#this track unearths some feelings i thought would stay buried forever

[nopanfakemix2]

Not first time sharing this but this song is goooood please listen

[panspy]

Case #0181501

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Eide Burrows, regarding a man who may not have been her neighbor, and her hometown of Millport, Scotland. Original statement delivered through some folded sheets of notebook paper shoved under the office door while I was on a lunch break. Statement recorded January 15, 2018, audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

In the end, we’re all just shapes. Figures, either soft, angled, flat, or dimensional, all floating through space with only the hint of a purpose. I’ve always thought this made us pitiable. Shapes don’t have a purpose, their only use is to simply be. What is the meaning of a triangle? Any color, it doesn’t matter. How about a square? A dodecahedron? Exactly. It has no right to have that many sides all to itself, but it exists simply because we willed it into being. Shapes thinking of shapes.

Lines connect shapes and connect people. We have no reason to be, other than to just… exist. We think of shapes. Who thought of us? God, you could argue and many do. Argue about God, argue with God, argue in defense of God, argue against God. Argue, argue, argue. Just shapes arguing with shapes.

For the longest time, as far as I was concerned, Millport was nothing but shapes. Old buildings with new paint, old billboards with flashy new signs, old families run by new blood. Old ways and new people. They tried to cover up the old, and bury it like bones in a landfill. Cover it up along with the potholes with new asphalt and cement. Make it shiny and new. They still crack, anyway.

Hundreds of years, that town stood sturdy on soft ground. Founded by confident men with high hopes, big dreams, bigger egos, and empty pockets. Dreams make you blind, but people like to invest in them. Dreams give shapes a purpose, don’t they? Confidence fools others, and eventually fools yourself. Have you ever gone unnoticed in a place you’re not meant to be? If you walk with your head held high and false arrogance, people will believe you belong with them. For either to believe this façade makes them a fool. Not that anyone really belongs anywhere, and we’re all just foolish enough to believe it. Foolish shapes believing other foolish shapes.

I’ve always reckoned that it’s easier to be confident on uncertain legs than to fear falling on steady ground. Watching a frightened child stepping along a wide, even plank at the park is more likely to fall than a tightrope walker on a flimsy wire. Tightrope walkers are triangles, balanced and perfect. Children are parallelograms. Misshapen. Lopsided.

All the children in Millport are parallelograms. Some are flat and one dimensional, others forever rotating on an axis to show off their sides. Never the same for more than a day- I kept track. The adults were a variety of evolved and ever-changing polygons. But for some reason when I was little, looking at all these shapes going about their pretend lives, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a polygon when the world seemed to be filled with them. When I looked at my skin, it was soft and squished under touch. My hair was coarse, dull, and brown, unlike my mothers which was static with energy and never quite the same after you blinked. My face was asymmetrical too, as many shapes are. Eyes that seemed to be too big, ears that poke out a bit too much, bags that never went away… well, I don’t think they did anyways. You have to understand, it’s been a while since I’ve seen it. After a childhood of feeling as though the world hadn’t been fair enough to make me a nice red square, I just accepted it. I learned not to mind my lack of shape, and felt content to be liminal.

The first time I decided to look further into what made the town fit together into the odd puzzle it was, was the Masonic Lodge on the empty lot of Seymour and Drummond. It was always changing, not that it mattered enough to give it a second thought. In the morning, it could be a red trapezoid but by noon it would shift into a cracked yellow octagon. Personally I always preferred the trapezoid. The men who entered in the evening but never seemed to exit in the morning were also known to change. Whether by name, appearance, age, or multitude… who went in did not dictate who went home. Not that anyone cared about that, either.

When I was feeling especially curious, I would watch them enter from the dim car park away from a flickering old street lamp. As nights went by and I felt brave enough to stand directly under it, I found it made no difference as they never even looked at my direction. By the morning, the cars would be gone and the men allegedly returned home to their spouses and families. And I would leave, deciding to return again at the next meeting whenever I felt the disturbing pull in my stomach beckoning me to witness it. The scheduled days varied, but was always twice a week starting at 8:12 pm and ending when the street light flickered, shrouding the building and parked vehicles in darkness, then flickering on again to show an empty lot. They never met on Tuesdays.

My mother worked down the street at the Birdie’s Bed & Breakfast to help Bertha Goodwin when the old woman needed assistance navigating the cottage she’d rented her whole life, it seemed like. Bertha, though we always called her Birdie, was in her late seventies when I was born, and she was in her late seventies when I left for college. She was still in her late seventies when I returned home the next fall with nothing to show for it and a mother who didn’t even acknowledge I had gone in the first place. Not that they even noticed when I was living with them as a child either. When they deemed me old enough to care for myself, Mum would leave in the mornings with a freshly ironed apron, cleaning supplies I never saw opened, and my Dad would leave to work on blueprints of buildings I never saw built. After staring at my ceiling for hours, distracting myself with faded stars stuck up with putty and cracks in the walls, I would leave my blue square of a house and wander the streets looking for a clue to a mystery I wasn’t quite sure existed.

I tried to be academic, I really did. I wanted to leave that old town and its jagged shapes and build something for myself, but the longer I spent away the pit in my stomach grew more and even looking in the mirror hurt my eyes. I couldn’t feel the softness of my skin anymore. It felt like plastic. The faces of my classmates were static and boring-- none of them pulsed with the same energy as the people back home and all sounded the same. After barely a year I couldn’t take it and moved back home. The school didn’t even call to finalize my resignation.

As a child who grew up with strange disappearances monthly (Birdie said Misses Morgan moved to the States, but her car still collected leaves in the drive), stores popping up that never seemed to stay, and the absence of new neighbors, nothing was too out of the ordinary for us. But I’ve read some of the other statements, Jon, and it seems nothing was quite ordinary at all. Construction workers would vanish and it would rarely make the papers. The opening of a new chip shop was a blessing, but no one would ever be able to go more than twice before it was on its way out of town and replaced with some new fad.

Until the year the cemetery flooded and the school gymnasium roof caved in, about 2006 (it’s hard to beep track of the years), I didn’t think extraordinary could exist. Or at least not in any way that mattered. That was the year the Abbott’s moved in to the house on Cowley Lane, a house I had only ever seen out of the corner of my eye. On a street filled with shapes, this was a straight line.

They arrived as most families do, escaping an unpleasant moment in time by “starting fresh” and “turning over a new leaf”. I never quite understood that expression, as turning over a new leaf does not negate the old one. By turning over a leaf with a sullied edge to admire the green underside, it still remains the same leaf. Turning over a new leaf simply means the old one is left to decompose while you find a crisp, untarnished leaf, while the other still has a perfectly acceptable side to be admired. And, as most families do, they leave the unsightly leaf to be buried with the hundreds of others they’ve “turned over” and promise to change. The promises stay, but are never quite redeemed. Sorry, I got carried away… it's hard to find things to be passionate about these days. I'll continue.

The Abbotts integrated as well as they could, two children ready to attend school no matter the construction work in the gym or the fact it was well into November, and a third to stay at home as infants are wont to do. They threw a barbecue to get to know the neighbors, and the whole village attended bringing their own family recipes and baked desserts. I stayed home.

The Abbott's father, Mark, gained a quick job as an iron-worker while his wife (I never knew her name) stayed indoors looking after the baby. I’d see him in the mine, hacking away at rusty cars and rail too old to use and loading the scraps to be taken away. Hours, I’d watch, as he compressed the piles and laid the new framework to keep unwanted visitors from being crushed to death by eroding stone walls. The day he was called to help install the new wrought iron fence where the cemetery flooded and washed away, I followed him there too. Wherever he went, the shapes that once filled the town lost their vibrancy. Instead of fluctuating between tetrahedrons and prisms, they became either stagnant or frantic. Everything at once, or nothing at all.

