#but lately? been almost ran over due to me being mindless for a split second A LOT the past couple weeks

[robinsnest2111]

idk if the brainfog is getting worse or the suicidal moods are getting stronger without me being aware but I've had way more near death experiences while riding my bike around town lately than ever before. weird. 🤔

[bogariel-frogariel]

The Fall of Saint Citrina

Because I love pain apparently, and I haven’t seen enough people talking about what she was feeling in her final hours. Feel free to come to give me any fic requests.

Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751462

The church had betrayed her.

And she had discovered it too late.

The air in her chest burned as she heaved her breaths in and out, running down the streets faster than she ever had before.

Belizabeth was going to kill her.

She almost couldn't believe it, the depth of the corruption she had uncovered, the kind of fanaticism that was woven into the church's very core.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes but she held them back. She had practice. Her entire life had been devoted to the mastery of her emotions so that she could always make her decisions with consideration for the Bulb rather than for her own emotions.

But the Bulb didn't care.

She had to tell someone. Anyone.

But who would believe her? Who could do something about it? Who wasn't on their side?

She ducked into a shadowy alley to avoid the knights that were streaming quietly through the streets.

She knew better than to try and find help from the citizens. She couldn't count on them to not immediately turn her in, and she wouldn't consign them to the same death she was being threatened with if they helped her. She refused to.

Citrina took the small moment of reprieve to catch her breath as she huddled in the darkness.

She was injured and afraid and so terribly alone.

She was so far away from any of her people.

All her family was on the front lines, fighting, but she had foolishly thought that she would be of more use in the capital, helping the citizens affected by the strain the war was putting on the Empire. It was what the Bulb had wanted, she'd thought.

What a load of bullshit.

She had never approved of the Belizabeth Brassica. She had suspected that the woman's rapid rise through the ranks had been more due to sacrilegious lust for power rather than her unparalleled devotion like most of the Church believed. Or pretended to believe.

She had found proof of her suspicions too late.

The worst part was that she had proven her sister right.

She couldn't count the number of arguments that her and Lazuli had gotten into.

She knew that her sister's actions went directly against the Church's law, and her sister had always been quick to accuse the church of being empty of anything really worth worshipping.

Citrina had dismissed Lazuli's statements as the blasphemy of a heretic. She had thought that her sister's magic was disgusting and unholy and would consign her to eternal damnation.

Their last parting had been full of bitter words and vicious insults.

Citrina had found out just where Lazuli's precious order was drawing their power from.

She had claimed that she would report her for her crimes and Lazuli had dared her to, unconcerned with the consequences.

And then Citrina hadn't said anything. Had made herself just as much of a heretic as her sister.

Citrina wondered if Lazuli had seen that she wouldn't rat her out. Had seen her death.

However she dismissed the accusatory thought. Lazuli had seen all their deaths a hundred times over.

She knew that Lazuli saw many possible futures and that, most of the time, her visions were too numerous and confusing for her to truly act on them in time to stop anything.

Her beloved sister had drifted away from all of them even more after the war had started. She'd lost herself to the visions, desperately trying to find the best outcome for all of them and, now, she could barely tell if she was in the present anymore.

The only time she really acted like her old self was around Caramalinda.

The thought pulled a few, lemony tears down from her eyes.

Citrina had been wrong before.

The worst part of this whole situation was that she would never get to apologise to Lazuli.

Maybe this was a punishment for her crimes against the Bulb and her family. She'd betrayed them both in the end, hadn't she?

She stamped that thought out.

The Bulb didn't care what she did. She'd come to that revelation earlier that evening when she had lain her hand across her book and attempted to connect with it, the higher power she had devoted her life to. The thing she had sacrificed her closest relationships for.

She had allowed the energy to flow through her, delving deeper into it than she ever had before, searching for answers.

She had found none.

Only mindless power.

Just like Lazuli had said she would.

She automatically started moving again as she heard footsteps coming up the streets she had ducked out of.

The alleyway she was in opened out into one of the richer parts of the city and Citrina blinked, disorientated. In her panic to escape, she hadn't bothered to think about where she was going.

