#i am basically going to rip my lungs out with the sheer force of the screams im withholding

[strwbrryfire]

oh my god. oh my dear god. ctommy. cjack. cjack and tommy in 2024 oh my sweet jesus and glittering stars above i need to go lie face down in a pond

[subbing-for-clones]

She Who Walks the Line Between Part 3

Maul x GreyJedi!Reader

Word Count: 2682

WARNINGS: blood, fluffy fluff starts picking up

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       The few hours of sleep he was able to achieve were filled with nightmares that consisted of his memories returning. His life played out behind his eyelids charging his sadness, terror and his fury. Yet before his mind could plummet to unreachable depths, he sensed a calming presence in the back of his mind. A hand that reached out for him to hold onto. He had no idea that during his rest he became quite vocal and Y/N stood in his doorway using the force to ease him back into a relaxed state. Pulling him further away from the unseen dangers that threatened to pull him down and drown him.

    He woke with a start, not remembering where he was. His first thought was why it didn’t smell like fire and burning fuels mixed with humid gasses. When he felt his legs shift under the blankets the events that took place yesterday flooded back to the forefront of his memory. He smelled the sweet sugary aroma of a plate towering with baked apples and honeyed meat sitting on his night stand but before he indulged his groaning stomach, movement from outside the window caught his eye. It was his savior.

    Not covered in the same make of dress she wore yesterday. Today she adorned a fitted white cloth binding across her chest and beige trousers that bagged around her thighs but were tight just below her knees. Barefooted, she dual wielded white lightsabers in the Ataru style. Dodging quickly and lunging aggressively toward an invisible attacker. Gracefully she connected the two sabers so they appeared to be a single double sided weapon. Twirling them so quickly and dancing on her feet so lightly his eyes had trouble keeping up. She was working through forms he both recognized and ones he had never seen before. He could see a light glimmer of sweat slicked across her form catching in the early morning sunlight. She must have been training for hours already. Strands of hair falling out of the bun she had tied up to keep the majority of her locks out of her eyeline.

    He took and ate the breakfast she prepared slowly, studying her through the glass with admiration. Obviously satisfied with her efforts she hung her now sheathed sabers from the gate and tended the goats and chickens within the pen. Despite her hostile training they were calm and trotted up to her as she passed through the gate. He watched her feed the animals and her mouth form words he couldn't hear, assuming they were praises as they danced around her.

 ~~~~~

      The next two weeks were more of the same every day. You meditated and trained in the mornings before tending to your animals. You knew his eyes were on you while he ate the food you always left for him, always watching. You feigned ignorance and never mentioned that you caught him staring, surprising yourself with the fact that you kind of liked the attention. When you had finished your morning routine you would find him dressed in his room practicing the basic movements and exercises you assigned to him for his physical therapy. Satisfied he was actually doing them you would go shower and dressing in your usual slitted dresses that you preferred.

    You would eat again together and continue helping him work his legs. After the first few days he joined you in your afternoon meditation followed by more exercises or flipping through one of your many books, light music always on in the background. The longer he was in your care the softer his eyes looked, the stronger his legs got and he came to be more comfortable in your proximity. You had both gotten used to one another's company. You had spent so much time alone on this planet you had forgotten what it was like to have a companion. A rather agreeable one at that. It was nice.

 ~~~~~

      Now able to walk on his own with only the help from a cane he joined Y/N outside every morning. Still unable to train as she did, he practiced walking around the pen surrounded by the animals. He could see a smile grace her lips when he interacted gently with them. When she had finished, she strode over to him leaning up against the fence with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed.

"What is it?" He asked, honey eyes filled with concern that he had upset her somehow. He tended to revert back to the frightened apprentice she realized he had been at one point in his life if she wasn’t careful. Despite the fact that he had never one been the cause of even a slight frustration within her.

"I have to leave for a day or two, stock up on some things this planet doesn't have. I need you to stay here, I fear a storm is coming and I don't want to leave the animals unattended. Would you be alright with that?”

Sighing with relief he agreed and watched as she boarded her ship and took off.

      The next day after she had left, he must have looked up to the sky every hour impatiently waiting for her to return. He ate much less without her, swearing to himself that it didn't taste as good if it didn't come from her hands. He did however keep up with his exercises and spent much of his free time with the goats and chickens. That night he had even more trouble falling asleep than he usually did; missing her company. After tossing and turning until daybreak he made a daring move, striding toward Y/N's room without his cane for the first time.

    He had never been inside of it but he had caught glances after noticing she had been sleeping with her door open, starting a few days after his arrival. Sheer white curtains hung in front of the transparasteel panes that overlooked the garden. Like the rest of the house, not a single chronometer in sight. The need to keep time didn't really exist in this place, he enjoyed that small detail over the past few weeks. It was starkly different from how he was raised, every moment of every day planned down to the second. Even a slight deviation always resulting with a beating. He had to keep reminding himself that she was not his master. When he did forget she would always lend a kind reminder she was master of nothing and no one.

    The pine-colored rug under foot was exceptionally plush and extended across most of the floor, the polished dark wooden flooring peeking out only around the edges of the room. A long desk was situated beneath the large viewport. Atop it lay several data-tapes and empty books. She must be copying the information by hand he assessed. Actual paper writing was extremely rare and her home was filled with paper sheeted books bound in various leathers. One of the books sat open with a pen resting on it, the entry was short but he loved seeing her handwriting nonetheless. Without lifting the journal, he stood and read the page entry, curiosity getting the better of him.

Maul- Day 17:

‘He is recovering faster than I had originally anticipated but I am also not surprised. He has to be strong to have survived as long as he did on his own in the condition he came to me in. Already walking on his own supported only by a cane by day 10. He is gaining weight slowly but is starting to look healthier. He will snap back quickly once he can walk on his own again, unaided by a crutch. His eyes aren’t nearly as blood shot and the lighter shade of color in his horns and nails indicates he is getting proper nutrients and that his hormones have balanced out.

His mind seems to be healing as well, I haven't asked about his memories but I know they come in the form of nightmares. He responds well to my attempts to calm him in his sleep. They still come every night but he has gone from an excessive number of fits to only two or three a night. He is still wildly unbalanced but the scale is starting to tip in the right direction. I have come to realize that I enjoy his presence. He seems to be more comfortable with small talk. I like his voice, alas my mind wanders.’

    Maul hobbled over to her bed and hesitantly laid down on top of it not daring to mess up the bedding too much. Several realizations crossing his mind. One, she had actually come to care for him as he was starting to care for her. Two, he learned why she slept with her door open now. His hearts raced at the thought of her standing in his doorway calming him while he slept. Three, she liked his voice. He had always been scolded if he spoke unnecessarily, taught to be silent as shadows. But she liked his voice. He could smell her on her pillows, a sweet earthy scent that lingered in his nose. Very quickly sleep took him.

    He awoke that evening as the sun was starting to set to the sound of thunder ripping through the sky. His belly growled, he had grown accustomed to several meals a day and his hunger had caught up to him. Being sure to straighten out the blankets on her bed he stood and made his way to the kitchen. Opening the cooler for the first time, he found a plate with a large cooked steak and a note.

‘You had better eat this before I return. You have to eat even if I'm not there. -Y/N’

    He smiled at her sentiment. As usual with everything she made, it was like ambrosia in his mouth. The moment he finished eating he sensed the animals were distressed. Not bringing his cane he made his way slowly outside to the barn. The rain came down almost violently, lightning streaking across the now black sky while thunder crashed angrily.

    He was soaking wet by the time he got inside to check the animals who were immediately calmed when they saw him. Sighing he sat in the middle of the floor and began his meditation to stave away his and their anxiety of the storm. He had hoped she wasn't flying in this but she was already away longer than she said she'd be. That didn't help the knot of worry growing in his belly.

 ~~~~~

      When you came out of hyperspace and entered the atmosphere you realized you must have put the coordinates in a digit off. You were on the wrong side of the planet, jungle stretched out as far as you could see. This wouldn’t be the first time you had accidently come home in the wrong hemisphere. You sighed at your own antics. It was too dangerous to fly back out to space so you had to navigate through the storm down here. Your ship seemed to attract the lightning but you managed to sense it a split second before it struck, narrowly dodging the persistent bolts. Before long you could just make out the break that gave way to the grasslands. You started lowering out of the sky but were distracted to see Maul coming out of the barn. It was just a moment of distraction but an important moment, you didn't sense the lightning. You were struck and it killed the power sending you nose first straight into the soil with a loud crash. Your vision blacked out after hitting your head on impact knocking you unconscious.

 ~~~~~

 No...NO... fuck.

