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south-sea · 1 year

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Whatever It Takes

Context: A mission Shadow had been on goes spectacularly wrong and ends in a number of new/reopened injuries. He's back home and recovering with Metal and a trusted friend. While a survivor from the mission reviews information with Shadow, Metal and the friend step out to give them privacy.

Metal is forced to confront some uncomfortable truths he's been trying not to give attention to.

"Are you worried about him?"

Metal does not deign to give her a response. He simply goes about his business leading her through the city streets, never slowing pace, never turning his head. His task is to guide her to relevant storefronts for supplies—things that would benefit Shadow. Nothing more, nothing less.

Conversation does not interest him. Overwriting the last few moments of his time spent with Shadow, still safely in their home, does not interest him. He replays the moment behind his eyes over and over again. Tries not to think of why. Tries not to think of what might happen if he never gets the chance to see or hear or hold him again.

It will be okay. It is always okay.

Isn't it?

They are only talking back home. Shadow isn't going anywhere. This is different. This is different.

Isn't it?

There is no danger. There is no threat. There is no reason to worry. Not this time.

Right?

By chance, she gains on Metal enough to peer around his side and catch a flicker of blue where red irises normally would be. "Oh, are you sad? Is there a way I can help?"

Metal stops in his tracks. From impassively quick-paced to abruptly still, he whips around to face her with all the posture of a frustrated child, complete with balled fists and an almost-stomp of a foot. Despite the uncharacteristic amount of movement and organic gesturing, the tilt of his head makes his eyes look more desperate than angry when they lock onto hers.

Don't ask such a thing. Everything is fine. It is, and will be, because it must.

He can no longer calculate a world where it is not.

“Time and time again, I have not been there." Metal's voice box is rattling without his consent. He answers aloud without ever quite answering her questions.

"For the few instances that I have failed to accompany him on his missions or adventures, I have been rewarded with the knowledge that he has been gravely injured." The volume of his voice lowers a fraction. This is not information for strangers' ears. "Impalements—multiple, if his comments are to be believed. A missing arm. Missing legs. And now this.”

He makes a wide, frustrated gesture at nothing, as if to accuse the multiverse at large of the unspeakable damage Shadow had returned home with this time. “I do not know what this even was yet. But I am expected to leave his side once again with the now-substantiated fact that there is a 22% chance I may return to find him a heap on the floor with yet another injury, or not there at all.”

She regards him with only a frown at first. This sort of thing is never easy, she tells him. She had been "lucky" enough to be there for Shadow when a majority of those earlier injuries had occurred—that first impalement he never knew about, notably—and in a position to help him.

Metal does not need to be told.

He remembers, with something bordering on terror, the moment in that twisted world where a mindless machine had taken Shadow away from him again. Back then, he had found broken quills in the ice and picked them up—dreading to think this, at least, would remain, if Shadow himself were never to be found again. He remembers finally seeing him after days of maddening worry, tattered and broken and barely alive and nursing an arm that seemed limp and unresponsive and pale.

He remembers, and tries not to seethe or fret or spiral with the guilt about his own lack of reaction in hindsight, the moment the two of them had appeared in their home's living area after what had only meant to be a simple adventure. Shadow, legs from the knees down pale and weak, half asleep; and her, supporting his meager weight. She spent the night then, too.

Time and time and time and time again, he remembers his failure to be there when it mattered most.

"It was so very easy to forget that he could get so dreadfully hurt when he didn't accumulate scars. That it was entirely possible that he gained many more injuries when no one was around to help him, and that I'd just been lucky enough to be within the same general locations those times," she says in nearly a single breath. It isn't easy on her either. He barely comprehends it. The realization, the implication of her words, crushes him. "And now I worry more..."

He cannot do anything but look up at her with blue eyes and clenched fists and an utterly silent stare that doesn't look angry. Her latest words strike him terribly, and his head has tilted upward just enough to give his stare a look of devastated understanding.

He knew, and yet he never considered that there could have been times prior to these larger incidents, where Shadow might have returned home looking relatively undamaged—having already recovered from it alone.

Metal recalls a moment in time, what seems like ages and lives ago, lying broken and staring at a sky not nearly as brilliant as the one here. Alone, and in pieces, on Little Planet, waiting.

Only ever waiting.

What if it had been Shadow? What if, some day, it is Shadow, alone and in pieces and without anyone to return him home and mend and care for him?

Metal is not coded to tremble.

She tells him something more. He does not hear it. It must be important, and yet he cannot hear it. What qualifies as his mind is alight with terror and grief and mourning of an event that has yet to happen and a person he has yet to lose. A person he cannot lose.