She cursed herself silently but vehemently, using words that she'd learnt from Rococoa and Sapphria, who had both learnt them from the soldiers that they now fought beside.

Before she could decide where to go next, she heard clinking of armour again.

It took her precious seconds to figure out which direction they were coming from and her heart leapt into her throat when she realised that the answer more than one.

She bolted down the street and away from the knights that were creeping up the alley behind her and the ones marching towards her from her right.

She ran blindly, her stomach twisting as she began to recognise the street for what it was.

Citrina had gotten further than she'd thought. She was now in the lanes outside the castle reserved for lower nobility visiting the capital.

Dread sent icy streams down her back.

There was only one way this would end.

Inevitably, she was met with the ambush that she knew had been fast approaching, going to turn down the street that her path had split into only to find knights approaching on either side. She was cornered on all sides, a wall of houses at her front, and enemies clogging her only three escape routes.

She was trapped. These houses were empty, since everyone was off at war and the non-fighting spouses and children having been welcomed into the castle for a late night vigil for the brave soldiers on the battlefield.

Citrina should have been standing with them praying for her sisters.

Praying to a useless god that wouldn't have done anything and cared for nothing.

A thrill of hope went through her as she remembered just who's quarters she was cornered against. It was a thin chance that the good friend who had escorted her to the capital wouldn't have left yet. They had agreed to meet at the castle after all.

Nevertheless, a desperate scream escaped her throat as she called out to her last possible chance of survival, all righteous thoughts of sparing other gone in the face of her choking fear.

If he couldn't save her, maybe her cry warn him in time for him to flee, for if he was close enough to hear, they would surely eliminate him too. The church wanted to destroy all of Candia after all.

"Calroy!"

Her voice was more desperate than she had ever been before, and she almost cried with a mix of fear and joy as the door to the balcony slowly opened and her dear friend emerged, wine glass in hand.

He wouldn't be able to do anything in time, but she was grateful for his presence in her final moments.

Nevertheless, this half a second of comfort would have to do. It was more important that he escaped to inform Candia of what was to come.

"Run!" she screamed. "Get a message to Candia."

The knights had stopped moving now. They had surrounded her on all sides.

Yet Calroy didn't move.

Instead, he inclined his head at someone behind her, offering his glass up in a silent salute as a small smile spread across his face.

Citrina spun around to face her murderers, registering Belizabeth Brassica standing behind the wall of knights even as what had happened had clicked into place within her mind.

Calroy had betrayed her. Betrayed all of Candia.

And she was going to die alone.

She would never see her sisters again. She would never see Amethar again.

Never walk the halls of Castle Candy. Never smell the sweet sugary air. Never know the true magic of Candia that Lazuli had always talked about.

As Belizabeth smirked at her, Citrina drew herself up to her full height, schooling her features.

She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears, nor the honour of her fear.

"Do your worst, you Broccoli Bitch," she spat, looking down her nose at the knights around her.

Belizabeth snarled swinging her arm forward.

"Kill her!"

Inside, Citrina mourned for all that she had lost, and that Candia would lose in the future. She worried for what would happen to her family and to her kingdom. She regretted devoting her life to a hollow church instead of studying the magic of her roots.

She wanted to give her family one last hug.

But outwardly, she held her head high, even as an orange-skinned knight darted towards her.

And so, Saint Citrina, one of the few truly holy followers of the Bulb, was cut down in the streets of Comida, far away from her home, murdered by the cause she had dedicated her life to.

She died alone and afraid, her only comfort a traitor that stood above her, smiling as her body crumpled to the ground.

Her family would not discover the truth of her death for two decades. She would be remembered as one of the kindest, sweetest, holiest members of the Church, inadvertently adding to its strength even as it betrayed her.

But even in death she stood strong.

And, in her final moments, she felt a different kind of magic flood her veins. She did not break eye contact with the future pontifex even as the sword cut through her chest.

As she fell, her eyes sparked purple and light of the same sugary colour surrounded her, even as her yellow blood stained the stones beneath her, sending a citrusy sweet smell into the air.

For in sweetness there is strength.

[reydjarinkenobi]

The Fall of Saint Citrina

I’m posting this on my main because I think tumblr is eating the posts from my actual Dimension 20 blog.

