth and down his chin....
"KILL him!!"
He was threatening what few friends he had. Threatening to drag them into this hellhole. Not that any friends of his would be caught so easily as he was, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he'd sooner drag the ******** whole body through that little slat in the door before he'd let them even think of entertaining the idea... Yuno hadn't noticed that he'd taken his back off of the wall and started slowly moving closer to the door. His eyes were locked on the mage, and when he flared his nostrils he could smell him, smell how warm he was, all hot flesh and blood and bone. Like remembering a dream. He couldn't remember the last time he transformed, but he had the vague impressions of feelings. He stalked closer to the door, eyes locked on the mage, who was so wrapped up in telling the fairy what he should do that he couldn't be bothered to heed anything Yuno might do. But he could feel the humming in his bones, the moon pulling him, the madness uncoiling in him, finally given a good reason to snap, to burn. This guy just had no idea.
And then he said the 'f-word.' Family.
Yuno had as much family as he had friends. That is, he had one, singular person. His dad was all that he had left, with his grandfather gone. His dad, who probably wouldn't raise a hand to someone even if they were setting him on fire. His dad, who would probably ask Nero if he wanted to talk about his ******** feelings when the shapeshifter came in and tried to shank him. His dad was nothing but a seven foot tall sheep. He'd stand there and let the world eat him. But Yuno wouldn't let him. No, not this. He'd crunch the ******** head apart right there, right then, because he could, and he knew it. He felt it in his blood and in his bones, and in the rhythm picking up a frantic pitch in his head.
"Kill him. Kill him! Kill Him!! KILL HIM KILL HIM KILL KILL RIP TEAR PULL KILL-"
The words melted together into a senseless rage in his head. If Tacks had been looking at Yuno, he would have recognized the expression and drawn back. If the mage had any lick of instinct in his body, he would have drawn away. But these were not the things that happened.
What happened was, Yuno drew so close to the door he could probably lean in and give the mage a little peck on the cheek through the open slat of the door. But a peck on the cheek was not what he gave the mage. It happened in an instant, and it was something Yuno would likely never be able to replicate. It felt like all of the bones in his face snapping one after the other, all in an instant. Like tendons snapping and flesh pulling and the worse ******** pain he could think of screaming through his brain, through his teeth, through his eyes, through his nose, but it didn't matter. The pain didn't matter as long as he could get blood. His snout snapped through the open slot of the door as quick as a heartbeat, suddenly long teeth in a suddenly long jaw, for an instant stretched out, deformed and furless, something that didn't belong on a boys face. Later, Tacks would recall the single half of an instant where he saw it. Jaws stretched wide open towards Jons face, while the mage was still looking at him, unaware. And in the next instant, those jaws snapped closed. Yuno tore his head to one side, tasting what he was after - blood.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