He cannot fathom a world without Shadow. Confronting that near-reality once in the past already had been enough to send him into a tailspin of emotional glitches and emergency shutdowns and know no peace until he was back safe. It is a feeling much like the deafening drone in his head now, and the distinct feeling his voice box should be active with sounds that lungs he does not possess might force him to make. Sounds he remembers Sage making in her most vulnerable moments of pleading and wishing and begging for family—for love.

"Will you help me convince him to accept my help? Or to at least get help from someone?" Her words finally break through.

Despite the drone in his ears and the fuzzy, pixel edges in his vision, he lifts his head to focus on her. He cannot tell where she is, cannot see her.

Metal's voice is not coded to shake.

“I… will do what I must to ensure that he is safe. He is my charge. My everything.”

Without the typical glimmer in his eyes to indicate active processing of data, the delay before his next words is unusual. Five seconds. Ten. The drone in his ears gradually fades. And finally he assumes a more neutral posture with comparatively relaxed shoulders and not-so-tightly-clenched little fists.

“I intend to learn healing magic," he tells her with conviction. "To bolster my ability to monitor his wellbeing. I have already contacted my caretaker for assistance."

He raises his gaze to meet hers, stern and red and focused once more.

"You, whose goal is the same, have my support. We will do what we can. What we must. Tell me what I can do.”

#'she' refers to a friend's character #who i am not at liberty to elaborate on but have received permission to reference here #metal sonic #second chance au #metadow #qpr metadow #etc etc #fics by sea

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hinagarasu · 1 year

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FINALLY!!! Gagamaru Gin on Blue Lock Volume 22 cover 🥳

#blue lock #blue lock manga #blue lock gagamaru #gagamaru gin #bllk #bllk manga #bllk edit #blue lock gagamaru gin #gin gagamaru #blue lock gin gagamaru #bllk gagamaru

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sojournerstales · 1 month

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Lauralette is Hungry

It is the tail-end of a long, hard week. Lauralette’s bones ache, her breath tastes stale, and there is a sharp pit in her stomach. Lauralette is hungry and she has been trying not to deal with it. Methods to that end include a diet of red meats, idly thumbing the on-off button of her phone, pacing the main room of her apartment, leaning forward with her forehead on the wall and her eyes closed, keeping halfway busy with chores and errands that are quickly given up on, and then thumbing that button on her phone again.

She isn’t going to make the first call, but the person she is waiting on hasn’t either.

Frustrated, Lauralette tosses the phone down face-up on the table. It reflects the dark grey sky through the window. Moon-haze, all clouds and no stars and a glare of red from the lit sign outside.

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

Lauralette owns the place and her living situation is a small two-room affair above the main reception and office. She doesn’t need a lot of space and if her ego needs a shot she can embellish things by claiming that in actuality 22 rooms are hers.

Right now Lauralette is in the dining room which is the living room which is the kitchen. She’s trying to keep down a greasy, somewhat undercooked burger, but it’s already tasting stale at two bites in and the cheap-as-shit chair is uncomfortable and her jaw aches from clenching.

“Fuck it.”

From slouched to upright to standing, her bones creaking all the way, Lauralette rolls her shoulders and massages that space between her neck and clavicle. She ignores the twinge of pain there which carries down from her neck and the top of her spine. She hisses whatever curse she has for it and drags herself through the bedroom to her bathroom.

The light here is a cold green-blue from the cheap lino and wall tiles. Lauralette peels out of her clothes and leaves them discarded over the corner of the towel rack. Her skin is grey, her eyes are dark and sunken. In years past her dirty blonde hair had looked more vibrant and she had put the work in, given it volume and sheen and she had blushed herself, and painted her lips red. She is older now and less interested in putting the effort in. Truthfully she hasn’t had to put the effort in for a while.

Lauralette pushes herself into the shower and washes under cold water. She had put on some mass since her glossy blonde, red lipped days, and then let it go again. Well worked musculature was left behind, along with nicks and scars and calloused knuckles. The water feels good down her back and for a moment she can forget everything aches. Only a moment.

The idea of clean and presentable had shifted over time. These days a shower is body soap and two-in-one shampoo, water splashed on her face and then quickly rinsed off. Clothing then has turned from sparkling black dress and heels to old jeans and a black t-shirt. She hand-combs her hair after drying off and by the front door Lauralette pulls on her bomber jacket and stuffs her hands in her pockets to find her keys.

Lauralette locks up the upstairs apartment and heads down. She is lost in her own head, mind filled with bad ideas, operating on autopilot as she moves through the reception, out the front door, almost bumping into a man.

“Oh thank God someone is here!” He sounds relieved.

“Uh?” Lauralette is trying to remember how to talk.

“Sorry, I know it’s late. I’ve been driving all night, I got totally lost on my way to– Nevermind that, sorry. Do you have a room?”

Lauralette stares at the man. He needs a shave and he’s sweating and his hair is a little greasy and he has thick rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. He looks warm in the literal sense, she knows nothing about him to gauge the other sense. He is also travelling alone. The man is easy pickings. She could take him to a room and rip him open.

