meg can't help it.

she just needs to bite that angel to shake around with her teeth like a rabid dog. blood is, of course, the greatest fashion statement. and oh, she just loves it on you. in her defense, your honor, she simply does not vibe with the law, yet here she is— ornery, scandalous and evil, still the safest bitch to be with in town. well, with major warning from sam dearest, bless him.

arm grabbed by you, she twists sharply, yanking you off balance. her knee shot up toward your abdomen in a precise, practiced motion, aiming to knock shit out of you, but you sidestep just in time and counter with a swift punch to her ribs, a gasp spills from her lips, but she didn’t flinch.

she laughs and grabs on your sleeve and yanks hard, putting you off balance and twists it around your arm, but you're the one who leveraged off the entanglement, pivoting her with a decisive spin but she refuse and headbutts you, hard, and boots you on the gut, sending you across to the wall—and she runs.

but you tackle her, causing our bodies to come rolling down the steps, her body hurls to the wall. meg scrambles to her feet but is stopped by you grabbing on her ankle, pulling her back, which she happily returns with a kick on the cheek. free, she totters forward, to her side, and to her back against the wall, hunched.

and as you rise onto your knee, bringing the back of your hand to your lip and wipes. blood. meg smirks, "oh sorry, baby angel." she teases with a slide of her blade from the back of her jeans. and she knows, she pissed you off.

she lunges forward, swinging the blade left and right and knee your side, play you like a ball, and grab you by the forearm and back collar, to flip you— but you grab her arm, and swing us with brute— shrill.

they tumble past the railing, their body bashing on the hard concrete. winded, meg scoffs out a groan and forces herself up and straddles you, blade ready. oh angel down on earth, now beneath a demon. how romantic.

giggling, "i'mma send you to heaven, clarence."