Prompt: A is a witch that lives in a nice, quiet cottage in the woods, with their closest (and pretty much only) neighbour being B. B will sometimes come over — for spells/potions/to say hello/etc. — and has expressed their concern for A several times, because it really isn’t all that safe to live alone in the middle of the woods. A is confident that they can protect themselves, but is always wary on the full moon when they can hear howling unlike any wolf they’ve ever heard … One night, while the full moon shines overhead, A finds the source of the howling — an injured werewolf that’s whimpering on A’s doorstep. A cares for the beast, and looks after it until morning when it changes back into human form … and is revealed to be B. (Source in master list)
Word count: 3,915 words
Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural
References:
1 Goo Goo Dolls’ “Black Balloon”
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‘A visitor! We have a visitor!’ the windchimes … chimed.
For a fleeting moment, I wondered if it’d be worth enchanting them to be able to tell me who was at the door at such moments as well. It wouldn’t be hard — at least, I reckoned it’d take the same amount of effort as making them somewhat sentient, which wasn’t much at all, really — and I was a competent witch, a statement I dared to own the fuck out of. The thing was, what would I do with this information? The visitors I had — few and far between, bar one habitué — were none I’d want to turn away.
‘Especially your habitué,’ said Broomstick, who’d stopped grooming herself just to deliver this hot take fresh out of the oven. ‘Being fancy, aren’t we, with the accent? “Habitué”. Rolls right off the tongue.’
‘It is your habitué!’ the windchimes said, incapable of not speaking in exclamation marks all the time. Inside voices: what were they? Also, there went my idea. Cool, cool. Guess I sometimes didn’t know the full extent of the spells I came up with until after the fact.
Standing up to receive, yes, the one steady visitor I’d never refuse the chance to see, I said, ‘Can we — can we please not start calling him that? He has a name.’ Broomstick feigned not registering the glower I directed at her. I knew she saw it. I knew she knew what she’d started.
‘Jacob! Jacob! Jacob!’ the windchimes chanted, like children repeating a word they shouldn’t.
Fucking hell. Sentient household items and talking animals were overrated, I tell you.
‘Rubbish. You’d miss us in a heartbeat if anything happened to us,’ said Broomstick.
‘Shut! Stop listening in on my internal monologue!’ I said. ‘It’s a violation of my privacy.’
‘Is it now? I walk around with my nether regions exposed all day, and you don’t hear me making a fuss about it.’
‘That’s different. You won’t let me put a dress on you.’
‘I said it a thousand times, and I’ll say it again: clothes on animals are unnatural, Emilia.’
‘A visitor! We have a visitor!’ said the windchimes. ‘Jacob! Jacob! Jacob!’ Had this exchange broken them?
‘I’m coming!’ I said. As my parting shot, I pointed at Broomstick threateningly. It was in jest, of course: there was nothing that made her beholden to me, and there was nothing I could offer her to be beholden to me. Truth be told, I liked to think she simply liked my company.
… She didn’t take the bait.
I went to get the door. Lo and behold, it was my habitué, Jacob, dressed in his Sunday best — for the farmers market, as was his routine, the very same thing that helped put food on our tables. In his arms was a basket of crops: myriad mushrooms, fresh-smelling ginseng, elderberries, a jar of maple syrup, and a small bouquet of wild bergamots in the loveliest shade of lilac.
‘Good morning, Emilia,’ he said. ‘The best of the bunch for my favourite witch.’
‘Good morning, Jacob,’ I said, taking the basket from him. ‘Thank you as always. Sorry for keeping you waiting at the door.’
‘It’s okay. Broomstick giving you lip?’
‘What’s new, pussycat?’
‘Do you have any plans for today?’
‘Other than brewing stock for the coming week? Not really. Maybe I’ll bake something.’
‘I’ll keep a nose out for that “something”.’
‘Then I will bake something.’ I smiled. I liked it whenever he’d come over. Nothing quite held a candle to the company of good, human friends, and he was a sterling specimen of this group. ‘My only friend,’ Broomstick would say, and I was inclined to agree with her on the condition that ‘around here’ was a qualifier. ‘How about you?’
‘Cycling, perhaps, after teatime. Then a spot of laundry, dinner, and an early night for me. Hold your applause. It’s all very exciting, I know.’
‘Bummer. I was going to ask if you’d like to come over for dinner and watch the moon after. It’s a full moon tonight — the Full Flower Moon, so it’s a special one for the both of us.’
‘Really? I’d love to, but the farmers market always gets me knackered. Sorry.’
‘It’s alright. I guess I could watch it with our neighbourhood wolf.’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, “What”?’
‘“Neighbourhood wolf”?’
‘Yeah. Don’t you hear it at night? Okay, it’s not every night — it’s more like, every full moon.’
‘I … never noticed.’
‘What? No. You couldn’t have not noticed.’ For one, it didn’t sound like any wolf I’d ever heard. It was … like a broken, haunted reimagining of the wolf’s melodious warble — or a little like someone had stuck the latter in a grinder, depending on who you asked under this roof. The timing was a little suspect, too … I didn’t doubt their existence. (It’d be … silly of me to, to say the least …?) I would like to come across one someday. I only hoped we’d both exit the encounter unscathed. I didn’t like the idea of using my magic to cause harm to another living creature. I’d never had a reason to do so, and I wouldn’t ever want there to be one, notwithstanding whatever reputation the other party had.
‘I’m a heavy sleeper.’
‘I envy you.’
‘Has this wolf — uh — have you heard anything about this wolf doing anything … bad?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s been a good boy.’
‘Well … be careful, nonetheless. I heard lone wolves — assuming it’s one — are more dangerous. It really isn’t safe for you to be living out here alone.’
‘Don’t be silly. I have you.’ Honestly, I worried about him sometimes. Now that I knew he was as good as dead while asleep, I worried about him even more.
‘I’m but a simple farmer, Emilia.’
‘The odds are on our side. It’ll be two against one. No, three: Broomstick likes a fight every now and then.’ I put my hand on his arm, a gesture meant to reassure. ‘Thank you for your concern, Jacob. It means a lot to me. But I can handle myself.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean you couldn’t. I know you’ve been here longer than I have. I know what you’re capable of. I just — I just worry, maybe a little too much for my own good.’
‘And it’s very sweet of you to.’ I kissed him on the cheek. ‘Now, how much is it for everything?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘What? No —’
‘Actually, I wanted to ask as well if you’d like to join me at the market. I’d like that more than anything. But you’re busy today, so it’s okay. I’ll come by after the market.’
‘I’d love to go with you.’ Broomstick had been saying I needed to get out more often. She’d be happy to see I was making an effort, and with another person, too! ‘I’ll have the rest of the day for brewing. I can multi-task. I’ll just need to put this down’ — I lifted the basket to clarify what ‘this’ was — ‘and get dressed first.’
‘Great.’ No amount of magic could aspire to replicate the warm fuzzies I got from seeing his smile. This was the one enchantment I had no defence against, and that was okay. ‘I’ll wait for you in the lorry.’
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Hands materialised out of thin air to help me with the basket while I went to change out of my current outfit and into something that’d complement his light yet dapper look. A sundress! I had the perfect one to match my new hat.
‘Our girl’s going on a date!’ said Broomstick from the living room, loud enough for every living thing within a half-kilometre radius to hear.
✦✧✦✧
‘A visitor! We have a visitor!’
I rubbed enough sleep out of my eyes to be functional at this hour — whatever it was — and to be able to return to sleep easily after, then put on my glasses. I turned my nose up at the information the clock imparted: 1:42 a.m. How odious: I’d only been asleep for an hour. That’d teach me to put off sleeping at a decent hour. I sat up and asked, ‘Who is it?’
No answer. Oh. I see how it is. Yesterday was a fluke. Broomstick was nowhere to be found, too. It dawned on me a split second later that her absence could be chalked down to her curiosity; she was, in a sense, the house’s first line of defence. Sorry, Broomstick. And fine, I got up. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. The sooner I saw to this, the sooner I could go back to sleep.
Alas, sleep might be a distant dream tonight.