Maul watched as the bolt hit her ship and she crashed out in the field. Eyes wide with panic he ran as fast as his new legs would carry, almost giving out several times before he reached the fallen ship. He raised his arms, using the force for the first time in weeks he opened the door and lowering the ramp. It didn't reach the ground due to the crafts hazardous angle. Force jumping inside he landed on his feet with a shocking pain that radiated through his torso. Snarling he made his way to the cockpit where he found her starting to wake up.

 ~~~~~

 You felt strong hands on your arms gently squeezing, you sighed into the touch rubbing your head and your eyes. When they finally opened the first thing you saw were two brightly glowing golden orbs. Rubbing your eyes again, your vision fully returning, you realized they belonged to a very worried looking Zabrack. Who was covered in...straw?

    Remembering what distracted you in the first place you burst into laughter. Hard, rolling laughter.

    The worry on his face shifted into confusion. He slowly wiped the blood off your temple from where you hit your head. Then he lifted you bridal style and started walking out of the ship. Finding a new reserve of strength and determination he carried you all the way to your home. Although you stopped laughing you still giggled, picking pieces of straw off the back of his tunic. Finally realizing what you found so amusing he smiled, "the storm scared the goats so I meditated with them. I ended up falling asleep out there."

    He now stood in the living room, still in his arms you replied, "I kind figured as much." You pressed your forehead to his for a moment, butterflies dancing in both of your stomachs. He set you down on the couch slowly and fetched a cool wet cloth. Tenderly, he dabbed at the cut. You watched him closely, a slight blush fanning across your cheeks. He was so soft, so careful in this moment, so near you, a stark comparison to the man who had first landed in your field not long ago.

    He heard your heartbeat quicken and saw your blush, causing his face to deepen slightly along with yours. Quickly he stood, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck looking anywhere but at you. "I think you'll be alright," he stammered. "It's just a shallow laceration."

    You also stood, inches from him. He was taller than you were, not by much, but it was noticeable when you were this close to his body. "I could've told you that but noooo you had to cast aside your cane and come to the rescue... Thank you." You batted your long eyelashes at him and he gulped, gaze not leaving your own this time.

"I have a present for you."

"You do?" He asked now distracted from your devilishly plump lips.

"Yeah, quick stop on Naboo, few broken necks, spines and bribes later aaaaaaand.." you reached behind your back unclipping a third lightsaber from your belt. Still rough where it had been sliced in half you presented it to him. "Tada!"

"You did this for me?" He asked slowly taking it in his hands. It seemed.. heavier than he remembered. But it was his.

"Yes I did,” you stated matter-o-factly. Now that your obviously strong enough not only to walk but to carry me across the field, like the damsel in distress that I was, covered in straw no less. We will start training together. But for now, I'm exhausted. It's the middle of the night and I've had a maker damned day." You took a chance and leaned up into him, pressing your lips against his cheekbone with your hands on his chest, holding them there for a few seconds you felt him go ridged.

    Turning on the ball of your foot you wandered back into your bedroom. "Goodnight Maul." You called without turning to see his reaction.

    He held the place on his cheek where your kiss landed just before, mind reeling and melting at the same time. "Goodnight Y/N," he murmured. Not leaving his spot.

[organabanana]

leaves of three, let it be [2/3] || harlivy

Chapters: 2/3

Fandom:  DCU (Comics)DCUHarley Quinn (Comics)Harley Quinn (Cartoon 2019)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle

Additional Tags: Mentions of alcohol, mentions of batman fucking bats, most of this is straight up idiocy tbh, i just finished watching the cartoon so everyone swears like a sailor i’m sorry, rated for (ahem) happenings later on, ivy/harley/catwoman frenemies

Summary

After Harley mistakenly confesses her love and then promptly takes it back, Ivy spends some time sorting through the things she absolutely doesn't feel (and the ones she does). Selina and Harley don't quite help.

Chapter 1: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 2: AO3

If you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d say she isn’t.

Actually, if you ever asked Poison Ivy if she’s into meditation, she’d probably stare you down until you crumbled under the sheer weight of her judgment and apologized for ever talking to her, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, Ivy doesn’t meditate. The concept of meditation, if you ask her, goes in the same patchouli-scented box as moon-charged crystals and essential oils.

No. What Ivy does is… introspection. Yeah. She introspects. She consciously clears her mind of all intrusive thoughts. Which may sound a lot like meditation, maybe? But — she cannot stress this enough — it’s not the same thing.

So there she is. Sitting on her couch. Introspecting. And it may look like she’s staring off into the distance, but she’s actually looking at a nearly invisible, tiny little hint of a green sprout that’s managed to grow in a crack on the windowsill.

There it is. A tiny little fighter. Just like—

Nope.

No way.

We are absolutely not thinking about her. We’re introspecting. So Ivy takes in a deep breath, in through her nose, eyes fluttering closed as she exhales slowly and then opens them and tries again.

As she was saying. A tiny little sprout. She could go over there and touch it and quite literally breathe life into it. She can’t tell what kind of plant it is, but she could make it bloom if it’s a flowering species. What if it’s a tree? She could make it grow so big its roots would tear this whole building apart just like her heart was torn apart last ni—

Motherf—

“Morning, my little dill pickle.”

Selina climbs in through the window, practically gliding into Ivy’s apartment with the kind of grace that would normally make Ivy stop and stare and perhaps have a not-quite-respectful thought or two.

Listen: she has eyes. Don’t read into it.

Anyway. As graceful and ridiculously nimble as Selina is, she’s also way up high in Ivy’s shit list at the moment (second only to you know who), so today is not the day for lighthearted conversation and platonic crushes.

“Fuck you, Selina,” Ivy offers as a greeting, glancing at the plant to make sure it’s still there. And it is, of course. Selina fucking Kyle may be a bitch and a half, but she knows how to move without leaving a trace.

“Now?” Selina cocks one perfectly manicured eyebrow at Ivy, the slightest hint of a teasing smirk on her face. “I mean I was gonna offer brunch, but that doesn’t sound like the worst midday plan.”

Ivy simply stares for a moment, as if she’s forgotten if there’s one person in the world that’s absolutely immune to even her most wilting looks, that’s Selina fucking Kyle.

“Oh, come on,” Selina practically groans, “stop it. Brooding is such a teen boy move.”

“I am not brooding.”

“Right.” With one single word, Selina makes it clear that she doesn’t believe Ivy and, most importantly, that she doesn’t care enough to argue. “Anyway. Brunch? My treat.”

Ivy closes her eyes. Not meditating. Just introspecting. Just trying to channel the urge to make a full-grown sequoia grow out of Selina Kyle’s ass into something productive. One deep breath in through her nose and—

“We can have margaritas!” Selina lets out a quiet chuckle as she admires the perfectly matte black polish on her fingernails. “Yikes. Too soon?”

Fuck introspection.

“I. Am going. To fucking murder you.” Ivy stands up with every intention to make good on that promise, and Selina must read it in her eyes because for the first time since Ivy’s known her — for the first time in her life, maybe — Selina looks scared.

Well, maybe not scared.

But she is absolutely concerned.

“Fuck me, Ive, damn,” Selina takes one step back, no longer smirking, “calm down, will you?”

Ivy stops, Selina’s audacity basically jolting her out of her murderous rage. “Calm down, Selina? Fucking seriously? You did what you did and now you come here and tell me to fucking calm down?”

Selina tilts her head just so, like she’s conceding (against her will) that maybe there is a reason for Ivy to be somewhat upset with her.

“Oh, come on,” she sighs, rolling her shoulders like the tension has to leave her body somehow, and it will certainly not be via an apology, “it wasn’t even real poison.”

Ivy’s eyes widen slightly in disbelief. Does Selina think she’s mad because she thinks Harley was in actual danger?

No. No, Selina can’t think that, because Selina may be an asshole, but she’s a very smart asshole. So she must know Ivy’s well aware of Harley’s immunity to toxins. She must know that’s not even remotely the reason Ivy’s spent the last eleven hours and some change introspecting all thoughts of last night out of her mind.

For a split second, Ivy feels something similar to warmth towards Selina as she considers that maybe she’s simply ignoring the embarrassing part of the event to spare Ivy. Maybe she’s pretending this is about Harley’s physical wellbeing and not… well. The other thing.

Sadly, the split second passes.

“If it helps,” Selina says, and even before she finishes the sentence Ivy can already sense it won’t help at all, “it’s totally reciprocated.”

Ivy feels it crawling up her veins, thick like sap. She’s managed to distill plenty of emotions, turned them into tonics and toxins and elixirs and used them for her own benefit and the Green’s. She’s bottled love — well, lust — and hatred and rage. Fear, even. Insanity, ironically enough. But this.

This… this humiliation.

Oh, this is something else.

Ivy closes her eyes. In through her nose, and even the air feels like it has to go through that thick mixture of (public) pain and weakness and acknowledged vulnerability to get to her lungs.

It’s one thing to have Harley see her like this. Like that. Like last night. Defenses down and heart out there in the open like her ribcage’s forgotten its purpose. That’s fine, she figures, because it’s been the norm for years and years and years. It’s nothing new, really, to have Harley see her accidentally stumble over the line into pathetic from time to time. It happens.

But Selina.

Selina fucking Kyle.

Selina saw that and she understood what she was seeing and now she’s acknowledging it, and Ivy isn’t even mad anymore.

I mean, she is. She’s really fucking mad.

She’s just many other things as well as mad, so it’s harder to focus on it.

Out through her mouth. Slowly. And her voice is nice and even when she opens her eyes and looks at Selina once again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ivy lies, walking towards the kitchen like that had been her intention all along, “there is nothing to reciprocate.”

Ivy can feel Selina’s look on the back of her head. She’s not going to give her the satisfaction of turning around, of course. Selina Kyle’s ego is healthy enough as it is. But she can absolutely feel it. A look involving an arched eyebrow and narrowed eyes and possibly a smirk. Maybe the slightest purse of painted lips, if she’s going for judgmental rather than smug.

Selina is multi-faceted in her scorn.

“You have got to be shitting me, Ive,” Selina says, and Ivy still refuses to turn around, focusing instead on staring at the interior of her fridge and ignoring the fact that ninety percent of its contents are there for Harley’s all-day snacking needs.

She ends up grabbing a jug of water not because she’s thirsty, but simply because it’s the only thing in there she knows for a fact is there just for her.

“Seriously?” Selina prods, walking closer and crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Ivy methodically fill a glass of water like it’s a delicate operation that requires her undivided attention. “You’re such a fucking pussy. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”

Ivy does turn around then, gripping the glass with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary. In her defense, she’d much rather be gripping Selina’s neck instead.

“Once again, Selina,” she says with a slight shrug, taking a sip of cold water, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

Selina gapes at her. It’s kind of flattering, actually. It’s not every day something leaves Selina Kyle fully unable to speak. Maybe — Ivy thinks to herself, enjoying her water — she’ll never speak again. Maybe she’ll leave Gotham entirely. Wouldn’t that be just—

Ivy’s train of thought is completely derailed by something that is never a good sign: Selina Kyle is laughing.

Not chuckling. Not snickering. Not letting out one of those sarcastic giggles she likes to use to obliterate people’s entire self-esteem.

No. No, this is honest to goodness, full-on belly laughter, and it’s fucking terrifying.

“Wh— what the fuck, Selina?” Ivy asks, trying to sound less scared than she actually is. Selina’s sense of humor is not so much dark as it is downright fucked up, and if she’s finding something in this situation funny, it can only mean someone is about to get crushed, metaphorically or otherwise.

All signs point to Ivy.

“Look at you!” Selina points in the general direction of Ivy, like she’s about to rip her fashion sense to shreds. But this, sadly, has nothing to do with clothes. “Holy shit, you’re in so much deeper than I thought, this is fucking hilarious.”

Ivy takes one step back, until her hip bumps against the counter and she blindly feels around to leave the half-empty glass on it. To her credit, she still manages to try and infuse her voice with something resembling nonchalance one last time.

“You’re not making any sen—“

“Man, you’re in love, in love, huh?”

Ivy’s been shot before. So she feels like she’s not being overly dramatic when she says Selina’s words feel just like that. Like being shot right in the gut. And Ivy tries to be as stoic as she usually is when faced with things like gunshots and blunt force and bat-shaped ninja stars (holy fuck, he’s such a nerd), but she feels a bit like she’s been standing on a castle of cards for the last… however many years it’s been since she met Dr. Quinzel in Arkham, and Selina’s just figured out exactly where to blow to make it all come tumbling down.

“I mean I knew you two were into each other. Obviously,” Selina continues, and Ivy suddenly understands the exact meaning of all those expressions regarding cats and mice, “but I thought it was like… well, you know. Friends in need of a nudge towards the benefits. But this.”

Selina shakes her head, smile as wide as her eyes. She looks both surprised and delighted. Like she’s really just found out there are feelings involved in whatever lust-filled fever dream she’d interpreted as reality before now.

“And you’re the one who’s doing all the yearning. I totally thought she was the useless one. Holy shit.” Selina takes a couple steps in the direction of the window, like using a door like a normal person is simply not an option for her. “How long?”

Ivy opens her mouth, but Selina interrupts her before any sound can come out.

“Don’t answer that. I already know.” Selina waves her hand dismissively. “No wonder you’re fucking terrified. You’d be safer falling in love with an actual hyena.”

“I’m not—“

“Please.” Selina reaches the window and notices that little plant for the first time, giving it a little pat that could almost pass for affectionate if you didn’t know Selina Kyle. “So what’s scarier, Ive?” Selina almost purrs the question. “That she may not love you back, or that she probably does?”

Ivy tells herself she could murder Selina right then and there, with the help from the little plant. Hell, she could probably kill her without help from the plant.

But that wouldn’t really fix anything, right?

“Anyway!” Selina lets out a happy little sigh as she slinks out of the window and onto the fire escape outside. “No brunch, then. I’ll leave you to your brooding.” Her smile turns into a smirk then, eyes narrowed like she’s about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. “And don’t worry, Ive. I can keep a secret.”

Selina winks at her before she disappears.

Ivy refuses, pointedly, to think about her conversation with Selina.

She tries to go back to her introspection, but it turns out there’s no breathing in and out when your chest is full of feelings to the point of actual physical discomfort, so Ivy gives up on that, too.

She could plot. Scheme, if you will. It’s been a while since she’s gone for an actual multi-step plan to rid Gotham — and, later, the world — of parasitic CEOs profiting off nature. A bit of environmentally friendly murder never fails to put her in a good mood.

But it turns out it’s nearly impossible to come up with a solo plan without being constantly aware of the fact that going solo is no longer her default. A plan involving only herself doesn’t feel like just any random plan anymore. Now it feels like a plan without her, and that’s just— that’s just the opposite of what she needs to be thinking about right now.

So.

What’s an eco-terrorist to do when eco-terrorism is not an option?

Eight hours later she’s in her lab, hair haphazardly held in a bun with a pencil as she looks at her latest experiment through her microscope.

The little sprout from her windowsill sits right next to the microscope in a beaker serving as a makeshift flower pot while Ivy works.

“You know, if this works,” Ivy tells the sprout, eyes trained on the cell that should enter active mitosis any second now, “you’re going to be my sidekick when we take down the next big guy.”

If this works, and she can give this tiny plant the powers she hopes to give her, they can take over Gotham and the world as a team. Ivy’s always worked best with plants, anyway. Who needs—

“Red?”

Harley’s voice is uncharacteristically mellow, but it manages to startle Ivy anyway.

“Jesus, Harley,” Ivy doesn’t look away from the microscope, “what the fuck are you doing here?”

She’s not mad. Not at Harley, anyway. None of this is her fault. She’s just—

Listen. Figuring out exactly what to call what she’s feeling would require introspection, and we’re not doing that anymore.

“Oh. I uh—“ There’s something in Harley’s tone that twists uncomfortably in Ivy’s chest. “Wanted to talk?”

Ivy doesn’t want to talk. Talking, as it turns out, may be the very last thing she wants to do. But there’s that something in Harley’s voice. Something that sounds a bit like embarrassment. Like shame, even. Like maybe if Ivy were to listen in on Harley’s inner monologue right now the voice in there would sound suspiciously like him calling her a fuck-up and an idiot and—

“I’m sorry.” Ivy leaves the little plant’s cell to enter mitosis in its own time and turns to fully focus on Harley. “I didn’t mean to snap. You just startled me.”

Harley visibly relaxes. Ivy decides she hates him just that much more than she did ten seconds ago.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya,” Harley leaves her bat propped against the trunk of a giant nightshade and takes a few steps towards Ivy.

Normally, Harley has no concept of personal space. She sits on whatever surface is closest to Ivy, invading her space and making it impossible for her to fully focus on anything that’s not Harley. It should be annoying, but it isn’t, for reasons Ivy is absolutely not going to consider at this time.

This time, however, Harley hovers just a step or two away from Ivy and her microscope and her standing desk.

It feels…

It feels wrong.

“What did you want to talk about?” Ivy taps the desk and tries not to smile when Harley beams as she practically bounces to sit on it. Her legs dangle over the edge, well-worn combat boots lightly bumping against Ivy’s legs with each soft swing of Harley’s feet.

Nothing really feels wrong anymore.

“I’m sorry, Pammy.”

Ivy shakes her head. “It’s fine. You know you’re always welcome here, I just wasn’t expecting—“

“No,” Harley says, and when Ivy looks into her eyes she realizes Harley’s not going to let her pretend she has no idea what this is about, “I mean I’m sorry about the other night.”

Ivy stands up a little straighter. Takes half a step back, like that’s going to help. Crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s fine.”

Harley tilts her head just so, bright blue eyes narrowing for a second, and Ivy sees a flash of Harleen right there staring back at her. Reading her fucking thoughts, almost. It’s unnerving.

“It’s fine, Harley,” Ivy insists, tone sharper as she takes another step back. She can hear the low rumble of every vine in her lab stirring along with her mood.

There’s a moment there, maybe a few seconds long, where they both simply stare at each other in silence. Like they’re trying to figure each other out in a way that feels completely foreign because she knows Harley, and Harley knows her, and there’s nothing to figure out. Nothing at all.

“You know—“ Harley’s voice sounds a bit brittle, like it may just break if it hits the wrong word, “you know I didn’t mean it, Pammy.”

Ivy nods. Once.

“I know.” She knows now and she knew when she first met Harley and she’s known for the last however many years it’s been. She fucking knows it’s love but it’s not love like that. She knows. “It’s fine.”

“You know Selina just got in my head, right?” Harley keeps talking, and on some level Ivy knows there’s nothing to be angry about because Harley just wants to explain. She just wants to make sure things aren’t weird between them because they’re best friends. But it feels almost cruel anyway. “You know I don’t—“

“I know you don’t love me, Harley, yes, for fuck’s sakes, I’m not an idiot.”

“But I—“

“Don’t.” Ivy holds one finger up. If she has to listen to Harley say she loves her, but just not in that way she may lose her fucking mind. “It’s fine.”

For a few blessed seconds, it feels like maybe Harley will let it go. Like maybe she’ll just drop it and let Ivy get out of this with some semblance of pride.

But that would just be too much to ask, wouldn’t it?

“I do love you, Ive, it’s just—“

“Holy shit, Harley!” Ivy raises her voice and hears the tell-tale creak of vines growing up the wall. “I know! I fucking know, all right? Selina is a dick and you thought margarita mix was a love potion and you’re not fucking in love with me, all right? I know!”

“But—“

“No! No fucking but!” Ivy swears she hears it. The little snap when she loses her last thread of control over what she’s saying and things spill out before she has a chance to filter them. “I don’t love you either, have you even considered that?”

Harley’s eyes widen in the purest expression of surprise Ivy’s ever seen in her life.

“Right!” There’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop. She wants to stop and backtrack and tell Harley she didn’t mean it because she can’t stand the thought of hurting her, and she needs her to know that of course — of course — Ivy loves her. But she just can’t right now. “I’m not secretly in love with you! All right? I’m glad you don’t love me. I’m fucking fine.”

Harley opens her mouth like she’s about to speak, but closes it without making a sound. She doesn’t look hurt, necessarily. She looks… she looks disarmed, almost. Like she doesn’t know how to react.

“I’ll just—“ Harley swallows and jumps off the desk. “We’re fine, so I’ll just leave. Yeah?”

Ivy nods. “Fine.”

“Cool. Yeah.” Harley sort of smiles, but not really. She moves a bit slower than usual as she goes back to her bat and walks towards the door, and there’s a part of Ivy that wants to stop her and fix this somehow — because it’s not fine at all — but self-preservation wins in the end.

“Remember to lock the door on your way out.”

For a second, Harley almost looks like she may say something. And for a second, Ivy almost hopes she will. But Harley just nods and walks out, and when she hears the lock snap into place, Ivy knows she’s all alone with her plants.

Right where she belongs.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Vampr Erik Origin: Part Two

okay so I wanted to quickly get this out to basically wrap up the origin half of my new vampire Erik series Faerie and Vampr  that I am starting.

Origin Part One

Let’s start with a little background on vampires:

In order to create a vampire, a human must be drained of their blood by a vampire and the blood lost needs to be replaced by some of the vampire's blood. The vampire and human must then sleep in the ground (this is presumably the point where they technically die) until the newborn rises as a vampire the following night. The newborn and the maker will subsequently have a maker-progeny bond, unless the maker deserts or releases their progeny.

If the head, or the heart are missing at the time of death, the person in question will not wake in transition; but simply stay dead. Currently, it is unknown what will happen to a person who lost other organs, such as a liver, or kidneys, and woke up in transition. Most fatal injuries, such as snapped necks, slit throats, stab wounds, and shattered bones from falls will be healed before the fledgling vampire awakens in transition. Furthermore, the person must be mortally wounded or ill to the point that conventional means cannot save their lives. I 

A newborn's existence depends upon their abilities, which are taught to them by their maker. These abilities take time to learn and develop. As vampires age, they become more adept at controlling their abilities. According to the history of the creation of vampires, two-thirds of newborns die during their first year without the guidance of their makers.

Newborn vampires will be thirsty and will need to feed to survive. Although newborns have some control of their abilities, they are mostly controlled by their impulses and can cause serious harm and accidental deaths to humans around them. In addition, newborns cannot resist blood at all, as resistance develops with age. The biggest difference is the fact that a vampire gains extreme strength, and has much agility and reflexes. This is more than a match for almost every human alive, and serves the vampire well for hunting and feeding. Of course, like humans, some vampires are just naturally stronger than others. 