My url for the other one is bogariel-fogariel if you want to see the post on the proper blog.

I wrote this becaise I haven’t seen enough people talking about what Citrina was feeling in her final hours. Feel free to come to give me any fic requests.

Read it on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751462

The church had betrayed her.

And she had discovered it too late.

The air in her chest burned as she heaved her breaths in and out, running down the streets faster than she ever had before.

Belizabeth was going to kill her.

She  almost couldn't believe it, the depth of the corruption she had  uncovered, the kind of fanaticism that was woven into the church's very  core.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes but she held them  back. She had practice. Her entire life had been devoted to the mastery  of her emotions so that she could always make her decisions with  consideration for the Bulb rather than for her own emotions.

But the Bulb didn't care.

She had to tell someone. Anyone.

But who would believe her? Who could do something about it? Who wasn't on their side?

She ducked into a shadowy alley to avoid the knights that were streaming quietly through the streets.

She  knew better than to try and find help from the citizens. She couldn't  count on them to not immediately turn her in, and she wouldn't consign  them to the same death she was being threatened with if they helped her.  She refused to.

Citrina took the small moment of reprieve to catch her breath as she huddled in the darkness.

She was injured and afraid and so terribly alone.

She was so far away from any of her people.

All  her family was on the front lines, fighting, but she had foolishly  thought that she would be of more use in the capital, helping the  citizens affected by the strain the war was putting on the Empire. It  was what the Bulb had wanted, she'd thought.

What a load of bullshit.

She  had never approved of the Belizabeth Brassica. She had suspected that  the woman's rapid rise through the ranks had been more due to  sacrilegious lust for power rather than her unparalleled devotion like  most of the Church believed. Or pretended to believe.

She had found proof of her suspicions too late.

The worst part was that she had proven her sister right.

She couldn't count the number of arguments that her and Lazuli had gotten into.

She  knew that her sister's actions went directly against the Church's law,  and her sister had always been quick to accuse the church of being empty  of anything really worth worshipping.

Citrina had  dismissed Lazuli's statements as the blasphemy of a heretic. She had  thought that her sister's magic was disgusting and unholy and would  consign her to eternal damnation.

Their last parting had been full of bitter words and vicious insults.

Citrina had found out just where Lazuli's precious order was drawing their power from.

She had claimed that she would report her for her crimes and Lazuli had dared her to, unconcerned with the consequences.

And then Citrina hadn't said anything. Had made herself just as much of a heretic as her sister.

Citrina wondered if Lazuli had seen that she wouldn't rat her out. Had seen her death.

However she dismissed the accusatory thought. Lazuli had seen all their deaths a hundred times over.

She  knew that Lazuli saw many possible futures and that, most of the time,  her visions were too numerous and confusing for her to truly act on them  in time to stop anything.

Her beloved sister had drifted  away from all of them even more after the war had started. She'd lost  herself to the visions, desperately trying to find the best outcome for  all of them and, now, she could barely tell if she was in the present  anymore.

The only time she really acted like her old self was around Caramalinda.

The thought pulled a few, lemony tears down from her eyes.

Citrina had been wrong before.

The worst part of this whole situation was that she would never get to apologise to Lazuli.

Maybe this was a punishment for her crimes against the Bulb and her family. She'd betrayed them both in the end, hadn't she?

She stamped that thought out.

The  Bulb didn't care what she did. She'd come to that revelation earlier  that evening when she had lain her hand across her book and attempted to  connect with it, the higher power she had devoted her life to. The  thing she had sacrificed her closest relationships for.

She had allowed the energy to flow through her, delving deeper into it than she ever had before, searching for answers.

She had found none.

Only mindless power.

Just like Lazuli had said she would.

She automatically started moving again as she heard footsteps coming up the streets she had ducked out of.

The  alleyway she was in opened out into one of the richer parts of the city  and Citrina blinked, disorientated. In her panic to escape, she hadn't  bothered to think about where she was going.

She cursed  herself silently but vehemently, using words that she'd learnt from  Rococoa and Sapphria, who had both learnt them from the soldiers that  they now fought beside.