At my feet lay a fallen figure — a wounded animal, far larger than the likes of anything I’d ever seen roaming the woods … anywhere. Broomstick curled herself around my legs, cowed into trepidation by this behemoth of a beast. I looked closer. Not the moment for this, but — I knew it! The source of the monthly howling was exactly what I thought it was, and here was bodily proof. It was as if a wolf had been stretched into the frame of an adult human with a little extra bulk and height to fill things out better. Its fur was a dark blonde, almost brown, possibly the only link it had to its human self. Its eyes, contrary to some media’s portrayals of werewolves retaining their human eyes when transformed, were a pale yellow, very likely dulled by its injury.
Each whimper it uttered, loud and laboured, stung my heart. I knelt down and stroked its head. Broomstick stiffened in fear against me: ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘Yes. It’s hurt,’ I said. ‘Look at it. It’s not in any state to do anything. Let’s get it inside.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t very well let it die on my doorstep just because of what it is, Broom.’
‘Okay, okay, I’m sorry.’
I slung one furry, muscular arm over my shoulders — and barely made it one step forward. Yeah, I didn’t know what I was thinking. I was easily half its size. Should I get Jacob to help? No, he’d have me packing in minutes if he knew there was a werewolf in the neighbourhood. I called upon a pair of helping hands, ones with stronger constitutions than usual, to lift its lower half while I took care of its upper half. Having to look over my shoulder to ensure I didn’t end up redecorating my house with broken furniture proved to be a massive boon for my bleeding heart: I couldn’t bear to look into its eyes, so full of pain and misery. Something had to be really wrong.
The hands and I laid it down on the sofa in the living room. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t fit. Just … how tall was it? I had to move some furniture around for its entire body to be laid flat on a surface, and comfortably, too. ‘Let’s see what’s wrong, buddy,’ I said. It could only offer a wail in response.
‘It’s its foot,’ said Broomstick.
I joined Broomstick at the other end of our makeshift stretcher. My face scrunched up in repulsion at what my gaze fell upon. ‘Couldn’t have given me a heads-up, Broom?’ Its foot — paw? — was broken. I was seeing bits of bone where I shouldn’t. The fur on its foot was matted with blood, so much blood. As if that wasn’t horrific enough, the skin and flesh where the bones pierced through were blackened … charred. Against my better judgment, I leaned in for a quick sniff — and promptly regretted every microsecond of that second. The crescent pattern of the burn spelled out what had done this to the werewolf. ‘Fucked’ barely began to skim the surface of it.
‘Poor baby,’ I cooed.
‘Not exactly the words I’d used to describe a werewolf,’ said Broomstick.
‘Don’t you think it’s kind of cute? It’s a big, fluffy wolf.’ Sensing I’d never be able to win her to my point of view, I said, ‘In all seriousness, someone else knows we’ve got a werewolf around. This is awful. It hasn’t done anything. It’s been a good wolf.’
‘Not yet … but I’ve heard some stories about these supernatural hunters. They’re ruthless.’
I summoned my spell book for any nuances involved in treating a werewolf. It continued to keen. I commanded the hands to retrieve what I needed to mend the bones and take care of the burn as well as a calming draught. Thankfully, I didn’t have to make any major adjustments to what I had on hand to accommodate the obvious. It wouldn’t take the draught. It couldn’t, as I soon learned: its palms, like its mangled foot, were burnt. It emitted a low, piteous whine, as if to apologise for its inadequacy.
I poured the draught into the dish I’d asked a hand to bring me. I held the dish up to its snout; a hand propped up its head for me. It sniffed the dish’s contents, then lapped up everything greedily. It lay its head back down on the pillow after it’d drained the dish dry, and almost instantly, it relaxed, vibrancy returning to its eyes. (Fun fact: it was a little more than a calming draught.)
Now that it’d quietened down, I found the resolve to get down to business. Broomstick also looked a little more comfortable around it. Frankly, I was a little scared. The werewolf had to be cooperative only because it’d been incapacitated. Nonetheless, I was bound by a (self-imposed) sense of duty to all that inhabited this wood, including an amalgamation of man and wolf with or without murderous tendencies. As I worked on its foot, my thoughts drifted to the werewolf’s human identity. Broomstick confirmed that it was a male; after all, she didn’t share the same mores on modesty as me. Where did he come from? How did he become a werewolf? Did he have a family? Did they know what he was? Did anyone?
Despite the horrific nature of his injury, it was a relatively simple fix: a spell to doctor the bones, a salve with added wolfsbane for the burns, restorative-laced dressing, and a potion for overall well-being. He sat through everything like a champ, too. How much of its humanity did a werewolf retain in its transformed state, I wondered? He seemed to understand everything I did and said. Would that extend to ‘No, please don’t eat me!’? Was elevated cognisance — or reduced bloodlust, or both — one of the differences between werewolves by birth and werewolves that’d been made? Was there a difference between the two? I still had so much to learn about my world.
When I went to drape a blanket over him, he latched onto my arm, sat up, and licked the entire length of the side of my face — over and over. Heat spread from where he licked me to the rest of my face, engulfing it in a red cast. ‘You’re welcome!’ I said.
‘Congratulations,’ said Broomstick, who, along with the hands, had been my indispensable aide throughout. ‘You can now add “treated a werewolf” and “survived being in close proximity with a werewolf” to your accomplishments. Viv would be so proud.’
‘Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without her.’ I patted my spell book with utmost regard. I turned to the werewolf again. ‘Get some rest. It’ll be about another’ — I looked up at the clock — ‘two hours before sunrise.’ His transformation back into a human should help with the remainder of his recovery, according to Viv’s notes in my book. Had he not made it to my doorstep, and had it not been for the silver, the reversal would’ve also helped restore his foot to some extent. The thought of someone planting something capable of such cruelty in my wood infuriated me. I’d find the rat bastard responsible for this. I’d make them pay. ‘I’ll be here. Bark … if you need anything? And … I understand if you’d like to leave after sunrise … if you don’t want me to know who you are.’
He closed his eyes. Fair enough. I climbed into the armchair beside him, made myself as comfortable as I possibly could in this, and pulled my blanket up to my chest. Broomstick jumped up into my lap. Shortly, slumberous silence swept over the living room.
✦✧✦✧
I scrambled awake, eager to see if the werewolf had stuck around. Mr Werewolf, I thought I’d call him if and until I learnt his name. Did I succeed in making a new friend as well? Would he be a new neighbour? Would he mind if I introduced him to Jacob? Jacob might be happy to know the werewolf in our wood was a friend. He might be just as happy to be friends with a werewolf, too. I know I would be. I was! Oh, what if this developed into a tawdry love triangle like in the movies and books? The witch, the werewolf, and the farmer. I could look past the almost alliteration.
‘Good morning —’
The muscles in my jaw went slack.
The farmer was the werewolf.
‘Please, Emilia. I’m so sorry,’ he said, clutching his blanket tightly. ‘I — I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know if I ever would. I didn’t know if you’d be okay with it — with what I am.’
I went to sit next to him. He recoiled slightly from me. I held on to his arm, stopping him from going any farther. He had so many scars on his body, a mix of old and new. And was he always this warm? Broomstick was watching us from the top of the bookcase by the wall behind us, the tip of her tail twitching away, her eyes shining keenly. I’d love to know what was going through her mind.
‘Why wouldn’t I be okay with it?’ I said, taking Jacob’s hand. The skin on his palm was without a blemish. I’d never have known the truth about him if he’d left before I woke up. I could continue seeing him without ever knowing how much of a difference this morning would’ve made to the grand scheme of things between us.
‘No one ever has been.’
‘Jacob …’ I put my hand on his face. I couldn’t believe that this face and the wolfish one I’d looked into for so much of this morning were one and the same. ‘I’m probably the last person to give a toss about what anyone is.’ Now was probably not the best time to tell him I was once in a serious relationship with a vampire. Apples and oranges, I know, but that had to count for something, right? Most people wouldn’t want to cross paths with a vampire, too.
‘This is different. I’m dangerous. I could’ve hurt you.’
Hands brought us tea — the aroma was unmistakably chai — and biscuits. I poured him a cup. ‘You weren’t dangerous this morning.’
‘Because I was injured. It would’ve been a very different story if I wasn’t.’
‘But I’m here and I’m fine, Jacob. So are you. I don’t — I don’t care that you’re a werewolf. You could be a demon or a ghoul or a merman, and I’d still want to be your friend. I only wish you’d told me sooner so I could’ve helped.’
