#the girl with the needle (2024)

[whileiamdying]

All the Films in Competition at Cannes, Ranked from Best to Worst

The twenty-two films that premièred in the 2024 festival’s main program offered much to savor and revile.

By Justin Chang May 26, 2024

The seventy-seventh annual Cannes Film Festival came to a startling and joyous conclusion on Saturday night, when the competition jury, chaired by Greta Gerwig, awarded the Palme d’Or, the festival’s highest honor, to “Anora,” a funny, harrowing, and finally quite moving portrait of a sex worker’s madcap New York misadventures. It was startling because the movie, though one of the best-received in the competition, had not been widely tipped for the top prize, which seldom goes to a U.S. film; with “Anora,” Sean Baker becomes the first American director to win the Palme since Terrence Malick did, for “The Tree of Life” (2011), thirteen years ago. And it was joyous not only because the award was bestowed on a worthy and remarkable film but because Baker used the occasion to deliver the best, most eloquent and impassioned acceptance speech I’ve ever heard a Palme winner give.

Reading from prepared remarks, Baker singled out two other filmmakers in the competition, Francis Ford Coppola and David Cronenberg, as among his personal heroes. He dedicated the award to sex workers everywhere, a fitting tribute from a filmmaker who has put their lives front and center, with drama, humor, and empathy, in movies like “Starlet” (2012), “Tangerine” (2015), and “Red Rocket” (2021). He tossed some exquisite shade in the direction of the “tech companies” behind the so-called streaming revolution—including, presumably, Netflix, which came away as one of the night’s big winners; its major acquisition of the festival, Jacques Audiard’s musical “Emilia Pérez,” won two prizes. And, in a moment that drew rapturous applause, Baker delivered a plea on behalf of theatrical films, declaring, “The future of cinema is where it started: in a movie theatre.”

I was fortunate to see all twenty-two films in the Cannes competition on the big screen, projected under superior conditions in houses packed with fellow movie lovers. It’s my hope that, when these movies are released in the U.S., as the great majority of them likely will be, you will seize the chance to see them on the big screen as well—even “Emilia Pérez,” which Netflix may not keep in theatres for long, but whose bold dramatic and stylistic risks have the best chance of winning you over if they have your undivided, wide-awake attention.

I have ranked the movies in order of preference, from best to worst. Here they are:

1. “Caught by the Tides”

Jia Zhangke, a Cannes competition veteran, has long been the cinema’s preëminent chronicler of modern China (“Mountains May Depart,” “Ash Is Purest White”), mapping its social, cultural, and geographical complexities with great formal acumen, and also with the longtime collaboration of his wife, the superb actress Zhao Tao. Jia’s latest work, drawing on an archive of footage shot in the course of roughly two decades, unfurls a story in fragments, about a woman (Zhao) and a man (Li Zhubin) who fall in love, bitterly separate, and have a melancholy reunion years later. It’s an achievement by turns fleeting and monumental: a series of interlocking time capsules, a wrenching feat of self-reflection, and a stealth musical, in which Zhao dances and dances, standing in for millions who have learned to sway and bend to history’s tumultuous beat.

2. “All We Imagine as Light”

As the first Indian feature invited to compete at Cannes in nearly three decades, Payal Kapadia’s narrative début (after her 2021 documentary, “A Night of Knowing Nothing”) would be notable enough; that the movie is so delicately felt and sensuously textured is cause for outright celebration. Winner of the festival’s Grand Prix, or second place, it tells the story of two roommates, Prabha (Kani Kusruti) and Anu (Divya Prabha), who work as nurses at a Mumbai hospital. It teases out their personal circumstances—Prabha’s estrangement from her unseen husband, Anu’s frowned-upon romance with a young Muslim man (Hridhu Haroon)—with a quiet truthfulness that, like the glittering lights of the city, lingers expansively in the memory. (A forthcoming Sideshow/Janus Films release.)

3. “Grand Tour”

The Portuguese director Miguel Gomes (“Tabu,” “Arabian Nights”) delivered some of the most virtuosic filmmaking in the competition—as the jury recognized by giving him the Best Director prize—with this characteristically yet extraordinarily playful colonial-era travelogue. Shifting between color and black-and-white, set in 1917 but full of fourth-wall-breaking anachronisms, the movie tells a story of sorts about a roving British diplomat (Gonçalo Waddington) and a fiancée (Crista Alfaiate) he’s in no hurry to marry. But its true fascination lies in the humid atmosphere and wanderlust-inspiring splendor of its East and Southeast Asian locations, ranging from Singapore and Bangkok to Shanghai and Rangoon. It’s a movie to get lost in.

4. “The Seed of the Sacred Fig”

It’s impossible to absorb this blistering domestic drama without thinking of its dissident director, Mohammad Rasoulof, who recently fled Iran after being sentenced to prison and a flogging. (His appearance at his film’s première made for one of the most emotional moments in recent Cannes memory.) Shot entirely in secret, the story follows a Tehran-based husband (Missagh Zareh) and wife (Soheila Golestani) who are increasingly at war with their progressive-minded young-adult daughters (Mahsa Rostami, Setareh Maleki) during nationwide political protests led by women. The result is a thriller of propulsive skill and blunt emotional force, marrying the muscularity of an action film to the psychological intensity of a chamber drama. (A forthcoming Neon release.)

5. “Anora”

The director Sean Baker is near the height of his storytelling powers with this dazzling (and now Palme d’Or-winning) portrait of a Manhattan strip-club dancer (a revelatory Mikey Madison) who impulsively marries the ultra-spoiled son (Mark Eydelshteyn) of a Russian oligarch. Much comic chaos ensues, some of it pushed past the brink of plausibility, but Baker’s multifaceted love for his characters proves infectious and sustaining, as does his belief that acts of unexpected kindness can redeem even the darkest nights of the soul. (A forthcoming Neon release.)

6. “The Shrouds”

Early on in this elegantly sombre yet mordantly funny new movie, which stars Vincent Cassel, Diane Kruger, and Guy Pearce, the director David Cronenberg, a master of cerebral horror, unveils his latest invention: a technologically advanced burial shroud that allows people to watch a loved one’s body decomposing in the grave. So begins a drolly fluid inspection of classic Cronenberg themes—the deterioration of the flesh, the instability of the image, the paranoia-inducing incursions of technology into every aspect of life—but imbued with a nakedly personal dimension that the director has noted in interviews; the story was inspired by his wife’s death, in 2017, from cancer.

7. “Megalopolis”

In this legendarily long-gestating passion project, which I’ve written about at length, Francis Ford Coppola posits that our fragile, battered civilization is headed the way of the Roman Empire. The grimness of that prospect is unsurprising from a director accustomed to peering deep into the heart of American darkness (the “Godfather” movies, “The Conversation,” “Apocalypse Now”). For all that, the filmmaking here glows with a particularly hard-won optimism, even a welcome sense of play—borne out by an ensemble of actors, including Adam Driver, Giancarlo Esposito, and especially Aubrey Plaza, who fully embrace Coppola’s rhetorical and conceptual flights of fancy.

8. “The Substance”

Sympathetic or sadistic? Feminist or misogynist? Coralie Fargeat’s body-horror bonanza, which won the festival’s award for Best Screenplay, has been one of the competition’s more polarizing hits, which is unsurprising; divisiveness should be expected from a story about an aging actress and TV fitness guru who, desperate to regain her youthful bod of yesteryear, effectively splits herself in two. Whether the outlandish premise (think “The Picture of Dorian Gray” by way of “Death Becomes Her”) and its blood-gushing fallout withstand intellectual scrutiny, there’s no doubting the ferocity of the two leads, Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley, or Fargeat’s sheer filmmaking verve as she pushes her ideas to their sanguinary conclusions.

9. “Motel Destino”

Just a year after the Brazilian director Karim Aïnouz appeared in competition with a surprisingly stiff-corseted English period drama, “Firebrand,” it was bracing to watch him rebound with the competition’s most sexually uninhibited and flagrantly horny title; corsets don’t apply here, and even underwear proves blissfully optional. Set at a seedy roadside motel where the clientele never stops moaning, it’s a feverishly shambling erotic thriller starring three very game actors (Iago Xavier, Nataly Rocha, and Fábio Assunção) in a romantic triangle that plays like James M. Cain with sex toys—“The Postman Always Cock Rings Twice,” as it were.

10. “Emilia Pérez”

A trans-empowerment musical set against the backdrop of Mexico’s drug cartels might sound like a dubious proposition on paper, and, for the many detractors of this genre-melding big swing from the French director Jacques Audiard (“A Prophet,” “The Sisters Brothers”), what actually made it onto the screen was no better. But I was disarmed from the start by Audiard’s quasi-Almodóvarian vibes, his touchingly imperfect embrace of song-and-dance stylization, and, most of all, his three leads: the remarkable discovery Karla Sofía Gascón, a scene-stealing Selena Gomez, and a never-better Zoe Saldaña. All three (along with Adriana Paz) were recognized with the festival’s Best Actress prize, awarded collectively to the movie’s ensemble of actresses; Audiard also won the Jury Prize. (A forthcoming Netflix release.)

11. “Oh, Canada”

After a tense trilogy of dramas about male redemption through violence (“First Reformed,” “The Card Counter,” “Master Gardener”), the writer and director Paul Schrader has taken a gentler turn with an adaptation of “Foregone,” a 2021 novel by the late Russell Banks. (It’s his second Banks adaptation, after the 1997 drama “Affliction.”) In exploring the fragmented consciousness of an aging documentary filmmaker (played at different ages by Richard Gere and Jacob Elordi), Schrader bravely forsakes the narrative fastidiousness of his recent work and takes on grand themes of memory, mortality, and artistic self-reckoning, to formally ragged but sincerely moving effect.

12. “The Girl with the Needle”

This stark and terrifying black-and-white drama from the Swedish-born, Polish-based director Magnus von Horn (“Sweat”) was perhaps the competition’s bleakest entry. Set in Copenhagen immediately after the First World War, it pins us so mercilessly to the hard-bitten perspective of Karoline (an excellent Vic Carmen Sonne), a factory seamstress who becomes pregnant out of wedlock, that we scarcely notice her story shifting in a different, more sinister direction. It’s a bitterly hard-to-stomach brew of a movie, at once hideous and beautifully made, with a chilling supporting turn by Trine Dyrholm as a friend whose interventions turn out to be anything but benign.

13. “Three Kilometres to the End of the World”

The setting of this well-observed but emotionally opaque drama, from the Romanian actor turned director Emanuel Pârvu, is a small rural village where a closeted teen-age boy, Adi (Ciprian Chiujdea), is brutally beaten after being caught in an intimate moment with a male traveller. Pârvu teases out the legal, psychological, and moral fallout with the pitch-perfect performances and laserlike formal focus that have become hallmarks of new Romanian cinema. But, though the movie is persuasive enough as an indictment of small-town religious fundamentalism and homophobia, it proves curiously incurious about Adi’s perspective, to the detriment of its own human pulse.

14. “Kinds of Kindness”

After his Oscar-winning period romps “The Favourite” (2018) and “Poor Things” (2023), the Greek director Yorgos Lanthimos scales back—but goes long—with a sprawling, increasingly tedious compendium of comic cruelty. My favorite of the film’s three disconnected stories, all featuring the same actors, is the one where Jesse Plemons (the ensemble M.V.P., as the jury recognized with its Best Actor award) plays Willem Dafoe’s Manchurian candidate; my least favorite is the one where Emma Stone joins a sweat-worshipping sex cult. The one where Stone slices off her finger and cooks it for Plemons falls—much like the movie in Lanthimos’s over-all œuvre—somewhere in the middle. (A Searchlight Pictures release, opening June 21st in theatres.)

15. “Bird”

My admiration for the English filmmaker Andrea Arnold (“American Honey”) is such that I’m eager to revisit her latest rough-and-tumble coming-of-age story and find that I undervalued it. Arnold is certainly skilled at integrating recognizable actors, which in this case includes Barry Keoghan and Franz Rogowski, into her grottily realist frames, and she has an appealing lead performer in Nykiya Adams, as a twelve-year-old girl who overcomes persistent abuse and neglect. But the story may lose you—as it lost me—with a magical-realist turn that magnifies, rather than minimizes, the tortured-animal symbolism that has often dogged Arnold’s work.

16. “Beating Hearts”

An exchange of insults at a high-school bus stop provides a saucy meet-cute for a good girl (Mallory Wanecque) and a ne’er-do-well boy (Malik Frikah); so begins a raucous and endearing love story for the ages, in which the director Gilles Lellouche, with outsized glee and little discipline, merrily appropriates the conventions of classic Hollywood musicals and gangster flicks. The result is much too long at nearly three hours—the story spans several years, with Adèle Exarchopoulos and François Civil playing older versions of the two leads—but I can’t say I didn’t warm to its rambunctious cornball charm.

17. “Limonov: The Ballad”

Why make a film about Eduard Limonov, the globe-trotting Russian dissident poet and punk provocateur reviled for his pro-fascist sympathies? The filmmaker Kirill Serebrennikov never musters a satisfying answer in this muddled English-language bio-pic, despite an energetically uninhibited central performance by Ben Whishaw and a cheeky panoply of filmmaking techniques—jittery camerawork, lengthy tracking shots—meant to catch us up in the épater-la-bourgeoisie exuberance of Limonov’s revolt. Considering his earlier work, I prefer the rebel-youth vibes of “Leto” (2018) and the dazzling cinematic assaults of “Petrov’s Flu” (2021), both of which also screened in competition here.

