#39. Fear

So titled because (yes, fine, it's another vampy fic) but it's about the real kind. You know, the scary ones? Remember when vampires were scary?

Oh, and still fits the 100 guidelines, which say I've gotta write "Sokka/Toph fic, be it romantic, friendship, or otherwise"...


Fear's a funny thing.

People are scared of the stupidest things sometimes. Dying, they say. Death. But that's nothing, is it? What do you know about that? Death is moving, leaving a familiar place for one you don't know so well. But maybe, if you die, you're just not there any more. Gone. What's scary about that? Or maybe you're reborn—and that's even better, don't complain, you're still in the same goddamn world, aren't you? So you're fine—or maybe if you're good, you go somewhere nice, call it what you want, somewhere you've earned your spot by being you.

Death. Nothing scary about death; it's just falling asleep. No, dying's not the effect, it's just the cause. It's the rot. It makes everything else bad. You say you're scared of dying, but no, dying's just an alternative to living, one of the things you can do instead. It just screws up everything else.

She's had a lot of time to think about this. She thinks about a lot of things. She's not scared of dying.

She's not scared of anything, much. So to speak, she's not affected.

She's a cause.

Is. Was. There's a subtle difference. Was she a cause? Doubtless. Is she? Dubious. People are scared of the stupidest things. They like to be scared of the unknown. They like to be scared of things they can believe in.

And the legends? Stories passed down from generation to generation, stories about pale ones, murderers, shadows in the night that grab you like you grab an apple off a tree, where the last thing you see is their sharp-toothed grin? Well, they don't really believe those. Not real, right?

It's a little ironic. How real is death? Go on. Prove it. Touch it for me. Can't, can you? But you're scared of it?

Now, her? She's real. Very much so. Extremely tangible—it's one of her best qualities. But they aren't scared of her, because they don't believe in her.

They should. And they should be.

She waits, leaning against the tree branch, sensing them coming. Not see; she didn't say see. She doesn't see them, not anymore. Can't see anything. Look at her face for a second or two, and if that's not obvious, you're probably blind too.

She's an earthbender, but she didn't really appreciate it until she stopping living. Which, incidentally, was the same time she stopped seeing.

Really want the full story? Fine. Not going to like it, though.

He clawed her eyes out.

Guy who… well, killed her, for lack of any better description? Yeah, him. Sicko, that one. Liked to play with meals. Also liked to make sure the meals couldn't actually play back. So he did that to her. She always says it that way: "I got my eyes clawed out", not "I'm blind". Blind equals helpless. Eyes clawed out, on the other hand, makes people feel sympathy. Pity. She can vaguely remember feeling those kind of things, and knows that it's an advantage. Getting your prey to pity you? Until they invent a man-eating kitten that can play dead (or something), she's pretty much got a monopoly on that.

Except the guy got staked before he got done with her. Funny thing, this. They—by which she means him and her, the creatures they are—are magic beings, half spirit, and you don't kill a spirit. So the body can die—host, if you want—but the spirit goes on. It finds a new body, one that's been bitten, one that's already infected.

Guess who.

Course, by the time the mob who'd staked the first blood-drinker worked it out, she was well out of staking range. And blind. And thirsty.

But enough about her. The couple's drawing close. They're a boy and a girl, both tall and muscular in a lean, wiry way. From what she can make out, the girl's pretty, and he's handsome. They hold hands. Cute.

They stop, and they're looking at her. Their hearts pick up slightly, and through the silent summer air, she catches the word 'spirit' and 'Solstice'.

Today, she thinks, really? Damn, that's so theatrical, and then, actually, when someone goes missing on the Solstice, it's a much smaller deal, isn't it? No blame on you. It's a good thought, and she grins as it crosses her mind. Long, dagger-like teeth where her canines should be glint in the moonlight. The boy and girl are watching warily, and after a moment they wonder what kind of spirit girl has fangs. Because they haven't heard of any spirits only... only stories, about monsters... which don't exist, right?

The girl never has time to change her mind about this.

Why? Simple. She's closer. It's the ultimate wrong place, wrong time. The ground rises up and swallows her feet, sending her tumbling to the ground as the current earthbender, soon-to-be blood-drinker surges forward on a wave of earth. She knocks the girl sprawling, grabs her neck in one hand. She's got the strength of a platypus-bear, speed of a swordsman, and there isn't a creature alive that can stand in her way.

Snap. The girl falls limp. Clean kill—good.

The boy stares, breathing fast, but to his credit, he doesn't turn tail. She's vaguely impressed, and slightly pleased: she hates chasing her meals—where's the fun in that? No, getting your eyes torn out of their sockets turned her off toying with her food, oddly enough—and also, she likes the brave ones. They've got more flavor.

He scrambles, draws a sword with a shick of metal on metal, holding it up guardedly. He's afraid, but not reluctant, just because she looks like a girl his age. Again, impressed. And that's really not something she is very often.

But he's still got no chance.

