Amusement park. This should be safe enough, right? Bright sun (note that it isn't a moon), plenty of people laughing (note the lack of werewolf scent), cotton candy (note the lack of blood).

Cort like this place. In it's utter chaos, it was possibly the most peaceful place he'd been to in a long time.

Now, how did Murphy's Law go?

Alpine forests, sweaty fur in the cold, and a challenge.

Werewolf scent, sweet and bitter and unmistakable, drifts in over the sugar and fatty fried food scents as the wind changes.

Emerging from the crowd like an iceberg is Azrael. This would be a nice place to make some deep metaphysical comments on the nature of gods being ninety percent below the surface, but I'd probably lose my readers. He's pale like ice, and holding a chocolate ice cream cone in one bony hand. Yes, 'iceberg' is an apt simile for the god of death and dreaming.

In deference to the warming weather, he's wearing thin, white cotton pants and a lightweight white T-shirt that has a simple skull silhouette printed on it in black. His hair, white as always, is a messy three inches or so long, straight, and left to its own devices. His eyes, of course, are white.

The werewolf scent is coming from him, lightly.

Cort was halfway through enjoying a nice chocolatey snack when the smell wafted his way. He could tell, just by the smell this was an old wolf. Very old. Experienced, but old enough it might be taken down by the power of youth. He figured that out just from one whiff.

Another, and he knew the direction it was coming from. He turned slowly, pryaing he wouldn't see grand-daddy werewolf staring back at him. It was worse.

Grand-Daddy Death.

In an effort to keep calm, Cort walked up to the god and gave a forced smile that looked very much like bared teeth.

"So," he asked in a falsely cheery voice. "Been having fun, have you?"

Cort wasn't sure what he was saying. He was just moving his mouth to avoid biting Azrael.

Azrael grins, showing teeth. Provocation.

Then, slowly, making Cort wait, he takes a lick from his ice cream cone and savours it. Finally, he nods.

"Yes."

It sounds as though he caused the air to vibrate, thus creating his words, by making it shiver.

That's usual. What's unusual is the added heat in his tone-- subtle, too subtle to be called on, but it's there.

"How about you?" he asks, mock-pleasant, and takes another lick from his ice cream.

"I...'ve been trying," came the forced reply. This was insane! He was on t he verge of attacking a god. One that had recently taken advantage of him.

see? attack!

Cort shook his head, partly in answer to his instincts urgings, partly to clear it. Again, to keep from biting the god, Cort began to talk.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Maybe Cort should have just bit him.

He takes two calculated steps closer, each movement, deliberate-- challenging, despite the smug smile that still sits proudly on his pale lips.

"Me?" he asks, all innocence, and licks a smear of chocolate ice cream from the corner of his mouth.

The werewolf scent twines through the air, practically claiming everything it touches.

"Just enjoying a stroll, eating an ice cream. Why d'you ask?" he returns brightly, seeming not the least bothered by the instincts Cort is fighting with.

"No!" It sounded more like a bark than anything else.

"Why're you coming here smelling like that?" His voice is just below the level generally held to be shouting. Cort knew this was suicide, but he couldn't help it.

defend!attack!protect!kill!

"Are you trying to kill me?!"

What a silly question.

There's a quiet, crispy noise from ground level as frost blossoms out from under the god's feet.

He moves closer, leaving whitened pavement behind. Footprints.

Close now, and the air around him battles between heat and cold. Air whirls.

He's grinning.

The ice cream in his hand has re-frozen.

"Smelling like what-- Cort?"

This time, it's definitely a challenge.

"Like - like... ARGH." Cort did the best he could and stomped on the ground a few times. The smell was horribly aggravating. He stepped back, pulling up the collar of his shirt and covering his nose. It wasn't great, but it was better.

"Like something threatening," he finished, slightly muffled.

Steaming with frost in the hot amusement park air, Azrael reaches out a hand and tugs the shirt away from the recently-turned Cort's nose.

