Work Text:
In the high school hallway, the air was a rancid blend of questionably manufactured detergent, cheap perfume that smelled like desperation, and an excess of teenage hormones. In the middle of that ecosystem, Marcella, professional troublemaker out of pure boredom, decided that this Monday desperately needed some flavor.
And Mason was right there, with a giant “victim” sign taped to his forehead.
Yes, Mason, wolf by misfortune and quarterback by choice, had a smile that could light up a stadium and an ego that took up half the hallway. At that moment, he was locked in mortal combat with his locker, wearing the intense focus of a so called “expert.”
That was the perfect moment.
Cella leaned against the cold metal, crossing her arms, pure mischief sparkling in her eyes.
—Hey, Mason... nice cap—
She said, with enviable casualness.
The werewolf, used to compliments but always starving for one more, flashed her one of those commercial smiles.
—Thanks, Cella. Blue matches my eyes, right?—
He replied, fully committed to continuing his personal war against the locker to retrieve his History book.
Still, the human didn’t move an inch.
—Hey... nice cap.—
Mason stopped. Slowly turned his head and found Marcella making full on anime puppy eyes, an expression so dramatically cute it was illegal and deeply suspicious.
—Uh... thanks?—
He answered, one eyebrow raised.
“Okay, exes are weird”, he thought, as he finally opened the locker, rescued the damn book, and slammed it shut with a metallic bang.
—Seriously, Mason. Nice cap.—
She repeated it for the third time, barely holding back laughter that was already burning her lungs.
The wolf stared at her, analyzed her with way too much seriousness, and finally burst out laughing, defeated by the sheer stupidity of the moment.
—Alright, spit it out, genius. Why are you harassing me over a five dollar piece of fabric?—
Marcella straightened up and adopted a solemn tone, as if she were quoting an ancient law carved into stone.
—Well, you see, Mason... where I come from, there’s a sacred rule. If someone says they like something three times, the owner is morally obligated to give it to them. It’s the Law of the Neighborhood.—
Mason stared at her. He knew Marcella lived three streets away from where the forest started, and that the only “sacred rule” there was don’t step on the grumpy old guys’ lawns, but the sheer audacity was worthy of respect. With a dramatic sigh, he took off the cap and shoved it onto her head, pulling it down over her eyebrows.
—Here. Professional scammer, wear it with pride.—
—Oh, thank you! The sun is criminal today; my human retinas appreciate it—
She exclaimed, adjusting her loot triumphantly.
They stood there for a moment, enjoying the peace... until the atmosphere turned icy.
Because at the end of the hallway appeared Kieran, the undisputed owner of the title “Most Bitter Guy in History.” He walked like he was carrying the weight of five centuries of existential tragedy, sketchbook tucked under his arm, wearing a “talk to me and die” expression.
Mason, whose maturity was highly questionable, decided this was an excellent moment to mess with his vampiric “crush”. A surge of adrenaline rushed through him just thinking about it. He looked at Marcella. She looked back. A telepathic connection of pure evil formed between them.
—Watch and learn, Cella—
The wolf whispered.
Kieran, who harmed no one because he didn’t find people interesting enough to bother, was trying to melt into the shadows. He didn’t notice the two idiots until Mason’s hand moved with the precision of an elite athlete.
PLACK!
The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. Three freshmen froze in place. A cheerleader dropped her smoothie. Absolute silence followed, except for the echo of the impact.
Even the janitor, who had been deaf in his left ear for twenty years, stopped moving. It was such a perfect, rhythmic sound that for a second, time itself seemed to pause just to judge the sin Mason had committed.
The vampire went rigid. His shoulders tensed like stone. And slowly, like a serial killer in a low budget horror movie, he turned his head. His eyes, normally cold brown, glinted red with a promise to turn bones into dust.
The werewolf, instead of running for his life, held his gaze with absolute confidence. He glanced down at the vampire’s backside and then back up.
—Hey... nice ass!—
Mason said, winking with an intensity that would’ve made half the school faint.
Marcella had to cover her mouth with both hands to keep from screaming with laughter. Kieran clenched his teeth, his pale skin flushing a deep crimson that betrayed his rage.
—Mason...—
The vampire hissed, voice straight out of a nightmare.
—I’ll give you three seconds to run before we find out if you can live without a spleen.—
—What?! It’s Cella’s rule!—
Mason protested with the face of a kicked puppy, backing away but never breaking eye contact.
—She taught me her law! If I really like something, you have to give it to me! It’s tradition, Kieran! You can’t fight culture.—
Kieran closed his eyes, praying to any deity willing to listen, for patience. Because if he got strength instead, Mason would end up embedded in the ceiling.
—What the fuck...?—
He muttered, processing the stupidity he’d just heard.
Marcella leaned against her best vampire friend’s shoulder, still wearing the stolen cap.
—Sorry, Ki—
She said between hiccups of laughter.
—But technically... he owns you now. It’s the law.—
—I hate you both. Infinitely—
Kieran growled.
It was stupid, but Kieran didn’t move when Mason stepped closer again, invading his personal space with that hyperactive wolf energy. And because Mason is Mason, he decided he needed to properly claim his “new property.”
He slapped him again. Literally.
And well... the punch Mason received to the face after that was, honestly, completely deserved.
Because Kieran didn’t just punch him, he performed a manual reality adjustment. The impact was so sharp that a physics teacher, on the other side of the building, took notes on energy transfer.
—Wait!... And that’s how you ended up in the hospital?—
Harry asked, incredulous. Liam was laughing in the corner, while Lily tried to process the level of familial stupidity. On the couch, Dad Roger smiled nostalgically and said to his wife:
—Just like us when we were young...—
Chancy rubbed her temples. She didn’t know whether to ground him for a month or have his brain examined, though she suspected the scan would come back empty, with a note that read: “Be back in 5 minutes. Went to annoy a vampire.”
Meanwhile, in the hospital bed, Mason had dried blood under his nose, a split lip, and a swollen cheek that distorted his face, the result of the vampire’s one hit “system reboot.” But despite the pain, he was grinning like a complete idiot.
—But I got to touch his ass... I’m happy. It was a sacrifice for science. I wanted to see if rigor mortis applies to vampires too, well, specifically to their glutes. Totally worth it.—
Harry laughed so he wouldn’t cry. He stared at the ceiling and wondered if it was too late to request a replacement older brother, or if Mason’s brain had simply expired.