I watched him dig in the downtrodden soil, unearthing rectangular caskets and hexagonal coffins. The rain that year had brought landslides and sinkholes, most destructive in the cemetery just outside town and disturbing the dead where they slept. Headstones, monuments, and mementos washed away and sank into the soft dirt, the running fence encircling the land broken up and dragged along with it. Once an infinite circle that cut the burial grounds off from the rest of the puzzle, the shape was now distorted and wrong. Without gate to close and make it whole again, I felt the muted shape of the cemetery slip away and become a tangled mess of string.

He dug for hours until the orange circle of a sun lowered itself behind the branches of the forest and their quickly disappearing leaves. Moving from one plot to the other, from the pristine headstones of recent years down to the protruding stones with names barely legible beneath the moss and decades of wear. Digging, digging, digging, all the while the formless fence to-be remained untouched. When the sky turned dark and snow clouds threatened to shed their weight, I finally turned my back on Mark and left him alone with the dead for the first time all evening, the man seeming blissfully unaware he hadn’t been alone in the first place at all.

The next morning when I went to check on his new project, the buildings along the way had lost their shape. No longer were streets lined with sturdy trapezoids, rectangles, and prisms. The colors were off, like a child with a crayon who had not yet learned the concept of limitation. They bled into each other and polluted the air, cracked frames unable to hold them back. The air tasted like static and I couldn't feel the ground beneath my boots.

By the time I got to the clearing, the holes had been filled and the new fence had taken shape in towering columns that crawled and stretched like spider webs across the dying grass. It was the same dirt, the same stone, trees, and air, but it did not feel like the cemetery I had watched be torn away the night before. I felt a chill settle in my bones and leave as quickly as it came like waiting for pain after burning your finger on a hot mug. From all my observing of the town, never once has a feeling ever driven me to run far away until what I was seeing before me was but an afterthought.

I passed by the Abbotts house, static growing stronger until I could barely hear the crunch of leaves or gravel beneath my feet. Only the wife's car was in the drive and a fresh coat of snow indicated there had only been the one all night, and the black pick-up Mark drove was nowhere to be seen. The sign on their door was new, barely two months old, but as I looked at it, truly looked at it, did it appear to have aged to rot. Abbott’s House it said in curvy lettering (with all the determination of a line pretending to be something it’s not) with five handprints beneath for each family member. Five. Mother, three kids, and… now four. The longer I thought about it, the longer I stared, trying to blink away the dots that kept getting in the way of my vision, the more my eyes convinced me there had always been four. Never two cars, never five hands. Through my haze, I barely felt my feet take me home. Even when I layed down to rest in a foreign looking room, I decided that my childhood mystery, a fantasy I had grown to accept, had found another clue and a little bit more of the town chipped away. Mark didn’t show up for work anymore.

Little things were changing, it just took a trained eye to notice. You don’t have to be a detective to see the details, sometimes you just have to be very, very afraid. The sign for Birdies Bed & Breakfast was now spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’, and the apron my mother wore was now a faded lilac instead of a robin’s egg blue. The oak tree that stood tall in our backyard, old as the town itself with a slow swinging hammock tied to the branches, was now a young birch. I likened it to two puzzles cut from the same machine. Different pictures with pieces that fit together only in the most literal sense. The longer I noticed, the more I wondered which puzzle was truly mine, and which one was slowly being replaced.

Each morning the static filled my nose, irritated my eyes, and clouded my ears with a soft dizzying hum that slowly drowned out my senses. The shapes that made up my entire world were broken, dull, and chipping away until everything I knew was muddled and loud.

It was only when I woke up in an empty room, no posters, cardboard boxes, or dirty clothes, I found my feet barely touched the floor. I felt weightless as I wandered down to the kitchen where Mum usually got ready, feeling as though the back of my eyes were filled with cotton. There were only two seats sat at the dining table, and when I tried to open my mouth to speak my tongue tasted like ash.

Before I could blink or even cry, suddenly I was in the street. Red shapes filled my periphery and everything between, and the town was gone. A red sky bled into the houses, cars, and potholes cremating them like the dead. I felt myself falling away from my body and I finally saw my shape. It was a shifting mass of angles and colors and somehow I just knew it was me. When I finally did cry, smaller shapes fell from her eyes copying the drops that fell from mine. Was it out of malice? Pity? Understanding? Was she crying because she shared my pain or was she just a cheap reflection of who I thought I was or simply longed to be?

It’s been a while since I’ve been here, in this black and red. She still mocks me. Radiant and pulsing with color while I exist with imitation soft skin and coarse hair. They’re the only things I can be sure of, as I haven’t seen my face in a long time. Only hers. Now I’m not sure who she is, but she’s the only company in this void. Until I saw your shape, Jon. Blue and black polygons blinking between colors with the beat of a foreign heart. You lead me here to a library of pain that reflected my own, a reprieve from the emptiness I’ve been floating in. Maybe if I tell you my story you can bring me back to the shape of your world? I suppose only time will tell, and I have an eternity to wait.

Waiting for someone to save the outline of a person who isn’t sure they ever existed at all.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: varulven rating: teen and up word count: 5,717 summary: After being bitten by a werewolf, Trevor, knowing he doesn’t have much of a choice, accepts his fate following a painful transformation during the full moon. He quickly gets used to his new body with the support of Sypha and Alucard, who uses his own wolf form to better connect with Trevor. Part two of this piece.

read on ao3 at aquilaofarkham

--

The forest overwhelms him; too many new sounds, new scents, and new sensations all happening at once. The newly born lycan can hear everything from the smallest mouse digging into the frozen dirt, readying itself for hibernation, to the subtle crack of an owl’s talons clawing into tree bark as it moves from branch to branch. It watches and waits, ever so patient for that very same mouse. 

This assault on his senses continues. All things previously closed off when he was human have suddenly been opened. Through his eyes, the world is closer, more intimate. No moment to breathe. His thoughts are bursting with excitement and uncertainty, confusion and fervor.

He lifts his head and sees a white wolf upon a nearby hill. Sitting on his hind legs, head raised high and tall, staring back at the lycan. The skies are dark, save for the full moon, but thank god it’s not snowing else they’d never find each other. He knows the wolf will stay there all night if he has to, but the lycan won’t keep him waiting for much longer. This is a comforting sight; one that compels him to move forward. To join his friend, now that the two of them share more similarities than ever before (unconventional as they are).

Contrary to what most people believe, vampires and lycans get along very well.

Trevor doesn’t know if he will make peace with this form. It’s too soon to tell. But joining Alucard on a run through the snow-covered woods seems to be a decent start. White fur and dark grey fur move quickly against a sea of pin straight black trees. Their swift paws kick up snow as one tries running just an inch faster and further than the other—whether either of them realizes it or not.

When Trevor arrived home a month ago with claw marks gracing his shoulder, Alucard and Sypha did their best. All of them did their best. The two consulted books, legends, and remedies while their hunter prepared himself for the worst. Trevor will forever be grateful to them, despite their failure to stop the lycan’s curse. After the pain of transformation ended, he suddenly felt nothing. He could see nothing, only blood red and an emptiness surrounding him. It was dark inside the wolf. A realization that his body was no longer his own. He had lost control over it.

The first thing Trevor heard was his name. Faint and very weak, not strong enough to pull him out of the darkness. Whatever force held dominion over his body, its immediate instinct was to bare its fangs and violently lash out.

“Trevor, it’s us. You remember, I know you do.” The second thing Trevor heard. Clear and recognizable, even in his state. Sypha’s firm, unwavering, yet calm voice, a voice he always hoped to hear again, was able to cut through the prison that trapped his human thoughts and sight. Another problem solved, another victory she could hang off her belt. Sypha needed one of those, yet she also knew it wasn’t time to celebrate. No premature smiles or breaths of relief.

Trevor vaguely remembers what happened next; low to the ground, he crawled towards the two human creatures in front of him. Uncertain of how much personal control he had regained. Nor was he sure of how easily it could slip away again. Then same another familiar voice, like a candle in a dark corridor leading him to someplace brighter. Trevor Belmont is always in want—or rather, in need of brighter things.

