(Untitled)

[fangfatale]

Thinks he is so special.  Thinks his dick is so special.  Thinks he can forget.  Thinks he can give these stupid excuses.

[Growling and then the smash of a glass against a wall.  She won't be apologizing for the mess.]

Another.

[There's a slap on the bar top.]

Whiskey.

Comments

[ananticlimax]

I think I know how you feel.

If you want to just run and not feel anything.

I would come.

[fangfatale]

No. Want feel something. Blood between teeth.

[ananticlimax]

That's cool too. I guess.

But if you need company. I feel like I want to be there.

[fangfatale]

Might not like what you see.

[ananticlimax]

Sounds like life.

[fangfatale]

Might get hurt.

[ananticlimax]

Getting mauled by something bigger and stronger than me is recently an ever-present threat in my life.

But if you want to be alone. You're the boss.

[fangfatale]

...Underground. Follow scent if want see. I will not slow or wait.

[ananticlimax]

Coming.

Running.

[fangfatale]

No one at the bar had tried to stop Delilah from leaving without paying for the glasses she'd shattered, or the table she'd splintered in her wake. It was both a blessing and a pity, because breaking glass didn't hold the same satisfaction as breaking bone. No squish of muscle and tissue under the harsh snap, no wet slide of blood against hand and tooth and paw. Breaking glass was a poor substitute.

Which is why Delilah shed her clothes and her human form once out of the bar's sight and ran deeper into the Underground, following the scent of things that crept in the dark. Things with bones that would snap.

She savaged her way through one spidery creature with blood that stung like acid in her mouth, and another beast who managed to rake her with its claws before she ripped its head off with her teeth. And then another. Another.

By the time she stopped to lick her wounds it was hard to tell whose blood was whose, but she was always the last one standing.

[ananticlimax]

Whatever else that Oz can smell, emotions had always been the easiest to track. Anger, fear, and especially lust. The supernatural ability had proved useful as often as it had disturbing. Today it was both. Delilah's personal scent was carried as an undercurrent beneath that of what she was feeling, making it easier and more enticing than usual to follow her, even when she changed forms. Thick rubber boots were set pounding over any obstacle until Oz found his way to the Underground, stopping and nearly reeling back as he entered.

He never had before.

The shoes carried him over crunching gore, although the left him skidding through slicks of spilled blood in the wolf's wake. Yet Oz's face remained calm, except for when he winced away from a particularly foul smell which he had to ignore as he kept her trail. Which was not to say that he was entirely calm, or that he was entirely sure what he was doing. But he did trust Delilah-- or at least trust that he could trust her if he put trust in her. And he had seen worse on his recent

[fangfatale]

She gave a few licks to the wound on her hind quarter, sealing it into a vivid pink line, and then white and barely visible beneath the sodden fur. Then she gazed at Oz and rose to her feet.

He smelled uneasy but not fearful and that intrigued her. She sniffed and took in the scent of him, the familiar mix of man and wolf over blood. Walking on a still sluggishly bleeding front paw was irritating. She changed half-way to him, flicking gore from her shoulder blade before sticking the fingertips in her mouth.

"Not scared?"

[ananticlimax]

He stood stock still where he was as she approached, uncertain but not tremulous or moving away. He only stared over his shoulder at the trail behind him, before turning green eyes unwaveringly back to Delilah, whether or not she was a naked woman now. He had no particular hangups about nudity, others or his own.

He took a deep breath by mouth, narrowing his eyes again. The Underground forced smells to concentrate, and allowed them to linger.

"Dead monsters. Not exactly my first rodeo. Although I'm no big killer myself."

[fangfatale]

Blood dripped from her hair and she examined the way it streaked off on her fingers as she pushed it back from her face. She licked and then grimaced. The spidery one's blood. Not tasty at all, although the long legs were fun to bend and break into pieces. She would have to remember that.

"Many dead monsters," Delilah confirmed, with a bit of amusement, although the anger and hurt still simmered under the surface. "One live one."

[ananticlimax]

The blood caught his eye as well, and he followed her fingers to her lips with a lingering gaze, although it was neutral-- neither particularly interested nor a grimace. The smells were distracting, some even made his mouth water at the back, but he didn't feel much of a compulsion in the moment. Toward her, but not the carnage around her.

The heel of his boot dropped down on what was left of one spidery leg, crushing it slightly as he buried memories of home. They were unsavory lately, with the situation he found himself in. Oz kicked it aside.

"Who'd you really want to tear apart?"

[fangfatale]

Her eyes flashed at the reminder, fury bubbling to the surface again as she recalled her humiliation. It didn't matter that it was the doing of the city and not Cal, to bring him to her from a time before they met. It was still a matter of Delilah being forgotten and she wouldn't stand for it. Couldn't stand for it when that unmistakable scent flowed around her and she remembered the sweet and sour taste of him. When she remembered everything and he remembered nothing, not even the rasp of her tongue against his wounds in the dark.

No. She wouldn't forgive him.

"He does not matter," she said, daring Oz to say otherwise. The Peri had already implied that he meant more than she would allow and for that he walked a thin line.