Jacob 'Monster Catnip' Sloper (lopingsloper) wrote in cultureic, @ 2016-10-16 23:26:00 |
|
|||
He was cutting it late again. Pacing as quickly as his injuries let him back and forth around his flat, leaving a string of curses and chaos in his wake, Jacob tried his best to throw together an 'overnight bag' for his turn. But everywhere he turned there seemed to be a clock or a window to remind him just how late it was getting, mocking and distracting him. You're going to fuck up. You're finally going to fuck it all up. Yanking a clean shirt out of his closet with a growl, he froze up when he heard a knock at the door. Padding slowly to the door, his half-packed bag still clutched in one hand, he called out, "Who's there?" It certainly wasn't the pair of Jehovah's Witnesses who'd been canvassing the neighbourhood for the better part of the afternoon. No, in their stead, a couple who looked like they'd detoured from a Metallica concert, the woman studying the building with heavily lined eyes, and a taller male with scars that had healed keloid across a once youthful face. Nervous energy seemed to leave the air vibrating between them, but whether that was because it was nearly dark or because they were merely impatient remained unclear. Regardless, a second knock became a bang as the man slammed his gloved fist against the door. It was the woman who called out, her voice tense: "They said you could help us!" Jacob froze a few feet from the door, eyeing it warily. If it was someone, a were who genuinely needed help-- even as he considered that, he felt a feeling of dread start to creep up his spine. Some primal instinct telling him to turn tail and run. "Who said…?" "Dibble!" The name cracked out against the cool evening air -- a passcode, this, surely. Silence hung in the air as Jacob watched the door, his mind racing. Fenrir knew about Dibble, it could so easily be a trap. It was almost one hundred percent certain that it was a trap. But if there was even a chance-- if there were werewolves who needed help, this close to sundown. Stepping forward, he yanked the door open and peered out into the hallway, "What do you need?" The male was already growling low in his throat, as if something about the sudden waft of air from the inside of the flat disturbed him, but the woman offered a bloodless smile, her grey eyes level with Jacob's. "Your head on a platter, baby boy." And then male werewolf charged at him. Trap. Fuck. Quickly backing up, Jacob grabbed for the door, desperately slamming it, then threw his half-packed bag up at the werewolf's face, trying anything to buy some space-- some time to get enough space between them to do some decent casting. Or to find one of the weapons he kept around his flat. "Fuck!" "Don't give me ideas, lovey." Dry as anything, the woman's voice, and she stepped through the door as though cordially invited, watching as her male companion threw a punch right at Sloper's solar plexus. The imminent moon made her impatient, however, and with a snap of her wand (gnarled, second-hand, pilfered off someone unfortunate enough to have pissed her off months ago), she summoned Jacob's out of his reach. "Do you need this? No, you don't. Richie, let him catch his breath." Doubled over after the punch, Jacob could only grab at thin air as his wand shot into the woman's hand. That-- That was really not good. A thin, panicky voice in his head told him that he was as good as dead without his wand, cold terror gripping at him. "Yeah, Richie," Jacob grunted, "Do what the lady tells you." Straightening up, he tried to think. Mind racing to come up with some kind of solution. Turning on his heels, he dashed for his bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him once he got there. Laughter, belly-deep and raucous, chased the man through the hallway… until the sound abruptly ended. The first thing that struck Fenrir was the smell. A set of werewolves in a confined space before the full moon was upon them rendered the air thick with pheromones and aggression, only it wasn't just Richie and Bea who stunk up the place, it was…. someone else. There was someone else. Another were. Fenrir's upper lip curled as he walked into the flat, tasting the air as his two wolves shrunk back. Likely it was more of Sloper's interventions, the imprint of one of those unfortunate weres he'd been shuttling away to so-called safety. But as he paused by the bedroom door, it wasn't getting any fainter. "You've really pissed off that Avery pup, Sloper." Pacing wildly around his bedroom, desperately searching for anything he could use to fight his attackers off, Jacob froze when