“Trevor...” Alucard was never one to reveal his true emotions especially in the way he spoke. Neutral, steady, and blunt. Most often rude if he were in a foul mood, yet he raised his voice sparingly. But if Alucard was attempting to hide a certain emotion in that single word, he failed. All Trevor could hear was a desperate plea for hope.

He put their fears to rest when the front of his head gently pressed into Alucard’s outstretched palm. Trevor didn’t move beyond that; too ashamed, too scared of this new form that dwarfed his friends. Alucard cautiously slid his hand up between the lycan’s eyes before scratching his ears. Something Trevor did to those old grey Belmont wolfhounds of his long gone home. A shockingly pleasant sensation, making him feel akin to one of said large, gentle beasts he misses so dearly. Large is obvious, but gentle? Trevor wants to try his best.

It was a good decision to leave the cellar with the now broken door. Trevor would have otherwise cowered in a corner come sunrise. Out here, deep in the snow and cold air, adrenaline rushes through his veins just as easily as blood. Mixed with his habitual tendency to compete against the dhampir, it’s enough to propel him forward, matching Alucard’s speed.

This forest is his. Theirs.

--

One should never underestimate Sypha Belnades. She’s sent demons back to hell in flames of her own creation. She stood against the vampires’ mad lord and burned him to ashes which flew off into the night sky, their final resting place unknown. She played reluctant peacemaker between two men, more like children despite their own abilities. A minimal accomplishment compared to others, but an accomplishment, nonetheless. All those moments when she held her bright fingertips close against their temples saying, “Grow up or I will light both of your skulls on fire”.

Keeping track of two wolf-like creatures seems easy compared to everything else. Stay close, stay watchful, and never stray too far from the fresh set of paw prints in the snow. A real-life Ariadne with her precious red thread. Sypha adored listening to those stories from her childhood, begging to hear one more before bedtime. It didn’t matter if they were real or not, though she always believed they were.

Belief is a powerful force; just as if not more powerful than her spells. She still believes in many things that cross bearing men reject; things good and bad. Of magic, vampires, and the myths that give life to both. Sypha loves her myths—even the unsettling ones. The ones that unearth truths that no one wants to hear. She once hoped some of them would help spare Trevor from his eventual fate.

She sat on the floor of their library, surrounded by piles of books like stone walls. A momen in time that feels long ago but in reality, happened only a few short days prior to the full moon. The words in front of her blurred together as she rubbed her aching eyes, yet she kept reading.

Sypha studied the lycan’s many origins: they came from a scorned lover of Gilgamesh, having been turned into a wolf against their will. No, they were punished by the god Jupiter for eating the remains of a sacrificed boy. Actually, they were merely by-products of the oldest vampires. On and on an on. She read of the symptoms: nightmares, vomiting, lack of an appetite. Increase in agitation. She wanted to scream, “I know that already” into the pages of those particular books. What she needed from these myths were cures.

While it made her hands twitch and her heart pound with anxiety, Sypha did what she promised Trevor: she kept searching. She kept reading.

So engrossed in her reading, Sypha barely noticed Alucard as he sat down beside her. A silence grew between them every time her fingers flipped over another page. He watched her eyes move from line to line, scaling down. A warm light filled the library; it would be dark soon and he wasn’t about to let her go through yet another sleepless night. Sypha’s sharp mind needed rest, but then again, they all did.

“You have that look again.” Despite how softly he spoke, Alucard noticed her jump. Sypha glanced at him briefly, then returned to her book, burying her nose in even deeper.

“What look?”

“The one that says focused yet angry. Calm, but disturb me and I will separate your head from your neck.”

She hid her amusement at Alucard’s dark brand of humour. “I am not angry.”

“Are you certain?”

“... perhaps a little. More frustrated. These books have nothing that can help us. There are apparently plenty of ways to tame a lycan after they transform.”

“But no methods of curing them.”

Sypha closed the book; Alucard took that as a yes. “What about you? I’ve seen you held up in that laboratory. Sometimes for hours on end.”

When they started rebuilding the Belmont manor with its library, bedrooms, armoury, and kitchen, they added a new room. A mirror image of the laboratory and clinic Alucard remembered so fondly. Full of medicines, glass tubes, and other devices neither Trevor nor Sypha fully understood but were willing to learn. He used it more often than them, carrying on important, irreplaceable work.

A local rumour began spreading amongst the neighbouring villages. Talk of a stranger dressed in black going from door to door, giving remedies to the sick while refusing payment. They never did manage to catch this good Samaritan.

Sypha once saw Alucard with his hair different. Still loose but tied with a simple hairband and hanging over his breast. When she mentioned it, innocently enough, Alucard went quiet. She hasn’t seen him like that since.

“Did... did your mother’s notes say anything?”

“Unfortunately, she didn’t have very many patients afflicted with the lycan’s curse.” Usually Sypha could recognize the sarcasm in Alucard’s tone; this time proved more difficult. “But I had more success reading the notes she and my father wrote together. I’ve started concocting a tonic using distilled wolfsbane.”

“And...”

Alucard didn’t want to give Sypha false hope. “It still needs work. With its current state, it will most likely kill him.”

“Maybe...” Sypha stopped herself. Never in her life did she want to admit defeat. Always too stubborn, too proud, tasting bile in her mouth if she even thought about it. Yet she told Trevor and Alucard to grow up. Perhaps it was time she did as well, especially if the life of someone she loved was at stake.

“Maybe it would be best if we let Trevor transform. We can use your tonic to ease the pain when he changes and then try taming him afterwards. These books annoy me beyond anything else, but I found a manuscript about northern lycan myths.” Shoving aside everything else, she grabbed a flimsy set of brown papers held together by thread and sheer perseverance. “It stood out the most. I think it may assist us.”

Alucard stared at the so-called “book” in Sypha’s hand. Its ink scrawls were barely legible to his eyes. “We would have to tie him down. Or lock him somewhere secure.”

“We have that cellar. I know you don’t like this plan.”

“I don’t think either of us does.” Sypha nodded in agreement. “I will tell him.”

“You do not have to.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to help him.”

“He won’t like what you have to say. He’s barely gotten any rest.”

“No one living in this house has.” He placed his hand on her back. “Don’t worry, Sypha. I will talk to him.”

“Gently. Remember to be gentle with him.”

“I shall.”

“Before you do that, we need to finish that tonic. I will help.”

“That won’t be necessary. You should—”

Sypha pushed the manuscript against his chest. “I said I’m helping. And you should read this.”

Alucard smiled. “There’s not much I can say that would convince you otherwise, is there?”

“Nothing at all.”

Deep in her memories, Sypha nearly trips over herself. Alucard was right; she hated that plan. It worked, but she hated it for making her think the worst. For making her feel as though she had willingly doomed Trevor to his fate. That she had been defeated.

Her feet begin to ache. She keeps reminding herself of one thing: this is not defeat. Only another obstacle to overcome. A door opening to a new way of life. Sypha is used to walking through those. She scales up another hill, her two boys off in the distance, still in sight.

She should have worn better shoes.

--

Wolves cannot run forever. Even those of supernatural origins must stop, which is what Trevor and Alucard do. But one still has mountains of energy to burn. His head is a flurry of different thoughts. Some take root while most leave just as fast as they entered. No matter where they came from or what they entail, they all succeed in contradicting each other.

One thought manages to rise above the rest: what else can this new body really do?

Alucard takes his rest not far from Trevor, who seems to be in his own little world. Not content enough to run around in circles, he takes to rolling about in the snow, attacking it the same way a pup would pounce at everything in sight, animate or not. A pup... yes, that’s what Alucard is reminded of. He watches in amusement as Trevor trips over his legs, too long and cumbersome for his liking. No normal wolf would be able to handle such abnormal bodily proportions of a lycan’s.

