#boardwalk of beasts

[pankomako]

PARKER HILLTREK IN THE MODERN AGE. OGS GO CRAZY

[incorrectpowerrangersquotes]

Nate: I'm attaching myself to you. Do you know why?

Zoey: No?

Nate: Because I'm full of anxiety and socially inept.

[naturemustgetmehighwhy]

[rayveneyed]

cw: sexually explicit content / blood / relatively light sadomasochism / age + experience gap (reader is older + more experienced) / sub!choso / vampires 🧛‍♀️ / sex and violence as two sides of the same coin /

choso kamo is 160 years old when he meets you.

in those years of walking the earth, undead, he believes he’s embraced his vampirism as much as he possibly can. the broiling self-hatred he had once found solace in has reduced to a simmer, strongest in those moments of blood and guts and weakening heartbeats; and although he often avoids crowds, and companionship, and light, he no longer believes himself to be a slave of his own nature.

to be true — in the grand scheme of immortality, of vampirism — he isn’t anywhere close to the level of control he’d wish to have. often, when indulging yuji’s desire to enjoy the world as he did before his death — boardwalks and arcades and cotton candy — he feels his canines aching in his gums, stretching until they dimple against his bottom lip.

it’s not comfortable. it’s not confident. but even despite the growing aches, he’s no longer cowering in alleyways; no longer drinking from poor stray cats and garbage-chewing rats to momentarily satiate that ever-growing, gnawing hunger. he has some sense of control—

“oh, you baby-bats. so adorable.”

control which he now flounders to grab.

a sharp, inky black nail scrapes up the column of his neck — he can’t help but arch into it, head tilting back until his wide, pupil-blown eyes find the ceiling, with its intricate coving and obsidian chandeliers. the music from the main hall is nothing but a buzzing in the back of his head; thoughts of his friends’ whereabouts, an afterthought. your fingernail crowds the underneath of his jaw and stops at where his pulse point would have thrummed, would he have been alive.

you’re a demon. a devil. a she-beast. a succubus. any horrid, terrible name he could call you, he will — dressed in blacks and burgundies and gold older than him, your lips painted an ox-blood red and your eyes as sharp and dark as any polished knife. in your hands he is small. weak. mortal.

“satoru usually keeps his strays away, after last time,” you say, pouting now, though it’s a crude approximation of sadness — even now, your eyes glint with devilment. “so mean, when he knows i have a weak spot for bats like you.”

that wretched finger stretches up; pokes at his bottom lip, scrapes against the fangs that had — embarrassingly — extended from his gums at the simple weight of you on top of him.

“look at that,” you coo, and your grin is something unsettling, something that curdles in the pit of his stomach and heats between his legs. “excited, pup?”

his answering breath comes ragged, and it’s always more embarrassing than it was when he was human. his heart doesn’t work, his lungs do not work, and he has no need to breathe — in fact, he lost the reflex to do so around 92 years ago — but his brain is scrambled, it seems, wilted neurons confusing signals from almost two centuries ago. “i’m — ahem — i’m okay, duchess.”

“how sweet. you don’t have to call me by my title, you know. my name will do just fine.” at his silence, you push yourself up from where you’d been laying low against his chest — looking far too excited when you say: “unless, of course, you like it.”

his hands tremble at his side. he can’t remember the last time he’s indulged in — in debauchery. the last time someone’s made him feel like they’re holding his heart in their hands. over the past hundred-odd years, he’s avoided it like the plague, and for good reason — most vampires aren’t known for their commitment, let’s just say. and now you’re on top of him looking like every sin he’s tried to avoid, and he’s straining so hard in his pants he fears he’ll cum before you even hint at removing a single article of clothing.

you press yourself flush again, nosing at his neck. he knows, for the first time in his long life, what it feels like to be prey. is this what his victims had felt when he ripped into their throats, young and inexperienced and bloodthirsty? did their vulnerability sit like a stone in their throats?

a groan comes from you, suddenly, and your tongue darts out to lave against his skin. choso’s answering moan is more of a whimper, broken and weak in his mouth, but you don’t seem to notice — or care. he flexes his glutes in an effort to stop himself from rutting up against you — not only would it be embarrassing, desperate, but it would be rude. this is your house, after all. your soirée. your gilded halls and bedazzled walls. your silk sheets against his back. your satin skirt bunched around your waist.

“tell me, pup,” you say, and he fights the instinctual reflex to shiver at the brush of your lips against his skin, “have you ever fed from our own?”

“hm?” it’s a sound of confusion brought half on by his simple lack of knowledge, and half on by his slow-processing brain. only seconds after does he fully register your question, and the eyes he hadn’t realised he had screwed shut flew open. “no. i — i didn’t know that was possible.”

all at once, you’re sitting up again — swinging your leg over his hips until you’re standing. it wouldn’t be right to call it clambering — you are impossibly graceful, even passed the agility and elegance that comes with the gift of the undead. his hands reach for you before he can stop them, a sound like a question on his tongue, and you send him the sweetest, most tooth-rotting, stomach-turning smile. he thinks he likes your biting, cruel grins more, though you’re lovely regardless.

you begin to reach for the ties of your corset at your spine — just another thing that makes his mouth water. people didn’t wear these sorts of clothes anymore, not in the human world. but he remembers the skirts and corsets from paintings of noblewomen hundreds of years ago, and how he’d admire the curve of their waists, the swell of their chests—

“of course, satoru wouldn’t tell you. why would he?”

his eyes snap up from your chest, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. but you don’t seem to mind. the corset is removed painfully slowly, for no other reason than to torture him; then, the outer dress, with its carmine satin and intricate embroidery. you throw it to the floor carelessly, as if the most knowledgeable museum curators wouldn’t prostrate themselves at your feet for the simple chance to display it for millions to see — a while his eyes drink up the sight of more skin, the whisper of form beneath your underdress and bloomers, you near him once more.

metal to a magnet, a moth to flame, he pulls himself to the edge of the bed. you find a place between his legs and grasp his chin, and choso can’t look away from you.

“i can take you apart and put you back together,” you say — promise — voice like crushed velvet, quiet and creeping like a choking vine. your thumb smooths over his cheek and ends at its apple, where you press the sharp tip of your nail into his flesh. “i can show you the pleasures of your eternal life, and its pains, and everything in between. i can bring you to every edge, and draw you back from them just as quick — and it will be painful, and you’ll enjoy it so much you won’t be able to go another day without it.”

he’s lost the ability to speak. his unmoving heart is in his throat — or in your hands, or between your sharp teeth. you tilt your head and regard him with knowing, twinkling eyes.

“all you have to say, pup, is yes.”

oh, it’s out of him so quick he can hardly keep up — a word so breathy you’d swear you’d already had your way with him. but embarrassment is a thing of the past when your smile stretches, and you murmur marvellous. you release him from your grasp, much to his chagrin, but when you begin pulling down your bloomers his attention shifts.

he can smell you. smell you. the musky, salty scent of between your legs — a smell that has his mouth watering and his fingers cramping from how hard he fists the sheets. your bloomers are damp when you discard them, sticky with your arousal, and pride glows in choso’s chest. he didn’t do much, but it seemed enough — if he had only let himself lose control, hump up against you harder, perhaps it would’ve stained his clothes; seeped through your layers and onto his lap. he’d go home and hold it over his nose until the scent faded, and perhaps after.

“new as you are,” you say, climbing onto your bed once more and reclining back against the numerous pillows — huffing a mean-sounding laugh when he crawls after you. “i’ll do you the mercy of taking it easy, just this once. oh, don’t make that face — you look like a kicked puppy. i promise you’ll enjoy what i have in store for you.”

and you hike up your underdress, and spread your legs. choso’s mouth waters — the thick smattering of hair on your mons, your flower-like labia, shiny with your arousal. and your clit, peeking out from its hood, pink and shiny and begging to have his mouth on it. but as if this wasn’t enough — as if he wasn’t already scrabbling to get between your legs — you take one of those long, sharp nails, and drag it against your inner thigh. the skin splits. blood trickles down from the wound like a river of gold, flowing into the crease between your thighs and your pussy, and it smells ambrosial. if his fangs were aching before, they’re screaming, now. this isn’t human blood; this is richer, sweeter, creamier. delectable. hedonistic. you’ll make a glutton of him.

“after all,” you say, grinning wickedly, “i’m treating you to a most delectable meal.”

[palossssssand]

Slug City fake movie poster for Smooks, featuring the bay's harbor boardwalk, foggy seas, and her beast made of paint.

[gymbunnycandiehart]

10 Don’ts for any Gym Bunny

1) Don’t be a sissy in the gym–I get it: Some gym bunnies want to be sissies and be humiliated or feminized by men or women.  If that’s your thing, more to you.  But don’t be a sissy in the gym.  Just because you’re a guy dressed like a girl doesn’t mean you have to be a powder puff.

2) Don’t let the gym rats steal your joy–Nobody should steal your joy.  They might assault your happiness, but nobody can take the joy that belongs to you.  Those intolerant beastly men (gym rats) are just upset because you’re hotter than their girlfriend.

3) Don’t overpad your sports bra–I can see why you would want to look stacked, but there’s no logical reason to give yourself extra padding.  Nobody wants to see your pads falling out all over the place. 

4) Don’t be a harry Mary in beast mode–On the flip side of being a sissy, neither do you want to be a clumpy beast of a guy.  It just doesn’t work.  Yes, work out hard and tough, but don’t try to compensate for the lack of manliness you are exhibiting in your cute workout clothes.

5) Don’t be a tease without intent–It’s a lot of fun to be a tease, to flirt, or pose seductively with weights in hand.  But if you’re not trying to garner the sexual attention of some guy or girl, don’t do it.  Save it for the shower (lol-just kidding).

6) Don’t wear tennis shoes twice in two days–Keep your outfits mixed up.  If you are a true gym bunny, you have at least six pairs of adorable sneakers.  Mix it up one day to the next and keep yourself looking fresh and beautiful from head to toe!

7) Don’t wear Keds to lift weights–Yeah, they’re cute with rompers and cutoff shorts, but they have no place in the squat rack…or even in the zumba class.  They’re not made for that.  Save them for the mall or for the boardwalk.