‘Help how? I was born like this. I can’t be cured.’
Oh.
‘No, I mean, I could’ve come up with something to help manage your condition better. I still can. I’d be happy to. And I wouldn’t dream of thinking up a cure unless that’s what you want.’
‘I … uh.’ His head tilted downward. ‘That … that would be nice. Something to manage this, I mean. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I really should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry, Emilia.’
‘It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it. It’s all in the past.’ I smiled. ‘How’s your foot?’ I saw that the dressing had been removed.
He brought his foot up onto the sofa; I averted my eyes. Regrettably, I had no clothes for him. Should I start keeping some of his clothes around? That blanket had had too much responsibility, and the kind it wasn’t used to, foisted upon it. Anyway. His foot, like his hands, was in immaculate condition. I still couldn’t get over how I might’ve never gotten to know about his other self. In a way, I was touched that he trusted me enough to reveal something of this magnitude about himself.
‘The silver would’ve fucked it up to shit if you hadn’t helped. Not only am I thankful you fixed it, but I’m also glad I don’t have to come up with some bollocks about a wonky foot that would’ve looked like I got in an accident with a blender.’
‘We’re going to find the asshole who did this, Jacob. We’re going to fuck them up.’
‘The trap’s not … new. I’m usually not this careless.’
‘Do you remember what happens when you’re transformed?’
‘Not everything. Sometimes I choose not to.’ He raked his hair with his fingers. I never paid much attention to his hair until now. I think I could’ve made something of the parallelism between the colour of his locks and the werewolf’s fur … and then left it as nothing more than a mere coincidence, because England was in no short supply of brunettes, and because I’d never have pegged him as a supernatural being, much less a werewolf. A woodland spirit would’ve been more likely.
He continued, ‘I should probably go. I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality long enough. But I can’t ever say thank you enough for helping me — and for not … hating me.’
‘I could never hate you, Jacob.’ I stroked his cheek. ‘And thank you for trusting me to share that part of you with me.’
Then my lips were on his, and the rightness, the goodness, of how this felt startled me. His taste was steeped with notes of cinnamon, warm and sweet, and cardamom, zesty, smoky. I drank in his smell — it was of the woods, earthy, musky, and lightly vegetal, which came as no surprise. His skin was so warm, pleasantly so. The world spun beneath me.1 It was as if I were in a trance, or under a new spell of his borne of our new connection. He had my sweet surrender, every last ounce of it. He kissed me back, his mouth insistent, hungry, the animal in him awakened, and in this moment, I felt like one of his crops ripening for the harvest.
‘Would you stay for the day? Please?’ I said. I didn’t know what I’d done, but I wanted more.
He nodded. Without hesitation, I felt the absolute need to discern. ‘I’ll need to go home first to … attend to the obvious. I’ll return this to you after the next laundry day.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I was still a little giddy. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I’ll be back, my favourite witch.’ His lips graced my cheek, setting off a thousand fireworks, the loud, obnoxious kind that continue to reverberate long after in your chest, in my head. He got up, secured the blanket around his lower body, and left.
Broomstick jumped down from her perch and said, with the tricksiest smile a cat could muster, ‘You’d still want to be his friend, huh?’
Prompt: on a first date and A is a werewolf and doesn’t know the cutlery is silver (Source in master list)
Word count: 4,897 words
Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural
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I buried my nose in the bouquet of lilies and roses Jake had bought for me. It was the perfect emblem of summer with its warm, sunny hues and fresh, tangy scent — and the perfect segue to the next part of our date. The first part was a visit to the local farmers market, out of which we were now walking. Coming here had been his suggestion. It was something different from the usual first date stuff like coffee or a movie, and I liked it a lot, notwithstanding my initial reservations. I liked him a lot after what I’d seen of him at the market. I felt like the place helped bring out a certain spark between us. For one, there was constant talk about planning for date number two using what we’d seen and bought. If that wasn’t promising, I didn’t know what was!
‘Thank you, Jake. I love it,’ I said about the bouquet.
‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, a broad grin brightening up his face. ‘And thank you for the flavoured olive oil. Makes me kind of wish we didn’t have this dinner reservation …’ His grin turned sheepish in nature. ‘But that’s what’s making me look forward to our next date.’
See?
‘Do you want to call for a taxi or walk?’ he said.
‘What time’s our reservation?’
‘6:00 p.m. on the dot.’
My watch came alive with a flick of my wrist. ‘Let’s walk, then. I want to walk off all the cheese I sampled.’ I’d sampled a lot. In my defence, it was almost that time of the month — and that other time of the month. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘Google Maps can teach me.’
The route Google Maps recommended was scenic. London Bridge looked lovely at this time of day. Its appeal was heightened tenfold with Jake by my side. Could you believe we met on Tinder? It still felt unreal to me. Getting this match used up all my good luck for the year, and we were only at the halfway point. Well, if it meant burning the roof of my mouth most of the time I ate to be able to quit the dating scene for a reasonable amount of time (“once and for all” seemed a little ambitious, though that would be nice), who was I to whinge about the hand fate had dealt me?
The restaurant was located within the Four Seasons. We had been overdressed for the market. Now we were … dressed. I was flattered as fuck that he picked such a lavish place for dinner for a first date. I hadn’t the faintest clue what it was about my profile and our conversations that made him think of a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel. I did try to talk him out of it (gently). It wasn’t about the cost. Food was one of the things I was more than happy to splurge on. It was just … I never had anyone think this highly of me before, and I wondered if that’d change if … and when … he knew the truth about me.
The host led us into the main dining room and to our table. An amuse-bouche and warm bread came together with the menus. The prices were as expected of the type of establishment this was. Everything sounded good, though this was my first time coming across some of these words. Looking up what each one meant would add to the time something would take to reach our table, and my stomach would sooner eat itself out of desperation.
‘Please don’t hold back,’ said Jake, sensing my indecision. ‘The price is not an issue.’
I did have to hold back. The coincidental timing of this month’s full moon and crimson tide amplified every-fucking-thing I could possibly feel to a divinely hellish degree in the days leading up to them. As it was, I could easily polish off a five-course meal by myself. If Jake wanted this date to go in a less chaste direction after dinner, hell would freeze over before I’d even dream of talking him out of it, first date etiquette be damned. Was the fact that he was such a goddamn catch helping anything? Absolutely fucking not.
‘No, it’s not that. I can’t — I can’t decide what I want,’ I said. It was technically true. I was torn between the beef (never mind that it was £98) and veal … and both of them at once. ‘What are you having? Maybe I can get some inspiration from you.’
‘I was thinking the turbot … or the pigeon. Yeah, I can’t make up my mind either. I’m leaning toward the pigeon …? No, the turbot. Or the scallops …? Fuck. I need an adult.’
‘Let’s choose for each other.’
‘Promise not to hate each other’s choices — or each other?’
‘Pinky promise.’
We locked our pinkies together. I hoped touching him would never grow old.
Once our promise had been sanctified and we separated from each other, Jake signalled for the nearest available waitstaff. One came over almost instantly. The restaurant was bustling with activity, a far cry from however long it had been since we arrived. She took our order in a cordial fashion, not making a bigger deal of how we were ordering for each other than it should be. I chose the scallops for him; he chose the veal for me. I convinced him to start our evening with the langoustine; he sweet-talked me into ending it with the rhubarb. The waitstaff validated all our choices with a knowing smile.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask — and I hope I’m not stepping on your toes here,’ Jake started when our table was just the two of us again. ‘How did you get that scar on your arm?’
It was a matter of time. And bless him. I would never be offended by being asked about the memento of what’d changed my life forever. I would be offended by an adverse reaction to how exactly my life had been changed forever. I raised my arm, giving the scar in question its time in the limelight: brownish-pink, leathery circles arranged in the shape of a crescent, the ones at both ends abnormally large and ragged-looking.
‘My ex-boyfriend’s dog bit me,’ I said. More like my ex-boyfriend was the offending canine. ‘That’s not why he’s an ex, in case you were wondering.’ I’d wanted to be turned. He’d been more than happy to lend a helping set of fangs. Sadly, the idea of us being cute werewolves together was yet another one of those things that simply sounded nicer on paper. It wasn’t all sour between us. We’d sometimes meet for romps. It got lonely sometimes, and it wasn’t like there was an online forum for werewolves to socialise or whatever. I doubted he’d have known of one anyway: he was literally an American werewolf in London.