Also, if a human who is strong is turned into a vampire, then that human strength is added to the vampire strength, creating a very powerful vampire. This is why many vampire leaders will sire huge men; they make incredible bodyguards even against a Slayer. As a vampire grows older, it’s demon side becomes more and more powerful. Vampires do not age, their bodies are, for the most part, just reanimated preserved corpses, and do they, through supernatural means, stay the same forever. There are some exceptions, for example, vampires still appear to grow hair...though perhaps at a much-reduced rate. 

A vampire can suffer terrible injuries and heal from them easily. Since they can only be killed by a few select things, they can suffer injuries a human could not heal from, like a broken spine. Gunshots, swords, and any injuries caused by weapons that aren’t wood can’t kill a vampire, only cause pain. Certain vampire poisons and magic do exist though, which will permanently hurt, or kill a vampire. In 1610, a powerful witch named Antonia Gavilán de Logroño cast a spell that summoned all vampires within a 20 mile radius to expose themselves to sunlight. This caused a number of vampires to die and caused vampires to be very fearful of necromancy.

Another example of the supernatural preservation is that vampires don’t need to take oxygen to live. They can, however, force air in and out of their lungs, which allows them to do things like smoke, or perhaps cool air into their chest if they get too warm. They do not have a beating heart like humans do. Although this is true, through some supernatural means they still seem to have blood flow. Without a blood flow, a vampire can’t bleed, or react to drugs, which they clearly do. They can’t however become pregnant or produce waste. 

Vampires are recognizable from their fangs, which are located behind the maxillary lateral incisors (as opposed to the canines, as per vampire mythology). Fangs can be extended and retracted by choice, and are controlled by the movements of certain facial muscles. However, fangs protrude automatically when vampires are feeding, angry, excited, sexually aroused (colloquially referred to as a "fang boner"), need to fight, or see blood. Fangs can also be removed, but grow back after three months. Without fangs, vampires cannot feed on live victims unless the victim is already wounded….

——————————-

Erik’s eyes shot wide open in a flash. Darkness surrounded him and his large, muscular body was resting on a hard surface. He could hear the springtails, beetles, centipedes, and ants that make their home in the soil, crawling around. The katydids and crickets were chirping much louder in his ears now. He could smell the odor of dry blood and decay in the earth from the deceased. His body no longer aches and he felt like he had the strength of an entire army. 

The last thing he remembered was waking up on a makeshift bed surrounded by burning ritual candles enchanted with herbs, oils, and crystals chosen for their metaphysical and magical properties. He could recall a voice, a captivating voice speaking Jamaican patois in his ear. Now that he forced himself to remember while lying beneath the cold, damp earth, she said she was Mama Dalma; Tia Dalma. The powerful voodoo priestess Erik heard many stories about in his youth. 

Like flashes, Erik could vividly see her coming down on him speedily and sinking her teeth into his neck, draining him of his blood. What was she? She said that she would give him the power of immortality, superhuman strength, and healing capabilities. Did that include drinking blood too? From what Erik could tell from his razor-sharp senses is that it’s nightfall. His hands reach above him, feeling around since he could only see pitch black. He noticed wood beneath his fingertips. Erik pushed with ease, although the top flew off and landed somewhere far within the distance. He sits up, finally breathing in the night air. 

Erik stares at his hands in bewilderment before looking around him. Erik could see the full moon peeking through the branches of the oak trees. As his eyes moved he could make out a sprawling wooden shack surrounded by a damp, gloomy world. It’s a steamy bayou and the forest within this area looked like a spooky cypress where fireflies flickered in the heavy air. The swamp water surrounding the shack was eerily still. The sprawling shack clings to the branches of a tree within the swamp. This had to be Tia Dalma’s home. 

...Yuh can stay here on muh table and die slowly...or I can give yuh immortality….

Her words rang true in his ears. Tia Dalma saved his life. Erik was about to die by the hands of white men who seeked revenge for burning down their homes and killing their families. He now remembers tasting the mixture of saltwater and freshwater, also known as brackish water in his mouth after being tossed inside the swamp by the white men. The gators would have devoured him in minutes if it wasn’t for him being pulled from the swamp. He figured Tia must have killed those men and rescued him. 

Standing slowly, Erik tested his ability to move by stepping out of what appears to be a wooden coffin and into the shoveled-out ditch. He clearly recovered from the multiple stab wounds to his abdomen. His cream colored linen blend shirt with a collar was still covering his torso even though it was ripped. Erik delicately touches the skin of his much smoother chest, his head lowering to follow his movements with fascination. His blood still stained the shirt that is also covered in dirt and grass stains. Lifting his shirt up, he examined his abdomen, the muscles crunching the more he bends his back to get a good look. 

There are no wounds. The jagged knife used on him to create deep gashes was apparently gone. All that’s left is smooth skin and an eight pack so rock hard that if a mortal punched him their phalanges down to their carpals would be fractured beyond repair. Erik breathes irregularly and his eyes are wide with astonishment. He quickly touched his face and head, his hands moving rapidly with shock. His face is back to normal before the white men kicked, punched, and pistol-whipped him. 

“Wut kind of magic is dis’?” He spoke with a staggering voice. While staring at his hands, a drop of blood landed on his skin. Startled, Erik touches his nose, bringing it down to examine. He’s bleeding. After that realization an insatiable need to eat overpowered him. It hit him so fast and strong that it made his body weaken and stumble. He grabbed at his throat as more blood dripped from his nostrils. Erik lets out agonized gasps that turned into deep growls. His fingers damn near clawed at his throat. He felt like he was going to die if he didn’t eat something, anything.

“Wah yuh still doin’ down dere?” 

Erik turned with great speed towards the direction of the vivid voice. Standing above him, was Tia Dalma herself. She’s wearing the same sheer, black gown Erik remembers, her long, slender dreadlocks framing her face and a sneaky smile was plastered on her black painted lips. 

“Wut happened to me? Did I die?” Erik says while looking up at Tia Dalma with his inky black irises outlined crimson twinkling in the evening night. 

“If yuh climb out of deh, Mama will tell yuh everything,” Tia Dalma steps back, “Come mi child.” 

Erik grabs hold of a few vines sprouting from the soil-covered wall before climbing up with superhuman agility, his body standing before Tia Dalma in a matter of seconds. The speed still amazed him. It felt like everything around him was moving at a slow pace. Tia locked eyes with Erik before circling him. She was especially proud of herself. She finally has a progeny after 175 years of immortality. Tia smelled Erik’s dreadlocks and squeezed his muscles while circling his beautiful frame. 

“I give yuh more life, Erik Stevens. Yuh will walk deh earth unstoppable, like mi,” Tia caresses Erik’s cheek with her sharp, long black nail. He looked her up and down before his eyes moved to the finger on his cheek. He gently brings his hand up, grabbing her finger and bringing it away from his face. 

“Wut am I?” He spoke carefully with squinted eyes. 

“Yuh a Vampr, Erik, a creature of deh night, deh undead.” 

“Ondèd? Mwen? Ondèd?” He walks away, his head moving up, down, and side to side with curiosity and confusion. Mama Dalma watched like a proud mother with her arms crossed, allowing Erik to get a feel of things before she started teaching him. The sooner the better since he’s a newborn. Erik could see with perfect clarity in the darkness of the night, to the point of being able to detect bodily heat emanations. The keenness was comparable on many levels to a bat or owl but ten times more. 

Erik starts moving extremely quick, testing out his new abilities. He would run to the left and stop, then turn and do the same thing, creating diagonal patterns with his movements. This speed made it impossible for him to be detected. The more he moved, the more excited he became. He was like a curious child, wanting to explore what else he was capable of doing. Erik ran towards an oak tree, wrapped his arms around it, and without even trying, he uprooted the entire tree before dropping it. The oak tree landed on the ground heavily, causing it to shake like an earthquake. This startled the animals, leading to a few deer and owls fleeing. 

“Just rampin around huh?” Tia Dalma laughs before walking up to Erik. His eyes are wide and his nostrils flared. All he wanted to do was move. Staying still only agitated him. Mama Dalma grabs his arm, yanking him towards her with her strength superior to Erik’s since she is much older. 

“Ah, yuh have deh bleeds,” Tia wipes Erik’s nose with her fingers, “Deh is what happens when yuh need to eat.” She checked his ears, and sure enough, he’s bleeding from there as well. Erik raises a single brow in question, clearly not understanding a word she was saying. 

“Out and bad, yuh will have deh chance to play, but for now, mi have to teach yuh about what it is to be a vampr. Listen to mi, Erik,” She spoke sternly while grabbing his chin harshly, “Yuh have to feed. Deh is mi first lesson. Feedin’. Come.” 

Tia Dalma grabs Erik’s hand and the both of them zoom off into the night. 

___________________

A white young lady named Isabella Guidry was playing her violin on the open porch of her family's plantation home. The Guidry plantation had about thirty field slaves before they were all freed because of the abolition of slavery. The only negros left we’re the house negros who prepared meals, cleaned, and baby sat. Isabella had just turned 21 years old and she was in preparation to be wed to a veteran named Alex Bellefleur who served as First Lieutenant in the 28th Louisiana Infantry. She suddenly stopped playing her violin when she heard her mother calling for her. 

“Isabella! Come in darling! Yvette has to do ya hair! Ya have to teach the new debutants in da morning!” 

“Coming, mama!” Isabella places her violin back in its case before securing it. She fluffed out her full forest green skirt that reached the ground, the bustle providing fullness in the back. The cream-colored corset top with cotton bell sleeves cinched her waist giving her an hourglass appearance. She stepped inside of the grand plantation home, the eldest house negro named Mabel approaching her cautiously. Mabel was wearing an apron over her withering cotton dress, her silver hair sprouting from underneath her sun bonnet. 

“Miss Isabella, ya needin’ any help?” Mabel asks.

“Just take my violin, please,” Isabella spoke dismissively, “Da last time one of ya broke my precious violin...DONT break this one,” Isabella spoke harshly. 

“Yes ma’am,” Mabel grabs the violin case from Isabella carefully before turning to leave with a limp in her leg.

“Why are ya walking like that, Mabel?” Isabella studied Mabel’s legs.

“Nothin’ just tired is all,” Mabel smiles despite her pain before turning the corner to leave.

“Isabella!” 

Her green eyes looked up to find her mother standing at the top of the stairs dressed in a black gown with a full skirt, her jet black hair pulled to the back of her head in a neat bun, and pearls dangling from her slender neck. She was clutching a handkerchief and before Isabella could ask why her mother began coughing into it. 

“Get up here, Bella. Yvette will put barley curls in ya hair and roll dem up. She’s waiting in ya room.” 

Her mother turns away abruptly, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor before disappearing into her bedroom. Isabella climbs the stairs to her room, worry filling her belly for her mother. When she finally made it to her room, Yvette was waiting for her patiently by her Astoria Grand Vanity. Yvette is a mulatto slave who Isabella’s father treated differently from the others because she’s his secret daughter. Her father slept with a house slave named Edna and impregnated her. Isabella’s mother found out and sold Edna to another plantation; the Compton plantation in St. Tammany Parish. 

“Evenin’ Miss Isabella,” Yvette spoke with her beguiling voice. She has smooth tawny skin, loose curly, sandy brown ringlets framing her face while the rest was hidden beneath a red and khaki tigon, which was simply the French New Orleans version of an African head wrap. She wore a brown southern belle dress with lace drop shoulder sleeves, a low neckline, and a voluminous skirt. Isabella hates that this is her half sister and the fact that she gets to dress so nicely. 

“Who gave ya dat dress?” Isabella asks with an attitude and jealous eyes. 

“I made it, Miss Isabella,” Yvette blinks her chocolate brown eyes away, “I have to do ya hair.”

“I know, barely curls,” Isabella takes a seat at her vanity, her eyes sharp on Yvette. Yvette could feel her burning holes through her head with her furious eyes while she took down Isabella’s black hair. Yvette grabs a brush to smooth it down, “Well? Wut are ya waitin’ on?! Do my hair!” 

“Yes, Miss Isabella,” Yvette moved at a faster pace before grabbing a clip to pin up some of Isabella’s dark strands. 

“I hate ya,” Isabella didn’t hesitate to say, “Ya brought down my family, ya negro tramp.” 

Yvette bites her tongue. She had a lot that she wanted to say to Isabella but she would only end up killed. It wasn’t her fault that her father slept with her mother, Edna, around the same time Isabella’s mother was pregnant. Yvette didn’t ask to be here. She couldn’t control the fact that she was half white, even though she despised that side of her because of how they treated blacks. Yvette will always feel disgusted about that part of her. While Yvette began working on Isabella’s hair, wetting a few strands, a scream rang out from her mother’s room. It went on a few more times, the sound so scary it made Isabella’s fingers tremble. Yvette was in the middle of wrapping Isabella’s damp hair around a piece of soft rag to form the curls when she stopped, a startled expression on her face. 

“What da hell?” Isabella stands, “mama?” She called. Her father wasn’t home yet from an outing with her fiancé, Alex, and the rest of the men for drinks, preferably hard apple cider and rum. It was unnaturally quiet. A pin dropping would probably echo throughout the room from how silent it was. Isabella lets out a panting breath before standing from her vanity. Yvette began to quickly clean Isabella’s vanity, her hands shaky. She heard tales about Ricardo Dupoux and his revolt burning down plantations throughout Louisiana. She didn’t want to be around for it to happen. 

“Go see what dat noise is!” Isabella ordered. Yvette pauses, giving Isabella a dirty look. 

“Did I stutter, nigger?! Go see what dat is! NOW!” Isabella yells with a trembling finger pointed to the door. 

Yvette drops the items in her hand onto the vanity before gathering the bottom of her dress to walk away. Before she could even make it to the door it was torn from its hinges. Yvette runs to the other side of the room, tripping over the bottom of her dress, and falling to the floor while Isabella screams, falling back against her bed. Standing at the door, both bodies covered in blood, is a black man and a black woman. Their eyes are round with pitch black irises, mouths wide open and sharp fangs protruding automatically to threaten. Their faces from the nose down are covered in blood and some of it stained their clothes. The woman, however, barely wore any fabric, her small breasts with hardened nipples and her hairy mound clearly visible. 

“WHO ARE YA?!!! WHAT DID YA DO TO MY MAMA?!!!” Isabella yells with fear. Yvette was hugging herself in a corner, tears filling her eyes as she prayed in Haitian creole. 

“Chè Bondye, tanpri, mwen pa vle mouri,” She sobbed while praying. 

“No use in cryin’ child, hush yuh mouth,” Mama Dalma spoke with an evil tongue, “hole yuh cahna, gurl,” She insulted Isabella, putting her in her place when she kept yelling about how they are a bunch of niggers and how her father will find them and kill them. 

Erik tasted his first victim and it was glorious. It was like an unimaginable, indescribable sweet heavenly nectar. It’s like being able to perpetually exist off nothing but sweet desserts without any negative health repercussions. The taste of Isabella’s mother's blood reminded him of fresh gala apples. It satisfied his hunger but it didn’t give him that feeling he yearned for, a feeling close to an orgasm. A feeling close to his dick chubbing up in his brown knickers. As he stared at Isabella with predatory eyes, he could hear her heart racing, and smell her fear, a scent that Erik relished. While he was draining Isabella’s mother dry he could hear Isabella’s heartbeat through the thick walls. His new powers as the undead allowed him to see Isabella’s blood and brain activity as well. 

“Mwen pa ka tann pou tiye sa a,” Erik spoke with a deep, gravelly voice before licking blood from his chin with his thick pink tongue. Mama Dalma gave him a seductive look, her clit jumping below her tightly coiled pubic hair. Yvette shudders from his words. He said he couldn’t wait to kill Isabella. Yvette wondered if he would say the same about her. 

“Eat mi child,” Mama Dalma says with a wave of her hand, granting Erik permission to drain Isabella dry. Mama Dalama couldn’t keep her eyes off of Erik’s blood-covered lips and fangs. Isabella tried to run with a high-pitched scream filling the room but Erik already detected her escape, running up on her at a whizzing speed that ripped through the air, grabbing her by the back of her frail neck and slamming her face first on the hardwood floor. Erik twisted her neck painfully before sinking his fangs deep into her pulsating jugular vein. Since he’s new, he drank from Isabella with so much excitement to taste her blood that Tia had to stand by him to instruct him. 

“Patience, Erik, slow down,” Mama Dalma moves some of his dreads from his face, “Feel her heartbeat...yuh feel that? Yuh hear it slowing up? Deh is what yuh want to look for. When yuh feedin’ yuh must never take deh last breath or it will draw yuh in and yuh will drop out. If yuh plan on feeding yuh have to learn how to do it without killing dem, yuh know?” 

Isabella’s cries grew fainter and fainter. Yvette was staring her in the eyes, watching the life drain from her body. Tears of fear fell from Yvette’s eyes and a hand came up to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. She didn’t understand what she was witnessing before her eyes. 

“Good job, Big up yourself,” Mama Dalma congratulates Erik on properly feeding from his victim, “Now, yuh may finish her off.” 

Erik didn’t need to be told twice. He sank his fangs deeper, ripping the flesh from her neck, and in a matter of seconds, Isabella was lifeless. Erik retracted his fangs before dropping her body to the floor with a loud thud. Her blood was much better than her mother’s, it tasted like cinnamon apples. He could easily tell Isabella and her mother apart from their bodily odor, down to their blood types.

“Now, appreciate yuh prey,” Mama Dalma smashes Isabella’s head like a watermelon with her bare foot, “Deh are food, and only food.” She reminds a newborn Erik. 

“More,” Erik says while the blood of his victims electrified his body. 

“There’s one more,” Mama Dalma points her sharp black claw nail at Yvette, “She’s a pretty one too...I bet she tastes better,” Mama Dalma says with a honeyed voice. 

The echo-sensitivity of Erik’s hearing is what made him notice Yvette. When his eyes landed on hers and his nose sniffed the air she openly cried, her hands flailing and pretty face stained with tears. His sheer speed made it impossible for Yvette to escape. Erik picks Yvette up by her neck and slams her against the wall, grabbing her chin to aggressively turn her head so that he could have access to her neck, or, another area…

“Mwen...Mwen...bèl, Mwen,” His eyes are glued to the copious amount of cleavage she has spilling over the top of her dress. Her skin was translucent to him and he could see her veins and arteries contracting and pushing blood throughout her. Then, Erik could hear her heart like ritual drums pounding his ears. She smelled so...good. Her scent was like Heliotropes with their vivid purple beauty that reminded Erik of cherry pie. 

“Tanpri, pa touye m’. Mwen ansent!!!” She pleaded and shook with fear, “Mwen gen yon ti bebe k ap grandi andedan mwen!!” She couldn’t look Erik in his killer eyes. 

Erik retracted his fangs, his eyes tearing away from Yvette’s cleavage with great restraint. He lets go of Yvette walking away to control himself. Yvette slides down the wall to the floor clutching her belly. She trembled as she cried. Erik clenched his fists, trying his best to control his breathing and his temptations to drain her dry. 

“Erik? Wuh are yuh doing?!!!” Mama Dalma spoke with rage, speeding over to Erik and standing in front of him, “Yuh stopped...why did Yuh do deh?!” Mama Dalma was hysterical. 

“Not dis one,” Erik spoke with a low trembling voice, “She’s pregnant.” 

Mama Dalma tilted her head up at Erik before grabbing his chin roughly, causing her sharp nails to sink into the flesh of his cheeks, drawing blood,“Yuh came here to feed, right? Wat a gwaan? Yuh killed the other two just fine. Yuh can’t have remorse, it’s not in our nature.” 

“I can’t do it,” Erik moves his head away from Mama Dalma’s grip, “There has to be another way, I can’t-I can’t kill her.” 

Mama Dalma’s eyes were scornful on Erik. He didn’t cower under her gaze because he knew she wouldn’t kill him, she needed him, that much Erik could tell. 

Mama Dalma closes her eyes with a shake of her head, “Yuh queff dem whites...Yuh need to glamour this one then, wipe her memory.” 

Erik’s eyes narrowed with confusion. 

“It's a form of hypnosis. Come, I’ll show Yuh.” 

Both Mama Dalma and Erik dash to Yvette causing her to scream. Erik places a hand over her mouth to calm her but it wasn’t working. Mama Dalma rolls her eyes with frustration, preferring to kill her but Erik did need to learn how to glamour his victims. 

“Alright, now, stare into her eyes.” 

Erik locks eyes with Yvette. 

“Keep eye contact...yes...now, yuh will feel yourself invading her mind...when yuh feel that connection, hold it with all Yuh might. Now...use your voice to compel her to do wuh yuh want her to do...now try.” 

Erik felt tethered to Yvette’s mind. It was hard to hold on but Erik pushed himself to keep Yvette under his control. He liked the challenge and if this was going to be his life he needed to do it right the first time. That was the perfectionist in him, even as Ricardo Dupoux. 

“...I’m going to release ya mouth now….” Erik spoke calmly and carefully. Yvette didn’t make a sound as Erik’s hand left her mouth. She stared at him with a dazed expression like she was in a dream-like state. 

“Tell me, what’s ya name, girl?” Erik asks. 

“Yvette,” She spoke with reverie.

“Yvette...ya very lucky tonight. Ya get to leave dis plantation and never look back. Ya can find ya family, and be free with ya babies,” Erik smiles with his blood stained lips and deep charming dimples causing Yvette to smile. 

“I can finally see my mama?” even in a stupor, Yvette couldn’t fight the tears of joy falling from her eyes. 

“Yeah, ya can go to ya mama. Ya won’t remember wut happened here tonight, ya never even saw me, or her,” Erik reaches out to stroke Yvette’s face. She leaned into his touch while staring at him like she was stuck in a daydream. 

“Now, I’m gonna let ya go now, girl. Forget this plantation, just keep going and don’t look back, ya hear me?” 

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl, now, go on, love, leave and never, ever look back.” Erik stressed while holding the eye contact he had with her. Yvette blinked her pretty chocolate brown eyes at him like she was under a love spell, “Say, yes sir so I know you understand what I’m telling ya to do.” 

“Yes sir,” Yvette says with a nod of her head. Erik left her in suspended animation while Yvette lifted from the floor, gathering the front of her dress, and walking out of the room. She was gone. 

“Yuh gonna tell mi wuh happened back dere?” 

Erik turned to Mama Dalma and she was on him in a flash, slamming him to the floor hard and breaking the floorboards beneath him. His fangs extended and he hissed at her with his dark eyes unblinking on her. Mama Dalma’s hands are a blur as she holds Erik down with his arms above his head. She hissed in his face harder, her fangs inches away from biting a hole through his pouty bottom lip. 

“Yuh enjoy misbehaving I see. Let me tell yuh something,” She spoke with venom, “I am Yuh maker, I created yuh, and I can take Yuh life away,” She snaps her fingers before dragging her hand down his body to his crotch, squeezing his erection hard,  “Just...like...deh, do yuh understand? I command yuh, I have a link to Yuh body and when I call on yuh...yuh come to mama,” She whispered before pushing off of him with great speed, standing above him. 

“Retract yuh fangs,” She says. Erik glared at her on that floor, disobeying her yet again. 

