The Menace of College Campuses Everywhere
Bridget Corey - Valesport - 3 years before present
Bridget Corey - Valesport - 3 years before present
Bree was not a werewolf.
She was often mistaken for a werewolf, because she spent her evenings as a canine.
But she wasn’t a were-anything. And sometimes that was one of the most inconvenient parts of being a magically cursed shifter.
You know. Besides all the other inconvenient parts, like being five pounds and your mother having panic attacks at the sight of you.
She wasn’t sure what she smelled like to werewolves. They always smelled like sweat and brown and wolf to her. Translation was difficult. English didn't really have the words to convey it. French fell sadly short too, though she'd tried. She knew she smelled like something to them, though, because they recognized her, every time, without fail. Sometimes other supernaturals recognized her, too, although most mistook her for a werewolf when they did.
Sometimes, though it was less common, werewolves mistook her for a werewolf as well. This was why she suspected her smell must be similar. Either that, or they took her as a shifter of some kind and were open to experimentation. That was also very possible, given the sorts of people she seemed to run into.
“Hey, babe, got a whiff of you from downstairs and I like what I smell.”
Bree went rigid, mostly out of shock. That was not the sort of thing one heard regularly. Bree didn’t tend to get leered at. She dressed poorly, on purpose. She was trim and muscular with broad shoulders and a strong back. She wore shitty hats. All the time. Her default expression was barely-concealed disdain.
She wasn’t very surprised when she turned around and got a nose full of brown and sweat and wolf. She wrinkled her nose, once again displeased at the suggestion that she probably smelled something like that herself. If only she could stand the stench of perfumes, she might try to do something about it.
The boy in question was probably another college student. He didn’t look old enough to be a professor. He was white with brown hair in that sort of boring way that a lot of college boys were. It made them, quite frankly, sort of indistinguishable from each other. And they so often reeked of Axe body spray, so she couldn’t even smell them apart. It was one of the many reasons Bree did all her rare socialization with women. They smelled better, and had enough of a tendency to wear makeup and different styles of hair that she could at least tell them apart without relying on her nose.
“Awww, don’t be like that,” he leered, mistaking her disgust for... disgust, but still managing not to be discouraged by it. “You're in your cycle, right? Bet you could use a helping hand to scratch that itch.”
Bree closed her eyes and took a deep, slow breath through her nose to control her anger. Werewolves were tricky, she reminded herself. Strong by default. Fast, though often still not as fast as her and never as good at navigating the urban environment. This sort of thing took finesse. She couldn't just go punching all of her problems in the nose.
“C’mon, pretty puppy--”
She punched him in the nose.
Knowing what he was let her put her full force behind it, something she never did when punching someone in the face under normal circumstances. His nose crumpled satisfactorily.
Never one to take unnecessary risks, she proceeded to push him down the stairs.
He'll be fine, she informed herself as she listened to his yelps of pain as he crashed head over ass down the stairs. Werewolves are very hardy.
“Oh you fucking CUNT,” she heard, a few moments after the crashing stopped.
Way too hardy, really.
And then she was bolting up the stairs in long strides, three at a time. She could have headed for the roof, gone down over the side full and comfortable with the knowledge he'd be too much of a bitch to follow her. A light smirk played across her lips at the thought of taunting him from a ledge he didn't have the balls to access, but instead, she kicked open the door onto the fourth floor and peeled through. Down the hallway, dodging expertly around people as if they were simply stationary obstacles. She could hear heavy feet pounding behind her. What a determined little boy. Ah, well, you knew how dogs got with a scent. And men chewed their own bone more voraciously than any real dog could manage.
She burst through the doors at the end of the hallway, knowing full well where they led. A flight of external stairs; she'd never known why they bothered. It would be easy to throw her ass onto the rail and slide down. Instead, she gripped the rail directly in front of her with both hands, vaulting over it. She heard at least one shout of alarm and smiled.
She didn't release her grip on the rail. Instead, she hung on, twisting her body as it fell to launch herself onto the third story landing. Where she yanked open the door and proceeded to tear back through the building.
She lost him somewhere on that floor, she was pretty sure. She couldn't be one hundred percent certain, because she kept running for the hell of it, back to the stairwell, sliding down the rails and admiring his bloodstains as she did.
She ran all the way to the bus stop, vaulting unnecessarily over fences and spinning around posts just for the joy of feeling her body move. She wanted to keep running even then, but it was getting late in the afternoon. She needed to get home, faster than she could run.
She let out a long sigh, plopping down on the bench to let her body rest. She checked and then readjusted her hat. It hadn't come loose, because she wore hats with the full knowledge she might be backflipping in them. It was one of her shopping criteria.
She replayed the satisfying crunch of his nose against her fist, slow motioned his expression as he'd toppled backwards down the stairs.
Fuckin’ frat boy werewolves.
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