18. “Parthenope”

Nearly every new picture from the Italian auteur Paolo Sorrentino could be reasonably called “The Great Beauty,” the title of his gorgeous 2013 cinematic tour of Rome. (It left that year’s Cannes empty-handed, but won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.) His latest work remains most intriguing for its ambivalent but still sensually overpowering vision of the director’s home town, Naples, from which springs a modern-day goddess, named after Parthenope, a Siren from Greek mythology. She’s played by Celeste Dalla Porta, a great beauty indeed and an empathetic screen presence, though only fitfully does her character seem worthy of this movie’s epic enshrinement.

19. “Wild Diamond”

Another disquisition on beauty and its discontents, this time from the débuting French writer and director Agathe Riedinger. She hurls us the life and busy social-media feed of a nineteen-year-old, Liane (a terrific Malou Khebizi), who has nipped, tucked, and tailored every part of herself to realize her dream of being selected for a hot new reality-TV series. Part influencer-culture cautionary tale, part bad-girl Cinderella story, the movie glancingly suggests the soul-rotting effects of beauty worship, but it falls victim to the trap that Liane is trying to avoid: in a sea of worthy candidates, it doesn’t especially stand out.

20. “The Apprentice”

Donald Trump’s attorneys have threatened legal action to block the release of this drama about his early rise to fame and wealth under the mentorship of the attorney Roy Cohn (Jeremy Strong). It speaks to the useless proficiency of Ali Abbasi’s movie that the prospect of such censorship provokes more indifference than outrage. Shot to evoke cruddy nineteen-eighties VHS playback, the movie is well acted by Strong, Maria Bakalova as Ivana Trump, and an increasingly makeup-buried Sebastian Stan as Trump himself, depicted from the start as a sack of shit that gets progressively shittier. It’s not dismissible, but it’s hardly the stuff of revelation, either.

21. “Marcello Mio”

In this trifling meta-comedy from the French filmmaker Christophe Honoré (previously in the 2018 Cannes competition with the lovely “Sorry Angel”), the actress Chiara Mastroianni embarks on a strainedly whimsical personal odyssey to examine the legacy of her late father, the legendary Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni, and her own conflicted place therein. To that end, she spends much of this overstretched movie in “8½” and “La Dolce Vita” black-suited drag as she navigates a roundelay of industry in-jokes; among the French cinema luminaries making appearances are Fabrice Luchini, Nicole Garcia, and, most welcome, Chiara’s mother, Catherine Deneuve.

22. “The Most Precious of Cargoes”

The French director Michel Hazanavicius continues his uneven post-“The Artist” run with this animated Second World War fable, adapted from a 2019 novel by Jean-Claude Grumberg (and narrated by the late Jean-Louis Trintignant). It has an affecting opening stretch, in which a baby girl, thrown by her desperate father from an Auschwitz-bound train, is rescued and raised in secret by a woodcutter’s kindhearted wife. But when the child’s provenance is discovered, stoking local antisemitism, the movie becomes a bathetic wallow in Holocaust imagery, drowned in an Alexandre Desplat score whose every surge turned my heart increasingly to stone. ♦

[kiwifie]

art fight attack for shmeebdingyy!

including my own oc too because I thought frankenstein's monster and mad scientist ocs being besties would be SO cute

[imthefailedartist]

Twisters is the second movie, this year, where I feel like it was incomplete.

The movies are cueing up typical moments in the genre and then just not doing them.

They were supposed to kiss, right? That was a very "kiss the girl" coded moment.

I'm not crazy.

When they came to get her out of the car, I was like, wait, this feels like their ending the movie. They can't be ending this movie, not right now. I thought they were going to wrangle another one just to make sure. Also, no horse getting snatched up. Why am I at a rodeo to not see one of them rodeo animals spun round wild? Also, I thought twin twisters were going to be a bigger part of the plot.

Bring back the real lovers. I'm tired of stuff being romance coded to get romance fans in the door, and then the filmmakers snatch the rug out from under us going, "Haha. Bitch you thought".

And you "it's not about the romance. Not everything is about romance" jagoffs, butt out. This is not for you. They already made Twisters without romance, its called Into the Storm (2014). Watch it and stay away from me.

This movie is so heavily coded for romance that it feels like a slap in the face that they don't kiss. They even hint at (J or X)avi was in love with her at one point, too. What the hell is going on? You don't need to trick me into seeing your little movie. I was coming regardless, but now I'm not happy about it. You could've made this a colleagues only affair, and I would've been fine, but this was bullshit. Tyler does so much romance hero stuff.

Catch is, I wouldn't be so upset if this movie ended in the field immediately after the big tornado. Instead, this movie decides to put on a big show of Tyler being at the airport, Kate saying his catch phrase back to him. He makes the "whats she mean by that face" nails his truck to the ground and runs after her as Xjvai cheers for him. What the fuck was that for if they weren't going to kiss?!

You know they messed up because all the actors and director etc. On the press tour are doing the romance isn't the end of their story walk back. Like, yeah, no shit that's why you end it on her plane being grounded because a big storm's rolling through.

Don't piss me off.

Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton close your eyes.

The director saying the movie isn't political is laudable. Every five seconds, a character is saying tornadoes have only gotten bigger and more frequent in the last 20 years. Just because you don't call it climate change don't mean it ain't climate change.

I hated every needle drop in this movie. It was very Netflix reality show.

Also, the guy coming in to snatch up people's land seconds after a tragedy is a bad guy.

[gebo4482]

THE GIRL WITH THE NEEDLE | Official Trailer | In Cinemas January 10

Dir: Magnus von Horn Star: Vic Carmen Sonne / Trine Dyrholm / Besir Zeciri

[aqueousablution]

OC-tober day 15: Major life event

(prompts)

feat. the rare pre-transition sorXa

[5sospenguinqueen]

Needle Little Love - Charles Leclerc x Ferrari! Reader

Summary: When you’re announced as Ferrari’s newest driver, fans love the budding friendship between you and Charles, especially when he adopts your penchant for crochet puns. Netflix expose that there’s more to the story. 

Warnings: Slightly suggestive content. Swearing. Fluff

2023-2024 timeline. Pinterest pics.

Requested: Yes by @rebelwrites. Find the full request here

A/N: There's a blurb halfway down

F1 Masterlist

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its_ynln just posted

liked by charles_leclerc, olliebearman and others 

its_ynln chronicles of yarnia 🧶

1,609 comments 

francisca.cgomes okay but i’m gonna need that top in all colours please

→ its_ynln let me get your measurements at zandvoort 

user1 what is charles doing here

→ its_ynln i’m plagued by his brother and we both like to go zoom?

→ arthur_leclerc just for that, i’m not coming to your celebration party in zandvoort. i’ll go party with charles

→ its_ynln don’t want you there anyway 

→ oscarpiastri @/charles_leclerc the girls are fighting again 

→ user2 i love how they’re just assuming she’ll win 

lilymhe i love my pillow! thank you thank you thank you 🌼

→ alex_albon she literally carries it everywhere and i’m not allowed to touch it 

user3 we love how racing is just her side hobby 

jackdoohan day 116 of asking you to make me my own dinosaur 

→ its_ynln i can make a voodoo doll of you if you don’t stop pestering me

→ jackdoohan i’ll be glad when you’re gone

→ user4 gone where! 

→ user5 well she is currently leading the f2 championship, and they won't let her back 

user6 drop the patterns please, babe

user7 i love how half the people here are because of her crochet, not because she drives

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f1 just posted

liked by ferraridriveracademy, oscarpiastri and others 

f1 welcome to the team @/its_ynln we look forward to seeing you on the grid in the new year 

5,533 comments

its_ynln what can i say, it’s knot just another hobby

→ user8 babe, stick to crochet. stand up comedy is not for you 

ferraridriveracademy take good care of our girl 

→ scuderiaferrari thanks for letting us have her

charles_leclerc welcome to the team 😄

→ user9 why is this the blandest welcome ever 

→ user10 someone feels threatened

→ arthur_leclerc *trying to contain his excitement

francisca.cgomes this is the best news ever. will you teach me to crochet?

→ pierregasly because stealing my girlfriend over summer break wasn’t bad enough?

→ its_ynln are you still salty that she let me touch her boobs

→ user11 i know it was to measure her chest for clothes but still.. 

scuderiaferrari are we going to have to pr train you? @/its_ynln

→ liamlawson30 yes

→ alex_albon yes 

→ jackdoohan yes

→ its_ynln why am i being attacked by twice the amount of people now? 

arthur_leclerc thank god she’s not my problem anymore 

→ its_ynln i’ll always be your problem, little leclerc 

→ oscarpiastri oh fuck, she’s my problem now

charles_leclerc just posted

liked by maxverstappen1, pierregasly and others  

charles_leclerc winter break spent somewhere sunny  

2,316 comments

scuderiaferrari come back, we miss you 

user1 um, whose hand is he reaching for in that first pic 

→ user2 idk but we should be saying thank you for dressing him in that shirt 

its_ynln is your skin ferrari red yet 

→ charles_leclerc no, i keep getting slathered in sun cream :(

→ arthur_leclerc factor 50? 

→ user3 i love that she’s bullying him before she’s even been his teammate on track

user4 this shirt looks similar to one yn posted a few weeks ago??

→ user5 and the hat!!

→ user6 omg how cute would it be if charles was asking her to crochet him some clothes 

→ user7 we love a supportive teammate

landonorris rocking the bucket hat, mate. think i can get one in papaya? 

→ charles_leclerc i’ll hook you up

oscarpiastri i miss you, dad

→ its_ynln i’m not babysitting next year. just putting that out there ahead of time 

→ charles_leclerc not even if i ask nicely?

→ its_ynln maybe if you let me win

→ charles_leclerc 🤔🤨

user8 why are we skipping past the sneaky soft launch?

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2024

“You know, we both have driver’s rooms for this sort of thing,” you breathed, giggling when Charles’ facial hair tickled your neck. 

His mouth sucked gently on the pulse point thrumming beneath his tongue, tracing kisses from your ear down to your collarbone. The stack of worn tyres cushioned your back as he pressed your harder against them when you reached around to pinch his backside. 

“Oi, I’m talking to you.” 

“I’m sorry, mon ange, but you looked so good when you were giving that interview. And you kept laughing-”

“Oh, so it’s not that I’m so irresistible that you couldn't wait until we were safely in the garage. It’s that you were jealous.” You raised an eyebrow at him, unable to fight the smile at his rougish grin. 

“You are irresistible,” he murmured, hands snaking around your waist to pull you flush against him. “Why else would I be making out with you in an alley behind the motorhome?”

“Because you’re a horndog.” 

You and Charles had been dating for the past year, having met after he caught you winding up his younger brother one race weekend. Ferrari had been eyeing you up all year, asking the Monagesque what he thought of you, prompting him to pay closer attention. Prior to you signing your contract, you’d had to disclose your relationship to Fred Vasseur. Whilst the senior members of the team were aware of your more-than-teammates status, the majority of the paddock were in the dark. Both of you wished to keep the relationship under wraps until your rookie year in F1 had passed, reducing speculation that Charles was the only reason you got your seat. Sneaking around the motorhome was a lot safer than making out behind tyre stacks, but Charles didn’t care at this moment in time. 

“You going to be nice and let me win today?” He teased, nibbling at your lower lip. 

“I think you mean, am I going to let you massage my feet after I win? I won here last year.”

“Yes, yes, bow down to you.”

“Well, I do like you on your knees.” 

Grinning, Charles captured your lips with his once more. Tongue swiping against your bottom lip, he groaned against you when your tongue met his. Hands snaking into his hair, you tugged gently on the soft strands, enjoying the whimper you pulled from his lips. He tilted his hips, pressing himself against you. 

“The things you do to me.”

A loud cough - more of a throat clearing - tore the two of you apart. Wide eyed and panting, you both turned in horror to look at the misfortune person who stumbled across you. Fred Vasseur stood at the end of the alleyway, shaking his head at his two drivers. It was bad enough watching them make heart eyes at each other during data reviews but this. Behind him stood a cameraman and a mic guy, mouths agape at their luck. Drive to Survive would be flooded with viewers once they teased this. Breaking News: Ferrari drivers caught locking lips in secret tryst. 

“I’ve got Netflix following me around today.” Fred said bluntly, staring you both down. 

“Oh crap.”

“Yeah.” 

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next day

charles_leclerc just posted

liked by its_ynln, arthur_leclerc and others

charles_leclerc you could say we’re a close knit bunch

4,416 comments

its_ynln i fell for you hook, yarn and stitcher 

user8 not charles adopting her crochet puns 

jackdoohan so he gets a toothless keychain and i still don’t get my dinosaur? 

→ liamlawson30 that’s because he’s sleeping with her

→ jackdoohan if that’s the price...

scuderiaferrari finally. we were getting sick and tired of archiving all the pics we took of you both being cute. now we can post! 

→ arthur_leclerc please don’t. it’s bad enough seeing it in person for the past two years. i don’t want it on my timeline

→ user9 two years! they’ve been together two years! 

alex_albon can’t believe you posted a photo of her in a nice dress and didn't even give her photo creds

→ its_ynln he’s intimidated by my raw talent 

→ oscarpiastri i watched you flip over the handles of your bike the other day 

→ its_ynln raw talent

→ charlesleclerc @/its_ynln when was this? why didn’t you tell me? are you okay? 

georgrussell63 did she beat you?

→ charles_leclerc i let her win

→ landonorris yeah, you’ve been saying that all season, mate

→ its_ynln you got a nice consolation price out of it tho

→ arthur_leclerc ew!

user10 i love that charles has posted this and yn hasn’t mentioned anything about him lol 

→ user11 her entire insta is the two sides of her personality; car and yarn. can't have a man ruining the aesthetic

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A huge thank you to @rebelwrites for the request. I hope this lives up to expectations

Requests for F1 smau's are open. You can see who I write for on my Masterlist :)

[theresattrpgforthat]

Protect the Child: Digital Glitch

It was supposed to be a simple job. Get in, get a sample, get out, don't get caught. You didn't expect there to be a kid, locked up in a room like a mouse in a box. She says the corpos stole her away from her parents and stuck her full of needles. Now she's in your arms, hands over her ears while the alarm blares, and security drones are blocking your every exit. What do you do?