he heard that voice echo through the door. Fucking Eric. "Yeah, well, doesn't take much these days…" He shouted back into the flat, crossing over to his wardrobe. Please let it still be there. Please… Jacob almost wept with relief when he saw it-- an old cricket bat that had snapped in two, its end a mess of jagged, sharp wood. Exactly what you'd need if a vampire attacked. It'd probably do for weres, too. Hefting the bat up by its handle, he stepped back over to the door. "You ask me, the kid needs to get the stick out of his ass." "Least of your problems right now, Slopes." Fenrir came to a standstill by the door, head cocked, listening to every creak of the floorboards, every harshly indrawn breath that was just on the other side. "You know what's coming next. Gonna gut you nice and pretty, Jacob." Jacob took a deep breath. Then another. He was as good as dead. ...and there was something almost reassuring in that. As he instinctively felt the sun creep lower and lower on the horizon outside, there was comfort in just giving into the idea that he was going to die. That he didn't need to think about it, because there was no way out of this. He could just give himself over to the wolf baying and snapping inside. So, quickly flicking the lock on the door, he kicked it open with a primal roar and surged out at Fenrir, his bat raised high over his head in both hands, looking to bring it down into whatever part of the other werewolf he could. Fenrir didn't know what he'd been expecting in terms of a response, but the intensity of this one, maybe, wasn't it. The bat caught him on the arm, a solid whack of contact that stunned more than it hurt, the surprise throwing Fenrir back against the wall more than the aching discomfort across muscles and bones which were soon going to tear and snap into a different form anyway. The werewolf bared his teeth at the man in what was meant to be a smile. "Harboring some more werewolves, Jacob? I can smell it all over you." Jacob didn't respond verbally, snarling instead as he edged past the staggered Fenrir. Lifting his bat again, he fixated on that sick, predatory smile, deciding that he wanted to knock a few teeth out of it. Rearing back, he swung again with an angry shout, aiming to hit the were square in the face. He missed. Fenrir ducked, letting the jagged bat collide with the wall as he barrelled himself into Jacob's abdomen, the powerful impetus throwing them both back into Jacob's hastily abandoned bedroom. Back on the floor again, Fenrir rammed one knee into his opponent's belly, while the other pinned down one of his arms, knee-cap to elbow. And then, when his hand spread rough and hard across Sloper's neck, he leaned over, as if to get a full whiff of that fear and rage -- only what he smelled was something else entirely. Something familiar. Savagery and earth and musk. Werewolf. The sun was almost lost to the horizon and the absurdity of the situation was as heady as the realisation of Jacob Sloper's little secret. "You really are a little bitch, Slopes." "T'fuck off of me!" Jacob screamed, the words snarled and slurred into almost-incoherence as he thrashed about frantically, trying to work his way out from underneath Fenrir. Clenching his free hand into a fist, he slammed it into the werewolf's side, and then again. And again and again and again until his knuckles ached. For all that he'd given himself over to the wolf-- to death-- there was still some part of him that couldn't stand the idea of turning in front of Fenrir. Of being so exposed before someone he hated that much. Fenrir took the blows, ignoring each crash of knuckles against bone, because the sun was gone now and his blood was roaring and this wasn't pain, this was an invitation to visit something much, much worse on the wolf-man struggling beneath him. Raking fingers through Jacob's hair allowed him to get a good grip and slam his head back against the floor, once, twice, grunting with effort, pale eyes gone amber and wild as he studied Sloper's features, the shocked rage on his face. Of course he was a goddamn werewolf. Of fucking course. How had they not seen it until now? "Jacob, Jacob." A shake of his head, upper lip curled in a sharp-toothed smile as he heard the low snarls carry over from the next room -- Richie and Bea were feeling the moon now, and soon the transformation would be upon all of them. With a growl, Fenrir cracked Jacob's head down once more time, nails growing ever crueler, bestial things which cut into skin as he leaned low to force the stunned gaze towards him. To look. "We're going to have to teach you the pecking order, Jacob." |