8) Don’t fret over your revealing clothing–If you’ve got a good tuck going on (see #10), then there is no reason why you can’t be as bare as permissible.  You don’t want to be a slouch and you need not worry over what others think.  If you’ve got it, flaunt it…not for others, but for your developing personality.

9) Don’t mismatch your tops and bottoms–If I have to explain this one, then you need to take up golf from the seniors’ tees.

10) Don’t forget to tuck yourself tightly–You’ll get used to it.  Nothing ruins a sleek womanly look than some unsightly bulge in tight-fitted hot shorts.  You’re better than that.

This was an OLD OLD post from way back when, but what a fun one! Have fun in the gym, girlies.

Love ya much

CandieHart

[porcelainseashore]

Summer Solstice - Beach Episode by Night

Commissioned art by @medeaft

Author's Note: My “drabble” (inspired by a music ask) for the lovely @beach-episode-by-night event. A heartfelt thank you to @mortifying-macaroni and @alibellerosetta whom I dedicate this piece to. Your encouragement made it possible.

Along the I-10 highway to Tucson, Wynter takes a detour toward the coastline on impulse, chasing the memory of a bygone summer’s day.

Content Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, references to murder, wraith, pre-canon, weird uncle/niece relationship, blame it on the Giovanni.

How long has it been?

The chime sounded as she left the car door open with her keys in the ignition, monotonous, comforting yet cajoling her to do something about it. It didn’t matter; hers was the lone automobile on the desolate street. If someone wanted this piece of junk, they’d earn the right by swiping it off her hands behind her back.

In the tepid late October air, Wynter had taken a detour off the I-10 toward the Gulf Coast on a whim, with the windows rolled down because the air conditioner wasn’t working—it never did. Closer to the basin, the smell of brine from the Atlantic hit her tenfold. She had been swimming in her thoughts, her reflexes on autopilot, as if she remembered the route by heart. That was the question, what did she remember? Why had she come here, when she had spent the last two decades running off and reinventing herself, just like her estranged sire, Violetta, taught her to?

Instead of answering, she faced away from the wind, lashes downturned and fluttering, as she cupped her hand over her mouth, lighting up a cigarette and ignoring the faint protests of her Beast. The wind was still as violent as she’d left it. Heeled boots crunched into gravel, which finally opened out to soft mounds of sand. She wasn’t in a hurry; she had time to kill, even with her battered, old Honda that was on its last legs. 

The Prince could wait. 

What was a couple of USB sticks that he desired good for? They lay stuffed and suffocated in her worn-down satchel—one she’d found while rummaging through the trash—with its straps chewed and frayed at the ends. Maybe just enough for emergency repairs and a meal or two, if she was lucky.

From afar, she could make out the salt-stripped cafes, gaudy tiki bars with their balding straw roofs, and a row of little wooden clapboard houses, paint-chipped and peeling, along the boardwalk. Weather-beaten “For sale” and “We’re closed!�� signs hung awkwardly from the establishments, some on their last nail, swaying to and fro, creaking in the breeze. Her gaze trailed over the tired beach chairs, deflated pool toys, and broken surfboards. A smattering of them had found their way across the divide, acting like driftwood in the sea.

The sound of children’s giggles and bare feet pattering on the floorboards echoed in the distance. She gripped her bag tight, but did not look back. Her shoes were sinking into the wet sand now, and the air carried warm moisture which settled beneath the layer of clothes onto her skin. Her very own form of sweat.

The moon illuminated her path, but at the edge of the ocean, she was at a loss for what to do. Why was she here? What had called her? How—

“Wynter,” it whispered, balmy in the zephyr. “Why don’t you come out to play?”

She shielded her eyes, as though blinded by the brilliant sun, peering out into the vast space before her. And there he was, clear as day, in his light blue shorts and a roseate burn creeping through his tanned back, wading toward her in the water. Earlier, she had been sulking under the beach umbrella while her mother flipped through a magazine and her father chatted jovially with other men over rounds of drinks at the bar.

The wind was howling. Fine, white sand swirled in the current. She didn’t like how hot it got under her feet. Everything hurt. But for Lucien, she would bear through it all. His smile ached as she splashed into the water, salt clinging to her lips and foam gathering in the tendrils of her hair. She took a deep breath and dived, dipping under the waves of the high tide. A strong pair of arms entangled around her waist as she was drawn out of the sea, and she wriggled to break free of their grasp while her uncle chuckled. And soon, she was laughing too.

“My very own mermaid,” he murmured. 

Wynter bared her teeth and hissed, “But I will drown you and taste your flesh.”

He touched her chin, smiling sadly. “Well, it would be worth it, to me.”

She didn’t think anything of it then, bounding out of Lucien’s embrace and paddling through the waters. That day, under the cloudless sky and the sun’s rays glittering beyond the horizon, she felt how magnificent it was to be alive. Glancing over at Lucien, she paused, meeting his eyes, shifting azure blue, watching the droplets trickle down his brow. The waves crashed on shore. Seagulls crooned overhead. Time whiled away in silence. Their eyes searching for a morsel they could hold on to. Years of an unspoken bond buried in a look. He believed in it then, how pure and indescribable it was. And the curve of his mouth reflected hers.

For all the trials he would be put through, he’d gladly suffer, even if there was no end in sight. She waded closer to him, the water now reaching waist-high. But it was murky. Her cigarette butt had gone out, leaving traces of the woody scent of dark tobacco in the air, but even that too was fading. Instead of the heat of the sun beating down her back, she encountered the cool, umbral glow of the moon, iridescent on her bloodless skin. She wanted it to burn her alive.

Her Beast recoiled at the mere thought of seeing the light of day, but Wynter entertained it for a moment longer, savoring the fear, the way the light extinguished in someone’s eyes before they expired.

“Let me drown with you,” she prayed, the flicker of an unearthly sheen present in her eyes.

In her peripheral vision, a shadow flitted between the steel scaffolding of the once-grandiose pier, now in a state of irreversible decay, rusting to the elements. She remembered standing there as a child, sick from cotton candy, and the noise of the fairground rides flooding her ears. A postcard marred with heavy creases—one of the many within the bundle she had stashed in her glove compartment. She held it out in front of the pier, shutting one eye and squinting, then doing the same with the other. 

Every year, she received a blank card, the address scribbled in handwriting she didn’t recognize. Regardless of whether she stayed at a temporary residence or relied on throwaway collection points dotted across the country, they arrived without fail. “Wish you were here’s” by the ghost of a loved one on perpetual vacation. Places she had been to. Places she had dreamed of. This time, a picturesque painting of the old pier at dawn. 

It could have been a trap, but she found it strangely comforting, knowing she had a place to come back to, observing the swell and receding waves until she would be nothing more than ashes floating on the surface at the break of day. Kindred talked about death as if it were so final, but to her, death was only the beginning. A concrete structure on the pier groaned, loosening from its bolt before collapsing into the sea. The sound and vibrations were tremendous, but Wynter didn’t flinch.

How long could she drag this out? How much more could she keep on going?

For a while, she had been aware of a presence watching her, but made no sign to acknowledge its existence. It was tempting to seek it out, as was the habit of being a hunter, but she decided otherwise. The Shroud was thin here. Mortals had long since abandoned this place. Yet some remained. 

There was a deep rooted tingle in her spine. She had overstayed her welcome; she should leave, but not before—

The postcard slipped from her fingers, drifting in the stream until she lost sight of it. A featherlight kiss on the nape of her neck. She shuddered again and closed her eyes. When they opened, she checked the time on her cracked iPhone screen. 

Without a word, she followed her tracks back to her awaiting car, the chime still ringing incessantly. She hopped in and drove off, leaving whatever had happened that day behind. 

The Prince of Tucson couldn’t wait any longer.

Dividers by @diableriedoll

[ofstarsandflames]

Hello all! Thank you for joining me for my first ever RobStar week! And thank you even more so for giving my fic a chance!!!

I plan to participate every day this week, but if I am unable to for some reason I'll be sure to let you know!

Sorry for the rambling! I'll let you go ahead and jump right in!

[Heads up! A little of the dialogue in this story is courtesy of a prompt by @welcometothewoes!]

RobStar Week 2024, Day 1

Friends to Lovers 

“Well, what do you guys think?” 

The others looked ahead to the sign where Robin was pointing, displaying a variety of mixed reactions. 

Cyborg and Beast Boy had lit up at the reveal, no doubt eager to partake in a series of competitions that would supposedly prove who was superior between the two. Raven rolled her eyes, no doubt dreading the thought of being dragged into Cyborg and Beast Boy’s antics

Starfire’s reaction, strangely enough, was the most passive of the group. She looked up, reading the words displayed on the giant glowing sign.

“Jump City Beach Boardwalk?” Star tilted her head, confused more than anything else. “Please, what is the purpose of these “walking boards”? I was under the impression wood was not sentient.” 

“Boardwalk, Star.” Robin gently corrected. “It’s an amusement park near a beach where people can go to have fun.” 

“A park for amusement, you say.” Starfire noted. “Fascinating. Please, what is it you do in these kinds of parks?” 

“Lots of things Star!” Beast Boy chimed in. “There’s a bunch of themed junk food you can eat, games you can win cool prizes in, and a bunch of rides you can go on ‘til you get sick!” 

“How ‘bout a little game of friendly competition, Grass Stain?” Cyborg chimed in, a mischievous glint in his human eye. “Whoever wins the most prizes gets to plan next week’s dinner menu?”

“You're on, Gears for Brains!” Beast Boy exclaimed.

Cyborg ran through the gates first, eager for his 7-day barbecue dream to come true. Beast Boy followed suit, but not before grabbing Raven’s hand.

“C’mon, Rae! You can keep score!” 

“Joy.”

Raven’s sarcasm, whether unnoticed or ignored, did little to deter the green teen. Together, they passed through the boardwalk’s gates. 

And with that, only two remained. 

Robin gestured to the boardwalk’s entrance.

“Shall we?” 

Though Starfire was still unsure of the appeal of such a place, she decided to trust Robin’s judgment.