“I can pay, obviously. Cash or card. Whichever is easier.”

The man’s saving grace is that he is simply not Lauralette’s type. Neither is it a good look if people go missing so close to the motel. Lauralette makes an irritated sound and heads back into the motel reception, “Fine,” She grunts, “Come in.”

The man’s relief is obvious and immediate. He follows Lauralette inside, who has quickly rounded the front desk, and almost fumbles the catch when she tosses him the key to a ground-floor room.

“Pay me tomorrow,” Lauralette says, already leaving the front desk, “Can’t be asked to open the register.”

“Oh. Oh, well. Okay then! Thank you.” He isn’t certain what to do with himself.

“Uh-huh.” Lauralette brushes past the man and heads out into the night air. She sucks on her teeth, tongue pressing against a sharp fang.

“Thank you!” The man calls out again. He is left to inspect the key given to see if it has a door number attached.

. .

Far flung from the small town she lives at, Lauralette pulls her truck into the parking lot at a roadside bar. Here there are stars in the sky. Lauralette pays them no mind. She climbs out of her truck, boots crunching gravel underfoot, and rolls her shoulders to work out any lingering stiffness from the drive.

She’s about an hour from home.

Hands stuffed into her pockets, Lauralette approaches the bar. It has a neon open sign that contradicts the painted lettering above it.

OLD MASTER’S ARMS

OPEN

Lauralette nudges the door open with her boot and sidles on inside. She catches the scent of tap beer and nicotine and sweat, then someone’s cologne, more than one strand of floral perfume, some kind of chlorination also. Underneath it all is the age that clings to the walls and the wood. Lauralette is hit with noise also – the mild din of conversation underneath a louder voice backed by terrible speakers and microphone pops. It is quiz night from the look and sound of things.

Lauralette licks her top teeth and sucks on a fang. The sharp point digging into her tongue focuses her from the sensation of the world packed into this bar and she scans the space. No patron looks isolated, it’s the sort of night where everyone arrived with a group and are unlikely to break off from each-other. They all look like they are getting along, any falling outs will be lubricated by alcohol and taken in stride.

She is scowling even though she doesn’t mean to. It’s just how her face rests, if rest can be considered as a frown and a knit brow and narrowed eyes. Someone once told her about how her crows’ feet would clench into fists. Scowling then, Lauralette walks to the bar. Most seats here are empty, anyone coming up intends to take their drinks away.

“You all good, hun?” The barmaid asks. She’s pretty enough, that’s the first impression. Warm skin, full lips, big brown eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, black ponytail and the way her apron is tied pulls her whole outfit snug to her figure. Hourglass.

Lauralette reads that with a long look that drags up until finally meeting the barmaid’s gaze – the barmaid wears a knowing look there – and Lauralette says, “Yeah.” A single word typically isn’t enough to lay a line, so she gives the mildest form of elaboration, “Long week.”

“I hear you,” The barmaid’s name tag says CAM in neat handwriting. Cam is cleaning a line of shot glasses with a bit of torn cloth. There is someone else behind the bar with her, he’s name-tagged PAUL and seems to be pulling more than his own weight. This means Cam can be busy with those glasses and with Lauralette’s company and not worry about much else.

“Mm,” Lauralette leans on the bar after sitting and gestures with a nod across the room, “Weekly? Monthly?”

“Few times a year. Look like your kind of thing?” One glass is stacked under the bar, the next is picked up for a polish.

Lauralette scoffs, lip curling, “No.”

The MC cracks a joke at the same time and the whole pub floor breaks out into a mixture of laughter or just polite chuckles. Mostly polite chuckles.

“Bad night to come if they aren’t your thing, then.” Cam says, “Not from around here?” She leans forward, elbows on the bar, glass and cloth still in hand. At this angle she is bent at the waist and Lauralette is unsubtle in dragging her gaze away from the crowd, craning her neck to look behind the bar, behind Cam, Cam’s behind.

“I don’t mind the noise,” Lauralette says, sounding absent, the question goes ignored. Her eyes have darkened, though her gaze is not quite perverse it is altered somehow. Shark-like. Blood in the water.

“You checking me out?” Cam leans to one side and intercepts Lauralette’s gaze. Here she demands they meet eye-to-eye, though her expression is amused rather than offended. Her smile long and lop-sided, one brow raised, eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. She is used to playing this sort of thing off, but Lauralette isn’t the same kind of breed as the good old boys Cam is used to.

Catching Lauralette’s gaze is a mistake.

Her eyes are black pits, abyssal and falling forever, and though eye-contact is momentary the feeling will last. Lauralette calls this her certain something and that’s something she used to say with a coy tone of voice and an easy ‘gotcha’ smirk. These days she hardly says anything about it, little effort put into the social side of affairs. At a certain point it became easier to act as hook rather than bait.