‘Did it hurt? It’s such a huge scar. Did anything happen to the dog afterward?’ He held up his hands. ‘Am I being nosy? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
I smiled in the hope that it’d soothe his worries. ‘You’re not being nosy. It was … okay for what it was.’ Euphoric. ‘The dog’s fine. It wouldn’t be fair to punish it for an instinct thing.’ Yup.
‘That’s good to hear. I think it’s a bad-ass scar. And I didn’t think it’s why he’s an ex.’
‘Thank you. Most people did. Yeesh. Give me some credit.’
‘I’m not most people … I hope.’ He smirked. The apples of his cheeks turned pink.
He really wasn’t. And I wanted so badly to tell him the truth there and then to see if that’d still hold true in the face of a bombshell like that. I had yet to tell anyone about my lycanthropy: if movies, television shows, books, etc., were anything to go by, I’d assume most people would react with fear or disgust, or both. Chris had been thoroughly flabbergasted when I reacted the way I did to learning why he always turned down my suggestions to go stargazing on nights with full moons. I got what I wanted … eventually.
Maybe I should tell Jake sooner than later. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my time having pined for someone who thought I was some kind of freak of nature.
That conversation — or rather, thinking about that conversation would have to wait, as our starter, bearing a strong resemblance to a flower arrangement with colours befitting the season, had arrived. Food was always the perfect diversion. So would the inevitable back-and-forth about who could have the third and last langoustine. Splitting it was not an option, for one piece was as big as my thumb. I loved the portion sizes of frou-frou fancy food. So much bang for one’s buck.
‘Bon appétit,’ said Jake. ‘That’s one of … four French phrases I know. The other three are “bonjour”, “omelette du fromage”, and — I can’t say the last one in a public place.’
‘Is it by any chance … “voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir”?’ I made no effort whatsoever to lower my volume — or maintain a straight face. Brazenness blazed through my cheeks.
He put a hand on his chest, feigning surprise. ‘Well!’ He tittered. ‘Since you asked ever so nicely, and in French … This is why your choices tonight have been shellfish, isn’t it?’
‘You got me.’
‘Looking at their portion sizes, I don’t think your plan’s going to work very well. Not that I’d need the help of — shut up, Jake.’
‘Keep going, Jake’ was what I’d have said and wanted if my stomach hadn’t started getting on my case for letting good food get cold. (‘Rubbery lobster? Gross!’) There was something hot about someone like Jake — a posh, proper Englishman, the polar opposite of Chris … okay, no, stop bringing him up, stop thinking about him, goddammit — talking openly, confidently, about his prowess. Such words … coming out of his mouth … in that accent … I quickly pressed my legs together to quell any desires. Which hunger of mine was responsible for this?
Wanting to satiate the one appetite I could at this very moment without earning myself prison time for my troubles, I said, ‘Bon appétit, Jake’, and picked up my fork … which promptly fell onto my plate with the fucking loudest clang. The smell of burning flesh tickled my nostrils — my burning flesh. My fingers were sizzling where the fork touched them. Sizzling! I prayed it was only my nose that could pick up this delectable aroma.
I stared at the cutlery. Trust a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel to use real silverware, not that cheap silver-plated shit. I prodded the fork handle — and withdrew my finger immediately. Not one of my finer moments. Please don’t tell me Jake saw it.
‘Is everything okay?’ said Jake.
Ah, fuck.
‘Yeah,’ I said, examining my palm. Good news: the burn hadn’t healed and wasn’t healing as quickly as my wounds and injuries (not that I had many of them) did after I was turned, so that was one less question to dodge. I didn’t want to keep lying to Jake. I didn’t like that I had been. How would I explain the absence of a second-degree burn that existed mere seconds ago anyway? Bad news: was this never going to heal because of what caused it? I had been so careful with silver since I was turned. How would I explain a perpetual second-degree burn? Would it out me as a werewolf to people who knew what to look for? Was now really the time for Twenty Questions?
Noticing Jake had been waiting on me to provide some kind of elucidation on my well-being, I said, ‘I guess I have a silver allergy. Can you believe it? Who’s allergic to silver?’
He didn’t need to say, ‘What kind of allergy burns someone?’ for me to hear it in my head.
‘Can you eat, then?’ he said.
I shook my head. As far as I was concerned, silver was lethal. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. If a perpetual second-degree burn was the worst thing to come out of fleeting contact with the metal, so be it. I’d consider myself a lucky lycan indeed.
‘Pardon me,’ Jake said to the waitstaff who’d come with our entrées, ‘would you have any disposable cutlery perhaps? My lady’ — he did not — ‘is allergic to the silverware.’
The waitstaff did an excellent job of not acting like this very dashing gentleman had just dropped the barmiest string of words on her during her entire employment in this line of work. Even I didn’t quite believe it myself. ‘I’ll see what we have, sir, ma’am,’ she said, cool as a cucumber. After she finished setting down our food, she collected all the silverware on my side of the table and left.
‘I don’t think whatever she comes back with would help with your veal. I could cut it up for you?’ said Jake.
Oh, my God. Getting burnt by silver must be the universe’s way of course-correcting the unusual jackpot I’d hit with him. Good Tinder matches were a myth!
‘No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll manage … somehow,’ I said. The wooden cutlery the waitstaff had returned with didn’t inspire confidence in me to not fling a piece of meat or a utensil at someone while cutting into my food.
‘We could swap dishes. I’d be fine with the veal. It was in my top five earlier.’
I suffocated a sigh. His scallops looked more like an appetiser than a main. But what choice did I have? I could either eat the veal like the animal that put me in this position or go through the restaurant’s entire supply of wooden cutlery with nothing to show for the effort in my belly and possibly injure someone in the process. Neither option would do any favours for my image in the eyes of the guy I liked and whose bones I’d like to jump at some point, enhanced animal lust or not.
So, I agreed. I tried to draw out the meal for as long as I could. Between the teeny serving and the unwieldiness of the wooden cutlery, I was having a miserable time. Dinner had become a silent affair, a far cry from everything prior to this point. Contrary to the vibe I was putting out, the food had nothing to do with my dour mood. For the first time since I was turned, I wasn’t happy about what I was. Could I never truly lead a normal life? Did I have to lie to every potential suitor and fret about whether they’d accept that other side of me on top of all the intricacies of dating?
There ought to be a dating app for verified supernatural creatures.
‘How’s the veal?’ I said. I had to speak up: I wasn’t being fair to Jake by acting like a sullen teenager over something he had zero control over, and the silence was deafening.
‘It’s — I might’ve done you a favour. How about my — your scallops?’
‘As good as three bites can get. I can’t tell if it tastes funny because of the wooden fork.’
‘This has been a disaster, hasn’t it?’ He flashed a wry smile. ‘Can I be honest? I have no idea what possessed me to pick a place like this for a first date.’
‘It’s a nice place. And it hasn’t been a disaster.’ If anything, I was the disaster. As always.
‘How was the market?’
‘The market was great. I had an amazing time.’
‘Thank God. I’ll take one out of two.’
I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of his. He made things extra saucy by interlocking his fingers with mine. ‘Jake, it’s fine. Today has been wonderful. I should be sorry for making things awkward with my … allergy.’ Nope, that still sounded silly.
‘What? No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.’
It … kind of was.
‘How about ice cream after this? My treat. I’m certain the rhubarb will be so very pretty and so very … nothing.’
He hit the nail on the head. The food we had would do wonders for my Instagram feed while having done nothing for my diet. I appreciated his offer, though I was afraid it would take more than ice cream to fill me up properly … Then again, that was a problem that rested solely in my dominion, not his, and it was one I intended to solve by trawling the likes of Deliveroo and Uber Eats in the comfort of my underthings at home — the one true way to enjoy food.
I asked for the bill the second dessert arrived. I wanted to leave here as soon as possible. I had quite enough of the wooden cutlery. I felt like a child using them. And like I told Jake earlier, I was on the fence about whether to attribute the food’s slightly off taste to them or my unrefined taste buds. Even the rhubarb wasn’t spared. Dessert was supposed to be my safe space, dammit!