Standing side by side, the duo made their way through the gates. 

~~~

“Remember guys, only 5 prizes per person. We don’t want a repeat of last year…” 

Though Robin phrased it as a general statement, they all knew who it was meant for. Cyborg and Beast Boy laughed nervously, no doubt trying to hide their guilty expressions. Raven rolled her eyes and Starfire let out a small giggle. 

“Only 5, got it!” Cyborg reaffirmed. 

Now that he no longer felt guilty about last year’s prize incident, the cybernetic teen led his shapeshifting and dark-clad friends away. He shot a teasing look at their leader. 

“Let’s go leave Robby for his date~” He said this in a sing-songy tone. 

Robin glared, but he knew there was no ill intent. Cyborg laughed, all while Beast Boy grabbed Raven’s hand to excitedly show her how his favorite games and rides changed from last year. 

Soon, all three were out of sight. 

Robin let out a sigh of relief, happy to finally have some much needed alone time with his brand new girlfriend. 

Turning to check on her, Robin could tell by Starfire’s beaming grin that she was in good spirits. In fact, she’d been wearing this expression since they first left the tower. 

“Someone’s happy.” He playfully teased. 

"Oh! Sorry, it's just..." Starfire perked up, the shining, uncontrollable smile still not leaving her features. "It's been awhile since I've been this... giddy."

Robin returned the smile twice fold, though his eyebrows shot up in the air.

"Really? We come to the boardwalk every year."

"Yes, but..." Star shyly held Robin's hand, intertwining their fingers. "Never like this."

Ah, so that’s what it was.

Robin could feel his cheeks warming up. Hoping it wasn’t too noticeable, he gave their intertwined hands a gentle squeeze for reassurance. 

In a more than chivalrous mood, Robin gestured to the entrance with a little extra flair. 

“After you, m’lady.” 

Starfire giggled, returning the chivalry in kind.

“Thank you, kind sir.” 

Together, one’s hand fitting so naturally with the other’s, the couple made their way through the amusement park’s entrance. 

~~~

“Ready, you two?” Richard asked, a dramatic flair to his voice. 

“Yeah!” A little boy exclaimed loudly, hands thrown into the air with glee.

“You sure?” Kori questioned, savoring the moment.

“Super duper sure!” A little girl replied, unable to contain her excitement. 

Richard and Kori gave each other a knowing glance. At the same time, they removed the hands covering the eyes of the children they held. 

“Surprise!” They both yelled out. “Happy Birthday!” 

Jake and Mari, now an entire 7 years old, watched with wide eyes and slacked jaws at the birthday gift their parents presented them with. 

“Wow / Awesome!” Jake and Mari remarked at the same time.

Squirming out of their parent’s hold, the twins ran up to the gates of the place their parents had brought them to. Right there, in giant, bold letters, displayed the words: 

JUMP CITY BEACH BOARDWALK

Eager to begin exploring the beach and amusement park, the children ran back to their parents. Jake took hold of their father’s hand whilst Mari took hold of their mother’s. Together, all four walked hand-in-hand inside through the boardwalk’s gates.

[pankomako]

for anyone confused, boardwalk of beasts is a story i've had for YEARS that i'd love to make a tv show of. basically it centers on these two teens who are volunteer lifeguards for the summer at the beach in a town where monsters live among them as equals. kinda like a deltarune deal but there are more humans in the world than just like. one. basically they have a bunch of monster friends and a couple fellow human friends and shenanigans ensue on the beach and the boardwalk but then eventually the Plot kicks in and trauma happens. also there's plenty of queer shit going on. also also this is the same universe as gang's bay but takes place closer to present day and is also more self-contained aka the monsters dont leave malgum (the name of the town). i haven't thought about these guys much in quite a while but i hope this is intriguing lol

[sulfurousdreamscapes]

The photographers are beasts. Show them no weakness, but also don't move. Smile, pose, and imagine yourself through their eyes. They crouch, they bend, and they adjust their obscene apparatuses. The flash is blinding, but your body knows better than to close your eyes now. Take in the flash, you tell yourself. Let the light beam into your eyes and fill you with radiance inside.

Lessons from mother.

Hours later, she walks up to the stage, her dress glittering like electric sparks in short circuit. I look away, but the camera-beasts have not stopped their slow panning yet. They want my reaction. They want a story behind these eyes, something about jealousy or pride or a mix of both. Something to share, to get reactions out of others, all in a never-ending wave of emotion and narrative.

Acting lessons are life lessons. I'm no longer here, clapping and smiling in my seat, I'm thinking about the first time I caught a bass in Lake Rosalind, and my father and I had to jump like monkeys to catch a hold of the fish as it struggled to breathe on the boardwalk. The memory has been drained dry now to make me feel anything genuine, but it inspires enthusiasm. I get up and beam for the cameras.

Someone's watching me clap for my mother as she takes the award that could very well have been in my hands. This someone is an online streaming viewer in Johannesburg, and a TV viewer in New Delhi, and a streamer reacting in Oslo, and on and on. This is no less of a show for them than an actual movie. They deserve a good show.

Mother's good with crocodile tears. Who am I to speak? I'm even better. In this industry, they judge you for how well you can lie, how well you can strip your soul bare and put on an outfit of imagined, artificial emotions. There's a writer standing up and cheering for my mother, the one who wrote the lines that she acted out. His hands are big, and if I focus clearly, I can hear his clapping isolated from everyone else's.

Mother would like to thank me. I don't know if I'd have thanked her had it been me up there. Nevertheless, I send out a flying kiss, a Spitfire raining hell on her form. Hands above my head, I applaud and mouth something very kind to her.

It's too late, though. The camera-beast loses interest in me. The applause and cheering quiets down. Mother is heaving. Her crocodile tears have long flown off the stage, and she clutches her chest where her heart should be and stumbles back. There's a rush towards the stage, a rush to keep Mother from falling and breaking her neck.

The camera-beasts smell blood. The broadcast may have been stopped, but the footage in their jaws will be enough to gorge on for decades. Mother is on her knees, clutching her award with both hands. She doesn't look at me. No one looks at me, or so I think - until I catch a smartphone's back aimed at me.

I try to look through its lens, and I know it's biting my flesh, ripping it apart, the way I'm still beaming and clapping and not wiping the tears raining down my cheeks.

[the-habbit-reviewer]

Life With Noah | Running in Circles

What's with Slenderverse fans only knowing how to do two things? It's either rip something off and do nothing new or interesting, or trying to reboot a pedophile's magnum opus... and do nothing new or interesting.

Life With Noah is yet another TribeTwelve reboot, among a sea of failed TribeTwelve reboots. Yawn.

The trailer doesn't give me any hope. I mean, it's a bunch of pedo-dickriders yearning for the return of an overhyped-fetish-filled-Slenderverse series which relies on its editing instead of putting any actual effort into its writing. Reminds me of a lot of new gen stuff... interesting...

The first video, Exposition, is nothing. It's what I expect every video to be. Some guy running around his backyard with a bunch of needless filters and loud noises. Oh no! a shitty Slender Man png! Run!!!

It's what every new gen series consists of, and what the boardwalk videos of TribeTwelve were like. Uninteresting(and irritating) filler pretending it's gonna be something great.

No one wants this. Adam's victims don't want this. It's actually pretty easy to not glorify a pedophile!

I know I trash on new gen, but at least they think they're trying something new. Even if it's bad, I'd prefer someone try to be original over beating a dead horse.

It's kind of like Transformers: Rise of the Beasts(2023). It doesn't want to do anything new, and would rather stay in its Bayverse bubble, where it can do nothing fun or interesting and live in the past.

[lostcryptids]

watched under the boardwalk (again) and the way that google shows mr beast as hot sauce crab before the lead actors

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

From the Ashes Pt. 42

Pairing(s): Pairing(s): Rhaegar Targaryen x Lannister!Reader, one-sided!Jaime Lannister x Lannister!Reader, Jaime Lannister x Cersei Lannister

Warnings: slow burn fic, changing povs, MC's POV

Words: 6,008

Part 1 Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11  Part 12   Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17  Part 18  Part 19  Part 20 Part 21 

Part 22 Part 23  Part 24  Part 25  Part 26 Part 27  Part 28  Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33  Part 34  Part 35  Part 36  Part 37  Part 38  Part 39  Part 40 Part 41 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47

You knew instantly when your vessel breached the waters of Asshai. An ominous air hung heavy over the near pitch black waves. The sky had now been painted in a dark gray with even darker clouds rolling by. It made the bottom of your stomach feel heavy with lead. Legends of this land did not disappoint. Exactly as your mother had told you.

Ahead of you was the sharp outline of the Shadow City. A few ships already docked bobbed lazily on the harbor docks. Latilth seems to vibrate against your leg, the scales around her neck puffing out as she hissed. Brushing your hand over her head you could feel her wariness. Even Latilth didn’t know what to make of it and not knowing scared the mighty beast.

“This is it.” Melisandre’s face is numb as she stares out, her hands tucked inside of her long, scarlet sleeves. She didn’t appear to be too excited about the notion of returning home.

Even Inniros stood at a distance, one blue eye blankly gazing upon Asshai’s shores. What exactly had you gotten yourself into?

Unconsciously you start to worry chew on the inside of your cheek. You had been through a lot since leaving Westeros, yet nothing quite prepared you for something like the Shadowlands. Yet it was something like a vague dream to you.There was a certain familiarity that startled you. Like you had seen it all before, felt the same chill in the air long ago.

Was this from your past life? Remnants from Azor Ahai?

Ray was the only one to maintain his cheery smile. “My word, won’t this be fun!”

For a moment, Rhiannon glances at him with an incredulous expression before tightening her hood around her head. Mumbling something under her breath along the lines of “Crazy priest.”

Weapons already secured to his back, Weles joins you and heaves a sigh as if preparing himself for the trials to come.

From the upper deck of the ship, the captain announces to you that the ship would be pulling up to the docks in a matter of moments. A seasoned master of the seas, Captain Magahl wore the bright, warm colors of the Servants of R’hllor. He was the one who ferried the red priestesses across Essos to do missionary work for the temple. From their drop off destination, they would travel on foot to various cities.