She spares idle thoughts for the concept of catch and release. A back-of-the-mind reminder.

It is Lauralette who breaks eye contact and the experience leaves Cam blinking, staring into space. She glances away and tries to remember herself, what she was doing, asking internally if someone had just given her an order to fulfill.

“Got a light?” Lauralette asks.

“Uh. Yeah. Sec.” Cam stands up straight and then leans back to pat down her apron pocket. Tied around her waist, but not over her shoulders, she has to rummage to find what she’s looking for. “Here.” Cam slides a translucent pink lighter across the bar.

It spins into Lauralette’s hand. “Cheers,” She mutters and pockets the lighter. “Got a cig, too?”

“… Yeah.” Cam obliges again. She is feeling stupefied, malleable, though the feeling is quickly starting to fade. She hands Lauralette a cigarette and adds – voice empty – “You gotta smoke outside.”

“Sure.” Lauralette pushes away from the bar. Cigarette balanced between her lips, she heads for the exit to the pub garden.

. .

Outside is relative quiet. The bar still thrums with the energy of a busy night, though that energy is hitting its peak with a round of clapping, some cheers and jeers, and the muffled unintelligible announcement of the winning team. Moments later, a handful of people step outside into the garden to light up before heading home.

So the smokers smoke, chat, comment on the cold, and one by one snuff out their little lights and head back inside to re-couple with the others they came with.

Lauralette watches this from a corner of the building, one which joins the beer garden and the back wall to a side-alley between the bar and old wooden fencing. There is a dumpster there, garbage bags piled up, a door into the kitchen or some such back area. She is outside of any cones of light from the bar or the garden lamps, marked instead by an ember pinpoint. Smoke curls from between two fingers and then her lips.

She waits.

Time passes.

Lights inside the bar go out, the main floor cleared. Lauralette slips from her corner position to deeper in the alley. Action had managed to push down a certain feeling, but now it bubbles back up from the pit of her stomach, carves a line up through her chest, and grips at the back of her throat.

Hunger.

Lauralette knows that Cam will come out here. It comes from a certain type of intuition gleaned during their brief eye-contact. It’s only a waiting game before the barmaid delivers herself to Lauralette. Cam will come out here, she will find a pleasing shape in the shadow, she will allow herself to be lured deeper. Her mind will ignore the litter, the rust of the dumpster, the horrid scent of it, all in favour of a kiss and hands on each others’ bodies.

Lauralette imagines taking Cam by the neck then, dipping her low while clutched tight. Then there her fangs will sink into skin and Lauralette will be able to drink deep.

Lauralette knows this from both sides. For the giver it is a mix of hot-and-cold. First ice where the skin is pierced, the sensation running through the giver’s veins until seizing and slowing their heart. Then in their head they swim with feverish heat. Their vision blurs with blots of inky darkness. The corners close in.

For the taker it is the base euphoria of a vital need met after too long. Water in the desert. Warm hands in the dead of winter. Food, actual food, after a lifetime of starvation. Satisfaction is reached only when the taker drinks deep of the blooded well and it takes only a moment for it to turn deadly. Only a moment for the giver to take hold of a small strand of their sense and try to push away. Only a moment for the taker’s feral instinct to kick in, like an errant twitch on a hair-trigger.

Only a moment to go from control to a dead woman slumped in blood behind a rusty dumpster.

Images of it all flash hot in Lauralette’s mind.

Door opens, door closes. Cam steps into the night holding a garbage bag in each hand. She mutters something to herself about getting no help and dumps the bags as best she can into the dumpster and it’s then that she hears a sound – movement just out of sight.

“Hey.” Cam’s voice has a shrill quality when met with cold air, “That you, weird hot lady?”

Nothing responds, nothing is there.

. .

“FUCK!” Lauralette slams her hand on the top of her steering wheel once, then twice more. After the third time she grips with both hands on top and rattles her arms, “Fuck!”

She is driving too fast down narrow winding roads, each turn is taken too hard. That feeling of speed, the g-force on each bend, the sight of the world whipping by on either side, none of it is enough to truly distract her from herself.

She had very almost made a terrible, terrible mistake. Though she knows to call it a mistake is part cowardice and would not truly characterize what could have happened. She almost gave into her hunger in the worst possible way, all because she has been avoiding a phonecall.

Her stomach hurts. Her own body is angry at her.

Lauralette slams a cassette into the center console of her truck. She hits play and cranks the volume and the entire vehicle is filled with bone-shaking garage metal.

Another sharp turn with no loss of control. The straight-away ahead is empty and so – screaming along to the wave of sound – Lauralette slams her foot down.

. .

BLOOD

ROCK

MOTEL

The light of the signage casts a red glow about its immediate area.