Before she could decide where to go next, she heard clinking of armour again.

It  took her precious seconds to figure out which direction they were  coming from and her heart leapt into her throat when she realised that  the answer more than one.

She bolted down the street and  away from the knights that were creeping up the alley behind her and the  ones marching towards her from her right.

She ran blindly, her stomach twisting as she began to recognise the street for what it was.

Citrina  had gotten further than she'd thought. She was now in the lanes outside  the castle reserved for lower nobility visiting the capital.

Dread sent icy streams down her back.

There was only one way this would end.

Inevitably,  she was met with the ambush that she knew had been fast approaching,  going to turn down the street that her path had split into only to find  knights approaching on either side. She was cornered on all sides, a  wall of houses at her front, and enemies clogging her only three escape  routes.

She was trapped. These houses were empty, since  everyone was off at war and the non-fighting spouses and children having  been welcomed into the castle for a late night vigil for the brave  soldiers on the battlefield.

Citrina should have been standing with them praying for her sisters.

Praying to a useless god that wouldn't have done anything and cared for nothing.

A  thrill of hope went through her as she remembered just who's quarters  she was cornered against. It was a thin chance that the good friend who  had escorted her to the capital wouldn't have left yet. They had agreed  to meet at the castle after all.

Nevertheless, a desperate  scream escaped her throat as she called out to her last possible chance  of survival, all righteous thoughts of sparing other gone in the face  of her choking fear.

If he couldn't save her, maybe her  cry warn him in time for him to flee, for if he was close enough to  hear, they would surely eliminate him too. The church wanted to destroy  all of Candia after all.

"Calroy!"

Her voice  was more desperate than she had ever been before, and she almost cried  with a mix of fear and joy as the door to the balcony slowly opened and  her dear friend emerged, wine glass in hand.

He wouldn't be able to do anything in time, but she was grateful for his presence in her final moments.

Nevertheless,  this half a second of comfort would have to do. It was more important  that he escaped to inform Candia of what was to come.

"Run!" she screamed. "Get a message to Candia."

The knights had stopped moving now. They had surrounded her on all sides.

Yet Calroy didn't move.

Instead,  he inclined his head at someone behind her, offering his glass up in a  silent salute as a small smile spread across his face.

Citrina  spun around to face her murderers, registering Belizabeth Brassica  standing behind the wall of knights even as what had happened had  clicked into place within her mind.

Calroy had betrayed her. Betrayed all of Candia.

And she was going to die alone.

She would never see her sisters again. She would never see Amethar again.

Never  walk the halls of Castle Candy. Never smell the sweet sugary air. Never  know the true magic of Candia that Lazuli had always talked about.

As Belizabeth smirked at her, Citrina drew herself up to her full height, schooling her features.

She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears, nor the honour of her fear.

"Do your worst, you Broccoli Bitch," she spat, looking down her nose at the knights around her.

Belizabeth snarled swinging her arm forward.

"Kill her!"

Inside, Citrina mourned for all that she had lost, and that Candia would lose in the future. She worried for what would happen to her family and to her kingdom. She regretted devoting her life to a hollow church instead of studying the magic of her roots.

She wanted to give her family one last hug.

But outwardly, she held her head high, even as an orange-skinned knight darted towards her.

And  so, Saint Citrina, one of the few truly holy followers of the Bulb, was  cut down in the streets of Comida, far away from her home, murdered by  the cause she had dedicated her life to.

She died alone and afraid, her only comfort a traitor that stood above her, smiling as her body crumpled to the ground.

Her  family would not discover the truth of her death for two decades. She  would be remembered as one of the kindest, sweetest, holiest members of  the Church, inadvertently adding to its strength even as it betrayed  her.

But even in death she stood strong.

And,  in her final moments, she felt a different kind of magic flood her  veins. She did not break eye contact with the future pontifex even as  the sword cut through her chest.

As she fell, her eyes  sparked purple and light of the same sugary colour surrounded her, even  as her yellow blood stained the stones beneath her, sending a citrusy  sweet smell into the air.

For in sweetness there is strength.

