#moonshadcws

“You know, I’ve heard stories about lycanthropes. Like, how you guys think you’re top of the line because you can shapeshift. But see, that doesn’t really make much sense now, does it? Isn’t it a curse? PLEASE tell me you think that whole story is just to protect your sad diseased minds from the prospect of facing the reality of your situation!”

               Faith grinned and nodded, “They're no Skid Row, but they’re not bad either.” At the suggestion of joining in on the dancing, she was up on her feet in seconds. “Thought you’d never ask, handsome,” she hummed grabbing her beer and taking another drink before grabbing his hand and tugging him along with her. She loved dancing, was always a way to get rid of pent energy that she hadn’t burned off slaying or just had too much of it.

       Walking into the room, she looked around at the various posters of different bands that lined the walls. Some she knew while other’s she had no clue of. Dark eyes soon began to scan the rest of the room until they landed on a woman, one she hoped was the gal she was sent to find, standing at the stage. Walking further into the room, the slayer came to a stop as she admired the guitar--she’d always wanted to learn but never had the time or patience.

       “You Eriks?” Faith asked as she looked up at the woman, brow slightly arched as she waited for an answer. Giles could have came himself but he was dealing with the heavier shit that revolved around the case; a few slayers were dropping dead and they didn’t know why. “Rupert Giles sent me...don’t know if that name rings any bells or not.”

“Eeeuygh –” She shuddered in revulsion at the tacky sticky sensation and turned her head to the side. Spitting until her saliva was no longer pink. Her shirt (such as remained) was so sodden with blood it had actually started to dry against her skin. 

There’s a memory she didn’t want back. 

“It feels fuckin’ gross.” She pulled at one of her braids and frowned at the crunchy, hardening texture. “Motherfucker –” she bit out. “I don’t even fuckin’ remember ‘alf th’ fuckers ‘at bit the dust. Fuck’s the point?”

She gave up trying to brush gore off her – all she was managing to do was smear it. Instead, she finally stood, staggered. Her legs felt jointed wrong. Her teeth ached, seemed too small, too flat. 

oh, man … gren’s a largely physical person as it is; he’s never been big on trying to verbalize shit because he feels like he always fucks it up, and it takes a little while for him to be comfortable putting words to his feelings – actions always come first.

if he likes you, though, and you KNOW he likes you – in ANY way; familial, platonic, etc. – the main three things he’ll do to prove that to you can be chalked down to:

sharing his food.  this one is huge for him, because his species is very territorial and, due to the population’s consistently tiny numbers and abundance of natural competition, has a heightened ‘resource preservation’ instinct … if he gives you food, he really gives a shit about you. it’s probably the most direct way he can express that he cares about whether or not you survive.

bringing gifts.  they aren’t always grand, but they’re very specific to who you are and what you like. no, he probably won’t be able to give anybody expensive jewelry, or any abundance of cash, or anything with high monetary value at all … but if he goes thrifting and comes back with a worn shirt or a weird doll that ‘reminded him of you,’ you can be assured that he pays attention to the parts of you that you probably don’t even know about, yourself, & that he remembers all your little off-handed comments about shit, and draws on them, and actively brings you to mind even when he’s away from you … & what that all means is that he loves you to bits.

Kidnapped/Imprisoned Starter Sentences

       At first, he paced.       Frustration turned into restlessness as he paced alongside the cramped cell, cursing under his breath. How much of an idiot he was. How he allowed his emotions to run high, throwing himself into this mess. Locked and caged, left to rot.       Then, he tried his damnedest to escape.       With the physical limitations the wolf suffered from, lockpicking was virtually impossible though he still tried. When it unsurprisingly failed, the wolf’s anger reared it’s head, returning to the same strength when he was first imprisoned days ago. All sense of logic fled him, acting purely on rage and desperation as he began to ram his body against the bars, trying anything he could to try and bust the bars. An endless cycle - ram, step back, repeat. Ram, step back, repeat. It was only when he was left more bruised, bloodied, and tired did he finally give up, retreating to the back of the cell, laying on his side, too tired to bother to disguise himself

       The sounds of the door opening and the flood of light coming into the hall of cells from the other room caused Tsume to open his eyes briefly. Figuring it was just a guard throwing another poor bastard in a cell. Tsume closed his eyes as he rested in the corner of his cell where he had backed himself into. However, no sounds of a guard’s heavy footsteps, no person   (  Or wolf  )  shouting for their freedom, only soft footsteps echoing against the stone and then a voice, calling for him from outside his cell.

       "What..?“

       He murmured under his breath at the uncannily familiar voice, though a name evaded him. Curiosity got the best of him as he forced his eyes open as glanced over at the voice. It was the woman, the one he briefly ran into twice back in Freeze City. He didn’t think he never caught her name.