“As yuh maker, I COMMAND YUH TO RETRACT YUH FANGS...NOW!” Her voice boomed. 

Erik retracted them without any more trouble. 

“Good boy,” She says, “Now get up. I’m not finished feedin’.” 

_______________

There are rows of Cajun homes within New Orleans that belonged to many white people. Some were plantations, others were of regular architecture. Mama Dalma and Erik have been feeding all night and it would be dawn soon in a couple of hours. Since Tia has already killed the men that attempted to kill Erik, Erik seeked revenge on their families. They couldn’t walk into the homes unless they were invited which is what got them inside of the Guidry plantation. An elder house negro named Mabel invited them inside when Mama Dalma persuaded her. As soon as Mama Dalma and Erik stepped into the home, Mama Dalma killed Mabel by draining her blood through her throat. 

Mama Dalma made Erik glamor each white person that owned the homes so they could invite them inside to kill them. Bloody footprints made a trail up the road to each and every home. Children, mothers, and fathers all lay in a bloody pile for the flies to swarm them. It was sensual and addictive to feed from his victims. He didn’t feel sexual attraction towards them, especially the racists whites all over New Orleans, but the tastier the blood, the harder his dick became. His mortal life was becoming an afterthought, especially with what happened at the Guidry plantation. He couldn’t bring himself to kill Yvette, even as a newborn, because she was pregnant. Her fear and her words made him think about Justine Dupoux; his wife, and his two little girls, Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. 

With Dawn approaching, Mama Dalma and Erik are simply walking through the bayou, dried blood on their skin from head to toe. Mama Dalma tells Erik the story of how she was created. A mob of pirates came looking for her to kill her because of a curse she placed on them. They hunted her down and each of them took turns raping and stabbing her to death. She was coughing up her own blood in her shack in Cuba similar to the one she has in New Orleans. Just minutes later, a handsome vampr with smooth bronze skin, a broad and hooked nose, thick curly hair, and a tall, slender frame cane upon her. He said he had traveled from the Eastern Desert that extends from the Nile Valley all the way to the Red Sea Coast. He was stunned by Mama Dalma’s bravery and beauty, so he granted her the gift of immortality. 

Erik impressed Mama Dalma for his thirst for things. She, however, knew that Erik was going to be trouble since he’s not used to taking orders from anyone. Within their walk in the remaining hours of darkness, Mama Dalma taught Erik all about the world of a vampire and its history from what her maker shared with her. As for Erik’s new powers, he was beside himself with the pleasure of it all. He will live forever, he is strong and unstoppable, and he can hypnotize people at will. One downside to it all was that he was going to miss the feeling of the sun on his skin, releasing endorphins such as serotonin; proven to improve mood, and energy, and increase feelings of calm and focus. Another downside stood before his eyes right now. Erik didn’t mean to come here. 

Hiding in the trees, Erik stares at his old home. It was a beautiful forest retreat surrounded by green. He remembers building this home from the ground up. Focusing his eyes, Erik can see an oil lamp ignited in the small window of the living room. Just beyond the glass, Justine could be seen praying with Erik’s mother, Fabiola. He could hear them calling on the spirits for help to bring Erik back to them. Rose and Felicie are sound asleep in their beds. Erik can hear their soft breaths. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the times he would enter that home, kicking off his riding boots and sneaking up on his wife while she sewed their daughters clothing, placing a delicate kiss to her neck before trailing those kisses down to his wife’s copious cleavage. He could almost feel her curves against his solid frame. Then, the smell of his daughter's hair; a lavender scent. They were always so happy to see him. 

“Come on, we’ve stayed long enough,” Mama Dalma says with a hand to Erik’s shoulder, “A vampire's life is a life of discretion.”

“Discretion?” Erik looks down at Mama Dalma as his eyes become glossy before they leaked bloody tears, “Why must we hide, Mama Dalma? We are da powerful, we are da immortal, we should walk fearless in da open,” Erik spoke with a raucous voice. He didn’t like that he had to leave his family behind. Stopping here to see his home one final time was a grave mistake. 

“Deh cannot be, mi child,” Mama Dalma wipes away Erik’s bloody tears with her fingers, slipping them into her mouth to clean off, “Mortals must never know bout’ us for deh sake of our kind-

“So I can never know my family?!!!” Erik’s voice was thick with emotion.

“Not unless yuh plan on killing all of dem. Yuh have to cut out, Erik,” She steps closer to him, her eyes more serious, “Yuh must be dead to deh world.” 

“I can’t accept dat,” He steps away. 

“As yuh maker, I command yuh to leave yuh family behind.” 

Erik’s body felt like it was being controlled just from those words alone. Mama Dalma starts walking away, and Erik has no other choice but to follow her while bloody tears stained his cheeks. 

“Yuh will do nothing but feed and feed until yuh are satisfied. We are savages, it is time for yuh to understand deh...I am sick of repeating myself wit yuh,” Mama Dalma scolds, “Now, let us go to ground until tomorrow night, I’m craving infant blood,” Mama Dalma wickedly laughs while twirling around in a state of euphoria, her hands playing in her dreadlocks, “I know where deh newborn nursery is at Charity Hospital!! Nice, plump babies!!!” 

Tia Dalma is the epitome of vampiric evil and malice, all because of her abusive, cold-hearted, and manipulative maker named Abasi. Abasi and Tia traveled all over from South America, Africa, Europe, and North America.Together, Abasi using Tia’s abilities to seduce and entice men and women, he lured them into his clutches, thereby raping and murdering countless men and women then mutilating their bodies. Abasi created a sadistic vampire. Erik has yet to see what Mama Dalma is capable of and she couldn’t wait to transform him into a male version of herself, just as cruel, limitless, sadistic, and torturous. 

____________________

It is the year 1891, three years after Erik Stevens was made vampr. Mama Dalma and Erik often traveled to the French Quarter, also known as Vieux Carré and Barrio Francés. Anglophone Americans and Francophone Creoles would meet and do business in both French and English. It was a big tourist destination. There are multi-story Creole townhouses with businesses occupying ground floors and living quarters above. There were railroad tracks, warehouses, and industries built near the riverfront. Some wealthy Quarter residents relocated to Esplanade Avenue and North Rampart Street when things became overcrowded. Here, Mama Dalma and Erik felt most alive at night. It’s been a while since Erik came to the French Quarter. 

The old Lalaurie mansion that was burned down by a mob in 1834 and remodeled in 1838 is used as a public school for girls. Evening parades with drunken civilians who engaged in sex and violence thrilled Mama Dalma and Erik. There is a luxury hotel that Mama Dalma and Erik often decide to bombard and take the riches from the wealthy whites after draining them. Erik especially loved to steal three piece lounge suits and polished shoes for himself from local shops. He looked dapper with the slim fit, always wearing his jackets partially undone to reveal the high buttoning waistcoats and watch-chain. He didn’t bother buttoning his shirt since he preferred it to be open to show off his defined pectorals and sculpted eight pack. He still dawned the Vodou jewelry he adored so much.

Mama Dalma is a confident woman who screams sex. She often wore long, sheer gowns that gave you a view of her nudity. She wore heavy jewelry like Erik and dark makeup that made her inky black eyes pop. She was determined to fuck Erik, waiting patiently for him to finally accept his new life. It took him over a year to freely accept being a vampire. He never talked about his family again which made Mama Dalma very happy, especially if he was going to be her lover. It was his compelling eyes, his remarkable body, his voice, the way he fed on his victims, how his dick would thicken and leave an enormous bulge that she wanted nothing more but to ride, suck, and nibble on with her fangs. She noticed the way women; white and black, looked at him. She noticed a lot of traits in his new vampire body. Erik is calculating, disobedient because he didn’t like to be told what to do and when to do it, seductive, calm and methodical unless pushed towards a lethal violence with surprising strength for a newborn. 

One evening, Mama Dalma and Erik visit a brothel, posing as a wealthy black couple. The prostitutes of the brothel were a mixture of races; French Creoles, Spanish, Haitian Creoles, African Americans, White Americans, and the list goes on. It’s been three years since Erik had sex with a woman. He would often lure and seduce them to kill them or feed but not to have sex. Seeing all of the half naked women offering themselves to him stirred something within him that he hadn’t felt since his wife. He could never see them again so there was no use in denying himself of what he craved besides drinking blood. Mama Dalma sensed his struggle and decided to let Erik have some fun while she watched, that is, until she intervenes.

 Erik chose a beautiful African American girl named Althea who physically reminded him of his wife; short, curves in all the right places, and lips so round and full he wondered how good they tasted. She wore tight, barely curls in her hair and Victorian lingerie with a corset in a peach color. She looked timid, constantly staring at her bare feet to avoid Erik’s piercing black eyes. Just simply extending his hand for her to grasp made her gasp. When Erik took her to a room draped in red velvet with fancy suede red furniture lit by an electric lantern, he informed her that Mama Dalma simply wanted to watch them have sex. This poor girl Althea didn’t know what was coming to her. Mama Dalma took a seat in a corner, removing her long coat and revealing her sheer gown underneath. 

“I’ve never done dis before...having a woman watch me,” Althea whispered nervously. 

“Just act like she’s not even there, girl,” Erik kisses down Althea’s neck, “Ya like da way I kiss?” 

“Yes,” Althea gasps when Erik’s tongue snakes down her neck to her cleavage, “Ya sure love to lick my skin, Sir,” Althea laughs nervously. She couldn’t keep her eyes off of Mama Dalma. 

“Ya smell just like honey,” Erik drags his nose along Althea’s skin, “I bet ya taste like honey too, girl...right here,” Erik says while rubbing her pussy lips through her lingerie. 

“Please,” Althea lays back in the bed, “ya so handsome, I need ya to fuck me.” 

Mama Dalma brings her hand down between her legs, resting her fingers over her curly pubic hair. Wet wasn’t even the word to describe how slick her folds are. Watching Erik undress Althea made her fangs extend on its own. Luckily, she’s in the shadows and Althea can’t see. Erik used one had to rip Althea’s corset and lingerie from her body, causing her to moan from his aggressiveness. Althea has nice big, round breasts with dark chocolate areolas and nipples. Mama Dalma could only imagine how it must feel to sink her teeth into all that flesh. 

“Goddamn, girl,” Erik practically rips his shirt from his body followed by his waistcoat, trousers, and shoes. Althea couldn’t believe the body before her was real. She touched Erik with intriguing eyes filled with so much desire they began to water. 

“What a beautiful man,” Althea expresses, “What are ya?” 

“Ya Master,” Erik gives Althea a wicked smile, “And da one dat plans on making ya cum,” He licks his lips before leaning forward to suck on Althea’s nipples. 

Her heart rate banged in his ears and the constant pulse coming from her veins and arteries was driving him insane. He was extremely hungry and after three years of being a vampire his control became better. His fangs didn’t extend prematurely anymore, now, Erik could control it. Althea’s sweet moans made his fat dick cast iron hard. He quickly drags his lips down Althea’s body while she grabs a fist full of his long, slender dreadlocks. Erik wasted no time while bringing Althea’s legs up and out, causing her to whimper. The smell of her inner folds was what caused his fangs to extend. Althea heard it and lifted to try and see but Erik held her down with a single hand around her throat while he vigorously lapped at her pussy. Pussy. He forgot how amazing it tasted but with his heightened senses he had to be licking grains of sugar. 

“Oh, yes, oh God, yes,” Althea was gripping the sheets while struggling to breath from Erik’s strong hand around her neck, “Yes, Master, eat my pussy like dat.” 

Mama Dalma was rubbing her clit in a circular motion with her razor sharp eyes focused on the way Erik’s tongue would lick Althea’s pussy. That thick, pink tongue would flick Althea’s clit up and down and then he would occasionally move that muscle side to side up and down Althea’s inner folds. She was nice and engorged down there, her hips constantly jerking like she wanted to shower Erik with her liquid. The minute Erik’s full lips wrapped around Althea’s clit and labia, Mama Dalma slips three fingers into her pussy to stroke herself. Althea couldn’t handle it. Mama Dalma however would have taken that sweet torture like a champion. 

“Unh! Unh! I’m cumming! Master, I’m cumming!” 

Althea’s hips levitated off of the bed and Erik followed her movements with his lips still sucking on her clit. 

“Jesus,” Mama Dalma whispers, “Yuh tore deh girl up, Erik...her pussy is nice and wet now.” 

Erik’s lips slowly pulled off of Althea’s clit to place kisses along her inner thighs. He licked with a circular motion to make her shiver before sinking her teeth into her thigh. Althea screams, yanking Erik’s dreadlocks. Her entire body spasms beneath him, soft whimpers escaping her mouth. She didn’t understand what was going on. Erik retracted his fangs before licking her blood up that constantly leaked. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before kneeling between Althea’s legs with his dick in hand. Althea watched him clutch that long pipe before bringing her knees back further. 

“It’s so big,” She says with a stunned voice, her hands holding her pussy lips open now with desperation, “ya fucking me wit dat?” She was nervous and aroused at the same time. 

“All of dat,” he leans over Althea’s body, his dick in one hand and his other hand wrapped around her curly strands. Erik rubbed the wide tip of his dick against her clit before slowly entering Althea. She let out ragged breaths with her mouth unhinged. Erik licked and kissed all over Althea’s neck all while his hips were pistoning in and out of Althea’s pussy. The entire bed would moved, the brass headboard banging against the wall covered in elegant ornate French Victorian wallpaper that is a black and red color. 

“Fuck, dis pussy is so tight,” He whispers. 

“It’s so much dick, Master, so much dick!!!!” Althea pushes at Erik’s chest but he wasn’t going anywhere, “Jesus! it is filling me up!! unh, FUCK!”

“Ya better take all dis dick I’m giving ya girl,” He whispered to her, “Don’t run from me, I’ll hold ya down and fuck ya some more.” 

Mama Dalma moaned from his words before bringing her fingers to her mouth to taste herself. With her spit covered fingers she rubs her clit, bringing one leg up so she could have a better reach. She could only imagine the pleasure Althea was experiencing. The more Erik fucked her the more possessive Mama Dalma became. Althea was taking all that dick, dick that belonged to Mama Dalma. Erik’s stroke was dangerous. The muscles in his back rippled and flexed each time he entered Althea. 

“Ya making me cum again!” Althea twisted her head to the side, tears falling from her eyes, and moaning into the pillow beneath her, “UNH GOD!” 

Erik’s inky black irises dilated when he saw Althea’s jugular vein protrude from her neck. While stroking her, Erik takes a single finger to trace her vein before extending his fangs from simply flexing his jaw, startling her by coming down on her with speed, his teeth sinking right into her vein. Like a pipe bursting, Althea’s blood spilled into Erik’s mouth. His eyes rolled and the grip he had on her hair became painful and uncomfortable. Her screams turned into scared cries as her hands attempted to push him off of her. 

“Yes, feed, mi child!!! take her blood!!!” Mama Dalma felt overwhelming joy and lust instead of a building orgasm since she is the undead. Mama Dalma sucked the lubrication from her fingers before speeding over to the bed. She moves Erik’s dreadlocks out of the way so she could sink her teeth into Althea’s right breast. The fleshy area was like a cushion for Mama Dalma’s lips while she fed off of her. Althea could do nothing but cry. Erik continues to fuck her until his body tingled and the same overwhelming lust that Mama Dalma felt blasted through him. It was strange and intriguing to not ejaculate but still very powerful like an orgasm. It hit him so hard that the hand in Althea’s hair yanked some of her strands out. Blood began to soak the sheets and Althea’s body soon became lifeless. 

“FUCK,” Erik stares at Althea’s dead body. Her blood was so rich and sweet Erik couldn’t help but to lick and suck on his fingers. His dick was standing straight up and pointed out with deep veins and a tight sack. 

“I’m gonna suck and fuck deh sweet dick so good, Erik,” Mama Dalma grabs Erik’s dick, her fingers barely touching, “Oooh, it’s so damn thick.” 

“I bet ya been wanting to suck dis dick for a long time...wut took ya so long? Huh?” He says with a sly smirk. 

“Eva since I first laid eyes on yuh.”

Mama Dalma forces Erik to the bed with her superior strength. Erik’s fangs retracted instantly when Mama Dalma started stroking his dick. Erik hisses while taking his strong hand to rip Mama Dalma’s dress to shreds, revealing her toned body with small breasts. Mama Dalma lowered her head between Erik’s legs and with her superhuman strength and stamina, Mama Dalma tightened her jaws and bobbed her head expertly to fill her entire throat with his dick. She would suck him all the way down to the base and back up. 

“Fuck, kenbe souse m’tankou sa,” Erik closes his eyes, “sa kaka santi li tèlman bon,” He spoke gruffly between moans. He was telling Mama Dalma how good it felt and that she needed to keep sucking on him. Erik felt a pinprick on the side of his shaft that made him bite down on his pouty bottom lip, drawing blood. Mama Dalma was tasting the blood from the throbbing and protruding veins of his meaty length. Erik instantly healed from her bite. 

“Yuh are one sexy man, Erik, and yuh are mine. I always get wuh I want. I will take it by force if I have to. Deh dick is mine, yuh hear me? Alllllllllll Mine.” 

Mama Dalma couldn’t be stopped the more she gave Erik fellatio. Suck long, suck hard, and suck often. That’s exactly what she will do every chance she gets. With Erik’s newfound strength, his dick was practically impenetrable; unyielding; tremendously solidified. That pleasure stick will have Mama Dalma feeling intimacy stronger than she ever did in her early vampire life. It was different at first for Mama Dalma to be sexual but not in a reproductive way. Since discovering Erik, she felt the strongest sexual lust in her 175 years of being a vampire. Mama Dalma mounted Erik speedily, grabbing his dick at the base before lowering herself on him. 

None of the sex is quite as good as vampire sex, though, which can happen at the astonishing rhythm of 120 bpm while simultaneously devouring one’s neck and making your eyes roll back into your head. If they go from a base level, vampires create a hole in the neck where there wasn’t one before. It’s a devirginization—breaking the hymen, creating blood and then drinking the virginal blood. And there’s something sharp, the fang, which is probing and penetrating and moving into it which is pretty sexy. 

As she bounced on his dick Erik fed from her neck, tasting the very blood that heightened the feeling like ecstasy. His strong, powerful hips met hers in sort of a race to see who was in charge. Mama Dalma clawed at Erik’s chest with her sharp nails, creating deep claw marks that healed instantly. Her nimble body moved at a swift speed above Erik causing him to grip her hips to try and keep her in place. They were fucking so hard and fast that the bed banged against the floor loudly. The mind-blowing passion was most exhilarating while feeding. It’s not simply “feeding” but it’s sex, breathing, having the best dinner you’ve ever had, feeling the life force of another filling you and making your flagging essence re-surge with vitality. It bolstered your sense of well-being as well as gave life to your body, mind, and demon spirit. 

The sensation of feeding is akin to an orgasm, but even more powerfully so in some instances, particularly when properly hungry, which is why stopping can be an issue for vampires. That’s what Erik was experiencing. He lets out a guttural rasp, gasping for air until Mama Dalma finally stops. Erik sucked on her nipples and trailed kisses all over her flesh before forcing her head down so he could nibble on her lips with his fangs. Her moans were stuck in her throat the more Erik fed from her lips. She couldn’t get enough of it, and neither could he. 

_____________________

After three months of torture, kill, and sex, Erik became concerned for his family’s welfare when a pox epidemic broke out. Just when he was finally accepting his vampire life, Erik was soon reminded of his mortal family and how they must be struggling to survive. Maybe the faith of the Vodou Religion kept them stable but this epidemic was killing hundreds of people. After Mama Dalma and Erik had sex at their home in the shack, Mama Dalma went to ground earlier and that gave Erik an opportunity to check in on his family. He speeds over to his forest home, peeking through the trees to see how things were. It was dark inside, almost lifeless. Erik became afraid and made the risky choice to approach the home. Out in the clearing now, Erik walked towards the home, nervous and afraid for his family to see him like this. 

“Ricardo?! Ricardo se ke ou?!” 

It was Justine, standing on the porch wearing a poor Victorian style dress made from cotton with her hair wrapped in a tigon. She looked exhausted with dark circles under her eyes. She was 30-years-old now, and his daughters would be 8-years-old. Fabiola’s birthday had just passed in August, she turned 56-years-old. All of the time had slipped away. Living as a vampire, time wasn’t important with the exception of when dawn was approaching. Justine had lost weight, her fullness that Erik loved no longer there. 

“Kote ou te ye?!!” She yells while running down the front steps to their home. She wrapped her arms around Erik’s neck, pulling him down into a tight, suffocating hug. Erik’s nose landed in her hair and it smelled earthy, floral, sweet, and relaxing. This was the scent he remembered. It took all of his will power not to sink his teeth into her neck. They stayed like that for some time while she weeped into his cotton shirt. 

“Ti fi Yo? Manman m?” Erik asks, pulling Justine away by her upper arms so that he could look at her. He asked where the girls and his mother were. Justine broke down crying again, her knees buckling. Erik held her tightly while a crease formed in his brow. 

“Ricardo, ou ta dwe retounen!!!! Poukisa ou kite nou!!!!” Justine attempted to push Erik over and over but he wasn’t moving. 

Hearing Justine refer to him as Ricardo felt strange. He almost forgot that was his birth name. 

“I had to leave...for ya safety...dem white men would have killed all of ya.” Erik squeezed her tightly to calm her down.

“Fabiola...li mouri.” Justine’s voice was barely audible when she told him the news. Erik felt like he was dying all over again. Fabiola was dead. 

“How?” He asks, holding back his tears. 

“Fever... a year ago... couldn’t save her...she died in her sleep,” Justine’s words halted as she began to cry again, “Her last dyin’ wish was to see ya again but ya never came back!” Justine looked at him like she was looking at a stranger, “Ya look so different, Ricardo.” 

“Da girls, Justine, I want to see dem,” Erik says. 

“Ya too late,” Justine fought for oxygen in his arms. 

Erik’s eyes grew wide and he stormed past Justine and into the house. There, lying in a coffin, was Rose Fabiola Dupoux and Felicie Ines Dupoux. They are dressed in cotton gowns, one purple and one pink with floral crowns and white dress shoes. Their coily hair is long and luscious, even in death. The last time he saw them they were five years old, running through the little garden in their yard, playing hide-n-seek. They were covered in pox that left nasty scars on their beautiful melanin skin. Erik couldn’t stop the bloody tears that began to flow. He walked up to their wooden coffins, his hands reaching out to touch them. Erik dropped to his knees, loud, uncontrollable sobs filling the room as his body shook. 

“I tried, Ricardo...dere was nothin’ I could do,” Justine kneeled by his side, resting her head against his shoulder, “Dese precious girls…I prayed to Papa Ghede for help but nothing worked. I’ve exhausted all of my tears…I accept dat dem girls have to go...Marie is dead, ya mother is dead...I had no one to turn to.”

Erik stands, walking up to each of his daughters to place a final kiss to their heads. He felt disgusting. If he wouldn’t have chosen this life, he would have been here for his daughters, he would have been here for mother, and he would have been here to comfort his grieving wife. He couldn’t begin to understand what Justine was going through. She assumed that Erik had perished when he left their home to go with Augusto. Justine clings to Erik so tightly she was afraid he would slip through her fingers. Erik tried to hide his face from her but Justine’s delicate fingers smoothed his dreads from his face so that she could give him a kiss. It’s been three years. 