[the-everqueen]

it’s quarantine, i’ve done zero quals work in the past week--so i’m posting the only thing that’s consistently gotten words from me in these troubled not-times: a hannibal wereverse kidfic

The cafeteria is chaos at lunch. 

Usually Will avoids the cafeteria, preferring to retreat into the library for the hour. But his English teacher caught him headed upstream against the wave of children jockeying toward recess and corralled him in the “right” direction, even going so far as to make sure he got in line for a free lunch. Now, balancing a plastic tray with his tattered copy of Child of God, a bologna sandwich, and a fruit cup, he weaves among tables, looking for a semi-isolated place to sit. The fluorescent lights buzz at a pitch that hurts his ears. The smells of sweat, musk, and processed food make the fur on his arms prickle. And the people—humans, wolves—press too close, their loud voices splitting his head like a hundred drill bits. 

Surrounded by so many others, Will Graham feels…adrift.

He could probably sneak out. Ms. Mitchell will have gone back to her office. Or if he ran into another teacher, he could say he was going to the bathroom, hole up in an empty stall until next period. Boring, but not the worst. 

(His mind shutters against The Worst.)

The thing that keeps him here is food. Most days he ignores the pinch in his belly as a matter of fact: Dad can’t afford more than bare staples, and Will can’t bring raw chicken or canned beans to school. He’s not too proud to accept a free meal, but the meagre offering has never seemed worth the stares. Except, as he settles down at a table in the far corner, he thinks he might suffer the headache once in a while, if he gets a sandwich for his pains. 

He’s finished the last scrap of bologna and is picking at the plastic seal on the fruit cup with clumsy, clawed fingers when the kid sits next to him. 

Will glances over, frowning. The table he chose has two bitten weres opposite him—sisters, one of them nonverbal, neither of them with enough social weight or investment in the situation to chase him away. This kid smells human. He has no reason to sit with them; the humans have their own table for social outcasts. 

The kid catches his gaze and offers a smile. “I’m Jim,” he says, friendly. 

Will grunts. 

Jim seems undeterred. “You like McCarthy? I read Blood Meridian, it was real good.”

Will stubbornly continues to poke at the fruit cup, manages to puncture the seal so that he can lap at the thin syrup that pools from the ragged hole. Jim hesitates but poses another comment about his taste in books. Like paws slapped against the ground, an invitation to play. Will pins his ears in annoyance, mouth tight at the corners. It’s enough to make the sisters uneasy, shuffling closer together, but Jim doesn’t pick up on the cue.

“I get that you’re the new kid,” Will interrupts, when he can’t take it anymore, “but are you stupid, too?”

He darts a look at the kid’s face. Jim gapes, shoulders curling inward. He’s got the same naked lankiness of his non-wolf peers, but the first word that comes to Will’s mind is pretty: girlish fine features and huge dark eyes with long lashes. Will shakes the thought loose. His brain does the mental math to fill in the other necessary details—first day in the local high school, recent move from the suburbs, human but immune to the bite. 

Will scoffs. “Oh. Figured you’d start with low stakes, since I’m not a threat to you.” 

A blush patches over Jim’s pale, freckled face. “You—what you said in class. About the Shakespeare. That was clever.”

It takes a second for Will to recall. He rarely participates in classes, but he’d been so frustrated at Ms. Mitchell for not understanding Iago. Her unsubtle questions posed to the room got moralizing answers, banal platitudes that no one actually thinks, and Will’s hand had shot up of its own accord. 

“That was nothing,” Will says. One furred ear flicks in irritation. 

“I read Othello last year, back—back before we came here, and no one in class had anything interesting to say about it.”

“Including you.”

Jim’s flush deepens. “I like Hamlet better,” he mumbles.

Will makes a dismissive noise in response. He finally manages to scrape back enough plastic to snap up pieces of canned fruit; the sweetness is almost too much, but hunger demands its due, and so long as he’s lapping chunks of pear and pineapple he doesn’t have to make eye contact. 

Jim stops trying for a conversation, but he doesn’t move to another table.

As soon as the bell rings, Will grabs his book and darts for his next period.