Digital Glitch is a new, cyberpunk setting for Protect the Child. It includes 7 pre-written characters, all members of a group of cyber-runners, criminals who go on high-stakes jobs to rob the mega-corporations called zaibatsus in order to keep themselves alive. Unfortunately, the lab they were attempting to rob also happened to hold a girl, whose genetic code has gave her super-senses and a hyper-sensitive nervous system after IrisLabs tried a new experimental procedure.

You need the rules for Protect the Child in order to be able to play this game, but right now, since PtC is in playtesting, the rules are free!! Currently downloading the game gives you access to a Google Sheets play-kit. There is also a pdf in the works to be released at a later date.

This play-set was designed for both the Kiwi Jam 2024, and the Dice Exploder Pregen Jam. It's list of inspirations include Hamixh Cameron's The Sprawl, Cory Doctorow's Unauthorized Bread, and ZebraMatt's 24XX Dire Pulse. It contains themes of Infertility, Exploitation, Police Violence, Capitalism, Disability, and Medical Horror.

Check it out today!

[holylulusworld]

Good girls punch hard (1) - Kinktober 7

Summary: You. A baseball bat. An admirer.

Pairing: Raymond Smith x fem!Reader

Warnings: light violence, lust at first sight, stalking vibes, mentions of drugs/weed

Kink: Lust at first sight

Kinktober vs Flufftober 2024

Raymond had better plans. A cup of tea, a good smoke. Maybe he’d indulge and have a glass of his favorite wine.

Instead of enjoying the fruits of his labor, he’s walking along a filthy hallway. Raymond scrunches up his nose, asking himself why he must play babysitter for a junkie.

Push Pete and Bunny follow him hot on his heels. They were prepared to use force if they must. They are silent on their way toward the apartment.

“We go in, get the girl, and get back out,” Raymond makes sure the men know he’s not up to violence. This should be an easy job – junkies and a princess in need—a classic.

“Open the fucking door or I’ll tear it down!” The men stop in their tracks watching you yell at the closed door. One of the bastards dared to slam it in your face. “I know Jasmine is in there. Send her out, and I won’t smash your skull!”

“Boss?” Bunny asks. “What do you want us to do?”

Raymond dips his head. It’s been a while since he found something amusing. He smirks when you swing your pink bat, hitting the door with full force.

“Wait. Let her have her fun. We’ve got some time,” Raymond smirks as you kick the door. The man gasps as they hear a cracking sound. You kick it again, and the door flies open. “Whoa, she’s stronger than she looks like.”

 “Lady! What the fuck!” One of the junkies jumps up to block your path, but you use your bat to shove him out of your way. “That’s my home!”

“That’s a rat-infested and stinking shithole!” You snarl in his direction before turning your attention toward Jasmine. One of the other guys tried to push a needle in her arm, but you grabbed his wrist just in time. You twist it until he screams in pain.

“Aunt Y/N,” Jasmine mutters. “I only tried to have fun and get a little high. You partied too. For once, I wanted to be cool.”

“If you want to get a kick, do it like everyone did. Smoke a big fat joint helping you relax and make you feel good. No one shoots that kind of shit into their veins to try. You’ll get addicted and end up like those assholes.”

“It wouldn’t have gotten addicted,” she whines. “Why do adults always have to ruin all the fun for me?”

You grit your teeth. Jasmine isn’t the smartest, but she was a good girl before she met the losers shooting dirt into their veins.

“Do you want to waste your life, youth, and brain to get addicted to stuff making you go crazy, or offer your ass to the next best guy for the next shot?”

That makes her flinch. Her eyes flick toward the guys promising her a good time.

“She wanted to be a big girl and get dick, mommy!” One of the junkies’ snickers. “Good girls don’t get dick.”

You swing the bat, almost hitting his head. “I was a good girl too, asshat. I got the best dicks in town because smart and eloquent guys know a good girl’s worth. She doesn’t need a limp dick to ruin her first time.” You snap at the guy, making Raymond and the others chuckle.

You twirl around, to face the men entering the dingy apartment, instinctively shoving Jasmine, behind your back to protect her. The leader furrows his brows. He looks at your niece behind your back and then at you.

“Whatever business you’ve got to do with these crackheads, it’s your turn. I’m done here. I haven’t seen you, and you haven’t seen me.” You look the leader straight in the eyes, not showing any sign of weakness.

“Does she have anything to do with these,” the leader scrunches up his nose as he looks at the boys, “people?”

“No,” Jasmine blurs out. “They wanted to show me a good time, and make sure I’ll be cool soon but…I didn’t mean to…”

“Got it,” he says and nods toward you. “What’s your name?”

You size the man up while tightening the hold on your baseball bat. “I told you; I’m done here. It’s your show now. We shouldn’t exchange pleasantries, Sir.”

“Sir, huh?” One of the boys laughs as you shove Jasmine toward the door. “I bet she’s a good little bitch if you give her the good shit.”

Raymond backhands the boy. He gets a wet wipe out to clean his hand before turning his attention toward the girl they came for.

It doesn’t take Raymond long to convince the missing princess to agree on following them out of the shithole.

“So, now that the princess is gone I got one more question for you,” he points his index finger at one of them. “What’s the aunt’s name?”

They glance at Bunny, a fridge of a man standing behind Raymond.

“Do I stutter?” Raymond gets a little louder. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and huffs.

“No, but we know Jasmine’s name, and I took a picture of her hot aunt,” Raymond snatches the phone out of the grinning boy’s hand. He narrows his eyes because it’s a picture of your ass and legs.

Raymond pockets the phone and turns around to leave the dingy apartment. After being here, he’ll disinfect his whole body and burn his clothes.

“He’s not so useless after all,” Raymond talks to himself as he looks at the picture of you on his laptop. Your car is in the picture too. He can see the license plate.

Raymond leans back in his expensive armchair, debating whether to find out more about the woman swinging the bat or not…

“I thought we agreed on forgetting that we met.” You glare at the man standing in front of your door. “Did you not listen?”

“We didn’t agree on anything,” Raymond replies with a smirk. “I let you and your niece go because you didn’t have anything to do with these creatures.” He steps closer, stopping you from closing the door with his foot.

“What do you want here?” You glance at the baseball bat standing next to the door. “How did you find me?”

“I have my ways,” he casually replies. “I thought we could go for tea. I know a nice tea house not far away.”

You blink a few times. “Buddy, did you hit your head?” You question. “We met at a junkie shithole, and you come here to ask me out?”

Raymond adjusts his glasses. He looks at you, waiting for an answer. “Which sort do you prefer?”

“Sort?” You furrow your brows.

“Tea.”

“I don’t even know your name. Why would I agree to go anywhere with you?”

“Name’s Raymond,” he holds out his hand. “If you come with me, I don’t have to follow you around town.”

You sigh. “You’re another love-sick puppy, huh? Is it the baseball bat?” You dip your head to look him up and down. “Fine, if you pay for my tea, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Tags in reblog.

[sxplict]

✶ ⋆˙.⠀GIMME SOME TIL IM GOIN DUMB. ❜ ──────── shokosugu & shiuji.

SINCERELY , YOURS TRULY Ξ ©SXPLICT, 2024

明示的 ⌇ nsfw. fem!reader. pussy eating. sεx tape. overstimulation. riding. double penetration. bondages. choking. blowjob. doggy style. spanking. anal. crying. triple penetration. creampie. man handling. ( wc. 4k )

<– [ BACK ] : MLIST [ NEXT ] : MULTI ㅤ→

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝐒 𝐇 𝐎 𝐊 𝐎 𝐒 𝐔 𝐆 𝐔

"⠀SMILE FOR THE , CAMERA , PRETTY.⠀"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀" M ─ aybe next time you'll listen , hm , pretty girl?" raw adorning venom seeped through each breath of oxygen that fanned through the crisp air , the woman’s devilish words only the tip of the iceberg to her prolonged torment she rained down on your delicately sensitive body. flesh as tainted as a limousine window , eyes far too swollen to even begin visibly seeing her mouth moving. even if you so much as pleaded with her , the ball gag she practically embedded into your jaw halted any such desires from occurring , only allowing her to be the one talking whilst you endured every order she gave.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the only way you could intake air was through your nose , yet even that was suffocating you with the rigid stench of erotica and bodily pheromones with each inhale you took. glossed eyes strained each passing second you held eye contact with Shoko , her piercing graze dragging needle pins along the plush of your heated cheek bones. no matter how many times you shuddered in pure delight , how much you drenched your gag in saliva that some trickled down the sides of your jaw , she continued to coo your whines and cries with a smile.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀much like any other couple , your day started off subtle. it was calming , peaceful even. however , that was entirely unnatural for you. you couldn’t put your fingers on it , not even for a brief moment. until you were lying in the woman’s lap , head resting along her thighs with a camera in your face for a future event that she had yet to disclose to you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was frightening , to say the least. she’d never been one to be so closed off with you. but , you trusted her , so it had to be for a good reason.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"fuck~ sho , you keep talking to her like that and i’m gonna be rock solid." delighted by the moments ease , a vague 'pop' sound flowing through Suguru’s hoarse words when he pried his puffed and soaked lips from your pulsating clit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀goosebumps were merely child’s play to describe how the flesh of your legs spiked once you’d been released from his grasp and allowed to tremble in peace. a heavy weight that once had your chest under its wrath was alas lifted , equally as heavy eyelids fluttering sheepishly. the below room temperature that breezed between your legs led lightning bolts up your thighs , but with the way you’d been used and abused for the past few hours , you had absolutely no energy left to close them from the draft.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀frugal mixtures of saliva and cum leaked through the sensitive folds of your pussy , hands bound by your wrists along your chest with a clip connected to your neck collar which stopped you from being able to cover it. Suguru’s taunting gaze leered upon your sweets , not a single movement being made and causing a nerve chilling sensation to spiral up your neck thinking about what his next moves were. it had your heart beating faster than a child on a rollercoaster. the adrenaline absolutely disgusting with each prattled breath you took.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀whilst your quivering figure lied diligently against the silk sheets of your king sized mattress , Shoko continued to talk into the camera , mocking your state of absolute bliss. all you could do was lay there as helplessly as a damsel in distress , staying true to what you actually were.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"now be a good girl and tell the camera how sorry you are , m’kay," your nods of obedience were much of a pleading dog begging its owner. she slowly unclasped the ball gag and watched you mouth words as if to speak , though for a few moments only air breezed past your dried lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"p—please sho , please , i—i swear i'll be a good girl. i—i promise. 'm sorry." hiccups found their way weaved into the sobs of mercy you wove into the frigid air around you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀soulless eyes were met amidst your tantrum , brief motions being used as communication all the while your voice sunk deeper in the depths of silence. their looming aura’s would’ve suffocated you if not for another second of their sealed lips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀a slither of saliva coaxed each of your own , curing the deserted fleshed that’d begun to feel as if you kissed sandpaper. vigilantly watching your lovers speak without words was far harder than learning to play an instrument , the tranquility more overbearing that sheet music. it was no help deciphering their plans for you when Suguru rose to his full height , his broad figure increasing his intimidation than usual. the apex of his knees had slowly found their way close to you , his shirt being tossed alongside your bed frame with his figure lay against the headboard.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you hadn’t quite figured out how he suddenly appeared there , a few blinks whilst he shifted his position and he was no longer standing at the end of the bed. fear being a main factor in your thought process , you precisely observed Shoko’s movements next , watching as she placed the camera atop the headboard right above Suguru. the suction cup attached to it allowing the machinery to remain in its place.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀without a moments notice , Shoko had already crawled back down to you , sleek fingers curling around the chain that connected your wrists to your neck. your body followed closely behind , tethered whimpers loosely dripping off your tongue like sweat beads from your forehead. she guided you to your knees before her , a deathly grip slipping behind your neck with her opposite hand kneading the flesh of your ass.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀she caught each pathetic noise you cried out in her mouth , possessive lips latching onto yours and synchronizing your motion to how rigorously Suguru stroked at his base. his blazing gaze was no help to the burning knot that tore away at your lower organs. he loved nothing more than watching Shoko taunt and torment you from how high and mighty you acted on a daily. no matter how arrogant and egotistical you were , the moment doors were closed , you were nothing more than her pretty little play toy she’d tear down for hours.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀pondering thoughts filed your curiosity. filled each and every corner of you mind as you back tracked on how you thought you had them all figured out. how you truly believed that the night would end with a few prattled kisses from your dear girlfriend. it was the perfect send off, legs not too far from falling off with how inflamed they were. you were so close to allowing the endless void to succumb you. though , of course , Shoko had other plans. like always.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was unbeknownst as to how you ended up in such a position when you were just at the foot of the bed , but you were straddling Suguru’s waist, back facing him with Shoko yet again latching the ball gag around your mouth. with furrowed brows curling at her actions , Shoko quickly pecked your feverish cheeks. a subtle 'hm' was earned from you , yet she answered with nothing but silence and a simple head nod. that was tailed by Suguru lifting you above his tip , folds already sinking onto him by the time you processed what her notion was for.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀cries and moans were yet again barricaded by the choker , body falling limp into Shoko’s tender grasp whilst her tedious coos matched your sobs. "such a good girl , jus' like that. s'good for us , pretty." aiding your trembling figure had become a second nature to her with how much she enjoyed seeing you overwhelmed by her demands. it was truly adoring seeing you unfold into nothing more than a play thing for her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀eyes rolled with each agonizing curl Suguru thrusted into you , they were precise and coordinated perfectly. he knew all your sweet spots just as well as Shoko did , being able to reach them a bit better than her. it was no help that Shoko’s hand had found its way to your clit rubbing circular motions along your sweet bundle of nerves which earned multiple vulgar moans of ecstasy to follow shortly behind.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀if not for her earlier greed and hunger , your body would be as pristine as ever. however , she’d ravaged you like a rabid animal before Suguru could get his hands on you , leading to your body being littered in more hickeys and bite marks than a mated lioness. furthermore , that fact was of no use seeing as she continued her skills along your neck , soaking up each cry you wailed on her shoulder you so dearly clung to throughout the entirety of their abuse.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀clasping flesh and husked groans could only be heard below the penetrating surface of your pitiful wails that clogged every sense the three of you had. Suguru’s firm grasp along you hips only added an extra boost to the euphoric mixture of pain and pleasure. how his calloused hands molded your skin to bare his grip , yet slender fingers extending all the way to your abdomen and delving into the surface , feeling how his thick erection poked at your womb with each buck of his own hips.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀orgasm after orgasm tainted your delicious walls , inner thighs brewing a much deserving fire for how long they’ve been spread over the course of four hours. eyes had begun to find solace within the inner sockets of your skull ; enjoying the comfort complete darkness brought in order to fully submerge you into the undying exhilaration.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀with a final collide of one’s hips , Suguru bottomed out entirely , head tossing back into the silk pillow cases that barricaded his head. hiccups surged through your core once more , the back of your head caressed by none other than Shoko’s delicate touch as she allowed your worn figure to slump into her chest. slumber had beckoned your conscious , weighted eyelids soon flailing to keep afloat.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝐒 𝐇 𝐈 𝐔 𝐉 𝐈

"⠀TAKE IT ALL , PRECIOUS , YER DOIN SO WELL FOR US.⠀"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀S ─ hrieked cries and tattered moans ricocheted through the dense vents that littered your measly one bedroom apartment , chain-stitches of flesh clapping against one another sown into the noises that reverberated within the core of the master bedroom.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was a common occurrence for the battered and decaying apartment complex , knowing good and well that two broad chested men shared the small proximity with a well-spoken woman who had each on a leash , tightly wrapped around her tiny little finger.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"shh~ , shh~ , s'okay. you're doin' so good for us , precious." coarsened palms briskly grazed along the flush of your swollen cheeks , thumb pads soaking up every mascara-ridden tear that dared to bore a burning streak down your flesh.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀though , the tender words of affirmation hadn’t come from the man who laughed in your face at how a contorted expression displayed across your features. they loomed behind your prissy perked ears , rigid breaths fanning the rim of them. the contentment was adding fuel to the fire , his delicate inflection the sparks that raked through the goosebumps across your back.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀if not for your bared teeth tugging at the skim of your lip , you too would add such ruckus to the already crowded air. with every rut and hip buck that was gutted into your palpitating figure , your desire to silence yourself had grown excruciatingly thin. as if you were fighting the urge to smack someone. nonetheless , Toji had taken notice to your prudence , a disheveled grunt rumbling against his chest whilst he guided his thumb into your mouth. rather than remaining like the quiet woman you once were , you’d begun to choke on how he delved the tip of his digit into your tongue , eyes tossing back further than a gymnast at the Olympics.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"g'na mold that pretty pussy of y'ers just how i like it." Toji’s voice was far from being as sweet as Shiu’s , an equally as rough blow being plowed into your ass cheek , a very firm and reddened print forging against your precious skin. he did it just so he could watch as you pathetically gagged along his thick digit , seeping further down your throat and watching the tears of mercy coax your already dampened face.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you’d become accustomed to limp limbs whenever your pretentious lovers got ahold of your body , together. somehow , in some way , they’d always seem to be able to have your arms in their grasp , holding full control over you. even at such a time , Shiu withheld your forearms against the small of your back , spine arching farther than any chiropractor has ever handled you. the threatening grasp steered his abuse on your ass , allowing such vulgar and vigorous attacks on your exploited frame.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀disarrayed grunts synchronized with how he slickly eased through your hole , a white rim of blissful essence coating the base of his dick. looming dreadfully over your exposed back , eager eating away at his darkened eyes which fixated on nothing else but your trembled physique. Toji lied beneath you , equally as lust-fueled as your shared boyfriend , though his crimson gaze yearned for much more than to hear you scream his name.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀with an assailed mind , clouded in nothing more than furious erotica , you continued to bring warmth to their erections that’d scraped every last inch of your walls. they’d uncovered more hidden gems than a palaeontologist. being shoved between their abnormally large chests brought nothing more than unfeigned certainty about your surroundings. time was of the essence and you hadn’t a clue where you were after the first hour had gone by.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"yess~ uh , fuck! jus' keep clenching like that for me , pretty," if there was one thing you loved about Shiu , it’s that just his voice alone could make you cream. he was so gentle , so assertive when it came to you that it made your skin crawl with pure elation.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"look at 'em , look how much of a mess ya turn 'em into with that fuckin' ass of y'ers," , Toji’s fervored tone was merely taunting , large hands grasping your head much of a basketball just to turn you so you’d gaze backwards at Shiu.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the sight alone heated each of your cores , Toji’s grasp returning to your neck as he held you there to watch how Shiu pummeled the girth of his erection into you. the reposition allowed him to release your aching limb , falling helplessly against Toji’s check prior to hoisting your upper body. with a loss of stability both mentally and physically , a pair of dangerously agile palms engraved into the sole of your waist , molding the fat of them into his fingers for an easier grip.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀liquids trickled down Toji’s inner thigh , yet another orgasm spewing from your pretty little cunt as they stuffed you more than a Thanksgiving turkey. sandpaper had replaced the once moisturized flesh within your mouth , mouth being hung open far too long. though , it was to no surprise with how they ravaged and ruined every aspect of your sweet body. the only time where you truly felt like the afterworld was only a knock away was when they unsynchronized their paces , the repetitive thrusts earning more juices to flood your walls than when they spent hours with their faces between your legs.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀replacing Toji’s hand at your throat with his own bicep curling around it , Shiu allowed the man to drag his calloused hands down your exposed body , thumb pads graciously breezing past your nipples on a whim. a surprisingly tender act from none other than Toji Fushiguro himself; lovingly admiring the beauty he claimed and molded perfectly as his own. blazing fingertips glided across the flesh of your breasts , an upward motion being subdue whilst he kneaded them intently.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"f-f-fuck , m'gonna cum~. ohh fuck , please shi~" with an arm pressing firmly into the heat of Shiu’s core , the other grasping at straws against Toji’s bare chest , your eyes zoned in on the ceiling above watching how it rocked back and forth with each belligerent runt they penetrated in you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"me too , baby , s'okay. m'gonna fill you up so good , promise"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"g'na make sure that perfect cunt of yours is filled to the brim. jus' how ya like it"

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀both men soothed your worries with their insistence , fingernails clawing at the sheer flesh of each of their bodies. it was no surprise you’d alas hit your inevitable orgasm , both men watching how you froze amidst the high and drenched the sheets below in nothing more than a pool of your juices. well , more than there already was.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀shrilled ecstasy blared from your quavering lips , limp figure collapsing straight into Toji’s grasp that welcomed you with ease. they released quite a bit more steam before likewise liberated themselves within the depths of your holes , grunts and disorderly huffs blazing a trail behind as their own liquids seeped out of you and onto the covers you all laid atop.

❨ 𝕾. ❩ 𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐓 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒⠀⠀ꪆ◌` ♰⠀⠀mature discretion advised. all rights reserved. do not steal or plagiarize my works.

[wreckedandpolemic]

screaming and fighting and kissing in the rain - matty healy

(mdni) in which your jealousy gets the better of you. part of the regret me universe and promptober75 2024. 3725 words.

warnings: mean dom reader, pegging, sub!matty, mommy kink, slight feminisation, orgasm denial, idk they're real mean to each other

“I cannot fucking believe you, Healy,” you scowl, the thudding pulse of the club fading into the background as you storm after him. 

Matty doesn’t turn, but you can still hear his smirk. “For a girl who’s so insistent she doesn’t give a shit whether I live or die, you’re really fucking worried about who I spend my time with.”

You clench a fist, twitching like you’re itching to punch him in the face. “I wish you’d fucking die. It’d save me a fuckload of headaches.” At that, he does turn, thunder rumbling ominously in the same moment. 

“Oh, that’s fucking rich. D’you know how much easier my life would be if I’d never fucking met you?” he snaps. You don’t want to examine why you suddenly feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. “Could be getting off with any one of those girls right now, ‘cept I’ve got this jealous little cockblock following me around ‘cause she knows she has to cling to me to stay relevant.”

You stagger backwards like you’ve been shot, all your bravado crumpled at the confirmation of your fears. Fat droplets of rain splatter against the pavement, and you all but scream. “So go back in there, then! Find some desperate whore who’s dumb enough to fuck you for her fifteen minutes of fame, right? Really stroke that fucking ego of yours.” The rain is coming thick and fast, the tears prickling in your eyes concealed by water pouring down your face. “But we both know you’re gonna be thinking of me when you cum.”

You’ve barely noticed Matty edging closer as you yell until he’s grabbing you by the wrists and pulling you in. “You’re poison. You’re fucking— I don’t know what’s wrong with me to need you like this. I can’t—” You cut him off, crashing your lips together as the rain pounds around you.

“Just fucking shut up,” you breathe, half-laughing. “You’re so fucking— mmm— insufferable.”

Chest heaving, Matty scowls down at you. “You can’t just fucking snog me ‘cause you don’t like what I have to say. If you’d shut your fucking trap for two seconds and—”

You cut him off again. “Watch me. You’re right, I don’t give a fuck what you have to say, or how you rationalise whatever this is to yourself.” You gesture vaguely to the space between you. “I’m not interested in your mouth at all unless it’s between my legs, actually.” You’re soaked to the bone, lying through your teeth and holding back a shiver.

“Why’s it so hard for you to admit you want me?” Matty needles. “Could’ve left well enough alone in there, but you had to stake some kind of claim on me, right? Followed me all the way out just to tell me you don’t care. Nah. I think you do. I think you need me like I need you. I think you don’t know who you are without me, and you hate it.”

His ability to peel back your skin, lean in, pluck your thoughts straight from your mind is unsettling, a shiver that’s nothing to do with the cold running through you. “You’re so full of shit. Can’t fathom a world where everyone on the planet isn’t obsessed with you. Gotta make yourself feel important, ‘cause you’re so empty inside, right? Can’t deal with the fact I only fuck around with you ‘cause you’re easy and you can find the clit.” Your breathing is ragged, your heart a lead weight in your chest. Matty clearly doesn’t believe a fucking word of it, either; you’re fighting a losing battle, but the flames of arousal sparking between you are starting to drown out the rest of the world.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he breathes against your lips, cupping your jaw almost tenderly. “Lucky for you, I think you’re pretty when you lie to me.”

You scoff. “You think I’m pretty all the time.”

“I do.” Your confidence falters again, and you break eye contact. “What the fuck are we doing here?” Matty laughs. “Screamin’ at each other in the street in the pissing rain. We both know how this ends. Why don’t we just skip to the part where we’re fucking each other’s brains out, yeah?”

At that, you laugh openly. “You’re fucking in for it, Healy. Come on.” You stumble through the rain-soaked streets, slipping on wet cobblestone and tumbling into Matty’s arms. You hate how safe you feel there. His flat is as familiar as your own when he lets you in, smelling of cigarettes and weed and the obnoxiously sweet-scented candles he lights to cover up the weed smell.

Matty practically throws you onto the bed, barely out of your sopping wet clothes as he collapses on top of you and grinds down through your underwear. “M’still fucked off at you,” you mutter between desperate kisses.

“Mhmm, whatever you say. Y’still in my bed, though,” Matty smirks down at you, and you scowl, raising your hand threateningly. He only tilts his head, almost an invitation, so you follow through. The crack of your palm meeting his cheek is oh-so satisfying, the sound spilling over you as his cheek reddens. “You can do better than that,” he scoffs.

“I could,” you say. “But if I get the knife out, I’ll probably cut your dick off. And that’s no fun for either of us. S’all you’re good for,” you say, shrugging as best you can pinned as you are to the mattress.

Matty tilts your head up, presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’d probably let you,” he admits.

You grin. “Oh, he’s learning. You ready to be a good boy for me?” He doesn’t want to surrender, you can tell. But he wants fucked, and he knows that’s the only way to get what he wants. “Just gotta say sorry, baby. Then you can have as much cock as you can take, yeah?”

Matty just glowers down at you. “Could just fuck myself,” he mutters petulantly. “Don’t need you.”

Smiling sweetly, you ease yourself out from under him. “Go on, then. Fuck yourself and pretend it’s even half as good as me. Some entertainment for the neighbours,” you say, swallowing a grimace as you struggle into your still-soaked clothes. “Have the night you deserve, Matthew.”

His eyes are wide, almost forlorn, as you turn to leave, but you don’t even make it halfway to the kitchen before he’s scrambling after you. He knows you’re not bluffing; this is a trick you’ve pulled before, and the first couple of times he was stubborn enough to let you leave. But last time, you hooked up with another guy after you left, sent him a picture of your cum-covered chest and sort-of lied about how hard you came. Matty grabs you by the arm, spins you around to face him, panting slightly. “Fuck, darling, please don’t go. M’sorry, okay?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not very convincing. C’mon, where’s the theatrics? You love those,” you scoff, digging red, pointed nails into his jaw hard enough to leave marks. “Get on your knees and beg for my dick. Tell me how much you need me. Convince me that you deserve it.”

