#twistedwit

Concern etches his features, settling between dark brows in a distinct crease, stormy gaze studying the Irishman with a blend of worry and fond exasperation. "It's only 10 in the morning, Killian." Pointing out the obvious clearly doesn't have an impact on the younger man, so Guy leans in closer so his words remain solely between the two of them, one hand wrapping around his arm to guide his friend back to his room. "How much have you had to drink?

There's an ache in his bones - a sharp pang of regret that blends seamlessly with the sound of his brother's voice, that choked whisper of truth echoing in a skull that suddenly feels far too light. It's easier like this, he thinks...Easier to break his own heart with a shattered mobile against a hotel wall, to sit on the edge of a bed that's suddenly far too strange and far too wrong, drowning in an oppressive silence that even a blaring television can't pierce.

He should call Liam back, should call his mum .. but early morning on a Tuesday is a terrible time to face one's worst fears so instead he turns to a waiting bottle, fist-like hold around his heart weakening with every swallow.

Killian Jones has always been his father's son.

This he knows. This is familiar, comfortable, a dance of uneven steps and a careful balance that leaves the Irishman looking through shadowed eyes at a world that seems so far away and unimportant. The words are still there (it's not working Killian, the doctor says it's getting worse...) but lulled by the warmth of rum, he listens to them with a detached interest, turning them over in his mind like a child investigating a bug. Everything is far away, a play the world puts on for his benefit, a carefully orchestrated script that Killian watches through shuttered windows... until suddenly there's a strong grip wrapped around his arm and he's forced back to the present, blinking in a hotel hallway that seems far too bright considering the circumstances.

Guy - bloody hell, of course it's Guy - is asking something, steering him down the corridor in a way that's far too gentle for the younger man's tastes. He wants to yell, wants to scream, wants to bash some fucker's bloody face in until his phone rings again, heralding the anxious voice of his father or brother, words tripping over themselves as they explain they'd had it all wrong.

She's fine, they were wrong. They were wrong, they were wrong, they were - Fuck.

"What the fuck do you care, yeah?" His anger bleeds through the slurred words, brows furrowing and teeth grinding together as if instead of a bloody popstar, he's some soldier preparing for a war .. and inside, Killian recoils from it, curls into a ball and hopes the older man will leave him alone, will give him a chance to split apart and not have to worry about losing one of the best things that's ever happened to him. Instinct says to snarl, to bite, to growl, to howl at the bloody damned moon until his fellow bandmate washes his hands of it, muttering about lost causes and the hopeless Irish.. but when he opens his mouth, forget-me-not blues wide and staring as they meet Guy's own, it's a confession that falls between them, a plea for help that he isn't entirely certain is deserved.

ABSOLUTELY YES. HAPPILY.

he’s turned at 14 on a camping trip up in the woods of northern nj.

he absolutely hates full moons if he doesn’t have someone else around to either keep a safe watch on him or go through the change with him.

his wolf form is very shaggy. he’s ended up with a Lot of leaves in his hair the next morning.

he’s part of a local “non-traditional” pack who meets up for brunch twice a month — once just before the moon and once just after. it provides comfort for the wws that crave that connection, it also provides resources to its wws who adhere to more of the “lone wolf” ideal.

we all know hugo can eat — his normal eating is nothing compared to hugo the morning after his change.

his best friend, tony, has known he’s been a werewolf since after hugo’s first change and was the person that helped him get in touch with the local pack.

before he eats anything the next morning, he takes a scalding hot, twenty minute minimum, shower. it just makes him feel better about things, whether or not he necessarily remembers what happened the night before.

❝ 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑔𝑛𝑖𝑧𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑦 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝑏𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑙; 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑, 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑐𝑘 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡ℎ. 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑. ❞