#grotti visione

[bryan360]

🇵🇷Me: A “magnificent” review of my P-pal’s Grotti Visione; a supercar category after obtaining his prize back in November 27th last year. I’m appreciate for this car’s performance and stats aside from few flaws. Just saying, but not bad for what was a “worthy” supercar. 👍

[kensatou]

locker room bj angles... a continuing saga

[starsofang]

Get Well Soon john price x f!reader word count: 4.3k tw: MDNI, NSFW, jealous price, possessiveness, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, just a bit nasty ngl

Jealousy was a disease, and John was its desired host that it ravaged with an unfurling blaze of smoldering flames that scorched through the bloodstream like injected venom. It simmered at the bones and left him scathed, dissipating into bitter ash that filled the air around him with the pungent scent of his own distaste.

In other words, John really fucking hated seeing you wrapped around Soap like a damn boa constricter ready to sink your fangs into him like a feast.

The whiskey he’d been sipping on with tedious sips was now thrown back into his throat, sliding down to his stomach and leaving him with an acidic aftertaste. The alcohol only coaxed the fire into an uproar, the tips of the flames flicking its red-hot tongue in the flesh of his skin and scalding him with third degree burns from the inside and out.

He tried focusing on the emptiness that stared back at him from the bottom of his glass, fingers coated in the icy condensation where he gripped around it with vice. It prickled his fingertips, the force of his grasp causing his knuckles to go white and veins to flex uncomfortably in the back of his hand.

But the grim sight of melting ice wasn’t nearly as intriguing as the sight of you, the woman who’s been gnawing your way through his skin and bone for the past however-the-fuck-long that John’s been tongue-tied over you, smiling like a cheshire while Soap maneuvered you around on the dance floor of the dimly lit club, dipping his fingertips in the fat of your hips.

Your hips swayed in earnest, Soap and you sharing a laugh as he tried to replicate your pace and ended up stumbling around like a damn fool. The spark of amusement that shimmered in your irises was so bright, John could see it from where he sat at the bar. It blinded him, like a flashbang being hurled his way without a single ounce of warning, causing his ears to ring and his eyes to blink away the dryness that dusted his retinas.

He shouldn’t be mad, really. You weren’t his, and he wasn’t yours.

Soap was simply livening the mood after a grueling mission was deemed a success. John was the one that offered to take you out, allowing you a night free of suffocating peril, yet here he was, moping like a child who’d just gotten his video games taken away.

He wasn’t a jealous man. He’d never taken an interest in a woman long enough for it to tread into that type of territory, and his work occupied him like a slave to commitment – commitment to the job, and never to a pretty woman deserving of much more than him.

Yet, you had somehow begun worming your way into his brain, molding it to the shape of you. Your smile, your laugh, the way you chewed your lip when deep in thought, the plush skin reddening under its abuse and clashing with the tone of your skin. Everything about you was hardwired into his brain, filed away and hidden in the depths of his thoughts.

It was selfish of him, he knew.

You were his subordinate – if he could call you that, really. You worked with Laswell, which meant you worked with him. A package deal, one he had no choice but to accept when it came down to it.

He was playing a dangerous game, allowing the churlish spur of envy to grab him by the throat and choke him into submission. It darkened his vision with spots of red rage, lighting with a flicker of flames that illuminated in the reflection of his pupils.

But John was a fond lover of games, given his track record of coaxing enemy intel out of the lips of grotty men through the bite of his threatening words and the sting of his knife into their mangy skin. He knew how to play to get what he wanted, what he needed, but you were a puzzle with thousands of pieces that he just couldn’t figure out how to complete.

He clung to you like a moth to a flame. A dog to its bone. A bullet to a wound.

You were his ecstasy that he could no longer deny, and he was slowly succumbing to the addiction. He got high off of the very being of you, injecting you into his veins with guilty pleasure.

And John didn't know how much longer he could starve himself from his fix.

Unable to watch the way Soap embraced you with a feverish warmth that had your expression melted into content gratification, he stood from the bar stool with a lick of virulent hostility, the legs scraping against the floor like nails to a chalkboard. Gaz spared him a worrying look, and when he went to open his mouth to ask if he was okay, John sent him a dismissive wave of his hand, muttering a gravelly ‘smoke break’ before taking off.

The chill of the night air smothered him with a relieving shiver down his spine, nipping his cheeks that were warmed from a mix of club smog and alcohol firing in his bloodstream. He was far from drunk, far from tipsy, but the burning desire he harbored for you made him feel the buzz of a high that hazed over all thoughts of calm serenities.

Leaning against the old brick of the club, he sifted a hand through the pocket of his jacket, fishing out a cigarette. Cigars were much more his taste, but unenjoyable when having to shove them in the bowels of a cramped pocket.

Lighting it up and taking a thick puff, the burn of smoke did nothing to calm the hideous monster that dared to rear its head against the fabrics of his heart. It was hungry, vengeful, baring its teeth in hopes of sinking them into flesh and bone, tearing its victim apart limb by measly limb.

The music boomed faintly from the closed door of the club, pounding vexing notes through his eardrums and tainting them with a distasteful noise.

John continued his routine of inhale and exhale, dipping into the dance of wispy smoke that surrounded him and basked his aura in musk and pungency. It swallowed him whole, enough so that he didn’t hear the whisk of the club door opening from beside him, and a familiar voice sparking fireworks in his mind.

“Sir!” you exclaimed, and John felt his shoulders tense with wavering remembrance of the way Soap wrapped his tattered arms around you, his lips leaned in close to your ear to speak with you over the loudness of the music, the way he was the reason you were giggling like schoolgirl off her rocker. “I didn’t see you at the bar. You feeling okay, Captain?”

The name left a tangy taste in his mouth. Bittersweet, souring.

“Thought I told you to call me John,” he grumbled with a ghost of a smile, tight and forced. It was more a grimace than a smile, as of course you would notice. Of course.

Keen eye, you had. It was one of the many traits John found himself falling into.

“John,” you corrected with a smile so bright, it practically laid out all of the stars in the sky in a shimmering blanket of wondrous light. “Why are you out here and not inside with the others?”

John had to hold back a lingering scoff that threatened to claw its way out of purgatory and fill the air with bitter irk.

“Got a bit stuffy in there, don’t you think?” he offered in place of spiteful words, but even at his attempt, the words came out clipped if your frown was anything to come by. “Needed a break.”

“You seemed bothered, Cap– John.”

“Mm.”

Your frown deepened and it only burdened him further. He didn’t want to be the reason for your upset, but that green little gremlin that coaxed him into anguished jealousy didn’t give two shits. It settled into his bones with enervating annoyance, paining him with ache.

“Don’t let me stop you from your fun with Soap,” he muttered dryly, uttering the words before he could stop himself.

Your eyebrows raised and you stared at him for a long moment, taking him in. His tense shoulders, tight lips pulled into a thin line, his firm grip on his cigarette that would’ve snapped it in half if he used an ounce more of strength.

“Something’s bothering you, sir,” you noted, and he gave you a taut smile.

“Look at that. Quite the brain on you.”

“No need to be rude about it, John.”

“Not being rude.”

“You are.”

John sucked in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring when he deeply exhaled. His eyes bore into yours like frigid icicles ready to pierce into you. It was chilling to the bone, sending an unsettling shiver down your spine. John noticed.

“It’d be best if you head on inside,” he hummed, his tone quipped with a hint of warning.

“Really?” you asked in disbelief and he snorted.

“Really.”

John knew he was being unfair. His envy was eating at him from the inside, bubbling its way out in molten poison that burned in his mouth.

“Something is clearly bothering you, Captain. Is it a crime to check on you?” Your tone began matching his own sour one, biting into him like a feral dog with its hackles raised.

“What’s a crime is you saddlin’ up with Soap like he’s your bloody suitor,” he hissed, and there it was, the bitter taste of frothing temper seeping out of his lips like red-hot lava. It scalded him, leaving him with third degree burns on his tongue. “Lettin’ him have at you like a fuckin’ dove for the takin’.”

“What?” you breathed, eyebrows knitting together in bafflement. “What are you trying to say?”

“What I’m tryin’ t’say, what I’ve been wantin’ t’say, is that I don’t like the way he was touchin’ you,” he declared in earnest. He stood straight from where he was leaned against the wall, glowering down at you with a look that could’ve pinned you to the gravel beneath your foot. “I’ve been patient. I’ve kept my distance. But enough’s a fuckin’ ‘nough.”

You didn’t cower under his looming glare, nor did you take a step back like you should’ve. You remained firmly rooted in your spot next to him, eyes flickering between the scowl on his mouth to the fiery eyes that threatened to burst into explosion any second.

“You’re jealous, Captain,” you stated, quite obviously. It tickled the little monster that was nearly bursting out of his skin.

“Rightfully so,” he muttered. “I don’t like people touchin’ what’s mine.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was yours to begin with, Captain.”

“John,” he reminded you. “I’d be happy to make you aware of it. Print it in that pretty head of yours so you won’t forget it.”

Warmth blossomed under your skin, spreading from head to toe and curling you into his burning embers. The words struck you like lightning, quick and sudden, leaving you dazed.

You could smell the faint cigarette smoke and whiskey in the fan of his breath as it settled over your face. You took it in, breathing through your nostrils and letting it settle to the core. It was musky and fragrant, stirring your brain into goopy mush.

“How’s that sound, sweetheart?” he mused, nearly sending you into an early grave. Fuck, you’d dig it yourself if it meant hearing those words on repeat.

“I–” You swallowed, mouth suddenly parched.

John stepped closer to you, a dangerous and brooding step. His frame towered over yours, head tilted down to ensure eye contact remained secured. He wouldn’t allow you to look away, wouldn’t allow you the chance to catch your breath. He knew what he was doing, knew what you were feeling.

“Just say the word,” he breathed, tickling your nose with his piquant scent. “Say the word and I’ll make it happen, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you managed, voice less confident than it had been before when you let your frustration get the better of you. Submissive, willing.

John’s lips perked into a pleased smile, eyes brimming with amusement and risk. He was taking the leap off of a daunting cliff, diving headfirst in a pool of unknown and uncertainty. But oh, he was certain of this.

You tasted the poignant flavors that melted from his tongue on to yours when he sealed his offer with a kiss. It was demanding, stern, his mouth molding into yours in the shape of a promise.

He traveled the shape of your jaw, rough hand entangling itself in the feathers of your hair. Tugging, wrapping it in his grasp, luring you into him with a burning desire to mark what was his. It was fire mixing with gasoline, burning scriptures in your skin, burning his name.

John swallowed every gasp and groan, eager and greedy. He captured your bottom lip with teeth, sinking in with a grueling bite, carving his indents into the plush flesh. He barely allowed you to gather air in your lungs, and it left you feeling dizzy, untrusting of your own legs to keep you steady.

“Do me a favor, love,” he grunted in the midst of your kiss, pulling back only to get a glimpse of the glossy look in your eyes. “Go on and tell the boys you aren’t feelin’ well and I’m takin’ you home. Had too much to drink, so I’m gettin’ you to bed, hm? Can you do that f’me?”

Your breath was shaky when you released a sigh, and nodded in tenacity, practically scrambling back into the club like a dog with its tail between its legs.

John stayed true to his promise of taking you home and tucking you into bed – just not in the way the boys were told.

He was like a predator pouncing on its prey the moment you arrived at your humble abode. His hands explored every expanse of your body, shedding you until you were bare with a trail of clothes leading to your bedroom in its wake.

He was famished, like a man starved for weeks on end, and the only thing that would satiate him was ravishing you to the bone.

You thought after agreeing that you were John’s and he was yours, it would feed his burning anger warranted from jealousy. If anything, it was the opposite.

He was firm and demanding, determined to etch every part of him into the plains of your skin. His hands were skilled in the way he practically shoved you into the mattress, lips remaining locked into place on your own.

He was a man on a mission, and you knew John to be one to never fail to complete it.

“M’gonna show you exactly what’s botherin me,” he mumbled into your mouth. His voice was raspy and guttural, laced with an undeniable wisp of arousal. “Been botherin’ me for ages.”

True to his word, his lips, chapped with a sheen of your mixed saliva moistening them, trailed down the column of your neck. They were neither rough or soft kisses, but rather balanced and precise. Teeth nicked the sensitive skin, taking it between tender bites and nursing the hissing stings with the point of his tongue.

Marking his territory, just as promised.

“You never said anything,” you acknowledged through a breathy sigh, lips parted and hazy eyes pointed at the ceiling as he worked wonders on your jawline.

“Didn’t have the gall to, ‘til I saw you cozied up with Mactavish,” he grunted, and as if the thought passing by in remembrance settled into his brain, he bit down a bit harder on the spot where your neck and shoulder met.

John peppered his kisses down from your clavicle, creating a trail to your sternum. It tingled with a feverish burn, spotting your skin with a faint flush. One of his calloused hands slid up your side, prompting a shiver along the way, until it grasped the mounds on your chest in a possessive hold.

His tongue darted out to circle a perked nipple, teasing, mocking. You couldn’t hold back the pathetic whine, and the rumble of his smug chuckle vibrated your whole body. Offering mercy, he enveloped the entirety of your nipple in his mouth, grazing his teeth along the sensitive bud and causing you to hiss in a mix of pain and pleasure – perfectly balanced, because John was a calculated man, and he never left a job unsatisfactory.

Your thighs rested limply on each side of his waist, and when he gave a particularly hard suck, they tightened around him, knees knocking into the thick of his ribcage. Instantaneously, his other hand that wasn’t occupied with holding your breast came to grab hold of your knee, carefully peeling it away from where it rested on the warmth of his skin, tugging you apart until you were spread and vulnerable.

That same hand slowly slipped down your knee, sweeping along your inner thigh and worshiping the smooth skin with a swipe of his fingertips. They were rough against your skin in comparison, and the sensation made you jolt.

They continued their downward exploration until you felt the subtle touch of a finger experimentally slide along your slit. You wanted to feel embarrassed by how wet you were from nothing more than kissing and him ravishing your breasts like he was feasting on a meal, but you couldn’t.

Judging from his muffled groan, he didn’t seem to mind it either.

“Fuckin’ soaked and I haven’t even touched you,” he observed, rearing his head back from your chest so he could gleam down at the sight of you spread out for him, glistening in the dim light of the room, forming a sheen over the tips of his fingers.

An embarrassed noise sounded in the back of your throat and you tilted your head to the side to avoid his smoldering gaze. He tutted, grabbing hold of you by the chin to force you to look back at him. His eyes were lit up with the same fire as before, yet this time, it burned brightly, illuminating his thirst for salvation.

“Don’t do that,” he said, tone dripping with the command of the leader he was and had always been. “You’re goin’ to look at me while I take you. Had no problem lookin’ at Soap when you danced with him, so you should have no problem lookin’ at me when I make you come on my tongue.”

You had to close your eyes to compose yourself, sucking in a sharp breath that pierced your lungs and filled your chest with an ache only he could soothe. They sent shocks through your body, lighting up like fireworks.

When John seemed satisfied that you’d listen, that you’d digested every word and command that slipped off his tongue, he let go of your chin, pleased to see you kept your promise of keeping your eyes on him.

He returned his attention to your silky cunt, dipping a finger in the slick that seemed never ending. His mouth was practically watering at the visual, and he was desperate for a taste.

John wasted no time in stooping down to be leveled with your cunt, breath fanning over it and causing you to squirm. He sent you a warning glare before poking out his tongue, gliding it over the sensitive nub before fully engulfing his mouth around it.

The sound you released was near inhuman, strangled and choked in surprise. His mouth was warm and inviting as he began devouring you, humming greedily at the tangy taste that smoothed over his tongue and filled his mouth.

It was intoxicating, addicting, surging through his bloodstream like a high he’d never come down from. Hazy, clouded. It disoriented him, smoothing over his mind with nothing but thoughts of consuming you until you were a puddled mess.

Your hand found its way in his hair, tangling in the mess of strands and tugging. Possessive in the way you pushed him deeper into your core, his nose digging into you as he inhaled the sweetness of your scent. The smell of you attracted him like hummingbirds to nectar, and he couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck,” he breathed into you, and the gust of air mixed with warmth and a slight chill all at the same time had you whining. “Look at you. Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

He didn’t bother to wait for your answer before diving right back into you. He didn’t want to hear words, he didn’t want to hear smugness. All he wanted was to hear those sweet sounds filter out of you, like a soothing song playing on repeat.

He became more possessive in the way he took you, the subtle tenderness he was showing before melting into filth. Your slick soaked into the coarse hairs of his beard, chin dripping with evidence of your arousal that only became more pungent the more he sucked and prodded.

“John,” you whimpered helplessly, and he rumbled with a satisfied noise, so you repeated his name. It became pleading, desperate, voice turning into a shaky mess that only sent his mouth into overdrive.

The ghost of a fingertip brushed along the rim of your entrance, and when you took a breath, he seized the opportunity to sink it into you, all the way to the knuckle. It curled into you, before pulling out then pumping back in. It became a dance, the way his finger fucked into you with curious ambition, and it had you pooling into a moaning mess, writhing from stimulation.

His eyes fluttered up to meet yours with his mouth still wrapped around your clit, and you nearly gushed just from the look of him alone – beads of sweat already dotting on his hairline, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes dark and sultry with intentions of ruining you. They locked on to yours and never left for a single moment, not even when he stretched you open with a second finger, then a third.

It was all so fucking much. You could barely think with him filling you, curving right into that sweet spot of serenity that had stars bursting in your vision. Your body moved on its own accord, and to keep you still, he placed a thick arm over the plains of your stomach, holding you down while keeping the other occupied in the tightness of your cunt.

Too much, so much, all at once. It had your mind in the skies, floating on clouds of euphoria.

John seemed to map out your body language just from one taste of you on his tongue along, because when your stomach began to tighten and flex, legs trembling and quivering, he pulled his mouth away from you, fucking you with his fingers with a quickened pace.

“You goin’ to come, sweetheart? Hm?” he asked, and it felt as if he was teasing you. Mocking you, filled with overwhelmed smugness. “Goin’ to come from my mouth like I told you?”

You nodded vigorously, shameless in your own desperation. The squelch of his fingers dripping into your cunt with every shallow thrust was enough to leave you breathless. They filled you with a frantic need, shooing away the emptiness you once felt and submerging you in a febrile warmth.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praised, and it had you keening.

You attempted to lift your hips, pushing them in the direction of his mouth. He released a hearty chuckle, eyes crinkling from his bashful smile before he gave in to what you wanted, Mouth returning to your cunt, sinking into you like a feral animal, quenching his thirst and hunger.

You cried out, hand tightening in his hair. It was almost instant that you felt the coil of string ready to snap at any moment, tearing and tearing, bordering you on the edge of breaking apart.

His tongue flattened over your clit before circling his lips and giving it a hard suck, all while curling his fingers once more. That was enough to send you over the edge, your climax hitting you like a collapsing building, smothering you in its aftermath.

Your entire body shook, wetness gushing around his fingers as you clenched on them for dear life. You ground your hips subconsciously, fucking yourself on his fingers and riding out the seamless paradise and basking in the warm light. All thoughts blanked into nothing but your own ecstasy, and you selfishly drowned yourself in waves of rapture.

You were in heaven, you were one with the angels, singing godly praises with a halo over your head and a fluorescent glow that accumulated around you. This was what peace on Earth felt like, this was what it felt like to die and be reborn.

John’s voice was the gospel, embracing you with clarity and purpose, guiding you to the pearly gates to seek pursuit of happiness.

When John pulled away from you and carefully slipped his fingers out of you, he brought them up to your view, flaunting them with pride. His chin was soaked, glistening with sinful beauty, mangling itself in the hairs of his beard.

If you weren’t so high off of pleasure, you might’ve thought that John was God himself, smiling down at you from the clouds and showering you with loving conviction.

“See that, sweetheart?” he asked, referring to the sticky strings that stuck together when he parted his fingers. “That’s from me. And nobody’s goin’ to get a chance to taste you like I have. We clear on that?”

It was a silly thing for him to even state, given he had just taken you to oblivion, but you nodded anyway, going as far to even hum in dazed satisfaction when he brought his slick-covered fingers to your lips and you wiped them clean.