I footed the bill in its entirety despite his objections. It helped that the waitstaff presented it to me because I’d been the one who asked, and that I was quick with my card. Sisters watching out for each other, everyone. The plan was then to go about the rest of the evening as if it had slipped my mind to ask him for his half or even bring it up in the first place. It was the least I could do for putting a wee damper on dinner with my … me-ness. He was going to treat me to ice cream anyway. There. We were even now.
The best-laid plans of mice and men often went awry: Jake snatched the bill folder and, taking out his phone, said, ‘Do you have Paym, Pingit, or PayPal? Why am I only noticing now that they all start with P?’
I admitted defeat: ‘Paym.’ It might be harder for him — or anyone — to believe I had none of those apps than that I was a werewolf. Did I want to put that to the test? No.
My phone buzzed with the confirmation that my plan had been a dud. ‘Thank you. Now let’s blow this popsicle stand and head to a real one.’
We left and worked on our next destination outside the restaurant. The staff had to want us out of there as much as we wanted ourselves out of there. The time of day meant we had limited options: ice cream parlours in London seemed to think people would lose the mood for sweet treats the moment the sky turned dark and the air cooled. Inanity. We had to return to where our date started for the one place that was open at this hour. It was just as well: I needed the walk this time to clear my head after what happened at dinner. It hadn’t seemed to dull the shine of his opinion of me, at least. He was as chipper as ever. Unless he was a good actor and paid up as soon as he did so he could ghost me after this and find himself a date that didn’t have some bogus allergy to silver …
Me? Over-thinking things? Never.
‘Do you want to do takeout or eat in?’ I said when we found ourselves less than fifty metres away from the parlour tasked with plying us with ice cream for tonight without a say in the matter.
‘Let’s do takeout and walk back to Borough Station. Full circle.’
The place was crowded: the most logical outcome for the only ice cream parlour open at this time near a tourist hotspot in the middle of summer. Customer turnover was quick, however, and we left with our orders within fifteen minutes. As tempting as their sundaes and waffles — towering, decadent creations of sugary indulgence — looked, we went back to the basics after our overly sophisticated dinner. Unlike before, what we wanted came to us in a snap: for myself, a speculoos gelato; for Jake, a gelato, too, but make it salted caramel.
And this time, we could help ourselves to each other’s food. With permission, of course.
‘A fraction of the price, but infinitely better,’ I said.
‘I hope the same can be said of our second date.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘Dinner at Chez Walker. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’
‘I do think so.’
‘It would have to be the weekend after next, though.’
‘Why? Got another date next Saturday?’ I had a firm enough grip on reality to recognise and accept that a guy like him had to be neck deep in matches.
‘No … next weekend’s the full moon. I thought you’d know.’
I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Why would I?’ I buried my stammer under a bemused scoff. Like, why would anyone — any not-werewolf, which, as far as Jake was concerned, was what I was — care to know when the full moon was?
He, too, stopped walking and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Imogen, I know what you are.’
I wiped my palms on the front of my dress. They were suddenly so sweaty. So sweaty. Why were they so sweaty? Could he see that they were so sweaty? I tried to defuse the situation the best — and maybe only — way I knew how: ‘Are we quoting Twilight? I’ll have you know that I liked the book when I first read it in 2007. And I thought the movie wasn’t too bad either.’ This was true, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Any female millennial who said they had felt nothing for Edward Cullen was a filthy liar.
‘I’m not ashamed either to say I read the book and watched the movie. But I’m serious.’
‘Okay … say it, then. Go on.’ Was that how the line went? I wasn’t going to look it up now. On a list of things that mattered in this moment, accurate movie quotes was nowhere near the top twenty.
‘You’re a werewolf. And I know how this sounds, so don’t humour me or —’ His tone had taken on a jittery lilt, uncharacteristic of someone who ought to be humoured, ridiculed (what his next word had to be), or — my worst-case scenario — feared.
‘How did you know?’
His mien changed in a manner that suggested that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Fuck it. Chris had trusted me enough to tell me the truth after a handful of dates, and he did it because he liked me a lot and he wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that we could move on in some way. (Me asking him to turn me was the real curveball of that conversation.) The least I could do, really, was to extend that same courtesy to Jake. I liked him. I liked him a lot. If he had a problem with what I was, it was better that I found out now that he did than many months down the road. There was no element of compromise to my … condition.
‘You mean I’m —?’
‘Right? Not crazy?’ I showed him my palm. The burn had taken about an hour to reach the healing stage normal people would reach in a week or so. ‘Yeah.’
‘Damn …’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did I know? I was brought up on a steady diet of horror movies and read way too many young adult supernatural books in the day, more than I’d care to admit. That, and my ex-girlfriend’s second uncle was killed by a werewolf.’
‘Shit.’
‘I’m kidding — about the last part. The first two are true. My ex-girlfriend was a vampire, and one of her uncles — I can’t remember which one; it could’ve really been her second — was with a werewolf when we were together. Vampires and werewolves get along quite well, actually.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘How the tables have turned … I’m not.’ He went through his phone with his free hand and, upon finding what he’d been looking for, passed it to me. ‘Look.’
On the screen was a photo of him with his arm around a hazy figure in clothes that were otherwise in focus.
‘Drove me quite mad at first, thinking something was wrong with my phone. Then she went a little … overboard once, and the rest was history. She shared everything about her world — your world — with me. And I’m also in several online paranormal communities, so there’s that. It’s not all as hush-hush as one might think. It just takes an open mind.’
I returned his phone to him. ‘How did you figure me out?’
‘Your “allergy”. I had my suspicions about your scar. Your reaction to the silverware confirmed them. Allergies … don’t do this.’ He took my hand and stroked my palm. The sensation of his fingers on the raw skin was … electric. ‘I’m sorry I put you in an awkward position and you weren’t ready to tell me. What I said … just slipped out. I understand. It has to be fucking terrifying. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me again after this. But I want you to know that what you are doesn’t change a thing about how I feel about you. How you were turned is none of my business. The whole thing is, really. I did an arse thing. I’m an arse. First with the goddamn restaurant, now this. Way to fucking go, Walker,’ he said to himself quietly.
I flung my empty gelato container into the nearest bin, and then my arms around him. I helped throw away his for him, too. ‘You’re not an arse, Jake. This doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you, too. I like you a lot.’ His cheeks flushed deeply under the moonlight. ‘I was freaking out about this whole thing during dinner because I like you a lot. I am so relieved that we’ve gotten to lay our cards on the table.’ I fanned myself with my hand. Don’t cry, Imogen! ‘And because I don’t want there to be any more lies between us, it was my ex-boyfriend who turned me, and he did it because I wanted it.’
‘Oh. Yeah, it still doesn’t change a thing.’ His lips landed on my forehead in a peck. ‘Okay, I never imagined the topic of our exes would come up so often during our first date. Oh, well. Guess they had more of an impact on us than we’d like to think.’
‘Yeah’ — I chuckled, ‘let’s keep walking.’
I peeled myself off him. Our hands remained intertwined. Like dinner, the remaining walk — as short as it was — to the station was a quiet one. Unlike dinner, it was more so that we were simply basking, revelling, in the afterglow of our attraction to each other and each other’s presence. The world felt right again, just as it did at the farmers market.
The next time we spoke was on the train platform. ‘Thank you for the lovely time,’ I said, ‘and for being such a sweetheart.’ I waved my bouquet at him. It still looked pristine despite all the walking we did. ‘For everything.’
‘Thank you, too. I had an amazing time with you today. I can assure you that Chez Walker will serve larger portions than what we had earlier.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘The weekend after next, then?’
‘Yes,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’d be down for any time before the weekend, too, if Chez Walker is open then.’
‘I’ll speak with the chef.’
He moved in for a goodbye kiss, which I seized wholeheartedly. His smell and the sound of his heartbeat flooded my senses. I could feel his heart beating against his chest under my touch, thumping, thumping away for every second our lips lingered on each other’s. I had to contain myself and keep things G-rated and light, as such kisses were wont to be, though my instincts were screaming, baying, at me to get to satisfying at least one craving tonight. I was the one to break off the kiss for fear of going too far.