“Ricardo, ya so cold,” She says before her eyes fell upon the bloody tears spilling from his eyes. Frightened, Justine practically leaps away from him before grabbing a shotgun that used to be Erik’s. She pointed it at Erik’s back with her shaky hands before cocking the gun.

“Who are ya?! Wut did ya do with my husband? Ya not Ricardo, ya are a demon!!!! A zombie!!!” Ricardo turns, his hands up in surrender. The blood tears made him look like a monster. 

“Justine, it’s me...it’s Ricardo,” Erik walks towards her, “I won’t hurt ya. I just wanted to check on ya to make sure everything was fine. I can’t stay, not like dis-

“DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!!!” Justine yells, “I WILL SHOOT YA!!!”

“Justine-

Pop! 

Justine shoots Erik in the chest. He stumbles back with disbelief that she just shot him before his eyes went down to stare at his wound. The bullet wound healed immediately causing the bullet fragments to fall on the floor. Justine drops the gun, screaming at the top of her lungs while running towards the door. 

“Justine! Wait!” Erik was right on her tail but his maker, Mama Dalma unexpectedly appeared at the door. She grabs Justine, pulling her towards her and holding her hostage with her hands, yanking the tigon from her head and grabbing her by her hair, pushing her down to her knees. Erik’s fangs extended, ready to attack Mama Dalma. Justine gawked at the sight of his fangs. She was ready to scream but Mama Dalma brought her to her feet speedily, wrapping a single hand around her neck. 

“If yuh so much as scream, I will rip yuh throat out,” She spoke between clenched teeth before showing Justine her fangs, “I don’t care if yuh are Ricardo’s wife or not, I will FUCKIN’ kill yuh.” Mama Dalma snarled in Justine’s face, scaring her half to death. Justine was paralyzed with fear. 

“Tia, let her go...now,” Erik says as anger stirred within him. 

“Yuh planned on leaving mi? Erik?” 

Panic surged through Justine, “Erik?! Who is Erik?!” 

“Yuh hear deh? She wants to know who Erik is…tell her, Erik, tell her who deh is,” The corners of her mouth quirked up into an evil smile, “TELL HER!!!!” 

“I’m Erik, Justine,” Erik spoke to Justine but his eyes were focused on Mama Dalma. 

“So, if yuh Erik, why would Yuh come back after I told Yuh not to? Dis isn’t yuh life anymore. When yuh left yuh home that night, yuh left Ricardo behind.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Justine’s stomach clenched. 

“Of course yuh wouldn’t understand, child, it’s alright, yuh won’t see Erik anymore after dis...Erik, yuh know wuh yuh have to do, right?”

“Tia-

“DO IT. It’s either deh, or I kill her.” 

“I can’t do dat to her-

“So killin’ her is better? Fine,” Tia was on Justine fast, Feeding on her viciously from her neck. Justine’s throat tightened and she could no longer scream. 

“STOP!” Erik speeds over to Mama Dalma only for her to push him off of the porch. Erik fell painfully against the ground. 

“AS YUH MAKER-

“ENOUGH!!!” Erik yelled so loud his voice could probably be heard a mile away, “Awrite, I’ll do it...I’ll glamor her.” 

Tia drops Justine carelessly, “See? Wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

Justine’s body felt numb and the blood froze in her veins. Erik approached her, his eyes locking with hers, holding her gaze before finally connecting with her brain. Justine was transfixed under Erik’s spell. He tried to hold back his tears but they disobeyed him. 

“Justine,” Erik strokes her face with his fingertips, “Ya never saw me, ya never saw her, I am dead, have been for da past three years. Ya will move on with ya life, start a new one hopefully because ya deserve it.”

“Yes,” Justine’s pensive eyed saddened Erik. 

“Now, I want ya to go on upstairs and get some rest. Rose and Felicie will be buried in da St. Louis Cemetery. Ya can go visit dem anytime ya want.” 

“I’d like that,” Justine says. 

“I know, baby,” Erik kisses her forehead. He brings his fingertip to one of his fangs, pricking it before bringing it down to the bite mark on her neck, rubbing his blood into the wound to heal it, “Everything will be just fine.” 

Erik stared at Justine one final time before she stood up, walking into the house and up the stairs. Erik’s temper sparked again when he noticed Mama Dalma smiling like the entire thing was a joke.

“If you would have killed her, I would have ripped ya fucking head off,” Erik says.

“With what strength more than mine? Yuh can be angry all yuh please but dis needed to be done. Now, yuh have no reason to come back here.” 

“Ya evil, ya have no remorse, I’m exactly like ya. Didn’t care to check on my family, I let my manman die, my babies die, Nothin’ will change dat.” Erik was defeated. 

“Like I told Yuh, yuh are a vampire now. Deh won’t EVER understand deh. Keep this up, and yuh will end up dead. If anotha vampire catches yuh acting weak deh will make an example out of yuh. It’s okay...I have a lot more to teach yuh. Now, let’s bury deh babies and leave for good. Deh is deh last time I’m telling yuh.” 

“Erik Stevens,” A single bloody tear fell from Erik’s eye. 

“When yuh bury deh babies, yuh burying Ricardo Dupoux. As yuh maker, I command yuh to never come back here, and never go back to deh cemetery. Do yuh hear mi, child?” 

Erik simply nods his head before walking into his old home to grab the coffins that held his deceased daughters. What this vampire life has in store for him Erik could only hope it would get better. 

[todoscript]

Corps-à-Corps [ 1 ]

Parts | one ; two

Corps-à-Corps (“body-to-body”): the action of two fencers coming into bodily contact with each other that is deemed an illegal move 

Genre | Sports AU. Slow Burn. Angst. Fluff. Future Smut.

Pairing | Fencer!Todoroki Shouto x Fencer!Reader

Words | 10.7K+

Warnings | Pining. Mild cursing. Characters are aged up. Insecurities and expectations. Research was done in order to accurately convey the action of the sport in this fic as I am not a fencer. Whole fic will be two parts.

Author’s Notes | Oh wow, 10k words. I was debating whether or not to just write the entire story in one go and post everything together, but at the speed I’m going, along with my assignments harassing me in the background, I decided to upload as a two-shot. Also please read the ending author’s notes when you’re done!

Also a special thank you to @sadistiks​ @natsuosfairy​ and @pat-writes-stuff​ for being my beta readers! <3

The thought of being late to your very first practice at the fencing academy you’ve admitted to is nothing short of an insult to your former coach, who was the one who recommended you in the first place.

You tell yourself this, yet here you are, running as if your life depends on it. Ragged breaths are ripping from your throat, accompanied by the slick sweat dotting the skin of your temples and a pair of lungs positively burning through every arduous step you compel yourself to tussle through.

“Dammit, why’d I have to be late today?!” you groan through gritted teeth, glancing at the map in your hand to verify the correct path forward to the Tokyo Fencing Center. As you clutch the strap of the duffel bag hanging off your shoulder, you seethe over your lack of time management skills, knowing full well you can’t blame anyone for this disorganization but yourself.

You persevere through, despite the dizzying heat flushing your skin and the fatigue piling in your body, awarded with the fencing center coming into view. You grant yourself only a second of rest before you’re rushing forward again. If you were a track athlete, then this would be the last hurdle.

Finally, with a fierce slam open of the double doors enclosing the facility, you’ve crossed the finish line. The relieved heave of your breaths practically topple you over in exhaustion but you regain your balance by adjusting yourself next to a wall. Little do you know there was still another impediment you needed to face.

The noises that lightly ring and echo throughout the hallway emit down from the main room, indicating to you that you’re definitely past due punctual. Steps heavy and hesitant, you cross into the threshold. Everyone has already clad themselves in their fencing gear, scattering into their respected fencing disciplines to practice amongst each other. You’re left standing there in high contrast compared to the white uniforms dispersed in the room. At this point, you just hope to speak to the primary instructor without disturbing the vibe.

However, your goal is cut short by a quick thrust of a saber. Your eyes view over and behold the fencing match before you, where two combatants ready their blades on opposite sides of the piste—the extended playing area the game takes place on. Their bodies are encased in the standard protective gear, faces obscured by the dense masks covering their heads to the napes of their necks.

“En-garde... Prêtz?” The referee utters two distinct French words before starting the bout—one meaning “on guard,” the other “ready.” Each participant raises their weapons in preparation.

“Allez!”

At the signal, their movements advance into nearly triple time, feet light and flexible as their steps shift across the mat. You’re familiar with this particular fencing discipline known as saber fencing. It’s fast; in fact, it’s the second-fastest sport at the Olympics after rifle shooting. The aim of the game, of course, is to hit your opponent anywhere from the waist up with your sword. It may seem simple enough, but there’s another layer of complication factoring in the game’s speed, for this sport is calculated in as little time as milliseconds.

The fencer on the left side of the piste lunges forward, attempting to draw the momentum. Sadly, it’s a sloppy pursuit; his form is unstable and his efforts are in vain due to a missed strike. He swiftly backs up.

At this error, the opposition takes the reins and progresses forward, forcing his competitor back and back across the mat from his utter retaliation. In an instant, he spots a chance to win priority by taking over the impetus of the battle, and makes no hesitation in slashing with his weapon. Every movement he commits to is as swift as wisps of fire in the wind and burns nearly as fast. His opponent tries following the hit out of sheer panic. In the end, the exchange of strikes is so quick that even a simple blink could deter you from the actions at hand.

The two attacks make simultaneous contact on their lamé—the electric conductive jacket hugging their upper bodies—causing the machine in front of the referee to glow two colors. Left is indicated by red, green for right. If both colors concurrently light up, it’s the referee’s position to decide who earns the point.

Though the battle proved to be hasty and expeditious, you managed to observe every detail as keenly possible. From your basic understanding of the rules of saber fencing, the point should belong to—

“Right,” the referee promptly states, his arm lifted toward the corresponding side. By controlling the initiative of the fight, the right-sided fencer gains priority, meaning he’ll receive the point even if both players hit. The moment his competitor had made a mistake, the opposition had the right to steal the momentum along with priority.

The gush of air that heavily tightens your lungs eventually releases into a breath you hadn’t realized you’ve been holding in the spur of the match. The complication, as well as the speed of saber fencing, has always made you appreciate the aspect of the game, despite how different it was from your own fencing discipline.  

“And so the victor of this match is Todoroki,” the referee congratulates as everyone around sounds with applause, at which you can’t help but join in. The triumphant fencer brings his blade down by his side before running a hand over his mask to reveal himself.

You glimpse at a head of white and red tresses that flair elegantly upon layers, sticking to the sweat glistening across his forehead. His pretty heterochromatic eyes gleam at his victory, and exuding nothing but effortless confidence, he stands tall above the crowd. However, there’s frigidity in his expression, an underlying cold beneath frosty irises of turquoise and gray that’s difficult to comprehend.

Movements like fire. Spirit like ice. And together, they collide into an enigma that rattles your thoughts in that infinitesimal moment.

Staring at his form, you can’t help but compare this scene to a shot right from a movie, what with the man’s handsome looks, glowing charisma, and athletic ability. He’d definitely make for a killer male lead—

“Ahem.”

The panorama view is pressed on pause when you hear an abrupt clear of someone’s throat in your direction. The referee greets you, a slender man possessing messy, shoulder-length hair and an unusually worn-out appearance despite his young age.

“Can I help you, miss?”

Everyone’s actions are on hold after the match. They peep over to the commotion surrounding you and their instructor, exchanging choruses of whispers and curious looks. You can’t suppress the urge to cross your arms and nervously rub your skin over the uncomfortable amount of eyes boring into you. After all, it doesn’t take a detective to comprehend how you stick out like a sore thumb in this sea of white.

“Oh, um, I’m a newly admitted fencer… My coach recommended me, and I’m here to attend my first practice,” you manage despite an embarrassing red creeping up your cheeks. The only physical bearings you can hold onto is the strap of your duffle bag, which you grip firmly in hopes of not potentially floating away like a hot air balloon. Though at the same time, you’d also wouldn’t mind drifting off, or perhaps even bury yourself into solid ground if it meant escaping the stares.

While exhaling an arduous sigh, the man’s flat and tired eyes sink into your existence. You honestly can’t tell if he’s annoyed with you or perhaps just having an exhausting day. Maybe it’s both. In that case, you might be fucked.

“Well, you’re about twenty minutes late and not dressed in fencing gear. Though I suppose explanations are long overdue,” says the instructor, adding more heat to the squealing teakettle that is your mortification, “Your name?”

“L-L/n Y/n,” you reply. Let’s hope he’s not asking for it to kick you out of the academy.

“L/n Y/n...” He flips through a page, scanning the contents, “You’re an… épée fencer?”

“Yes, sir.”

As the man continues looking over his clipboard, you notice blue and gray eyes peering right from behind him. Your face lights up, perceiving them to belong to the saber fencer—Todoroki—from the earlier match, and your eyes are drawn to his as if they’re glaciers glimmering in the moonlight. The boy, however, averts his gaze the moment the two of you make brief eye contact. He returns to the mat and brandishes his blade for another bout.

“L/n if you want to stay here,” the instructor’s voice nudges your attention back to him, “I suggest you go get changed in your fencing gear. And quickly. I have an assignment for you.”

Your only reply is a prompt “yes sir” before you hurry to the locker rooms, bag smacking against your side at every step as if it’s physically reprimanding you for getting in such an unpleasant predicament. All you give it is a violent throw into a locker. Your hands rummage inside, hastily scouring for your gear to don on.

The thin clothes you’re currently wearing allow you to slip your long fencing socks over them, along with white trousers that hang onto your form thanks to two straps hooked over your shoulders. Next comes the safeguard for the upper body—a plastic chest protector first, followed by the plastron or the underarm protector. Finally, a white jacket sports over all the upper layers. Everything afterward is self-explanatory, what with only the gloves and shoes left. You won’t need the mask until later, so you grip it next to your hip, leaving the locker room with haste.

By then, everyone resumed their usual business for today’s practice. The swoosh of blades accompany you when you return to the training hall, sights set back on the shaggy-haired man standing on the side waiting for you. His wary expression is a chasm you can’t correctly discern.

“Though you’re not punctual, you dress fast at least,” he says just as you approach, “Now if you want to secure your spot here, there’s something you need to do.” You follow him to a piste occupied by only one other fencer. Assuming the player is also an épée fencer like yourself, you can guess what this “assignment” consists of now.

“If you’re going to be training here, I need to evaluate your skills and see where you currently stand,” he declares and hands you the corresponding weapon to your discipline: The épée, the largest and heaviest sword used in fencing. Compared to foil fencing, it dons a larger guard and is broader and thicker. But unlike saber, which has more slashing in play, this weapon is designated for thrusting.

“So I’m having you perform in a small, quick match right now. I’m only giving you one chance to prove you should stay here and train amongst us, so I suggest you play to the best of your ability.”

You nod, enthusiastic, and ready for the bout. Your opponent wordlessly walks off to the opposite end of the piste, their épée blade prepped at their side while you do the same, also wearing your protective headgear. Due to their dense mask, you can’t distinguish any prominent features or emotions on your contender, but you’re sure the sensations crossing their body are parallel to your own.

“En-garde.”

Inhale and exhale. Your even breaths lull your nerves, and every hindrance you faced today is buried in the back crevice of your mind. Right now, you focus your energy and spirit into this small match, let yourself envelope the vitality of fencing that drives your movements.

“Prêtz?”

Your knees are bent, steps light on your toes while your grip remains steady on the handle of the épée, the shine glossed from the hilt to the tip of the blade points you toward a new adversary standing in your way.

“Allez!”

Even with the signal, the small spring in your step ushers you only a bit forward. Unlike saber fencing, the pace is quite different. Whereas saber is fast and flashy all within as little as a speck of a second, épée is methodical, slow, and plays defensively. For in épée, any part of your body can register as a point. So the discipline focuses on maneuvering cautiously to protect yourself, being wary of your stance, as well as deflecting and parrying attacks.

Saber fencing is equivalent to a real-life scenario. If two people are equipped with knives and face off to see who wins, then the one who makes the quickest move and cuts down their opponent first is victorious. They don’t just trade blows with each other; they go in for the kill. It’s basic survivability. Meanwhile, épée fencing is reminiscent of a duel—a show. The competitors give the crowd a performance to enjoy, watching through every meticulous move and observing their blades clash in a struggle. Similar to the exaggerated fight choreographies seen in action movies and animation.

Every step an épée fencer performs is calculated and strategized in their heads because there are so many vulnerable factors an opponent can exploit. Knowing any part of your body is a target for your opponent’s blade, the most sure-fire way to avoid receiving a hit is to take extra precaution in your form while monitoring the enemy’s.

You regard every movement, every muscle, your competitor makes, indicating how fast or slow they shift when not attacking. Suddenly, the opposition proceeds forward, easing slightly into your range. You grapple yourself, ready for the fencer as they swiftly advance at a possible opening, their épée is thrust in an unyielding path to take you down. However, you foresee the hit, bringing your blade up to parry the attack. When the metal swords collide, you detect a break in your opponent’s defenses and launch your counterattack known as riposte—the offensive action carried after a clean parry.

The point of your blade hits home against the fencer’s chest. With the electric conductive lamé pierced, a high-pitched squeal rings in the air—a distinct indication that you have rightfully gained the point in the bout, winning the short test match.

Typically, a regular bout would continue until one of the contenders reaches fifteen points, but in this case, the coach had already held his hand up to halt your actions only after one round. You remove your mask, vision adjusting to the light, and hearing faint sets of claps in the vicinity. Glancing around, a small ring of onlookers commend your swift demonstration. While it is not on par with the garish applause you witnessed earlier, you appreciate the praise with an elated grin lining your lips. Your eyes cross into the threshold and notice Todoroki sparing a brief glimpse over the laudation, but doesn’t pay much mind.

“Hm, at least your former coach didn’t make a mistake recommending you here. You’re not half bad. Could touch up your technique a bit more, but I suppose that’s what you’re at this academy for,” the coach calls out, but his tone quickly submerges into deep waters. Out of instinct, your back straightens when he nears.

“However, I don’t have time for slackers, and tardiness is not something I tolerate. Here at this fencing academy, we don’t waste our time dawdling. We get in, make the most of every minute, and get our jobs done. So I better not see you twenty minutes late again, understand?”

A creeping veil of severity slithers down your spine, jolting nerves in your body you had no idea existed. If you stared into the man’s eyes long enough, they might shift into a threatening hue of red that could swallow you whole. Your fear over that has you shaking your head up and down in rapid succession, and surprisingly, the oppressive atmosphere disperses instantly like smoke scattered by the wind.

“Good. With that said, I’ll be your coach, Aizawa Shouta.” His narrowed brows soften when he speaks, reverting to his downbeat appearance. “If you have any further questions, you can ask your fellow fencers. If not, then get to practice.”  

He walks off to inspect the other fencers on their progress, allowing you to conduct your business. However, before you can conjure any thoughts on how to proceed next, a hand finds its way into your peripheral vision. A girl with onyx black hair tied in a high ponytail comes in view, a singular thick lock framing the kind smile adorning her face.

“That was a great match, I enjoyed every bit participating in it, even though it was so short,” she says. It’s by her statement and when your eyes scan across her form briefly that you recognize her to be your opponent, now no longer concealed by head protection.

You take her hand, grip settling into a light shake while you return the smile cordially, “Ah same, I hope we can play a full bout in the future.”

“Agreed,” she giggles amicably, which you find soothing, “My name is Yaoyorozu Momo, and as you witnessed, I’m an épée fencer like yourself.”

“L/n Y/n, though just Y/n is fine.”

“Well, Y/n, that was quite an entrance in the beginning, coming in twenty minutes late to your first practice,” the girl teases, a playful hand over her lips that leave a pout on your own.

“Yeah, that was my fault…” you drawl, rubbing a hand over your head. Your eyes avert to the ceiling upon remembering the chagrin, “It’s an excuse, I know, but I lost track of time…”

“Haha, don’t worry. Coach Aizawa may seem like a hostile man, who arguably doesn’t get enough sleep, but I assure you he has his soft spots. You just have to get to know him a bit more.”

Your face droops, finding the claim hard to believe when testifying for the man’s daunting character that left your nerves shivering. At this point, all you need to do is not get on his bad side, and you’re good to go.

“Rather, if I did have to point anyone to look out for, it’d be fencers like him,” she gestures off to the side, your eyes following the movement. The person in query is a boy of slick, blonde hair whose lips draw into a smug grin that somehow irritates you enough for your face to gaunt.

“That’s Monoma Neito. Fencing is a chivalrous sport, but he’s as arrogant as they come, all talk and no action. However, his family funds and supports the academy, so he was offered a place here with little regard. Luckily he fences saber so we won’t be running into much of him anyway,” she describes a type you’re fairly familiar with. They’re the kind of people that throw their money at their problems, reaching undeserving plateaus thanks to their authority and status. It’s frustrating to think a prestigious sports academy can still be touched by people like him, considering the lengths ordinary folks like yourself need to extend to reach the same level. In this cruel world, some arrive at the top with a simple touch of a button on an elevator while the rest must burn and sweat and suffer to climb mountains that span the same peak.

Despite that, you’re glad this place still harbors some exceptional skills, judging by the abundant competence surrounding the room in the form of rigorous training and practice. You should join in the grind soon. However, your curiosity piqued at the last second as your eyes have subconsciously been trailing the saber fencers, seeking peculiar tresses of red and white. It’s not long until you spot him again—Todoroki. He’s stepped off to the side, relieving his thirst with water and wiping the lingering sweat dotting his face.

“Hey, Yaoyorozu,” you call, eyes unwavering, “can you tell me about that boy over there, Todoroki?”

She gives a mildly surprised look, “You don’t know who he is? I thought the last name would ring a bell, especially as a fencer.”

“Um, should I?” You raise an eyebrow. Even when you spare another glance at the boy, hoping your mind would jolt with a distant memory, nothing clicks. Only a blank greets you.

