little harsh, pure, I wouldn't wish that on anyone...
“I’m not interested in being gentle or mild to this miserable thing that calls itself a human being with feelings.”
bleachedpages:
For all the useless waste of air the man could put himself out to be, now was when he used his smarts the most. Of course, it was to build him up, all while showing off all his little happy little tricks.The boasting of his growing family was to draw him out, like any good bait. It was true what Emmet had said. Strung himself out just to save those blood sucking parasites, even refused to kill on the chance that he might save them- Artemis was proof of that much, at least hadn’t turned out so badly. After all this work to do better by the world, there at least was some result, some happiness, a few lives touched by his hand. Still, forgiveness felt a mile away over hills and stretches of grudges still built up. It’d been good to get out the energy, to exert himself and not worry about the consequences. “ You’re right. I don’t have a reason.” It would easy to make one up on the spot. Mercy was still in him, now, as he deposited a small bottle on the ground next to him, crouching to where the man’s face was to hand him the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “ Don’t make a habit of this.”
“No harm in... Drinkin’ or smokin’... If you don’t do it on the reg, preacher.” His panting is growing labored. His face is starting to push outwards, the burgeoning structure of a snout, nostrils growing folds and tip of his nose turning a wet black. “I know I cleverly beguiled you an’ all that, but t’be honest, this was just a bit self-serving.”
Amusement clouded his eyes, which are starting to look distinctly more wolfish. He’s having difficulty with pronunciation- a rasp in his throat and lisps more than slurring. “Nee’ed t’see how much of the fuck I could get bea’en out of me ‘fore the wolf comes out t’play. Knew y’could take it. Immortal, teleport-y, all that. You wor’ed off stress, I got a stress-test. Win win.”
A soft groan from Emmet, and he hastily kicks off his boots before the baseball-gloved sized hind paws sprouting from his feet can rip them open.
“Thin’ we might’a done this too la’e, though.” There is some regret. “You know any’hin’ about s’opping a werewol’?”