Heavy waves stilled to a gentle roll coming into the harbor. The ships that came into view appeared abandoned had it not been for a few masked workers aboard. Unloading their wares from tough voyages to the wooden boardwalk where they were hauled away. Great spiked towers became more prominent, red glows from windows telling you that there was life present. There were littered among the towers round roofed buildings yet only one home out of ten seemed to be used as a home. The rest of the land was eerily quiet. You feared even to breathe for it might be too loud.

A relentless fog carried you in as the ship’s crew starts to throw ropes over the edges and climb down them. You watched them as they scurried to tie down the ropes until the anchor was fully released.

To the side you hear Weles and Magahl speak to one another. “We’ll stay within the Ash Sea, but I can’t stay in these harbors. It doesn’t feel right.” The captain had whispered with a scowl. “My men aren’t comfortable.”

Weles grimaces but knew there was nothing he could do to assuage him to stay in reach. It would make getting back to the ship would be difficult.

The matter would have to be dealt with when the time came. One obstacle at a time. At least the captain would be leaving a rowboat behind. That meant only a few would be able to go while the others would have to wait until the ship returned.

You went down to your quarters to hastily pack a bag that would have enough provisions for you until you reached the Shadow Hills of the darkin. Not possessing many belongings to begin with, you made sure that Latilth would have plenty of cured meats if she was unable to find any prey.

A small voice inside you worried that Latilth would become disoriented in a new environment and fly away.

Your fears were put to rest when your group finally disembarked and set foot onto the wooden planks of the harbor docks. Latilth didn’t seem too eager to leave your side as her side is constantly pressed into your leg. You thought at one point you heard her hiss her displeasure. She had grown accustomed to blue skies filled with clouds for her to dash through. Asshai’s sky were the color of soot and the air was heavy.

“Try not to look around too much.” Inniros instructs you as he passes by. “Keep your gaze forward.”

Weles covers your left side while Rhiannon keeps to your right. Behind you were Melisandre and Ray, there to protect your group’s blind spot as Inniros takes the lead. The pace was steady and while you tried to keep your eyes trained to the front, they wandered relentlessly. Hungry to look at this once land of the forbidden. The architecture was shiny, sharp and unforgiving. Looming over you in a dominant fashion. Every so often your heart would leap into your throat when you thought you saw a shadow wiggle and move.

Passing by an orange-hued window, you caught a glimpse of someone standing in their doorway. Their mask is what made you gape and hastily avert your gaze. A gold mask with pitch black eyes seemed to stare at you. You had forgotten that most people in Asshai wore masks when they were outside. Feeling vulnerable, you tug at your scarf and tried to pull it over at least the bottom half of your face.

Inniros kept your group continuing down the road, growing further away from the harbor and salty air of the ocean. In the middle of a street was an odd statue made from obsidian. Atop of a smooth stone podium was a cloaked figure; their face covered by a heavy hood. The tip of their nose peaked out, accompanied by lips that looked to be whispering a secret. Carved hands are clasped together. More unsettling was the fact that the figure appeared to be on their knees, begging for forgiveness.

For a moment, Inniros stops to look upon the statue before making a right turn. Buildings were thinning out, becoming a barren path that could only produce weeds. Empty shacks littered either side of the road. Ahead of you were the jagged mountains that were growing closer.

The city disappears behind you. Twisted trees littered the rolling gray dirt of the land. Bare of any leaves or fruit. Truly, Asshai was a wasteland. Inniros had warned them ahead of time that the walk from Asshai to the Shadowlands would not be an easy one. Especially when you had to hike into the valleys of the Shadow Hills. From the valley there would be a secret tunnel that only the darkin were able to access.

When you finally reached the mouth of the valley, your feet were burning from exhaustion. Your knees nearly buckling from the exertion you were demanding from them. Not letting on to how tired you were, you were using Latilth now basically as a support.

From the mist came a female’s voice. “You bring strangers to our land.”

The low spikes on Latilth’s spine tremble in aggravation. Latilth’s actions made everyone quickly position themselves for battle, including you who immediately had Lightbringer unsheathed although it wasn’t covered in flames. You still had yet to call them to you on command. The shine that came off the Valyrian steel sword was menacing enough. In the center of the road, a pool of black was forming from shadows that were making their way lazily to join the others. They crept from boulders and crevices alike. From the pool, a head covered in blue hair emerged slowly until she was physically standing before you. Your arms lowered an inch at this odd beauty. This darkin’s hair was painted in a hue of crushed sapphires and her kohl lined eyes bore into the naked soul. The straight line of her eyebrows endowed her with regalness the likes no one in Westeros has ever seen. Shadows trailed down the top of her head and to the ground like a morbid veil. You had never seen such a color of hair, not even from the many Tyroshi you had seen during your travels. She was a lovely creature with a golden diadem that encircled her brow.

Everyone holds their breath, waiting for an attack. Inniros doesn’t see her as a threat though. He has made no move whatsoever. “How long have you been back in Asshai, Loviisa?”

“A few months. The shadows kept urging me back to the Shadow Hills.” Her voice dripped like honey and the more you looked at her, the more you thought that she could give Cersei a run for her money in aspects of beauty. “You’re lucky I was the one to find you here and not Master Batur.”

“Batur is the very man we wanted to see.” Inniros casually replies, ignoring Loviisa’s scrutinizing blue eyes that roamed over your group. Distaste lit her eyes when they fell on Melisandre, Rhiannon and Ray. It was easy to pick out the clergy of R’hllor. The red articles of clothing gave them away.

“And who is ‘we’, Inniros?” Loviisa kept her face composed, not a wrinkle of her brows nor twitch of her eye gave her away. “You’ve forgotten your manners since we parted ways.”

By his voice, Inniros sounded bored by the whole interaction. “If you insist we do this here. Loviisa, this is Azor Ahai reborn. (y/n).” He shuffles to the side so you were in complete view of Loviisa.

You greeted her as Inniros had instructed. Closing your eyes and bowing your head until she could see the crown of it.

“A little girl with an even smaller dragon.” She murmurs.

Her barb slides off of your shoulders. Cersei had called you worse things. You maintained your smile although it lost it’s original shine. All darkin at first meeting were surly, it appeared. Inniros had the same demeanor as Loviisa did now.

“I never took you as stupid, Inniros.” Loviisa scolds him. “You really believe that this girl is the real Azor Ahai reborn? And let me guess, you plan on telling Batur this.”

Inniros nods. “Nice catching up with you, Loviisa. Now let us pass.”

Shadows writhe around her, having an almost tentacle-like appearance as they stretched down the path until it threatened to brush against Inniros’ feet. “You’re willing to risk endangering your own kind? Look at who you have brought. A fire priest, two priestesses, and what I can only assume is a guard for whatever temple she came from.”

Latilth lifts her wings in an aggressive posture when even she spots the shadows’ approach. Her mouth opens partially to reveal the tips of her sharp teeth. Between the gapes were sparks of orange. She was feeling threatened enough to actually use her fire.

You calm her with a hand atop her head, though she did retain her posturing. You wished you could do the same for the rest of your group. Rhiannon tenses up, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag while Weles was already preparing to attack. Then Inniros began to speak. The worlds that tumble out of his mouth were odd sounding. Melisandre moves out of the group formation to pace to the front. Her own red lips spoke a similar vocabulary as Inniros. The female darkin scowls at Melisandre’s intervention but waited as the red priestess spoke.

Loviisa walks forward, speaking to Melisandre in the same foreign tongue. The deep crease that had been worrying her brow softens a small measure. She heaves a sigh before nodding. “Alright. Keep to your word, priestess.”

Melisandre gently nods her head, a brief movement before she goes back to Ray and whispers something in his ear. Ray merely crossed his arms, keeping his features leveled.

Waving for your group to follow her through the valley, Loviisa weaves your group up to the mountain. On the side, there. Is a large boulder blocking a possible entry tunnel.

Inniros explains “Past this Boulder is the way to the heart of the Shadow Hills. The only way to get past is to walk through the shadows to the other side.”

Weles bristles. “Only you two can walk through shadows.”

“Not necessarily.” Loviisa’s dark veil of shadows springs to life and runs down her back like water. When she raises her arms the shadows hang off her arms. Pitch black drapery. “Darkin who are strong enough can wrap the shadows around other people so that they may cross with us. But while under our blanket, you will be unable to see anything and it will cause you great nausea.”

You really weren’t looking forward to more nausea. You thought once you left the ship you would be through with it.

“But the more you do it, the less sick you will become each time.” Inniros added, wanting to reassure your group.

No one appeared to be in a rush to get to the Shadow Hills. Rhiannon and Ray were the first brave ones who stepped forward. The young red priestess murmurs “Lets get this over with.”

The darkin explain that they could each only carry one at a time. Inniros gathered Rhiannon close to his side before materializing a thick blanket of darkness. It crawls up his legs, spreading across his shoulders as he hunches over Rhiannon. They became a black blur as they disappeared. Loviisa did the same with Ray, leaving you, Weles, and Melisandre alone.

“Nyke year dark has bisa.(I don’t like this.)” Weles whispers, his fingers itching for his weapons. Being blind and disoriented wasn’t something member of the Fiery Hand were used to. They were all ways in control.

Melisandre takes Rhiannon’s place next to you. “Gaomagon said urneptre nakostobaves issue naejon hen ilva kosh.(Do not show weakness in front of our champion.)”

That was enough to shame Weles into silence as Inniros and Loviisa returned for two more. Weles insists that he go along with the strange darkin. He wouldn’t trust you to anyone he didn’t know. At least he had spent much time with Inniros on the ship, even if they didn’t really speak to one another.

You watch them leave the same way Rhiannon and Ray had. Very softly, you grab onto one of Latilth’s horns to draw her close to you. You vaguely hear Inniros telling Melisandre that he would be back for her over the loud drumming of your heart.

Inniros placing his fingers delicately on your shoulder makes you jump. “Are you ready?”

No. . . I need Jaime here with me. We’ve been facing dangerous obstacles together for so long. . . I don’t want to do this alone.

“Look down at Latilth.” He quietly instructs you.

When you do, you find her calm as she’s sandwiched between you and Inniros. She turns her long neck to look at you. She didn’t seem as bothered as before.

“See how she’s not afraid?”

Latilth bumps her horn against your palm that was resting on it. You smile and find a pillar of strength. “Okay.”