“That’s Todoroki Shouto, son of Todoroki Enji, who’s a former saber fencing Olympian. He’s one of the best fencers here. They say he rivals his father in skill and is aiming to participate for the next coming Olympics, but Todoroki doesn’t talk much about it,” she finally answers. Your gaze fills with intrigue, processing the information through a filter that quickly fathoms the different planes you and the boy of ice and fire live across. Little do you realize that your worlds will soon collide faster than sword to body, and mar just as bad.

.

.

It’s by the next practice at the Tokyo Fencing Center that you genuinely take Coach Aizawa’s words to heart and let it show in your actions by committing to managing your time that day. Even with university classes and studies before another rigorous training session, you arrive with no commotion, no irritating looks, and no sweat. One thing’s for sure, the coach won’t be biting your head off this time.

You start to consider the notion that you could potentially be the very first person here; if not for a sound you begin to discern louder and louder the more you walk down the hallway toward the training room. You surmise it’s too early for anyone to be here when practice does not officially start until two o’clock sharp. Lighting up your phone, it reads 1:40 PM, twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

A ghost? No, you don’t believe in such things. Unless it’s maybe Coach Aizawa’s exhausted spirit coming to punish you for last time? In that case, perhaps you should be more mindful of specters after all.

You decipher the noise as a swoosh carried by thin metal slicing across the air and resounding in swift successions. Your steps careful and silent, you enter the training hall to peek upon the lone entity. It’s there you spot a white figure, however it’s not a ghost. Instead, it’s a fencer. A saber fencer at that, and one whose form is in peak and perfect condition as they jut their blade out with such a keen technique, you’d want to capture the shot within a sculpture of ice to admire every angle. But, under every chain of moves is a fire that melts and burns the previous images’ glaciers.

Before your thoughts can catch up to you, the fencer stops and lowers his sword.

“Do you usually spy on people while they’re practicing?”

The figure evokes a husky voice from beneath the meshed mask. Had it not been only the two of you here, you might not have heard the muffled words that nearly have your feet stepping on top of each other from how sudden they resonate in the air. You gather yourself and find your balance. When your eyes reach the boy’s again, he’s already swung off his headgear, revealing his heterochromatic eyes peering at you. Todoroki waits silently, expecting an answer.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to gawk at you or anything,” you sputter while unable to look directly at him.

“You kept glancing at me the first day you came in for practice too,” he mentions, his voice relaxed despite the detail making you out to be some attentive fangirl, maybe even a stalker if you stretched it. Surprising to you, however, he furrows his brows.

“Did I do something to bother you?”

You swing your hands up fervently to deny the question and assure to him that was not the case.

“Oh no! I just, uh…” your splayed utters have you fumbling to reach for a response that won’t come off too garish for your standing, “I just… admire your fencing. Saber has always been a discipline that’s fascinated me, considering it’s so different from épée.”

“Right, you’re an épée fencer,” he says.

You nod genially, “Hehe, that’s correct. I’m L/n Y/n, by the way, the new girl, but you probably already knew that when the coach scolded me last week for coming in late,” you chuckled, offering a strained grin to lighten the dreadful memory.

Noticing he’s about to return the introductions, you stop him with a wave of your hand, “Don’t worry, I know who you are, Todoroki Shouto.”

He lifts a brow, and you have to giggle at the perplexed expression etched on his face when comparing it to the icy demeanor he usually sports on pause.

“I watched a bit of your match last week the moment I walked in,” you explain, “Plus, you’re quite the talk around here at the fencing academy.”

“Am I?” Todoroki questions, a hint of inquisitiveness edging the tip of his tongue.

“I thought you’d already be the one to know that. You’re the skilled saber fencer here,” you tease. “So do you usually come so early just to do warm-ups and swing your saber around by yourself?”

His eyes avert to the blade handled in his right hand, then return to you, “I follow a training routine. In the morning, I work out at a gym, and then I come here afterward.”

Your eyes blink twice, interpreting his words, “Wait, so you’ve been here since..?”

“1:00,” he finishes for you. Your mouth hangs open in an almost cartoonish manner.

“You seriously stayed here for a whole hour doing fencing drills before the actual fencing? And that’s after working out?” you relay the questions in a way that expresses the details to be appalling, yet he simply shrugs.

“Isn’t that a bit much? Don’t you want to hang out with people for a bit or relax somewhere else?”

He pauses for a minuscule moment, glancing at the saber’s shining edge that reflects the fraternal twins of his irises across the metal. It’s as if the sword imparts him with an answer to your query, which drops weight in his next statement.

“The way I see it, there’s not much time to waste if I’m going to go for the top. If I’m going to beat him, I need to keep up this momentum, or else I’ll stray off course.”

You stare, eyebrows knitted, and unable to recognize if the words coming from his lips are genuinely his own upon sensing the candle flicker of anguish lit behind his glacial facade. The heat threatens to melt it off at the emphasis of “him.” Whoever “him” is, you aren’t too sure. Unfortunately, Todoroki does not allow you to ponder any further.

“Sorry, but I have to get back to my training,” he says before turning his back to you. The proximity left behind stretches into a tension you know you shouldn’t trifle with, lest risk snapping a nerve that must be left untouched.

“Right, it’s almost 2:00, and I need to get changed anyway,” you offer back, though truthfully, it was a way to excuse yourself and not suffocate under the tense atmosphere.

By the time you’ve entered the locker room and gotten changed, the other fencers have trickled in along with Coach Aizawa. Practice proceeds as usual, and everyone scatters evenly into their disciplines. You train in sets of matches with the other épée fencers, going through the ropes and trying to polish your technique—advice given to you by Aizawa that you needed to improve on.

It’s by the third match that the thoughts lingering in the back of your mind start to surface and cloud your motions, evident when you teeter in your stance and receive a thrust right against your torso you surely would have dodged in time. That bout ends in your defeat. Continuing with practice like this won’t do, so you seize the loss as a sign to take a water break and settle the haze in your head.

“Got something on your mind, mademoiselle?” a voice chimes in, airy, flamboyant, and not a tone you recognize, “You’ve been staring at that bottle of water for an awfully long time.”

The boy that approaches the bench is slim, blonde, and possesses an aura, both foreign and confident. He draws attention to the scrunched bridge of your nose and the pointed crests furrowing your features that you fail to notice you’ve been harboring.

“Well, er,” you’re hesitant to admit it at first, but you relent with a nod.

“Would you like to talk about it with me? I am always willing to lend an ear to any of my fellow fencers.”

You don’t say anything, words trapped in your throat as if lost in an abyss. Instead, you answer with a small nudge in a general vicinity. The boy turns in that direction and bemuses that you’ve ushered his gaze to where all the saber fencers are practicing. There’s a twinkle glimmering in his eyes now, a look that sparks uncertainty for you.

“Ah, some boy trouble?” he inquires playfully. Grasping his words, you fluster and your cheeks color pink. You vigorously shake your head.

“N-No, it’s not like that!” you start, voice rising slightly in volume, “I’m just worried about… OK, this guy. He seems like he has no room to breathe, practicing all the time.”

“Ah, you must be speaking of Todoroki Shouto.” His finger points to him, and you observe Todoroki is diligent as ever during practice.

“You see it too, don’t you?”

The boy you’ve come to know as Aoyama Yuga exchanges an inquisitive look, “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t blame him for living like that, considering the situation he’s in.”

Your eyes perk up, puzzled by his statement as you spare a confused visage, “Huh? Why not?” you ask.

“His father may have been a renowned saber fencer, but he was only runner-up to Yagi Toshinori while they were in their prime. Ever since Toshinori started competing in fencing tournaments and competitions, Todoroki Enji has always placed second since,” he remarks, shifting his gaze back to the dual-haired boy while he tells the story. “People say the youngest of the family was trained to rectify that error.”

Now you’re able to put two and two together, joining the pieces to view the full picture.

You draw a memory in the long film of your life. It’s an old clip from the Olympics you watched when you were only a small child, and from it sparked your ambition to fence in the first place, watching the athletes display their skills and passion on the piste for the entire world to behold. Little did you realize that the men participating were rivals whose bitter strife exists even to this day in the form of Todoroki Shouto and his father’s will carved into him. The will to carry out a petty dream that is not even his own.

You fight against the notion, “But shouldn’t he think about himself rather than his father?”

Aoyama shrugs, “It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him?” is his response before walking off, finishing the chat, “Well, it was nice talking to you, mademoiselle, but I must be getting back to my practice. Au revoir~”

The conversation leaves an odd sensation in you that you can’t shake off, with remnants of Todoroki’s struggle swirling. As you glance toward the boy one last time that day, your heart aches for him.

.

.

It’s the weekend, and you’ve made some plans to stop by the mall and head to the sporting goods store to replace some of your fencing equipment. Lately, the sneakers you’ve been using have worn out, making it challenging to keep your feet light on the piste, so you thought it’d be about time to purchase some new ones and break them in before the next practice.

When you enter, you’re greeted by the usual cashier at the register, who doesn’t pay much mind to you coming in, his attention glued to a volleyball game playing on the television. You instinctively head to the fencing section of the store, located around the back area where equipment such as blades, safety gear, and other fencing goods are sprawled and laid around for the average consumer to gander.

You navigate through the aisles, but soon discover another patron in the distance, hovering around the section—which to you was strange. Fencing is a sport a majority of people have heard before; however, it isn’t a sport that generates as many fans as basketball or baseball. People who follow the game take the time to understand the swordplay and make a note of what happens during the action, as well as touch upon the complicated rules. An average sports fan would find it hard digesting the contents of fencing, with many regarding that the pacing and action is too monotonous for their liking. Plus, fencing does not harbor as many active players compared to other popular sports littered with sponsorships, so because of all that, this section of the store was usually vacant whenever you visited.

Approaching closer, you decipher the figure obscured by the rows of equipment and goods, and to your utter astonishment, tresses of red and white hair come into view.

Your first instinct is to duck and dodge between the rows, an act which you’ve been repetitively doing as of late. To run into Todoroki outside of fencing practice is appalling to you; though, it seems fitting that if he were not working out at a gym, training at the fencing center, or staying at home, he’d take root in the fencing section of a sports store.

Your head darts out. Man, what am I doing? You gingerly think, relaying to yourself that you’ve already been called out for spying on him the first time you’ve encountered each other. It’s better to act natural and not give the security cameras the wrong idea that you’re potentially stalking this boy.

You ease out from behind a rack of protective gear. Todoroki does not detect your presence in the slightest as his attention is on the variety of premium shoes lining the shelves. So when you suddenly tap your finger against his left shoulder, he turns in haste and is bewildered to be greeted by your stiff facade.

“Oh hey, Todoroki, didn’t expect to run into you here,” you wave, and his expression mellows upon perceiving that it’s you—the épée fencer he spoke with before.

“Likewise,” he replies, then rotates around again to scan through the shoes. Luckily for you (or perhaps unluckily), your reason for coming here is to get your sneakers replaced so you establish yourself next to him.

Todoroki starts a conversation, despite his quiet self, “What are you here for?” he asks.

“I need to get a new pair of shoes, mine are a bit worn-out at the moment,” you answer, following down the rows of footwear to find your particular size and desired brand. “Since you’re in this section, I’m guessing you might be needing some new ones as well?”

He shakes his head, “My current shoes are fine. However, I’ve been thinking about trying out this new brand,” his finger hovers in front of him, drawing his sight to specific footwear, “Been told they’re better for fencing.”

Your eyes go from tracing the shelf to glancing at the boy, curiosity dancing. “Oh? Think I should try them out myself?” you ask while your hand grazes against the natural texture of the shoes you’ve been accustomed to, “I’ve been using these specific pairs for a while now, maybe it’s time to switch it up.”

“From what I hear, the cushion on these makes it easier for your feet to walk across the piste,” is his response before he spots said shoes on a particular row, about to draw them from their display board to inspect closer. However, subconsciously, your hands brush up next to each other while wandering through the litter of footwear among the walls. You’re both quick to separate as soon as they touch—like the sensation singes your skin—creating a distance between your hands.

“Sorry about that,” the two of you murmur your apologies. Upon hearing how in-sync your words sound between one another, you giggle and the boy next to you can’t help but hide a grin beneath his hand, amused.

Then you watch as Todoroki resumes analyzing the pair of sneakers. They’re fresh and matted in white with slick black streaks etched across the material. You nudge the boy to let you have a look, and he passes it to your palm. From a glimpse, you can tell these models were created with excellent quality and attention to detail.

“Wow, these are quite the shoes. A bit fancy, don’t you think? Wonder how much they—” the rest of the question does not leave your lips. You’re hushed the moment you turn over the white price tag strung around the holes the laces weave into, attempting to process the confounding amount of zeroes printed there. It only concludes with your eyes widening and your mouth hanging open. You ask yourself, how can mesh material molded into two simple pieces of footwear cost this much? Baffled, you merely twist the tag back around so you wouldn’t have to read the price anymore, and ease your spirit.

“I think I’m good with my current shoes…” your voice deadpans, swiftly gathering the box of reasonably priced sneakers into your arms.

Todoroki doesn’t make much of your reaction. He pulls the shoes off the shelf and ends up accompanying you to the register.

“It was a surprise to see you here, Todoroki,” you tell him.

“It’s my free day today, so I thought I’d run some errands,” he says.

A free day, huh? Your mind conjures the thoughts of last practice, recalling the rigorous routine the boy performed every other day, memorized into the fiber of his muscles down to the marrow of his bones.

You had to ask, “What do you usually do on your free days?”

“Rest,” his response is blunt and straightforward as expected, “sometimes get ahead on my studies,” he adds. By this point in the conversation, the two of you have arrived at the cash register.

You haul the box onto the counter, an action the cashier isn’t particularly fond of, forced to divert from the game airing on the screen. He scans the shoes, issues the price, and gathers the box in a plastic bag before doing the same for Todoroki, enacting the bare minimum amount of manners throughout the process.

Your purchased goods in hand, you’ve essentially finished your business here. Yet your eyes blink back, mind swallowed by the fact that after you leave the store, both of you will return and go about your day as you always do, likely not sparing a glance at each other until the next coming practice. You trail behind Todoroki, crossing through the exit with your gaze keen at the back of his head as if mustering a thought out. Soon, an idea emerges almost similar to a fast flicker of a light switch. Your voice calls out to him, and he turns back to you as a result.

“Say, Todoroki, since you mentioned today is your free day, how about we go grab something to eat together?” you ask, noting that the clock is currently ticking to lunchtime.

He narrows his brows, expressing uncertainty, “I don’t need to be back home until later, but I’m not sure if—”

“What? Are you gonna tell me you have homework to do or something?” You tease the boy for his overly-strict attitude. “C’mon Todoroki! Hanging out for a bit and eating with a friend shouldn’t hurt,” you chide, tone light, and persuasive.

Friend. You repeat the title in your head, wondering if it was right to designate that status on your own when you haven’t interacted much with him. In the end, you push the tricky thoughts aside for now.

“In fact, I know a pretty neat café around here. It’s right next to this popular soba restaur—”

His entire demeanor reacts in a flash the instant the last words depart from your mouth. Suddenly, he dons a faint, spirited expression, approaching closer as if he had heard wrong.

“Did you say soba restaurant?” His tone conveys an intense zeal at the word soba. You gawk before blinking in quick succession, the almost uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes taking you back. Then, your pupils dilate at the pieces assembling in your head.

The icy, diligent, handsome saber fencer, Todoroki Shouto, has a great weakness for soba noodles.

A smile curls across the line of your lips, “Would you like to come eat there with me?”

There’s a brief pause between you, but surely enough, Todoroki agrees with a nod. You verify with an exchange of smiles—yours wide, welcoming, and his subtle, yet still simmering warmth—before tugging him along with you to the soba restaurant, humming in tune with your steps that the boy can’t help but be amused by. When you arrive there, Todoroki’s quiet enthusiasm is evident while he scans through the menu filled with an assortment of food.

“They even have cold soba served in baskets here,” you hear him mutter beneath the menu. It ensues an amused grin on your lips. You try your best to contain the giggle threatening to chime as you watch the boy’s fervor for the noodles take on its most prominent form when presented and served within a woven basket, the bowl of dipping sauce on the side.

You opt for a hot bowl of udon, a contrast between the colder, thinner noodles on the opposite end of the small table. The two of you eat across each other, slurping your food with gusto to truly appreciate the restaurant’s well-cooked meal that soothes your bones. Just as Todoroki smothers his soba in the flavorful sauce, you speak to him to ease the atmosphere with more small talk.

“Todoroki, you mentioned earlier that you do some of your studies on your free days. Do you attend university?”

He swallows his noodles down to issue a response, “I do.”

“Interested in any particular majors?”

Todoroki shakes his head, “I’m undecided for now,” at his answer, he sets his bowl down for a moment and his sight lines down to his basket of soba.

“I haven’t had much time to think about where I’d head during university. Or what I’d do afterward.” The stare he evokes on his food could delve a fissure through the plate, considering the intensity over the troubling thoughts you’ve accidentally allowed to settle.

You frown, the udon noodles hovering above your bowl, twirled in your chopsticks. “It’s likely because you’ve been fencing all your life, huh?” you quietly surmise yet it’s loud enough for him to hear judging from the pensive look that crosses him. He doesn’t carry a response back because deep down, he knows it’s true. All he’s ever known throughout his young adult years of living is fencing. It has got to the point where the sport is second nature to him like it’s all he wakes up for, all he breathes for.

The shift in the air is apparent as you watch him silently resume eating his soba, but you don’t let the change deter your mood.

It’s up to him to decide how he creates his path. And if he chooses to walk on it, who are we to stop him? Aoyama’s words stir the depths of your subconscious. They ring through you until eventually activating an almost visceral reaction.

With your hardened fist wrapped around your chopsticks, a determined slam rattles the table. Todoroki, along with the nearby patrons encompassing the restaurant, rouse when it connects.

“Hey, look, you’re a great fencer. You should use your skills and talents to mold your future if that’s what you want to do,” you affirm, vigor in your voice, “It’s OK if fencing is integrated into your life. What matters is how you make your abilities your own and how it shapes you as a person.”

Todoroki blinks over your words. You scrutinize his face, searching for a reaction within the delicate seams of his handsome features before your chopsticks meet the broth in your bowl again.

“What I’m asking is, ‘Why do you fence?’” you ultimately inquire. That is the most important question after all, isn’t it? People who live this long in their path as athletes wouldn’t burn so much sweat and energy into a sport without so much as a reason—a goal.

Todoroki swallows the last of his soba noodles while contemplating. “I guess, to put it simply, it’s to become the best. To compete with the best and to go where... my father once stood.”

Your eyes flicker at the note of his father, perceiving the falter in Todoroki’s tone before the mention.

“Maybe even higher,” he adds, setting his utensils across the edge of his depleted bowl of sauce. You understand the reference at the attachment of higher. To head towards the upper step that his father could never achieve on that podium. It’s a weighty, arduous, and grandiose ambition, but the boy is determined to go to any lengths to get there, for the flare beneath his eyes quavers into a blaze too powerful to be doused by even a torrent.

“That would be quite a feat, Todoroki,” you whistle, “I just hope you remember, you’re allowed to go at any pace you want. You don’t need to be running all your life to get there.”

Saber fencers are fencers who live on the speed and adrenaline of the game, and only seem to increase their acceleration as time goes on. People who thrive on the discipline compare it to Formula 1 racing as it’s aggressive, fast, and requires split-second decision making. In a way, these traits reflect the boy’s story—the vigor he feels, the rapid-fire swiftness he tackles his life to attain that one point further to win the bout and achieve his dreams, his glory. He’s forgotten that he’s allowed to go at any pace he desires to accomplish something like this. He doesn’t need to keep his body in a full sprint all his life to make it to the finish line. He’ll get there eventually, and certainly doesn’t need his aspirations to be handheld by someone on the sidelines. He just needs to realize he can make those decisions on his own.

The breath he respires inward, along with the silence that drags amidst the gap enclosed among you two, is enough for you to know he’s absorbing your words. However, you’re blindsided when he leans forward on the table, chin resting on his palm with poise in his gaze.

“Why do you fence, Y/n?” He redirects your question right back. It’s not a move you expected, for you don’t respond immediately, attempting to conceive a reply through a trance in your head. Ultimately, you are scrounging for an answer that doesn’t exist.

“I’m... I’m not sure myself,” you say, returning empty-handed at the question.

Unlike Todoroki, you don’t harbor any challenging or earnest dreams and ambitions. Whereas he strides through his life, steered down a clear, concise path, you course through your existence like a nomad, and wander with no map and no specific directions to guide you except the wind and stars.

Perhaps the “stars” that led you here was that Olympic video you watched long ago, the one that spurred you to fence, and now collided you face-to-face with Todoroki, where he continues his venture to the top, and you’re still settling at the bottom with no particular outstanding talent or skills. Maybe the reason you could never drive yourself to achieve such feats is because you know, deep down, you’d never attain the results you desired. You’re just... average.

He observes as you shroud your figure in a stiff stance, your visage cast down to your own hands intertwined together beneath the table. You do not meet his eyes. Like an épée fencer, you are slow and defensive, putting up a wall hoping that it will be enough to repel the pierce of the deafening question away, along with the sear of his fixed stare.

However, he relieves you of the tension when his hand journeys across the table to tilt your chin up. Your walls teeter down as he allows your eyes to meet his once more, except at glance they do not burn. Instead, they are warm, soothing—parallel to the smile on his lips—like a kindle of fire you could sit by and revel in peace and tranquility.