Matty thuds to his knees without question, desire pooling between your hips at the sight. “Shit, c’mon, darling. I’m sorry.” He grips your thighs needily, fingers shaking as he slides them up to your zipper. “I need you, need you to fuck me, only one who can. I’ll be good, promise. Just need you to fuck me dumb, please,” he whines, and you thumb softly across his cheek.

He’s so pretty when he pleads like this, desperate and so needy he’s straining against his boxers. “What are you sorry for, Matty?” you murmur, sliding your thumb into his mouth and stroking his tongue.

You trail your thumb down his neck, still wet with his spit as he starts to tug your jeans down your legs. “Was bein’ a little bitch,” he sighs. “I need you, darling. Y’the only one who can fuck me how I need it.” It’s not exactly penance, but it’s probably the best you’re going to get.

“There’s my good boy,” you grin. “On your knees beggin’ for me like a little whore, s’cute,” you add, kicking out at his cock where it drools into his boxers. You jerk your head towards the bedroom, and Matty catches the hint, stumbling in his haste to obey. Wandering after him, just slow enough to make him sweat a little, you lean against the doorframe to watch him slick up his fingers.

Your cunt throbs as he circles his hole, legs spread wide and chest already heaving. “Please…” he whines, thin and reedy, his cock drooling against his stomach. 

You sit on the end of the bed, leaning back on your hands in just your bra and panties. “Please, what, princess? I’m watching the show,” you tease, slowly rubbing over your clit through your underwear. Matty whimpers, adds another finger, gasps your name in a shaky, breathy voice that almost makes your resolve crumble.

And then, he murmurs two words that get him whatever he fucking wants. “Please, Mommy.” The title is still new, rare enough that just hearing it drip from his spit-slick lips makes your cunt throb, sets your rational brain spinning dizzily away from your consciousness. 

“Fuck, y’killing me, princess,” you moan, crawling up Matty’s body as his legs tremble and he whines loudly from brushing that perfect little spot inside him. “Mommy’s here, baby, tell me what you need,” you coo, trailing your fingers down his cheek adoringly; all your anger is practically forgotten in favour of wanting — no, needing — to reduce him to a whimpering mess of pleasure, crying and begging for his Mommy.

His face contorts in pleasure, muscles tensing and flexing as he fingers himself. Your entire body goes hot just looking at him, and you tilt his head up to press a kiss against his lips. “Please fuck me,” he begs. “Please. I’ll be so good for you, Mommy.”

Your gaze is hard, impassive even as you trail your fingers down his chest to trace over his tattoo. “I want you to remember this,” you say, soft but cool; there’s no way he could mistake your calm for tenderness. “Remember lying on your back, remember begging for your Mommy to fuck you drooling, and next time you want to pretend I’m nothing to you, that I’m just another one of the girls who throw themselves at you for attention, I want you to think about this moment.”

Matty looks gorgeous, plush lower lip sucked between his teeth and eyes brimming with desperate tears, and your emotions are spinning out of control faster than you can even think. You want to rip him apart, dig your nails into his ribcage, claw out his heart and feel it beating in your hands. Don’t you see me? you’d beg, holding it against your lips. Don’t you know I’d ruin myself for you? Can’t you see what’s right fucking infront of you? You realise your hand is pressing against Matty’s throat, his eyes rolled back in pleasure as he gasps for air.

He whimpers your name, and please, and Mommy, arching his back as the wet, glossy sounds of his fingers fill the room. “Y’right,” he gasps as soon as you lift your hand from his neck. “I need you. I can’t— can’t live without you, baby. I just— please,” he begs, low and broken, desperation layered so thick in his voice that you can almost taste it.

“Needy fucking boy,” you coo, climbing off him to fix a harness to your hips. Matty’s eyes fall greedily to the silicone hanging between your legs, his hand speeding as a low moan spills from his lips. “You like it? S’new,” you grin, coating your fingers in lube and slicking up the toy. “Bit bigger than you’re used to, princess. You think you can still take it?”

“I’ll take whatever you tell me to,” he breathes, his free hand tracing reverently down your neck to play with your nipple through your bra.

You gasp, reaching down to pump his drooling cock in reward. “M’serious, baby. Are you sure you can take it? I don’t wanna hurt you.” Matty snorts. “Fine, I don’t wanna hurt you like this.”

Matty grins against your mouth, slipping his hand into your hair and kissing you sloppily, pent-up desire flooding between your mouths. “I can take it. Need you to fuck me, Mommy, please,” he whines.

“Such a little slut,” you mutter, disgust colouring the edges of your words. “You think any of those fucking girls from the club could give it to you like this?” you snap, cunt clenching with every tremble of his lip and hitch in his breath. Shaking his head, Matty claws at your hips, tries to guide you into his hole. “Not so fast. Hands and knees, yeah? Sick of looking at you,” you snap. It’s half-true. You hate the way he looks at you on nights like these, with dazed half-moon eyes and pure adoration; it’s nauseating to know you’ll only ever see it behind a locked door.

Obediently, Matty goes to his knees, his hole slick and dripping and fluttering obscenely. You tease him with just the tip, trailing your fingers over the curve of his ass. You push into him slowly, his begging little moan sliding sweetly over your brain. “F-fuck, yes!” he gasps, back arching and chest heaving. “Shit, harder, please,” he whines.

You slap the side of his ass. “Oh, you’re giving orders now?” you scoff, snapping your hips hard against Matty’s. “I don’t fucking think so. Shut up and take it like a good boy, okay?” you order. Still, you oblige him, fucking into him quick and deep, moaning like you can really feel him tight around you.

“Oh, fuck, you feel so good, Mommy,” Matty groans, collapsing onto his elbows and dripping moans into the sheets.

You reach down to stroke Matty’s drooling cock as you fuck him in rhythmic strokes. “Such a little cockwhore, shit,” you mutter, scraping your nail over the faintly raised scar in the shape of a heart on his asscheek. The reminder of your physical mark on him is grounding, lucidity cutting through stupor. “Say it,” you add, tugging sharply on his hair as he lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan.

“M’your little cockwhore, Mommy,” Matty whines. “Thank you,” he adds dazedly, his entire body flushed red. “Shit, there, right there, fuck, yes!” he almost wails, entire body convulsing under your attentions. You slam into him over and over, his every whine as you hit his g-spot fucking delicious.

“God, got you so dumb. You love this, don’t you? Taking Mommy’s dick like a good little girl?” The moan he lets out is pure, unfiltered lust, shame painting his cheeks red as arousal drips from his cock. “You’re so wet,” you breathe, reaching around him and letting him drool precum against your fingers. Never mind that your own panties are fucking soaked through. Lifting your fingers to Matty’s lips, you don’t even have to instruct him before he’s cleaning them off obediently, moaning softly at his own taste.

Matty rocks his hips back against yours, trying to force you deeper. You slap his ass when you pull back, the message clear: behave yourself. “M’close,” he warns, spit leaking from the corners of his mouth and his entire body twitching from it.

His whine when you pull out is obscene, and you click your tongue. “You didn’t really think I was gonna let you cum after the shit you pulled today, did you?” you sigh, deliberately condescending. “If you wanted to cum that bad, you should have gone and fucked one of those girls who was gagging for you at the club.” You discard the harness, flip him over as his chest heaves. “But you didn’t, did you? You wanted me. So you’re gonna take what I give you and be fucking grateful, okay?” Matty nods weakly. “Say it. Say I’m sorry, Mommy. Thank you for not letting me cum.”

You’re being cruel, now. But you can’t deny how good it feels to be in power for a change; Matty holds all the cards between you, and he fucking well knows it. You’ll never hear the words you really want, the confession you lie awake torturing yourself imagining, that haunts your dreams of him. So you settle for torturing him, and, in turn, yourself. “M’sorry, Mommy,” Matty moans into the air between you. “Thank you for not letting me cum,” he repeats dutifully, and you break into a callous little grin.

“There you are,” you coo, and he looks so beautiful, so desperate and broken with longing, that it’s a fight not to relent, to give him whatever he fucking wants. “Good boys get rewarded, yeah? You can make me cum however you like, okay, princess?”

You take his hand, slip it into your panties, rough fingers sliding through the wetness pooled there and finding your clit on instinct. “Fuck,” he whines. “Wanna fuck you. Please. On your— on your back,” he pleads. Rolling over, you spread your legs so Matty can kneel between them, kissing the inside of your knee as he pulls your panties off. He kisses your clit, licks a broad, flat stripe across your cunt like he can’t resist, and moans at your taste. A bolt of pleasure leaps up your spine; you hadn’t realised how neglected your cunt was while you fucked him.

Matty takes hold of your ankles, lifts your legs and practically bends you in half. The aching stretch feels so good, and you’d be worried about your control slipping in this position if it weren’t for the needy, desperate-to-please look in his eye. He doesn’t bother teasing, doesn’t waste time playing with you, stretching you out; just slides into you and buries his head in your tits with a moan. Sliding your hand into Matty’s hair, you drag his head until he wraps his lips around your nipple. “Good boy,” you murmur, pleasure seeping into every muscle in your body. “You love ‘em, don’t you? You wanna suck Mommy’s tits, make me feel good?”

Hips jerking, Matty moans around your boob, sucking softly and circling your clit in the same moment. You sigh out his name, content to let him set a slow, indulgent pace as pleasure throbs heavily everywhere his skin meets yours. His teeth graze your nipple, and you whine, your cunt clenching needily. The noise seems to spur him on, and he bites down harder, tongue flicking soothingly over the sensitive skin as you cry out in pain and press your body up against his. Matty’s fingers are frantic at your clit, pressure already mounting between your thighs and threatening to spin out of control.

After what feels like an achingly, deliciously long time, Matty moves his mouth, sucks and bites at the soft flesh of your tit until you can feel a bruise forming. His hips and hand never falter from their pace, dragging you ever closer to a peak you can already tell will be explosive, bone-shattering, mind-erasing. “Y’feel so good, Mommy,” he gasps, laving his tongue against your other nipple and fucking into you faster and faster. 

“Talk to me, princess,” you say. Matty pulls off you and looks up with dazed, lust-blown eyes. “Aw, baby. I know it’s hard when you’re all dumb like this, but I want you to tell me exactly what feels good, how close you are, everything going on in that pretty, stupid head of yours,” you breathe, broken up by desperate moans and needy whines.

Matty’s trembling, muscles tense with the effort of holding back his orgasm. “Cunt feels so good,” he murmurs, carefully enunciating every word as they trace down your skin. “You look so pretty, Mommy, so fucking beautiful. Thank you for— for lettin’ me— fuck, I can’t— I need you s’bad, always know what I need, please,” he babbles, helplessly desperate as his head falls to kiss at your collarbones. “Need to make you cum, Mommy, please, I wanna feel it. M’so fuckin’ close,” he pants, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“Hold it,” you order, gasping as Matty pinches your clit harshly. Pleasure-pain spirals in your chest, shattering at the base of your skull and sending you flying. You scream his name, clenching tight around him as your hands fist in the sheets. Sheer ecstasy pools in your veins, burns you up from the inside out, Matty stilling on top of you as he watches pleasure paint itself across your face.

You can feel his cock twitching desperately, every second he’s inside you torturous. “Can I cum? Please let me cum, I— God, fuck! Mommy, please. It hurts,” he whines, desperate and pathetic and pleading.

His begging is desperately, disgustingly hot, every word tracing over your skin like a caress. It isn’t going to work, though. “I told you I wasn’t going to let you cum. Don’t be greedy,” you scoff, rolling your eyes when he whines. “Let me get you cleaned up, and if you’re good, I’ll think about it in the morning, okay?” You suddenly realise you don’t know if you can stay; it’s always been implicit when you land in each others’ beds, but as much as you hate to admit it, things are different for him now.

Silence hangs in the air between you, seconds stretching agonisingly long before Matty sighs, stretches, pouts down at you and lets you unfold your legs. “Why are you so mean?” he complains, still buried inside you.

“You love it,” you say, but you lift your legs to cross your ankles behind his back. “We can stay like this for a bit, if you want,” you relent, Matty’s body slumping against yours the second you say the words. Lifting your hand, you pet his hair soothingly, letting him bury his head into your neck and kiss the tender skin there. “That’s my good boy. You know I’ll take care of you.” The rain is still beating down against the windows, but in here, with Matty cradled in your arms and as close as you could possibly be, you don’t even remember the cold.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2024 No. 21

Prompt: Tattoo gun

Warnings: Torture

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

gif by @daryl-dixon-daydreams

“You gonna behave now, sweetheart?” The tattoo gun was so close to your eye, you could see the vibrations of the needle, the ink dripping from the tip and onto your cheek. “Or do you need a permanent reminder of who you belong to?”

“No!” You screeched, your hands gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles turned white. “No!”

“Say it.” Negan’s tone lowered to a dangerous purr. When you didn’t immediately answer, he stepped on the pedal harder, the tool buzzing louder.

“I’m Negan!” You cried out, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye.

“Atta girl.”

When his hand—and the tool—withdrew, you looked over to where Daryl was restrained in the corner, his wrists bloody from fighting against the cuffs. The fabric tied so tightly was biting into the corners of his mouth. You felt your stomach churn, the shame settling there like a stone.

“I’m sorry.” You sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

[homiesexuallaj]

Hey could you please write something where Eric Draven(2024) is best friends with the reader and gets hurt while trying to confront the people who killed Shelley. His healing stops so he goes to his best friend for help and starts crying about everything...

