The wolf bowls him over in a crushing tackle, and they tangle together across the wet grass. John wrestles it back from his throat with hands armored in glossy carapace. Those claws rip shreds from his tentacles and score gouges into the chitin of his chest. He bleeds in welling lines of ichor, tar-black and rusty yellow, strange and reflective under the moon.
"FUCK YOU!" bellows John, tentacles lashing thick and dark to their final length. This comes to him like breathing, sweeter than a human form: he seizes the wolf by wrist and throat and ankle, anything he can reach, and forces it down. There is a horribly inhuman strength in each limb, a rippling crush of pressure. "You— pathetic— animal!"
Eight low limbs and two arms. He rises on his tentacles, mantles high and furious over the wolf as he binds it tighter. When it bites, he snarls and slams it against the ground. He withdraws in a slithering coil while the beast is catching its breath.
The tatters of his cowl still hang into his face, frayed edges catching the moonlight, and John laughs low and dark. Hark, he thinks bitterly, Comes the yellow King. Kayne must be loving this. He must be enjoying the fucking show.
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"FUCK YOU!" bellows John, tentacles lashing thick and dark to their final length. This comes to him like breathing, sweeter than a human form: he seizes the wolf by wrist and throat and ankle, anything he can reach, and forces it down. There is a horribly inhuman strength in each limb, a rippling crush of pressure. "You— pathetic— animal!"
Eight low limbs and two arms. He rises on his tentacles, mantles high and furious over the wolf as he binds it tighter. When it bites, he snarls and slams it against the ground. He withdraws in a slithering coil while the beast is catching its breath.
The tatters of his cowl still hang into his face, frayed edges catching the moonlight, and John laughs low and dark. Hark, he thinks bitterly, Comes the yellow King. Kayne must be loving this. He must be enjoying the fucking show.