Jealousy was a disease, and you were the only thing that could cure John of the simmering rage that came with it. Now that he’d made it clear who you belonged to, the ugly monster returned to hibernation, and the sickening green that tainted his insides melted into worlds of color that only you could paint.

wrote this for my girly @ebodebo because i've been deprived of john and needed to write something for him asap, so i hope this met your needs (I need this man so badly it's unhealthy) <3

if you see any writing mistakes, mind you it’s 3am and i woke up to write this so no u didn’t

[evilgwrl]

TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Nine

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Attempted suicide, unknown watching as someone gets changed, SIMON BEING THE CUTEST MAN ALIVE, kissing and bum spanking

Taglist: @beebeechaos @h3art3at3rr @johannxseb @cndy-l0v3 @nylluns @pomegranategum @tapioca-marzipan

ANYTHING IN ITALICS IS A FLASHBACK

Masterlist

The summer air was a broil of wet leaves and burnt tar, roads simmering with clouded fogs of steam that snipped at the exposed flesh of your leg. Your bike was worn, tyres nearly flat from the consistent rummaging of scarred rocks tearing the innocent rubber into a battered mess.

Your legs were inflamed from the constant use, thighs straining against bones and weathered skin. Sweat stuck to you in a damp layer, the occasional fly suckling at the salty residue. There was a gentle strum of moans, ripped jaws sloshing against rotten teeth, skin a ghastly contrast against the greenery. They didn’t care for you, walking past you like you were one of them.

It was a sick punishment.

You thought back to the first couple of days after. After Vienna. Steel supported rough fingers, muzzle pointed under your chin, the chill of cold tickling down your throat, trapping your oesophagus with an arrogant choke. Nimble fingers unclicked the safety, a line of tears streaming down your face pathetically.

You didn’t do it. You weren’t sure which was weaker, staying or leaving.

Blood ran through your chest, beating down to the tips of your wrists, eyes gauging through the flesh as if you had x-ray vision. You would no doubt be scorned with blisters later, the sun kissing you with fat welts filled with liquid medicine as you rolled in used sheets, unable to sleep.

You stared down the winding road, a companion of butchered shops lined up by the corner, untouched. It wasn’t rare for you to venture far, always taking a main road that would eventually lead you home.

You pushed through glass doors, majority of the crystal shattered across the concrete. There was a gentle ding of a bell as you entered, a lone zombie trailing towards the noise, disappointed at the sudden disappearance of its senses as you smashed a blade into the centre of its head, the stench of death filling the shop as you gagged. You weren’t sure you would ever get used to the smell.

The store was disappointing at the front, but you knew the stock room held liquid gold. Your knees skidded over the counter, a till smashed across the floor as you laughed. You wriggled the STAFF ONLY door, your shoulders working to barge it open. There were unopened boxes of candy that caught your attention, sticky tape quickly stuck to the wall as you delved through, a child-like innocence adorning your face as you tore apart a chocolate wrapper.

A sick moan of satisfaction ran through you as you stuffed more bars in your bag, teeth rotting with gooey caramel. Your feet padded against the floor, achy limbs begging for a rest as you sat down on a bench, uncomfortable wood barely supporting you. You scoffed back an apple, a small container full of buttered bread soon resting in your stomach.

You groaned as you chugged the majority of your water, the liquid quenching the Sahara in your throat as it stained your chest, a light dribble working down your chin as you sighed. Eyes stared at the bike resting against a brick wall as you looked up, noticing the flock of birds make their way through the sky, gradual darkness soon blending into the baby blue.

Dirtied nails scraped against the glass of your final destination, a small boutique with a flickering sign greeting you with the smell of dust as you pushed the door open. Nimble fingers worked your sweaty top off as you tried clothes on, wiping the grotty mirror down with an ugly rag of a shirt.

Dark eyes watched you from a rooftop, covered face twisting into a scowl as he watched you prod at yourself in the mirror. Your flesh was greasy, a sweet shine covering your muscles as he fixated on the way you moved. He stared at you through the lens of a sniper before placing it next to him as you walked out, bag round with clothes and the minimal amount of food you could find.

You didn’t notice him, his body stealthy as he adjusted, eyes immersed in you as you rode off. They would head your way tomorrow, he decided.

Thick hands ploughed at the wood; an axe gripped between his fingers as you watched him intensely. Your eyes gawked at his biceps, chiselled muscles bulging under the sun, a glisten against his skin from his work.

“That enough?” His voice was thick, a mixture of molten and sweet honey lacing him. His aura was earthy and masculine, his need to prove himself to you evident as he looked to you for approval.

“Good enough for me,” you replied, attempting to grab a log of wood before he barked that he would do it, snatching it from your grip.

Your eyebrows twisted up in annoyance as you crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m not useless, I was the one doing this before you all came along.”

“Didn’t mean to offend you, sweet’art, just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”

It was impressive watching him work; his forearms stuffed full of wood as he placed it in the small collector next to the fireplace. This was your first time being alone with him, his large frame was intimidating at first, but his shitty dad jokes couldn’t help but pull a smile from you.

You pulled him into the barn, introducing him to your cows, Daisy and Ted. He wasn’t fond of the names, but he felt himself nodding, watching the way you greeted them like they could speak, eyes full of admiration at the way you handled yourself.

“I’m hoping she gets pregnant, she’s my lifesaver,” you cooed, swatting the cow gently against her rump as she huffed out a breath. Simon raised a brow at you, a cocky smirk against his face.

“Don’t think about it,” you scowled as he turned around. Quick hands swatted at his ass as he grunted. Ghost was trained for anything, his hands at your waist as you squealed, quickly thrown over his shoulder with a huff before you were dropped in a bale of hay, endless giggles wracking through your chest as he peered down at you with a grumpy look.

You noticed his eyes crinkle as your laughter slowly subsided, both of you staring at each other with an amused look. His hands stilled at your waist, gripping them slightly with a warming touch.

“What’s your real name?”

He paused for a moment, thumb rubbing at your rising tummy, a pool of butterflies sinking into every crevice of the muscle. “Simon.”

You repeated it several times back to him, enjoying the way it fell from your lips as battered eyes focused on them, watching the way your tongue wriggled in the heat of your mouth as you spoke.

“You like it?” He asked, voice lower with nerves. He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. But he was.

You nodded at him, glancing from his eyes down to his mouth. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist, bringing his hand to your cheek as your mouth opened slightly, eyes never leaving his. He paused, ready to turn away from you.

He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in, pushing the mask down his chin in a rough manner before he kissed you, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip before easing it into your throat. He was strangely gentle, almost like he was scared to hurt you. The Lieutenant’s hands gripped your face as you pulled him in by the scruff of his neck, deepening the motion. 

His eyes were voids of burnt sugar, a hinge of toffee speckling through as they merged into his iris. He was warm and inviting, the slight tang of his saliva running through your taste buds as he welcomed the sensation of you, a hand dropping to your throat with a delicate squeeze. 

Simon pulled away with a slight gasp, catching the breath he wasn’t sure he was holding.

“I don’t want to rush you.”

You only smiled and brought him back in.

[midgardianleaf]

⋆˚࿔ the red means i love you 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

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Welcome, dear ones.

This is my very first fanfic. I haven't dared to upload it for ages. I know it's really grotty and very short, but maybe some of you will like it after all.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read it.

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Pairing : Sam Winchester x fem!OC

Theme : They meet at a Halloween party. Each trapped in their own nightmare. But as brief and inconspicuous as this first encounter may be, it will shake their entire world.

Warnings : Nothing really. Just mention of blood at the very beginning. Oh, and the consumption of alcohol.

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Blood.

That was all she saw. What she smelled, what she felt.

Blood and the reflection of herself in a broken motel mirror.

Her breathing was rapid and intermittent. Her thoughts a hurricane of fear and hopelessness.

Her heartbeat louder than any scream. But she remained silent.

Breathe in. Breathe out. The red veil slowly lifted. Her vision became clearer. Tears on her cheeks. Hot sadness on her cold face.

But it was not she herself she was mourning. It was not she herself who made her pause. It was not she herself who would break her heart.

Images flickered before her inner eye. Halloween. Four years ago.

A party. Drunk students. Laughter. Skimpy costumes and that smell of regret that permeated every corner of the house like fog.

She had only wanted to do her sister a favor. Just wanting to be the good little sister. To be there for an hour, invisible. Then back home again. Back alone with herself.

An hour, Jade had said, laughed and strutted off.

Click clack, click clack. Jade's black high heels on gleaming white tiles. Then Jade's hand on a boy's arm, her laughter. Clear and bright. It looked so incredibly light. Living and being happy. Belonging and being brave.

She stared at her red plastic cup. The drink was almost a beautiful color. It made her think of her mother's eyes. Warm brown, flecked with gold.

One sip.

Burning in the throat. Cough. Tears in her eyes.

She didn't know where from, but nevertheless and all of a sudden she knew that from that moment on, nothing would ever be the same again. That it would be this very evening on Halloween when her world would be irrevocably turned upside down forever.

Driven by this inner restlessness, she wandered through the house, her fingers running over the row of pictures hanging on the walls. Smile. Christmas. Vacations. The start of school. A whole life in the small wooden frame. A whole, perfectly privileged life.

She went upstairs without knowing why. Maybe she wanted to get away from all the noise, all the fake smiles and this overwhelming cheerfulness.

It was quieter on the upper floor. The bass only reached her ears in a muffled voice. Her gaze remained fixed on the wall. Lemon yellow. The color almost threatened to suffocate her.

She nudged the next door a little. Just like that.

The door swung open quietly.

To call this room a reading room would have been an understatement. Books were lined up close together on floor-to-ceiling shelves and she breathed in. The scent of new and old books suddenly filled her whole being. Her heartbeat calmed down. And a warmth spread through her that she had been searching for so painfully.

"You seem to be more fond of books than people!"S A voice. Deep and yet clear and so infinitely warm-hearted that even before she turned around, even before she saw his face, she knew that this boy would save her.

"I am Sam. And you are?"

Saved.

"Ophelia!"

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[scenetocause]

first line game

wrote something so insane self-flaggelatory here even i realised it needed to get edited out but uhhhh finally did this i guess thank you for tagging me a lot. last ten works in reverse, first lines.

do you think it's cute that i'm so fucking stupid? (loscar buzzfeed unsolved au) “It’s a mystery house, ” Logan says it with a big hand gesture that doesn’t mean anything, except that he’s excited. And a dickhead. 

shoreline i see when i'm off course (loscar and mando, a/b/o) Oscar’s not bothered, exactly, at the idea of having an unmated alpha for a team mate. 

simply stare but continue to eat (loscar, vague mando, logan/maxf/oscar) "Hey," Oscar's a bit surprised to see Max, he hasn't been at any of the races so far this season and it's not like he wants to ask some kind of awkward question like 'is it too painful to be there' or 'are you still trying to get a drive' but he'd assumed Max was avoiding the whole situation.

well past the weeds (george/toto but really more like george/merc, toto/merc) It’s about the team. It’s always, always about the team.

feel it in my fate now (landoscar) Lando’s so. Yes. Especially in MTC.

climb up to your lips (R63 girloscar landoscar) Lando likes to think he has a fairly good handle on his own tastes: brunettes a bit shorter than him, who preferably don’t love sushi or at least can live with only eating it when he’s not there.

(oh lando bless you how wrong you were)

that dog in me (landoscar puppy play) "Don't you ever get homesick?" Oscar could count the number of people he'd less like to be having this conversation with than Lando Norris on one hand and one of them's the bored immigration officer who had to tell him he'd not got his passport stamped right in Doha.

so far, i've given it up (landoscar, plane sex) “Oscar.” Lando using his full name can’t mean anything good, from experience. “What the fuck are those?”

tired of only breathing alone (mando, maxf/pietra, maxf/lando/pietra) Of course it’s. Complicated.

in you, too (landoscar puppy play post-hungary) “I think it would be good,” Andrea says, gently, after the unmitigated disaster that is the post-race video. “If you were to talk together, perhaps privately.”

bc my titles are almost always lyrics here's the songs they're all from too haunted by laura les (do you think it's cute that i'm so fucking stupid/tell me that it is cus i'm tired of being useless) cut copy me by petula clark (cut copy me, i'm all yours/a shoreline i see when i'm off course) doesn't matter by christine & the queens (& the guys simply stare but continue to eat) rabbit will run by iron & wine (& judgement is just like a cup that we share/i'll jump over the wall & i'll wait for you there/well past the weeds in our visions of things to come) hopes up by drama (both feel it in my fate now and so far i've given it up but the lyrics don't really apply contextually, i just like the idea of all the warmth of the song for grotty but affectionate workplace fucking) wild girl by kito & empress of but it's the paul woodford remix (i'm not jealous, i'm not frightened/climb up to your lips, with a swiftness) the distance by totally enormous extinct dinosaurs (how long must i wait for this love/i'm tired of only breathing alone)

[anonymoushouseplantfan]

Submitted:

Camilla Long in today’s Times, “The biggest threat to Harry and Meghan isn’t paparazzi on bicycles. It’s their own paranoia”

https://archive.is/N1OMS

Awhile from now, when it is all over, I think we may view the Royal Car Chase not as a silly bit of tabloid fluffery but as a turning point. You may feel differently; you may think there were other, bigger moments when you knew it had gone terribly wrong for Harry and Meghan. Oprah, or “recollections may vary”, or Netflix, or the tights catfight. The Fijian market freakout, the MBS diamond earrings, the suicidal thoughts at Cirque du Soleil, or the penis-heavy contents of Spare.

But never before have I actually thought: well, that’s it — it’s over; they’ve gone the full Imelda Marcos now. They’re literally crazed, on a one-way flight out of God knows where, stuffing diamonds into nappies as they flee the presidential palace, children howling, soldiers falling off collapsing walls, choppers, gunfire, pearls scattering, everyone watching agog as these glittering creatures, once on top of the world, now look washed up and hopeless, like bedraggled fallen despots.

also

the couple hysterically used three separate cars. They left the ceremony in a 4x4 with a police escort, circling for 75 minutes to give the paps the slip, before fleeing to a nearby police station when they didn’t. At the station they hid for 15 minutes in a garage until someone called a taxi. When the taxi got stuck behind a rubbish lorry, they went back to the same police station, where they got into a final vehicle, which took them on to where they were staying … just two blocks away.

As I said: mad.

All these places were within walking distance; nothing could have been easier. But still, we’re meant to believe it’s the paps who were behaving like demented animals, driving on pavements, endangering pedestrians, causing “multiple near collisions” as they pursued them with “cars, scooters and bicycles”, bringing the duke “the closest I have ever felt” to understanding how his mother died.

and

The truth is, that taxi chase is Harry and Meghan. It is their mindset, their paranoia, their chaos, their attempt to label themselves as victims again. If you watch their Netflix series you can see how they egg each other on to the point they forget how to behave normally. During one short car journey Meghan tells Harry where each paparazzo is, effectively notifying him when to be scared, while he nervously whispers, “We’ll be with friends in less than ten minutes.” I blame him as much as her.

They’re now in a lunatic downward spiral of fiction and fantasy. Ironically, you just think: “Are you OK?” Why, for example, did they feel threatened when they had a police escort the entire time? Should Harry’s obsession with photographers be the police’s problem? If Meghan is truly a “woman of vision”, why couldn’t she envision a simple, problem-free trip to the Upper East Side, where they were staying with a secret “friend��?

Finally,

When Meghan arrived on the scene, we all thought the same thing. Finally, an intelligent, worldly, sophisticated woman who was in love with Harry. And if she was the activist she said she was, so much the better. She could quietly show up the royal family for what it was: snobby, backwards, uncool, mediocre, unfair. And then, who knows what? She could have been a truly subversive figure and cratered it from the inside (my dream). But none of that has happened.

What’s happened is the royal family has, conversely, shown Meghan and Harry up for what they are: a pair of wayward hangers-on with unhealthy egos. The more the family trundles on, the more enraged the couple seem. For three weeks we had been waiting: how would Meghan punish Charles for daring to have the coronation? And here’s the answer. What must the royals think when they see the grotty pictures of the Sussexes in a grim taxi on their mercy flight out of Manila — sorry, midtown?

[sweetsmellosuccess]

Love Lies Bleeding

Dir. Rose Glass

In Rose Glass’ version of the American Southwest, light pollution is non-existent. Instead, the inky blackness of the night sky is pockmarked perfectly with glittering points of distant stars and planets. It’s a beautiful, unspoiled tableau, standing in marked contrast to the all the griminess of the humans back on terra firma, their hopelessly complicated and messy interweavings casting a pall on those things within the Earth’s gravitational pull. 

It’s that sort of pull that draws feckless gym manager, Lou (Kristin Stewart), to vagabond bodybuilder Jackie (Katy O’Brian), new to the small New Mexico town more or less run by corrupt gun runner Lou Sr. (Ed Harris, sporting a low ring of long hair that makes him look like comic book store owner), who also happens to be Lou’s estranged father. 

Lou and Jackie bond very quickly  —  Lou’s pronounced queerness offering precious few options beyond the mewling propositions of fellow gym-worker Daisy (Anna Baryshnikov), whose teeth are rutted with yellow stains  — and very adroitly (the sex scenes between them are less about nudity and more about explicit context), just in time for other complications to set upon them. Jackie was in town only as a waystation for her eventual trip up to Vegas for a huge body-building competition, but she quickly gets pulled into Lou’s wobbly orbit, as her sister, Beth (Jena Malone), deals with the horrendous abuse heaped upon her by her husband, JJ (Dave Franco, with an applause worthy mullet). 

When JJ finally goes too far, and lands his wife in the hospital with facial injuries, Lou’s fury translates to Jackie’s now-steroid-addled sense of justice, which she goes to enact on JJ’s leering visage. Now embroiled in the aftermath of her vengeance, Lou and Jackie have to navigate the tricky pathways around, and eventually to Lou’s father’s mansion ensconced up in the hills. 

Glass, whose previous debut feature, Saint Maud, was a marvel of psychological complexity and restraint, has fully embraced the pulpy nature of the material (from a script penned by Glass and Weronika Tofilska), a kind of modern noir, set against a backdrop of queerness (reminiscent, ever so slightly, of the Warchowski’s Bound), and studded with some of Glass’s more enigmatic, lyric visual totems (close ups of giant insects, frequent cutaways to glowing red portraits of some of the principles haunting the drug-addled mind of Jackie). 

There is also a visceral component to Glass’s vision: In one early scene, a fully-clothed Lou, lying on her stomach on a ragged couch, masterbates, as her cat slips between her slightly raised feet to nosh on some microwaved leftovers still on their plastic tray; in another, Lou, who smokes like a Harry Dean Stanton character, uses the smoke in her lungs as a kind of wispy sexual prop. Everything feels grubby and vaguely soiled, the endless detritus  —  from plastic food trays, to empty glass Steroid vials, to the forlorn emotional longing of characters whose lives are little to no consequence to anyone else  —  of human existence crowded around the characters miens like loose particles of ore around a magnet. 

The problem is, grotty isn’t a personality: Too many of Glass’s characters, including Lou and Jackie, are flattened out stand-ins for noir tropes: Both have mysterious backgrounds of violence, but are never illuminated beyond the immediate needs of the plot, which holds precious few surprises, beyond Glass’s more adventurous flights of lyric fancy (a scene near the end plays out as fantasy-fulfillment in a way that is particularly jarring). In some ways, the character’s domiciles  —  Lou’s cluttered apartment, the sweat-soaked gym where they meet  — are more articulated than the characters themselves. 

As such, as much as Stewart and O’Brian lean into their roles, we really don’t know enough about them to be moved by their relationship, one way or the other. Without caring about them, the film loses a lot of steam, so that by the climactic showdown between Lou and her father, the stakes feel far too minimal to make an impact. Other than fulfilling the basic tenets of narrative closure, there isn’t a lot of flame to the film’s ubiquitous cigarette smoke. 

[americanwerewolfontheinternet]

{Microfic May} 1. Create

CW: swearing, references to questionable photography

🍊 Create 🍊

At the far end of Diagon Alley, just around the corner from Carkitt and perhaps a bit too close to Knockturn, there is a door. 

It isn’t a particularly strange door, if you’re a muggle anyways, seeing as it opens and closes on its own. All one has to do is walk a bit too close and, with a slight whir, the wall swallows it right up, like a kneazle retracting a claw. Which is, admittedly, only a little weird as a wizard, given there’s nothing to tap and no spell to chant. Mostly, though, the door’s strange because it doesn’t always open. Not for everyone; hardly anyone, actually. Of course, it opened for Harry Potter. 

Or that’s what the tip was, anyways. 

You’re camped out by the door, a very real thing it is, glassy and foggy and weirdly orange, like it’s gone off a bit. Like it’s the seventies, or something, or you’ve found yourself in a back alley of some city in the wasteland of California. There’s a grotty paper lantern casting that crimson glow and the alley smells a bit of must and iron and– fried dough? Kebabs? Oh, maybe a good hot plate of chow mein–

Your knees ache and your feet have gone numb; you’ve been here since you left the Prophet office by the Leaky the night before, since the witch in the upper apartment across the way called it in: Potter– it’s Harry Potter! Outside me window! Get someone over here quick– He’s– he’s doing something! 

Skeeter’s legally required to maintain a twenty meter minimum distance from Harry Potter at all times, but scoops must be scoped so she’s sent you. You owe her, she reminds you, for keeping you on after that flop of an article you wrote on the Malfoys. No one cares about some washed up socialites and whether or not they got what they deserved, turns out. Leave that sort of clean-up to the heroes, says Skeeter. She also says she knows someone if you happen to have a shot of the Malfoy boy naked. Which, hush-hush, you do, but you haven’t stooped that low, you think. Though, if you have to spend another ruddy night crouching in a dank alley because Rita bloody Skeeter told you to–

“Hullo!”

You’re about to snap at the figure looming over you, except it’s Harry Potter, and you realize, in that moment, you’ve never actually seen him in real life– he’s bigger than you expected. But then, maybe it’s that you’re still crouched on the wet, slimy stones. 

There’s a gasp from the woman hanging out her window in the apartment up across the way. You stand too fast, knees cracking, vision swimming and head rushing. Harry Potter waves over at her, beaming. She swoons and your stomach does a strange sort of swoop– it is, after all, Harry Potter, and he’s just come– where was he again? You were waiting for him because–

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” says Harry Potter, and you choke on your tongue before you manage to answer:

“It’s morning, actually.” You’re a fucking moron, turns out (though it is morning, barely dawn). But Harry Potter laughs like you’re his best friend and he’s enjoying your company. “Can– Can I–?” You’re babbling incoherently, but he’s cottoned on since you’re also gripping the camera ‘round your neck so tightly your knuckles have gone white. 

“We’ll take one together,” he says, beaming the whole time, and you do, and you’re pretty sure the Skeeter will think that’s unprofessional, but who bloody cares because you’ve got a picture with Harry Potter. You can do this, you realize. You clear your throat. 

“Mr. Potter,” you start, and he looks amused, like you two are sharing a joke of some sort, “what are you going to do next, now that the war’s over?”

It’s a good question, you think. One people want to know and that maybe he actually wants to talk about. Dreams, ambitions, who doesn’t like to hear about those things from their heroes? What sort of do-gooding go-getter doesn’t want to boast about those things? 

But he frowns, then, and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Defeater of the Dark Lord, looks at you, terribly confused. “What war?” he says.

And oh, forget that photo of Draco Malfoy; your career is made.

🍊🍊

(@xanderorange-blog for the brainstorming & beta-ing 🧡 🦄🚪)

(2. Resplendent>>)

(737ish words)

@microficmay

[lickstynine]

Crawling Back to Me

Whumptober Day 27: "Let me see"

Collab with @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

“Think you’re so fuckin’ smart! If I see you back here again, I'll knock your fucking teeth out!”

Nicky hit the pavement with a scraping thud, the knee of his threadbare joggers tearing as he skidded across the ground. The skin beneath it tore as well, but he hardly felt it, too distracted by the pain in his chest that kept him from drawing a full breath. Blood was streaming down his face, both from his split lip and the cut above his brow. He could hardly see from his left eye, which had swelled shut, and he couldn’t tell if the throbbing in his head was from a particularly fierce hit he’d taken or just the overwhelming pain. Stumbling to his feet, he wrapped an arm around his midsection, gasping feebly for breath. Spitting blood from his mouth, he tried to stay standing, but it was difficult, even leaning against the alley wall. 

Just dragging himself to the nearest public toilet was a hellish journey, and Nicky was fully convinced he’d left a blood trail the entire way, like a more gruesome Hansel and Gretel. His bad leg was barely keeping him up, and he clutched at the grimy sink to keep himself from falling over. In the flickering fluorescent light, his pale skin looked particularly sallow, mottled with blood and bruising. His eye was even more swollen than it felt, and he couldn’t tell if his nose was broken again or just badly bruised. He gingerly dabbed at his bloody lip with a scrap of paper towel, wetting it in the sink to clean up his face further.

Even once he’d mopped away what he could, Nicky found himself staring at a pretty sorry sight in the cracked, spotty mirror. Blood had soaked through his hoodie in several spots, and he could only hope that most of those spots had stopped bleeding by now. He couldn’t say the same, however, for the awful crack on his head. Reaching a tentative hand up to it, he could feel a goose egg swelling up, sticky blood clumping his hair together and continuing to flow freely. He was starting to feel woozy, his monocular mirror vision beginning to blur. Relinquishing his grip on the sink, he slumped down the wall of the grotty single-person bathroom. This was perhaps the first time he’d spend the night in such a foul place sober.

As he hit the cold, disconcertingly damp tile, Nicky came to an uncomfortable conclusion. The blood soaking his hoodie and soiling his hair had yet to stop flowing, and the foul coppery smell would’ve made him shudder if he had the energy. He gingerly pressed a hand to the worst pain in his chest, trying and failing to staunch the flow.

After a long, stubborn attempt to will his body into submission, the only progress Nicky had made was blood trickling through his fingers and down his wrist. He had come to the grim, hazy realization that it wasn’t going to stop on its own. The only worse feeling was when he realized what he would have to do in order to make it through the night.

He arrived in Nye's driveway an hour later. How he'd made it there, he couldn't remember, outside of a vague memory of lights reflecting in puddles on the pavement and an old lady trying to talk to him. He hoped Nye still lived here, that he hadn't moved to a new place since they'd last spoken. Otherwise he'd be appearing in some poor stranger's doorway and scaring the daylights out of them. He paused at the gate. It was too late to turn back now - it was swallow his pride or be found dead in the morning. Wincing, he dragged himself up to the door and knocked.

Nye was soundly asleep when he heard the rap on the door. He was praying Delilah hadn’t gotten into something stupid and been dragged home, but at the same time, he hadn’t a clue what else it would be. Slinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stepped into his slippers, shuffling down the stairs and to the door. Despite the worry gnawing in his chest, he was still half asleep as he undid the deadbolt, giving a drowsy, “Wha’s goin’... oh.”

The sight on his doorstep hit Nye harder than the cold gust of wind that came with it. He wondered for a brief moment if this was a nightmare, considering his friend - ex-friend - on the doorstep looked more dead than alive. Nicky was translucently white, caked in grime and dripping blood, skinnier and more haggard than Nye had ever seen him. Scarier than that, though, was the lack of a bitter scowl on his face. His gaze was vacant, with only a glimmer of desperate hope in the one eye that could properly open. The biggest shock of all came when Nicky finally spoke.

“I need your help.”

Nye was silent for a moment, still processing the sight - the battered remnants of Nicky's face, the way his hands jittered by his sides.

"What the fuck?"

“I… I know, you’d probably rather let me rot out here. Go ahead, if you want. I just… didn’t have anywhere else to go… anyone else to go to.” Nicky said quietly, his usual aggression long gone and replaced with a meek honesty. Normally, he wouldn’t say so much, but the lightheaded wooziness of blood loss caused the words to keep spilling out, not unlike the blood continually soaking his sweatshirt. “Really, it’s… it's probably lights for me either way, but… I thought I’d ask. Please?”

"You need a hospital," Nye said bluntly, already reaching for his car keys. "What are you on? They'll need to know so that they don't overdose you."

“I’m not… not right now. ‘M skint. ‘S how I got here in the first place,'' Nicky admitted, leaning on the doorframe with a dull thunk.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Nye scoffed, grabbing Nicky's elbow so that he didn't fall. If he was honest with himself, one of the reasons he was so angry was that he was terrified by how awful Nicky looked. "After the way you behaved? After you stole from your mum?"

Nicky grimaced, stumbling and leaning towards Nye in a desperate bid to keep from falling. “Really, Nye, I’m so sober it hurts. I’ve been jonesing so bad, I was fixing fights at the club to make money. They figured me out and… yeah.” He gestured meekly towards his battered body, having neither the words nor the energy to explain further. “I’m serious, Nye, I’m only here because I can’t go anywhere else. I’ve been sleeping at the club. I don’t… don’t expect you to let me sleep here, I just… thought you were the one person I could still trust to… not let me die.”

"Oh for fucks sake," Nye sighed, pausing a moment before hauling him in. "Don't make me regret this. And don't let Lilah see you in this state. She's still fucking grieving, she doesn't need your drama too."

“I won’t.” Nicky nodded solemnly. He had found out - through a drug-peddling friend that Delilah had gone to - about Gwen and Lilah’s mother, and he’d nearly come back then, if only to see Delilah. He missed his own mother horribly, and she was still alive; he couldn’t imagine how they were feeling. Despite how floaty he was starting to feel, like a marionette steered by a shoddy puppeteer, he made a conscious effort to be careful and quiet as Nye dragged him inside.

"Go on, bathroom," Nye ordered gruffly. "I'll get the first aid kit, see what we're dealing with."

Nicky shuffled along obediently, knowing the route by heart despite how long it had been. When Nye came in, he was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, having already discarded his filthy hoodie on the floor. Beneath the baggy, blood-soaked fabric he was skin and bones, faded tattoos interspersed with bruises in various stages of healing, along with several new and very nasty-looking cuts. His head hung defeatedly between gaunt shoulderblades, bloody mats of hair half-concealing the gash beneath.

"Jesus," Nye muttered, picking through his hair to check for debris. Nicky winced, hissing through his teeth in pain, but forced himself not to flinch as Nye probed the lump on his head. "You're lucky, I don't think this has fractured. I'm gonna need you to wash up though so I can see if anything needs stitches. No shower gel or anything, just warm water okay?"

Nicky nodded, but just the idea of standing made his legs threaten to buckle. He gripped the counter in a desperate attempt to keep himself steady, leaning heavily on it as he shimmied out of his ragged joggers. Nye offered a supportive hand, if only to keep him from cracking his skull on the tile, and guided him over to the shower, starting the water so it could warm up while Nicky painstakingly peeled off his underwear. He knew Nye was too much of a doctor to care, and he was too far gone to be embarrassed anymore.

"I'll definitely close up that one," Nye said, pointing to the gash on Nicky's chest. It was deep and ragged, torn into him by one of the big, ugly rings his boss wore. Nicky nodded in agreement - right now the jagged edges stung so much with every breath that he was convinced getting stitches would actually feel better. Nye eased him into the shower, and Nicky hissed at the sting of water on fresh wounds. It took all his energy to reach up and ruffle his hair, loosening the dried blood that stuck the stringy locks together.

"Here, I'll do it," Nye said, after a few moments of observing his futile attempts. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and began to comb through Nicky's hair. The unexpected touch made Nicky wince, and he hissed briefly in pain, trying not to wither completely under Nye’s hands. He forced himself to stay still, his face stinging painfully as he scrunched it up in discomfort. When the blood was all washed away (save for the bits trickling relentlessly from his head and chest), he looked less like a vagrant, but significantly more like a corpse. Nye turned off the water, tossing him an old towel that had been the victim of Delilah’s hair dyeing experiments. Nicky gingerly dried himself off, stumbling out of the shower feeling like the barely-living dead.

"I'm going to get you something to wear," Nye said, although he was sure nothing of Nate's would fit Nicky anymore. "Try not to bleed everywhere, I'll be back in a minute."

Nicky nodded complacently, pressing the towel against the weak stream of watery blood dripping down his chest. He was feeling more lightheaded than ever, the cold air on his skin making him shiver, every tremble tugging at fresh injuries. Slumping further forward, he was resting with his damp fringe brushing against bruised knees when Nye returned.

"Hey," Nye said sharply, tapping his shoulder. "Stay with me or I'm calling an ambulance, okay? The only reason I've not done it yet is you'll be a nightmare for the paramedics and they don't deserve that just for you to check yourself out AMA."

The touch was enough to bring Nicky back from spaceland, and he jerked his head up, only to wince at the way it re-aggravated his injuries. “Yeah, sorry…” he mumbled, gingerly propping himself up. “What can I do? To make this less of a pain in your ass.”

"Stay still," Nye muttered. "Try not to scream."

Nicky nodded. Truthfully, he didn’t think he had the energy left to scream. Of course, as Nye got started with the disinfectant, he certainly felt the urge. He took a long, tense breath, holding it tightly as the actual stitches started. Despite all odds, he managed to stay both quiet and conscious throughout the whole ordeal, but by the time Nye had finished, his face was ghostly white and drenched in a cold sweat.

“There you go,” Nye said, snipping the last of the stitching. He grabbed a roll of gauze to cover up the more severe stitching. “Try not to rip this off and sell it for a fix.”

The words stung. Worse than the antiseptic. Worse than the needle. Worse than the borderline brass knuckles of a ring that had made the original injuries. Nicky stayed still as Nye finished bandaging him, but his face fell visibly. “I won’t,” he said softly. As Nye put away the last of the first-aid supplies, Nicky grabbed his wrist. Even his hands seemed tangibly frailer than before, and not just from the knuckles scraped nearly to the bone in self-defense. “Nye,” he said, mustering the last of his energy to make his voice more audible. “Thank you.”

"Whatever," Nye muttered, stripping off his gloves. "I won't do this again. I don't want you dead, but I can't just sit around and enable...whatever this is."

“I won’t do this again,” Nicky replied, weary but surprisingly genuine. “Any of this.” He sat up, forcing a deep breath despite how it tugged on his fresh stitches. “I’m done. I want out, before it kills me. I want my life back.” He paused and took a breath, but his voice still cracked. “…I want my friends back. But I doubt you want to hear that.” Nicky hung his head again, letting it rest in bandaged hands. He was expecting to be thrown back out as soon as he was fully dressed, told to get out and stay out. The memories of his mother were still painfully fresh, and he was unable to fight the tears welling in his eyes. His voice was quiet and choked when he continued. “I want to be a person again. I’m not, right now, I know, and it’s my own fault. I hate it. But I want to fix it, truly I do. I just… don’t know where to start."

"You say that now," Nye said. The anger had bled from his voice and now he just sounded tired. "You can sleep in the guest room tonight, but if anything goes missing, so help me, I'll call the police."

Nicky nodded, so relieved at not being kicked out that he started to tremble. “Thank you,” he whispered, grabbing the edge of the counter to haul himself up. “I’ll… I’ll get to bed and be out of your hair in the morning.”

"Okay." Nye turned away, picking up the first aid kit to put away. "Well, you know where everything is."

Nicky only nodded again, most of his energy devoted to staying upright long enough to get to bed. He’d lost a good bit of blood and been knocked upside the head, and he hadn’t felt properly steady in a long time. Drawing a long, shaky breath, he stumbled away down the hall. He’d barely hit the bedsheets in the guest room before he was out cold.

When Nye woke up in the morning, he wondered briefly if it had all been a dream. Some sick, twisted dream to reopen old wounds and create false hopes. As he got up, though, he saw the bloodied pyjamas in his hamper, and the resulting relief and concern sent a strange rush through him. He sighed, shaking his head, hauling himself out of bed, and shuffling downstairs to start scavenging for breakfast.

He was sat at the island, setting up his calendar for the day over an espresso from the fancy little machine that Dai had bought him when he'd finished his foundation years, when Delilah shuffled downstairs.

"Was there someone at the door last night?" She asked, pouring herself a coffee from the jug in the fridge. "I thought I heard a knock but I was half asleep."

“That was probably me, sorry,” Nye said. “I forgot to take the bins out until late.”

Delilah just shook her head, sleep-rumpled hair bouncing. “Do it more quietly next time,” she lamented, smacking him lightly on the arm before sitting down beside him. “Doing anything fun today?”

He managed to get through the rest of his conversation with Delilah without further suspicion, relieved to hear that she was going out shopping with Ffion in an hour or so. With any luck, they’d be long gone before Nicky’s borderline nocturnal ass woke up.

Once she left, he was distracted by work, and it was nearly lunchtime by the time he realised that Nicky still hadn't surfaced. Had he left already? He said he’d be gone in the morning, but they both knew Nicky didn’t get up that early. Making his way back towards the guest room, Nye looked both ways down the hall before ducking through the door.

He was surprised to see Nicky still out cold, splayed out on the bed in what was likely the same position he’d fallen into it. His snores were muffled by the pillow, jaw slack and drooling slightly. Nye leaned over to shake his shoulder but even before he touched him he could feel the heat radiating from his body. Nye frowned. He considered going to get the thermometer, but decided to give it a bit, instead gently shaking his shoulder.

Nicky groaned, barely lifting his head from the pillow his face had imprinted on. “Huh?”

"You're burning up, mate," Nye said, feeling his forehead to double check. "Is it withdrawal?"

He shook his head, leaning into the soothing coolness of Nye’s hand. “‘ve got… no.”

Nye bit his lip, praying that none of the makeshift medical work had become infected. “...I’ll keep an eye on it,” he said eventually.

Nicky nodded limply, slumping back down against the pillow with a groan. It had been so long since he'd slept in a real bed and -

He bolted upright, nearly smacking his head against Nye's. "I should go, I said I'd leave in the morning."

Nye pushed him back down, surprisingly gentle despite what Nicky had expected. "Relax. I'm not going to kick you out," he said quietly. "But when you're feeling better, we've got to talk."

"I'll do anything," Nicky said. His lips wobbled and he reached out to clutch Nye's hand before continuing, "Anything you want."

"You don't need to grovel," Nye said, pulling his hand away. "You need to actually change instead of just spewing flowery apologies."

"I know," Nicky said mournfully. "I know I have a lot of work to do. But I want to do it. I'm either going to fix myself or die, alone, and I really don't want to die."

"Yeah, well..." Nye took a deep breath and stood up. "I'm going to get you some paracetamol. Do you want breakfast or no?"

Nicky hesitated for a moment. He couldn't actually tell if the discomfort in his stomach was the hunger he'd grown so used to or a feverish queasiness. Of course, he'd also gotten in the habit of taking food whenever it was offered. "...something easy."

Nye nodded, disappearing from the room to gather what he needed. He was just putting Nicky's breakfast on a tray with a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol when the front door flew open, Ffion and Lilah strolling in with armfuls of shopping bags.

"Is Nate home?" Delilah asked, clocking the contents of the tray immediately. Even though Nate had been well enough to take his place at uni back up the previous year, it wasn't unusual for him to drag himself back to Cardiff if he was having a particularly hard time.

"Uh…" Nye floundered. He couldn't just fabricate a brother out of nowhere. "Um, no. Uh… Nicky's back."

As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted it. Ffion dropped her bags. Delilah screamed. They both came barrelling towards him like rabid dogs, desperate for more information.

"Where is he?"

"Is he okay?"

"When did he get here?"

"Does Jac know?"

"Is that for him?"

"Have you told his mum?"

"Can I bring it to him?"

Nye groaned, taking a step back from Delilah without relinquishing the tray. "Ease up, both of you. I don't know if he wants visitors. And even if he did, you two don't need to surgically reattach to his hips just yet."

“Nye,” Delilah growled. “Give me the goddamn tray. I’m going up to see him either way.”

Nye reluctantly handed it over, knowing she would kick down the door if push came to shove. "Make sure he takes the paracetamol," he told her.

Delilah nodded, lighting up as the tray was handed over. She was in such a hurry up the stairs, she nearly dumped it on herself, knocking on the guest room door but not waiting for an answer.

When Delilah opened the door, Nicky was shocked not to see Nye, a brief panic flashing over his face as he worried he'd be told to leave. The real surprise, though, was for her. Nate's clothes hung off Nicky like a scarecrow, and he could still barely open his left eye, the bruising around it a nasty purplish red. Nye had stitched up the worst of his cuts, but he still had a split lip, and there was a butterfly bandage holding the gash above his eyebrow closed. Worse than any of his injuries though, was the fearful look he gave her, like a deer in headlights waiting to be plowed down.

"...hi," he whispered, waving meekly at her. Delilah didn’t say anything at first, setting the tray down on the bedside table and crawling up onto the bed next to him. Nicky held his breath, waiting for her anger, or disappointment, or indifference. After all, he’d been absent when she’d needed her friends the most.

“Who did this?” She asked eventually, light fingers skimming over his swollen face. The heat of fever radiated off of him, and he leaned into her gentle touch.