It takes some trial and error—more error than trial. Only when Trevor actually stops to think does he regain some control over his limbs. No more flopping around; now he can revert straight back to his playful demeanour, this time on much steadier footing.

—Quite the beacon of terror, the dhampir thinks. Villagers must be quaking with fear underneath their bedcovers tonight.

Alucard lowers himself against the ground. Let Trevor have his fun. Lord knows he deserves it after a month of hell. This might even count as a valuable lesson. There’ll be plenty more to come.

Trevor rolls off his back and makes brief contact with golden eyes against white fur. Gold like amber or the cinders of a well-used fireplace. He looks at Alucard and wonders if the dhampir’s transformation is ever as painful as his own. No, Trevor realizes the longer he stares. Not painful or ugly at all. A few gentle, graceful wisps of smoke and the deed is done. Seems everything Alucard does is gentle and graceful, no matter what form he takes.

A mischievous thought worms its way into Trevor’s head. Alucard maintains his statuesque posture; beautiful, regal, and boring. At first, he ignores the other wolf, occasionally glancing in his direction out of curiosity and confusion. Packs of snow get thrown into the air with every wag of Trevor’s shaggy tail. Alucard’s head tilts slightly, his ears pinned back.

—What are you planning? Why are you staring at me like that?

What can barely be described as a tense standoff ends when Trevor shoves Alucard. Despite being larger and arguably stronger as a lycan, this action does nothing to faze his companion. Trevor repeats the gesture; still not enough to crack his hard exterior—but not enough to deter his scheming counterpart. Trevor charges headfirst into Alucard, more a ram than a wolf.

Alucard, if he so wanted, could overpower the lycan. Push him off or knock him flat on his own back. Yet he stays in a somewhat defeated pose with his limbs bent and dangling. Trevor continues his attempt at what Alucard can only assume is... bonding? He nuzzles his snout into the white wolf’s fur while his oversized front paws push against his exposed belly. Another jovial act between his family’s cherished wolfhounds.

Trevor also recalls riding on their backs as they took him up and down the halls of the Belmont manor then outside through the gardens when he was still small enough. Sypha might be able to ride on his back, maybe even Alucard as well. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold.

Trevor becomes lost in this new, break-neck pace of thinking, one thought after another and then another. He doesn’t notice that the playful bites he’s been giving his friend have unknowingly turned aggressive. Alucard retaliates by baring his fangs and letting out a deep, guttural snarl.

—Not so rough.

Trevor instinctively backs away. As an apology, he lowers his head and tries making his body seem much smaller than it really is. The same action he attempted in the cellar following his change. Lycans simply take up too much space. Too large, too obstructive, and too rough, even towards similar creatures. He huffs out a frustrated breath into the frigid air.

Alucard ceases his growling when he sees this abrupt shift. He didn’t mean for his reaction to be so harsh. He’s supposed to be helping after all. Days before the full moon when Trevor quietly wept out of fear—fear of himself—Alucard showed his own vulnerable side. He let Trevor rest his head upon his chest, wiping away the tears and offering small words of comfort until he drifted off into a desperately needed sleep. How could either of them forget that evening?

His father taught him that even those most experienced in transfiguration often have difficulty controlling their emotions. Too dulled down or too impassioned, exploding at any spontaneous moment. It would explain Trevor’s excitable behavior.

Softly, he treads over to the curled-up mass of thick fur. Trevor pouts as though he were still human. He really is just a newborn lycan on his first night out; an overgrown pup. His playfulness should be seen as a blessing in disguise. Alucard gives his snout a couple gentle pats, apologizing himself. To which Trevor merely grumbles.

—Stick in the ass you are.

Alucard has no way of telling if that’s what he’s really thinking, but he can come to his own conclusions. He knows the Belmont well enough. He responds with a frisky bite to his ear, eliciting a surprised yelp from Trevor. Rows upon rows of fangs snap at Alucard, who always dodges them at the very last second, before getting pinned down.

They continue like this, chasing and wrestling each other, causing their own little intimate chaos. Even their growls sound happier. It took some time, but they’re finally playing the same game. All is well again—or as well as things could be.

It comes to an end when a sound off in the distance catches Trevor’s attention. He raises his head; ears perked up, and listens. It’s not Sypha, no doubt making her way across the rolling landscape, closing in on her two boys. It’s no human at all. Something else, perhaps an animal or more, scurries through the frozen underbrush. A certain primal urge suddenly rises within Trevor, one that all beasts share: the need to chase and hunt. He stands up, nose pointed in the direction of the noise, ignoring the white wolf’s yips. Before he can run off, Alucard bites down and pulls him back.

—For once in your life, wait. 

Trevor does pause. but not without growling at him for leaving teeth marks on his tail. He begrudgingly lets Alucard take the lead. They begin their hunt.

--

Somewhere, a clock hand strikes past midnight. Trevor and Alucard huddle together, their eyes fixated on a small flock of wild pheasants. Not quite the prize they were hoping for, but decent practice. Like before, Trevor allows the white wolf to go first, all while trying to tell himself that as a human, he’s still the better hunter.

However, he must admit, it is mesmerizing to watch Alucard hunt as a wolf as it is watching him fight as a dhampir. Every step is deliberate and creates no sound as eyes never leave their prey, inching closer. A calculated, flawless leap forward, the panicked scattering of pheasants except for one thrashing around for freedom under his paw, and then finally, the wolf twists the bird’s neck in his jaws. He makes it all seem so easy.

Alucard carries the lifeless, slumped prize over to Trevor. So quick and barely even a drop of blood. He finds the rest of the flock a few feet away. They continue pecking at whatever berries and frozen grub they can scrounge for, unaware or having already forgotten that one of their own is dead. Trevor enjoys a challenge in all aspects of his life, but for now he’ll a dumb prey over a clever one. He start by mimicking Alucard’s movements and everything seems to be going well. Cumbersome due to his size but after some adjustments to his stance, the dhampir feels optimistic.

Then Trevor loses his chance to strike by half a second. The pheasants begin to disperse, and he rushes into them, striking one with his claws. It tries escaping; Trevor tries catching it. There’s a struggle as both hunter and prey put up their own fight. Jaws clamp down on the bird’s neck, but instead of a clean snap, splatters of blood and feathers cover the white ground. Trevor stares down at his prize, mangled and torn beyond recognition.

—Too rough. Again.

Alucard expected something like this would happen and, in the end, Trevor was successful in finishing his first hunt. So, he isn’t disappointed. Yet Trevor dully paws at what used to be a pheasant with dejection in his eyes. Alucard tries cheering him up by licking his bloody snout clean. It helps.

They come across a drove of jackrabbits with their guard down, a rare but lucky sight. The second hunt goes much smoother. Alucard catches two, Trevor four, all of which hang out of his mouth intact. If Sypha were here right now, she would have a good laugh at the sheer ridiculous sight of such a beast with his jaws stuffed to the brim with rabbits. 

Speak of the devil. Out of the corner of Alucard’s eye, he sees Sypha in the near distance, two pheasants hanging off her hip. He motions for Trevor to follow him.

Trevor doesn’t acknowledge him, nor does he notice Sypha. If a new sound or smell no matter how faraway demands his interest, then he must comply. All else, even close friends, fade away. He can’t help it in this form. He meanders over the hills, leaving Alucard and Sypha to do little but trail behind him. Something tells them that this is not just simple curiosity pulling the lycan.

Silently, Trevor leads them to a clearing in the trees. Out of the darkness, shapes and silhouettes come into view. Not particularly large, but substantial. Some far apart, some close together. Houses, few of which still have candles inside, burning the night away. The softened lights illuminate each frosted window like small drifting halos. It’s deathly still in this hamlet; they might have never discovered its existence had it not been for Trevor.

—Trevor. Alucard joins his side, fearing the worst. His head is lowered as he violently bats at it with his paws, agitated by some unseen tick. Every breath comes out as a growling rasp while streams of saliva drip off his fangs. The look in his eyes, the one Alucard and Sypha know so well, is gone.