The dusty road leading two ways to and from the motel – one way goes towards town, an errant collection of shops, businesses, two tourist traps, and a sprawl of mostly single-floor houses. The other way goes elsewhere.

The front of the motel’s lobby. The glass of the windows and door reflecting the sign at odd, conflicting angles, glaring over the signage posted on the window interiors. Rates, lobby hours, local businesses.

Further flung, from the other side, the motel pool is tinged red only if the night breeze catches the surface just right.

Right below, the step that leads up to the lobby doors. A young woman is sat with her knees up looking tired and bored. Without thought or intent she focuses her gaze on the whites of her trainers turned red by the light above.

She sighs. Her name is Dina and she is not sure how long she is going to continue waiting out here. She had called ahead, she had knocked on the doors, she had walked back to the side of the road to expertly toss a small pebble at what she knows is the bedroom window. Only after all that did she walk around the side of the building to see that Lauralette’s pickup truck was gone.

Dina hears a distant engine approaching. The trope ‘speak of the devil,’ might apply in some fashion, but Dina has been trying to manifest Lauralette’s presence for a while now. What this is – the truck fast approaching down from the road towards elsewhere – is coincidence. Good or bad remains to be seen.

Dina braces herself because she truly does not know what state Lauralette is going to be in. Just underneath the sound of the engine and then as the truck draws closer overpowering it, the sound of Lauralette’s rage-out tape. It isn’t an unfamiliar nose and it tells Dina very little about what to expect.

Lauralette parks the truck opposite where Dina sits. The windows glow red from the motel sign, but through that red Dina can see Lauralette. Lauralette is staring straight ahead. She takes a few moments to compose herself and then with a forceful thump she cuts out the music. Dina pushes herself up to her feet and Lauralette exits her vehicle. Neither women say anything to each other just yet, instead they hold eye-contact over the few feet between them.

It’s a game of chicken. It’s a game of who will blink first. It’s a game of Dina staring Lauralette down under the red haze and wondering if she’d see any blood. Lauralette with her hands stuff into her pockets, pulling the jacket taught and encouraging a slouched stance. Dina with a long narrow satchel over one shoulder, her hand steepled on the end of it, stood up straight to force Lauralette into meeting her gaze.

Lauralette blinks first. She bows her head, steps forward, and then steps past Dina entirely. She takes the step up to the motel lobby, opens up the door and says, “Alright. In, then.”

. .

Red glow, lunar grey-blue, dark shadows where the windows can’t reach. Lauralette sees just fine in darkness, though she’s familiar with home enough to navigate blindfolded. Lauralette winces when Dina hits the light switch behind her. The space still isn’t brightly lit by any measure, the bulbs are old and take a while to warm up and the furnishing harkens to an era where beige and muted greens were the fashionable thing.

Dina has said before the space needs an update, Lauralette always tells her it is the way she likes it.

“Tried calling you,” Dina says. She sounds distracted while looking around the front room of the apartment, looking for clues as to how Lauralette spent the week since they blew up at each other.

Lauralette shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of the sofa. Then with the attitude of stepping into an old routine she pulls a chair from the table and sits slouched, legs parted, fingertips balanced on a surface. She looks up at Dina who is still in the middle of the room, “Didn’t take my phone with me.”

Dina had come here telling herself she wasn’t going to play caretaker, but still she sees that old plate on Lauralette’s table with the going-stale food and she feels compelled in some way to take it to the kitchen.

Tap-tap. Fingertips on the table. The chair creaking when Lauralette leans back, head turned to track Dina, tentative, curious, too-satisfied, hunger roils and it feels too easy to think this is how her week ends.

When Dina returns Lauralette makes sure to smooth her expression to something less shark-like.

“You fuck up?” Dina asks. She stands at the end of the table and looks down at Lauralette.

“Not all the way.” Lauralette is clean. No blood on her lips or her chin or her collar and sleeves. Hungry as she is, hungry as Dina knows she must be, she hadn’t tasted blood tonight. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.” Dina folds open her satchel on the table. It’s a knife-roll, though hardly a standard kit. Rather than the tools of a butcher there is a scalpel and a wooden stake and zip-ties and gauze and adhesive bandages. Lauralette had helped her put it together more than a few weeks ago and she had called it a Bloodletter’s Kit. “Hands behind the chair.”

Lauralette obeys. She sits up straight, reaches her arms behind her, and watches carefully as Dina prepares. Earlier she had felt like a predator. If she’s still an animal she wonders what sort this makes her. Dina rounds behind her and binds her hands, the zip-ties looped through the spindles of the chair. Dina pulls them extra tight and Lauralette just barely hisses at that.