You close your eyes when Inniros has to draw you a little closer to him. The sudden contact made your chest flutter, not having been held like that in so long. A shameful thought that you were prompt to shake out of your head.

Inniros shuffles before you feel a sudden chill run through your body. That same odd sensation when Inniros had captured your shadow during your first encounter. You felt Latilth’s side bump into a few times as Inniros guides you into the shadows.

“Just keep walking like you normally do.”

You almost tripped when you suddenly felt weightless. It scared you, but he kept his grip firm on you and kept giving you encouraging praises. That’s when your stomach felt like it was being pulverized by a mallet. You definitely did stumble once your feet came into contact with solid ground, the chill passed yet it still left you feeling cold. If it hadn’t been for Inniros anticipating your stumble, you would have fallen painfully onto your hands and knees.

“Easy (y/n). Keep your eyes closed until the nausea passes.” You heard Rhiannon tell you.

Inniros hands you off to someone else so he could retrieve Melisandre. You did as Rhiannon suggested and kept your eyes shut tight, waves of nausea rolled over you. Eventually it passed and you were able to open your eyes. Rhiannon smiles at you, an orange glow cast over her from the torches on the either side of the tunnel walls. Your eyes widen and gape as you take notice of the stone floor and high vaulted ceiling of the tunnel. There were actual wooden support frames.

“This tunnel was built during Azor Ahai’s time.” Loviisa comments, eying you slightly. “There wasn’t always a boulder there.”

She left it at that when Inniros appears with Melisandre. She shudders before disentangling herself from the darkin. “That was as unpleasant as I thought it was going to be.” Melisandre leans on the rough wall of the tunnel, breathing heavily. Her face was as white as a sheet. But her scarlet eyes were alert and roved around her. "So this is the entrance to the Manor of Shades."

"Indeed." Loviisa nods and resumes her role as leader. On wobbling knees, you stand up and check on Latilth. Unphased by having just shadow danced, Latilth is already back on her feet, using the tips of her wings to assist in walking. Rhiannon playfully bumps your arm with hers.

"We lived." She comments with an easy smile.

Your eyes shine when you look at her. "We did! And if we can survive shadow dancing, then maybe we can even survive this mission." You wanted to get back to the temple as soon as possible so you could tell Tyrion and Jaime what had happened. They would never believe you but at least you had several other witnesses to this crazy feat. Like the stuff out of fairytales. That's the life you were living now. How crazy it was compared to your quiet, docile life as a lady of blue blood. Maybe in the Lannister case it would be gold blood.

"Don't let your guard down, nuha kosh." Weles warns as he urges you and Rhiannon to start following the others as the two of you had stayed behind. The tattoos on his face appeared to glow in the torchlight. "We haven't even made it to their fortress yet. Who knows what trouble we can meet on our way their."

Rhiannon rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "She knows that already, Weles. Let her have at least a moment of happiness."

The captain of the Fiery Hand frowns and trails behind you while reminding Rhiannon "You should be taking your duties more seriously, Rhiannon. You are a red priestess of the temple after all. Take notes from the Lady Melisandre."

His reprimand managed to make her quiet. Weles meant well, but he could be strict most of the time without even realizing it. Rhiannon told you once that many people at the temple always compared her against other people, especially Thalina. They would say she wasn't as talented as Thalina or as powerful as Melisandre. It especially hurt when they compared her to Thalina. She wasn't even scholarly. You liked Rhiannon the way she was though. Her attitude was bright and her snorting laugh always brought you joy to hear.

The tunnel eventually started branching out in different directions, Loviisa skillfully choosing the correct path each time for it didn't take long to come up to an iron framed door.

Loviisa turns to your group. "Behave yourselves, all of you. The Manor of Shades is not used to visitors. Especially those that follow the Lord of Light. Keep close and don't touch anything. When you meet Master Batur keep quiet until he addresses you. He has little patience."

"Sounds like he hasn't changed much." Inniros actually smirks when Loviisa glares at him.

Her back to you once more, Loviisa opens the door and steps aside to watch each one of you go in. Your group filed out to a large hall with black columns that supported an iron arch across the ceiling. Hanging metal lamps were tethered to the ceiling by strong chains. Tinted stained glass made multiple colors fill the room. You could make out the exquisite metalwork lattice produced designs for the light to form through. In awe, you unconsciously follow the group along as Loviisa's skirts swept across the cold black stones beneath her feet. In the distance was a faint humming. She starts to ascend a narrow stair case when you fully turned your attention back to where you were going. In a neat single file line, she leads up to the next floor where immediately you see two figures sparing in front of a massive fireplace.

They stop when they sense your presence. The taller, much older man merely stands and stares. His companion was a younger man with blonde hair and an equally pale complexion as that of Inniros'. His dark eyes look curious as he glances at his master. Who else could the older man be but Master Batur? The closer he got you noticed how his eyes were heavily lined with crow's feet accompanied by a sharp beard that had gone completely gray. He didn't look happy to be seeing his old student after so many years.

His voice was raspy and deep with an admonishing undertone. "You have brought strangers into our home, Loviisa."

Batur hadn't even acknowledged Inniros' presence. That wouldn't go by Inniros. He pushes past Loviisa to glare at the older man. "They have come here to escort Azor Ahai so that she may meet you."

"She?"

That's when all eyes turned to you and Latilth. You take a deep breath and approach Batur. His cold eyes remind you of Tywin's. Always disapproving. "An honor to meet you, Master Batur. I am (y/n) Targaryen, Azor Ahai reborn."

"Of course he will not listen to anyone." Inniros explained to you one night when you ask him for tips on how to convince Batur that you were Azor Ahai reborn. "Fighting him is unavoidable."

You groan and lean over your hammock. "I was worried you were going to say that. You really expect me to fight a darkin master?" Latilth was sleeping comfortably underneath your hammock. In a few more days she wouldn't be able to fit anymore. She was growing fast with the open sky and sea nourishing her.

Everyone else in the cabin was dozing so you and Inniros had to whisper. You knew Rhiannon was possibly pretended to be asleep to listen in.

"The fire of Lightbringer will at least make him consider our words and let us stay."

"I don't know how to do that either."

That's when you felt Inniros' single eye on you in the dark. "You will. When the time is right you will. Just trust in your instincts. If you are Azor Ahai reborn, then his instincts are your instincts now. Channel them."

You never pegged Inniros to be an optimist but he made you feel like you could indeed rise to the occasion when the time came. Moving your eyes back up to Rhiannon's bunk, you imagine that if she is awake, she's agreeing with Inniros. "Okay. Anything specific I need to know when fighting him?"

"Take the advantage of knowing that he will underestimate you greatly. So, just show him what you're made of."

Batur stares at you for a long time, those chilling eyes of his drilling you to the ground. You sneeze such utter resentment readjusting off of him. Perhaps not personally toward you, but more so for the fact that you associate yourself with those of the Lord of Light.

You purse your lips together, knowing that you sounded crazy even saying that out loud. The time you spent at the temple had made you acknowledge. Certain things going on in your life. While you certainly didn’t feel like some champion, you knew that there were too many fantastical things going on as of late. You were able to stop a darkin dead in his tracks with a sword of fire. You walked into a pyre and came back out unharmed with a newborn dragon. Maybe you weren’t worthy of the title of ‘champion’ quite yet, but you were on your way.

His eyes gradually slide over to Latilth who does nothing to hide her immediate dislike of these strangers. She kept obediently close to you despite her trepidation. Batur moves on from Latilth to the red haired darkin Inniros. You worry about Inniros. This was the man who had purchased him at such a young age after the death of his mother. The way Inniros has spoken of Batur, you knew that he had abused him when he was a boy. His master had claimed it to be the Rite of Courage and Cowardice. He had been equally brutal with young Loviisa as well.

Batur spoke in that language which Melisandre, Inniros and Loviisa had spoken in earlier. Sharp and biting was the tone of his unknown words. You imagined them to be insults toward Inniros who passively stood his ground, his arms crossed as he listened before interjecting with his own even words.

Then Batur mockingly snaps at you “Well where is your flaming sword, Azor Ahai?” You barely prevent yourself from flinching at his tone. Weles nearly releases a loud snarl, begging to fight this disrespectful man. A vein in his arm twitches and you mentally praise him for his self control.

Your gait is stiff as you walk to Inniros’ side and slowly unsheathe Lightbringer. The Valyrian steel sword, while undoubtedly beautiful, shined with no flame around it. As much as you pray for it to go aflame, nothing happens and you blush in shame. Dread makes your chest heavy with lead and you can’t bare to meet the darkin master’s eyes. He scoffs at your display. “Just a fancy sword. What makes you think this girl is the reincarnation of Azor Ahai? Did those red maniacs manipulate you into thinking that?”

Melisandre mutters a curse in Valyrian underneath her breath. The malice that the darkin held toward servants of R’hllor may well ruin any attempt at speaking with this man. You were only comforted by Inniros’ passive expression as he stares at his former master. His voice is smooth and even. “She has been unable to summon the flames on her own but I’ve seen it. Felt it stab into my shadow.”

“You’ve always been a stubborn boy.” Batur shook his head, shame hissing out of him. “But you were never stupid. What did they do to you while you were made their prisoner?”

For the first time since arriving, Inniros turns his face away from Batur to look at you. His head motions you forward and you knew you couldn’t just remain in the background as a silent character.

You take a deep breath and look into his unwavering eyes. This man would definitely not believe in anything you had to say. He was a man of action. “Test my blade out for yourself, Master Batur.” The only times Lightbringer managed to catch flame was when you were truly put to the test. First with Inniros and then the pyre that hatched Latilth.

The young man who was next to him actually chuckles, earning a glare from his elder. His hands began to move oddly, gesturing toward you and back to Batur for more hand movement. He didn’t speak, but from what the young man was doing, Batur understood him.

“Ulian is right.” Inniros nods to the acolyte. “Let her show you.”

“Very well. Those in red though must be restrained.” That meant your friends behind you. Understandable, but they were not going to be happy one single minute being held still by the shadows. An unpleasant experience you remember all too well. Such a coldness coats your insides. “And if you fail to even produce a spark, I’ll have all of you executed.

