Author Note: This will be a multi-chapter Shenlong/OC romance, with lots of fun character development. Other BR chars wont come in until later in the plot, but some of them'll show up eventually.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bloody Roar or any of its characters, and I'm not making any money off of this.
Shenlong pressed his face against the slick lacquer of the bar, and wished that he could tear through it and burrow into the wood below. Wanted to get smaller and smaller until he could disappear into the warm dark pores of the petrified oak. Wanted to be a termite so that he could tear and burrow and not care that there were a million other termites just like him, but bigger and stronger and better.
He stopped thinking about his future career prospects as a bug when somebody took away his beer.
Shenlong raised his head and fixed the offender with a bleary glare. It wasn't nearly as impressive as it used to be. That bothered him, in the small corner of his mind that wasn't busy with termites and people taking his beer away.
The bartender had settled both elbows on the counter, and was dangling Shenlong's beer out of reach with her left hand. The tiger stared at her, looking oddly like a sulky child. The bartender thought that it was endearing, but he didn't look like the kind of man that would appreciate being told that. So she didn't.
"I think you've had enough for tonight, mister." Most bartenders were brusque when they cut off a customer, but the woman's voice was strangely kind. She'd been in her business long enough to tell the difference between a worthless drunkard and someone who truly needed to forget, and the man in front of her seemed strangely fragile.
Shenlong kept glowering at her, hoping that if he could keep his eyes focused on her face for longer than a minute she would decide that he wasn't that drunk after all, and would give him back his beer. He couldn't, and she didn't. Instead, she set it down behind the bar with a clink and pulled up a stool.
"Enough drink, at least. Not enough company. This is the third night in a row that you've been in here, stranger." She informed him softly, slumping her upper body on the bartop next to him. "Third night in a row, and you've not talked to a soul. Haven't even looked at anybody, either." Her voice was soft and gentle. "So tell me your story, stranger."
Shenlong stared at her, old paranoias seeping through his mind. She'd been watching him, then. What did she want? Had someone recognized him and asked her to delay him while the police arrived? His brain fuzzily sorted through the options, and he discarded each one. If she'd wanted to distract him, she would've just left him alone with his beer. He hadn't been planning on leaving any time soon. He mustered some of his old hostility for a reply.
"Why should I tell you anything?" He muttered in a half-hearted growl. "Human filth." He watched her muzzily, hoping she'd recoil once she realized that he was a freak and give him enough time to snitch his beer back from behind the counter. To his surprise, she laughed. In his face. In truth, is was more of a fond chuckle, but Shenlong had never been laughed at before. He didn't like it.
"Somethin's wrong with your nose, stranger. Take a good whiff." She propped her chin on the counter and grinned at him.
Now he was a little interested. A zoanthrope, then? Or just a delusional primate? He leaned forward, the copious amount of liquor that he'd consumed loosening his inhibitions, and brushed his nose past her collarbone while taking a deep breath. He wanted to make her uncomfortable, make her go away, and she jumped a little. Ha, he thought. I win. But she didn't move away.
Soft, silky skin against the tip on his nose. A heady, subtle smell; tall grass under the sun, fermented grapes and sweat and animal. She was one of his kind, then, but he couldn't tell what. He'd never encountered one of her race before, whatever it was. Horse, maybe? He drew back, wobbling slightly, and opened his mouth.
"You smell-" weird, like prey, like shit- "You smell good." He clamped his mouth shut on the sigh that almost followed the words. His scowl darkened and he leaned further back, frustrated with himself and a little embarrassed. He hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant that. She looked almost as surprised as he did, and then gave him a grin and leaned over the counter after him.
He flinched away, half expecting a blow, pressing himself into his chair as her face came closer. His stomach flipped over when her cheek brushed past his, soft and warm and clean, and she took a few short little whuffs in his hair. His mind babbled at him the whole time. Nobody touched him, unless they were hurting him—poking him with needles or claws or fists. But she was just smelling him, her cheek pressing against his and her warm breath brushing over his sensitive eartip and making his abdomen tighten in the strangest way. She settled back in her seat and her skin slid across his and he had to bite back a whimper, not sure if it was a reaction to the sensation or to the loss of the amazingly sweet contact.
He stared at her from across the counter. Olive skin on a heart-shaped face too charming for a bartender. Eyes almost eerily large, liquid black iris almost indiscernible from the huge pupils. Prey eyes, a voice hissed in the back of his mind. Snub nose, pointed ears, no makeup. Light brown hair in a low ponytail. His brain was working a bit better now; he saw her throat work as she swallowed before speaking, the slight flush to her cheeks. Tasted the lie before she spoke it.
"Well, you certainly don't smell good. When was the last time that you took a shower, stranger?" She asked, lips quirking as she tried to diffuse the feeling suddenly buzzing in the air. It helped a little. Not much, though. His stomach was tight, his head spinning from more than alcohol. He thought about her question.
"I- a few days. Didn't pay the rent, and lost my apartment. Been bar hopping." How long had it been? He had plenty of money. Why hadn't he made the payments? He'd just forgotten, he realized. He'd stopped caring, and started waiting to die. He'd never really existed in the first place, so might as well make it official.
He was very drunk; he'd been that way for nearly three days. He shook his head, trying to pull free of the mist that he'd welcomed moments before. It suddenly seemed frightening, like a funeral shroud. What was he doing?
It must have shown on his face, in the burgundy eyes that suddenly glowed with desperation instead of malice and insanity. A hand landed on his shoulder, and he leaped out of his chair only to stumble and lean against the bar. The hand returned and he blinked at it, slowly, waiting for it to grow hair and claws and rip into him. It didn't. He followed in to a slim wrist, up an arm dusted sparsely with light brown hair, to a shoulder and a face that despite all of its softness was looking straight at him and pulling him out of the mist like an anchor.
"I'm Del. You're coming home with me, stranger."
To be continued...
This is my first Bloody Roar fic, so constructive criticism is greatly appreceated. Thanks for reading!