It’s happening again. Even the idea of being so close to other humans is enough to reawaken the hunger. Not to hunt or feed, but to rip and mangle and leave nothing unscathed. Trevor loses his balance, stumbling from foot to foot, shaking his head. God knows he’s trying to gain back control, and it hurts him. Alucard barks in his ear, deafening him.

—Fight it. Trevor, or what Alucard hopes is still Trevor, responds with a fierce snap of his jaws. They snarl, and bark, and brandish their claws. Sypha tears her eyes away, despite not wanting to. She can hear voices within the houses, villagers stirring from their rest at what they believe is the sound of two wolves tearing at each other’s throats. She pleads for them to stay inside. This doesn’t concern them.

—Fight it. God damn it, I know you can. Fight it!

Trevor doesn’t care for Alucard’s thoughts. With another swipe, he sends him skidding across the ground and into the base of a tree. The pain is sharp but quick. Alucard stands, thankful that he is no ordinary wolf. Before he can charge at Trevor, Sypha moves between them, her hands raised.

“Trevor, stop!” She’s not afraid, not anymore. Or rather, she doesn’t look afraid. Her expression is firm, brows furrowed. All concentration on this one spell. It needs to be performed without any uncertainty. There’s no fire or ice emitting from her fingertips, yet Trevor howls bloody murder.

Spells that can change the mind and its contents are dangerous. In the hands of a less experienced practitioner, too much can go wrong. If one doesn’t succumb to an early death, then madness. Which is why Sypha has always preferred to manipulate tangible elements. But she’s never been above taking risks. She focuses every bit of her energy into restoring Trevor’s conscience. Hopefully it will shift itself in the right direction and neither she nor Alucard will be forced to commit the unthinkable.

“Look at me... keep your eyes on me. It will be alright, I promise.” Sypha doesn’t make promises lightly. Trevor huffs, gritting his fangs, but his gaze never leaves her. He waves his head from side to side again, as if trying to shake off a terrible headache. The growls quiet until they disappear. Sypha breathes a relieved yet trembling sigh when Trevor’s eyes soften. She steps forward and wraps her arms around his head, so large her fingers barely touch. Her forehead rests against his.

“Shh, none of that. You did well. I told you it would be alright.” She strokes his fur, listening to every whimper.

As his senses return, so too does his memory. Trevor wriggles free from Sypha’s grasp and runs to Alucard, still whining. While shaken up, his body bears no serious injuries, only some out of place fur. That doesn’t stop Trevor from licking and nuzzling him like an overbearing mother wolf. Alucard appreciates the concern, but he can stop now. After a moment of calm respite between the three of them, he decides that this night should come to an end. Before Sypha can follow him, the tip of her hood gets caught in Trevor’s teeth.

“What is it?” He lets go and lowers his underside against the snow, gesturing to his back. He knows Sypha came here by foot, all on her own; he can’t just let her return the same way. “Oh... well, this is...” Does he really want her to...?

Trevor gives her a nudge before she can stutter out another syllable. Alright, then. When in Rome and all that. Grabbing handfuls of fur, Sypha climbs aboard. She fumbles a bit then finds a comfortable position. Moments like these make Sypha thankful for their isolated, self-contained life. How would she explain this to her grandfather or the other Speakers? Even so, she can’t help but bury herself deeper in Trevor’s warm fur.

They catch up to Alucard with his mouth full of dead jackrabbits. Using the light of the moon as their guide, a lycan, a dhampir in the shape of a wolf, and a Speaker magician retrace their steps back to their home. Back to their bed.

--

The next day arrives, bringing with it the sun as it crawls over the Wallachian mountainside. Sypha stirs awake and forces her sleep heavy eyes open. The hazy light of early morning shines through the snow-covered glass of the bedroom window panes. Curling into the fetal position, she holds her knees tight against her chest. Both hands massage her bare feet, alleviating some of their soreness after her midnight excursion.

Is it possible for a single night to feel stretched out to its limits? Lingering for longer than a few hours at the most? Sypha remembers the set of events that occured last night, despite them feeling like a dream. All of them tumbling into place one after another without rest. The last memory is of her in bed, safe, warm, and guarded. A bit suffocated but sleeping better than she did for the entire month. She knows who to thank for that.

Sitting up (a feat much easier said than done), Sypha believes she’ll look down at two wolves who are fast asleep. Just as she did before closing her eyes in the darkness, their bodies cuddled around her. One has white fur and a sleek build; the second, a lycan with thick fur and a mass that might have broken the bed in half.

She sees the white wolf, but in place of the other is a large blanket spreading out. As though the lycan had been neatly skinned and stripped of all its fur. The most curious thing about it is the human-esque shape protruding from underneath. Sypha lifts up one of the corners and with wide, bright eyes, she smiles. None of the books mentioned anything about this.

Trevor lies on his side covered by the fur blanket (or what must have been his skin), naked and in the grips of a deep, comfortable sleep. His breathing is gentle and every so often, a soft snore escapes. Sypha thinks she’s staring at an entirely different man. The tired, dark circles under his eyes are gone and his skin looks softer, healthier. Those years of turmoil and loneliness since he was twelve, all faded away after one night.

Tenderly, she runs a few fingers through his tousled hair. He will be fine. The fear she had when his fangs sharpened, and his eyes grew vicious was only momentary. Sypha wants to be hopeful, her most cherished emotion right after belief. She wants to hope and believe that Trevor might find the strength within himself to live with this curse. She also wants to bend down and hold him for the rest of the morning, no fear that he will disappear the next day or even in the next hour. But Sypha won’t wake him just yet. She slips out of bed, hurrying across the cold floor, a blanket wrapped around her shivering body, until she reaches the manor kitchen.

The lasting effects of a night well slept soon dissipate as Sypha abruptly stops, staring with surprised eyes at Trevor and Alucard’s midnight spoils. Namely, a pile of dead pheasants and hares complete with bloody feathers strewn along the wooden table where they have their meals together. They were all so exhausted, she almost forgot about those.

Sypha walks past the pile and begins preparing her breakfast.

--

Alucard is next to wake up. He opens his mouth in a wide yawn, licking dry lips, before giving his back a good stretch. After a few smooth wisps of mist rising into the air, he returns to his normal form. Fully clothed, wearing everything from his high boots, tight black pants, and the white shirt with the plunging neckline. He remains splayed across the bedsheets, straightening out the rest of his limbs. Letting out a tired yet satisfied moan, Alucard props himself up on his elbow and turns to Trevor. His reaction is just as pleasantly shocked as Sypha’s. Reaching over, he nudges him awake.

“Good morning,” he coos. Once Trevor’s eyes open and he gains an awareness of where he is, his cheeks go slightly pink.

“I didn’t expect this.”

“Did you feel anything transfiguring back?”

“No, nothing at all. If only the first transformation went this way.”

“So, you remember everything we did. Hunting, running...”

“I do... more than I remember most things when I’m human. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it felt like to run that fast. Then there was... when I almost—”

“Nothing happened. It wasn’t your fault, and no one was hurt. Remember that as well.” Aside from a brief lapse in contentment, Alucard is relieved at how well Trevor is taking everything. He stares at him for a bit longer. His blue eyes, normally so tired and worn, look so much brighter in the winter sunlight. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Actually, I feel better than good. I felt so heavy before. Everywhere I went, even when I met you and Sypha, I was constantly carrying around all this extra weight. You could never see it, but it was there, beating down on my shoulders while I rotted from the inside out. I don’t know, it sounds like I’m being too dramatic. But now... I feel lighter. Newer, I guess. It’s as though I’ve just taken the longest fucking bath of my life.”

“Interesting way to describe it.”

“But, be honest with me.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“How hideous did I look? When I was... you know, in that form?”