"I am something threatening, Cort. I'm a God."

The grin hardens, becoming more what it is-- a bearing of teeth.

"You have something to say to me?" The words slip cooly into the brain, an icy needle carrying the thread of threat.

"Yeah. You're a god-- well, a damned bastard."

A small part of him screamed to shut up, run away, cover your nose, something. Cort couldn't do that. you'll be cast out of the pack.

It didn't matter that there wasn't a pack to be thrown out of.

"Get the hell outta my territory."

"Oh, your territory, now? It's your territory, is it?"

Azrael leans down. Given his height, the angles bring him more or less nose to nose with the young werewolf. His eyes look like they could freeze the air itself.

"That's funny," he whispers. "And here I was, thinking the whole damn world was my territory."

The musk of a strong were coats the air close to his skin, detectible only to a nose more sensitive than a human's.

So close, the smell was so strong. So strong. It was so hard not to...

With a yell of rage, Cort made a fist and swung for the conviently placed face of the god.

Oops.

Maybe Cort sees a white blur. Maybe he doesn't even see it more. Surely any normal humans who happen to be wande4ring by (unlikely) wouldn't even see the movement.

Azrael's hand snaps up and his pale fingers curl delicately around the werewolf's thrown fist. The effect is more or less the same as hitting a wall of dry ice. No progress, and a good instant freeze.

Calmly, holding Cort's hand in place, Azrael takes a lick from his ice cream, and drop it. In an instant, he's pushed Cort against the brick wall that shades them both, holding the semi-immortal up with a singer hand just under his jaw, encircling his neck.

The fingers are cold, the kind of cold that eats away at living things.

"Now, was that really a good idea?

At first, he tried shaking his head. It didn't quite work, and he let out a decidedly canine yelp.

"No," he whimpered. If he had a tail at the moment, it would definately be tucked between his legs. "Please don't hurt me," he whined. Not a human whine, mind you.

Now he remembered why he'd been afraid of Azrael in the first place.

run!flee!

"Don't hurt you, eh?" On the emphasis of 'hurt', he pushes Cort's neck and by extension his head roughly into the wall, then returns the pressure to what it has been before. Frost creeps over the were's skin.

Behind them, the ice cream melts on the hot pavement.

"Why shouldn't I?"

If Cort were less panicked, he probably would be crying. As it was, his eyes were huge, filled with almost tangible fear, and his mouth gaped, reaching for a breath.

"Because," he managed to choke out, "you started it."

He wanted badly to grab at the god's wrists, but he was afraid of the freezing aspect Azrael had recently picked up.

Azrael steps close to the wall, pushing Cort higher on the rough brick. The frost claims the werewolf's chin and some of his shirt.

The God's grin glints.

"You punched me," he says, as cooly as one might say 'Elm Street's that way.'

"You... you smelled wrong," he countered, pushing at the brick with his feet feebly, trying to gain some purchase.

He could no longer feel his throat, which made it hard to talk and even harder to breath (not to mention the hand clamped over it). Then again, he didn't feel the pain of a few vertabrae supporting the weight of his body in a very unplesant manner.

Gods are strong. The bodies they present to the world are only a creation of their power. Some call them 'avatars.' Gods are strong.

Azrael lifts Cort away from the wall and, in one motion, swings him overhead like someone holding a cat in one hand, slams him back-first into the heated pavement, and pins him to the ground with knees and hands. The were's throat is released, and a dark handprint of frostburn is revealed.

Abruptly, the god's smell changes-- not his form, just the semll that Cort is so sensitive to. New grass. Springtime. Something sweet-- female werewolf.

"Is this better?" h asks, in a quiet, genial voice.

Cort gave another little whimper as he was lifted from the wall, then a hollow grunt to match the hollow thump as he hit thr ground. Now that the hand was no longer there, the heat of the day hit his throat and began a slow burn as the dead and dying tissue fixed itself.

