Oct. 17th, 2012

liesinwriting: (Default)

Author's note: This was fun to write. Every time I sit down to write these words I contemplate what I want to say, and then just sort of let it work itself out from there. For this section I was planning on doing one very specific thing. And at this, I have utterly failed. But I failed because the failure was necessary, or, more accurately, I wouldn't have succeeded anyway without explaining what is explained herein. As I write this story I can't help but feel that it's quickly growing into something unrecognizable, but exciting. I'm finally starting to really know these characters, and it's going to be interesting to see if I can get it all down on (virtual) paper before they move on from my head to greener pastures.


There is something immensely satisfying about my physiology. Years ago, I wasn’t really all that impressive to look at, and I knew it. When I walked I practiced looking at my shoes and pretending I was somewhere else, and I almost never smiled. There was nothing wrong, exactly, with my smile, except that I didn’t like it and didn’t think anyone else would, either. I learned my shoes really well in those days. And when someone smiled at me—someone like, say, Carl—I had a tendency to feel a bit like a mouse scuttling before a particularly happy cat. It was one of the reasons for the tasp, initially. Then, of course, the tasp did its thing, and suddenly my meek little smile was full of long, sharp teeth. I had to learn to do little half smiles, where the corners of my mouth went up but that was pretty much it. Full-on smiles made people uncomfortable, and occasionally excuse themselves so they could stand anywhere that wasn’t near the thing that looked like it was going to bite their throat out. I remember thinking that, were I a more aggressive person, that smile would be the perfect tool to cultivate. I dismissed it at the time. I was more worried about skipping school and making sure my parents didn’t find out. I walked neighborhoods that I normally wouldn’t have done, and found that people left me alone purely because of how I looked. Oh, they’d sometimes shoot me angry or haughty glances, but always from a safe distance. And that was when I truly realized the power that I had given myself. If I did nothing but act like my old meek self, people generally left me alone, even were deferential towards me—not a polite kind of deferential, but nonetheless an effective one that meant if I could endure abuse I could have pretty much whatever I wanted. And that was if I acted meek and submissive. But if I were to act strong…

I fired a full-on smile at Carl.

“What do you want?”

If I could have smiled any bigger, I would have. A small part of me had been hoping to avoid any confrontation by bluffing my way through it, what my societal upbringing had accidentally instilled in the old me to an alarming degree. But a not-so-small part of me wanted to punch him in the face. If my little smile had cowed him, I would have been obligated to let him go. It wouldn’t have been any fun.

“I think you should let Casey go,” I said.

“Yeah? You think that?” He took a step—not towards Casey, but towards me.

I was wrong. I could smile bigger.

“No need,” I said, with my voice pitched low so only he could hear us, “to get excited.” There, my social obligations were fulfilled. If little big man Carl advanced anymore it would be like click “I agree” whenever you install a program. And I knew that Carl, like most people, would not read the fine print because he thought he had it all figured out already, and it was just a formality. Look at me. I put it to you: would you attack me, a six-nine walking sentient carnivore who’s smiling like this at you?

Sometimes the fine print isn’t really all that fine. But people don’t read it anyhow.

I digress.

At this point, nobody had noticed the brewing confrontation. The place was packed, and I suppose he always looked angry, and I always looked scary, and, well, what a perfect pair of friends we made in the flash impressions of dozens of people in those few seconds: I with my arm around Corey’s shoulder, smiling and looking goddamn good and probably more than a little fabulous in my tight fishnet, invisible beneath my fur but sculpting it into reptilian shapes by density; Carl, approaching at a deceptive leisurely pace, pale shoulders thrown back; and Corey looking droopily at Carl, leaning into my arm. That part felt the best. As he came at me, hands balling into fists, I felt my grin stretch just a little bit wider: he was right-handed, and Corey was on my left.

“Bitch, I think you and me should step outside.”


“He wasn’t talking to you, Corey. And Carl, I didn’t know you thought of me that way.”