“It’s OK, Y/n. I know you’ll find it eventually,” he assures. His words comfort you. The stiffness in your nerves mellow upon hearing the smoothness of his voice.

When the waiter abruptly drops off your bill on the table with a palpable clunk, your gazes remove themselves from one another at last, aware that you’re in the restaurant and have cleared your plates and bowls of noodles a while ago. Now was about time you vacated the spot for another set of people to occupy and enjoy a meal.

Your hand rummages into your bag to pluck out your wallet to help pay; however, Todoroki already allots his card atop the tray retaining the receipt, telling you that the food was on him. Even when you deny the offer, he still firmly insists.

“Consider this a thank you for showing me this place,” he asserts, “and for spending your time with me. I enjoyed talking with you.”

You wane, your hand easing out from your bag to wholly accept the proposal upon hearing that he relished your company—that the moment between you two meant something to him within his usual monotonous routine. It was a change, one he realized that, despite his uncertainty in the beginning, proved to conclusively recollect his thoughts and perhaps made him judge his ideals.

In the end, you lug your purchased shoes at your side as the two of you leave the table after paying the bill, now standing beside each other outside the restaurant.

Currently, the sun hangs above the clear sky scattered in the bright azure of late afternoon. You check the time on your phone, grumbling over how fast the hour flew by during your meal. Todoroki simpers, waving a hand out in front of you.

“I think it’s about time I headed back,” he says. You nod in agreement, knowing well you’ve intruded into his free time today, but are glad he enjoyed himself nonetheless.

“Can I borrow your phone, though? I need it to call someone to come pick me up.”

You pass your phone over to him without hesitation. He punches a few buttons through the call app, and the tone rings two consecutive times before he speaks into the mic. From where you’re occupying, you distinguish a muddled feminine voice talking on the other line.

His mom probably? Or maybe he has a sister? Either way, he concludes the call with a click sooner than you can debate further, returning your phone after his fingers dial across the screen longer than necessary. The swift series of motions bemuses you just as he places the device back into your palm.

“I’ll see you next practice, Y/n,” he farewells with a flourish of his hand as he walks off.

“Wait, what was it that—” your question pauses when you gesture your eyes down at the answer in front of you. The light emitting from the screen displays a newly added contact information with an attached number, and interestingly, it’s indicated by a single given name.

Shouto

Due to your inclination and inquiry, the contact rallies you to press your thumb above the series of numbers, clicking the message icon in the submenu. You type a quick text and push your finger on send without delay.

⇒ [ 4:13 ] — shouto?

Oddly enough, a gray bubble of ellipsis materializes as a notion that someone is typing on the other end, and it disappears just as fast as it emerges.

⇒ Shouto [ 4:13 ] — yes?

Of course, you’re surprised by how instantaneous the message appears, noting Todoroki had just utilized your phone to call home a minute ago. But at a tilt of your head, you pinpoint the boy hanging by the lamppost in the distance, turning back at you with—lo and behold—his phone right in between the slips of his fingers, a teasing grin gracing his lips. Your taunting nature quips a similar smirk in response.

⇒ [ 4:14 ] — you sly dog

.

.

“My, seems like you’ve been in an especially good mood lately, Y/n,” Yaoyorozu notes the way you hum upbeat melodies in the tune of a song one improvises on the spot, unique and unheard on any radio station, while you clasp the straps of your trousers over your shoulders in the locker room. The beam cast prominently on your face is enough indication that her remark is spot on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you jest in a dulcet tone, fully aware of your jovial complexion. It’s almost as if a luminosity glows within your ambiance.

Since your run-in with Todoroki three weeks ago—resulting in your furtive exchange of numbers—you’ve been sending messages to one another, holding conversations outside the confines of fencing practice. During these texts, you grasp more and more of each other—your lifestyles, personalities, and interests. Todoroki even mentioned his older siblings to you in one exchange. His sister, Fuyumi, taught children at an elementary school while his brother, Natsuo, worked in the health department. However, his oldest brother, Touya, he wasn’t too sure about though he insisted he must be doing fine on his own, so you didn’t pry, surmising the brother to be free-spirited or some sort. Despite the generous dictions Todoroki spoke about his family, he still maintained a strained effort to not mention his father anywhere in your chats, presumably not to taint the conversation’s mood or flow. Especially considering his mother and his father are not on good terms.

However, through every delicate shift, you made a point to him that if he ever needed to open up to anyone about these sensitive topics that you’d always be willing to listen.

“You’ve even been on fire with all your matches during practice recently. Care to explain?” the onyx-haired girl questions, but you continue to wave her insistent queries away, latching on your last piece of fencing gear. Yaoyorozu quirks an eyebrow as she follows your splendor outside the locker room and into the training hall.

As you enter the room, now hectic with work, you catch sight of Todoroki only a little distance across from you, who’s preparing for a match. When your eyes meet, a smile unconsciously spreads on your lips cheek to cheek while he acknowledges your gesture with his own. Unknowingly, the reciprocation does not sneak past Yaoyorozu’s keen, peripheral vision as she soon emerges by your side with a witting glint in her eyes the moment Todoroki turns away.

“Oh I see now…” she begins musing, her hums pitching toward a chafing inflection, “You and Todoroki Shouto are seeing each other.”

“Momo!” you shrill. Despite Yaoyorozu passing on her remark through a bare murmur, your senses spike into acute awareness, jutting your head side-to-side behind you to perceive if anyone heard. Though your cheeks bloomed a dainty pink, the tips of your ears were suffusing a much more noticeable red that the girl can’t help but giggle at.

You release a sigh after composing yourself. “Shouto and I are most definitely not a thing,” you insist.

“Hm, but you’re already on a first-name basis with each other.” Yaoyorozu is as observant as always. You furiously shake your head, continuing to deny every accusation.

“Look, we’re just good friends! Besides, he doesn’t have time to get involved in things like that,” you tell her, and thankfully, Yaoyorozu does make a point that the boy seems more pressed about fencing than seeking a relationship at the moment, so she waves it off for now. All in all, you’re merely happy you could befriend him and offer your support whenever he needed it. Well, that was a summary of your relationship anyway. With Yaoyorozu mentioning the possibility of you and Todoroki being an item, it does find its way into your mind.

Holding hands, going on dates, exchanging—

But as soon as the idea transpires with vivid imaginations, you drive them away through an impulsive slap of your palms against your cheeks.

What am I thinking?! Shouto has too many things he’s working towards right now. He doesn’t have time for love and relationships! You scold yourself and immediately rush into training to distract those thoughts from appearing again.

On an average day of practice, the schedule follows along the lines of everyone scattering into their respected areas to warm-up before transitioning to drills and matches, mixing it up against different opponents to grasp a broader skill level. Today, you occupy your time as much as possible, taking breaks only when necessary to maximize the session and not allow your eyes and mind to wander towards a certain dual-haired young man again. And you’ve nearly succeeded this feat to the very end if not for said boy popping up at your side unexpectedly while you were placing your épée down.

“Oh, whoa, Shouto,” you sputter, about to tip off balance had Todoroki not caught you through a grip on your arm.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, Y/n,” he apologizes, “but I wanted to ask if—”

“Todoroki.”

He’s cut short by a call, and when you two turn around you’re greeted by your messy-haired coach standing behind you.

“I need to speak with you real quick.” Coach Aizawa nudged his head toward the sideline. Obliging, Todoroki nearly dismisses himself from your side, but leans into your ear at the last second to mutter in a hushed voice, “Wait for me when you finish changing after practice, I’ll tell you then.”

Your sole response is a swift nod before Todoroki walks along Coach Aizawa. Whatever they’re speaking about is far beyond the curiosity of your mind because instead, you’re pondering the last bit of Todoroki’s words that edged off, making you wonder what he wanted to ask you. At first, you speculated the query to consist of trivial topics, like perhaps he was going to ask for another restaurant recommendation to show his family or whatnot. However, it didn’t take long for you to dive into the depths of your overarching thoughts. You surmised that maybe the other fencers have also speculated the two of you are in a relationship, and the boy came to you to clarify the matter by drawing a clear, defined line between you to rectify the misunderstanding.

“God, I’m just paranoid,” you mumble under your breath. While you do agree with not letting the others misinterpret your friendship, you’d rather it’d be through a means that wouldn’t have to hinder something between you two.

All you can do for now is fend off the rest of today until you’re finally hastening to the locker rooms to get dressed.

You tug the white uniform off to replace it with your casual apparel, shoving the gear back into your duffel bag and latching the strap onto your shoulder before closing the locker much more abruptly than necessary. As you’re about to make your leave in an evidently impatient manner, you still made sure to slip a remark to Yaoyorozu that you’ll be waiting outside the center for when she finishes.

By the time you headed to the exit, Todoroki had already situated himself beside the door, scrolling through his phone until he noticed you approaching.

“Hey, Shouto,” you greet, and Todoroki locks his phone to turn his attention to you. “What was it that you wanted to ask me earlier?” you ask, hoping he didn’t notice how eager you sounded.

“Right, I was recently invited to watch a fencing exhibition, and I wondered,” he starts, his hand brushing against the back of his head, “if you wanted to come along with me.” He averts his gaze to anywhere but your face, stance surprisingly stiff and a dust of pink blotting his cheeks that you don’t catch.

Oh, it was only that. At all your overrun thoughts and misunderstandings that built up beforehand, a grin arises, and you inevitably can’t suppress the laugh that gradually trembles in your gullet. Stumped, Todoroki scrutinizes your sudden animated expression like he’s left out in the ending of a joke.

“What? Was it something I said?” He squints his eyes, deliberating if he somehow said something humorous. You flit your head back and forth while the quivers resonating from your throat cease.

“No no, it’s not that. I’ve just been overthinking things is all,” you explain. Todoroki tilts his head.

“‘Overthinking’?” he repeats.

“Yeah, like I’m looking into certain details too much...” you trail off, voice running toward a dead-end that forces you to shift the tone of the conversation, much to your chagrin.

“Shouto, has anyone… said anything today?” Unknowingly, your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt when you ask the question, nervous.

“What do you mean?”

At the response and his narrow brows, you shake your head, almost lamenting even asking something so ambiguous. “No, never mind, it’s nothing.”

Todoroki discerns the faint stir in your expression when you wave off the query. However, you’re quick to transition back into the subject at hand before he can even attempt to pry.

“Anyways, to answer your question, yes, I’d be glad to come with you, Shouto,” you answer, but a finger rests beneath your chin, “Though I’m a bit curious as to why you chose to ask me instead of someone else.” If Todoroki was invited to observe an exclusive exhibition match, it’s likely to consist of many other competent players within his league, meaning it’ll be an advantageous way to size up the competition. To invite you of all the people from the academy to tag along with him may be a waste compared to the other talent nurtured in that training hall. You understood your skills that much, at least.

The dual-haired boy raises his shoulders, nonchalantly, “I don’t see why I wouldn’t invite you.”

“I mean, wouldn’t it benefit another fencer better?” you reason. Todoroki remains unchanged in his stance.

“I don’t care about anyone in there. You’re the person I want to go with, Y/n,” he declares, firm with weight beneath every word that you don’t even think to oppose his fortification. So much so that those over-analytical inferences jointly possess your senses once again—the gears in your head beginning to speed up through a motor of hypersensitive nerves that drive your thoughts into ambient fantasies—until you will yourself not to let his words run over you, no matter how unwavering they may sound, or how saccharine they may be. You cannot indulge in cloying mirages, because you tell yourself those word don’t mean anything. They shouldn’t mean anything. 

“Alright, alright, I’m going with you,” you ultimately yield, and Todoroki grins like he’s beaten you in a longstanding debate.

“Good.” You hear a car pull up outside the fencing center, right as he finishes. At that, he makes his leave, calling out to you that he’ll see you again for the exhibition between an empty expanse that increases more and more as he walks to the vehicle. Your voice is only a distant holler when you utter back that you can’t wait, tone dying down. The moment his car drives through the broad horizon across the sky soaked in brilliant hues of reds and oranges, your hand reaches into your duffel bag to draw out your phone out of a deep longing for something you can’t properly discern.

An odd pang ripples your cognition, inciting you to unlock and push buttons that lead you back to your texts with Todoroki. You thumb across the keyboard in a gradual process to type a message you have little idea of the repercussions behind.

⇒ [ 5:34 PM ] — shouto what would you think if you and i|

“Oh, Y/n, thanks for waiting!”

Yaoyorozu’s preppy voice disrupts your motions, eluding your attention from the text message that is impulsively transcribed by the emotions running through your fingertips.

“Oh, Momo, you’re done,” you respond, feigning a sprightly tone in your reply to help waver the sensations playing at hand before cutting them off entirely by your thumb squeezing the backspace, suffocating the incomplete message away from your thoughts.

It is better to stab the heart now before it can beat any faster.

You try to ingrain this into your head, yet the lingering sensations you fail to extinguish produce the electric shock that prevents that heart from dying, and you head home, not realizing that it swells back into aching throbs.

Ending Notes | We made it to the end! Hope it wasn’t too boring or anything. If you liked to be added to the taglist for part 2 (which is basically the final part), just ask. However, I just want to warn you now in case you did not read the warnings and genre at the top, that this twoshot will contain smut. While it won’t be super explicit, it is still NSFW content so beware under 18 aged readers, especially since I haven’t posted any explicit content before this aside from sexual undertones and implied stuff on Syndicate. As always, comments and feedback are welcomed!

[junkyardlynx]

i feel like oversharing right now

it was always just me and my dad since i was very young. my mom was never in the picture, she passed when i was very young due to narcotic abuse, so he took care of me himself. his family shunned him for the most part and by extension, me.

we moved from the west coast to the midwest and settled down. at this time my father was already struggling with a few medical issues (a drop foot from an incident back in ‘89, a left hand near-permanently stuck in a claw shape due to an infection after a drywalling accident, a thumb that was torn off and re-attached on his right hand, chronic pain from rheumatoid arthritis) but he was capable of work. he worked at a die shop. on saturdays i’d end up at his work, napping on a forklift or playing a game on my gameboy. 

after that die shop closed, he got a job at a steamer / griddle manufacturer and moved up slowly. he eventually headed the shipping department and got a job that mostly consisted of being at desk and managing other people. since he needed the money, they gave him some extra to come in saturday and take care of a bunch of cleaning and odd jobs around the cubicle farm. i’d end up there, and played a metric fuckton of Diablo II on his computer. sometimes i’d help out, but he never made me. if i did, he’d throw me a few bucks for some cards and we’d go get lunch. 

i was happy. he did everything in his power for me. he raised me right, he taught me love and respect, he’s honestly the reason i get people i deliver to saying shit to me like “I just wanna look out for you because you remind me of my son.” he taught me compassion and kindness. also taught me some snark and gave me a love for sci fi. i still fondly remember him telling me i’d probably have the day off from school, so i could hang out in his room with ice cream and watch x-files all night.

of course, happiness doesn’t last in stories like mine. when i was 12, going on 13, my father was involved in an accident at work. he’d been taking care of things at a warehouse and a steamer fell and crushed his hip. it caused part of his hipbone to break off. being the stubborn man he was, he refused to go to the hospital until he couldn’t walk. turns out he was suffering from spinal cord compression and ended up accruing permanent nerve damage. 

my 13th birthday was spent with my dad in an understaffed, underfunded nursing home. i brought my ps2 up there so we could watch movies on DVD. a coworker of his picked me up late at night and asked if i wanted to get food. i declined. she took me home and said she’d be staying the night. i told her it was fine and she didn’t have to. i just wanted to be alone. she relented on the terms that if anything happened, i called the police immediately and then her. 

my dad was my man. he was my hero. still is, honestly. it just shook me. i’m not trying to brag or anything, but i was a pretty smart kid - blind as a bat by the time i was in third grade so i got sucked into reading and other shit that involved being close up so my idiot eyes could see. i knew things would never be the same. in the last three months i’d seen my father cry out of fear and pray to god. god never answered. 

eventually, he came home. he used a walker from that point on. before, due to his drop foot, he always wore a sort of leg-boot-brace that supported his foot and ankle, but he could still play catch and everything with me. ah, he fucking hated that walker. my dad was only 60 when he died, so from the time he was about 48 until he was 60, he used a walker or a wheelchair. the image of my father swearing and burning with embarrassment on the few times he tried to go to the store with me is burned into my mind. it makes me so sad i feel like i want to puke. my dad was a handsome man and had a budding romance with the woman who’d taken me home. it didn’t go anywhere after his accident. 

as i turned 14, i ended up driving around town for all of the errands and groceries, only letting dad drive for his doctor’s appointments so they wouldn’t ask questions. i matured relatively quickly, i had facial and chest hair in my freshman year. thankfully i was never pulled over or anything. 

my dad and i felt guilt towards each other and it showed. we were overly cautious of each other’s space as i turned 16. for me, i basically blamed my dad’s poor health on my entire existence, reasoning that if i had never been born, he would still be out on the sunny west coast, living life to the fullest, probably happy and in love. for him, he confessed years later that he felt like he’d failed me because i never ended up going out much in high school, always being at home to make sure he was okay. i just wanted him to be okay. comfortable. happy, if possible.

we continued like this until i got out of high school. i had very poor credit when i was 18 due to bills being put in my name and then subsequently being unpaid due to my father losing his disability benefits several times over, and even then, i felt like i couldn’t really devote myself to my studies because his health was always getting worse. he was constantly plagued with MRSA and cellulitis in his legs among other things, leading to weeping sores on his frightfully small-but-swollen legs that never went away. i never ended up going to college. 

i got a job, and i’m still at that job. i’ve managed to grandfather myself into a somewhat ridiculous hourly rate while still working delivery, so other prospects are incredibly noncompetitive. i started paying the rent for him and trying to do what i could to help, but we could never get ahead. copays and equipment costs piled up, culminating in him requiring a nurse to come by every week and check on him. 

i remember coming home to our apartment one day to find a box of my dad’s medical supplies unceremoniously ripped open and scattered along the stairway outside of the apartment proper. all that was in the box was gauze, medical tape and a bunch of xeroform patches (commonly used to treat burned flesh, but used for my dad’s sores). the upstairs neighbors apparently thought he’d had some drugs delivered right to his door or something. i think that was the most murderous rage i’d ever felt in my life. i did nothing about it, other than stuffing the contents into the box and telling my dad that i’d accidentally ripped it open, laughing it off. 

things continued like this until i was 23, with my father sliding further and further down the scale of healthiness. i tried to live my own life. i fell in love. it was good. i had a bout of almost dying of sepsis at this time and even in the hospital, my main concern was my dad. i made sure that nurse showed up once a day to check on him instead of once a week. it took my entire tax return but it gave me peace of mind.

a few months after i got out of the hospital, my father went back in. he’d been passing out for periods of time and his lungs were heavily degraded along with the rest of his body. they shuffled him around to a few nursing homes, but eventually, there was no chance of recovery and they sent him to hospice.

i still remember the call. i was playing destiny and eating dinner alone in my new apartment that i’d been forced to relocate to (it’s where I live now) after they refused to sign the apartment lease over to my name where i was. i was doing good. i didn’t know they were about to give up on my dad. 

he called me. went a little like this.

“hey buddy”

“hey pops, how ya doin’?”

“i’m alright, are you playin that one game? still having trouble with that deathmatch stuff?” 

“nah, i finished that. what’s up? did you need me to run something down? you want some more peanut butter m&ms? i picked some up at walgreens on the cheap.”

“nah buddy. you don’t have to worry about that anymore. they’re gonna put me in hospice.”

his voice broke; i lost mine. it was a solid minute before i could speak. my fingers kept moving out of sheer rote muscle memory.

“hospice? but i thought you said you were doing okay.”

“i am buddy. i don’t wanna live in pain anymore, and i had a good life. i’m really proud of you, and i love you. i gotta get off the phone now, but you’ll be okay. they’ll call you in the morning to tell you where i’m being moved. i love you so much, spencer.”

that was the last time i ever really got to talk to my dad while he was lucid. we had a few rambling conversations while he was drowning in pain medicine, and i ended up leaving just a few short hours before he passed one morning. i still regret it.

i miss him so fucking much. my girlfriend broke up with me the week my dad died, telling me i was “too sad about it” and that “she couldn’t help me deal with that.” turns out she was cheating. 

i lost everything i ever loved two years ago. i nearly died the year before that. i’m not okay, really. i’m still not. i’ve been pulling the broken pieces back together but all i am is a collection of scars and bruises. i can’t find the places that don’t ache anymore. 

it was just my dad and i, and i still feel like i ruined his glorious, brilliant, shining life by being born. i know it’s not what he believed at all. it just hurts. it hurts so bad and it’s hurt so, so long. 

i wish you guys could have met him.

he was so fucking funny. he said the craziest things and always had a witty reply. he liked to mess with me and others. 

he was tender. the face he made when he met Kitty Pryde (my cat that i drove an hour to pick up) was the first real spark of joy i’d seen on his face in years. they were joined at the hip. she basically just settled for me after we left - if she had a choice, it’d always be snoozing on dad’s lap. when i’d leave for work and they’d be asleep on the couch, curled up together, i felt like things were gonna be okay. 