‘Just in time,’ said Jake, his eyes doing that thing they did whenever he smiled. ‘My train’s here. I’ll see you next week?’
‘I thought you said you’ll speak with the chef about next week.’
‘I realised I don’t care what the chef thinks. He’ll be fine with it anyhow: he doesn’t have to bust out the good silverware.’
‘Goodbye, Jake.’
‘See you, Imogen. Message me when you get home?’
‘I will.’
We waved at each other, right before the train doors swallowed him up. My train came soon after, too. I spent the entire ride home wondering not what to fill the void that was my stomach with, but what fresh hell the universe had in store for me in return for scoring me a guy like Jake.
Prompt: a & b have been friends since they were children — but they’ve gone their separate ways during college. during that time apart, muse a and b were attacked by a vampire and werewolf respectively, undergoing a transformation they never expected. they kept it a secret from each other, hoping that this doesn’t change their friendship — until they meet up over summer and … holy fucking shit why do you SMELL like that? (Source in master list)
Word count: 5,123 words
Genre: Romance, supernatural
Warnings: Blood
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Impatience composed the rhythm my fingers were drumming on the table. Late. As always. The optimist in me would say it was comforting to know that some things remained the same after all these years. The pessimist in me, the unspoken captain of this ship, wondered why it had to be this gross habit that weathered the winds of change. He suggested this time and place. He had been insistent on meeting in the evening. I didn’t mind either way. I simply figured that being fussy about what time to meet meant that he’d put some effort into being on time.
Because the bar had a flood of new patrons and a dearth of ones contented enough to leave, I went inside and got a table for us first. I didn’t want to have to think of a new place for us to go if the place was packed by the time he got here — whenever that’d be. Time check: fifteen minutes and counting. He was such a lovely friend, and may God never fail to bless every brown hair on his head for every second of his life, but this was infuriating. Not even a text to tell me where he was and what was holding him up. Morgan, please!
His arrival melted away all the indignation I was feeling — and made every hair on the back of my neck stand.
No, that was the pins and needles from sitting cross-legged for too long.
‘Ellie?’ Confusion squinched his eyes. I expected this. The last time he saw me was in college, i.e., some twenty kilograms ago. I wouldn’t have pitched a fit if he’d thought the pictures I used were the result of Photoshop, Facetune, and/or angles. In contrast, he looked exactly as he did when the pictures he used were taken — in college, albeit maybe with a little less baby fat in his face than I’d remembered. Damn. Well, how much could a person change in three years? It wasn’t like he ever needed to lose an ounce of weight, too, let alone twenty kilograms.
When I confirmed I was the same Ellie he’d had the privilege of knowing since childhood, he enveloped me in a hug. I did what had been conditioned into me by the ‘dog’ that I told people was responsible for the scar on my arm the time I went jogging at night because I thought the full moon was bright enough to keep me safe. People were more keen on lecturing me for daring to have that train of thought as a woman in London than questioning what kind of dog it was exactly that could leave a scar like the kind I had, perfectly vindicating my choice of cover for what really happened.
His scent was like a bat to my face. I’d never smelled anyone like this before. People smelled like their diets, their emotions, their likes and dislikes, their best and worst memories: all that made them, them. The scents I’d have associated with him would’ve been the crisp brininess of sea air and the comforting sweetness of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. Instead, he smelled like blood, yet it didn’t smell like it belonged to him — or in him. I was also discerning a discomforting whiff of inhumanity, like something in him had been switched off. On top of that, he was clammy to the touch, and, most damningly of all, perhaps — no, no ‘perhaps’, as I pressed my ear to his chest, I couldn’t hear a heartbeat.
I put on my best poker face and released myself from his embrace. ‘You’re late.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He sheepishly ran his hand through his hair. ‘God, it is so good to see you. It’s been so long. And look at you! I couldn’t recognise you. (Is it gauche to say that was why I was late?) I only knew — I only had a feeling it was you because —’
‘Because …?’
He clicked his tongue. ‘That’s not important. Listen, I don’t know what I was thinking, asking to meet in a crowded bar … Do you want to go somewhere quieter? So we can talk better without having to shout?’
I downed the last of my drink, which I’d been forced to get earlier than I wanted so the staff wouldn’t kick me out for taking up a table in one of the more desirable corners of their establishment. I agreed with Morgan on the condition that he thought of where to go next. I hated crowds to begin with, and now that I was hypersensitive to all that the five senses encompassed, crowds were, to put it simply, a fucking nightmare. I should’ve put a kibosh on his suggestion to meet at a bar when he made it. I’d be comparing apples and oranges here, but not liking crowds was normal, whereas smelling and feeling like a dead person wasn’t.
We went for ice cream. The first thing he asked me was how I lost the weight. Had we not met on an app meant for matchmaking, his first question would likely have been something else entirely, something to do with what it was that had us seeing each other for the first time since college. I told him what I did to get in shape, which was to watch what I ate and move farther and for longer than the trips I made from my room to the kitchen or bathroom, or from my desk to the pantry or washroom, throughout the day. What I left out was how I’d been maintaining despite having ordered something as indulgent as three heaping scoops of gelato with chocolate brownie pieces and hot fudge sauce: catch something from an animal bite that counted an enhanced metabolism needed to sustain monthly bodily trauma among one of its many symptoms. It really was easy as that.
We opted for takeout and a walk around Hyde Park to pad out our evening. The open space did nothing to defuse his strange scent. It was all I could focus on, and I needed all the brain cells I could get to the office on such short notice focus on our conversation. We’d gotten the answers to simple questions about our lives over text prior to tonight: what we did after college, what we were doing now, how our families were doing, so on and so forth. You know, small talk bullshit. I hadn’t doubted that we’d broach the subject of our break from each other at some point during our reconnection. The elephant had made itself comfortable in the room the instant I received the notification he’d swiped right on me. The thing was, the elephant couldn’t stop another one of its ilk from invading its space, and now they were both arguing over which one of them deserved our attention better.
The almost pristine three-layered sundae drenched in strawberry sauce in Morgan’s hand provided the perfect icebreaker for me to possibly appease either elephant. ‘Are you okay, Morgan?’ I said. ‘You’ve barely touched your ice cream.’ Conversely, I was halfway through mine, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I had hot fudge sauce smeared across my lips.
It wasn’t only his restraint from inhaling his ice cream, the single course of action the Morgan I knew, the one who wouldn’t be smelling like a mortuary, would’ve carried out ages ago. He had been looking out of sorts the entire evening. Even softballs were answered with skittishness and reserve. Really, why’d he agree to meet if he wasn’t entirely over what happened all those years ago? If that was what this was about, that is. Did seeing me in person make him realise that it wasn’t the best of ideas to attempt to rekindle a friendship that’d turned awkward from differing expectations? It didn’t bother me in any way, but that was easy for me to say, considering the role I played in all this.
‘I’m fine.’ He gulped down a giant spoonful of ice cream without flinching. He and I understood the concept of ‘fine’ very differently. ‘Ellie … we’re friends, right?’
He’d wanted to be more than at one point.
‘Yeah,’ I said as deadpan as I could to prevent him from reading too much into my answer. I mean, I would if I were him.
‘We can tell each other anything.’
We sure did.
‘Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way,’ he continued.
I stared at him blankly. Caveats never came before anything good.
‘… Why do you smell like that?’
Wow, what the fuck. I should be the one asking that question, not him!
‘Like what?’ Still as deadpan as humanly possible. Disregard the fact that I hadn’t been human in a while.
‘Like … fuck, I can’t. This was a bad idea.’
‘No, tell me. Like what?’
‘Like the forest. Moss. Tree bark. Leaves. Dirt. And a little bit of raw meat.’ There were no pauses between his words, though the sounds were disparate enough to identify them as actual words. ‘No, a lot of raw meat. No, forget I said anything. Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me tonight.’
‘Just what has gotten into you, period? Why do you smell like spoilt wine — like blood?’ I wanted to ask as well why he didn’t seem to have a heartbeat. I remembered in time that a stethoscope was required to detect that sort of thing, and I had no business owning one. I wouldn’t even know where to get one, short of robbing the doctor the next time I had to go in for a check-up.
‘Something happened to us, didn’t it? Other than the obvious.’