A hurt/comfort basically. Please keep it PLATONIC. Thank you 💜

Pairing: Eric Draven x reader

Genre/Warnings: reader is best friends with Eric, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, stab/knife wounds, bullet holes, needles, stitching of wounds, pain mention, Eric whimpers, Eric gets a little sad and guilty about Shelly, kinda proofread

--- --- ---

It's about half past 3am when a heavy, slightly frantic knocking was heard from the front door of your apartment. You got up, feeling lethargic and off-balance. You yanked an oversized t-shirt from your laundry pile and shucked it over your sleep tank top as you made your way to the doorway. As you approached your front door you had an urge to check out the peephole but decided to open the door without caution.

"Oh thank god," A voice wheezed out.

Heavy boots fell forward and knocked into you, smearing something wet against your arm as they grabbed it.

The first emotion that popped up was disgust and then horror as you backed away and looked at the figure that had stumbled their way into your apartment.

It was Eric Draven. A long-time friend of yours. He was hunched over and bloody. A long, black trenchcoat hung from Eric's shoulders and he lacked a shirt, showing stab wounds and bullet holes, those of which you didn't know whether or not lack bullets. Wounds tore through his tattoos and you couldn't help what Eric was up to since he'd been in rehab, as your two's connection had faltered slightly over the years.

"Eric!" You gasped. "What the hell?!"

In a flurry of movements, you slammed your front door closed and locked both your doorlock and the deadbolt. You moved under Eric's arm and practically dragged his heavy body to your bathroom, leaving bloody footprints behind. It was hard, due to Eric's taller stature and the fact he was barely holding himself up. Soon enough, you plopped the tall man on your toilet seat and leaned down to dig through your lower sink cabinet for your first aid kit. Upon standing back up and facing your friend you could see that he had shed his trenchcoat and was clenching at his side, blood pouring from between his fingers.

From the cabinet behind you and diagonally across from Eric, you grabbed a wash cloth. You wet it and got to work wiping down the injured man, he tensed and whimpered as the rough cloth touched the edges of wounds.

"Eric, what the hell?" You scolded out of mostly concern. "You go to rehab to get better and then you show up at my door all bloody and shit. Like, what happened?!"

" 'm sorry," Eric gave a small cry as you wiped blood away from a particularly large stab wound. "I just. I met a girl and we got out."

"And then what? Decided to go and get yourself killed??" You asked, looking up at Eric.

He avoided eye contact.

"I loved her," Eric mumbled somberly. "And she's dead now."

You raised your eyebrows, urging him to further explain.

"She's dead. It's my fault. I couldn't protect her," Eric seemed to be avoiding giving you details. "I went after the people that killed her and now.."

Eric trailed off and you sighed.

You couldn't believe Eric escaped from rehab and blamed himself for the death of a girl he barely knew. Obviously, the girl was apart of something if someone came after her after they found out she escaped from rehab. You couldn't believe Eric got himself into the middle of that. You were disappointed in him, but happy that he found someone to passionately love, even if that love ended in turmoil.

You threw the cloth into your sink and fished out another from your cabinet. You soaked the new washrag in rubbing alcohol. You dug through your first aid kit for a stitching needle. Once found, you got your stitching thread through the eye and situated. You wiped down the needle with the alcohol-soaked rag.

You looked up at Eric again, "Do you know if you still have bullets in the holes?"

Eric shook his head, "No. They fell out."

"Fell out?" You asked, bewildered.

Eric nodded, wincing at the movement.

You couldn't wrap your head around the possibility of bullets just falling out of wounds. You shook your head, willing away confused and distracted thoughts.

"I have to stitch you up now," You warned your friend.

Eric nodded and gripped onto his pant leg to prepare for the pain.

With slow, precise movements, you dug the surgical needle into Eric's skin. Eric whimpered as you sewed up the knife wound at his side. You decided to start with the worst first and slowly made your way around Eric's abdomen. The bathroom was silent beside Eric's pained whimpers and cries. You felt sorry for him but stitching up your friend was necessary or else he'd bleed out on the tile floor.

Before long you were done. Eric looked pained, pale, and sweaty. He heaved out a breath, releasing his iron grip on his black jeans.

You cleaned up silently. You wrapped up the needle you used and filling the bathroom sink with steaming hot water to soak the ruined washrags in. You stood and fiddled your fingers in front of Eric, thinking of things to say.

"I can..," You trailed off before speaking again. "I can soak your jacket in the tub, if you'd like."

Eric hesitated.

"I'll have it clean by late morning tomorrow," You promised.

"Okay," Eric accepted.

You turned your tub's water, testing it until it matched your body temperature. You plugged the drain and watched the tub fill. You waited until the water was about halfway up the side before submerging the bloody trenchcoat into the water. You let the water fill up a bit more before cutting the water off. You pressed the jacket down more, making sure every part was under the water.

"Thank you," Eric said, watching you as you walked around him and dried your hands on a hand rag, leaving behind a light red stain.

"You're welcome," You replied. "Now, let's get you to bed."

You helped Eric up, urging him to be slow. You helped him hobble to your bed. You helped him lay down, propping up a pillow behind his head and covering him with your blankets. You turned to leave but a hand grabbed your own.

"Are you going to stay with me?" Eric asked, his eyes watery.

"Yes," You nodded. "I'll stay with you. But I'll be right back. I'm getting you something to drink."

Eric nodded and let your hand go.

After a few heartbeats, you came back into your bedroom with a blue raspberry pedialyte with a bendy straw in it. You held it up to Eric's mouth urging him to drink before putting it down on the nightstand. You turned off the lamp on the nightstand, the only light in the room. You crawled up the bed to occupy the other side against your bedroom wall.

Just as you got comfortable, you felt a hand grab your own. It was cold.

"Thank you," Eric mumbled, already sounding half asleep.

"Goodnight Eric," You replied, urging him to sleep.

Eric was silent for a moment, "Goodnight."

--- --- ---

A/N: Requests for Mr. Draven are still open! If you have any ideas that you'd like for me to write then go ahead and drop them in my askboz!!

[kitchenisking]

It's January and the new year has started! I hope everyone had a great new year and that 2024 bring only good things our way! and please remember to leave a kudos and some love in the comments to our amazing writers in this amazing fandom! love you guys😘

Children's Tales by artemis69 - (Rating: G, Words: 4,690, sterek)

Be careful, little girl. 

Don’t go causing troubles in Beacon Hills, little girl, because the Hales live there. 

Keep away from Beacon Hills, little girl, or the Hales will destroy you.

-- Or: In a world where the Hales are alive and the protectors of the town of Beacon Hills, the humans politely fake ignorance of their not-really-human status, and they all live happily ever after.

Then Kate comes in. 

Well. 

Tries to.

in the waiting room by CoraRochester, ravenclawkward - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 29,753, sterek)

“So, uh,” Stiles said, peeling the crust away from his toast. It was barely darkened, smeared thickly with butter and orange marmalade, just like he always liked it. “I have tattoos, which is weird, because I’m like, clinically terrified of needles. Swooning, fainting, the whole nine yards.”

That made the corner of Derek’s mouth lift into something like a small smile before it quickly smoothed out flat and neutral again. “I know,” Derek said, lifting up his fork. Stiles looked at the back of Derek’s hand and saw it was dark with ink—an elaborate full moon, stark on Derek’s skin. “I did them.”

…

In which Stiles has amnesia and falls in love with his husband all over again.

Sweet Tooth by Spikedluv  - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 24,866, sterek)

Derek Hale had returned to Beacon Hills and the ice cream place was reopening. “Best. Day. Ever,” Stiles told Scott.

Lessons in Humanity by exclamation - (Rating: Mature, Words: 40,234, sterek)

Fleeing from werewolves, Stiles comes face to face with Derek, a werewolf human in shape but animal in his mind. Stiles is terrified of being killed, but it seems Derek has decided Stiles would make a suitable mate. Unfortunately, his idea of a romantic gift is a dead animal on the doorstep. Stiles must help Derek remember what it is to be human... and figure out how to explain his new werewolf stalker to his dad.

Happiness is Effortless by clotpolesonly - (Rating: G, Words: 5,210, sterek)

Derek just wanted an excuse to run out on his date. A very public fight with the fiance he didn't know he had is not exactly what he was expecting, but he'll take it.

come with me by buckysharons - (Rating: Mature, Words: 2,657, sterek)

Derek turns his head to the loft door, messily shoving whatever he could into the large bag. He’d rearrange everything on his property in New York. In another loft, but one much nicer, one cleaned with his parents money. 

There’s a slam of a door, a slam filled with so much anger it makes Derek jump, alarmed. 

“You’re leaving?” Stiles roars. He’s not angry, no. He’s hurt. Derek could sense it on him and he had no idea why. 

He puts on the brooding mask he always seemed to have on, but this time was different. Stiles could see right through him. Though something tells Derek that Stiles has been able to see through it for a while now. 

“Why are you leaving?” Stiles continues, giving Derek no room for him to explain himself. He demands an answer. Like he’s done everything to deserve it. 

Which he has. 

“I can’t stay,” Derek says vaguely, swallowing. 

Stiles didn’t- he couldn’t take that.

Next To You (You Tell Me What To Do) by mercury_caduceus - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 6,175, sterek)

"Derek had barely noticed that he was still kneeling in a foot of water. His knees were sore and he was freezing but none of that mattered. Not now. Not when Boyd’s lifeless body was laying in front of him, his blood still on Derek’s hands. Cora was sobbing and clinging to Boyd, making his heart break even more. He hadn’t thought that was possible, Boyd had become one of his best friends and now he had killed him. He closed his eyes, he couldn’t keep looking at the body laying in front of him. Stiles hand on his shoulder was the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart, but he knew he was about to snap." ---- Stiles helps Derek after Boyd dies.

After the Smoke Clears by sffan - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 3,062, sterek)

Stiles needs a peaceful space. Derek gives him what he needs.

Alchemy of Attraction by ravenclawkward, wanderingeyre - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 15,893, sterek)

Once the table is set up, Stiles picks up the box and starts pulling out beakers, a hot plate, some Erlenmeyer flasks, a bunsen burner, and a bunch of other equipment and laying them out on the table. The last things to come out of the box are sealed containers with labels.

Derek is starting to get a very bad feeling about this.

Frogs? by Itsreallyjustforresearch83 - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 10,694, sterek)

“Catching frogs? This far into the pack lands? I’ll give you five seconds to tell me the truth before I rip your throat out. What is it that you want?”

“YOU! Alright?! I want you!”

[kybercrystals94]

Nightmares and Demons

Read here on Ao3!

Summer of Bad Batch 2024 Prompts -> Bonus Alternate Prompt: Light in the Darkness -> Week 12: Nightmares & Radio Silence -> Week 13: "Stop Touching Me!" // "I'm not touching you!"

Rated: T | Words: 1443 Author's Note: This is a roundabout sequel to my Febuwhump 2024 story Poisoned.

“Remember, remember, remember…” Crosshair murmurs through gritted, gnashing teeth. He presses the heels of his hands into his temples, fingernails digging into his scalp. “...remember, remember…” A sob. “...please, remember…” 

The girl came again. She knows his name. Speaks with a familiarity he craves. She tells him they are coming. Their brothers. Their brothers are coming. It is only a matter of time. He believes her. He has to believe her. If he doesn’t, he has nothing. Nothing but the poison that the Empire has leached into him. Needles and torture and endless, endless pain. 

Her promise, void and empty as it is, is like a light in the inky, consuming darkness. A fragile, flickering flame on the end of a match. It burns close to his finger tips, but he won’t let it go. 

“What have they done to you, Crosshair?” the girl asks when she comes. 

Crosshair tries to ignore her, tries to remember. Their brothers. Her promise. They’re coming. 

“...remember, remember, remember…” 

If he falls asleep, he doesn’t remember. He never remembers. 

He only feels the ghosts of memories, transparent and impossible to grasp in desperate fists. They brush past him, leaving lingering anguish in their wake. They never comfort, only torment and haunt him. 

When Crosshair wakes, it is silence that greets him. Not the girl. Not their brothers. 

Crosshair stands and looks out the grate of his cell. The other cell doors are swung open while his remains firmly latched. Why didn’t the guards take him too? Have they finally finished their experiments? Has he finally outlived his usefulness to the Empire? But that isn’t right. Something is wrong. 

Panic pricks his skin, stutters his heartbeat, quickens his panting breaths. 

He doesn’t understand. He should be grateful he is being left alone. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. He shouldn’t be alone. 

“...we don’t leave our own behind…”

“...we would’ve taken you back…”

“...it is his nature…” 

“...you're my brother too…”

The ghosts press in. Memories darkened with poison, glimpses of clarity in a clouded mind. He shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be alone. Please, don’t leave me alone! 

Crosshair stumbles back from the grated door. Nearly falls. “Guard?” he calls out. Don’t call out. Don’t draw attention. “Guard!” His voice pitches in his throat, a near scream.

A guard comes. He stands at the grate, looking in through a lifeless, broken visor. His blaster hangs loosely from one gloved hand. His armor is stained with blood and scorch marks. “You’re still here,” the guard says incredulously, voice thin and weak. 

Crosshair only stares back. 

The guard tips his head. “Funny. I didn’t think they’d leave one of their own behind.” 

“Behind?” Crosshair whispers. 

The guard opens the door. Steps toward him. “They came for the girl, they came for the others…but they didn’t come for you.” 

Crosshair thinks his lungs turn to stone. He can’t breathe, can’t draw in a breath, can’t speak a word. The guard takes another step. He lifts his blaster. “The Empire doesn’t need a singular, damaged clone. Its own kind don’t even want it. Why would we?” 

The girl wouldn’t leave him behind. Their brothers wouldn’t leave him behind. She promised they would come. For her. For them. They wouldn’t leave him behind. 

But they did. 