Then, suddenly, another smell hit him. No time to brace himself either, as it was so close.

"What -- what are you doing?" he stuttered, trying to bring horrible images into his head, such as geriatric porno.

Azrael moves his knees, bends his elbows, and bends closer to the werewolf pinned beneath him. The smell, warm and welcoming, wafts gently around them.

"What does it look like? I'm pinning you to the ground." His smile is something of a smirk.

"I asked you a question, Cort." The God lifts his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Is this better?"

Faced with such difficulties, Cort did the only thing he could do.

"Lalala... I'm not listening!" he chanted. "I'm not smelling!" he continued. Indeed, his voice did have a stuffy quality now. As he chanted, he banged his head against the cement in time to the chanting, hoping at least he could knock himself out.

The pain was no worse, than say, hanging by one's neck.

The God releases on shoulder and places his hand squarely over Cort's mouth. This has two effects. One, the gentle pressure keeps the were's head against the cement, stopping him from banging. Two, Cort has to breathe through his nose or die.

The touch doesn't freeze. In fact, it's warm-- for Azrael.

Cort held his breath as long as he could, letting it out in a flurry of muffled shouts and cries of anger. He tried in vain the old standby of licking Death's hand, only to find that it tasted unpleasantly stale.

When he could deprive himself no longer, Cort took a breath. Arg, it was nice in a horrible way.

He didn't want it.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head back and forth. Beneath the hand, he continued his chant.

The pressure inceases, fingers digging into the soft skin of the boy's cheek. He shouldn't be able to move his head, now-- and his lips are probably pinched tight between palm and teeth.

Azrael settles down, comfortably, as though Cort were a couch. One of his elbows digs a pressure point into Cort's shoulder, supporting Azrael's sharp chin.

"What's that? I can't hear you," he taunts.

Pain! Pain, yes, pain, thankyouthankyou, pain!

Pain was something to take the poor boy's mind off of the lovely -- er, uh, the smell.

He continued to hum his chant, saying it loud and clear in his head. It didn't really have a meaning anymore, it just kept him busy.

Friction-- Azrael shifts positions, pulling himself forward and laying his unused arm flat across Cort's shoulder/chest area and resting his chin on it. This gives him an interesting perspective on the boy's face.

"Are you going to be good and keep breathing? Yes?" He wiggles his hand, pulling the were's head in a mimickry of a nod.

"Good," he says, and releases Cort's mouth.

Cort was trying to ignore the feelings, ignore it all. He did continue to breathe, but with his mouth now free he opted to use that. He was still muttering his chant, staring up at the open sky.

"Not listening, not smelling, not listening, not smelling..."

The boy was fervently pushing the manufactured memory from his head.

Azrael folds his hands and glances down at the desperate Cort.

The scent grows stronger yet, insinuating itself in with every breath-- even through the mouth. This close, the sweet air tickles Cort when Azrael breathes.

He doesn't normally breath, but he's always been a fan of dramatic effect.

Now Cort began to struggle.

"Get - off," he grunted, twisting. This was so uncomfortable.

"Why do you do this?" he asked the sky.

"Because it's fun," Azrael says, and breathes full in Cort's face.

He doesn't actually have lungs. The physical form he wears is more an extension of his mind, a solid illusion. The only bits that work are the ones that show-- everything beneath what passes him for skin is nonexistant. Nonetheless, he can create the illusion of breath without a great amount of difficulty.

If this were a cartoon, that breath would have been all pink clouds.

Caught unawares in the middle of his chant, Cort paused and took a breath through his nose.

It was nice, with his eyes closed.

He let it out with a sigh, keeping his eyes closed.

Maybe if he just pretended...

Cold lips press against Cort's, softly.

The cheshire's kiss.

Slowly, the God fades, as though being erased slowly-- lips last. The pressure stays a moment longer than the physical lips do, and then everything's gone, leaving some bruises, a handprint, and-- well, we'll leave it up to the imagination.