he was kind. even to those who treated him poorly, like the doctors that ignored his pain and refused to treat him like a human being. 

he taught me how to cook. he’s the reason i’ve been able to function like an actual person since i was young - he believed in self sufficiency but not pointless pride. 

he never once berated my interests. my dad grew up in the 60′s and 70′s and his spheres of interests were pretty far from mine until later in his life - man, i got to burn my dad a CD of my favorite music. and he loved it. and made me put all my favorite tracks on his phone. he watched anime stuff on netflix. he wishes he could have played games with me more, but his hands were so bad.

my dad was the best person i’ve ever met. if i turn out half as kind and giving as him then maybe i won’t waste the life he’s given me. 

i just. miss him. i had a good dad. he was the only family i really had, but he was all i needed.

and now he’s gone. 

and i’m alone, struggling to make ends meet, struggling with my creative outlets, struggling to make sense of everything in the calm waters of absence and loss.

[velcro-rave]

post-emoji movie Trauma

WARNING: the following text contains spoilers and can be considered disturbing to some readers. especially my brain, because it’s leaking out my ears after typing this.

This is the first movie ever I’ve gone to see on opening night. And let me just say that, for the record, I’m glad I went to watch with friends. Without them, I would have most likely calmly exited the room, climbed up to the roof, and dived straight off.

I’m honestly fucking terrified of how much this shitty movie has pushed me to the edge. I’ve never felt more ANGRY in my life and at the same time wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep. This is so fucked up. What made it possible for this level of psychological warfare to be used so casually by Sony? Why did they decide this was ever a good idea to present to the public? I’m still shaking (and not from the overpriced Coca-Cola I was sold). Whether it’s out of rage or fear, I don’t know. Not even throwing myself into the deep fires of hell can attempt to restore the intrinsic warmth I felt before I witnessed this crime of a movie. They say that there’s a special place reserved below for people who cause enough pain to humanity, and it is at this point where I pose this question to the following:

Tony Leondis. Eric Siegel. Mike White. Michelle Raimo Kouyate.

Why?

Did you want this to happen to me? Was this the plan all along? To destroy everything you could possibly love in the process of creating this film, to make the audience suffer without any remorse? You got PATRICK FUCKING STEWART as a voice actor, and what is it you do?

Yeah, you make him play A WALKING PILE OF SHIT!!!!

Someone could’ve ran up to me after I left the theater, put a shotgun directly up to my forehead, pulled the trigger, and that would have still not come close to how much my mind had been blown at the shocking reality that this movie, this spawn, could exist in the known universe and continue to be shown to innocent people. There were kids there. Hopeful, happy, young kids with iPhones who thought it was a great idea to head off to the movies and watch a funny relatable movie about emojis without a care in the world. Communicating ideas without the use of words is the “staple” of their generation, as the movie so proudly portrays (even comparing it to ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics!), and there’s no reason a family shouldn’t agree to bring their children to this beautiful, heartwarming adventure, right? WRONG.

Nothing could have prepared me for the horrific amount of groan-worthy jokes this movie tossed out. I’ve been wracking my brain for an entire hour trying to remember the most potent ones, but they were so easily forgettable that I can only recall a few offhand. They were tragic. Whenever an opportunity for a shitty pun showed itself, you can bet your ass the writers took it and ran with it to lengths beyond the realms of humor. From the character known as Hi-5′s nonchalant Bye Felicia! to his two puns about snapping (as if one wasn’t enough), I wanted to get up and scream at the ceiling in the hopes that my cries of agony would disrupt the structural integrity of the building and have it fall on top of me, finally freeing me from the slow-cooker of torture that is The Emoji Movie.

At a certain point, Hi-5 (by the way James Corden, I thought you were cool. I thought you were here for us, for all of us as an entertainer, but you just had to take part in ruining me and the world as we know it by accepting this role. I will never forgive you.) mentions something about his heart beating. His… heart? This walking, talking hand has a heart? Does he have lungs? What other internal organs could fit in there and be capable of being slapped around constantly as a result of his stupid ass decisions? Why doesn’t he have arms like Gene or Jailbreak, does his body somehow take into account that he’s already a living appendage? This movie is making me sit and contemplate the anatomy of a fucking animated HAND, and that’s not even as preposterous as a thought can get while watching.

On multiple occasions throughout my viewing experience, I had to take a break to just lean back and sigh, both in anguish of what was happening onscreen as well as the sheer exhausting aspect of it all. The voice acting couldn’t have been more unreliable. Every other line it was a gamble between it being a poorly executed pun delivered so flatly that not even the 4-year old up front let out a little giggle, an obvious statement about what they’re planning to do next, or the most unremarkable snippet of backstory ever revealed. I’m sure all those scenes between Gene and Jailbreak where they gaze at each other were meant to be construed as romantic, but her blasé response to each of his approaches because she “isn’t some princess waiting for her prince” or how “women are deserving of more respect” completely knocked the mood off whatever pedestal it was stepping up to. I get it, these are actual important themes that need to be recognized, and I would be more than happy to see this acknowledged in a movie built on as many metaphors as Zootopia, but the timing of her commentary was the worst I’d ever seen. The constant interruptions made it seem like her words shouldn’t be taken seriously at all!

Unsurprisingly, character background was virtually (unintentional pun. I’m incredibly sorry.) nonexistent, and everything that’s possible to be wondered about the universe could pretty much be answered with a big shrug. For example, why does Hi-5 have a band-aid? Did he get stabbed or something? When did Gene begin to show signs that he was capable of other emotions? Was the Just Dance girl deleted after the trash bin emptied itself out? We didn’t see any signs of the characters going back for her after Hi-5 had to shake off the troll, so did they just leave her there to die? If Jailbreak had been working for a long time to get out, why didn’t she use more of her hacking skills? She pulled up her hologram window things maybe three times total to escape or hide somewhere, does she seriously not have anything else in her repertoire that could potentially help Gene and Hi-5 get to where they need to be quicker? There’s so many questions that don’t even get passively explained. Then again, I’m arguing against the same people who genuinely advocated for the setting to be called Textopolis.

AND WHOSE FUCKING IDEA WAS IT TO MAKE THE MAIN CHARACTER “MEH”??

The ONE emoji with zero interesting qualities and the most monotone parents that, for some fucking batshit insane reason, were given more than the minute of screentime they deserved. I understand for a quick gag, their emotionless response to everything could be funny, but their conversations would just stretch on and on and on. As for Gene, I trusted you, T.J. Miller. I can’t believe you betrayed me, especially after such a hilariously perfect role in Deadpool. Never in my life have I felt so disappointed in a single person. There is no justifiable reason for you to be proud of what you’ve done here. To be honest, I’m pretty sure I astral projected at least three times as I struggled to repress the memory of this trainwreck before it even ended. When I wasn’t desperately clawing at the armrests mid-convulsion, I was staring vacantly at the center of the screen, wondering how this week could have gone so wrong.

This was basically a 91-minute long advertisement. The whiplash of traveling between product placement to product placement nearly made me throw up, which was ostensibly the only thing that could’ve made this worse. Dropbox, Spotify, Candy Crush, Just Dance, YouTube, Facebook, and the almighty Twitter, I hope you’re happy with what you’ve wrought. The “emoji-pop” dance assaulted my eyes so suddenly, acting as the unnecessary cherry on top of the feel-good ending; I think that’s when I officially lost all hope in enjoying the rest of my night.

It’s honestly taking every ounce of my being to hold onto the little bit of life that I have after the Emoji Movie ripped my soul to shreds. The amount of violation I felt as my ears were subjected to endless pop culture references that were relevant years ago, nightmarish depictions of the content of each app on Alex’s phone, and the fact that the god damn Eggplant was in the Unused Emojis room when everyone knows that’s not the case is indescribable. I now have to live with the fact that every time I switch keyboards on my phone, those blank yellow faces will serve as a dark reminder of what I’ve gone through. To any of you reading this that have also watched The Emoji Movie, I am so sorry. I know how difficult it is to process. My recommendation to each and every one of you who haven’t had the chance to witness this sickening spectacle is to KEEP IT THAT WAY. Don’t give in to the peer pressure; this abomination parading itself around as an endearing motion picture will wholly and truly rattle you to the core. My only solace was the complete absence of dabbing or whipping (apart from hearing the song), and I’d like to thank every deity above and below for that small act of mercy.

Here’s to you, Sony. Thanks for ensuring that I not only sink deeper into my depression, but for forcing my mind to house the images I’ve seen today for as long as I live. I wish I could physically bring myself to chuck my phone in a garbage fire, but my entire body has gone numb. Here’s to you, and to all the writers, producers, and directors of this movie that made me sit in a corner pondering how I can possibly live in a future where this monstrosity exists.

Gravely, sincerely,

fuck you, and goodnight.

🖕

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 8 Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M (for language) Warnings: Canon-typical injury and violence; attempted rape/non-con Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

The Unwary

Why did she drink so much last night?

After her highly stimulating session with the commander, Rory had made the unwise decision to go to the tavern, where Varric had introduced her to the wonders of fermented berry wine and then attempted to embarrass her with a game of Wicked Grace, where the stakes were either secrets or clothes. What he didn't know was that, even drunk, Rory could hold her own. Wicked Grace was not that different from poker, and she'd learned how to play poker from an elderly lady with advanced dementia on some interminable night shifts. By the time he called a halt to the game, Varric was down to his pants - having refused to stake secrets himself - and all Rory had had to give up was one expletive-ridden anecdote about the scar on her inner left forearm. She'd gone to bed feeling very pleased with herself, but, oh, she was paying for it today.

But despite the killer hangover, she still had work to do. There were medicines to make up, bandages to change, the clinic to clean. Fabian needed more lessons in basic care, which was normally easy when she didn't have a queasy stomach and dizzy head. By mid-morning, they'd opened the clinic, and soon had a line of people waiting to see them; mostly newcomers, soldiers and servants from the retinues of nobles passing through Haven on their way to the Temple. By the middle of the afternoon, however, they'd seen all these, and Rory was going stir-crazy being stuck inside. So when she overheard Master Taigen complain of being low on elfroot, she immediately volunteered to go and gather more.

With a canvas sack in hand, she passed through the training ground on her way east to the forest where elfroot grew in abundance.

"Hey, Rory!"

Pausing, she turned at the sound of the familiar voice, smiling as Rylen jogged over to her.

"And where're you off to, oh illustrious healer of warts and all?" he asked cheerfully. "You look like a woman on a mission."

"Afternoon, Rylen," she greeted him warmly, shading her eyes from the sun. "I am on a mission. I have to fill my sack with elfroot leaves, or Master Taigen will turn into a kindly old man."

"Och, we can't have that, can we?" The Starkhaven captain laughed his robust laugh. "Haven might sink if he learned how to smile."

She laughed with him. "I'm doing my bit for the good of the community."

Rylen's smile faded as he glanced at the trees. "Just don't go far, aye?" he suggested. "My boys mentioned seeing a camp out that way. We might have some unwelcome visitors in the those woods."

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Rory assured him. "I won't be gone long."

"Mind you're not, I'll be keeping an eye out for you," he warned with a smile. "Good hunting, Ror."

"Have fun beating the dummies, Ry," she answered, smiling as she turned to continue on her way. She liked Rylen; he always managed to send her off with a smile, no matter her mood.

Still, it was a little unsettling to be walking alone into the woods after his warning. Until now, Haven had been a safe place to be. Oh, she knew that wasn't going to last, but she'd convinced herself that demons were all she had to worry about in the near future. It hadn't occurred to her that humans or elves might be a threat to her safety, despite all the play-throughs with predictable bandits. But then, bandit was just a word to her; avatars who only attacked the well-armed and armored player character so she could up her XP. She'd forgotten that here, bandit could mean anyone, and they were actually more likely to prey on the defenseless. And defenseless was a very good word to describe Rory in this world.

All the same, she did carry a knife, even if that little blade spent most of its time in the sheath at her belt. Not today, though. Today, her little knife was busy, harvesting leaves from the elfroot stems she found growing in abundance in a wide patch just beyond the logging stand. To date, she wasn't sure why only the leaves were required from a plant called elfroot, but she wasn't going to start experimenting. Tried and tested techniques that worked in this world were just fine.

Time spent outside did wonders for her lingering headache, the last of her hangover easing away in the fresh air and the quiet. That was something she was still getting used to - Haven was so noisy. From dawn 'til dusk, the little village rang with the sound of people going about their business. There was the forge, the training ground, the chatter of men and women as they gossiped over their chores, and underneath it all, the continuous drone of the Chant of Light. Even at night, the Chantry stayed awake, brothers and sisters reciting the canticles in shifts, fulfilling their part of Andraste's promise. Yet out here, in the middle of the day, it was so quiet. Just half an hour from the village, and you could be forgiven for thinking you were miles away from any kind of civilization. All she could hear was the breeze in the trees, and the shuffling crunch of druffalo hooves over the snow. It was peaceful, calming, and as she worked, Rory found herself humming, making music for the first time since Ria's death. The intrusion of an unexpected voice brought her humming to an abrupt end.

"Pretty tune from a pretty girl."

The accent was French - Orlesian, Rory - and belonged to a man about her own age, dressed in hunting leathers, and lounging against a tree not too far away. He was armed with long knives at his belt, and was looking at her with more than simple interest.

Rory's fingers tightened about the hilt of her small knife. "Thank you," she said warily. "What brings you out here?"

"Milord prefers to eat game hunted by those he trusts," the hunter told her, pushing away from his tree. "As for me, I am delighted to find beauty in these ill-favored wilds."

Forget the elfroot. Feeling the alarm bells ringing in her nerves, she rose to her feet, her half-filled sack in her hand. "Well, I'm expected back at the village," she informed him. She knew this feeling, had felt it often enough when walking home late at night through London's quiet streets. It was fear, naked and raw, and cramping her throat as her heart began to pound. "They'll miss me if I'm gone too long."

She made to leave the little clearing, but he stepped in front of her, a predatory darkness about his eyes that made her back away quickly, gripping her knife harder. A knife she didn't know how to use. If this was a story, rescue would already be on its way. But as he advanced on her, she knew this was no story. She was alone, defenseless, and this man was a born predator who had found easy prey.

"We won't be long, petit," he told her, laughing as she raised her little knife between them. "Be a good girl, and I won't slice your pretty throat with your pretty little blade."

"That's my choice?" she heard herself demand shakily, unable to keep her incredulity silenced. "Lie back and take it, or you'll kill me when you're finished?"

"You will not get a better offer, petit."

It wasn't the words that frightened her so much as the way he said them - as though no one would blame him even if he did kill her. As though she deserved what he intended simply by virtue of being female and out of sight of help. As though raping her was his right, and somehow her life was a generous gift in exchange.

A sensible person would probably have taken the offer, knowing without needing to test the theory that he was more than capable of doing worse than just raping and killing her. Rory, however, had regular bouts of unsensible behavior, especially under duress. "I think I'll take my chances, thanks," she spat at him in sheer bravado, and lunged, slashing wildly at his face with her knife.

He easily sidestepped her attack, catching her wrist as she made an attempt to get past him. Strong fingers bent her hand back, cruel eyes glinting as she cried out in pain, the knife falling from her fingers. Caught, she tried to pull away, opening her mouth to scream for help in the vain hope that someone might be near enough to hear. The hunter dragged her back, throwing her down onto the unforgiving snow with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, and before she could raise herself to scramble away, he was on her. Rough hands ripped at the laces of her bodice, tearing the linen shift beneath, snarling as she cried hot tears, begging him not to do this. He ignored those tears, too strong to fight off; a monster in human form that pawed and bit at her bared flesh, too hot, too heavy, too hungry, too self-important to care that she was unwilling.

His mouth slobbered over her neck, teeth biting savagely as she struggled, big hands reaching down to drag her skirt upward, to push his pants downward, discounting the push of her hands, the kick of her legs ... and suddenly he roared in pain, blood spurting from a wound in his shoulder to splatter hot against her skin. The hunter raised himself from his prey, and a short figure seemed to materialize from nowhere beside him, planting a firm kick into that injured shoulder to send him sprawling onto his back. As Rory scrambled back, curling tightly into a sobbing ball, a second figure ambled out from the trees and brought a great hammer down onto the hunter's chest. No amount of fancy leather armor could have stopped that blow, the blunt weapon staving in breastbone and ribs, each one puncturing some organ vital to life. A great geyser of blood erupted from the hunter's mouth and nose, staining the snow with more than blood as death took him swiftly.

It was all over in seconds. Shocked, shaken, terrified, Rory stared at her saviors with wide eyes, unable to keep the tears from flowing. They were dwarves, male and female, cleaning off their respective weapons as though there wasn't a half-naked corpse with very little chest left lying between them.

"Happy now, Malika?" the bearded male was saying. "You know she's going to tell them she saw us."

"Oh, and you would have preferred to just walk past?" the female snapped back. "She won't say a word. Look at her - she's so shaken up, she probably can't even see us."

The male scratched his beard, eyeing Rory thoughtfully. "If you say so," he conceded, nodding to his companion. "Grab his pouch, let's get going."

In a mess, her mind jumbled with thoughts of what almost happened and what did happen, Rory lowered her head to her knees, hugging herself tight as she struggled through her own fear and relief toward some kind of calmness. He might have - But he didn't. He tried to - But he didn't. I could have - But you weren't. Pull yourself together, girl, and get back to Haven. On your feet.

She staggered upright, pulling her torn bodice over her bruised skin, forcing herself to look around the clearing. Who knew how long she'd been crying there? She was alone again but for the cooling body of her attacker, her rescuers long gone. But her half-filled sack of elfroot leaves stood by the path toward Haven, filled to the brim and tied shut, her little knife resting on top of it. Despite her state, she actually laughed at the sight of it, at the knowledge that two dwarven warriors had stopped long enough to finish her harvesting and clean her knife before continuing on their way. Grateful, but desperate to be gone from here, she snatched up the sack and the knife, and ran for the track that would take her back to Haven.

She had just passed Master Taigen's cabin when the Fates conspired to try and kill her with fright for the second time that day. Reassured by the nearing sounds of swords clashing, her frantic pace had slowed enough that she could convince herself to stop and make an effort to repair the damage to her appearance. Her dress wasn't that badly torn, on reflection - the laces were snapped and would have to be replaced, and a long tear along the seam at her left shoulder would need to be sewed up, but on the whole, it wasn't a disaster. The shift beneath was torn to the breast, but again, salvageable. She could feel a bite mark rising into a bruise on her neck, and another where her neck met her shoulder, and her wrist throbbed painfully, but she knew she had been very lucky. She couldn't expect to be that lucky again.

And then a burst of flame ignited the path directly in front of her, ripping a scream from her bruised throat.

"Don't turn around, shem."

The voice was harsh, female, and Rory had no doubt that turning around would result in the next flame taking hold of her. This was not her day. She was never leaving Haven's walls ever, ever again.

"Well, now you've scared her speechless, fa'lon, mind if I do the talking?" a second voice interjected. This one was male, and a lot friendlier.

"Be quick," the female ordered in an unforgiving tone. "They'll have heard her scream."

"This is why the Keeper didn't want you to come, you know," the male responded. He sighed, and Rory heard footsteps moving closer to her back. "Where's the Temple of Ages, please?"

Trembling all over, Rory took a slow breath. Someone will have heard you scream. Answer the nice elf before his friend decides to flambé you. "Temple of Sacred Ashes," she heard herself say in a voice that was too scared to be hers. "Past the village, over the river. It's at the head of the valley." Please don't hurt me.

She heard them move away, but her eyes were focused on a familiar figure visible through the trees ahead of her. They did hear me. Thank gods. Five figures were running toward her as she sank down onto her knees, shaking like a leaf.

"Rory! You all right? What happened?"

Suddenly safe, the shock of her afternoon hit her with the force of a hurricane. She burst into tears, groping her way forward to throw her arms around Rylen as she sobbed out the incoherent story of her misadventures. Her friend held his naked sword away from her as he tucked an arm about her shoulders, listening patiently as she pieced together everything that had happened since she'd left the village.

"You, go back to Haven," he ordered one of his soldiers. "Report to the commander that we need a perimeter sweep now. You three, go to the logging stand and retrieve the body." As the four saluted, moving to follow those orders without a moment's hesitation, he sheathed his sword, turning his attention back to the shaking woman under his arm. "All right, darlin', I've got you. Come along with me, let's get you back to Haven."

Clinging to him, Rory was only too happy to be guided back to the deceptive safety of the stockaded village, too shaken to notice the curious eyes that followed their progress to the clinic, where a horrified Fabian took charge of his traumatized senior. She didn't know how angry people were as word spread of the attack on their healer, how alarmed they were that Dalish elves and unknown dwarves were in the area. She didn't witness how tense things suddenly became when the dead hunter was identified as a man-at-arms in the service of an Orlesian marquis, who had the gall to demand that she was punished for his death. No one told her that Cullen almost broke his hand on the marquis' nose in answer, or that Haven was hastily declared off-limits to all the parties passing through to the Conclave. No one could be trusted but their own, clearly.

All she knew was that the world of Thedas was suddenly a very real, very frightening place. The time had come to start taking things very seriously indeed.