Against the darkin, you didn’t know if your group would survive. Their powers were too great in their home. When you look at Rhiannon, she gives you a warm smile, mouthing “You can do it”, but the others appear slightly unsettled by his threat.

Ears warm, your booming heartbeat deafens you. You were scared. Lightbringer somehow began to soak it away.

Weles and Jaime had taught you well. This wasn’t your first fight with a darkin, but Inniros was no master. Who knew what skill level Batur was at. You didn’t have to beat him, all you had to do was invoke Lightbringer’s flame. There was no strategy you had come up with. You would simply improvise.

Ulian, the young darkin in training, smiles at you and gestures for you to follow his master toward the sparring ring where he had been previously. Now that you were closer to him, you noticed a dash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His large, dark eyes inquisitively examine you. He reminds you of when Latilth was first hatched and how curious she was of everything. Momentarily you cast a glance at Latilth who has her head tilted sideways, wanting to follow you her wings flap a little until Rhiannon pats her horned head which seems to soothe her. Latilth chirps out helplessly but trusts in Rhiannon’s gentle hand on her head.

Batur stood opposite of you, his own sword already gleaming out in the open. A short sword, you figured darkin mainly used their shadows instead of actual weapons. Inniros had only had his obsidian dagger when you fought him. You were easily able to shatter it. Batur’s sword wasn’t black like the forged volcanic glass. A steely blue color gave his short sword a bright sheen.

“Come on then, Azor Ahai. Show me that fire of your’s.”

Your fingers tightened around the hilt, not liking having to be the first one to make a move, You dash forward.

That cold sensation of darkin controlled shadows crept wooing your spine but you were faster and got out of reach. Batur was waiting for you to become distracted by his shades as he struck out at you in the blink of an eye. You brought up Lightbringer to bear the brunt of his attack, feet forced to dig into the ground from his harsh impact. Clenching your back teeth together, you throw him off of you and untangle yourself from his shadowy touch. You had to keep moving. If you stayed in one spot for too long, it was easy for Batur to grab onto your shadow. Fighting a darkin was a slightly annoying task.

Only mere seconds ticked in the process of Batur switching sword hands to wield another weapon; a black dagger much like Inniros’. You rock back on your heels, the jagged edge of the dagger snips at your knuckles on the hand that was holding Lightbringer. Reeling your arm back with a hiss, you didn’t let it stop you from advancing toward Batur. He could cut you up as much as he wants.

Each slash you bore from the dagger was little compared to what his sword might do to you if he caught you in his web.

There was no way to avoid close combat with him. Alright, that was fine by you. Inniros thankfully prepped you ahead of time for this occasion.

You managed to grab the sleeve of his robe to throw him off his balance. The surprise of your action gets Batur for a moment, that was all you needed. In that moment you grab his hand that was holding his dagger and flex it in a way that Weles had taught you. His fingers pop open making his blade fall to the ground. Batur grunts from the pain but proceeds to try and fend you off with his short sword. For an older man he was strong and initially resisted the pull of your other hand until you threw your body into him. He wraps his arms around you and suddenly you can’t see anything. Everything is dark , your insides freezing each second of blindness. Before you know it, you’re thrown against the ground of the arena. Your head spins uncontrollably but you stay steady on your feet to brace another shadow emergence.

Instead he attacks you with his short sword. You went to bring your Valyrian steel sword to shield you, anticipating his strike. The clash makes your bones ring inside of you. Sliding against the sharp edges, your blades slide away from one another. As he moves his shoulders for another offensive jab, you are already slicing a horizontal arc toward his torso. Hastily, he attempts to bob away from your assault but you catch his shoulder with Lightbringer, slicing clean through the material of his sleeve. Grimacing, he melts into his shadows. Anxiously you slow down your breathing so you could listen for his movement better. Out of nowhere pain radiates in your leg. You grit your teeth and twist around to slash at him, but he is out of your reach and promptly melting into shadows.

He was goading you on. Taunting you. From wherever he was hiding, Batur was still able to manipulate the shadows to try and freeze you.

Before anything else you hear the flapping of wings and then an unholy shriek. Then flames. A new kind of blindness strikes your eye from the sheer ferocity of the fire. White light makes your pupils shrink and you hear Batur yell, the shadows spitting him back out. Batur’s hand was covering his eyes before he angrily shakes his head and squints them open. His left hand tightens around the hilt of his short sword. The blinding light had come from Latilth who was flying above you. Her mouth was menacingly open. Latilth's name rings as your friends try to coax her back. Latilth would not obey them and instead hovered above Batur like a hungry vulture.

She gave you the perfect opening though and moral support that boost you hold Lightbringer close to your chest and close your eyes for a moment. Tightening your fingers around the hilt made the cuts on your knuckles burn. Pain was nothing new to you.

In fact you were beginning to find it very useful. Pain was fodder for your anger. And that anger flickers alive into a small spark.

That spark was enough to ignite an inferno inside of you. Rippling out into so much vibrating energy that it nearly tore you apart. Using Lightbringer as a conduit, you channel it through the steel. There's a 'whoosh' that accompanies the vortex of swirling reds and oranges around your sword.

Batur, recovering from the shock of being forced out of his shadows, thrashes towards you with dagger in hand until he saw your blade. Not a second after your sword lit aflame did Weles and Inniros jump into action to make sure the fight was over. You had won. Now Batur had to hold up his end and not kill you all.

Safe behind the figures of Weles and the red headed darkin, Latilth finally glides down to earn a scolding from Rhiannon.

"She has produced the flames you so desired." Inniros points out to his seething master. "Now you must listen to us."

Taglist:

@boywivlove

@esposadomd

@domoron

@yentroucnagol

@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan

@bregarc

[checkitoutmikey]

Little thief

You were just minding your own business when a little thief appeared.

Warning: none, one use of ‘chica’ but that’s just Paul so I think reader could be any gender, blood (just a bit), fluff, fluff, fluff

It was painfully slow week night. You were in a limbo of ‚do not want to do anything‘ and ‚could not be bothered to do anything‘ with a bit of ‚I need to make some friends‘ springled in. You weren’t exactly looking for entertainment. Sure, you were bored but that didn’t mean you should be holed up in your room and watch tv all night. Instead you went to Boardwalk to just sit around and lament you weren’t home watching tv. Brilliant plan right there.

But hey, a myriad of sugary junk food was at your disposal here so that’s surely an improvement. You bought some fried dough with heaps of powdery sugar and syrup on it and a milkshake to top off the diabetes inducing extravaganza. Why did you do it? Again, you were bored. The rides didn’t seem appealing and the shops didn’t have anything new to offer so wasting money on something you would bite into once and leave for some homeless person to find seemed like the right thing to do.

You sat down at one of the vacated picnic tables down at the beach, where the circus music from all those rides seemed to fade into a nice lull. You laid out your outrageous choice of the dinner on in front of you without touching it. Sometimes a person just needs to be in the right headspace to down 15 oz of pure sugar, you know? The briny smell of the ocean filled your lungs. You were watching the waves roll over one another when you heard a little thud.

A bat.

A tiny brown bat landed on the table right in front of you. That little pebble fucker wasn’t even looking at you! It was trying to get into the cup of milkshake that towered over it. It‘s tiny clawed hands scraped over the slick plastic surface. The little body was shakily balanced on two unstable feet that shuffled from place to place as it tried to climb up the cup but failed. Flopping it’s wings here and there to try and get into better position as it planned it’s next attack.

It was digustingly cute.

You had to chuckle at the small noice of frustration that left the little creature after an unsuccessful jump. It just hopped onto the cup before sliding down like some cartoon character. „Hey, bud,“ you said and the bat stopped in it’s tracks. It looked up at you with beady black eyes, head tilting to one side as if to say ‚yeah?‘. It wasn’t afraid at all. Huh, maybe it was used to tourists feeding it?

„Were you seriously trying to steal it right in front of my eyes?“

The animal made small squeaking noise and wiggled it’s butt. You took that as a yes.

„Little thief. Well, at least you confessed.“

You reached over and pulled out the straw, covering it in whipped cream before offering it to your new furry companion. „Here you go.“ It immediately went for it. Tiny pink tongue darted out to scoop up the sugary goodness. It was making proper mess too. It’s mouth and the tip of one of it’s ears somehow got covered in cream. There was no decorum. Just pure gluttony. The thing looked more and more like a piglet rather than a bat as it devoured the treat and almost bit through the straw itself.

„Careful. You don’t want tummy ache,“ you smiled down at it and dutifully kept the straw leveled so the tiny beast could snack comfortably. When there was no more food left, it snapped it’s small fangs at the stick before biting into it and trying to wrench it from your grasp. The key word ‚try‘. It could dig it’s miniscule heels in all it wanted but you were simply stronger, bigger and - most important – you refused to give up your straw. Instead you pulled it away and scooped some more cream before giving it to your ungrateful friend.

Can bats even eat sugar? Now, you didn’t know anything about bats but you hope it’s smell and insticts will inform it if it’s good for him or not.

After it finished it’s serving, it looked up at you, at the cup, back at you before strolling over to the cup at tapping at it few times. Then it had the nerve to look back at you. That little rascal.

You graciously pulled a piece from the fried dough and offered it instead just so your sponger would have some variety. It immedietly went into munch town, wiggling it’s butt and making happy yipping noises. You think you heard it purr at one point when it was licking syrup from your finger but you weren’t sure. The thing was too small and the crashing waves nearby too loud.

Giving it second helping of the dough, you put your face in hand while holding the treat in the other. It took quite a while for it to scarf down the food and you spaced out in the meantime. It was kind of nice. Providing for a cute little animal filled you with dopamine and when it’s tongue started licking your fingers again you just closed your eyes and enjoyed the feeling… before the serene moment ended with a flash of pain.

„Ouch, hey,“ you huffed. Pulling your hand back, you looked at it and saw your finger was bleeding. „Hey,“ you said again, this time in accusing manner and looked at the bat that somehow managed to look sheepish. „That’s not very nice thing to do, you know?“

The bat folded it’s wings underneat it’s body and hung it’s head down. It did look properly scolded so you took pity on it. You sigh before presenting your injured finger, „you see this? You don’t do this to someone who’s nice to you. This place is way too sensitive for your little nibblers.“ You paused for a second to let the information sink in because by this point you were fully convinced this tiny animal could understand you. Or you just went too long without human interaction. „You go for the knuckle, it doesn’t hurt as much there“ you finished.

