[ John bristles, full-body, at the nickname this... being picks. ]
Do not call me that. [ The words distort, as if tearing at the space around him. There's no way he could know, a part of him insists (hopes), and he leans on that, lets it corral the flare of his temper—something that had been punctuated by the sharp snap of fabric and agitated flick and coil of shadowy tendrils that seem entirely too solid, yellow finery. Arthur would have scolded him, or otherwise stepped in, he thinks. Maybe ignored the outburst altogether and talked past him.
Reminds him of fucking Kayne.
John settles, hunches slightly in sour mood, but... Well. He'll redirect. ]
Are they, now. And just who might your audience be?
no subject
Do not call me that. [ The words distort, as if tearing at the space around him. There's no way he could know, a part of him insists (hopes), and he leans on that, lets it corral the flare of his temper—something that had been punctuated by the sharp snap of fabric and agitated flick and coil of shadowy tendrils that seem entirely too solid, yellow finery. Arthur would have scolded him, or otherwise stepped in, he thinks. Maybe ignored the outburst altogether and talked past him.
Reminds him of fucking Kayne.
John settles, hunches slightly in sour mood, but... Well. He'll redirect. ]
Are they, now. And just who might your audience be?