Alucard doesn’t answer right away, preferring to keep Trevor in mild suspense. “It was not that terrible of a sight. You might actually look better as a lycan than a human.”

Trevor feebly tosses a pillow at his face. “Shut up.” Then comes an exasperated groan as he shoves his face into what used to be his “skin”. “Christ, that was a long night.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to go through it again?”

A valid question, and an important one. Trevor thinks about it at length. He can’t decide whether he wants his answer to be optimistic or his usual of reluctant acceptance. “I guess we’ll have to see in about a month’s time. Not like I have much of a choice.”

Alucard reaches over and grazes a couple fingertips along his stubbled chin. “You should know that I’m proud of you. We both are.”

“... don’t think I’ve heard that word come out of your mouth before.”

“Which one?”

“Proud. Of me in particular.”

“I’ve been proud of you many times in the past. I simply never vocalized it.”

“Well, my life’s purpose as been fulfilled. Guess I can die a happy man now.”

Grabbing the very same pillow, Alucard brings it down upon Trevor’s head again and again. “That was a horrible joke.” But the hunter, turn lycan, then turned back into a man only laughs.

Real laughter; it’s been too long since Alucard heard that sound.

[dekuplants]

be alright | TODOROKI

✧ pairing: todoroki x unspecified female character

✧ genre: angst

✧ word count: 2,847

✧ disclaimer: I’m using mostly pronouns rather than names in this piece lmao. ‘he’ refers to todoroki and ‘she’ refers to the female. anyone else should have their name specified ^^

↳ this story is based off the song Be Alright by Dean Lewis, maybe listen to it after reading if you’re expecting feels lmao

yikes my first actual fanfic here, let’s get it

—— ;

Blinking at the descending snowflakes, an ominous feeling crystallized in his gut when she asked him to meet, after days of not seeing each other.

The weather was freezing, a chilly breeze of wind blowing by every so often. If one were to run to the seaside, it was easy to see the sun resting on the horizon, announcing that the end of the day was near. The boulevards were empty and silent, almost resembling an abandoned ghost town.

The truth was, everyone had gone home long ago. After all, it was only paradoxical for anyone to stay out in such glacial temperatures that could potentially nip someone’s skin off. With snow that perpetually fell, it would all have been quite a picturesque scene if it were not for the gloomy vibe that spread through the streets.

Snow. That was the only thing he could think of, even after carefully observing the environment.

It was certainly quite miserable. He swore to his heart that it was only yesterday that he made snow angels and let out laughter he never knew he was capable of emitting. There was a strong refusal to believe that those days of long beach walks and conversations at twilight were probably over. When even time could not interfere if it wanted to, or the moments when despair was something that never existed.

“Shoto?” left her chapped lips.

He looked up, bringing his attention back to her pale complexion and her frail-looking body, both of which were things most would find unpleasant. However, for him, it was different.

Then, she began to cry. He could only watch as tears gathered at the brink, eventually overflowing and running down her cheeks. His eyes followed as he saw the droplets hit the snow-coated pavement, before another one of her sniffles brought him back. As he rested his eyes on her forlorn expression, she instantly stared at the ground. That was probably when he knew for a fact that she was hiding something, or at least simply refusing to speak the truth. Whatever that truth was, he was not aware.

He was never a person who had a way with words, so he could only lunge his arm forward to grasp her hand. If anything, it felt colder than all the ice he had manipulated. It stayed that way for a few moments, but she realised she disliked the warmth that began to coat her hands. She immediately retracted her arm, pulling out of his grip with ease. At that point, it felt like there was absolutely nothing but an empty void filled with her whimpers. He wondered what exactly circulated her mind, but whatever he came up with was obviously not reliable.

“I made a dumb mistake,” she then spoke under her breath. Her hands were trembling. Her voice was raspy and broke a little, which indicated her dry throat. Those subtle little movements she made would be undoubtedly missed by regular people, but he noticed everything. He could only afford to stare, eventually nodding his head in acknowledgement as she continued.

A loud and long sigh of despair left her lips. “Remember the cigarettes you found on the counter last week?” She questioned, shoving her hands into her trench coat pockets. Her knees struggled to support her upper body, barely standing on her two feet with whatever strength she had left.

He nodded slowly, suspiciously eyeing her. She exhaled through her nose this time, before she seemingly forced the words out of her mouth.

“Those weren’t my friends’...it belonged to one of your male seniors.”

The color drained from his face then. Having always been a person who believed in the power of speech, it felt like he underestimated everything. It all made sense, how she would smell like cigarettes even though she never physically took a drag. How she was not the same around him anymore after staying out late for nights.

He pieced two and two together, turning on his heel and walking away. His head tilted towards the stone pavement. The sounds of her sorrowful weeping seemed to mute. He never looked back, refusing to believe that all he smiled about ended in nothing but pure lies and deception.

—— ;

If he had paid enough attention to the accumulating pain at the back of his eyes, he would have looked away ages ago. He didn’t know what drove him that far, but it wasn’t like he bothered anyway. Perhaps it was the feeling of stony desolation in the caverns of his heart. The sudden lack of energy and motivation to do anything at all, or maybe something as trivial as how terrible the weather had been recently.

He never had the best childhood, everybody who spoke to him knew that for a fact. It was written in stars and stone, impossible to reword for anything. The years of pain and abuse were permanently scarred at the back of his head, but he came to accept it eventually as the years went by.

However, he was not certain about the current situation.

It suddenly felt as if the world only had him as the population. He lived in the city, but to him it was close enough to being an uninhabited island. Scattered somewhere far away from any human contact in the deepest of oceans. Somewhere he could yell out into the open space and defrost his frozen heart.

His mind wasn’t in a good state, either. It was as good as a vacant vessel. Some would probably call it one-track, while others would prefer the term brain dead. It was pathetic, really. Even if he tried, he knew he probably could not remember much on what he did on a regular basis.

When was the last time he had a proper meal?

Don’t know.

Wasn’t miserably alone in his unlit room?

Beats him.

Simply had a smile on his face?

Unanswerable.

One thing he could answer, though, was what he had been doing ever since that winter day. It simply consisted of him sitting in the corner of his room, the lights switched off and curtains drawn closed. His legs were folded and his back leaned against the wall. With his phone practically molded into his fingertips at that point, he continued to stare at the words displayed on the blinding screen.

He let out a dry laugh. He found humor in how fragile the relationship was. It was like glass, shattering at the slightest touch, but how much exactly did he know back then?

Undoubtedly, the old messages they sent each other brought a sense of nostalgia and warmth. It was an enjoyable time, but he wished he could just experience it one last time. It was right there in front of him. If he could only grasp those memories with his bare hands and bring it to his chest, he would never hesitate.

Gone were the times when the only thing the both of them thought about was which café to go next, which place to go for a walk and when they would see each other again. It was two years ago when the naive, callow adolescence blossomed within them. Happiness and freedom was all they had. A future together was what they longed for.

Life had different plans, unfortunately.

No one had changed him quite as much as she did. Of course he had his friends for additional moral support, but even that had a limitation. Being with her was a little different. The mere act of staying by her side was enough to bring him a gargantuan amount of comfort, safety and love — all of which were things he never received much as a child. Whenever he acknowledged her presence, it felt for a split second that he could go beyond. Push himself towards the limit. Exceed the limit. Touch the sky. Perhaps travel even further than that.

The cold, empty space next to him only added fuel to the fire. He knew it wasn’t right. He was aware that the messages were messing with his head, but of course he couldn’t control himself. Of course he couldn’t. After all, it was indeed someone who turned his life around, wasn’t it? It had always been her. His ear-to-ear smiles. His unaccustomed laughter. The euphoria that radiated from his heart. He owed it all to her.

However, she owed him nothing.

It was evident on the day she declared her love as a lie. Everything was false. Nothing they felt was true. It was as if she deleted the past just like that with a click of her fingers, the memories buried under layers of thick soil. If he were to stick his arms in and start digging, exactly how much of those precious moments could he unearth? If he were to touch her face one last time, he would definitely tell that she had moved on, wouldn’t he?