You put your hand in front of the bat and angled it so the imp had better access. Those beady eyes look up at you in confusion. It’s stare flicked down at your hand before up again. With a smile, you tapped at your knuckle with your other hand, „go ahead bud.“

It took a hesitant step forward before giving your knuckle tiny lick. When you just smiled down at it and nodded it dived right in. It looked like it had to use some strenght to bite through the thick skin but after a few tries it finally managed to get to the blood.

Blood. Huh.

It didn’t even faze you. Guess they are right when they say people of Santa Carla are strange.

You let your tiny guest lap at your hand to it’s heart content. You were honest enough with yourself to admit that when it made those little cooing noises of content, it warmed your heart. The bat got overexcited and stuck it’s snout into the wound, presumably filling it’s nostrils with blood, and started sneezing. „There’s no rush.“ You rubbed it’s back as gently as you could. It shook it’s head in order to clean up it’s airways but after a minute or two it went right back to it’s dinner.

Maybe you could take it home. Having a pet bat is rather rad. It obviously wasn’t afraid of you and you had an inkling it would be an excellent listener. Who needs friends when you have an animal who can’t argue back?

„Now, what do we have here.“

A voice startled you from the peaceful moment and you whipped around to see four punks standing nearby. Familiar faces. You saw them on the Boardwalk where they had a reputation of being trouble makers. The bleached blonde Billy Idol wannabe, Twisted Sister, Tall Dark and Handsome and an actual angel that currently looked like he’s about to chew off his own thumb with a manic smile on his face. The last one was the only person who wasn’t examining you like a bug under a microscope. He was looking down… at your hand?

Before you had chance to do anything, the tall brunette flicked his eyes somewhere behind you and said, „Laddie,“ in tone that bone tired parents used on their misbehaving children. You turned back to see a little boy trying to hide behind you.

„Huh.“ There was a second of silence before you pieced together what was happening. „So you are a little vampire,“ you said to the boy who gave you toothy smile.

„Hey! Hey, chica! How do you know that?“ The rocker guy asked, looking genuinely flabbergasted.

You gave him the arched brow of condescendance. „Dude, this is Santa Carla. Everybody knows it has pest problem.“

[happyandticklish]

You Make It Hard to Breathe

Notes: The fandom has collectively decided that Izaya can't swim, and I've decided to run with it~

Summary: Izaya can't swim and Shizuo takes it upon himself to teach him how.

The sun beat down on him, a never-ending heat that was slowly but surely chipping away at Izaya’s psyche. He drew an arm over his face to try to block out the harshness of its rays, but light flickered in regardless making him squint. He was sweating. Sweating. Izaya Orihara did many things, but he did not sweat.

He flinched as a splash of water landed on his feet, drawing them back on his chair with disdain. “Do you mind?”

“That’s a lame move, you know,” the other man informed him at the edge of the lake. He had his arms propped up on the deck, kicking idly to keep himself afloat as he fixed Izaya with a grumbling stare. “You were the one who wanted to come here in the first place.”

“I enjoy the scenic view,” Izaya said idly. He had given up on fully blocking out the sun and chose to sit up instead, adjusting his towel underneath him. He should have brought sunglasses but it had been dark out when they left for the trip and he hadn’t thought to plan accordingly. It was unlike him, but the comfortability of packing in the morning with a sleepy Shizuo at his side had distracted him. The thought stirred a sense of prickling unease in him. It was only sunglasses, but it felt far too much like being off his guard. “Why would I want to splash around in disgusting mud water? It figures a beast such as yourself would enjoy these grotesque pleasures, of course.”

He flashed Shizuo a simpering smile, delighting in the glare it was received with. He turned back to his book, a collection of Russian poetry he had nabbed off of one of his rarer clients while they had been visiting the city. The page he had marked detailed out a short piece about the futility of life and the dread that came along with it. Cliché. Basic. Overdone. But the language was beautiful and there was nothing to say that Izaya couldn’t enjoy a more rudimentary read.

He was on vacation after all. The point was to relax.

Izaya wasn’t sure what had prompted the idea. Maybe it had been Shizuo’s insistence on clinging to him like a leech while he was trying to work, clearly bored out of his mind. Maybe it had been the overcast skies that sent a sense of gloom reigning over the massive apartment. Maybe he had simply wanted a change.

Shizuo hadn’t protested when he suggested the idea of a holiday vacation, merely raised a brow and scoffed in typical Shizuo fashion—that was his version of enthusiastic support. He hadn’t missed the glimmer in Shizuo’s eyes when they’d arrived at their outrageously small cabin, though. Izaya had to bite back a smile himself at how easily entertained he was. He didn’t allow himself to think that it was because the childlike fascination was cute, but Shizuo had figured it out if the sudden flush and averted gaze then had been any indication.

Now, he was finding that fascination annoying as several droplets of water landed on the top margins of his page. He sighed, tilting his chin down to meet Shizuo’s stare.

“Can I help you?”

“Get in with me.”

“And obtain the hundreds of diseases contained within that filth? I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

Shizuo frowned. For a moment, it seemed as though Izaya had dissuaded him, but in the next, Shizuo was gripping the edges of the boardwalk and pulling himself up in one fluid, wet motion. The water lurched at the displacement and Izaya drew back in his chair as it ran up against the wooden platform.

He yelped when Shizuo approached him, scrambling out of his chair to escape the dripping mess before him. “No, absolutely not, you are soaking wet. At least dry off first.” He snatched up the towel on the chair and shoved it into Shizuo’s chest, but the other ignored it, instead reaching out to wrestle his book away. Izaya put up a valiant defense but Shizuo was stronger than him and far less concerned about potentially ripping the pages than the former.

Finally, Shizuo emerged victor, clutching the book victoriously over Izaya’s head. “Who comes to a lake house to read, anyway? You can do that back home anytime.”

He tossed the book over on the remaining towels in the grass and Izaya winced. It did look mostly unharmed. Maybe a little wet, which he held every intention of complaining about later. Now, however, he was focused on survival as Shizuo—with zero warning he might add—scooped an arm under his legs, catching him off guard as he swept him into his arms.

He convinced himself that the racing of his heart was due to panic and nothing else.

“Shizuo,” Izaya said firmly as the other led him towards the lake. He tried to keep the edging panic out of his voice but the ebbing waves below them was making it hard to focus. “Shizuo, if you don’t put me down right now—”

“Than you might risk actually having fun for once?”

Shizuo was smirking, clearly not understanding the dire stakes they were facing. They were at the edge of the boardwalk now and Izaya yelped when Shizuo started to drop him, desperately clinging onto his neck.

Shizuo paused at that. “Everything alright, flea? You seem…” he struggled for the right word. “Unusually uncomposed.”

“If you had bothered to ask that earlier you might have realized that sooner,” Izaya hissed, hating how the combination of sweat and water on Shizuo’s back was making it difficult to get a firm grip. “I’m fine, I just don’t like the water, so if you could just—don’t!”

Shizuo’s hold had slackened once more experimentally. They both waited in the aftermath of the noise that could only be described as a shriek of terror.

“Izaya…” Shizuo started slowly. “Do you not know how to swim?”

Heat flashed across Izaya’s face. “Of course I know how to swim.”

“So, if I dropped you in right now—”

“Shizuo—”

“I will if you don’t tell me the truth.”

Izaya was silent for a long while. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of blackmail and he was not finding it to his liking. Shizuo’s stare was relentless, however, and the water rose in his vision in terrifying swells as it rode waves along the lake. He averted his gaze in what he hoped was nonchalance. “I just didn’t find it to be a necessary skill, is all. The whole concept of swimming is a ridiculous death wish anyway. Wading around in something that can kill you isn’t high up on my bucket list.”

Shizuo scoffed, rolling his eyes at the dramatics. Of course he wouldn’t be worried about something like this. Izaya had never met someone so unconcerned with their own safety. It would have been worrying if he hadn’t seen him survive all that he had—most of it inflicted by Izaya himself.

He ignored that particular twinge of guilt in favor of panic as Shizuo took a few steps back and then jumped into the shimmering water, Izaya still clutched in his arms.

The first thing he noticed was how cold it was. A freezing cold too, that shocked Izaya’s system as it tried to process the sudden temperature change. The second thing he noticed was how he was not able to breathe. He quickly slammed his mouth shut, trying to ignore the burning feeling at the back of his throat from all the water he had accidentally inhaled while shrieking. He kept his arms latched in a death grip around Shizuo’s throat as the latter’s worked to push their collective way to surface.

When they finally breached air all of five seconds later, Izaya gasped for much-needed breath, spluttering over the water clogging his throat. He was vaguely aware of Shizuo laughing in the background and he made a mental note to be offended by that once he was out of this freezing, over glorified bath.

“What was that for?” Izaya demanded indignantly once he could safely speak without coughing up saltwater.

“To show you that a simple thing like swimming isn’t going to kill you.” Shizuo raised a brow. “We’re not drowning, are we?”

They weren’t drowning, oddly enough. Through the reflections in the water, Izaya could see Shizuo’s legs idly kicking and keeping them afloat. One of his arms was preforming the same, lazy strokes as well, while the other curved protectively around Izaya’s waist. In theory, they were safe. This did not stop Izaya’s nails digging into Shizuo’s back from how tightly he was holding on, however. Shizuo barely seemed to notice.

“Shizuo,” Izaya said, forcing a casual, but firm tone of voice. “Put me back on the docks.”

“Not yet.”

“Not—?!”

“I want to show you that it’s fine. You’re going to have to learn to swim eventually, now is as good a time as any.”

Even as he said it, he kicked them a little closer to the shore, allowing Izaya to quickly reach out and grab onto one of the dock’s legs for safety. Evidently, he still had some humanity left in him.

“There, now you see—Izaya!”

It was a risky move and ultimately not worth it as Shizuo’s hand squeezed where it held on his waist, forcing an uncharacteristically panicked squawk out of Izaya.