***

He assumes that will be the extent of their interactions. Most kids at the various schools he’s attended categorize him as an outsider, and the few that don’t quickly learn not to bother with him. That’s all he wants, really, is for them to leave him alone. Often the fact that he’s a bitten is enough—the prejudice against bitten youths as unstable frames his moody distance as more dangerous than normal teenage angst and less explicable than psychological problems. Humans and purebloods alike keep their distance from bitten weres. But there are other things about him that discourage anyone from getting close. 

Jim does not seem to recognize these things.

As it happens, they share a similar schedule. Jim tries to catch him after biology, and again when school lets out. Both times Will pretends he can’t hear his name being spoken over the din of students—a transparent lie, given his wolfish ears—and slips into the crowd. 

The kid’s persistence bothers him. It doesn’t feel malicious: Will has endured his share of bullying, he can scent the nervous tics and dark amusement under a friendly gesture. But he can’t puzzle out the underlying motive. Any human trying to form a social connection should attempt to insert themselves at the upper echelons and work their way down until they find a niche that’ll accept them, not start at the bottom. 

Maybe Jim just doesn’t understand that. Maybe Will has found someone worse at interactions than him. 

He ponders a possible social malfunction on the walk home. It doesn’t fit quite right in his head, but it’s an explanation. 

The trailer is dark when he lets himself in—Dad must still be working. Will tells himself this even though, when he flicks on the lights, he sees his dad’s discarded work shirt and steel toed boots, feels the resentment simmering in the humid air. He glances at the clock. Late afternoon. He’s hungry, but it’s too early for dinner—he’ll just wake up in the middle of the night with stomach pangs. Might as well waste an hour on homework while he’s got the quiet. 

He finishes his English essay sprawled out on the sagging mattress: the position is awkward but allows for his tail and shifting hips. When he’s done making a clean copy, he spends a minute examining his tail, which is losing some of its puppy thinness and starting to fill out nicely. Then he stretches and sets about scrounging for dinner. 

There’s nothing in the fridge besides a rind of sour-smelling cheese. Will eats it while he digs around the pantry. Some canned goods, a jar of peanut butter. He considers. Dad won’t like it if he finishes their groceries, and he hasn’t given Will permission (or cash) to go to the store. 

No one else is home. 

Just behind the trailer park is a stretch of trees and bracken. Will gets over the fence separating the two spaces with relative ease, his bare feet giving him needed traction. He’s come out here before, when he wanted to be alone, finish reading a book. 

But solitude isn’t the plan.

He drops to all fours, weaving in a zigzag pattern while he sniffs at the grass. It’s not close enough to full moon for this position to be entirely comfortable, but the twinge in his hips and shoulders eases as he pads along. His feet and hands are rough with developing paw pads; his nose flares and twitches with the influx of smells. It’s hard to pick up a trail—there’s so many things alive and moving out here, he keeps getting distracted—but eventually his brain snags on warm blood, little creature and he’s on his way. 

His hunger almost disrupts the hunt. At one point he moves too fast, makes a racket pushing through some undergrowth. But finally he sneaks up on his prey: a good-sized, unsuspecting squirrel. 

Tense, leap, bite. Will’s heart surges as he cracks down through the squirrel’s spine, his mouth filling with a rush of blood. Yes, good, hunt, food. Once the critter stops its death throes, he settles down to enjoy his meal. 

It’s gone too soon. He nibbles on the scraps of fur, licks the blood from between his fingers and around his mouth. He’ll have to splash about in the nearby creek to be sure he’s clean, but there’s no sense in wasting any part of a kill. 

When he gets back, it’s dark outside and he’s tired and damp, if better sated. Dad remains absent, so Will takes a shower and does his math homework. Geometry proofs are soothing, mindless. When he feels suitably numb, he crawls into bed and huddles under a blanket. The weather is too warm for covers, but he needs something to try and block out the sound of his dad’s return.

Will has always been a troubled sleeper.

Sure enough, sometime in the night he wakes to the sound of the front door slamming shut. Dad curses mildly as he stumbles through the trailer, the smell of liquor in his wake. Something else, too—other wolves, other people, a tangle of scents that makes Will wrinkle his nose, burrow deeper under the blanket. 