“Let go of her, ya fucking user.”

“If I’d known that, I would have worn my special clothes.”

“Motherfucker, I ain’t playing. Now I’m taking her home, and that’s how it’s gonna happen. You dig?” He stopped, his face within a foot of mine. His eyes never left mine. Like an alpha wolf challenging an alpha from another pack. In that moment I gained what some people would call respect for Carl. I call it anticipation. He could no longer claim to be ignorant of how the violence started, or what would come to pass. He had eliminated my last societal restraint. With that move he had effectively agreed to the terms and conditions. Good man.

“Oh I dig.” I winked. “How far you wanna get dug?”

He didn’t blink.

“And how hard?”

“You and I should step outside.”

“Come on, boys, le’s not do this, mkay?”

And that’s when I realized why Carl was going to play it smart. He honestly thought he would beat me, and he didn’t want to get in trouble for it. I had become a problem that needed to be dealt with quietly, like that unsavory bite of too-tough chicken that you endure until you think no one’s watching you spit it into your napkin. And, well, I didn’t really feel like quiet at that moment.

With a precision that honestly startled even me, I closed the ten inches between his face and mine, curled my lips back, and snapped my jaws together on either side of his nose. There was a slight tug as he jerked away, and I had just a moment to reflect on how strange that was; my meat was never moving on its own. It was not painful, but weird, the way being ticklish is weird, but not nearly that pleasant. “The fuck!” He shouted. And—oh, bless all that is holy—he looked straight at me. Not around, to see who else saw. Right. At. Me.

I couldn’t contain myself. I giggled.

He came at me silently, but like a thrown rock, right hand balled and raised, then propelled forward. And—

A small nudge in the shoulder blade, and Corey’s center of  gravity caromed forward, directly into the path of Carl’s fist. She didn’t have time to say anything before it cracked her in the side of the jaw and sent her tumbling into the crowd. Here by the door it was more sedate, and even though no one had really noticed our little dominance display, there was no way anyone could deny that this was happening. I spun to put myself between Carl and Corey, stood her up and made sure she was OK. I turned her chin to look. She just stared straight ahead, didn’t say anything.

“Are you all right?” I said loudly.

Her eyes snapped to mine. “Yes. I’m fine.” Then: “I’m fine!” She pulled herself to her feet and stared at Carl, then back at me. And then, remarkably, back to Carl. “What. The. Fuck,” she said.

I gave it a second or two. I wanted Carl to stew for a moment in the attention of several strangers who just saw him punch a drunk girl in the face. When I turned, his expression was caught somewhere between rage and horror. After a moment it settled on the former, and I was once again the target.

All the right moves, Carl.

I gave him my biggest, best smile: Let’s see what you’re made of. And I launched myself at him.

liesinwriting: (Default)
Author's note: I'm in the middle of a nervous breakdown at school. Thank god I have my stories!


I heard they were leaving, and cut a quick path through my friends, ignoring most of them, to say goodnight to my roommates. I was honestly surprised they came at all. And I was dancing with this adorable chick about half my size who has been petting my feathers all night the way you pet someone you’re about to enter. I arrive in time to see Jamie smash into some tall kid’s chest, bringing them both crashing to the ground. The kid ignores the impact and punches upward, connecting solidly with Jamie’s jaw. Or I think it’s solid, anyway, except that Jamie doesn’t react. Like he wasn’t even hit he brings his own hand down onto the kid’s face. He does it again, and again. The kid manages to shove Jamie off, but the wolf boy bounces off the floor,  his arms turned to springs, ducks his head and smashes into the kid’s chin. The kid’s head snaps back, and Jamie does exactly what I don’t expect and closes in on the kid’s throat.