The two froze for a moment, wading literally and figuratively in the aftermath of the unexpected sound. Then, Shizuo squeezed again. To his credit, Izaya merely let out a grunt this time, but it was too late—the damage had already been done.

“Swimming is an important skill,” Shizuo said, his voice coming out in a slow drawl that set Izaya’s nerves on edge. “You have enemies everywhere, flea, you really want them finding out that all it takes to take you down is a swimming pool and a lack of floaties?”

“I’ve survived this long.” Izaya hadn’t let go of the dock yet, torn between two insistent voices of instinct, one telling him to hold on for dear life and the other screaming at him that Shizuo’s hand was still wrapped around his waist—his stupidly sensitive waist.

“Luck. Luck that could fade.” Shizuo pressed his face into the crook of Izaya’s neck and the informant tensed, trying not to think about hot breath and teeth grazing his skin. “Let me teach you to swim or I’m going to tickle you until you’re suffocating from much worse methods than drowning.”

Izaya’s throat was dry. It was an impossible scenario. Being a pupil to someone like Shizuo in a scenario where failing could mean his imminent death was not his idea of a good time. On the other hand, the softness of Shizuo’s lips on his neck combined with the drumming fingers at his waist was frazzling his nerves with a giddy anticipation. The water seemed to make everything more sensitive too, his body already shivery and tense from the cold. Plus, tickling meant squirming, squirming meant Shizuo losing his grip, which meant Izaya sinking to the bottom of the lake and having his corpse nibbled on by some long-lost beast looking for a nice dinner.

He should never have suggested a lake house.

“Shizuo—”

Fingers, wiggling, scratching, spidering over his waist. His hand snapped back like a slingshot from the deck, moving to wrap around Shizuo’s neck instead. Fluttery giggles were escaping, and shit, he was breaking too fast, he normally had more resistance than this, the helplessness of this situation was not helping matters—

“Have you made a decision? You seem a bit antsy there, ‘Zaya.”

Izaya merely shook his head, burying his own face in Shizuo’s neck. He wanted to rip his hand away, but he didn’t want to disrupt Shizuo’s concentration on keeping them afloat.

On the other hand, it really, really tickled.

A kiss, then a bite into the crook of his neck, soft little grazes of teeth that made Izaya practically whimper as he attempted to scrunch up his shoulders. Shizuo’s fingers squeezed once more before crawling up and circling around his ribs, so close to the undersides of his arms that Izaya was going more than a little mad. He cursed himself for not wearing a shirt today even though he had held no ideations towards swimming when they had arrived. Still, the shirt he had brought had been stifling in the heat, and he had figured it couldn’t hurt. Now, he would have much preferred the heat.

Shizuo’s thumb dug into the divot of skin right above his top rib. Izaya yelped, unable to help the sudden burst of frantic thrashing the action caused. “We’re going to d-drown you ohoaf! Shit!”

“We’re fine, I’ve got you. Of course, if you knew how to swim, I would never be able to pull this move on you again.”

Izaya whacked a hand into his back at the comment, hard enough that anyone else might have released him. Shizuo barely seemed to notice, responding only with quick, scrambling fingers under his arms. Izaya’s face was a bright shade of red that spread quickly and obviously down his neck and onto his shoulders. He needed to stop the stream of breathless giggles that he couldn’t seem to get control over, but it was hard when each twitch of Shizuo’s fingers sent prickles of goosebumps sprawling over his skin (something he would later blame on the cold of the water when Shizuo pointed it out).

For a while, they stayed like that. Shizuo’s fingers, mouth, teeth, and tongue all working to send Izaya into a flustered, gasping, whining mess of laughter as he struggled to stay afloat. And yes, perhaps there was some part of Izaya that was enjoying how securely Shizuo was holding him, his strong arm tensed and confident around Izaya’s back, or how the thrill of laughter almost made him forget about swimming and water and all the diseases he had most likely accidentally swallowed when they first jumped into the water. Maybe. Maybe he could admit that, privately, to himself, later on when he was safe in bed and thinking back on the day. But for right now, his only goal was survival, which meant Shizuo stopping as soon as possible.

Eventually, it was Izaya’s own sensitivity that saved him. Shizuo’s arm had shifted so that his arm served as a seat (a much safer position with how much Izaya was moving around), and his fingers had experimentally found their way to his lower thigh where, fastening on in a tight grip, they squeezed and Izaya nearly jumped out of his skin with a screech of laughter. Instinct kicked in faster than strategy did, and Izaya’s knee jerked up into Shizuo’s chin, temporarily forcing him to let go.

Izaya had only a second to rejoice that Shizuo’s hands were no longer tickling him before realizing that this meant that Shizuo’s hands were no longer holding him either. Luckily, he was only underwater for a couple seconds. In a desperate flail, he managed to slam his foot into Shizuo’s chest, propelling him towards the docks—a move that only worked as Shizuo had mercifully remained within reach. He quickly grabbed onto the dock, pulling himself back to safety as he spluttered and coughed, trying to hack up the water he had accidentally inhaled in his momentary plunge.

Shizuo was laughing. Izaya had almost died and Shizuo was laughing. He rubbed the spot Izaya’s foot had landed with a hum of approval. “Nice reflexes.”

Izaya had thankfully managed to pull himself back on shore, where he retreated back to the safety of his chair, fumbling for his towel. “You almost killed me,” he hissed. There wasn’t any real venom in his voice though. It was more embarrassment than anything else.

Shizuo raised a brow at the claim. He remained in the water, perfectly content to tread the watery death trap. “I’ve done far worse without you so much as flinching. Besides, it’s not like you mind the tickling. Or have you forgotten that I know about that?”

Izaya pointedly did not look at him as he retrieved his towel, wrapping it around his shoulders. “I did not enjoy almost drowning because of it.” Not a confirmation or a denial, if the court played the sentence back.

He did not so much see as felt the eye roll from behind him. “Dramatic.”

“Brute.”

“Princess.”

Izaya sent him a withering stare. That particular insult (perhaps compliment, but Izaya refused to take it as such) was a new one, and one that Izaya was quickly finding not to his liking. He snatched his book up, settling back into his chair. Still in an okay condition, and the cool air had dried any bits of the pages that had gotten wet. He held the book up like a shield for his face as he noticeably did not respond.

Shizuo held up his arms in an expression of surrender, though the grin of amusement was still present on his face before he dove back under the water. As Izaya flipped a page in the novel, he hid his own smile, though his had a more affectionate value to it, despite the irritation.

Next summer, he decided, he would teach himself how to swim.

Shizuo would not be invited.

[thestalwartheart]

sinew and spots

Q appreciates a different view of Bond. Written for the 'body worship' Kinktober prompt.

[Read below on AO3]

James Bond in bed is something to behold.

There are the obvious reasons, of course. His body, with its musculature naturally bronzed and perfect, and his bedroom eyes glinting with a tease that is as unrelenting, as unceasing as the man himself. Then, there are the less obvious reasons; less obvious because they are so rarely seen by anyone.

Q, however, has a higher security clearance than most.

Bond is belly-down in bed. He’s sleepy-eyed and relaxed, the way he is wont to be on a Sunday morning, as if nothing the world over could move him to get up and dressed. Q’s bedsheets are pooled around his hips, ruched and creased under Q’s thighs. He is a veritable feast, not to mention—for now—a tamed beast. Q intends to take his time.

He runs a thumb over a freckle on Bond’s shoulder, then chases the touch with a slow kiss. Again and again, he maps the surprising trail of freckles and moles on Bond’s back. They speak of a lifetime in the sun, lounging on beaches and boardwalks and swimming through turquoise waters. Q could never carry the sun this well on his own body. For a ridiculous moment, he is envious that he will never be quite so golden.

Bond turns his head from where it’s pillowed on his hands.

“Do I need to remind you to put your back into it?”

“Hush,” says Q. “It’s a Sunday. I’m taking my time.”

“What’s so fascinating back there, anyway?”

“You have the loveliest freckles,” says Q, tracing between them. His blunt nail leaves a brief, pale scrape on the nape of Bond’s neck that soon turns pink.

“Most people hardly notice with the scars.”

Most people are terrible, Q thinks. There have been too many idiots in Bond’s bed.

“Well, I’ve noticed, and I never get you on your front long enough to appreciate them.”

That draws a shocked laugh from Bond. When he tries to turn over, Q stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

They both know, of course, that Bond only remains where he is because he wants to give in. If he really wanted to dominate, Bond could have Q on his back with a hand around his pale throat in less than a second.

The thought makes Q’s blood run hot.

“I think I’ll have you like this,” decides Q. It’s suddenly exactly what he wants: to see Bond grunting swear words into his pillow, biting and grabbing at it, muscles bunching and tightening before turning soft and pliant, the way they do right after a good orgasm. Bugger church and all the rest. In Q's good opinion, there’s no better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Q grinds his cock into the swell of Bond’s arse. “We’ve got all morning, don’t we? I can fuck you nice and slowly while I count them—your freckles.”

He pulls the sheet down until Bond is entirely exposed. He has one leg hitched up and bent, and Q has a lovely view of the parts usually hidden. His cock is half-hard and pink, trapped between Bond’s body and the bedsheets, and Q spots another freckle where his arse cheek meets his thigh and balls.

“Oh,” sighs Q, moving down to kiss it. “There’s another.”

“Christ. You’re going to be the death of me.”

Q kisses his way up Bond’s spine and reaches for the half-empty bottle of lube on the bedside table. “I’d think it was a nice way to go,” he whispers into Bond’s ear. “In fact, I’d keel over happily just looking at you like this.”

Bond makes a low sound in his throat and flexes up until he can kiss Q properly. It’s a lovely, slow-burning kiss, warm and wet and perfect for a long weekend. Bond’s tongue is lush and thick in Q’s mouth, and Q loses an endless stretch of time devouring it.

“I’d rather you showed me your appreciation in other ways,” whispers Bond when he breaks away.

“Gladly.”

Q sits up and runs his hand over Bond’s broad back as Bond settles back onto his arms again. His biceps move beautifully under him, and there are freckles there, too, ones that Q hasn’t got to yet, but which he will lavish attention on very soon.

He’ll worship every inch of Bond, given the chance. It’s what they both deserve.