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Lone Wolf of Harran

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Dying Light

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୧╏ ~ ᴥ ~ ╏୨

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Babar Kizil was full of shit.

Literally, since he smelled like it (When’d he last had a shower? Before the first man had chomped down on another man?), and figuratively. Because, ya know, garlic? Cinnamon? Wolfsbane?

Kyle winced. At least the idiot had no clue whatsoever what wolfsbane really looked like. Whatever purple flower he’d found was not, in fact, wolfsbane and so it wasn’t about to poison him. Taste like shit? Probably, though Jesus Christ in a rickety rowboat, what a tool.

Maybe he should have said something. Anything. Whack the weirdo over the head and carry him to the Tower, but whatever. Instead, Kyle watched (in absolute disgust, you better fucking believe it) as Babar had himself a spoonful of cinnamon powder to dust down the, air-quotes open, wolfsbane, air-quotes closed. And promptly almost choked on the lot, right before he declared himself cured.

Cured of being a werewolf.

Yeah. Right. Kyle huffed. Scratched at the seat of his jeans, because they were getting itchy with how hot it was here and he collected itchy spots in all the places he really didn’t need them.

So— yeah— Babar Kizil was totally full of shit.

That wasn’t how this worked.

Kyle would know.

He spent the tail end of the day definitely not eating cinnamon, but being arguably useful. The kind of useful that left him itching worse, sweating worse, and longing for nightfall. Which, by the by, really confused people. 'You got a death wish, Kyle?' they'd ask. 'You are absolutely unhinged, bro,'  they'd say. 'Bro, where you going, bro?' Etc. Etc. Etc. All because he didn't bother returning to the Tower and snore the hours away until the sun came back up and the creepy crawlies returned to their cesspits for nests. 

No, Kyle didn’t need the Tower. He had a place of his own. Not because he didn't like sharing. He was cool with sharing, in general, but maybe not this. Not the place where— aaaah— the pants came off. 

Shit that felt good, he thought, hobbled on one leg, shook the other out of his jeans, and then repeated the motion with his second leg until he could fling the dirty (very, very, very dirty) jeans off into the distance with one last jerk of a leg. It landed in a pile in the corner, right on top of the already discarded (and really soaked) shirt, his belt, and shoes and the socks stuffed into said shoes.  

The boxers he kept on. Always did, because excuse me, he wasn’t a barbarian going streaking through the streets. Just a werewolf, and yes, werewolves have manners, shut up. No fucking way he’d be airing his nuts in the open, no matter how slim the chance of anyone catching a look.

To be fair, it’d taken him forever to find the perfect brand and fit, ones that didn’t come off or rip, but stayed on no matter how intense the night. And hoo boy, did his nights usually get intense. Yeah, often like that, exactly like that, but then he didn’t need the boxers, okay?

But there were also nights like these.

When Kyle had signed up for Harran, he’d expected zombies, and he’d expected lots of shit work. He’d not expected Rais and he’d not expected to get bitten, and he’d definitely not expected to find himself loving every second past nightfall.

It’d been— what— how long? Good as forever? Yeah, that was about right. It’d been good as forever since he’d last got to run in a city. Properly run. Run how he’d been built to run, with the wind whistling by his ears and catching on fur.

Kyle jogged on the spot, bare feet pressing down on gritty, dusty wooden floors. Pumped his fists. Felt his heart rate pick up. Pressure built in his chest. A searing throb built against the base of his neck — and then lanced up into his brain like someone jammed a drill right up there, its tip hotter than the fucking sun.

He hated it. Always had and always would, but fuck it, right? Sure, what was about to come put every single one of those shitty seizures to shame, but it was worth it. Always had been. Always would be.

Especially in Harran, where all that'd wait for him in the night were just a lot of other monsters. Mhmmm. Kyle was convinced he was the bigger one. Yeah. The biggest monster of them all. Fastest one, too. Most graceful one. Cleverest. That was him. How the fuck had no one caught on yet anyway? Did the general populace really think catching your fall on a pile of garbage bags without shattering your spine was normal? Pffft. Idiots.

Then Kyle screamed.

That always happened, too, whether he wanted it to or not. And out there, the monsters replied, screeching and yowling, all out of tune with the night.

Sounded like shit.

He dropped to one knee. Then the other. Fell over on his side, and the world dipped out from under him as, for God knows how many thundering heartbeats, it was nothing but red hot nothing stitched together from pain.

Worth. It.

When the tremors stopped, the ones that’d made him rip rivulets into the wooden floor, he took a moment. Perked his ears. Let his tongue hang out and sucked in stale Harran air. Death hung in it. Heavy. Thick. That was a downside. Even the air was dirty here. Where was the scent of fresh food? Fat sizzling on a grill. Perfume. Aftershave. Sweat and alcohol, wafting out from packed crowds in a club, the air itself shaking with music beating at it.

That’s what he wanted.

Couldn’t have that. Not here. Not home either, because home meant behaving. 'Can’t do that Kyle, what were you thinking' — I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted.

Kyle shook his shoulders. Huffed. Turned his head over to a window. His reflection moved against the dirty glass; a flash of dark eyes set in a coat of chocolate merle. The sexiest fucking werewolf in the neighbourhood.

And the only one—

Which stung. A little. Even if he had a lot of things to play with. There was somewhat clean water to splash around in. Buildings to climb. Monsters to chase. But where was the fun in any of that on his own? Kyle allowed himself a sad little whine and shook his shoulders again. He growled at nothing in particular, and really missed his pack. Fuck the lone wolf routine. Seriously. Being on your own was lame as hell.

Lame like those stupid yowling monsters out there. They couldn’t even hold a tone, could they? They sounded like shit. Him though? Eager, Kyle threw his head back. And howled. He let his voice roll from his throat, out from the shack, out into the night; told all of Harran that, yeah, he was the bigger monster by far within those walls. And him and the night? They were old pals. Belonged together. Something Kyle Crane was not past proving.

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୧╏ ~ ᴥ ~ ╏୨

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