"My boss… well, ex-boss now. At the club." He mumbled. "Got in trouble."

"Clearly," she scoffed, cradling his head against her chest. "You look like shit."

Her tone was light, teasing, but with the unmistakable wobble of genuine worry. Nicky chuckled faintly, closing his eyes as he settled into her. "Thanks. Could always count on you to tell it straight."

“Mmhmm,” she hummed. “...I missed you so much.”

"Missed you too," he admitted. There was a long silence as he weighed the guilt in his chest, finally murmuring, "I heard about your mum. I'm really sorry."

Delilah’s throat tightened. Her relationship with her mum had been weird - she’d been sick for such a huge chunk of Delilah’s life - but now that she was gone that almost didn’t matter. It still hurt. “Uh, yeah,” she mumbled, sucking in a shaky breath. “Thanks.”

"...I should've been there," He said, shame heavy in his voice. "You needed me, and I wasn't around." Nicky's mind suddenly went to his own parents - his mother, who he missed so badly, and his deadbeat father, who'd had the audacity to show up out of the blue and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Was that what he was doing now? Did he deserve to be back? It was all starting to make his head hurt, and he groaned, pushing the thoughts aside and wrapping Lilah up in a tight hug.

“It’s okay…,” she whispered, pressing her face into his shoulder. It was close enough to the gash across his chest that the movement pulled at the edges, but he stopped himself from flinching.

“It’s not,” he said firmly. There was a sudden hot wetness behind his eyes, and he squeezed them tighter. “It’s… It’s really not. It was shitty.”

"...yeah," Delilah admitted, "it was. But I forgive you. Just… promise you won't leave again."

Nicky swallowed the lump in his throat, guilt pooling like oil in the pit of his stomach. "I promise," he breathed, voice threatening to crack.

“‘Kay.” She sniffled a little before she regained control of herself, face damp through his shirt. Nicky hugged her tightly, trying not to sniffle himself, but the tears in his eyes finally spilled over, and he let out an involuntary little whimper as his emotions overflowed with them. Delilah squeezed him back, unintentionally eliciting a groan of pain as her grasp tightened around bruised ribs. She swore, easing up immediately. “You should take some painkillers, you must be sore.”

"Yeah, please," Nicky nodded, groping around on the bedside table until he found the paracetamol. Out of sheer habit, he dumped a few pills into his palm and swallowed them dry. Delilah grabbed the water from the tray, offering it to him and graciously not saying anything. Once he'd downed half the glass, having realized just how thirsty he was, he set it aside, no longer very interested in the food sitting beside it. Instead, he simply looped an arm lazily back around Delilah, laying down with her and snuggling up.

“You’re really warm,” she fussed, pressing her fingers against his cheek.

“The meds will sort it out,” he grunted. “I just need some sleep.” It didn't help his case when she rested her cool palm against his skin, coaxing out a groan as he pressed his face into her hand.

"Are you sure? You really don't seem well."

"Rough night," he mumbled, seemingly unconcerned.

"Okay." She settled back down beside him, his face easing into the crook of her neck. "Get some rest then. We can fix everything else when you're better."

Nicky was more than content with that, his warm mass settling against her as he started to drift off again. There was a gentle tap at the door before Nye peeked in on them, and he sighed, watching them worriedly from the doorway. It was great that Delilah had a new source of comfort, but if Nicky couldn't keep up his end of the bargain, she'd have another fresh flood of grief to handle. It wasn’t something he could deal with now - aside from physically hauling Delilah away from him and locking her in her room, there wasn’t much he could do. Besides, the damage was already done. He sighed, quietly closing the door.

Ffion was still sitting downstairs, seemingly waiting for someone to tell her what to do. She wanted to see Nicky. She wanted to tell Jac. She wanted to scream from the excitement of it all. But she didn't feel like she could do any of it until Nye said it was okay. The worried frown on his face made her own chest tight with concern, and she asked, "Did something happen?"

“She’ll be devastated if he leaves,” he said shortly, switching the coffee machine back on even though he’d definitely maxed out his recommended caffeine intake for the day. “I didn’t want her to know until it was more…certain.”

Ffion sighed quietly. "Yeah, it wouldn't be good. Do… do you think he will leave?" She asked.

"Who knows?" Nye shrugged. "You can never tell with junkies. You'll get a speech worthy of Shakespeare about how they've changed their ways, and then a week later they're off doing whatever it takes to get their fix."

“That’s so sad,” Ffion murmured. “I hope he doesn’t. I know Jac’s missed him.”

Nye nodded. Jac had been the hardest to get on board with the intervention - not because he didn't want to help, but because he couldn't fathom completely cutting off his best friend. It had only been when Nye pointed out how dangerous it could be for the girls that Jac had even truly considered it. "I know. So don't tell him yet."

"I won't," Ffion sighed. She knew Jac would be shouting it from the rooftops as soon as he knew, and that would mean telling Nicky's mother, too. The idea of getting her hopes up that her only child was back and doing better just for him to leave again seemed unimaginably cruel. “Can you tell Lilah I went home, but I can come back if she wants to chill later?”

"I will," Nye said, taking his cup of coffee and walking over to give her a hug. "Text me, let me know you made it home okay."

Ffion scoffed, hugging him back before picking up her bags. "I'm not a kid anymore, you know."

"Do it anyway," Nye said, opening the front door for her.

[amplesalty]

Halloween 2024 - Day 3 - Peeping Tom (1960)

He's a peeping tom!

It's the first of our trips back into the days of yore today, back into the space year 1960 and whilst some people may scoff at the notion of watching a film made back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, I can very much appreciate it when it brings me examples such as this.

If for no other reason than that certain style you get with movies of this vintage. The above scene is one of the very first things you see in the movie and it's just gorgeous. It's like if Nighthawks was set in a dingy London back alley rather than a Chicago diner. Sure the buildings may be grotty and the refuse flowing freely having long overthrown the shackles of it's bin shaped prison, but the colours really pop off the screen from the oranage lamp lights or the vibrant red of that ladie's dress. Just this one frame alone exudes more atmosphere and life than the whole of Dead 7.

Given this is 1960, I feel like colour film would have still been realatively new and it often seems like people were trying to one up each other with it's use. Everything seems to be filmed in [insert name here]vision and it's not enough to merely have colour, each release has to be more vibrant than the last which can end up looking over saturated if anything. There's something slightly unnatural about the dirty blonde hair colour of our protagnist here, like when you see the zombie in the promo material for the colorised Night of the Living Dead where he seems to have orange hair at times, it just kinda off.

The intro has a unique feel to it as well as we see a lady of the night followed into her room before being set upon with a lust for blood, not passion. Distracting framing aside with the windowed lens type effect, it gives it a found footage type feel which is interesting for the time.

The bulk of the movie does follow a more traditional filming method as we follow Mark, a seemingly nice young man whose closets are certainly full of skeletons, figuratively and almost literally, as his obsession with his camera goes so far as far as creating his own snuff films whilst bumping off his victims.

He even has his own little theater tucked away in a spare room which allows for some more fanstic shots, the juxtoposition of the rest of his life being out in the open whilst his dark secrets live within the shadows of this room.

For as much as this movie does try to build up some degree of sympathy towards Mark when it delves into his past and the sins of the Father that don't appear to have fallen too far from the tree, it feels a little misplaced when it outright shows you he's the killer within the first few minutes. Plus, it never feels like he's conflicted on what he's doing until near the end and he does give off major red flags at pretty much every turn.

It is interesting to look at this in the fullness of time though, especially when this had an apparently turbulent release and was met with scathing reviews that effectively ended the director's career. It's that age old story of what was shocking then is tame by today's standards. Though there are frequent shots of Mark photographing in a boudier type setting, there's no nudity to be seen (though probably still enough skin to worry the Tumblr morality bots) and all the murder scenes are cut away just before the moment of impact. Interestingly though, to me it feels like the impact of the camera itself that Mark carries is an inverse of life today. Whilst obviously every man, woman and child carries a camera with them thanks to modern phones, and filming is promiment with things like social media, just randomly shooting out in the street would probably met with some suspicion and certainly shoving a camera in someone's face would likely result in being invited to shove said camera where the sun doesn't shine. For Mark though, it almost gives him this sense of respectability and influence at times, for instance there's a moment when someone mistakes him for a journalist. This isn't a toy, this is a tool for an artist to capture a work of art and it arguably opens doors for Mark find another unwitting victim.

[alchemisland]

Come to the manor now

An invitation advanced you in a strange manner An envelope put in your hand by a strange man Away quickly, you caught neither face Nor name, you could not be blamed he moved like blazes His gait seemed to change before the vision faded Alas, you could not say for sure, you obey The letter to the letter, confessing I will do what it states The laneways are grotty but the haunted grotto is…

[elenarodriiguez]

running | c.s. & d.o.

summary: charlie runs to quiet the noise in his head. darcy runs because there's nowhere else to go.

pairing: darcy olsson & charlie spring

cw: child abuse, mental illness, low self-worth, poor parenting, angst

word count: 1251

read it on ao3

Running was a new development in Charlie’s routine. For as long as he could remember, the routine was just there; something that if he followed, his day would be extra great. And for eight-year-old Charlie, who was just coming down from the disappointment of his Mum & Dad’s big announcement being a younger sibling and not a puppy, an extra great day was just what he needed.

But for fifteen-year-old Charlie, the routine was a necessity that, were he unable to follow it, his mind would be plagued with vile images and never-ending thoughts explaining in graphic detail how all of his loved ones would die, leaving him alone in this miserable world. It wasn’t a daily routine as such, some parts he could go days without completing, but then there were others that he had to do multiple times a day, sometimes even multiple times in one sitting.

He never could quite wrap his head around it, but then again, there was never really any need to try to, not when he already knew the consequences of not fulfilling the routine satisfactorily for his brain.

A more recent addition to the routine, one that had picked up in demand since his parents had grounded him, was him going on runs. Runs that left him unsteady as he made the miles-long return back home, with floaters dancing across his vision and sharp pains shooting up his legs. It didn’t matter the time of day, if Charlie’s brain recognised he was alone, he had to run until he was weak at the knees.