That’s so totally my cue to break it up. I rush in—three or so bouncers are coming in behind me—and drop low to put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. A quick glance down at the random kid—gurgling as Jamie’s nose closed in over his ear, hands clawing at the wolf’s face and neck—“Jamie! Up!”—he doesn’t listen, and with my hands on his shoulder I actually feel his teeth puncture skin, and I shudder. Oh. This would be a terrible time to get an erection. “Need to,” I say, and I know I should be saying something… it doesn’t come, for a moment, then oh yeah, “Need to stop.” I add, “Stop,” even as my sight is coopted by my imagination, images of Jamie’s teeth in his neck, tasting blood on my own tongue… “Stop,” I say, more to myself this time. Really, really bad time for an erection.

Others arrive in seconds, and together we are all able to pry the wolf’s jaws apart. One bouncer—Vincent, and yes, that’s his real name—loops his meaty arms under Jamie’s, and I realize that there is no way I would be that stupid. If Jamie was eating a baby, I wouldn’t be that stupid.

Jamie whips his head around, jaws agape, and snaps them together less than an inch from Vincint’s nose. Vince grunts in alarm and loosens his grip, and Jamie tears out of it and heads straight back to the boy, bleeding on the floor. He stops above him, points one massive, lethal claw down at him and says, “Don’t fuck with my friend.” Then Vincent and two of his buddies grab him again, one to each arm and one keeping a hold on the back of his shirt. They hold him steady, though I don’t think he’s fighting anymore. Mostly he’s just staring a hole through the guy on the floor.

I find Corey maybe ten feet from the action, a huge bruise over her eye. She looks at me, defiant, innit. And just like that, I divine what happened.

I keep my motions deliberate as, in full view of everyone, I step up to the boy on the floor. At second glance, he’s not bleeding nearly as bad as he should have been. I thought the wolf boy had ripped his throat out, but it was only a love-bite. Delicious red flows from four small punctures, but none of them are serious. I squat down next to him. He takes a moment to notice me, and jumps when he does.

“You all right?” I ask. The crowd around us is quiet, but I still speak up to be heard over the music.

“No!” he bleeds petulantly. “That fucking asshole fucking tackled me!”

I glance at Jamie, who ignores me completely and continues flaying the kid slowly with his eyes. “Who, that guy?”


“Was that before or after you punched the girl?”

I count: One. Two. Then click. His eyes widen. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

I shake my head. “I should probably explain,” I say, offering him a hand. He regards it suspiciously for a moment, then takes it. I hoist him to his feet. “We should probably call CitySec and have wolf boy here arrested for dangerous stuff.” I pause, wait for him to agree.

“Fuckin’ A right you should! This is a god damned disgrace of a club. Letting fucking mod freaks in here. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

“Yesssss,” I drawl, just long enough to get him to look at my toothy muzzle. “Those mod freaks sssssure are a pain, ain’t they?”

His mouth works, but his throat doesn’t. Ha.

“Well. Anyway, my point is, I’m not calling City Security on him. Go ahead. Ask me why.”

I must admit to a certain pedantic weakness: I really enjoy watching people figure out things that I already know. All it usually takes is context clues. Like, for instance, the two bouncers standing just behind me, arms crossed and staring at the kid. They don’t need to know what he did wrong to have picked up on my irritation. My feathers stand up when I get annoyed. I can’t help it. So I enjoy watching his eyes widen even more as he realizes that I am probably just a hair more important in this particular club than his rather unidirectional sense of justice.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Why?” It sounded forced. I smiled pleasantly.

“Because you hit my friend first. If I called CitySec on Mister Woofie I’d have to call them on you.” And now, I wait. For a minor offense like this, the kid would probably get a very minor sentence, like a couple of hours in confinement, then a fine, and a warning, and a stamp on his record detailing that he got a stamp on his record. Of course, that assumes that he doesn’t already have a stamp. If he does, then he’ll be spending a little more than a few hours in lockup. And wouldn’t you know it, the kid just stares at me, holding his throat, all sorts of fire in his face, and it’s really all I can do to keep from jumping him right there and taking a long, slow lick at his neck wounds.

Down, boy.


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December 2012

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