She was far ahead of him. In fact, she always had been. She was always more outspoken, outgoing and extroverted. She knew how to speak and was never afraid of expressing herself. She knew many people, mostly boys if he had to be honest. He never made a big deal out of it until that day he questioned her about the cigarettes. It wasn’t like he ever thought about smoking, neither did she.

When she spilt the beans, he was not utterly surprised. He knew it was bound to happen at some point as soon as he realized a change in her behaviour. The slight flinch she would make when he went anywhere near her, or the way she would stiffen whenever he kissed her.

It didn’t come as a shock to him either when another friend told him about her kissing his own senior. If anything, he couldn’t care less about what she did or planned to do with other boys. It was the feeling of betrayal that he just couldn’t seem to shake. The feeling of abandoned loyalty and unmade promises. When their future was so near, yet so far away.

Just walk away already, his friends would tell him countlessly. She’s not worth your time. You don’t deserve her. You’re better off without her. Nothing lasts forever. First love always hurts the most. She’s not worthy. Everything sounded the same to him at that point. It felt like he lost the ability to feel anything. He should be crying and shouting into the void, but he simply couldn’t. He didn’t have the strength or willingness to do any of the above.

All he wanted was a second try, to restart everything right from the beginning. To rewind back to when he met her in the first day of high school. When they were nothing but innocent trainees with developing abilities. He merely wanted to linger in those moments for one last time. Give him a year. A month. A week. A day. Even a minute would mean the world to him.

—— ;

About two weeks later, he found himself being greeted by a wide smile and embraced by a pair of strong arms in a tiny room. Midoriya’s small, yet cozy room never failed to lighten his mood, regardless the situation. It hadn’t changed much according to what he remembered the first time he arrived. The walls were still plastered with All Might posters. The shelves were filled with All Might figurines. Even the bedsheets haven’t altered, either.

As he examined the room, he could see that Midoriya’s computer still had a tab open, playing the video of his idol saving multiple people on loop. Things were still the same in that room, after all. It felt the slightest bit pleasant knowing that certain parts of his memory have remained untouched.

He watched as Midoriya sat on his bed, placing the bag of soda cans on the floor and shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. Then, Midoriya looked at him with a sad glint in his doe eyes. He knew what his friend called him over for, but being ready to discuss the topic was something he wasn’t sure he could do.

“Todoroki, you haven’t been talking at all recently. Tell me what’s on your mind,” Midoriya began. There was an obvious amount of patience being put into his speech. Certainly the last thing Midoriya wanted to do was to upset his already heartbroken friend.

It took him a while to respond. “She left me,” was still all he could afford to say. Anything else would have landed another layer of ice around his throbbing heart.

Midoriya sighed. “I’m not sure what happened exactly, but I think I know how you feel. I understand that she took up most of your memories and it’s hard for you to let go just like that, but-“

“But, what if I don’t want to let go? What if-“ He blurted out, only to trail off as all plausible explanations eluded him. Midoriya proceeded to pat his friend on the shoulder, watching him stare into nothingness with the blankest expression he had seen on him. In truth, he did feel something. It was betrayal. The same feeling of betrayal refused to leave and instead contained itself inside of him. It was slowly killing him, but there was only so much he could do.

Midoriya placed a few fingers under his friend’s jaw, tilting his head up to look at him. “I know you love her, but it’s over, Todoroki.” Upon hearing so, the boy simply shook his head, turning his body to face his friend before him.

“No, maybe it would help if I called one last time to ask how she was doing. Perhaps the feeling of talking to her again would bring the smallest bit of happiness,” He rambled, his voice cracking a little. Midoriya panicked at the sight of that, frantically waving his hands in front of his face.

“Are you out of your mind? No way. Please, it doesn’t matter. Put the phone away. It’s never easy to walk away, but let her go. Believe you can and you will,” Midoriya declared firmly to his delusional friend, straight in the face. It didn’t seem to do much, though. He still looked rather unfazed, the subtle sadness and hope of her return still glimmered in his heterochromatic eyes.

Instead, he exhaled tiredly. “If only I was as positive as you. I wish I never saw things negatively. I wish I never felt all this...I’m just so confused. Lost. I’m exhausted, Midoriya,” he answered, burying his face into his palms as he widened his eyes in frustration while the makeshift darkness enveloped his vision. As he began to notice the small gaps in between his fingers that allowed light from above to seep through, Midoriya spoke again.

“Truthfully, Todoroki...Nothing heals the past like time. We’re all born to love someone eventually. That someone could be anywhere in the world, searching for you. For all you know, you could be searching for them, too. If she left you like you meant nothing, then she obviously isn’t the one. Nobody can steal the love you’re born to find, so keep looking.”

Upon hearing so, the half-and-half boy finally pulled away from his palms, heaving a loud sigh as he gave his friend a curious look. Midoriya only giggled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck as he reached down for the soda cans with his free arm. Midoriya passed one to his friend before him, who accepted it without much thought.

“What are you implying, Midoriya?”

Midoriya smiled again, popping the soda can open with two fingers and taking a small sip of the beverage as he thought of a response. “It’s going to hurt for a bit of time, that’s all. However, you’ll find another and be just fine. Bottoms up for now, let’s forget whatever you’ve felt tonight.”

The green-haired boy raised his soda can, looking down at the boy on the floor with an empathetic expression. Todoroki knew he was no one to decline, so he elevated his soda can to meet Midoriya’s. The sound of metal against metal rang through the air.

To Midoriya, it was the beginning of his friend’s emotional recovery. To Todoroki, it certainly meant starting from scratch.

Although she tore his skyscrapers down to rubble, he was now ready to build it all back up. With a stronger foundation and a better mindset, he knew he could promise himself a new chapter, with a new beginning and a better ending, without her.

[lalast0ne]

The elephant in the room

Layla

I’ve been avoiding my parents, Ruby, The Gentleman’s Club and any situation that could land me face to face with Naz, like the plague since the encounter in my Dad’s office. I know I can’t carry on like this forever but at the moment, I’m of the mindset that if I didn’t see any of them then I didn’t have to speak about anything I was feeling. And right now I was feeling betrayed; Betrayed that my own family had welcomed Naz back into our lives with open arms. Wilder hadn’t pressed me for any other details since our chat and for that I was thankful. My ostrich approach of burying my head in the sand in the hopes everything would return to normal ASAP, was suiting me just fine. The timer of the oven pulls me from my thoughts and I bend to retrieve my third attempt of chocolate muffins. Wilder didn’t have to know these were my third attempt. I’d gotten rid of the evidence of the other 2 batches; The first was raw in the center and the second had been …… slightly ….. overdone. These though, these looked perfect! Step aside Delores, there’s a new cook in town. I smile across at the pups as they both sit watching me, wagging their tails in the hopes of getting a treat.* Not a chance, kids. These are for my main man … when he comes out of that office! *He’d been spending more and more time in there lately. I didn’t ask why or what he was doing. Not because I didn’t care but because I figured if he wanted to tell me about it he would. I throw the oven gloves on the side and flick the coffee machine on as I exit the kitchen. Padding down the hallway toward the closed office door, I wait a few seconds until the low rumble of his voice stops, then tap my knuckle before pushing the door open.* Baby? Are you coming out?

Wilder

*I hang the phone up in frustration after cutting the call with that idiot who runs the grocery store. I gave him three simple rules and he had broken each and every one of them. This was his one and only warning. Next time, I was paying him a visit in person and it would not be good day. I close up the paperwork on my desk, the smell of something chocolate invading my office and then I hear your voice on the other side of the door. Standing quickly, I open the door and have to put my hands up to keep you from falling into me. A smirk plays at the corner of my lips.* Were you listening to my call Little Ball of Fire?