“Don’t,” Crosshair rasps out. He can’t move. His body paralyzed with something. Fear? Resignation? 

The muzzle of the blaster gouges into this chest. He feels its cold heat through the thin cloth of his shirt, over the pounding throb of his heart.  

Silence. 

And in the silence, the click of a trigger. 

***

Crosshair chokes on a frantic gasp of breath, the inhale burning down a raw throat. He tries to kick out of the blankets tangled around his limbs, but they hold fast, binding him to the horrifying remnants of the nightmare. Crying out, his frantic movements become panicked and uncoordinated until he falls with a heavy crash from his bed to the cold, unforgiving floor. 

The main light of his room clicks on.

The click of a trigger. 

The darkness is banished in an instant, but the terror lingers still. He thrashes, one hand trying to disentangle himself, the other an empty wrist useless to do anything. 

“Hey, hey,” a voice says, “Cross, it’s okay. It’s alright. It’s just a nightmare.” 

“Stop touching me!” Crosshair cries. He isn’t talking to the voice. He’s talking to the endless fabric that confines his movements, his freedom…

“I’m not touching you,” the voice says, sounding confused. “Hold still, let me help you. I’ll help you, Cross…just…” 

Hands, steady and sure, swiftly free Crosshair from the folds of blankets. He is too relieved to feel ashamed yet. Crosshair simply sits, skin burning with cold adrenaline, nightclothes damp with sweat. His breathing is short and quick. He needs to calm down before he passes out. He knows that, but his body doesn’t care. His body doesn’t listen to reason. His mind can barely comprehend it itself. 

An arm wraps around him. “Easy, easy. It was a nightmare. Breathe. Just focus on your breathing. Okay? Nothing else.” Loud, exaggerated breaths guide him to even out his own breathing. It feels like long, shivering hours before his mind clears enough to recognize Hunter at his side on the floor. 

Embarrassment readily takes hold as adrenaline seeps out, but Crosshair can’t bring himself to pull away. Not yet. He closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hunter asks.

Crosshair bites back the reflexive refusal. He lets the question settle instead, unanswered and expectant. 

Hunter doesn’t ask again, doesn’t move away. 

Omega talks about her nightmares, sometimes. Crosshair hasn’t tried to listen, but when the house is silent, and the only sound is the trembling voice of their little sister, confessing the demons that plague her sleep, it is hard not to. However, it seems to help her. The lies of the darkness cowering away in the light of the truth when Hunter tells her she’s safe now, Hemlock isn’t coming back, the Empire is no longer searching…she’s safe, she’s loved, she’s home…

Their home. 

“...it was about Tantiss,” Crosshair murmurs, his voice unsteady. 

Hunter hums. 

“I couldn’t remember anyone,” Crosshair continues, “The drugs they’d used clouded them. Omega was there, but I couldn’t remember her name. She told me our brothers were coming. They were coming for us…but I couldn’t remember who our brothers were.” 

Hunter’s grip tightens just a little, pulling him closer. 

Crosshair shudders against him. He has to finish or he never will. “In the nightmare, I woke up and everyone was gone. The other cells were open, all open except for mine. A guard came to my cell. He looked like he’d been in a firefight.” His throat constricts, but he can’t stop now. Even if he wanted to. The words rush out of him. “He said…he said that I’d been left behind. My brothers had come, but not for me. He said that I was no longer useful, that a solitary clone that wasn’t even wanted by its own kind was worthless…and then he shot me through the heart.” 

Shame washes over him as he exposes the dark corners of his mind to his brother. Thoughts he’s buried deep that claw their way out of the filth with sharp claws when he’s most vulnerable. He feels raw and unfortified, shivering on the floor of his bedroom. But at the same time, he feels protected. When his own strength failed him, Hunter stepped in, offering his own in the dark of night when demons both born and inflicted rushed in to torment. 

Hunter does not speak for a long time, but the silence isn’t empty. It is companionable. Crosshair has missed companionable silence. It is hard to come by. 

“I know that you know the truth,” Hunter says at last. “But sometimes it helps to hear it.” 

Crosshair nods. He is familiar with these words. He’s heard Hunter speak them to Omega many dark nights. 

“The truth is,” Hunter continues softly, rough voice low, “You and Omega escaped Tantiss together. You saved each other, and found us again. The truth is, no matter what the Empire thinks of us, you are our brother, and we love you.” 

Crosshair swallows back the emotions that threaten to betray him. 

“The truth is, that we are safe,” Hunter goes on, “and we’re together now. The truth is, you’ll never be alone again. Not if we have anything to say about it.” 

Crosshair sinks into the one armed embrace of his brother. 

He’s safe. 

He’s loved. 

He’s home.

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[alwerakoo]

'Keep the car running'

TMNT 2012 Leonardo & Raphael & Donatello & Michelangelo Written for @tmnt-secret-santa-2024 PROMPT: Rainstorm

AO3

---

It's April who first finds the box.

The attic of the Farm House is a dusty place - full of sheet-covered furniture, old lamps, and cobwebs.

The winter air brushes past the small window - unfinished and bordered with yellow foam and insulation.

Leo has never been in an attic before. He wishes it wasn't so cold.

The chill settles in his bones like needles, digging into his muscles and making his knee buckle.

He knows April and Raph saw him limp up the ladder, but she didn't say anything.

He's not really sure why they brought him along.

Maybe to just get him out of bed.

The thought that he's now the type of person that needs to be tricked into getting out of bed makes him want to close in on himself until there's nothing left.

April looks back at him and smiles. It looks genuine. He's not sure what she's smiling about; he has done and accomplished exactly nothing besides staring out the window and turning an old toy car in his hands.

(He's still holding it. Mikey might like it.)

But she looks kind and pretty in the blue winter sun, so he forces a smile back.

It's not like Raph has been any help either.

He's currently sitting on the edge of an old drawer, and he almost has to bend in half to not hit his head on the slope of the roof.

He somehow makes it look almost casual, and if Leo were anyone else, maybe he wouldn't notice his sai, tucked away behind his wrist, carefully carving away at the wood.

“It must be somewhere in here,” April says, maybe more to herself than to Leo.

She reaches for another box, tucked deeper into the corner, pushing a stack of books over in the process.

That makes Raph look up, briefly.

They're looking for an old camera her family used to own, that probably doesn't work anymore but it's still worth a try.

The boredom really is rotting them from the inside out.

April cuts the tape holding the carton box together using a pocketknife - with the precision of a skilled fighter and the carelessness of a teenager.

She cuts her finger, but only a little.

Raph walks to stand behind her, maybe to make sure she doesn't take out a whole hand next - or maybe just to peek inside the box.

“Woah,” he says suddenly, which is an unexpected reaction. Then he laughs, which is more his style. “Is this yours?”

April scoffs, looking behind her shoulder to glare at him.

“What are you laughing at? You're a dick,” she says, without any real vigor, which means she's not really upset.

Probably. Leo doesn't pretend like he always understands his friend. Or girls, for that matter.

He walks up to them, and when his knee swells with pain, he doesn't let it show. If he did, they would start asking why he never uses the cane Donnie made for him, and he'd rather deal with hundreds of needles tearing his flesh apart, than to answer that particular question.

At first, he's not quite sure what he's looking at.

It's maps and books, handmade drawings, journals, something like suspenders, and strangest of all - a dusty pair of binoculars.

“It's my dad's,” April explains. “I think he used to be really into bird-watching when we still lived in the countryside.”

That makes a bit more sense. Leo was wondering why there were so many birds sketched onto the covers.

He goes to kneel down. It hurts, but if he doesn't sit right now, he might just fall over.

He's not really sure why he reaches into the box.

Maybe for something to do with his hands. Maybe he's just bored. Maybe it's already sitting right in front of him, and he'll die if he doesn't stop thinking about the pain.

He takes the first book in his hand.

It's small and heavy, and dusty; with a watercolor-ed bird looking right back at him from the cover.

He doesn't recognize it, which is not surprising because he doesn't know anything about birds.

The small text below the title lets him know it's a mockingbird, which might be a joke. He's not really sure.

“Wow,” Raph grins. “Didn't know your dad was an elite member of the Big Nerd Club.”

“Come up with something original for once, I'm begging you,” April says.

Leo knows he's been a little too silent for a little too long, but he can't bring himself to put the book down.

It's stupid and he shouldn't care, because he's sixteen, the city he left behind is being devoured from inside out, his father might be dead, and this is the last thing that should be on his mind.

And yet.

On days where he wakes early, right before dawn, like he's still being pulled along by old habits, like trying on clothes that don't quite fit him anymore – he likes to sit on the porch.

He likes the cold sharp air, how it fills in his lungs, how it shakes up his mind from the fog he so often finds himself in nowadays.

And when he sits there, he hears birds.

He always liked it, in an off-handed, natural way; the way he likes to hear wood splintering in the fireplace or the rain knocking on a window. Something he and many others have filed away as ''nice'' and simply never thought any more about it.

He looks at the mockingbird on the cover.

But maybe, he thinks. Maybe it would be nice to see them for once.

All of a sudden, Raph quiets.

And then there it is, that small moment where Leo can almost feel him think, his brain too fast to turn back now.

“You know,” Raph says, very quietly.

Leo puts the book down.

“No,” he answers without even hearing the question.

Raph raises his hands in a defensive gesture. Or at least Leo thinks it is; with his sai still held between his fingers it really could go either way.

“I didn't even say anything.”

“You did,” April says for Leo.

She sounds a little more upset now, and Raph looks slightly apologetic.

It makes something in Leo's stomach twist, because it used to be so hard to make Raph look visibly guilty about anything.

He's been walking on eggshells.

***

They find the camera in one of the boxes, virtually indistinguishable from the rest. It's old and smells of rust, but April says Donnie might get it to work.

He probably will.

Leo's muscles tighten when he walks back to the ladder.

That same evening, there's a box left on his bed.

***

He doesn't touch it for the first week.

Mostly out of some sense of pride. And because the thought of walking up a ladder again makes the skin in the back of his knees crawl.

But a week passes and then he's laying wide awake in the middle of the night – mind uneasily blank and the taste of blood in his mouth.

He was granted the privilege of having a whole room to himself – a small guest bedroom with a pullout sofa.

(April wanted to let him have her bed, which just felt wrong in a hundred different ways.)

He and his brothers haven't shared a room since they were little. He never realized this was something he was going to miss.

He sits in his bed, and it’s the first thing he sees.

Leo watches the box for a moment, like he's waiting for something that never happens. He's been doing that a lot lately.

He scoots to the edge of the bed to pull it closer, his fingers shaky and face numb, reaching one hand behind to turn on the lamp.

The mockingbird stares back.

He might get the joke now. It's not very funny.

The paper feels thin in his fingers.

His eyes glaze over the text, too hazy to catch anything. But they stay on the drawings.

Leo sits on his bed and watches those watercolor birds until it's morning again.

***

When he first wanders into the forest, he's not really sure what he's looking for.

Bird, preferably.

There's fresh snow on the ground, and his breath turns into white steam.

He's quiet and soft on his feet after years and years of practice, even when his bones grind against each other in a limp.

When he first sees them, he doesn't really know what to do with himself.

He stands there, his face cold and wet against his itchy scarf, and watches them from afar.

It's just birds: perfectly ordinary; stark against the white of the trees.

It's the first time in his life that he has ever considered mistaking a crow for a raven as anything remotely important, or even of any particular interest.

And yet – here he is.

He can't make up his mind; the vague images from the book too far away in his mind to be of any real use.

He fails. In a soft, gentle way.

He's still there, they're here, and next time: he'll know.

They don't sing so much as they scream, and it's all perfectly familiar and predictable.

He doesn't notice the time pass until his knee buckles.

***

He spots the bird after a few days.

It's not all that surprising; judging by the fact that he's the one stumbling upon what is presumably already a perfectly established routine.

The bird lands on a branch, like it's been doing it its whole life – which is probably true. It ruffles its feathers, all pale blues and grays; wings patterned like stained-glass.

He brought a chair this time. He tells himself that this is the sort of hobby that allows a kind of glamorized laziness, which is true enough.

He watches it sit, thrill quietly like an old wind-up toy waiting to be picked up.

It always made him think a little – how much animals seem to just idle. But they don't, not really.

They're doing exactly what they're supposed to.

He comes back the next day, and there are binoculars hung from his neck.

***

He forgets this is something he should be embarrassed about.

He's always been like this; maybe a little too enthusiastic and explosive about everything that made him the way he is. He wears his love on his sleeve, seemingly much to everyone’s annoyance.

They must've noticed, but it's only after a few weeks that someone asks.

“So, like.” Mikey interrupts himself, stuffing a thick sandwich that is mostly unevenly cut bread into his mouth. “Are you, like, an optician now?”

Leo frowns.

“What?”

He picks up more eggs on his fork. He's going to the forest right after breakfast, and he already learned the hard way how hunger makes the cold stick to his bones.

He didn't even realize how little he's been eating until now.

Donnie puts down his fork, running a hand over his forehead.

“Ornithologist,” he says, a little tired. “Is that what you mean?”

“Hey, give him some credit,” Raph huffs. “I'm surprised he even knows what that word means.”

Leo sits on their words for a moment, absentmindedly watching Casey trying to slip more of his eggs into Donnie's glass.

“I just like going outside,” he says, finally. Then, just to be a little mean: “You should try it sometime, Don.”

***

The next time he leaves, he leaves behind a handful of seeds, shamelessly stolen from April's coop. He's sure she wouldn't mind.

When he comes back, they're gone.

He can't know, but he likes to think the blue bird was at least a bit grateful.

***

“It's a bluejay,” he says during dinner. He knows this now, and it fills him with unreasonable pride. “The bird I keep seeing.”

