a fresh start with the Easter morn- (closed)

[ployboy]

Who: Kate, Edward, Tim, others
What: an Easter celebration meets the Darkwalker's Revenge
When: on or about Easter, April
Where: Milton Church main chapel, other cabins

Content Warnings: we start with themes of cannibalism; loss of self; predation; stalking; vigilantism; violence; and there will be additional warnings on individual threads

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Not that Tim could let himself fall asleep this time. The twilight of day is a heavy weight on his limbs and lids, but in him thrums the electric anticipation of all-black night. So for now, rest is as hard to come by as sleep. And it wouldn't do to keep idle. With the Aurora coloring the sky above often, Tim had gleaned one bit of information that would have meant nothing to him before:

The calendars, paper and digital, are in agreement that Easter is upon them.

And Kate's probably going to make a big thing out of it.

He won't be jostled awake this time, at least. But Tim figures: well, he can wish her a-- happy Sunday or whatever. Give her something sweet, and then hightail it out of there. Sure. Why not. He has nothing cute for her, but he's got Jolly Ranchers. It'll have to do.

But Kate's not in her room.

He finds her making her way to the old church already. He finds the Lieutenant by her side. And that's never been a sight that he could simply let be.

Kate's Saviors have a frankly deplorable habit... of hurting her.

So Tim, a shadow and as silent as one, follows. He has a promise to keep.

Comments

for March-

[ployboy]

A wolf's run is effortless, formidable. A wolf's run is supposed to be those things. The night is calm, the moon is heavy with so much light; Tim's run is clumsy, staggering, desperate. He's hot. Maw open, he's gagging on the bitter cold air, it feels, more often than not. The stillness of peace is repulsive and stagnant instead of refreshing. In a fur coat, he feels hot.

It's nauseating.

Tim is scratching at the front door before he even wonders whose door. Before he can even question when it happened; like finding himself putting down the gun and then finding himself crashing into hard floor with three sets of hard eyes turned to him, as if he was the monster, Tim can't pinpoint the moment it happened.

It just is.

There's a wolf howling. Something thick and shattered and wet. There's a wolf with a man's blood on his nose and lips and tongue and paws and eyelashes. Redbrown and black and leggy and juvenile and thin and unsteady. Tim scratches on March's front door because he just doesn't know what else to do.

He's never done this before.

[questioningmermaids]

Three things are universal constants: one, March craves a cigarette. Two, he hates Canada, and three: Tim is just sometimes going to show up unannounced.

In a weird way, it's something March digs. It's jarring, it sucks being responsible, but Tim is firmly on the list of people the PI would vehemently defend no matter what and it's better Tim vents or whatever he needs to do to him instead of doing off and doing something stupid.

What catches him off guard is the fact that he's a goddamn wolf. March hears the scratching, immediately assumes the Darkwalker is politely knocking so as to come kill him, and promptly grabs the nearest weapon-shaped object next to him. Once the door opens and he finds a wolf--clearly one that's a human in disguise--he lowers the large fire poker. It's not until he gets a good look that he knows who it is. Slight concern begins to creep over him, eyeing the blood.

Tim's here, great. Tim's transformed and bloody, not so great. When the fuck did he get wolf powers? How? It is Tim, right? Sheer confusion overtakes concern. The fact that it's Tim is half process of elimination and half gut feeling, because there isn't a single person here that pulls this sort of shit.

"Good boy," he says it regardless of the truth behind the words, not bothering to hide the mild concern as he opens the door all the way through.

"What the fuck?"

[ployboy]

His heart's in his throat when he sees that weapon, metal and sharp and meant for him. And it's not fear that makes Tim recoil- flinch in the unnervingly quick way a dog does, but it happens and his ears, again, are flat. His tail tucks in between his legs and, for the first time, one paw lifting in a plea and licking at his lips though he doesn't want to taste the blood, Tim feels-- disgusting. His breath is stuck where his heart is; he hears himself force in a horrid, grating rasp.

Good boy.

And Tim doesn't get it.

He thinks, he just never will.

Nothing good is met by so much doubt at the door.

His tail wags. Furious, anguished, devastated. Hopeful.

Tim feels absolutely disgusting.

The fur is too hot, even the thinned and mangled mane. He is caked in blood. He feels it coagulated in the very roof of his very long mouth. Behind his teeth. He smells it.

He smells smoke and the pungent medicinal tell of swill.

He smells something like-- home.

Tim runs in. His hip clips the frame of the door as he shoots inward. He's made a beeline for the bathroom, a bull in a china shop. As he hops in the tub- he slips, tangles in the ancient shower lining. The wolf yelps again-- rarely, but not never, has he ever made such a fucking mess.