“I feel teeth and I stake you,” Dina warns. It’s nothing new, but Lauralette doesn’t roll her eyes, doesn’t take any of it disingenuously. So many aspects of her – her boredom, her attitude, her confidence – they get washed away and replaced with need. Hunger. Blood is close.

“Yeah,” Lauralette answers because she doesn’t want to fuck this up. Her eyes catch the glint of silver and she licks her lips when Dina raises the scalpel to her own wrist. Dina cuts a small, thin line without flinching.

The line of precious red. Thin but thickening. Terrible in its inches out of reach, almost enough to make Lauralette lurch.

“Please,” Lauralette gasps.

That seems to do it, the plea. Dina holds the cut to Lauralette’s lips and instinct takes over from there. Lips to skin, tongue over the red line, then eyes closed she suckles from the wound. Dina holds the back of Lauralette’s head, fingers in her hair, ready to yank her away if needs be, but until that might occur only cradling. Not a drop is spilled.

This isn’t their first time doing this. The sensation is familiar to Dina. Cold up her arm, hot in her head, a silent bee-swarm sensation that buzzes throughout her body and rocks the world from left to right. For Lauralette it is a vital heat that floods into her, flushes red in her cheeks and her chest. Nothing can replicate this, nothing comes close. Not from an animal, alive or dead. Not from a donor bag, lacking a pulse. The pulse is important. Lauralette drinks to the rhythmic throb pounded out by the beat of Dina’s heart.

Then it is over. Dina pulls her arm away and stumbles backwards until she is able to catch herself by the edge of the table. Lauralette lunges forward. The chair creaks. She gasps, teeth bared. Animal. The zip-tie bindings dig into her wrists and she remembers herself.

“Ugh.” Dina grabs the gauze and turns to sit heavily on the floor. She puts pressure on her wrist and keeps the limb raised.

The room is hot. Sweat prickles at Lauralette’s skin. Her mouth is wet and that void in her stomach is gone. She sits herself up and stares up at the ceiling and feels animal instinct abate and subside. She can’t look down at Dina, not right now, not while she is too painfully aware of how warm that body is, aware that the cut on her wrist hasn’t fully closed yet.

Time passes with silence between them. The buzz of the lightbulb, the heat of their breathing. Eventually the floor groans and Dina picks herself up. Lauralette catches her in the bottom of her vision – Dina looks tired and pale, but there is less red on the gauze than one might expect. The cut is already healing. Through some property of Lauralette’s mouth, wounds close quickly, but Dina still bandages up her wrist.

“Can I?” Lauralette’s voice comes out wet and sated, but the question itself is pathetic. She’s staring at the gauze, at wasted drops of blood.

Dina’s expression curls. She’s amused and disgusted and a harder to read third thing. It’s this strange third thing that has her indulge. She shoves the bloodied gauze into Lauralette’s mouth.

“You good?” Dina asks.

Lauralette nods. She can still taste blood all over her mouth. Metallic and warm. There are precious few drops left, soaking from the gauze to her tongue. She knows how it looks, she doesn’t care.

Dina waits a beat just taking Lauralette in. This woman who had drifted into her life with supreme confidence and unsaid history and some kind of raw magnetic power. This woman who is now very much bound and at the mercy of Dina. Dina, someone who really has no idea what she would want to do with power. Dina shakes her head. She kneels down behind Lauralette and with a deft hand she cuts the ties that bind.

Lauralette slouches immediately. She folds forwards and rubs her thumbs against her wrists. “Mn.” She takes the gauze from her mouth and uses a clean side to wipe her face before tossing it across the table.

“See you tomorrow, Lette.” Dina has already packed her things away. She is shouldering her satchel and getting ready to leave.

“Wait.” Lauralette sits up, one hand on the table and the other about to reach out.

“What do you want?”

“It’s late,” Lauralette says. “You should stay.” It’s impossible for Lauralette to sound innocent here. Even sated there is a wet hunger to her voice. Blood itself makes her feel whole, but she is always, always left wanting more.

“Ugh,” Dina scoffs and shakes her head, “You’re just fucking horny because I fed you.”

Lauralette takes Dina by the wrist, leant forward almost out of her chair, “That a problem?”

Dina snatches her wrist back. She’s starting to remember clearly why she stormed out last time, why she told Lauralette to go fuck herself and tossed the spare key she had been given at the vampire’s face.

“Sorry.” Lauralette says the word like it physically pains her.

“See you tomorrow, Lette,” Dina tries again. This time she leaves without interruption.

. .

The next day, about seven in the morning. The world is dusty yellow and orange and the colour blue strikes through all that in a big rectangle shape. Lauralette is standing poolside with a big net. She has a wide-brim hat and large shades and a short sleeve floral print shirt and the heat of the sun only mildly stings and the brightness of the summer morning atmosphere is not enough to dampen her mood.