Layla

*I right myself as quickly as possible and feel my cheeks heat.* Not at all. *A minor lie and I know you know it.* I just didn’t want to interrupt you while you were hard at work *I try to look over your shoulder, already knowing I won’t see anything out of place or unordinary in the office behind you* and I wanted to let you know that the homemade snacks were ready. Delores would be so impressed with me. *I raise an eyebrow questioningly at you.* Are you done in here now?

Wilder

*Smirks, leaning down and bites your neck, my hands sliding around to cup your ass.* I’m all done in here for the day. *I take a step as you step backwards, leading us into the kitchen.* Whatever you made smells really good. *I go to bite your neck again, growling and then laugh when I see both Killer and Luna with a muffin.* I don’t think dogs are supposed to eat chocolate.

Layla

Finally. *My body presses into yours and I laugh softly as your teeth bite down.* I was beginning to miss you and I made you … *I pull back slightly when you start laughing, my eyebrows raised questioningly. I spin around quickly to see both dogs demolishing off the last of evidence.* No! You pair of little… *Pulling away from you, I chase both dogs, with their tails wagging, down the hall and back to the kitchen where I discover my perfect third batch has vanished. I hear your footsteps coming up behind me and pout as I turn to look at you.* They looked even better than they smelled!

Wilder

*Following the trail of evidence to the kitchen, one lone muffin still remaining on the counter.* It’s the thought that counts baby. *Takes a step forward and pulls you into my arms, kissing your pouty lip.* Want me to kill them for eating all your hard work?

Layla

*I can’t help but laugh. Your ability to turn any situation into a laughing matter amazes me given how serious you are in the outside world. If people only knew just how soft you could really be. Shaking my head, I nip your lower lip.* You leave those little thieving pups alone, Mr. Steele, otherwise it’ll be your ass that’ll be in trouble. *I twist my head to look at the sad looking lone muffin.* Help yourself to the cake. I spent hours slaving over that. *I turn back to you, my lips tugging upward at the corners in amusement.* One of us should get to enjoy the fruits of my labor. *I snap my teeth at you and pull away.* Coffee?

Wilder

I prefer when your ass is in trouble. *Spanking your ass when I walk past and grab the muffin, cutting it in half.* Coffee sounds good. *I eat my half in one bite, turning to look at you.* I think it’s time we had a talk Layla. I notice you have been avoiding your family. I know this because they have suddenly become my best friend.

Layla

*I place 2 mugs on the counter and make each of our coffees just how we like. The mention of my family stops me in my tracks and I slowly spin to look at you, a frown on my face. I guess we’re going there after all.* You’re not funny. *I turn my back on you when your lips curl up.* You know I love that my family have accepted you so quickly. Just like you know exactly why I’m avoiding them. *I gather both mugs and pass one to you when you move beside me.* I know I can’t stay out of their way forever, but for the moment, it’s just best for everyone.

Wilder

Thank you. *I take my mug from you, debating whether I should push this issue or not. Sipping my coffee, I set my mug back down and move to cage you in.* Interviews have been set up for this week. I’m really excited for the background checks. New victims to unearth and dig up dirt on. It’s going to be so much fun.

Layla

*My hands trail along your forearms, over your biceps to your shoulders and down your chest. I can see it in your eyes as you internally deliberate whether to push the matter, or move away from it and I actually feel my shoulders relax when you change the subject.* I’ll sort it soon with them. I promise. *Tapping my finger against your nose, I laugh hard as your face goes from serious to full of excitement.* I actually have my first interview lined up tomorrow; Salem Lincoln. Apparently she Delores’s great niece. She’s in town for a while and needs money so I told Delores to send her to the club. She wasn’t sure what experience she has work wise but I’m sure we can find a role for her. Besides, any relative of Delores has to be credible and trouble free, surely.

Wilder

Salem Lincoln? *Growls and bites your finger harder than expected.* That girl had the audacity to pull a gun on me the other day. I’m not so sure she does not have trouble following her. I warned her what would happen if it found her. *Reaching around and grabs the last half of the muffin and stuffs it in my mouth.* She’s a spitfire that someone needs to knock down a peg.

Layla

*I wince and pull my finger free from your teeth, watching you with interest as you speak.* A gun? Wow, so she can definitely hold her own. Just the type of girl I like to employ. *I raise an eyebrow at you, watching as you stuff the cake into your mouth giving me the perfect opportunity to speak.* When exactly did she have the opportunity to pull a gun on you? I’ve not even seen the girl.

Wilder

I paid a visit across the street on Friday. This girl showed up in my town and she needed to explain herself. *Narrows my eyes at your expression.* I let myself in. It wasn’t breaking and entering.

Layla

I see. *I nod my head slowly, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched.* So, you let yourself in to Delores’s house, introduced yourself politely *Tipping my head to the side* and she pulled a gun on you?

Wilder

*Throws my head back, howling with laughter.* We both know I did not introduce myself properly. *Lifts you up onto the counter, biting at your shoulder.* Are you not suppose to be on my side Little Ball of Fire? I’m protecting you and my town when a stranger shows up unannounced. Much like you did all those weeks ago. The difference there is *smirks* had you have pulled on a gun on me, I would have fucked you right there in the diner.

Layla

I will always be on your side baby. But if I’d had a gun when you came in to the club garage unannounced, it’s highly likely I would have pulled it on you too. *My legs wrap around you as you step close to me.* You’re pretty intimidating, Wilder Steele. I can’t blame Salem for feeling the need to defend herself at your unexpected intrusion. *My head dips and I attack your neck, my tongue licking a path to your ear.* Maybe we should reenact that meeting in the diner. I have a gun now. *I laugh softly and nip your ear.* But in all seriousness, we need staff. Don’t scare them all away before they’ve even begun. Have your fun with your background checks but we discuss any issues together, don’t just tell people they’ve not got jobs because you see something you don’t like.

Wilder

*Growls low, my hands squeezing your hips as I feel your tongue tease up my neck.* We discuss all matters and I can kill the people that step out of line. Sounds like the perfect plan to me.

Layla

Easy there, handsome. How about we go with a simple disciplinary first and if a problem persists, depending on what it is, then you and your security team can step in? That seems more reasonable, don’t you think? *I nip your earlobe and sit up straight, smiling at you.* The vetting process is going to be so tight that only the best employees will be taken onboard anyway. I’m not anticipating a need for, you know…. killing the staff.

Wilder

*Huffs and frowns.* Way to kill a mans dreams Layla. I was fully expecting to kill some of the staff off. Now you expect me to…..work with them? What kind of upstanding club are we running?

Layla

You’re so cute. *My amusement can’t be contained. Resting my forehead against yours, I laugh softly.* It’s a crazy concept, isn’t it? Managing. *Coiling my fingers around the ends of your beard and tugging.* But I think, after a little adjustment period and resisting the temptation to slit anyone’s throat, you’ll be damn good at it. The Steele Cage is going to be as upstanding as possible. Just like the leaning tower of Pisa.

Wilder

We are not becoming that much of a tourist attraction. *Leans in and bites across your jaw.* We are going to be an amazing team together. Our club is already a success and it’s not even opened yet. *I slide my hands down to grip your thighs, a soft moan escaping your lips.* I think it’s time for us to discuss your sister and this guy who is consuming your mind.

Layla

We’re already an amazing team. The buzz around town about the club is exciting. The locals want to get in. *My laugh turns to a groan and I shift closer to the edge of the counter.* Don’t say it like that. There’s only one man that consumes my mind and he’s currently between my legs. *I scrunch my nose as I continue speaking.* And I definitely don’t want to discuss my sister. *Smirking down at you, I press soft kisses to your lips.* We’ll talk about it all later. Right now, we have a date with a huge bowl of popcorn, a movie, the sofa and a blanket.

Wilder

*Tugs your bottom lip between my teeth, kissing you hard.* Let’s enjoy this movie, popcorn and you naked. Then we can talk about the elephant you are avoiding.