Which was the only reason he was running around Copperfield Park at four in the morning on the day of prom. He had been on the precipice of passing out, far enough from home that going to sleep on a bench for a few hours seemed highly enticing when he saw a figure despondently swinging on the kids’ swings. Initially, he planned to ignore the person, however, when he saw the box-dyed hair and the suit which had complemented Darcy so well in the charity shop, now dishevelled and downtrodden, he couldn’t ignore them.

Jogging over towards them, Charlie’s brain started to go into overdrive in a vain attempt to make up a story that would be somewhat believable, he noticed how they were being weighed down by their backpack and a tote bag, and how tightly they clung to their phone, as though it would disappear if they eased up their grip any.

“Darcy? What are you doing out this late?”

“Charlie!” Darcy shouted, clumsily trying to throw on their happy-go-lucky mask to no avail. “I could ask you the same exact thing, this isn’t exactly your neck of the woods.”

“You’re right, but it’s not really yours either, is it Darcy?”

“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly go home right now so it’s either this or nothing.” They huffed, eyes fixed firmly on the grotty Converse that Charlie used as his late-night running shoes.

“Well,” Charlie stated, bending down to pick up the meagre belongings that Darcy had managed to grab before fleeing their home, “that’s not entirely true. You can stay at mine for tonight at the very least. We can sort the rest out at a more humane time of day.”

It took Charlie nine attempts to settle the bags on his shoulder correctly, that feeling of doom climbing up his spine with each failed attempt, however Darcy was too preoccupied with gathering their composure to take any notice. They fell into step pretty easily, neither of them knowing quite how to broach the inevitably uncomfortable conversations, and both of them decided to remain silent instead.

As the first hints of sunrise began to peak through the clouds, Charlie decided to be the one to break the silence by going over how he would sneak Darcy into his house, stressing to them how even the softest of sounds could be enough to wake his mother up, which would not bode well for either of them. It was oddly comforting, the way that Darcy nodded along to Charlie’s explanation without a moment’s hesitation, even repeating the instructions back to him so that they wouldn’t make a mistake.

Not even Tao, who was Charlie’s oldest friend, truly understood the way that Charlie always walked silently along the hallway landing no matter whose house he was at: be it at the Xu’s, the Hendersons’ or the Argents’. Nor did Nick, who despite his best efforts, always thundered up and down the stairs even when he tried to tiptoe.

Far sooner than he would have wished to return home, Charlie was opening his front door, clinging to the doorknob in case an errant gust of wind blew and slammed the door shut - he would never forget the words his mother had hissed at him during her berating of him, and Charlie certainly didn’t fancy round two of that. The teens moved swiftly and silently, simultaneously praying that none of the mud from the park was being tracked into the pristine white carpet.

Within less than a minute, the pair of them were safely closed in Charlie’s room, which all of a sudden seemed too small for the both of them. While Darcy hovered awkwardly around Charlie’s bed, Charlie clung to the space by his wardrobe, both of them thrown off kilter and scrambling to try and right the wrongness of the situation before them.

“You should get some sleep Darce. I know you promised Tara you’d be there to set up for prom pretty early.”

“No, Charlie, I can’t-”

“You can, and you will. You’ve had a shit night, I wasn’t planning on going back to sleep after my run anyway so I’ll just stay awake and wake you up later.”

Without allowing them a chance to argue with him any further, Charlie handed Darcy their things before getting them some of his joggers and one of Nick’s old hoodies to sleep in. Promising to be back in a few minutes, he grabbed some pyjamas for himself before heading off to the bathroom, submerging himself under icy water in an effort to keep himself awake.

When he walked back into his room, Darcy had changed into his clothes, looking more at peace with themself than they had all night as they sat on the end of his bed.

“Am I okay to text Tara and let her know you’re with me? Just in case she starts worrying.”

“I don’t know, I don’t want to ruin her prom.”

Charlie waited a moment to respond, trying to formulate his thoughts in a more coherent way before accidentally managing to say the wrong thing.

“I honestly don’t think you could, I think she’d want to know what’s going on with you.”

After a moment of silent looks between the two of them, Darcy nestled themself under Charlie’s bedsheets, quietly asking him to put their phone on charge, promising to text Tara in the morning. He quickly obliged, showing the phone to Darcy who let out a quiet sigh as they snuggled with Kitty, Charlie failed to find any embarrassment in his childhood teddy being found when it soothed Darcy to sleep almost immediately.

If only Darcy’s sleeping presence could quiet the voice in his head berating him for failing his run like their awake self had. At least he only had five hours to contend with it before Nick would wake up and serve as an incredibly welcome distraction. Who said prom wasn’t fun?

[wheelsinquirer]

List of the Fastest Cars in GTA

You are not alone if you love driving super fast cars in Grand Theft Auto V! Many GTA V players have made it their mission to find the fastest cars around and take them for a spin. So how fast can you go? In the game, some cars make the list of the fastest cars in GTA, with their top speeds and special abilities. Let’s take a look at these hot rides. 1. Grotti Visione The Grotti Visione is…

[ukrfeminism]

3 minute read

IKEA showrooms usually show off glimpses of what your dream home could look like – but a new team-up with housing charity Shelter is flipping the script to reveal the reality of life for homeless families.

‘Real Life Roomsets’ displays have been introduced to four IKEA stores across the country showing what life is like for people experiencing homelessness in cramped, damp and dangerous temporary accommodation.

The displays, which are based on real-life stories of people living near the London, Manchester, Birmingham and Bristol stores, are intended to draw attention to the terrible living conditions people are forced to endure due to the housing and cost of living crises.

Polly Neate, chief executive of Shelter, said: “A grotty hostel or B&B is not a home, but this is the reality for too many families stuck in temporary accommodation. That’s why we’re working with IKEA to show the grim living situations that families who become homeless are having to face – from having no space for children to do homework or play, to having to share beds, to being moved miles away from schools and support networks.

“With rents at an all-time high and no end to the cost of living crisis in sight, we’re desperately worried that more people are going to become homeless this year. The solution to this crisis is simple and it’s staring the government in the face: we must build a new generation of good quality social housing that people can actually afford to live in.”

Temporary accommodation can take many forms, including emergency hostels, B&Bs, one-room bedsits and cramped flats, and is offered to people experiencing homelessness until they can find a more permanent place to live.

Around 95,000 households in England live in temporary accommodation and it is particularly prevalent in London where 16 in every 1,000 people live in a makeshift home.

That includes Sam and her three children who provide inspiration for the display in the London store.

Sam moved into temporary accommodation after a seven-week spell living alone in her car while the children lived with her friend. The family were reunited in a temporary property which had black mould and a hole in the front door where the letter box should be.

The in-store display shows peeling wallpaper, stained walls and a bathroom located mere inches away from the kitchen.

Living in temporary accommodation can be particularly difficult on children. Research also released by Shelter this week showed over a fifth of homeless children have to move school multiple times as a result while half have missed days of school due to the living situation.

Claire, whose story provided the inspiration for the Birmingham story, also lived in temporary accommodation with her three children after being made homeless in December 2021 due to an abusive relationship.

The display shows the childrens’ sleeping spots crammed together just a short distance from a toilet.

The ground floor maisonette Claire was offered was “uninhabitable”, she said. “It was like farm animals had lived there. Paper was falling off the walls, there was dirt everywhere, broken cupboards, blood stains on mattresses, faeces stains on there. My two-year-old was crawling all over the dirty carpet. My ten-year-old son burst out crying.”

Channah moved to a cramped emergency B&B with her three daughters in May last year and the room has now been recreated in IKEA’s Warrington store.

The family had been evicted in December 2021 and that led them sharing a space so small that one of her daughters had to revise for her GCSEs on the bathroom floor.

Channah said: “All I wanted was to have a space to call home where my children could study and achieve what they can. Our situation is greatly impacting their education and I feel powerless.”

The B&B room Kate, a qualified nurse and teacher, and her daughter shared has been reimagined in the Bristol store.

Kate lost her job at a children’s home during the pandemic and was forced out of her rental property following domestic abuse from a partner.

The pair briefly lived in a friend’s campervan and in a tent before moving into the room which had no cooking facilities, fridge or microwave.

IKEA and Shelter announced a partnership last year, calling for 90,000 social homes to be built every year by 2030 to tackle the housing emergency.

Peter Jelkeby, IKEA UK & Ireland’s country retail manager and chief sustainability officer, said: “The focus on building ‘affordable’ homes rather than social housing is a distraction from finding a real solution to the housing emergency, which currently relies on the unsuitable provision of temporary accommodation where families are being forced to live in uninhabitable and unacceptable conditions. 

“At IKEA, we believe that everyone deserves a place to call home, which is why we’re so proud to partner with Shelter in demanding for long-term change, whilst also helping those directly affected by the housing emergency in our local communities.”

A pioneering new project to count how many women are sleeping rough has revealed numbers could be more than seven times higher in some areas than England’s official count.

A coalition of homelessness and women’s organisations carried out the first census of women sleeping rough in London from October 3-7 last year following fears women were being missed out of statistics.

The census found 154 women, including trans and non-binary women, sleeping rough in London in a week, showing a higher number than previously thought. Organisers believe the number could be even higher.

The census found more women sleeping rough in 13 out of 21 participating London boroughs than in the nationwide official rough sleeping snapshot, released last month. That survey found an extra 71 women across those boroughs with some areas reporting around seven times more women than in the official figures.

Michelle Binfield, London Councils’ rough sleeping programme director, said: “Rough sleeping is particularly dangerous for women. The census is a vital tool for helping us understand the scale of the challenge and for targeting resources for successful prevention and front-line support work.

“Boroughs are proud to be part of the pan-London partnership tackling this issue and doing everything we can to help women off the streets and into safe accommodation.”

[bryan360]

Hi guys. I'm still working on my "late" Thanksgiving artwork that I'm supposed to be sharing through DeviantArt page from yesterday. However due to some timing of making my progress will took a lot than as I expected to be. Sorry if I needed few days to get it done; especially of making some more details to be careful not to rush it. Nevertheless, I've finally managed to get my "late" second Thanksgiving artwork done from few hours ago. Hope you guys will look forward to check out from my DeviantArt page.

But first, let me bring you guys to show my P-Pal's Grand Theft Auto posts during his recent Lucky Wheel prize. After checking that though, it does made him happy when owning the Grotto Visione for showing the results. It's another one of those super car in category like we previous seen before, but this one seems to be not disappointing; including me after looking at it does give him a a "magnificent" thumbs up! 😁👍🏼