“Billy?” his dad rasps.

Will goes very still. Tries to keep his breathing even.

Maybe Dad knows he’s faking, but he doesn’t call Will’s bluff. Instead he sighs, shucks off his shoes and pants, and climbs into bed.

***

The moon waxes and wanes. School continues to be both a distraction from home and a throbbing headache behind Will’s eyes. He stays out of the cafeteria, lurking in the library with his worn paperbacks. The librarian catches him squinting at a page and sends him to the nurse, who tells him he needs glasses. Will steals a pair from the local drugstore. They slip down his lengthening muzzle, and he’s constantly pushing them back into place, but it helps with the migraines. 

He doesn’t see Jim outside of classes. He thinks maybe Jim has moved on.

He is wrong.

The envelope taped to the outside of his locker stands out like a splotch of blood against the dull beige. Immediately Will is on alert. He thought he’d handled the bullies in his first weeks here; now he wonders whether they were just waiting for him to lower his guard. The hall is mostly empty at this hour—it’s a good twenty minutes before the first bell—but he scents the air, edges close enough to snatch the envelope and rip it open.

Inside is a generic card. It takes Will a long moment to process what the painstakingly neat handwriting says.

Will you go to Spring Dance with me?

There’s a signature and a phone number, but Will can’t make any meaning out of them. His vision has whited out with rage. He’s shaking, the soft scrim of fuzz on his hands bristling. A growl starts deep in his chest, an engine kicking to life. 

Whoever did this, they’d want to watch.

His gaze flicks around the hall, lands on a familiar, pretty face.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” he snarls.

Jim flinches. The reflexive part of Will’s brain catalogues that he’s put in the effort to make his appearance nice, wearing new jeans and an ironed button down with the sleeves rolled into crisp cuffs at his elbows. “It—it’s not a joke,” he stammers. Split second of hesitation, then he crosses the hall, getting closer while maintaining a careful distance. “I just thought…It doesn’t have to be anything, if you’re not—um, just if you didn’t have anyone to go with…”

What makes you think I’d go to a school event? Will wants to scream. But part of him feels the flush of embarrassment that colors Jim’s freckled cheeks as keenly as if it were his own. 

Before he can say anything, another voice juts in. “He doesn’t want your faggot ass, Walker.”

Will turns to see the resident jock prince strut down the hall, sycophants flanking his sides. Harry Bergeron. He radiates a smug assurance that no one should possess this early in the morning, least of all in a public high school. 

Will bares teeth. “Saving me for yourself, Harry?”

The jock—human, but with a good six inches and thirty pounds on Will, and isn’t that the kind of thing to make humans stupid—frowns at him. “Does the bitch want the fag, after all?” he sneers. 

Jim, wide-eyed and frozen in place, looks almost hopeful. 

“No,” Will snaps. “Just. Leave him alone.”

“Or what? I’m not scared of some pup.”

“Yeah?” He curls his lips back. It’s almost new moon, but he’s still sporting fangs. “Haven’t see you much since last fall.”

Harry’s face darkens. 

Will knows not to press his luck. He crumples the card in his hand, turns to open his locker, and feigns gathering supplies for his first class. 

Harry levels another insult at Jim. There’s a clatter—someone pushed the kid down. Roll over, know your place. Will rolls his eyes. Humans aren’t that different from wolves, and no one understands so better than teenagers. 

He waits until they’ve moved down the hall to slam his locker shut. 

Jim is still standing around, arms folded tight across his torso. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…I thought maybe…”

“I know.” Suddenly Will feels very tired. “Look, I don’t get how you haven’t figured it out yet, but if you’re gonna fucking ask a boy out around here, at least make sure he’s human.”

“I’m not a speciesist.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Will says, frustrated. “Fine. Do whatever you want. But leave me out of it.”

Jim stares at him. There’s something that Will is missing, he can feel it, but the close attention of another person makes his skin crawl. Shouldering his backpack, he ducks his head and hurries along to class. 

He can figure it out later, maybe, when he’s not cornered by all these people, their thoughts and expressions bearing down on him in ways he doesn’t know how to deflect.