‘I think so. Say it together on the count of three?’ I needed the countdown to convince myself that whatever had made him like this hadn’t made him cruel. He hadn’t said or done anything that’d wound me. No, what was I thinking? This was Morgan I was talking about. What sacrilege to think he could hurt a living being. I should apologise to him for this.
He agreed to my proposition.
I started the countdown: ‘One — two — three —’
‘I’m a vampire.’
‘I’m a werewolf.’
Together: ‘What?’
‘Are you messing with me?’ he said.
‘Are you messing with me?’
‘Have I ever?’
He had a point. I really needed to apologise to him. ‘How did it happen?’ Why play dumb? I turned into a hulking wolf-woman hybrid once a month. There were obviously others like me. It stood to reason that vampires would exist as well.
‘I … met someone after college. She and I had … stuff in common. I thought she was kidding when she asked if she could feed on me the first time. I let her anyway, and so much about her made sense immediately. I asked her to turn me eventually. Being vampires together was fun at first … and then it wasn’t. I don’t regret it, though. Okay, I do regret not being able to really enjoy food anymore.’ He cast a wistful stare in the direction of his sundae. It was a milkshake by now. ‘You?’
‘I was bitten while I was hiking at night. It was an accident. He’ — I paid no attention to the wince he made — ‘realised what he did and brought me to safety. He revealed himself to me the next day. He taught me everything about being a werewolf. Of course, one thing led to another, and …’
‘He was your ex,’ he said stiffly. For the first time tonight, I smelled something other than blood on him: bitterness.
‘Yes, the one I told you about on Tinder.’ Because he asked. His responses in that part of the conversation, as brief as it was, had borne little to no emotion. Jude and I ended things on a good note. I made that clear to Morgan. There was nothing for him — as a friend — to have strong feelings about. ‘Please, Morgan.’ Us coming across each other and reconnecting on a dating app meant — was supposed to mean — nothing.
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry for what happened in college. I’m over it, I promise. The time and distance apart helped. I don’t want us to not be friends anymore because of this — because of what I did. I’m happy we got to meet again after so long … and after everything that happened.’
‘It’s okay, Morgan. I wasn’t — I’m not — upset about what happened.’ I wasn’t really anything about it. Okay, I might have been surprised that the roles had been as they were: Morgan glowed up toward the end of secondary school, a development that didn’t go unnoticed by most of the female population wherever he went, whereas I was pudgy, socially awkward, and not the right amount of weird for it to be seen as quirky, and would therefore be likely to latch on to my sole source of male attention. (I was now two out of three of those things.) ‘Things happen. We don’t get to control this kind of thing. I’m happy, too, that you’re back. I missed you. I’m happy you got to work things out and want to continue being friends. Let’s just put this behind us and move on, okay?’
I hugged him. Relief and cheer emanated from him, alleviating the musty scent that made sense to belong to a vampire.
‘I missed you, too. On the bright side, it made the vampire–werewolf confession easier to stomach, didn’t it?’ His grin revealed pointed canines.
I chuckled. We could compare our fangs sometime. ‘What do you do for food?’
He guzzled the entirety of his sundae-milkshake in one drag. I envied the apparent departure of the concept of brain freeze from him. I should learn more about vampire lore from him and see what Hollywood had gotten right and wrong. (It was mostly the latter for werewolves: we were underrepresented and misrepresented. I just could never get a fair shake on the big screen.) ‘You’d be surprised by how well vampires have modernised and worked the Internet to their advantage. Blood bag delivery services, forums and apps for vampires and … vampire enthusiasts to connect. How about you? What do you do on full moons?’
‘I drive out to the woods whenever I transform — whenever I want to. That’s a thing.’ Jude and I spent a lot of our nights together as wolves. I did miss that sometimes. Jude never prepared me for how lonely being a werewolf could be until it was too late. ‘I hunt. I play. I explore. I haven’t killed anyone to the best of my knowledge.’
‘I want to make a “good girl” joke, but you can literally tear me from limb to limb.’ I nodded with a slight air of pride. ‘This is so fascinating. Vampires are pretty straightforward. What you see in movies and on TV is what you get — mostly.’ Ah, hell. ‘Hey, can I tag along whenever you transform? So I can learn how to hunt animals. Blood bags are actually kind of shitty, and I’m trying to keep biting people to a minimum. I — um — I don’t want to accidentally go too far and turn or kill someone.’
I was deeply relieved that he was still the same caring, thoughtful person I knew in spite of the faint unfeelingness I sniffed earlier. I wouldn’t think twice if it were another vampire: maybe that was what was needed for them to survive. I mean … who was I to judge? I gave in to feral thoughts occasionally. Given a choice, the only thing I’d choose to hunt was the perfect red velvet cake. But this was Morgan, the same person I needed to apologise to for thinking he’d say something mean to make me feel bad on purpose.
‘Of course, I’d love to show you the ropes! Just don’t judge my wolf form, okay?’ I said.
‘Shut up. I’m sure you look great. Would you prefer being called cute or ferocious?’
‘Both, please.’
‘I figured. Can you believe I was afraid to tell you about this? I didn’t know how you’d react, especially after …’
‘Same.’ The club that knew what I was, was a highly exclusive one, consisting of only two members at the moment and for the foreseeable future. I didn’t dare tell anyone else. Just how would this come up in a normal conversation? ‘I know we can tell each other anything.’ We did. We were in a world where asking a friend to be more than friends was less cause for concern for one’s mental health after all. ‘And nothing’s come between us. Not even —’
He nodded emphatically.
We found a place to sit in the park and continued talking, sharing stories about our new lives and recounting those from our old ones. Time became inconsequential, as did the fact that it had done so on a weeknight. We left only because the park was closing soon and I got hungry, because enhanced metabolism. A Lebanese takeaway near the park was my saviour. Our conversation persisted into the wee hours of the morning and a long way away from where we’d started. As he turned down my request to have breakfast together before heading home almost at the crack of dawn as we were wont to do in our early college days (and he did so patiently, which was more than what I deserved for being a forgetful idiot), it hit me for a moment that being friends with a vampire might pose a challenge to scheduling, as if his chronic lateness wasn’t already a thing. Then I realised it didn’t matter. I was simply happy to have him back in my life, and while anything about us could change at any time, one thing was for certain: our friendship would be everlasting.
✦✧✦✧
It happened again.
I fell in love with her again.
As soon as I felt the same tingle in my stomach that gave rise to our long separation in college, I knew I had to call our friendship off for good. This couldn’t keep happening. She needed a friend she could count on to be there for her because he wanted to out of cordiality, not one whose intentions she’d constantly be second-guessing. She had to know something was up. She had to have sensed my feelings for her. What could that nose of hers not detect? No, we agreed not to read each other’s emotions using our sense of smell. We weren’t at that level of intimacy with each other, as much as I desperately wanted us to be.
And hell, did I ever want it so terribly. Being what I was, everything I felt was intensified. I didn’t know what I might do to her if I continued to be around her while she didn’t reciprocate my feelings, and I didn’t want to find out. I was prepared to spend all of eternity without her. There’d come a time anyway when she wouldn’t be in my life anymore. Werewolves weren’t immortal. I’d have to watch her grow old — at a slower rate than humans, sure. So that’d buy us at least a decade or two. So what? I’d still have to watch her die. The sooner I ended things, the better it’d be for the both of us. She could get a head start on the life she deserved, one free of a perpetually lovesick wanker.
I’d do it tonight — under the stars at the beach, the breeze appreciable but not disruptive, the waves lapping the shore with calm strokes, the waxing gibbous moon bathing us in a warm, tranquil glow. It was fucking perfect … for what I wished this was instead of what this was supposed to be. It didn’t have to be tonight. Did I want to ruin this lovely picnic she’d so eagerly planned and looked forward to? It had to be tonight. The longer I spent in her company, the more I feared I’d do something that’d push us beyond the brink of repair.
Desire and disquietude were making it difficult to focus on her words. She was talking about … her latest project at work or the 22nd and 23rd cats her sister had just adopted … or something. Her lips were mesmerising to watch. They must feel just as nice to kiss. Jude was bloody lucky to be the only person to know for sure. Fuck. Fuck, Morgan. You’d fucking lost the plot. This shit was exactly why you needed to get away from her. Fucking knob. Fucking loser who thought ‘once bitten, twice shy’ didn’t apply to him. She’d think you were a fucking obsessive creep, and she’d be right.