It is quiet. Soft breeze and the glug-glug of the pool’s water filter and the splash whenever she swoops the net through the surface to catch more dead leave and the occasional cigarette end.

“Oh, hey!” Some man’s voice in the distance behind her.

Lauralette squints at something odd in the water. She has to lean to reach it with the net, but an expert’s hand swipes it from the water.

“Hey!” He’s getting closer. The man is loud, but trying not to sound threatening.

Lauralette pulls a face when she has to touch the net to get the strange bit of litter free. It must be some type of business card, but the ink is all run and ruined.

“Did you know the ice-machine is broken?” The man asks her. He’s not just a few feet away.

Lauralette doesn’t want to deal with all that. She swoops the net back into the water. She will pretend not to hear him for at least six seconds longer. It’s going to be a good week.

. . .

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#writeblr #creative writing #horror #queer fiction #prose #short story #original fiction #sapphic #vampire

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fayersiren · 1 year

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Blue Lock oc cover 🌸

Blue Lock volume 22 special edition with Shion Fujihara

It comes together with her beloved feral boy Gagamaru 💕

#blue lock #blue lock oc #gin gagamaru #blue lock cover

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kodanshamanga · 6 months

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#NewMangaDay ends with the match in:

⚽Blue Lock, Volume 22⚽ By Muneyuki Kaneshiro

🇬🇧The chaotic battle against Manshine City begins! As the third match of the Neo Egotist League begins, Isagi swears revenge on Kaiser for interfering with his goal.

#blue lock #manga #soccer #football #sports anime

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siriusscanlator · 1 year

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“Parceiros.”

Para comemorar o anúncio de sua adaptação em um filme, destacamos hoje Blue Lock: EPISODE Nagi! Mangá de extremo sucesso no Japão que apenas com 2 volumes já está tendo sua adaptação!

Continuando, temos a volta de Trigun, que deve voltar a ter seu período semanal na scan, e tentaremos dessa vez trazer sempre de 1 a 3 capítulos como antes. Dando as caras num post pela primeira vez, também temos o capítulo do mês de VERSUS!

Além disso, Sentai Daishikkaku deve ficar em dia logo logo, e Type Redline agora está com seu mais recente capítulo completo lançado! Umineko finalmente acaba daqui a duas semanas, dizer isso nem parece real de tanto tempo que durou!

Por fim, temos: EPISODE Nagi (08), VERSUS (05), TriMax (21 & 22), Red (08), Nine Peaks (20), Requiem of the Rose King (72), Banana Fish (02), Dorara (02), Ikokou Nikki (03), Touken Ranbu (16), Rurouni Kenshin (171), Fate/Type Redline (16), Twilight of the GW (36), Sentai Daishikkaku (86), & Shy (89).

Online: MangaDex Download: MEGA

Online: Union Mangás Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex | Yabu Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex | Union Mangás Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex | Yabu Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex Download: MEGA

Online: MangaDex | Yabu Download: MEGA

OBS: Não se esqueçam que estamos recrutando! Vagas agora abertas para clean/redraw e tradução!

#blue lock #versus #trigun #red #nine peaks #requiem of the rose king #banana fish #dorara #ikoku nikki #touken ranbu #rurouni kenshin #fate #umineko no naku koro ni #sentai daishikkaku #shy #cassini

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smileyyyyyl · 10 months

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MY TOP 10 SPORTS ANIME

Sports anime nowadays has a profound impact on today's society, inspiring countless individuals to pursue their passions, embrace teamwork, and overcome challenges both on and off the field. Here are my top 10 SPORTS anime you might like:

1. Kuroko no basketball

Kuroko's Basketball (Japanese: 黒子のバスケ, Hepburn: Kuroko no Basuke) is a Japanese sports manga series written and illustrated by Tadatoshi Fujimaki. It was serialized in Shueisha's shōnen manga magazine Weekly Shōnen Jump from December 2008 to September 2014, with its chapters collected in 30 tankōbon volumes. It tells the story of a high school basketball team trying to make it to the national tournament.

2. Haikyuu!

Haikyu!! (ハイキュ��!!, Haikyū!!, from the kanji 排球 "volleyball") is a Japanese manga series written and illustrated by Haruichi Furudate. It was serialized in Shueisha's shōnen manga magazine Weekly Shōnen Jump from February 2012 to July 2020, with its chapters collected in 45 tankōbon volumes. The story follows Shoyo Hinata, a boy determined to become a great volleyball player despite his small stature.

3. Slum dunk

Slam Dunk (stylized in all caps) is a Japanese sports manga series written and illustrated by Takehiko Inoue. It was serialized in Shueisha's shōnen manga magazine Weekly Shōnen Jump from October 1990 to June 1996, with the chapters collected into 31 tankōbon volumes. It tells the story of a basketball team from Shōhoku High School in the Shōnan area of Japan.