Raph raises his head, and almost imperceptibly – looks at Donnie. They share a glance, the sort they seem to exchange a lot of lately.

They must know Leo can see it, and that makes something angry and bitter spark up inside his chest. But it doesn't catch tonight.

“Cool,” Raph says.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” Mikey asks, mouthful of Donnie's half-raw chicken.

Leo pokes at his empty plate.

“... I don't know. They're hard to tell apart.”

But that makes his brain tick.

***

It's a girl.

He spends hours poring over his books to figure it out, and it makes him wish he could call April's dad.

(That thought makes his stomach hurt until he lays down for the night.)

He tells Mikey over a game of monopoly, where half the pieces are long missing, and most of the rules are made up and change every time.

“That's so cool,” he says. “Can I name her? I'm great at naming things.”

Leo doesn't offer to let him see her, and Mikey doesn't ask.

***

The bluejay they named 'Clunk' likes to ruffle her feathers when she lands.

That's mostly how he tells her apart from the others.

There's a sort of foolish, egotistical part of him that likes to think he'd know Clunk even without it; that he'd be able to point her out in a crowd of others with his eyes closed. It's probably not true.

But he's able to point Clunk out when she sits on her branch and ruffles her feathers, and that's good enough for now.

He started to call her 'his'.

His Clunk.

She's not a pet. He's not sure she knows he's anything more than part of the everchanging background.

He thinks he likes it this way.

The thing is – he's not really sure why birds grab him in the way they do.

He thinks them pretty, sure. But there's also that itch he hasn't been able to scratch for so long; doing something new and doing it right.

Failing makes him want to come back over and over again, just to finally get it right.

There are no stakes. If he fails, there are no broken bones, no failed missions, no disappointed gazes. Her life doesn't weigh down on his shoulders with the force of an entire world.

He cares for her, of course. Maybe unreasonably so. But he could disappear, and her life would go on like always.

She'd ruffle her feathers, aim her gaze where his chair used to be, and maybe, for just a moment – linger.

And that's enough.

***

He measures time in pain.

Or more carefully – the lack thereof.

It's still rare, more of a sudden gasp than a deep breath, but his bones ache just a little less, his shell smooths just a little bit.

He started using Donnie's cane.

It's blue and fits into his grasp like a perfect mold, and he knows they're looking at him.

He knows the worry in their eyes looks deceptively close to pity; he knows they talk about him when he's not there.

But he lays it out for himself one night.

Or rather – Donnie does, rather incessantly, probably resisting the urge to hit him over the head with that cane.

It's this, or it's no cane, no walks, and no birds.

He hates that this is something they can hold over his head so easily now.

(Or at least, for the most part. It feels good to be known.)

April tells him he looks 'distinguished', which makes Raph laugh so hard he almost falls over.

Leo still takes that to heart. His chest is warm.

***

Months pass with winter, and the snow falls and melts.

There are more birds in the forest now. He notes them down, compares pictures in books and sketches, listens to so many new voices.

Clunk keeps coming back.

His heart feels full.

***

The rain starts out soft at first. He feels it coming in his knee.

He falls asleep to its rhythm, and it's still there in the morning, falling down the dusty windows they still hadn't come around to cleaning.

He only starts to worry in the evening.

The wind picks up, and April tells them it might be a storm.

It is.

Leo sits on the couch, rubbing his hands together.

He hasn't gone outside today, and his body itches.

“You good?” Casey asks when he starts to chew on his nail.

“... I'm worried about Clunk.”

Honesty is hard and it passes through his throat like he might choke on it.

His brothers quiet.

They're all sitting in the living room, and he can see their worry lines in the faint light of candles.

“... She's a bird,” Casey says.

April jabs him with her boney elbow for it, and he winces in pain, grabbing at his ribs.

“Yeah,” Mikey adds. “She's, like, built for this.”

Leo twitches.

His leg aches like a pile of old bones.

“She's gonna be okay. She's a tough lady, right?” Raph looks to Donnie, like he would know.

And Donnie nods, like he does.

Bluejays can mimic hawks. It's a defense mechanism. They open their beaks and make a sound that makes every small animal turn its head, fur stand straight on their collars, feathers ruffle.

But they're not hawks. They can bend their wings, break their bones, strain their voice all they want to, and still – they never will be.

Leo looks outside.

They forgot about the chairs on the front porch. The wind pushes them back against the railing, cold and loud.

The wood splinters.

Leo stands.

And then he runs.

***

The ground is wet and soft under his feet, and it's hard to imagine it was ever solid.

It's slippery and uneven, and he falls over himself over and over again.

His knee burns though his flesh.

He must've hit it somewhere. There's mud layering a patch of raw skin, pinkish and ugly.

He used to be the fastest out of his brothers.

Now, they catch up to him before he even gets past the tree line.

It's Mikey who grabs his arm first, pulling him to a harsh stop.

His hold hurts and Leo wants to scream. He wants to shred his throat raw, and he wants to dig into his own skin until he finds the part that betrays him again and again.

He thinks he might be angry.

Just maybe, because when Mikey turns him around to pull him into a hug, he falls limp.

“Dude,” Mikey breathes. Leo barely hears him over the wind. “What the fuck?”

“I'm”

He wants to say something, anything, but his face falls numb, stuck on his own thoughts.

Mikey shouts something over his shoulder. Suddenly, there's something wet and miserable that might've once been a blanket thrown over his shoulders.

“Fearless” Raph says, now in his line of sight. “She's not there, she's gonna be alright.”

“You don't know that,” Leo whispers.

He doesn't think Raph hears him over the wind. He's squinting at the harsh rain, leading Leo back to the house.

He supposes he'll have to trust Raph on his one.

Leo's cold.

He's cold, he's in pain, he's a useless son, he's a bad leader, he's a bluejay and he's so very afraid.

***

In the morning, the sky is clear.

He wakes up on the touch, feeling every muscle and joint in his body simmer like a burned-out cigarette.

Raph sits by the couch and doesn't say anything for a long while. Until he finally does:

“Do you want to see her?”

Raph takes him by the arm, which makes Leo feel like crying for a whole number of reasons.

But they don't get to leave before Mikey runs into them in the hallway, and subsequently – puts the entire house back on their feet.

April hands him tea in a pink thermos, before she even thinks to brush out her hair, and he takes it without a word, but a lot sitting on the edge of his tongue.

He never brought anyone else with him, and he realizes there's only one chair a little too late.

Raph doesn't seem to mind.

He crosses his legs on the ground, picking at his nails with his sai.

They sit and wait for hours.

This part of the forest doesn't seem all that changed, besides a few branches in places where they shouldn't be.

But it's unusually quiet, and Leo doesn't think to drink any of his tea before it grows cold.

Raph puts a hand on his good knee, opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

There are things Raph wants to say, want to ask – Leo knows. Maybe he'll let him, eventually.

But now, he feels like his lungs have run dry. He feels like he's been holding his breath for years.

“I'm sorry I didn't take you here before,” he says.

It means a lot of different things.

Raph turns to look at him, and with that – there's a soft whistle.

Clunk lands on her branch, her wings shiny and vibrantly blue from the rain.

She ruffles her feathers.

Her eyes fall to Leo's chair, dark and full of sun. She tilts her head, and it's almost like a nod.

Leo breathes.

***

Donnie does get the camera working, eventually.

Not that any of them had any doubts about it, not really.

He lays it on the dinner table, folding his arms over his chest.

“There,” he says.

April's face lights up, and he just shrugs, like it was nothing.

Mikey is the one to pick it up first, turning it over in his hands.

“What do we wanna do first?” He asks.

He holds up the camera backwards, like his own selfie is the most logical answer. But then he hesitates, and his face turns into something a little more thoughtful but not unkind.

He turns back to Leo and hands him the camera.

“You pick,” he says.

Leo smiles.

And he already knows the answer.

[leiawritesstories]

Naughty Chef

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 4: Accidental Nude @rowaelinscourt

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: swearing, suggestive content/slightly NSFW

Surprise! Another episode of Chef Rowan! Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“42 up, 43 up, 51 in two minutes, and—what do you want, Moonie?” Wiping the rolled-up sleeve of his white chef’s jacket across his sweaty, flushed face, Rowan shot a sharp look at Fenrys, who had appeared out of nowhere in the expo window. “Hurry the hell up, we’re buried in tickets.” 

“I know.” Fen cleared his throat. “Just stopping by to check on the 86 list and give expo another set of hands.” 

Rowan glanced at the scribbled notes on the back of a guest check that was tucked into his side of the expo window. “We’re down to three halibut all day and one of the prep cooks said the mushrooms were slimy, so no stroganoff besides what we have in the fridge. That’s all for now.” 

“Fen, I need a comp on table 52!” Dorian, one of the servers, hurried around the corner. “You got a minute?” 

“Go on, boss man.” Rowan waved an empty frying pan at Fenrys as the blonde man left the expo hall. “Lor, where the fuck is that ribeye for 51?” 

“Don’t fuckin’ rush me, asshole!” Lorcan yelled from his station. Rowan chuckled and turned back to the orders he was working on, knowing Lorcan’s surliness was his way of showing affection. The two of them had been working for long enough to know each other’s cooking times and moods, and every so often he liked to needle the grumpy man in the middle of dinner service just to get a reaction. 

The music pumping from the speakers abruptly paused, and the voice on Rowan’s phone—it was his turn to pick the music—announced a message from Aelin. “Fireheart sent you a photo. Would you like to open it?” 

“No,” Rowan called, and the music started back up. He’d check his phone as soon as he was done with this ticket, because he didn’t want to miss a single photo or text about his precious angel baby girl, and Aelin frequently sent him Lana updates while he was at work. 

Lorcan snickered. “Aww, is Daddy Chef anxious about his wittle girwie?” 

“Asshole.” Rowan finished plating up the shrimp skewers he’d been grilling, slid the plate across the expo window, and threw a wadded-up rag at Lorcan’s ass. “Give me five, I’m gonna go check what Aelin said. You want music, Lor?” 

“Want me to play you a lullaby?” 

“Hey, Vaughan!” The chef down at the cold line looked up, brows raised in question. “How about you run the music while I duck into my office for a minute? Lorcan decided to be a dickwad.”

“When is he ever anything but a dickwad?” Vaughan pulled out his phone and connected to the Bluetooth speakers. “Go on and cry over your baby, Chef.” 

“All of you are dicks,” Rowan grumbled, affectionately. He left the kitchen, walked past the dishwashing station in the back, and pushed open the green-painted door of his office. Technically, he shared it with Lorcan, but his co-executive chef had once walked in on him cooing and blowing kisses to his baby daughter over the phone and declared that the office was ruined and he never wanted to step foot in it again. 

Taking a seat in the worn leather swivel chair, Rowan pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his texts. He tapped on Aelin’s name, which was the top of his list, and opened the photo she’d sent him a few minutes ago. 

And his heart fucking stopped. 

Eyes the size of dinner plates, jaw nearly on the floor, and all of his systems short-circuiting, Rowan gaped at the picture on his phone, desperately trying to control the sudden rush of his blood directly to his groin. Because the picture was not Lana, but Aelin. Aelin, who was standing in front of her full-length mirror wearing tiny, nearly sheer scraps of flimsy lace, the pieces so tiny that he couldn’t tell what color they were from the photo. Aelin, whose artfully tousled wavy hair and smoky eye makeup and bold red lipstick made a forest fire erupt in his blood. 

>>what do you think of this for tonight?

<<You’re fucking stunning, Fireheart.

Seconds later, gray dots pulsed as Aelin responded. 

>>oh my gods

>>i’m so sorry!!!

>>that was supposed to go to the girls chat

>>oh my gods

<<You send…those pictures to the girls chat?! Aelin, you’re naked! It was irrational, he knew, to expect his fiancée not to ask her close friends about her outfits, but he was hard in his office and he wanted that photo only for himself. 

>>yes, you hovering buzzard. who else would give me honest opinions?

<<Me

>>love, you like everything i wear

>>it’s not a complaint, but i do want to surprise you sometimes

<<Naughty girl

<<You’d better be wearing that when I get home tonight. That, and nothing else.

>>ro, we have a baby…

<<We’re gonna have two babies if you keep getting new lingerie, baby. I want to see it when I get home. On you, then on the floor. 

>>hmm, sounds like someone’s a little worked up. He could practically hear the smirk in his fiancée’s voice. Instinctively, he locked the door, stood up, and angled the cheap mirror that was propped against the far wall. She wanted to tease him with photos of her looking absolutely sinful while he was at work? He’d give her something to think about, too. 

Rowan unbuttoned his jacket, revealing his bare, tattooed skin, and unzipped his pants. Shoving a hand into his boxers, he wrapped a fist around himself and faced the mirror, turning slightly to emphasize the rock-hard bulge. Before he could think better, he turned his flash on and snapped the photo, the bright light illuminating the gloomy space of the office and casting the angles of his figure into light and shadow. He sent it, turned his phone back to Do Not Disturb, shoved it in his pocket, left the office, and made a beeline for the staff bathroom. 

Several minutes later, he emerged more composed, straightened his chef’s jacket, and headed back to the kitchen. He nodded his thanks at Nico, the sous chef, who had taken over his station while he was…on break. Lorcan shot him a knowing smirk, wiggling his dark brows suggestively, and Rowan flipped him off, turning his attention back to the flood of tickets pouring off the printer. 

It was almost eleven o’clock by the time he clocked out and left through the back door, tiredly driving home through quiet streets. He unbuttoned his jacket as he walked up the steps to his house, and pushed through the front door. Inside, he carefully stepped out of his shoes and left them on the shoe rack before heading down the hall towards the bedroom. 

Where his fiancée was waiting, sprawled on their bed wearing barely more than a smirk.

~~~

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