‘— I can’t stand to visit her. I don’t need to be a werewolf to think that the smell of twenty-something cats in an okay-sized flat is horrendous. And no one would dare call her out on it. You know what she’s like. It’s how she has twenty-something cats to begin with. She wasn’t even a cat person before. Anyway’ — Ellie held up her hands, the movement stealing my attention from her lips, ‘low contact, as it is with the rest of them.’ She popped a pie bar in her mouth. ‘And I just spent the last five minutes ranting about my sister and her lack of self-control. Totally the best thing to do at a time like this, right?’
I could listen to her spout off about the most mundane thing possible all night and find it all so riveting.
I sipped my drink — badger blood to bring out the sweetness of the fruit-heavy dishes and complement the fowl-based sandwiches she packed. I never would’ve thought of pairing the blood of different animals with human food to make the latter more palatable. She revived in me the thrill of being a vampire after two years of languishing under the spell of ennui and regret for an existence spanning all of eternity cast on me by the desolation of my split from Lorelai. And I was likely going to go down that rabbit hole again after tonight. It was for a good cause. I’d rather be miserable than be the source of her headache.
‘Morgan? You’re — um —’ She made a circular motion at my upper body, and then heaved her shoulders in an amused shrug. ‘I wish you all the best in getting all that out.’
I looked over what she’d gestured at. ‘Fuck it. I’d been meaning to toss this shirt anyway.’
I soaked up what I could with a napkin — or five — and took off my shirt before I’d retch from the smell. I practised controlled feeding for a reason. Now I was shirtless and a little bloodied, just in time for one of the most important conversations in my very long, soon to be very lonely, life to take place. Terrific.
‘Ellie, I — I have something to tell you.’
‘I fucked up the dip, didn’t I?’
‘No, it’s not that — it’s delicious.’ For something that didn’t come from a vein, at least. ‘Ellie … I love you.’ Again. Because I was a stupid fuck.
Her lips formed an O. Stop fucking looking at her lips!
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I thought I’d gotten over it the first time.’ It sucked that there was now a ‘first time’. ‘I just get this feeling when I’m around you. I feel safe, happy — I feel like I’m alive again. I don’t have to hide anything about myself. I can be me, yet you make me want to be the best I can be for you. But I can’t keep doing this to you and myself. I don’t want to settle on being friends this time. I know that part of me won’t let me either. And I don’t know what that part of me would do if I continue to be in your life like this.’
‘Morgan —’
‘I shouldn’t have come back. I’ve enjoyed the past year tremendously. But I think — I know I have to leave now while things are still … good between us. It’d be for the best. I don’t want to fuck up what we had since we were kids. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. I truly am.’
She simply stared at me. She must be thinking why the fuck she’d been saddled with a right prat for a friend. Where did things go wrong? Did I knock back too many whiskey shots on my 18th birthday? I vaguely remembered her asking me to stop after my eleventh. Why wasn’t she still saying anything? Did I break her?
‘No, Morgan’ was what she said at last — and the only thing she said for the longest time.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t leave.’ Her hand hovered over mine. Uncertainty swam about in her eyes. Her dilemma was plain to see. I took her hand and locked our fingers together. This was the only time I could get away with being this forward. I wanted to savour her warmth as well for as long as I could; I’d miss it so much.
‘I have to. It’s not safe for you to be around me.’
‘But … I want to be with you. Not as friends. Morgan … I’ve fallen in love with you, too.’
‘What are you saying? No, don’t — that’s not —’ Had I put her under some kind of glamour without realising it? Was she humouring me? Every fibre of my being yearned for what I heard to be true. Nothing I’d seen in all the time we spent together suggested the possibility. Nothing we did together seemed out of the ordinary.
‘I’m — I mean it. I should be the one apologising, I think. I’ve felt this way for the last couple of months. I look forward to being with you all the time. I love receiving your texts throughout the night and waking up to them in the morning. Nothing feels like it’s happened until I tell you about it. I get these butterflies in my stomach every time you smile at me and touch me. You remember these small details about us from so long ago. I think the moment I knew was when I was having a tough time transforming for whatever reason and you were just … there for me, holding me, talking me down. I love you. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you sooner. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how you’d react because of — because of what happened in college.’
She sniffled. Seeing that I was the reason for her tears stung my heart. I wiped them away for her. ‘I love you. I always will,’ I said.
Then our lips met. I’d waited so long for this, and it was both everything I dreamt of and like nothing I could’ve ever imagined. Her lips were so warm, so soft, so sweet. I tasted the tartness of cherries and apples, the smokiness of turkey, the acidic sharpness of vinaigrette, on her mouth, notes I thought lost to me forever. An indistinct thumping sounded deep inside my chest. Her fingers slid into my hair, making waves of it. I pulled her closer to me, my hands gripping her waist, in the hope that the rush of her skin against mine would allay my doubts that this was all just a dream. But how could it be a dream when everything seemed to finally make sense? While Lorelai had promised a life anew in death, Ellie was the promise of a life renewed and delivered from death.
I didn’t want this moment to end. It had to, as my body was beginning to respond to the call of her blood.
She pulled away. No, I wanted to cry out. She must’ve sensed my thirst.
‘It’s okay if you want to,’ she said. ‘I’m not afraid.’
She bared her neck for me. My nostrils flared. I could smell her blood — like red hot ambrosia. Her heartbeat pounded in my ears, growing louder with every second I dithered. Why was I hesitating? I wanted her. I needed her.
I sank my teeth into her neck. She shuddered; a soft moan fled her lips. Crimson flowed out of the punctures I made. Everything I’d imbibed prior paled in comparison to what I was now partaking of: little explosions of flavour — syrupy, racy, robust — went off in my mouth. I feared nothing else could do it for me after this. I lapped up every drop of ruby as if it were exquisite manna; I made sure none of it went to waste. The blood I ingested was making its way south, making a signal for another kind of craving to be met. Not now. It’d be too soon for us. I had all the time in the world to get to know her better.
Her scent and whines were becoming too hard to ignore. I stopped for fear that I was misinterpreting them out of my own bias. I found myself staring into enlarged amber irises in pools of black. Claws had popped out from under her fingernails. She, too, was sporting fangs. Her chest, lightly shining with sweat, rose and fell sharply. The changes reversed themselves in short order. Red spread across her cheeks in uneven blotches.
‘I’m sorry. I —’ she said.
I cupped my hand around her cheek. ‘You can let go if you want to. You don’t have to be shy around me.’ She’d always been sheepish about her wolf form and the lengths she went to for its emergence around me. The incident she referred to had only been allowed to happen because her panic attack drowned out any embarrassment, any diffidence, she harboured about the process. That was the only time I saw her in that state.
She shook her head. ‘I know. I just — I’d want to experience that — our first time — as myself, and I don’t think I can do that now. I hope that’s okay.’
I wiped my mouth and gave her a light kiss on the lips. ‘Of course. We don’t have to rush into things. We have a lifetime ahead of us’, and I wanted every second to be as special as the last. She smiled in agreement and enfolded me in a tight embrace. It startled me how much she felt just like home in my arms. I could do this with her forever, and for a fleeting moment, as I fingered the now unblemished skin where my teeth had pierced, I wondered if there would ever be the chance of her wanting to share in my idea of forever.
i love how sam was like. literally introduced as one of the most kind hearted and empathetic characters in the mcu. but anytime he sees bucky it activates a switch in his mind that’s like i HAVE to annoy the fuck out of this man on purpose or i will die. it is imperative i be a nuisance to him whenever possible.
i promise you this: whoever you're becoming, however much effort you're putting in everyday, whatever it is you're working towards outweighs the person you've been and the mistakes you've made. who you are today matters. you are not ruined.
me: *is afraid to ask people for help at stores* *stutters when ordering take out* *runs as fast as i can out of a room after i shut the lights off in case the shadow monsters try to get me* *will refuse to go back into a room after seeing a spider until i know for a fact it is gone*
2087
titsay
stormborns
ellievsbear
izzy806
dailybridgerton
kianamaiart