4. Yuri on ice

Yuri on Ice (Japanese: ユーリ!!! on ICE) is a Japanese sports anime television series about figure skating. The series was produced by MAPPA, directed and written by Sayo Yamamoto with original scripts by Mitsurō Kubo under the chief direction of Jun Shishido. Character designs were handled by Tadashi Hiramatsu, and its music was composed by Taro Umebayashi and Taku Matsushiba. The figure skating was choreographed by Kenji Miyamoto, who also performed routines himself which were recorded and used as skating sound effects. The series premiered on October 6, 2016 and ended on December 22, 2016, with a total of 12 episodes. A Yuri on Ice feature film, Ice Adolescence, was originally planned for release in 2019, but has been delayed to a later date. The series revolves around the relationships between Japanese figure skater Yuri Katsuki; his idol, Russian figure-skating champion Victor Nikiforov; and up-and-coming Russian skater Yuri Plisetsky; as Yuri K. and Yuri P. take part in the Figure Skating Grand Prix, with Victor acting as coach to Yuri K.

5. Free!

Free! is a Japanese anime television series produced by Kyoto Animation and Animation Do. The series is loosely based on the light novel, High Speed! (Japanese: ハイ☆スピード!, Hepburn: Hai Supīdo!), written by Kōji Ōji, which received an honorable mention in the second Kyoto Animation Award contest in 2011 and was published in July 2013. The first season titled, Free! - Iwatobi Swim Club for international distribution, aired in Japan in 2013; and the second season titled, Free! - Eternal Summer, aired in 2014. A third season of the anime series titled, Free! - Dive to the Future, aired in 2018. Hiroko Utsumi directed the first two seasons, while season three was directed by Eisaku Kawanami.The story is centered on high school student Haruka Nanase, a gifted swimmer. After encountering his childhood rival, Rin Matsuoka from Samezuka Academy, he and his friends revitalize Iwatobi High School's swim team.

6. Blue lock

Blue Lock (Japanese: ブルーロック, Hepburn: Burū Rokku) (stylized as BLUELOCK) is a Japanese manga series written by Muneyuki Kaneshiro and illustrated by Yusuke Nomura. It has been serialized in Kodansha's Weekly Shōnen Magazine since August 2018, with its chapters collected in 24 tankōbon volumes as of May 2023.Yoichi Isagi, an unknown high school football player conflicted about his playing style, decides to join the program to become the best striker in the world.

7. Aoashi

Aoashi[a] (アオアシ) is a Japanese manga series written and illustrated by Yūgo Kobayashi and based on a concept by Naohiko Ueno. It has been serialized in Shogakukan's seinen manga magazine Weekly Big Comic Spirits since January 2015. The series involves youth football player Ashito Aoi and his journey and experiences in the Tokyo Esperion youth academy.

8. SK8 the infinity

SK8 the Infinity (Japanese: SK∞ エスケーエイト, Hepburn: Esu Kē Eito, simply SK8 and stylized as SK∞) is a Japanese original anime television series produced and animated by Bones that aired from January to April 2021 on ABC and TV Asahi's ANiMAZiNG!!! [ja] programming block. A comedy manga spin-off began serialization on the Young Ace Up manga website in January 2021. Reki, a high school sophomore and hardcore skater, takes new transfer student Langa to S one night, and ends up pulling him into the world of skateboarding.

9. Ace of diamond

Ace of Diamond (Japanese: ダイヤのA, Hepburn: Daiya no Ēsu) is a Japanese baseball-themed manga series written and illustrated by Yuji Terajima.The series follows Eijun Sawamura, a baseball pitcher with an unusual pitching style that naturally causes the ball to move unpredictably at the plate.

10. Inazuma eleven

An animation television series based on the game aired on the TV Tokyo network from October 5, 2008 until April 27, 2011. The series was produced by Level-5 in conjunction with TV Tokyo and OLM.A talented young goalkeeper tries to revive his school's lackluster team in this anime series based on the hit manga and video game

Video

Sources

https://pin.it/4BBXyRT

https://pin.it/6hmmYN5

https://pin.it/3lbZFZR

https://pin.it/4UHCdt1

https://pin.it/YrQ24gw

https://pin.it/6UF13PV

https://pin.it/6dRGkPo

https://pin.it/1UYCyjA

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuroko%27s_Basketball

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haikyu!!#:~:text=Junior%20high%20school%20student%2C%20Shoyo,short%20but%20talented%20wing%20spiker.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inazuma_Eleven_(TV_series)

Inazuma Eleven (TV Series 2008–2011) - IMDb

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yuri_on_Ice

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slam_Dunk_(manga)

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free!#:~:text=Free%20is%20set%20in%20the,Iwatobi%20High%20School%27s%20swim%20team.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Lock

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aoashi

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/SK8_the_Infinity

#Youtube

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