He lunges, and she grabs the sword mid-arc, wrenching the metal aside as if it were tin foil. His heart freezes for a moment in shock, and then his fist clenches and he swings at her. She snatches the hand out of midair too, twisting it back until something snaps. He roars in pain, staggering back. Her nails have dug into the flesh, and blood's running down his hand.

Now, bloodlust, real bloodlust, isn't just an emotion. It's a state of mind. Sharks do this too—they call it 'feeding frenzy'—when they get the scent and need it. This kind of hunger is a beast of its own, throwing back its head and screaming inside her, clawing at the inside of her ribs as though it could break out and sink its jaw into it prey, because she's not doing that fast enough. She lunges, and a second later she has him pressed up against the fence on the other side of the road, one arm folded across his chest to pin him there, the other hand yanking his head back by the hair just above the nape of his neck. He doesn't have time to cry out before she bites.

Jugular—oh, spirits, so good—thick, rich—she knew he'd be delicious…

It's ecstasy, better than anything, better than sex—which, having lived a hell of a long time, she's had a few times, and decided is overrated. He gasps out loud as she drinks, loudly, not missing a drop, her tongue working across the skin to catch drips. As she gorges, he goes limp.

It's funny how different this is, she knows, for each of them. For him—and she's sure of this, because she remembers—it's pleasure more than he's ever known, more than he can even process. That's the venom in her fangs doing its job. Eliminates the struggle: evolution's set her up well.

But she can't feel that. There's nothing sensual about it for her. They're different species. This isn't violation, by their terms. She's not human, not even close; she needs different things to survive, she senses differently, she moves differently. She's a predator, and this is no more romantic than a lion on top of him, tearing his throat out.

But for him

He presses into her, back arching as he seizes up, wracking his body for a way to react to this level of bliss. He's paralyzed by his own libido, she thinks, gone, and soon he'll be gone, too, if you know what I mean…

"Let me go."

She's so shocked, she stops. Freezes, there, teeth clamped on his neck. Blood's overflowing her lips, streaking both their skin, but she's too stunned to care.

This is the ultimate pleasure. She's honest; she can face the truth, and she's spent her entire existence missing those few moments where the original blood-drinker's teeth were on her neck and, despite the pain that was surely there, she didn't even care about her eyes, or sudden lack thereof.

But he wants her to stop.

Because he wants to live that badly.

And all of a sudden she's hesitating, because she's got the girl to drink, so she's still got a meal, maybe she could stop with him, and then…? She knows she's special, she's got spirit in her, but they say that the bitten ones are almost the same. Blood-drinkers, almost as strong, as fast, and they live forever until they get stupid. Only difference—she's heard, all theory—is that only the demi-spirits, the real ones, can make new bloodsuckers.

The ones like her.

She's been a solo act til now, but this boy… she likes him. He's handsome, she sensed that, and strong—she feels that—and he's a fighter. As partners go, she doesn't find many better candidates.

Blood's pulsing out of him, painting his shoulder red. Tick, tock, she thinks, tick, tock.

She pulls away.

He slumps into the fence, collapsing to the ground. He feels the pain now—she knows, because she did too, her breaking body burning off the venom like a too-small dose of medicine. It hurts him now, and he's still bleeding.

He won't need blood any more, though.

She steps back, surveys him. He's shaking faintly. Shock?

He'll live, she thinks, and then grins wryly. Sort of.

She raises a hand and rock rises around him, enveloping his body like armor. She twitches a finger and, with all the grace of a possessed suit of armor, he steps forward. Excellent. The girl can't feel anything any more, so Toph grabs her by her broken neck, starting to walk away. Her new companion lurches after her, increasingly smoothly as she works out how to guide him. A whim—spirits, and when was the last time she had whims?—seizing hold of her, she beckons the boy closer with a jerk of her hand. His eyes are wide, unfocused, and he's very pale. She grabs his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

"Tell me your name," she says, quietly but clearly, in a tone of voice that lets him know she expects an answer. When it was her, she could scream and beg for the ecstasy again, so there's no excuse for him not being able to talk.

He shudders, gasps, convulsing at her touch. "Sokka," he hisses, eyes already rolling into his head, half-delirious.

"Sokka." She lets him go, rolls it around experimentally in her mouth.

She likes it.

"Nice to meet you, Sokka," she says, and then digs her feet into the ground with purpose. A bulge of rock swells beneath her, and suddenly she's surging forward, surfing across the earth on her wave of rock. The pain's too much, clearly, because he's passed out, but she keeps him moving like a puppeteer, skating beside her. He isn't a bender, she muses, but then again, he's a swordsman. And he's a fighter.

Which is good. Because she's got high standards, and he's going to have to be pretty dangerous to keep up.


Okay. First? THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the reviews. Damn, I wish I'd known you were all so opinionated on Twilight earlier!

This is the second and definitely final vampire-related piece (the first being the previous chapter). Because vampires kinda used to be cool, and because they'd still be if not for, you know, the fact that they're now just dead (no, not undead; dead as in expired, has-beens.)

But, thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated!