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melankkholy · 2 days ago

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what size does love wear? (part 1)

✎ The lights, the podium, and the spotlight are all yours. As an upstart model, your life went by pleasantly with the girls, but maybe you were too dim to realize that you were living in an illusion. Could Leon, the one and only rockstar of the hearts, be the man you were waiting for in a milieu full of counterfeit people, or are you too much of a hopeless romantic?

cw: NO MINORS AND I MEAN IT WHEN I SAY IT, messy messy messy, drugz, fem! model reader, family drama aka daddy and mommy issues, very uncanny and might be disturbing for some people idek, vom!ting and possibly or (implied eating disorders), p in v, oral (fem! receiving) praises, reader is going thru some shii, MDNI, that's all i can come up with, but please let me know if i missed something very vital, and find the song lyrics:3

It all unfolds that night at a soirée to which you were invited in the most gingerbread-like language.

You don’t have a clue how fat cats hang out at such a lavish icebreaker. That these people took you in very recently, right after your meteoric rise to superstardom, and with a wham bang. You didn’t quite make it onto the Hollywood Walk of Fame with all those big golds and jet-set stars, sure, but your killer legs, waist, and pretty tits promised you a chance to eavesdrop a wee bit on Victoria’s secret. Well, who knows? Maybe one day, even without any formal studies in acting, you could star as an aspiring actor in some movie and kiss the handsome and beefcake famous guys. You could be the next lead in a new goofy movie like Fifty Shades of Grey. Hollywood is full of pretty model casts these days, anyway.

So many possibilities.

Mostly with your height, physique, and poise, which would make most men who can’t be more than 5 feet and 7 inches tall (barely) outclass them in every way (never mind the grandfatherly inheritance that your mother inherited from whomever-whatever-who-cares and your surname that unexpectedly gained a notoriety, even your daddy abruptly switched to your mother’s maiden name on paper), you’re the size perfection angel of the runways. Precious, precious you.

A happy family tableau with your mother, who doesn’t listen to your advice to break up with that man, who happens to be your father, and he has a mania for alcohol and the girls younger than him of late.

The only vestige of this particular and domestic picture is you here, dressed in the elegance of a collectible piece from a costly collection of so-and-so, to the party you were summoned to.

“It tastes like shit.”

Claire’s whining in front of you, idly brandishing a hurricane glass full of bubbly as pale pink and powdery as her rosy cheeks. Thankful for the leverage of your elbows on the bistro table between you, you lift your chin, planted in the inner cushions of your joined palms, and give her a passing glance. Then your starry eyes drift back to the human orgy you’ve been tracking since the moment you stepped in the venue.

A myriad of eminent names. How exciting to be able to see their imperfect skin up close under the veneer of make-up. Turns out there is a huge Photoshop business going on in this particular circus.

Still, it’s hard not to get caught up in the allure of their luster. Thinking about how you were unanticipatedly plunged into a world of gold and silver, of all the thesauri that connote the existence of riches, you should absolutely bask in it—if they’ll let you.

“You’ve had too much to drink.” Jill gives Claire a little mouth joke from beside her, which elicits a muttered snort from Claire.

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Dunno. Maybe snort a line or two. Together.”

“You could’ve told me from the start, Valentine.” Claire rolls her eyes and surveys you with her big blue lenses.

“Hey, you.”

You look up at Claire, a giddy smile lacing your lips.

“Huh?”

“Get in the back room. Jill, you and I are getting the motherfucking sniff on some good coke.”

Coke. Oh, great.

The hot “sport” of your demographic. Once your wacky mom’s, too.

The poison you swore you’d never put your mouth (actually your nose) on, or the antidote to survival, as your father would call it.

A silly little girl’s dumbest and greatest fear.

But you’re too much of a sucker to risk losing a high-profile group of friends like Jill and Claire, the only two girls you respect in this game of whatever. Just reject them, and in a fraction of a second, you’ll be all alone, and people here would pulverize you raw.

So without saying a word, you tag along behind them on a whim, as if cocaine is your passion. Since your friends are here, you just came to kick it.

The proverbial back room turns out to be really far back.

The smell of weed is tangy and mixed with other substances you can’t name the second you walk in. The scent of perfume adds a different festivity. Leaves a seductive melody and holds promises to give you airborne wings.

This must be the precise definition of getting wasted.

A few familiar faces greet you, occasionally stopping your group of three to take a quick photo—a social media travesty, for a photo that implies that the girl who wrapped her arms around you in nylon hugs with her platinum blonde and padded lips, whom you haven’t even said a word to yet, is a hoot on your social media account. Is it worth it?

Hell, maybe.

Followers are everything, even for you.

Chris, ass up, nose to nose in the coarse dust strewn on the glass surface table of the Boeing 707, straightens up as three pairs of heels materialize in front of him, oozing through the see-through transparency of the glass table.

“You’d be a great big brother if you didn’t always finish the best one ahead of us.”

“I’m always a big and great brother.” Chris Redfield, big and virile, stretches up in front of your eyes and wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve like a credit card sliding horizontally and smoothly through a POS machine.

Just like a goddamned joke.

In flesh and blood, Chris Redfield, the lead guitarist—a member of the very band you’ve been a diehard fan of since you were a teenager and whose songs have lulled you into slumber—is in front of you. Yes, you really were sleeping with rock music playing in the background.

His pupils are vacant. Like his cranium.

“You all look like those three girls from that cartoon where a professor accidentally creates three special strong girls—ahhh—what was the name again?”

“Powerpuff Girls?” Jill interjects at Chris’ reference with a wan grin, leaning her leg over the glass tilt table. Claire also crouches in front of her and clasps onto Jill’s knees. Almost as if she’s biding her time to eat her out. She might do that. Later.

“Yeah!” Chris snaps his fingers.

“Uh, I...” You spring forward to introduce yourself before the conversation drifts. Girls are already nose-dipping in the dusty spill on the table, and you stick your hand out to Chris.

Surprisingly, he accepts the handshake straight away. In the course of these formal introductions, whenever you were to extend your hand to someone, they’d be looking you over from head to toe like you were a little bit of a poseur. Ironically, Chris welcomes you with a genuine smile. It seems modesty hasn’t kicked the bucket.

You’re being all polite, handing Chris your name, and then—cue dramatic music—someone crashes through the pivot door like it’s a Hollywood blockbuster.

Every head turns in the cumulative direction of the sound, all but assured by the door’s dramatic swoosh, all collectively.

Turns out it’s none other than Leon Kennedy, the finest and equally “big-time rockin’ rock star of the twentieth generation,” as they say.

“His ass again?” Claire pipes up from where she’s sitting. She’s not a big fan of Leon. She has her reasons. In the interest of brevity, Claire and Leon had, in fact, dated in the interim. Once upon a time, there was a ship named Cleon, a name the adoring admirers nicknamed their own ship name in all corners of the tabloids.

While you can understand how ticked off she is, you might as well not do it at all. There is, at last, a deck of cards in front of you that you may see for the first and last time in your life. In fact, he is even moving towards you with his own confident steps.

For you, it’s a moment of blimey, but for him it’s as natural and insignificant as the instinct to pee when he’s drunk too much stuff.

“Hi there.”

Now you can understand people amplifying at the mere sound of a certain voice and, if necessary, wetting their pants, pussies, and dicks—Leon isn’t the pickiest about it, really. Now everything makes total sense. He must be getting laid as much as he’s making money with his mouth.

And he is. Add a pinch of that buzzing singing voice to a muscular body, a tall stature, and money in swollen pockets, and Leon gets what he wants in a jiffy. Kiss his ass if you will.

“There’s my cutest groupie.” Leon waves at Claire, heading for a fall.

Claire draws her middle finger at him and bites back a repartee.

Not a single name he doesn’t speak in the narrow circle of this social outlet. Then he sees you, and the wheel of fortune takes a reversal.

A newfangled face, delicate facial expressions, and striking beauty. Clearly, you’re the precious neophyte around here.

The art of the soft soap in the eccentric azure of his eyes is hard to miss. A depth to be dug into with picks and shovels.

How he greets you with a small mental shake of his head in contrast to his expressive gaze is enough for the conventional first pleasantries.

It’s hard to calculate how much it’s right to cast pointed glances at your friend’s ex-boyfriend. On a more cursory inspection, you and Claire weren’t that close, at least not close enough to make those ground rules—chicks before dicks ones. (Excuses!) You definitely need proper shrinks.

“Fucker.” Claire coughs up any remaining resentment in an epithetical whisper under her breath.

The exes find their way out of the scene, separated, and Claire tugs on your arm and flings herself straight into the dance floor. Leave it to Leon to steal a glance at you. He stares long and hard at the beauty next to his ex as you stomp off the scene. To Leon, the past is in the past, and the present is here to be remade. It’s nerve-racking when you leave, but he loves to watch you walking away.

And Jill is too doped up on cocaine to join you all.

─────────────────

“We never would have come if we knew he’d be here.” You tell Claire as she strums her hips to a peppy groove. You just want to bring your girl back to earth, even if it’s just a pulse.

“What? Jesus! Can’t hear you, gorgeous!” Claire curls her hands at the corners of her mouth as she lets it out. Of course she can’t hear you over this hubbub. You’re such an airhead.

But point taken. You shrug your shoulders as if to say it’s nothing and dance in unison to the song along with her jigging dance moves.

─────────────────

The DJ gets you moving with the record and the tempo of his tunes, the laser disco lights blinking on and off like thunder, making you dizzy from the jetlagged fatigue of the fateful night. For how many hours have you been standing in these Pigalle Follies and guzzling Silver Oak? God, you’re a mess. A hot one, that is.

The flashing disco lights alternately brighten and dazzle your eyes. You can’t even take a step, let alone do the dance. Sure, you’re running on fumes, but at least you look cute doing it.

That’s what happens when you drink on an empty stomach. Stupid bitch, you’re chewing yourself out.

Lights are moving sideways and up and down.

The sweat beading on the hair gathered at the nape of your neck is cold. You blink your eyes and cast them around for Claire, dim and desperate. Not a single facsimile of a peer stands.

Okay, but where’s she?

You push your way through the flesh and blood horde and find your way out of the club to the back door. Threshing, you flounder out of a dented metal door. The pit of your stomach is parched, as if tiny worms have colonized your entrails and organs.

Your hand pressed against your midsection is of no help.

Leaning against the wall, you’re propped up; you squint at the figure of a man (?) that now unfolds in front of you with the swoosh of the door. A lighted cigarette in his hand, he makes a knife-edge turn and spots you right off the bat.

Sewn into his eyes is a tapestry of something akin to concern. They are adumbral but bloodless and ultramarine.

Voices buzzing in your ear burst the bag of intricacies with a sharp pinprick. When you can feel the echoes finally reaching your earbuds, you can vaguely feel the man reaching for your forearm and tracing circles on your skin with soothing strokes.

“What the hell are you so tipsy for?”

Tipsy? Hell? He’s probing something about you.

“Leave me alone.”

“What? Leave you like this in the middle of an alley? What are you? Five?”

Your stomach produces a strange twinge, right there, in that very second.

You totter, but the man holding you by the arm means what he says.

“Look at you. What a fucking mess, huh, girl?” There he goes, tutting you like it’s his favorite sport.

“Don’t push it, Leon. What’re you, my mother?”

You just frown and shoot him a syringe of Claire’s inherited hatred but in your style.

“Go away. I’ll be fine.”

With all the audacity of a brilliant I-fucking-hate-my-best-friend’s-ex-boyfriend, you pull your arm free of his reach.

“They’ll eat you alive in here. You know that, right?” His voice is scratchy, preaching to you, but it’s emptier than a banker’s heart. His gaze, as in.

You don’t know. Makes you edgy, this one fucker.

“Why do you care?”

Really. What’s it really to him? Leon, too, in the clash of a second and a spontaneous question, unexpectedly finds himself striving for words.

When you push off the wall against which you were leaning, balance beats the hell out of you. Standing on the spikes of your heels is like an arsenal of iron nuts. So much so that Leon sucks in his breath in sheer exasperation before gripping you tightly by the forearm and flicking the glowing amber stub to the ground. Savior complex moment perhaps; he’s a martyr to his savior complex, not even understanding why he’s going this far.

“Where’re those girls you’re always stuck with? Claire and Jill?”

Obviously you don’t have an answer to that. You, for that matter, don’t have an answer to anything in the preamble. You just gawk at him with a vagabond animus.

You brush it off with a dejected shrug, and the withering stare you garner from him is quite enough to put you in your place, and then more. The abject skeleton in the closet that follows is beyond telling.

The puddle of bile that you can’t hold in any longer gushes out of your mouth. There and then. Luckily, courtesy of your miraculous reflexes, you turn your back on him and excrete the stagnant liquor in your system.

Leon retaliates by stepping back, as your arm falls out of his hands and you stoop, knees sore. A nervy and explosive burst of emotion is impinging on his face. You can’t see it, but you can more or less picture what kind of acrimony he’s donning.

What a perfect first impression spectacle.

Your gagging voice dies from throwing up in the empty streets; warm, misty tears well up in your eyes, the usual stuff, but the averse touch of his hand brushing your hair back from your face is a special ooh.

“You’re so fucked up.”

He couldn’t be more serious.

“You’re so pretty.”

You can’t be serious either!

But just as you lift your head to give him an answer, your stomach lurches to your feet one more time. So yes, you called your close friend’s singer boyfriend “pretty” in its truest essence, in all its pomp and circumstance. Delirious and graphic, hats off to you. You feel dizzy and more than ever dead. Like dead dead, open mouth, insert foot. The nebulous valance in front of your eyes is as opaque as an unaesthetic Instagram filter. Your balance is in tatters, and you slump, and then a thickset arm supports the back of your head securely.

─────────────────

How you made it through the dawn is a big red question mark.

The bundle of sunlight struck by the zenith of the alarming number of the morning is bright and citrusy. Almost no trace of its golden amber flavor. That’s because it’s not a morning sun. This is a midday sun.

You finally open your eyes at two o’clock in the forenoon. The sight that awaits you... what the hell is this?

This certainly isn’t your house, but whose residence is this?

And most importantly, where are your clothes? Why are you in your underwear?

You swallow the venin on the underside of the tongue, finding no strings as you idle around because you don’t even have any clues to connect the pieces together.

Could you have gotten so hammered yesterday that you fucked someone like those people in the movies?

At least he’s rich.

The interior is lavishly decked out; your restless eyes drift from the bed to the rows of frames on the wall. Pictures and hyperlinks and whatnot. Why would anyone hang a picture of the fucking Golden Gate Bridge in their bedroom?

What kind of moron did you fuck last night?

It’s up to you to figure out the equation.

You slip on a tacky jacket and spring out of bed. When you pick up your phone and peer at the screen and see that the digital numbers are advancing by leaps and bounds, you dash out of the room. Whatever the fuck you did in this bed yesterday with whomever you did it with has to be consigned to the past. No time for any of that. That’s what one-night stands are all about.

“Oh, fuck. Claire, I overslept. You gotta help me sway Ada so she doesn’t give me a hard time, babe.” Your fingers are rapidly drumming, and your eyes are on the screen as you thump into someone’s fucking chest.

It’s like lightning is spinning in your head. The phone falls out of your hand and thuds a heartbeat on the floor. Ouch. No shit. Apple, what a shitty marque of ass.

“My phone!”

It seems no matter how much money is just a green piece of paper to you now, or digital numbers with fat zeros in your bank account, there will always be a staunch ghetto in you. Somewhere deep in your very psyche.

“Jeez. Relax.” He crouches down and picks up the very remnant of your hapless phone.

“What happened to ‘hi’ and ‘hello’?”

No, but wait a second.

The distinct sound of yesterday’s “tryst.”

“Leon!”

Apparently your memory has erased all the barf memories from last night. Give them a little time, and they’ll chip away piece by piece and roast you in vile hell for the rest of the day.

“Leon!” He’s impersonating your voice, or rather your holler. Pretty much verbatim. It’s disturbingly good. He hands you your phone. The screen is cracked and spiderwebbed, and you take it reluctantly. Cough it up. You have to get a new model.

“Is this your place?”

“Eh. Like what you see?”

He’s acting like it’s all fun and games, and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash if the sky fell. His arrogance is of a priceless candor.

Just take a deep breath, in and now out. Everything’s all right. Everything is right as rain.

No way you fucked your best friend’s ex-boyfriend. You refuse to believe that.

“Why am I here?”

Leon gets the message.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to spoil your good mood by regaling you with your yesterday throw-up story, and he doesn’t want you to start your day like that. Everyone deserves to have a good day, and especially after a night of fuckery like last night, you need a whole Mediterranean circumnavigation.

“Look, sweetheart,” he begins, “let me buy you a brunch, yeah? There’s this place, okay? Down the block. Oh, they whip up scrambled eggs so fine. I’m talking about finger-licking good.”

He really is treating you over for some “brunch.”.

But why does everything have to be piled on top of each other? He just leaves you high and dry.

“Come on. Omelet and coffee. Yummy. Huh, and a special mix for you that’ll sober up a hangover.” Leon reaches out his hand to you as if in a desperate bargain.

“It’s a special Kennedy remedy.”

Your eyes fall on his outstretched palm while he’s grinning winningly.

“Sure. Why not? You do owe me an explanation anyway.”

There you go. He’s got you under his thumb now—like a walk in the park.

“Nice bra.” Leon can barely avert his eyes from your cleavage. “But don't forget to change, sunshine. I reckon I can find a spare shirt for ya.”

What a dipshit.

Rest is a moot point.

─────────────────

You’re not exactly sitting with the shittiest man in the world and chowing down on a portion of omelette. Really, the place where he brought you for a meal isn’t bad enough to be described as decent.

“So last night—”

He derails the conversation.

“No. We didn’t.” He sips his coffee, which dribbles down his parched throat. He’s been telling you this story for what seems like forever, even though it’s downright laughable—something hard to believe.

Pleasantly enough, you manage to shake off the blues, but now Leon’s hot under the collar.

The truth is, these bitter coffees are not his cup of tea, ’cause he loves tea more, but when he saw you getting a heavy Caffè Americano, he ended up ordering one too, just for a little spice.

Now Leon regrets his decision. Never again. Vanilla all the way, long live crony capitalism.

“I can’t even bring myself to believe it.”

“Neither can I. Who knew you had a little Viking god in you?”

“Viking god?”

Leon nods in approbation. The musing is rather sweet, but too much sweetness makes your cheeks fat, and that’s the absolute last thing you need. Pounds. Swollen face.

“They drink heavily too, don’t they?”

“I don’t drink that much,” you rectify him.

“You do. I know a blackout drunk when I see one.”

You palm your face in dismay, because how long can you put up with this charade?

“Why did you drink all that?”

For what does it matter to him? That you have to implicitly profess to him that you detest him. Can’t be buddy-buddy with someone Claire hates; blood and guts be damned.

“Nevermind. I mean, you don’t always get some chivalrous knight on a white horse coming to your rescue. Watch yourself. Get your shit together next time.”

Get your shit together.’

You’re not planning to get your life together, which has never been in order, on his say-so.

This is no picnic.

─────────────────

That day, after that specific coffee date, not only were you tardy for the last rehearsal, but you were also vituperated by Claire.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Claire, I swear to you—”

“Oh, not this again!”

Sheva’s writhing between you and Claire, her head is cracking open, so to speak. She keeps one hand on your shoulder and the other on Claire’s forearm, but her arms draw back, both of you rebuffing her every gesture.

“You showed up in his jacket. For fuck’s sake. You’re looking me in the eye and fucking lying to me.”

“It’s not what you think.”

Your words have always been meager in expressing your true self-defense. It’s no better now.

“So you really are fighting over a guy. This is really happening. Girls, this guy bleaches his hair regularly!” Sheva chimes in and maintains her equanimity. What you are doing is quite puerile in her eyes.

“I wonder how you’d react if your best friend fucked your ex-boyfriend, Sheva. Would you be so cool and mighty about it?”

Aww. She still considers you her BFF.

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called, an ex! Why can’t you just believe her? If you can’t trust your best friend, who else can you trust?” Sheva nudges Claire with a little gust of force, and Claire slumps down on the couch. She’s cross and indignant and doesn’t care that her butt stings when Sheva pushes her.

Seems calmer, or that’s what you’re praying for. Please let it be so. Please, please, friendship Gods and Goddesses.

“You need to believe me, Claire. I told you.”

Not a word comes out of her mouth, and she purses her million-dollar lips closely. Looking like she can’t decide on what might fall out of her tongue.

“I didn’t sleep with Leon.”

You grovel on your knees; just how pathetic you can be when you want to be.

Another last whine, forlorn (you may have already said the same thing a hundred times since you’ve arrived home).

“You saw it on my dress. Full of fucking retch, Claire!”

More details to go, and you wish you could explain to her how utterly incapacitated you were last night. From under her pretty eyelashes, she gives you a downcast appraisal.

“I went out for some air after dancing with you. I was a mess, Claire. I looked everywhere for you. Then he came, and, you know, silly me, I fucking dozed off.”

Sheva hugs her arms across her chest, monitoring a hushed and more subdued conversation between the two of you. Probably best not to interrupt.

“Ugh. He always loved being the big hero.” Claire finally swallows her reticence, endearingly vacillating. Thank God.

“Don’t fall for him. Don’t be a moron. God, you’re so stupid. You don’t even know it. He’ll set you up in a game, and before you know it, you’ll be stuck in the mud.”

Well, you weren’t expecting a herd of counselors from your best friend. It leaves a peppery ginger on your tongue.

“Pfff. Claire, don’t be ridiculous. You really think I’m hung up on Leon? He’s not my type. Piers is my type, duh.” You say it like the kookiest thing you’ve ever heard in your life.

For all the things you don’t know, you speak with the vanity of a clueless nepo baby, as if you’ve been in this line of endeavor since the day you were born.

“I saw the way he looked at you. I know that look.”

Ha. Now she’s channeling the ultimate Daenerys Targaryen speech.

“Very well, Claire Targaryen.” You smile dotingly at her, thinking it wouldn’t harm sharing a witty little tidbit.

“Seriously... just go, okay? Leave me alone.”

That’s where the rubber hits the road. Claire, your dearest friend, wants you out of here. It’s unbelievable. In your head, your memory is bare and there are no words, but your heart is crushed in a tearful pain that you can’t articulate. There are no labels or names for this feeling in your vocabulary.

You blink at her, twice and your smile frazzle subtly.

She won’t change her mind, that is for sure. She wants you gone.

You get up and walk out of there while you can. Sheva lingers behind you, but you’re fast and rightfully upset.

─────────────────

Wearing Leon’s Schott jacket and the t-shirt combo he provided is not exactly the kind of fancy getaway you’d want to pull off, but you’re quite adamant.

You go to the only place you can go.

To home.

It’s been years; you haven’t seen your parents, and who knows what it’s like now? In the car, your model face, admired by millions, the one you bequeathed from those two people who hated each other like a curse on their souls so passionately, is in a state of shambles.

Walking into the garden of a vast estate your mom bought for a pittance, you can spot your father’s nifty all-black Stellantis. It sparkles in the glow of the porch light just above the main doorjamb.

You cringe and then look at the door and the gold-engraved “welcome” inscription on the double sash of the wooden door. Just how “cozy” would it be to step in here again after so many years?

As you muster up the guts within yourself to ring the doorbell, the door itself flies open. Two pairs of eyes you’ve never seen before, but who instantly identify your face, are staring at one another.

“Oh my God! It’s you!” The girl is the walking example of the L.A. accent itself.

Since she’s wearing a skintight “daddy’s girl” tank top and a short denim skirt, odds are good that you’re talking to one of your dad’s new dollies. You know, the bimbo and the Barbie ones.

She envelops you in a bear hug. Sweet, toffee, and mucilaginous undertones of muscat perfume overwhelm all your senses.

“I’m your biggest fan. Oh, my room and my walls are full of your latest Vogue photoshoots. Versace was such a fantastic choice for your palette. That dress... ah! I-uh. Was. In. Love.”

There’s a certain luster in the girl’s eyes as she goes on and on. Really, Dad, how old could this poor girl be? You can’t stop thinking about it, but the more you think about it, the more deeply it sickens you.

“Thanks.”

As riveted as you were by the prospect, you had gotten far enough in this biz to learn how to keep those around you at bay with fake cheerful smiles. Perhaps you really do have that rampaging Hollywood blood coursing through your veins.

“I came to see my dad, but—”

She sweeps her arm down from your shoulder to your waist, and with her free hand, she whips out her flip phone, smiling at the camera.

“Say cheese!”

You don’t.

Your pose with a faded pallor mirrors on her screen, and you catch a dubious glance from her. She’s plainly querying you.

“A little smile would do you good...”

“Bitch.” She nags the last word in a barely audible coo, clammed up more than any of the preceding chunks of words that came out of her mouth.

Excellent.

Like you have no problems, and you have to put up with this horseshit. Why did you even bother coming here? This house isn’t even your home. Not anymore. They’ve carted away everything from your childhood, and a handful of crumbs of fragmentary images of the past are all that’s left of any of it for you.

No point insisting on three drips of memories in a life that takes many liters to survive. Nostalgia is frivolous.

Besides, you feel bitchy enough to give this girl her paycheck.

Except your dearest father does intervene. His noisome mug never dims a morsel, not even when he sees you.

“What a strange coincidence, sweetheart.”

“Certainly is.”

Forget it.

Could a man who never knew how to be a decent father suddenly, by some strange turn of fate, come to discover what it means to be one? You’re a delusional one. This is just one of your little glitches—the very first instinct of a little girl running to her daddy any time she’s hurt. He never knew how to mend and heal those little wounds in the first place.

“Why did you come here?” Your father’s brows shoot to his hairline. A horrible sight for his hair is receding. Reprehensibly.

Doesn’t look like he’s going to let you in, though. He appears quite happy with his new girlfriend on his arm, and his common-law wife, your mother, is somewhere who knows where.

“Well. It’s Mom.” You perjure, drawing a blank verse or two. Moments like these are precisely when the words essentially latch at the base of your throat.

“She’s not here.”

“Ha. Yeah. I can see that.” Your facial tissues, your lips, they all start to ache from ersatz smiling arts and language. Poker face can only do what it costs.

“I think—”

“You need to—”

Your words and your father’s words jar with one another. It’s a mess. Even for a glimpse, it baffles you how much emotion there is in the old man’s face. And him too. His girlfriend rolls her eyes, a numbing distaste for the father and daughter in all this kerfuffle.

“Ugh. This is so boring.”

She walks inside.

You nervously fidget with the folds of the jacket Leon gave you as a provisional.

“I think I’d better go.”

“You’re right.” The old man clears his throat as if he were about to overcome an obstacle. He’s silently begging you to put an end to his misery here, and you’re doing that just fine; you’re always ready to walk the tracks.

“Good night, Dad.”

“Night, kiddo. I’ll call you when your mom gets home.”

“Sure. I’ll be waiting.”

You won’t. How would anybody give a fuck? It’s too late.

It’s nothing but a night alone for a wounded heart and the coveting of a whim that never had a chance to bloom.

Either your menstrual cycle is nearing or the end itself is near.

The billboards are lit up with crystallized lights. It’s a visual. Makes your eyes glaze over a bit.

The sign just above it reads “THE END IS NEAR!” in capital lettering. Above that are plaques with the new single releases of Leon and his group. He’s the talk of the city, and the world for that matter, so his face is in the foreground, a cerebral display, and Chris and Carlos’ faces are hot on his shoulders. The chorus of their million-selling track on Spotify is rasping in your frostbitten ears. Leon’s voice is a smooth crossover riff, raspy, and he’s making love with the bass guitar.

On the terrace where you are sitting, a breeze gently caresses your face, leaving the crisp touch of snow on your cheek. The cold sinks into your veins, blue-tinted blood rushing through your body, no thanks to the booze. You feel queerly toasty.

Leon’s jacket definitely lasts through the cold winters. It’s like your personal furnace.

The traffic is hectic past the glass handrail, jostled by the car lights streaming down, and the first baby snowflakes of January are pelting down from the sky. It’s quite late, the rush hour of hungover midnight.

Even as the elliptical chases the minute hand, you watch the passers-by. The prominent and whitewashed faces are just names. They greet you, acknowledge you with gracious smiles, but that’s it. Never so genuine that they would actually sit down next to you.

Except for one name.

Except for Leon, who, in what must have been an illusory twist of fate, casually crosses the table with a flute of champagne in his hand.

He doesn’t recognize you at first when he passes by your booth, but on the second glance, he captures that swan-like grace at once.

Stepping backwards, as if he’s moonwalking, he skips over to your side to forestall your horrified side-eye.

“I shoulda known you were a vampire. You never sleep.”

He thinks he’s made a stylish enough debut with these words. Whatever it takes to charm you.

“No, come on. Are you stalking me?”

“Nah. I’m too much of a busy man for that kind of thing, sweetheart. Though I’ve heard on some fanfiction sites that there are people out there. They write me off as a complete weirdo.”

He slides into the chair straight across from you.

“Check it out when you’re feeling like it.”

Absently your eyes wander over his shoulder and zero in on the mass of light in the distance. In shimmering floodlights, people are laughing and making TikTok videos, some twerking, others striking jaunty poses for the camera for their thirst trap edits. Bread and butter for the fans.

“’s rude to overlook someone when they’re talking to you. Didn’t your mother tell you that?”

In your consciousness, you realize that even Leon’s name is lost in the cacophony of your milieu. You still do have a problem named Leon at this table.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for what?”

Thoughts pile up in the back of your foggy brain, but they don’t coalesce into a harmonious, final answer. The blurry words worm their way out of your mouth, and they evaporate in the bitter cold air.

Should you be kind and remind him that you’re weak?

“I don’t know.” You bluntly say, but Leon can smell the suspense.

“Are you drunk again?”

The arch of your eyebrow furrows instinctively, automatic as the blooming of a flower when you water it—flourishing and blushing. But drown it too much, and it wilts, fades. He just doesn’t grasp it, can’t get it through his thick skull that you don’t want to chit-chat.

Be that as it may, there’s one fact that’s indisputable: you want to fuck him. You’re simply at odds with yourself.

The more Leon comes at you, the more you’re falling into error, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s unfortunate that you can roll over when you feel a stone.

That thing you’re ruthlessly searching for could quite possibly be Leon. He’s the one who has reduced you to the devil’s quarry himself. Either that or you’re the one in extremis.

Right now, however, it’s a bet neither of you care about. Unworthy of further discussion. Mouths are otherwise occupied.

Your mouth shamelessly hyphenates his name while his mouth ecstasies on the honeydew betwixt your spread legs. Your eyes roll graphically as the tip of his nose, which looks good when he takes a snort from the lining of vanilla icys, bumps against the nacre of your clit a crack or two. It’s like you’re possessed by something, by demons or poltergeists.

The sullen and muffled fumes of profanity are belching out of the bedroom door where he’s propping you up against it. This is the very public domain information; Leon Kennedy is an excellent pussy eater.

It’s one thing to hear from the women he’s slept with that he’s that swell; it’s quite something else to have the saccharine taste of your cunt melting in his mouth like cotton candy on the tip of his tongue just then.

“Leon... fuck. No. Want it.” Your tongue is all dry.

You can’t remember the last time you felt the highs of ecstasy from a tongue fuck like this. Hollywood is full of people with small dicks, and the whole insertion and pull-out game sucks here, foreplay is long gone.

Luckily, you can always take a chance on someone (actually your best friend’s ex-boyfriend) who at least knows how to worship what he sees, and you reap the rewards of the risk you take. And he feels generous enough to let you have it all tonight.

With a touch as sensuous as a butterfly’s wing, his thumb meanders through your aching bundle of nerves, igniting a fire of euphoria through your body. When he lightly palms your opening, when he feels the plushness of your slick walls, a delicate breath escapes your mouth, akin to a prayer of subservience to this very moment of pure pinch and rapture.

“So sweet when you cum.”

He blows your mind, the story of how you got here, the blowjob you pulled on him in his car — all that’s in the past. The only thing that matters is that you need to forget everything that happened tonight in the morning and the painstaking labor of that commitment. Pulling his belt on and off takes no extra time flat. His aching erection takes a toll on Leon, both psychologically and physically.

When he tucks you properly into his bed, he casts a phantom over you like he’s your own exclusive brand of ghost. Kissing on a first date was never his thing, but he can’t let you go when his lips are still tantalized by your moreish taste.

He’s making a nicer entrance than you’d expect and then some; you’re squeezing him so tightly, and he’s stippling hot kisses across the tender flesh of your throat.

Breathless and forehead to forehead is too romantic and superfluous for a debut tryst, but that’s what rebound sex is for.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.”

Maybe he’s louder than you are in these seconds— in these very seconds of his whet of thrust followed by the seconds of him pulling out soon to only bully back into your dewy cunt.

Makes your head reeling, and he wallows in the sin of the tightness stretching around the sheer girth of his cock.

“Pussy’s so fucking good. She’s all swollen from me.” His whisper is fervid and sweeping against your cheek.

Yes. Indeed, his mouth doesn’t seem to be shutting up here either, even when he’s fucking you deep in his own bed.

The deep azure shade of his eyes is clouded with pearlescent blue; his pupils are pitch-black orbs, and he watches his cock slide in and out of your drenched pussy in chaotic upheaval, the metal of his frenum piercing taunting your swollen clit as you drape his dick in a warm cocoon.

“Pretty, pretty pussy suckin’ me so nice, yeah?” His voice is a throaty whisper that makes your poor, mushy brain tingle tunefully — an acrid, itchy scab that has just covered the wound.

“Fuck,” he grunts crassly, “been thinking about this all—ungh!—night—this fucking skirt up and fucking you real loud, baby.”

Seriously, he could just write a song or a lengthy poem for your lovely pussy right here and then.

A hubristic tinge variegates his pink lips, a wicked one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s enjoying this; hell, he’s fucking loving it. His laugh-like treble is a low rumble as he pounds into you with a little more force, a little more urgency. The bed rocks under you, groaning abjectly.

“C’mon, baby, cum on my cock. Y’know I got you. I got you so good.”

He knows how to do it.

Once bodies and emotions are merged, they move into a harmonic coherence, and just like that, he makes you cum for the second time tonight. A string of bland events that are frozen in your brain, clinging to your fiber, you feel your own tears trickling down your cheek in an attempt to get rid of them in one fell swoop, barely blinking open your eyes.

You cradle his cheek closer, pushing away the wisps of hair falling in curtains in front of his blues. You want to kiss away the cruelty that cloaks his lips, but Leon, unable to tear himself away from your pussy that is still squeezing him, is too engrossed for such kisses.

One blink and you’ll miss that fleeting moment as the seconds tick by, Leon barely pulls out a shred from you and strokes his cock on your belly until he finds comfort in it, painting white ribbons on your dainty skin.

Seconds afterward are spent on your own, burdened by the cost of your one night’s slip-up, and you two stare at each other wide-eyed.

Two pairs of eyes, parted lips, and a kind of rare prettiness you usually find in men that will haunt you for a while. Ken blonde hair aglow in the light of the dawn and buried layers of emotions locked away in secrets that are too debauched to divulge.

Pearls of promise on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t dare spill them out. Heaven will hate you. Claire will hate you.

In Leon’s estimation, per contra, you’re a damsel in distress, big eyes, and a girl who has somehow succeeded in wrapping all her depravity in the thin threads of her angelic eyes. Seraphic but dangerous. An inner part of his brain keeps hammering into his thoughts that everything has only just begun.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy

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thewalrusespublicist · 3 days ago

Note

"Tbh I was starting to feel a bit down about my blog and what I was putting out ( the eternal crisis on how to give full answers and opinions without being stupid, boring and annoying lol)"

OMG no way! Your blog is one of the best here! What i love the most is reading the analysis and meta from the users, there's always more information and good takes, and yours are always quite deep and insightful.

I would love if you share your opinions about Stuart as well. I feel like he is obviously more sanctified that he should be since he died young (like that insane quote from his mom saying that Brian told her that Stuart could have been the Beatles' manager, no way lol) and i feel his memory has been used to attack Paul, sometimes in a very unfair way. Like, i don't deny the teenage drama and jealousy that Paul felt about him but he *was* a shitty bass player and the band was Paul's future, he was allowed to criticized him not only for being John's new bestie. I also think John played with them both but i lack of your eloquence so i will love to read your take about it.

Hi anon! And the other anons!

Thank you again and to all the other messages I got, they were extremely sweet and really made my day. :)

From my inbox, it's clear you guys want to know about Stu and his role in the Beatles legacy. Well you asked for it and a novel you shall have. Be warned this might be the longest post I've done so grab like a drink or something.

A few disclaimers: I wish and had intended for this to be more of a deep dive into Stu as a whole person rather than just his relationship with John and Paul. Unfortunately I just didn't have the space to do it. If you want to know more about Stu I would highly recommend @eppysboys' blog which is the source for all things Stu Sutcliffe and where I got a lot of this info. Please check their stuff out. Also, I'm going to be a bit blunter on this than maybe I usually am because this topic has been irritating me for some time. Oh also I’m trying my best to answer a lot of asks in one post so please forgive if I don’t fully answer your specific ask about this!

Stu in a perfect world should be a fandom darling: an exciting cipher, a handsome artistic talent that died way too soon who had a major influence in the early Beatles style. It's like there’s this secret other James Dean looking mf Beatle hidden away to uncover, that's cool and he is cool! The problem is that he’s sort of becomes radioactive to talk about in a normal way due to how he's been portrayed and utilised in some biographies and fandom spaces, particularly those that have been infected by John Lennon aspirational boy bestie syndrome. As those types of spaces cannot seem to exist without tearing down Paul to prop John up as their special lil guy, Stu as John's other best friend has become the ideal heavy object to hit Paul McCartney over the head with. It's like a corrosive element, the minute Stu hits a Beatles bio, the biographer suddenly loses all training in objectivity and source work and starts waxing lyrical about 100 percent reliable never biased or wrong Saint Stu of Hamburg who died for our condom arson sins and that Paul McCartney should feel bad about every day of his life for not worshipping Stu and not accepting his own ‘place’ in life as John's just-some-guy placeholder best friend. I’ve personally seen so many posts and forums where Stu being mentioned leads to a legion of comments about how Paul could never have been Stu (correct both ways) and how John would never have even glanced at Paul for much longer if Stu had been alive. Sidenote: If you seriously think that the musical savant from down the road whom John went on to produce the most prolific song writing partnership in history with couldnt have kept his attention for long then I'm begging you on hands and knees to get your head out of the arse of your John Lennon body pillow and be serious. But anyway…

This boy bestie battle royale approach has in turn lead to a reflex reaction where Stu gets studiously ignored by other sections of the fandom as a precedent has been set that shining a light on him diminishes Paul and John's relationship with Paul. It's frustrating because if people weren't so keen to cut Paul out of his own story then we would get a much better nuanced view of every single person involved.

So let's put aside all of our defenses, cut the John Lennon loved one ranking system bullshit and lets look at the actual question here which is what was John and Stu's relationship really like and what did he mean to John?

John and Stu met at art college a year or so after Paul and John met. Up to that point John and Paul had their fun little codependant thing going on but Stu quickly became a huge fixture in John's life. Stu had things that Paul couldn't really offer at that point in time. John was at his heart a musician who aspired to be seen as an artist (he would later express surprise that he didn't become an artist). Stu was the passionate artist who knew tons about the art of the period that could teach and inspire John. Their creative leanings meant they could work on projects together and share art notebooks and poetry. (Including yes the one with anti-semitic story which I mention again as I believe it's an important thing to remember when it comes to both John and Stu and the culture of the time.) Stuart by the sounds of it was even writing a novel about John at the time of his death. They were fascinated and inspired by each other.

So, creatively they fired each other up but more importantly perhaps, Stu and John were peers. It's funny to think about when you see the Beatles later but at the time Paul and George were the kids in their school uniform coming to see their cool older friend at art school. That's an important divide. When Paul and George's parents insisted their kids do their homework and go to bed, John and Stu could stay up and talk all hours of the night, which they did. They also could rent a place together and spend long hours chatting (despite John moving out later after realising electricity cost money lol.) There's a different dynamic that the age similarity offered as well. Whilst Paul would later somewhat grow into this role, Stu could act as an authority figure to John as well as open up to John in a way you can really only do with your peers. Stu was the person John opened up to throughout Stu's life:

How long can one go on writing and writing like you. I now don’t really know who I’m writing to or why it’s quiet peculiar. I usually write like this and forget about it but if I put it in a little part of my [almost?] secret self in the hands of someone miles away who will wonder what the hell is going on or just pass it off as toilet paper. Anyway I don’t care really what happens because when I think about it, it’s so bloody unimportant – but what is important who has the right to say that this letter is not important and this is a something any way – anyway – anyway – yeah! I wonder what it would be like to be a cretin or something. I bet it’s gear. & how are you keepin Stuart old chap are you as ok – is life as good – bad shite, great – wonderful as it was or is it just a thousand years of nothing and coolness on and on and on. I think this is it Goodbye Stu don’t write out of – er what is it? well not because you think you ought to write when you feel like So goodbye (from John you know the one with glasses) ANYWAY BYE BYE see you soon I don’t know why I said that I remember a time when everyone I loved hated me because I hated them so what so what so fucking what I remember a time when belly buttons were knee high when only shitting was dirty and everything else clean + beautiful I can’t remember anything without a sadness So deep that it hardly becomes known to me so deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own STUPIDITY + so I go rambling on with a hey nonny nonny nonny no

Extract from a letter to Stuart Sutcliffe from John Lennon, 1961

By lots of accounts Stu was gentle but firm when it came to telling John he'd gone too far. John references this aspect of Stu to Hunter Davies:

"I looked up to Stu. I depended on him to tell me the truth. Stu would tell me if something was good and I'd believe him."

The Beatles: The Authorised Biography (Hunter Davies)

In this way I kind of see Stu as a proto-Yoko. John was so insecure and uncertain about his grip on the world and reality that he relied on Stu to be his point of reference and guide. Paul did this too later and I think in Hunter Davies John mentions this, but not at this time period and not as much due to their competitiveness. This may be why some people saw Stu as the person that really understood John at this time period:

"During the turbulent adolescence that prefaced a turbulent manhood, hardly anyone knew Lennon as intimately as Stuart Sutcliffe. If they weren't exactly David and Jonathan, June Furlong, one of the life models at Liverpool's Regional College of Art, had "never seen two teenagers as close as those two."

The Gospel According To Lennon by Alan Clayson

Now this person likely never met John and Paul together but this is only one of many similar quotes and even Julia captain of John and Paul's friendship boat seems to agree there was a period where Stu dominated and Paul 'kept his distance' from the John-Cyn-Stu 'menage-a-trois'. But the friendship wasn't perfect and his position as John's ultimate best friend was never iron clad. This is best outlined by the shit they pulled when John convinced him to join on Bass for the Beatles.

Despite being John's best friend, Stu was teased and bullied:

"They argued as usual amongst themselves, but most of all they picked on Stu, the newest member of the group. John, George and Paul had been with each other long enough to know that rows and arguments and criticism didn't mean much. If it did, you just argued back. "We were terrible," says John. "We'd tell Stu he couldn't sit with us, or eat with us. We'd tell him to go away, and he did." At one hotel they stayed at, a variety show had just left. There had been a dwarf in the show and they found out which bed he had slept in and said that would have to be Stu's. They certainly weren't going to sleep in it. So Stu had to. "That was how he learned to be with us," says John. "It was all stupid, but that was what we were like."

The Beatles: The Authorised Biography (Hunter Davies)

Why John encouraged this I have no idea, maybe jealousy over Stu's looks and wanting to play people off each other? Things were tense in both Scotland and Hamburg, especially between Stu and Paul. As I said in my last post, the girls were fighting and it was mutual. Paul was mad for both fair and immature teenage-boy reasons. Stu could not be bothered with the bass most of the time and couldn't really play well and was only there as he was '(John's) best friend' (ouch for Paul). Paul conversely had given up higher education to be there and was sending lots of money back home. He also was dating the girl Paul fancied. Stu was popular with the new group and also did mean things like help John steal Paul's money when money was really tight for him. Paul in turn was a passive aggressive, jealous and mean. It all came to ahead in the punch up onstage which according to Spitz came about from Paul wanting money back and saying that Stu could borrow some from Astrid. Stu goes for him and reports vary from full-on bust up to embarrassing scuffle. Stu then goes to where Astrid and Paul's gf Dot are, demands Dot leaves and goes on a rant about Paul. Now all of this must be framed in the context of Stu receiving increasing brain damage from his condition that seemingly lead to mood swings and anger. Nevertheless, the mutual needling and anger, as well as John's refusal to do/say fuck all about it, especially given how protective John was of Stu, suggests that it wasn’t straightforward and/or John may have been playing some games to make both feel threatened. This would also make sense as to why we hear conflicting accounts of John and Stu being the centre of everything and everyone else in orbit AND John and Paul being the centre and everyone else playing catch-up, as well as John giving Paul the lead to take him round the Reeperbahn when John got dressed in the gorilla costume. (I know Paul may have just been the closest there but that always gave off bestie behaviour to me.)

(I did get an ask about how John and Paul's friendship survived it, I think it was damaged by Hamburg. When Paul got back home he got a job at a construction site and there's just a vibe of everything being a bit on tenterhooks. John also acts a bit weird at the period, not talking to anyone for a few weeks then making a lot of weird demands from Paul. I'm really not sure what to make of it.)

Even when he's back in Liverpool, John still writes long letters to Stu and vice-versa. I can't find it at all but I’ve read a really sad interview with John saying he missed his best mate and it's a shame that he's not with them. He had no idea at that point that Stu had already died of a brain hemorrhage at 21.

John is said to have gone into hysterics when he found out Stu had died. A lot of people who've spoken about this time (Aunt Mimi, his sister Julia, the Exsis) concur that at this point Stu was his best friend and the death shattered him. He even told Astrid he wished he could give his life for Stu’s. This is backed up by the fact that John never forgot Stu and his shadow lingered for the rest of John's life:

Stu was recalled in In My Life

Years later, after John composed the first of his truly poignant and heartfelt Beatles songs, "In My Life"—with its lines about "friends I still can recall/some are dead and some are living"—he revealed to me that the two people he had had uppermost in mind were myself and Stuart Sutcliffe. And then he stunned me with a statement that I'd never heard him address to anyone—least of all to another man. "You know, Pete," he said softly, "I do love you. But," he quickly added, "I loved Stuart as well."

Weird that Paul isn't mentioned surely you think that he would be mentioned if Pete was there too okay, okay my tin hat is going away this isn't the time

Pete Shotton, Nicholas Schaffner, John Lennon: In My Life

In 1965 John drew Stu on a postcard

He apparently said this about Stu prior to sending the postcard, prompted by an article about Stuart.

The card had been sent from Genoa mid-way through the Beatles' Italian tour. [...] But the conversation had become maudlin when I reminded him that he was going to talk to me for an article about Stuart. [...] In that sad telephone conversation before they set off for Milan, I asked him if he was happy: 'I'd be a lot happier if Stuart was still part of us,' he said, 'The Beatles would be complete.' And before he rang off he said 'Ill send you something.'

He also appears on the cover of Sgt Pepper

As mentioned, Stu gets mentioned in Hunter Davies in terms of wistfulness and guilt AND he gets a mention in John's insane 'if I were a homosexual' ramblings in early 70s. According to Yoko, John also wanted Yoko to write letters to him and didn't think it would be strange because Stu wrote letters to him.

I have a pet theory that as with a lot of things for John, his unresolved grief over Stu really came to the fore in the late 60s now that he had actually had a chance to sit down and think about things. I believe it was partially why he wanted Yoko to write letters and why he gets mentioned in the early 70s as a collaborator/best friend and not in 1980 where John only gives that credit to Paul and Yoko. I think with the cracks with Paul, John had started to think back on his old friend and guide and what advice he would give.

Stuarts presence is still felt throughout the seventies:

“He told me everything. He loved to talk about Hamburg. There were no secrets. It was the kind of life I never knew…. It meant total freedom. At his side always was Stuart, sweet Stuart. There wasn’t a time in John’s life when he didn’t think about Stuart. He spoke always of his love and respect for Stuart.”

Yoko discussing Stu in When They Were Boys: The True Story of the Beatles’ Rise to the Top by Larry Kane

Coming to grips with his death is also present in Skywriting

SEAN O’HAIRE: What happened to Stuart Cliff? DR. FISCHY: What happened was a full exchange of energy where it was not needed within the expression of your own self or in the energies involved around and about you. We cannot call it a happening. We’ll say it is an awakening, for in that way it has served an expression from the past to the present and to the future to where there shall be more of that incomplete vibration expressed to you in a more fuller understanding.

Skywriting by Word of Mouth, John Lennon

This isn't exhaustive but I think from all this it's pretty clear that John adored Stu, John grieved Stu and kept grieving Stu. Stu had a specific place in his life as a confidant that he tried to recreate with Yoko. At the time of Stu's death, he was John's best friend, probably slightly over Paul. Stuart had been able to be both a friend and paternal presence, a confidant and an artistic collaborator. His presence and loss was one of the foundational points in John's life.

But as we've been asked to play this stupid game and so many bios like to make a hoopla about it, were they at their closest ever as close as John and Paul were at their height?

No.

How do we know? Because John told us so:

" He [Paul] still is the closest friend I've ever had, except for Yoko, so I'm still close to him whatever goes on."

John Lennon to an interviewer, 1971

But Walrus! John just says shit! How do we know he isn't leaving out Stu because the press don't know Stu. Well true John does just say shit but this is at a time where John isn't the most glowing about Paul and he's had no problem mentioning Stu in this time period ('one of my best friends ever' would have made a similar point).

But Walrus again! If John picked Stu over Paul when they were young why wouldn't he be the boy bestie of all time, and why would John say that he was closer to Paul? Well, because of the environment and timings. Stu's death happened near the beginning of John and Paul's major bonding moments. If you look at their personal timeline, Paris, the Nerk twins, and getting signed happened just before Stu died. That's missing the major years of Beatlemania, Key West, LSD, Paul growing more into being John's peer and a load of other huge moments in their lives. It's like how John writes to Cyn in 1962 about wanting the house to themselves and not have Paul around all the time. Would you say because he feels closer to Cyn then that John in his overall lifetime loved Cyn more than Paul? No, because relationships change over time and theirs were no exception. (One thing to consider as well is that we don't yet have many letters between John and Paul during their Beatles years and earlier, probably because they were spending so much time with each other. We know a couple exist that Paul considers too personal for publication but I'm sure there are others. It's easy to understand what John felt for Stu as we have the letters, I think we would also have an easier time understanding what John felt for Paul if we had the equivalent of those.)

At the end of the day Paul was the man he believed he had a psychic bond with, the man he couldn’t shut up about, the man whom he’d conquered the world with with their endless collaboration, the man with a twin personality to him and according to John spent more time with throughout the 60s than he had with Yoko ever. To be frank if Paul had died in 67' I don't think this would have been a conversation.

As mentioned early, in early 1970s John elevates his partnership with Stu to his collaborations with Paul and Yoko but by 1980 he’s pretty clear that Paul and Yoko are their own category.

"I was saying to somebody the other day, “There’s only two artists I’ve ever worked with for more than a one night stand, as it were. That’s Paul McCartney, and Yoko Ono.” And I think that’s a pretty damned good choice!!"

John Lennon interview with DJ Dave Sholin, 1980

There are of course the what ifs. Would Stu still being alive mean that John was not as close with Paul? Maybe, highly doubtful though as the Beatles experience was so intense. If Stu remained a Beatle would John be as close with Paul? If Stu remained a Beatle he wouldn't be Stu so no. At the same time who knows what it would have been like if Paul and John were peers from the off? I said this to @the62ndbugsfan when it comes to Stu vs Paul (hi girl sorry i've made our chat a whole ass post lol) but to go a bit Wuthering Heights, soulmates are made as much from the earth as they are of the stars. What binds us is our experiences just as much as our personalities. There may be a universe where Stu and John took on the art world together or became inseparable bffs again after the Beatles disbanded, but it is not our universe. In this universe Stu tragically died and John and Paul chose to become Lennon/McCartney and artistically unite themselves forever.

Even going back to Stu's lifetime, I've said it before and I'll say it again I find it interesting that not only did John choose to go to Paris with Paul rather than pay to meet up with Stu somewhere but that they arranged to meet up with Juergen and nobody told Stu until they'd already gone. Stu was shocked and didn't know if it meant the end of the Beatles which is a pretty big thing for him not to know about. Why didn't John tell him if they're apparently still writing long letters? Was it because he really wanted to do this with Paul and didn't want to hurt Stu's feelings? And that's really the point I want to make here. Due to his trauma John was preoccupied with reinforcing ranking of relationships within his life. But the thing is friendship rankings are made up guidelines and the reality is far more complicated. You can have a designated best friend but feel closer to another friend at times, you can want to do one thing specifically with one friend and not the other for various reasons. You can (as I do) have more than one equal best friend. Friendship as with most relationships are in a constant state of flux and each friendship you have will give and mean a different thing, even if they are of similar value to you.

Paul may have ended up closer to John than Stu had been, but that doesen't make John's relationship with Stu any less special. Nor does Stu negate the significance of Paul. Whilst both fit into John's pattern of intense relationships and demands related to that, both had unique positions and meaning to him. Considering what I've gone into about John's closeness to Stu, it actually says something deeply, borderline unnervingly, intense about John and Paul that Paul pipped Stu to the post. Maybe it's time Beatles bios accept the fact that John Lennon just wouldn't be into them like that, stop using a tragically prematurely deceased young man as a prop in their jealous psychological warfare against Paul McCartney, stop perpetuating one of the most damaging games that John did to his loved ones and allow both relationships the space to shine and showcase the amazing talent that was the Beatles and those that surrounded them.

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parkerloves · 3 days ago

Text

THE SWIFT THEOREM || JMM21 x Teammate!GN!Reader

paring: pepe marti x teammate!gn!reader

type: fluff

request?: yess based on this one

summary: Campos decides to test if his two Formula 2 drivers are able to distinguish between Taylor Swift and Shakespeare and after seeing the horrible knowledge that your teammate has about your favorite singer you decide to take him to one of her concerts to educate him a little bit

word count: 1.3 K

fc; n/a

warnings: bullying towards pepe because he doesn't what he's saying, some spanish and nickname, it turns romantic after y/n post

[masterlist]

Campos had not long ago decided to join the small trend of putting their drivers to do different challenges so that the fans could see more of them even outside the track.

That day it was you and Pepe's turn, you two arrived at the filming set talking casually and without having any idea about what you were going to have to do that day, so after taking over the large chair in the room, you looked at the camera.

“So what are we doing today?” you asked as Pepe sat down on the chair next to you after bringing it close enough for his knee to gently bump into you.

“You're going to have to guess whether these quotes we're giving you are from a Taylor Swift song or a Shakespeare play” Your pr manager explained, laughing softly as she saw your excitement at the mention on behalf of the British singer.

“That's not fair! Y/n is like Taylor's biggest fan!”

“Say it right, it's called being a swiftie” You corrected him simply to annoy him, causing him to stick his tongue out at you like a little kid to which you did the same laughing.

It didn't take long for the crew to nag you to get serious and start shooting the video, but they had gotten themselves into it by getting you to shoot together, after all you had been inseparable since the beginning of the season.

When they finally got you to focus on the day's task, they gave you a few seconds before letting you know you could talk.

“Hi guys, welcome to a new Youtube video! I'm Y/n Y/l/n” You introduced yourself as you did every time it was your turn to record.

“And I'm Pepe Marti” The boy followed you almost immediately. "And today we're going to play Shakespeare or Taylor Swift” He said, holding up the small papers he had in his hand.

“Basically in these cards there are some lyrics or words and we have to guess if it’s from Taylor o Shakespeare”

“I think it's going to be quite easy” Pepe said, reading the first card to himself “So first one... Give me no compasses, gave me no signs.”

You quickly identified that it was from a Taylor song, but let your partner give his opinion first.

“So any guesses?”

“It sounds old, especially the word compasses... So Shakespeare?” he guessed tilting his head to the side before looking to know your verdict.

“Nope, that's from invisible string, definitely.”

Pepe just nodded slowly as he always did when he really didn't understand what you were saying.

“It's from the album Folklore” You tried to explain although you knew from his face that he still didn't know what you were talking about '“Let's go with the next one” You took the next piece of paper from him reading it out loud “They say she was seen on occasion, Pacing the rocks, staring out at the midnight sea” You looked at him waiting for his opinion on this lyrics

“Okay now that has to be shakespeare, it's way too long to be a line of a song” He stated with his own deduction, though seeing your frown he quickly changed his mind “I mean is definitely Taylor”

“So as you can see they're making me work with a cheater” You said looking at the camera after giving him a little whack on the head with the papers.

“sush you love me” He blew you a kiss to which you rolled your eyes as he took the next sentence out of your hands '“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind” He read again, and very slowly, as if that would help him understand the phrase better “love equals Taylor, definitely”.

“Nah that's Shakespeare, I don't recognize that”

“This doesn't make sense like at all” He wrinkled his nose looking at the other one of paper, tossing it aside

“Stop crying come on” You pushed him gently laughing before reading the next “I do love nothing in the world so well as you.”

“If that's not Shakespeare i'm quitting”

“As far as i now...” You spoke to give a little mystery to the subject “That's correct?” You said looking at the people behind the camera, and when they confirmed yes you couldn't help laughing at Pepe's celebration.

“Now i'm on fire, give me the next one” Pepe took the rest of the papers from you.

“You just got one ri-”

“Shhh” He covered your mouth before clearing his throat so he could continue with the video ‘Everyone we know understands why it's meant to be’ He decided to play it cool and pretend to think about it ‘This is my friend Shakespeare again’ He said a little too confidently

“Pretty sure that's Tortured Poets Department”

“Wasn't that film called Dead Poets algo?” You had no choice but to judge him with your eyes before you scolded him.

“You're talking about something else, what i told you is one of Taylor's albums” You denied to which Pepe gave you a little sneer before you threatened him with your eyes.

“ Okay sorry sorry, don't kill me” He laughed raising both hands.

“Next one,Though she be but little, she is fierce.” You read out loud looking at him for him to answer first as usual.

“Really? I thought i had it, god sake” He jerked back in the most dramatic way possible making you laugh once again.

“That gives me Taylor vibes, the fierce part at least.”

“I don't remember that song”

You threw the next piece of paper in his face to get him to concentrate again on what you were doing.

“Free of women with madness, their men and bad habits” He recited still lying down and as he slowly sat up ”Yeah this is not coming from a man in th s. xix”

For that comment it didn't take long for him to be scolded while you laughed at his screw up next to him, knowing that clip wouldn't make it into the video.

“I mean” He cleared his throat as you went back to recording ”That sounds like Shakespeare because…” He got a menacing look from his manager again “I say so”

“Wow, two out of seven” You said with a little chuckle ”You completely suck"

You took the last part so you could finish the video at once.

“And finally” You did a drum roll on your teammate's leg which besides giving you the opportunity to beat him up for the barbarities he had said throughout the video ”The course of true love never did run smooth.”

“Please tell me that's Taylor”

“Sorry darling, wrong again” You laughed softly before looking at the camera in case you had gotten confused, but confirming that you hadn't, you proceeded to say goodbye ”Well here ends this constant stab for me, because i thought i had taught him better”

“I wasn't that bad”

“Yeah it was, but don't worry people, i'll teach him properly”

A few days passed since the publication of that video, and the joke was still quite present between the two of you, and especially among your fans, so your new publication during the summer break, despite catching you by surprise, was very welcome.

yourusername has posted!

liked by pepemartiofficial, yourbff and 10,754,475

yourusername: he's learing the hard way now

tagged: pepemartiofficial

pepemartioffical: dios, thanks for making her not let this go

user1: WE NEEDED THIS, SHUT UPP user2: my fav duo stoppp user3: i just love themmm

camposracing: love seeing more pepy/n content!!

user4: same here admin, same here

yourbff: just kiss already

user5: listen to themm!!!

Pepe as soon as he saw you with the phone he took it out of your hands, after all he was there for you, and to avoid you to start complaining, he silenced anything you could say kissing you, which used to be his secret weapon, the problem is that you still could not say that you were together, so he had to endure all your criticism in his direction, although it was not so bad to see how you laughed at his expense if he could see you happy.

"will you stop bullying me?"

"maybe" you chuckled against his lips "don't think so tho"

#parker and f2 →#pepe marti #f2 #f2 x reader #f2 x you #f2 x y/n #formula 2 #formula 2 x reader #pepe marti x reader #pepe marti x you #pepe marti x y/n #pepe martí

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gentlebeardsbarngrill · 2 days ago

Text

01/01-04/2025 Daily OFMD Recaps

TLDR; Happy Belated Birthday Ruibo!; David Jankins; Rhys Darby; Taika Waititi; Con O'Neill; Samson Kayo; Vico Ortiz; Madeleine Sami; Articles; Fan Spotlight: Never Left Podcast; Truly Docked 2026; Love Notes; Hey Lovelies! I am very behind because I'm back to being sick with whatever is causing this stomach pain! SInce I wanted to be caught up on the recaps for the anniversary of the cancellation (JUST IN CASE)... I may leave some stuff out and catch up on them later.

= Happy Birthday Ruibo (1/1)! =

So many (belated) birthday wishes to our beloved Pirate Queen! We love you dear, thank you for all your kindness and positivity over the past year~

Source: Ruibo's Instagram = David Jenkins =

"2025 might just be a great year too 🥰💜🦄"

Source: David's Instagram

Our friends over at Never Left Podcast pointed out that David did a similar picture back in 2024 before the first cancellation announcement...

Source: Never Left Podcast Twitter

And our dear @adoptourcrew pointed out the lyrics on the instagram post were also appropriate...

Source: Adopt Our Crew's bsky

= Rhys Darby =

Rhys and family are still out in Aotearoa!

Source: Rosie's IG

= Taika Waititi =

Taika had a great time during the holidays back in Aotearoa and made a Hangi for Christmas!

Source: Taika's Instagram Stories and Posts / Rita's Instagram Stories / Not Late Late Instagram / lfizzlphillips on Instagram

= Con O'Neill =

More images of Con from Rogue Heroes Season 2!

Source: The Artist Partnership Instagram

= Samson Kayo =

Compilation of Sampson's year 2024!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Samson Kayo (@samsonkayo)

instagram

Source: Samson's Instagram

= Madeleine Sami =

More wrapped pictures from Deadloch S2 Cast!

Source: Life With Emerson and Oliver Instagram

= Vico Ortiz =

CW: Adult Themes - More previews of Today in Gay! Wanna support them? Join the Today in Gay Substack!

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Vico Ortiz (@puertoricaninja)

instagram

Source: Vico's Instagram

== Articles ==

As always! @adoptourcrew keeping us up to date on articles mentioning the show!

Source: Adopt Our Crew Bsky

== Fan Spotlight ==

= Never Left Podcast =

New episode of Never Left is available now! This time it's Part 2 of Art! Check it out on their linktr.ee!

Source: Never Left Podcast Instagram

= Truly Docked 2026 =

There's a new Truly Docked planned for JANUARY 24, 2026 in St. Augustine, FL! This is an in person Pirate event! To get tickets or learn more visit Truly Docked OFMD

Source: Truly Docked's Instagram

== Love Notes ==

In the essence of time-- I am sending just a few love notes on this recap from other folks so I can try to finish the next one in time for the 9th! Love you crew!

Source: Stay Close To Yourself Instagram

#ofmd daily recap #daily ofmd recap #rhys darby #taika waititi #ruibo qian #ofmd cast birthdays #vico ortiz #truly docked 2026 #never left podcast #con o'neill #madeleine sami #samson kayo #adopt our crew #save ofmd #long live ofmd #david jenkins

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xmads-omensx · 7 hours ago

Text

Word Count: 1,639

Pairing: Best friend! Noah Sebastian X Reader

Content Warnings: swearing, arguments, Noah is bad at feelings and so is Y/N

Tags: @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @lacy1986 @collidewiththesav @kenjipepsi1 @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @chey-h @tosoundlessdarkistare @thisbicc @fadingangelwisp

Thanks @alwaysfightforwhoyouare for the idea, and sorry it took me so long to actually write since we were talking about this before New Years lmao.

Extra inspo:

NOAH POV

She was beautiful.

I found myself stealing glances at her whenever I could. It was impossible not to. Even when I didn’t intend to, my eyes always found her.

No matter what room I walked into, I always sought her out.

Her laugher. Her smile. Her eyes. Her.

Y/N had been my best friend, besides Nicholas of course, for as long as I could remember. Granted, we only met when we had moved to California, but we clicked instantly.

Two peas in a pod. Partners in crime. Ride or die.

That was us.

But I was desperate for more.

I wanted to hold her hand. Hold her. Kiss her. Tell I loved her. Take her to bed. Be with her.

But it could never happen. She had a boyfriend and I was just her best friend. She would never see me as anything more than that.

I buried those feelings as deep as I possibly could. I dated and saw other people as often as I could to try and move on, but nothing worked. No matter who I went out with, my mind was always stuck on Y/N.

Every time I saw her with Chris, my heart broke a little bit more. I knew this was unfair, since she had no idea how I felt about her and it wasn’t her fault she was happy with someone else, but part of me resented her for being happy with someone else.

What could he give her that I couldn’t?

I knew every single detail about her. I could even tell you how many freckles decorated her face if you asked me to.

But it wasn’t enough.

She had him, and I had Bad Omens.

“Y/N and Chris are fighting again.” Matt sighed, taking his seat in the studio.

They had been fighting a lot recently. He had been going out more often with his friends, leaving Y/N at home. She hated being alone.

“Same thing again?” Jolly asked.

“Yep.” Matt sighed again.

Silence encased the studio. None of us particularly liked Chris, some for more selfish reasons than others, but none of us wanted to stop Y/N from being happy.

“I’ve got some lyrics that I’ve been working on.” I spoke up, breaking the silence.

“Can we have a look?” Jolly asked, so I handed him my highly precious notebook that I used for songwriting.

His eyes darted over the pages. if he knew what the song was about, he didn’t let on anything.

“This is good shit, Noah.” He said, smiling genuinely.

I had been working on the song for a while now, but I never had the courage to show anyone else the song yet.

It was by far my favourite song that I had ever written.

“Do you think it would be okay for the new record?” I asked, chewing the skin on my thumb anxiously.

“I think it’s perfect for the new record dude.” Jolly said, grinning widely.

“Great.” I said with a sigh of relief.

We spent most of the day recording the new song, working in silence for the most part as we seemed to be working in unison, as one.

The lyrics flew out of me so easily, it was like breathing.

Verse after verse, the melody came naturally.

It didn’t matter if anyone knew what the song was about, as long as she got to hear it.

Y/N POV

Chris and I never had a great relationship.

It wasn’t toxic or anything, we just didn’t love eachother, but were determined to make it work.

The honeymoon phase was relatively short, only lasting the first two months of our relationship.

Out fights consisted of the same common denominators every single time. His partying and my friendship with Noah.

Chris hated Noah with a burning passion. In fact, Chris was convinced that Noah was in love with me, which would be impossible because how could someone like Noah be in love with someone like me?

Noah was a genuine, kind soul, and I was often labelled a vindictive bitch.

He would have to be desperate for human connection if he fell in love with me.

“Seriously, I don’t understand why you’re friends with him, Y/N, he clearly just wants to get in your pants.” Chris sighed, exasperated at my apparent obliviousness to Noah’s alleged feelings for me.

“Because he’s my best friend, and no, he doesn’t want to get in my pants. I think I’d know if he did.” I replied, sick of this argument going round in circles.

“Y/N, please listen to me. He isn’t your friend. He just wants to use you to get off. He likes the power he has over you.” Chris argued back, raising his voice.

“Stop lying about it, I’m not going to believe you.” I yelled. “This is so fucking dumb, Chris, all we ever do is go around in circles until we either get bored of the argument and go cool off somewhere or we just end up fucking!”

“Who’s fault is it that we keep running in circles like this?” Chris snarled. “You’re the one who is still hanging around that jackass.”

“Oh my god! When will you realise that Noah is not the problem here, you are!” I yelled.

“Then how about I leave and make your life easier?” Chris shouted.

“Good! Get the fuck out of my house!” I yelled in reply, gesturing towards the door.

He simply turned around and left. Just like that.

The silence that filled the house wasn’t unpleasant like I thought it would be, but instead it was peaceful and I welcomed it with open arms.

Finally, I had enough space to think. To breathe. To exist without him screaming down my ear about Noah, and without me interrogating him about him going out with his friends into the very early hours of the morning.

But after a few hours of this new silence, the house became almost too silent. Too cold. Too big.

I needed the space to be smaller again.

With my mind in autopilot, I found myself climbing into the drivers side of my car and driving over to Noah’s house, desperate for comfort and some semblance of crowdedness.

Noah’s front door opened before you had even rung the bell.

“Hey, you okay? Matt had us worried about you.” Noah gushed, pulling me into a hug.

“Yeah just wanted to hang out for a bit. It’s too quiet at my place.” I explained with a shrug.

“Is Chris out again?” Noah asked as we walked into his house.

“Oh, we broke up like two hours ago.” I said with a laugh, but I couldn’t tell if it was a fake laugh or not.

“Shit are you okay?” Noah asked, placing his hands on my shoulders.

“Yeah. I mean I think so.” I said with a shrug.

“Y/N, you’re crying.” Noah whispered, his voice significantly more gentle than it had been previously as he cupped my cheek and wiped a stray tear away from my face.

“No, really I’m okay.” I said, unsure as to why I was crying.

“Come here.” Noah whispered, pulling me into a tight hug.

I wasn’t sure what it was about hugging Noah made me feel so emotional, but I couldn’t control the damn that burst, letting all of my pent up frustrations at Chris gush out.

The more I cried, the clearer the real reason for my tears became. I was in love with Noah.

NOAH POV

I gently rubbed Y/N’s back as I held her close to my chest, hoping to ease her pain as much as I could.

“Come with me, I want to show you something.” I whispered, guiding her into the studio before sitting her down on the small sofa we had in there for moments like these.

She curled up in her usual spot with her knees pulled up to her chest.

I switched on the computer monitor and selected the audio file that I wanted.

Besides the purple LED lights, that were Y/N’s favourite, the monitor was the only thing that illuminated the otherwise empty room.

The soft melody of the acoustic demo that we had recorded earlier that morning filled the air as I sat next to Y/N on the sofa and pulling her into my arms. She instantly snuggled closer into my chest as if she were hiding from something and was seeking comfort.

She was my safe space and I was hers.

The lyrics began to take over the melody as I rocked Y/N back and forth in my arms.

There are scars that never ever show themselves

You get when you’re left alone too long in Hell

I was sick and tired of leaving Y/N to live her life without me by her side. I was desperate to be able to call her mine. To hold her hand as we walked to our favourite coffee shop. To kiss her cheek and tell her she looked beautiful as she got ready to go out. To be able to hold her as we drifted off to sleep in our bed.

I was desperate for HER.

I began to sing the lyrics to her, causing her to look up into my eyes as I looked down into hers.

Well, if I'm there to catch you when you fall You'll have a friend down in Hell after all

“Noah.” She murmured.

“Yes, Y/N.” I whispered in reply.

“I love you.” She whispered.

I answered her by leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on her lips. Just enough to tell her exactly how I felt.

“Yours?” She asked after we pulled away.

“Mine.” I replied with a smile.

“Forever?”

“Yes, Y/N, mine forever.”

And if you're there to catch me when I fall Then maybe Hell ain't so bad after all

#bad omens #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian #fanfic #noah sebastian bad omens #noah bad omens #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian one shots #best friend noah #best friend noah sebastian

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stars4noah · 2 days ago

Text

HALLEY'S COMET- six.

{WARNINGS}: swearing, mention of a bar

w.c- 2,038

a.n- i'm gonna be so honest, chapter five was originally going to be the end of this series but i was driving and i had a crazy idea. enjoy more chapters because i don't think this story will be ending any time soon.

{TAGLIST}: @lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @chey-h @rumoured-whispers @oobleoob @dontwantthemoney @n0n3xsisting

"i'll love you forever." he said softly.

"and always?" i asked

he laughed softly, nuzzling his face in my hair.

"and always, my love."

"[y/n]. dude, come on. wake up." nicholas' voice broke through my hard slumber, jolting me awake. i furrowed my brows, sitting up slowly and looking around. i was on the tour bus. but why? i had just been on the couch with noah..

i ran a hand over my face, trying to gather my thoughts. we just finished a show. noah and i got into another argument. but this argument was different from the one in my dream. and then i left. no.. that part was a dream. i fell asleep.

it was all fake.

the music, the new album, the sex and the kisses and the 'i love you's. it was all fake. as much as i hated him, i felt a strange sense of disappointment down in my gut. it hit me like a train. this perfect life had been built up in my mind in the course of just a couple hours. was that really what i wanted? who was i kidding, of course it was. it was all i'd ever wanted in life. to be in love. to be happy. to be able to live out my dreams freely.

even though i definitely wasn't interested in the music industry.

"what, is she still sleeping?" i heard noah's voice getting closer, and i rolled my eyes as i jumped out of my bunk. "no, asshole. i'm awake."

"oh, she lives!" he said. "what were you even dreaming about? you've been tossing and turning and talking for the past 30 minutes." he said, his arms crossed.

"fuck off, noah." i grumbled, searching for some clothes for the show tonight.

"not until you learn how to do your job right."

i rolled my eyes, retreating to the bathroom to go and get ready.

"i swear, it's like he lives to piss me off. doesn't he have anything better to do? like, i dunno, hook up with girls? make music? write lyrics? instead of fucking with me. it's annoying." i rambled to nicholas as i set up my camera, him standing beside me.

and then he suggested the most absurd thing ever.

"i dunno, [y/n], maybe he likes you."

i choked on nothing, my eyes widening. "are you insane? him? like me? never in a million years would that happen."

nicholas laughed softly. "i mean, the way he talks about you when you're not around says otherwise. it's always [y/n] this, [y/n] that. don't you see the way he stares at you when you're not looking? or how he put extra effort in when he knows you're gonna be closer to the stage?"

i stayed quiet. he kind of had a point. i never heard him speak about me or felt his stares, but i could tell that he always dressed nicer or sang better when i was closer.

maybe..

no. hell no. just because i had that stupid dream doesn't mean a thing. i hate him, he hates me. and that's final.

"you're delusional." i said.

"you're in denial." he retorted, walking off to go get ready for the show.

as i continued to set up, i felt a pair of eyes on me. i looked up briefly, noticing noah looking at me before he quickly looked away, going to talk with some girl.

why was i jealous? it's not like we were together. not like i liked him. not like i imagined a future with him every time my insomnia kept me awake at night.

whatever. it didn't matter.

NOAH'S POV.

i finished up my conversation with some random girl whose name i couldn't even remember. i didn't know why, but some part of me just yearned to make [y/n] jealous. to make her wish i was giving her all of my attention instead of giving it to others. i needed her to know how i felt. how i looked at her, how i yearned for her.

what am i saying? i don't like her. at all. she's cocky and stuck up and beautiful and funny and-

fuck.

i watched as she walked around the arena, humming to herself as she adjusted the settings on her camera, not paying a lick of attention to where she was going. a couple more steps and she would-

CRASH!

"ow! fuck!"

i scoffed, walking over to where she was sat on the ground, rubbing the back of her head.

"you good there, princess? looks like you fell." i smirked.

she rolled her eyes, pulling herself up to her feet. "i'm fine."

"you sure? you took quite the fall there." i said.

she smirked. "aww, are you showing actual human empathy for once?"

i scoffed. "keep dreaming. i can't afford to lose my photographer right now. do your job." i said, walking away.

the lights dimmed as we took the stage, the crowd's energy palpable. i stepped up to the microphone, my intense gaze sweeping over the audience. among the sea of faces, my eyes locked with hers, an unfamiliar spark igniting between the two of us.

"the sutures in my head keep getting ripped out. these open wounds are the thoughts i can't stop thinking about. digging for purpose, feelings resurface. and involuntarily my system gets nervous."

there was a crowd of people in the arena. our first sold out show ever. we just released our album Finding God Before God Finds Me a couple months ago, and for our first sold out show of the tour, i decided to add a couple songs from our very first album.

"tell me tonight that you'll be by yourself. cause something bad will happen if you are with someone else. i'm just all fucked up, and i really need your help. i really need your help."

i looked at [y/n] in the front row, snapping pictures. when she was so close to the stage, i always felt like i performed better. seeing her smile at nicholas, hearing her sing along to our songs. it gave me motivation. i closed my eyes.

"there's a lotta hollow souls out there all alone, and they're waiting for you to invite 'em back into my home. they touched and they took what was rightfully mine. now i'm the devil, and their souls just went up in price."

images of her face filled my mind as i sang. her smile, her scowl, her tears and her laughter. every part of her was gorgeous. every part of her made me fall in love deeper and deeper every day. why couldn't i admit these feelings?

"set me free, i think i'm giving up. don't wait for me, i think i've had enough. set me free, i think i'm giving up. don't wait for me, i've had enough, enough now"

right. i had bailey. my girlfriend. i wondered what she was doing right now. maybe sleeping or shopping or watching tv in our bed at home. even though i had her, part of me felt off. it didn't feel like she really loved me. everyone always tried to convince me to break up with her. but she's my girl. the love of my life, the woman i wanted to marry one day. right?

as we got back onto the bus, i came to a realization.

one, i wasn't happy with bailey. she was toxic, manipulative, and i was pretty sure she was cheating on me.

two, i was utterly, hopelessly in love with [y/n].

i laid on my bunk, wide awake with my thoughts swarming in my mind. i was in love with her. i was in love with another woman. what the hell was wrong with me?

"there's a thousand voices in my head. i just hope it doesn't take a rope around my neck to put them all to rest." i hummed to myself, scrolling on my phone.

"noah?" [y/n]'s voice spoke from her bunk, her head peeking out of the curtain. "i thought you went for drinks with the others."

"nope." i said. "i'm not in the mood."

she raised an eyebrow. "that's weird. why?"

i shrugged. "i'm thinking."

"about?"

"none of your business."

she rolled her eyes, mumbling something under her breath before retreating back to her bunk.

it was quiet for another moment before i spoke.

"hey, [y/n]?" i said quietly, not wanting to disturb her in case she had fallen asleep.

"what?"

i bit my lip. "what do i do if i'm in love with someone.. but i'm in a relationship?"

she peeked her head out again, raising an eyebrow. "break up with the girl, duh. don't lead her on if you're not interested anymore. that's a dick move." she said. "wait, don't tell me you're breaking up with bailey?"

i shrugged again. "i dunno yet."

"jesus, finally." she said, and i frowned. "first of all, don't say that. second, i said i don't know yet. i'm thinking."

she sighed. "noah, you know she's a shit person. she literally abuses you. she's a toxic, manipulative asshole. and if you're in love with another woman who you know can give you the love that you deserve, shoot your shot. don't sit there and suffer just because you don't want to hurt someone's feelings."

i wasn't sure why, but a small bit of rage filled my body at the way she spoke about bailey. "don't talk about her like that. that's not true. she's just doing what she knows is best for me." i said, and she scoffed.

"whatever you say."

"you're just jealous." i crossed my arms.

she raised her eyebrows. "of what? cause its definitely not her behaviour. or literally any aspect of her personality or life."

i laid back down, ignoring her for the rest of the ride. i knew she was right, but i hated to admit it. i loved bailey. she was all that i had.

when we first got together, everything was great. i swore that i would marry her one day. and then she started going out more and staying out later and sometimes i didn't feel like i could trust her. but i let it slide because bringing it up would just lead to arguments. i didn't want arguments.

but as her behaviour continued and i saw my friends in happy, loving relationships, i realized it wasn't normal. being treated like this wasn't normal, and it wasn't what i wanted. i wanted to be happy. feel loved.

i wanted to be loved by [y/n].

with a sigh and a slightly heavy heart, i texted bailey a long message.

'i want to start this off by saying i know what you did. i know what you've been doing behind my back for longer than i'd like to admit. i loved you bailey, i really did. but we can't be together anymore. i want things that you can't provide me. i know you've been cheating on me, and i let it go because we all make mistakes. but this is more than a mistake. please don't try to fight this, just accept it. you would rather sleep with multiple other men than be with me, and that's okay. i can't be what you need, and you can't be what i need. we weren't made for each other. this is goodbye.'

with tears in my eyes, i put on my headphones and put my phone on silent, blasting some music as i washed away these feelings that i didn't want to hit me at this moment. i hated being vulnerable. i'd cry it out when i was alone.

i sat in my bunk for the rest of the night, trying to fall asleep but i couldn't. instead, i drew in my notebook and wrote down the occasional lyric that popped into my mind.

'i'll flip it with you and me inside.'

'heaven know's i ain't gettin' over you.'

'thought you were somebody else.'

'no way to right these wrongs, either way i'm feeling, it might just cost something in the millions. i know that i can't resist.'

fuck. this was going to be good.

#edenspeaks #stars4noah #bad omens #noah sebastian #halley'scomet #bad omens x reader #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens fanfiction

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kitkat13001 · 10 hours ago

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⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚞𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

drunken monologues, confused because it’s not like i’m falling in love i just want you to do me no good and you look like you could the look of love, the rush of blood the “she’s with me”s, the gallic shrugs

⤷ denki kaminari x reader

⤷ denki calls reader “ma’am” once as a joke (no pronouns used), brief mentions of alcohol and small descriptions of anxiety, title and lyrics from arctic monkeys’ “no. 1 party anthem”

you didn’t feel like going out tonight.

you had told denki this much when he barged into your room after you’d declined his million calls, instead finding you buried under a mountain of blankets just a few hours away from midnight on the 31st.

not the best way to start the new year, he’d pointed out. you had only grumbled, tossing over in your bed and ignoring him.

you’re surprised he’s not at the party right now. surely everyone else you two know is there, if the pictures mina, sero and kirishima had blown up your phone with were any indication.

denki nudges your lifeless body and your grumble again, louder this time as he plops himself down on your bed beside you.

“come onnn, it’s new year’s eve! you can’t go into a new year moping around like this, you need to get out and have some fun!”

unfortunately, he makes a pretty compelling case. it was something stupid that had you in such a bad mood, and getting out would probably do you a great deal of good. but then again, the party…the lights, the crowd, and ugh not even to mention the noise…

it’s like denki can sense your dilemma, the crack in your stubborn attitude, and he jumps at the opportunity to sway you.

“pleeeaseee, you said you would come!” he whines, tugging on your arm insistently.

contrary to popular belief, denki is actually very hard to say “no” to.

you narrow your eyes at him, but you can’t muster up any malice in the face of his big golden eyes.

you hold out for another couple seconds, internally debating, but he just keeps pouting and you know he won’t leave you alone until you agree and his hands on you are so warm and he’s so infuriatingly cute and—

“ugh, fine!” you groan, pushing him away so he can’t see the way you flush. “go away so i can change!”

“yes, ma’am,” he replies quickly with a cheeky smile. “so bossy.”

the party is in full swing once you two arrive, and it’s not even midnight yet. it’s packed, just like you thought. you stick tight to denki's side as he weaves through the crowd with a smile, ever his charming little self. his body against yours as you clutch his arm is the only one that doesn’t make your skin crawl.

it takes a few drinks to loosen you up, but once the tension has bled from your shoulders you’re out dancing with mina and jirou like it’s nobody’s business.

you’re not sure at what point denki left your side, but it tugs at the back of your mind that even though you’re enjoying yourself, you kind of miss him.

you try to shrug the odd feeling off, throwing yourself back into the dancing and the drinking as the music drowns out every thought from your head.

it’s a good distraction, probably what you needed just about now. not just the dancing, but the party—seeing your friends, getting out of your head. you’d been so down lately, and without good reason, too, which just made you more frustrated.

it’s good you’re getting it all out there, isn’t it? isn’t this what you’re supposed to do? dance it out, drink it away, crash and sleep it off, then wake up to a new day and start over again?

someone bumps into you from behind just then, and the hypnotic haze you’ve been wallowing in begins to clear. that claustrophobic feeling is coming back, and suddenly the music is too loud and the people are too close and you find yourself stumbling for the patio door.

the fresh night air is a godsend and you stand there for a moment, leaning against the sliding glass door and taking in deep lungfuls of it.

there’s a little couch setup around an empty bonfire pit, and that’s where you drop down to look at the sky as you regain your bearings.

it’s also where denki finds you when he comes out of the house, eyes alight at the sight of you. it makes your heart jump.

“hey! i was looking for you just now.”

“yeah, sorry,” you murmur. “crowd was too much, i was starting to feel…urgh, y’know?”

“yeah,” he agrees sheepishly, ambling over. “it was really packed in there.”

he takes a seat beside you, propping his feet up on the brick pit in front of you.

you feel his golden eyes on you, but you keep your gaze skyward.

“you okay?” he asks after a minute, carefully nudging his leg against yours.

your only response is a half-hearted shrug.

“you wanna go?”

you think about it for a second, the allure of home calling out to you, but the night breeze feels so cool on your warm skin and the steadiness of denki’s body against yours brings you peace. you don’t really want to go.

“not just yet,” you tell him, letting yourself lean against him more. “do you think…can we stay like this a little longer?”

“yeah. yeah, we can stay as long as you like.” denki opens his arms, letting you kick your feet up on the couch and nestle comfortably into his side. you rest your head on his bicep, surprised by how sturdy the muscle is beneath you. you knew denki was fit—it was impossible not to be in this course—but it’s never something you’ve really thought about. or felt.

the two of you sit in soft silence, watching as fireworks light up the sky. you can hear denki humming softly to the music still pouring out of the house. it makes you smile.

the yelling inside the house is getting louder and you check your phone. 11:59. they must be starting the countdown now.

ten.

“hey denki?”

“yeah?”

nine.

“thanks for making me come out tonight. it’s…”

eight.

“i’ve had a better time than i thought i would,” you admit, toying with his fingers from where his arm is draped gently across your collarbone.

seven.

“really? i felt kinda for bad dragging you out when i saw you out here by yourself,” he replies with a nervous laugh.

six.

“well, maybe. but ‘m not by myself anymore,” you tell him, allowing yourself a cheeky little smile. you tilt your head back to look up at him, and he’s beaming at you.

five.

the fireworks are lighting up his face in the most beautiful colors. even from upside down, denki is probably the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen.

four.

it’s faint from under all the shouting inside, but you can still hear the music. you love this song.

three.

you reach up to trace your fingers gently over denki’s freckles. they’ve faded some in the winter, but they’re still there if you look closely. his hand comes up to intertwine your fingers, holding them to his face.

two.

you’re leaning in, both of you, like magnets. you let your eyes close as denki pulls you closer, the music and shouting and fireworks fading into the distance as your lips meet his.

one.

it’s a long time before you separate, and even longer before either of you even think about getting up from the patio couch.

“happy new year, denki,” you murmur through a little smile.

even though you’re both looking up at the sky, you can practically hear the matching smile in his voice. “happy new year.”

i meant to get this out closer to new years, but i’m actually happy with how it turned out either way. denki is so special to me. take care and much love,

- 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 ! 🩷🩷

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apeninastory · 13 hours ago

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ivan as a tragic-love character (pt.4c?) (nowhere edition)

Part 2 here. I RE-READ THIS A COUPLE OF TIMES BUT HONESTLY MY BRAIN IS SO FRIED I AM NOT SURE WHAT THIS POST CONTAINS. i may have exagerated and also forgotten something, but there is at least another post abt ivan waiting, soooo...

omg i feel like i could write a whole book abt ivan, i swear. i am finally where i wanted to be - the new song, the one that took over my brain and that i kinda want to listen to in repeat for the rest of my life.

and mind you - this is "Ivan Part 1". PART. 1. WTAF.

9] nowhere.

this is probably the moment nowhere is born. ivan's hypocris and dissonance gave birth to this - which may be why the lore of this CD tells us it was found by chance, stored in Anakt Lost and Found Center and recorded as sold by an unknown donor. that means, he probably composed, wrote and recorded nowhere back in anakt, before graduation - though i like the idea of ivan composing this after it, in the period of time he didn't see till, mizi and sua, a period where memories might have taken over his mind and made him nostalgic, restless.

[who is the unknown donor and why is it ivan himself?]

i feel like it is much more personal and raw than black sorrow, and since i am obsessed with ivan, i can't resists its call - it is now my favourite among all the alnst tracks.

the cover.

this is, like, the first step. where the tears start.

it is not our first time seeing little ivan from the slums-arc, but every time, it feels like a punch on the face. the little snaggletooth is there, he is dirty and wears worn out (lab?) clothes and his eyes are so so empty, i can barely stand looking at him without crying.

another important element: the small feet belonging to one of the kids - toes are missing. did those, dunno, froze and got removed? did adults/aliens remove them to torture the kid/make him incapable of running away/as a punishment of sort? no idea. as i said, i love the idea of ivan being born in an illegal factory for pet humans - it would fit so so well - born as a commodity from the very beginning.

like, how much more miserable do i want my baby to be? yes.

the title.

it's nowhere, but for the cover they went like "no, let's play something" and split it in now here. obvious question: why?

nowhere is undefined - it's a no-place, it means "not in or to any place; not anywhere". it might suggest ivan's lack of a sense of belonging, again, the insecurity that comes with not having a stable life - practically and emotionally.

now here is a bit more defined - here is a place, but where, exactly? and is it only a place or more a situation, a moment, a condition? probably both - like, "now i am here, doing this, being this, within this situation and that's it". the song should tell us more!

the lyrics.

and then the music starts.

In love with you When you were mine In love with you (reverse?) In love Love Love always You In love Love always

wow. just - mindblowing.

this is Ivan's solo, his own song, like hyuna's drunk & party and love & peace. the appearance of the world love is incredibly important, but i don't think it defines the theme of the whole song.

what it does is set the pov - this song is written/composed in a moment where ivan: already knows this word + thinks he knows what it means (and links it to till).

the fact that these verses sound radio-like, distant, as if ivan is listening to them instead of actively singing. it creates a gap between them and the rest of the song. it feels like he is composing the song in a moment when he already knows is love is doomed, so he rewinds back to his own origins and speaks abt himself. the song is written by a Ivan who already knows everything, so we can find traces of "future events" in verses of the song that are supposedly about the past.

these words also sound distorted - love is not sweet sounding and charming and light, like my clematis, nor it is energetic and hopeful like unknown until the end, with till wishing to know more and singing abt his resilience. no. in nowhere, love is raspy and numb and has darker hues - it is obsessive, haunting, just like how these verses resound for the entire song in the background.

they sound like a condemnation and a reminder: ivan loves, can't help but love, has no choice but to love, is condemned to love, chose actively to love. they also sound like he is drilling the word into the listener's head by repeating to it non-stop, in an obsessive cycle.

Nowhere, from beginning to end a stained history It freely chatters away That always happens to me

Key words: history, beginning to end. i already said many times, but ivan is a narrator. this is the starting point of ivan's story, ivan's realities, both the one he begins to write abt himself (or tries to) and the one from where we can glimpes at the real ivan. the lyrics might have started with "once upon a time there was a black-haired boy..." and get the same effect. he recounts a history (his own) that is real to him, that mirrors his life - but we can't totally believe him. let's keep this in mind!

we know this story ends in black, with an empty spot and blood (black soooorroooooow), but how does it start? this song has references to ivan's past and life at anakt, so it was probably written slighlty before graduation (since the CD was found in anakt warehouse and an unregistered track - how ivan recorded it is a mystery, but we know he has knowledge and priviledges other do not have). either that, or after graduation/before alien stage, and he somehow found a way to sneak the CD there.

that is probably why he writes "from beginning to end, a stained history": he remembers the beginning and is in a position where he can already predict the end of the story - stained, never pure, since the very start, as if his life was destined to be like that.

what abt the "freely chatters away" verse? i'm not sure, because how can someone's history chatter away? i think we can see it as "it freely chatters away from my mouth", like this story spills from ivan easily, like he can easily build lies for the sake of keeping this illusion, this mask he has, going. the expression apparently indicates someone speaking fluidly, in a relaxed way, but also rambling for a long time. it may suggest that, while from the outside ivan looks smooth and collected, from his point of view this is all rambling, it's the fictional-ivan he created for the sake of the society he lives in - a ivan he needs and uses and maybe resents.

"that always happens to me" reinforces the "beginning to end" part of the song - he is singing abt a common theme in his life in a dejected tone, resigned, like he knows/feels he can't do anything abt it and is okay with it. the stain is permanent and he is destined to "that".

Nowhere, rose-tinted rigid dream and hope It's stained with blood That's just how it is That always happens to me

this is where it gets super super interesting. if in the previous part ivan was warning us abt this being a story (his story and/or the story he is writing abt himself), we are now within ivan's narration.

ivan is still nowhere, but we have some coordinates: a "rigid dream and hope" dyed in rosy hues. he tells us about the existence of a dream immersed in a light, delicate color - the color of stereotypical love/affection (?), of beautiful things. also, this dream/hope is rigid, which is not very dream-like or hopeful.

contrasting images, how fitting for our living oxymoron!

a dream may be something that is commonly regarded as beautiful and ideal (a dream), but that for ivan is rigid - forced? unnatural? a dream he has to fit in in order to survive/blend in/function in the society he finds himself in, perhaps. i explained how other kids at anakt see him and how he makes himself friendlier and smilier. this may be it.

we could also make it abt romantic love. maybe ivan is trying to fit into a vision of love he can't fully embrace/mirror, so he perceives it as stiff. i hope i'm about to phrase it in the right way, but a nice example might be the contrast between mainstream and/or hetero depiction of love vs lgbt depiction of love. ivan being (canonically?) gay gives this idea even more credit - in a normal world, without aliens, surrounded by ways of loving ivan doesn't identify in, this sentence presents his discomfort abt not fitting in stereotypical love.

of course alnst!ivan doesn't have that benefit, but i think this discourse may work as some sort of parallelism: ivan can't love the way he sees other people love. take mizi and sua, for example. in ivan's eyes, they fit the "rose-tinted dream and hope", it is not "stiff" if he puts them in it, then he thinks about himself, abt how he loves (loves till) and it doesn't work anymore.

[we could associate it to till's depiction of love - the rosy hues of this dream are not to be intended as stereotypical, but as the ideal love till wants (sees in mizi) and ivan can't give - perhaps, but i'd like to focus on ivan]

"it's stained with blood", here we come to the stained history from before - stained with what? eh. ivan's life started with blood and ended with blood (his own), but also the blood of humanity, of the people he meets, also destined to a bloody end because of the world they live in. a rosy dream, a rosy hope, the blabbering wonders of a young mind end in red, in blood, and the contrast is as good as it is painful. what is the point of trying to fit in an illusion like that when he already knows what the end will be? that's why his story was stained from the beginning - the end was clear as day since ivan's first opened his eyes.

yeah. "that's just how it is", after all, from ivan's pov. he is resigned to it, so the illusion gives him no comfort, prevents him from fitting in. and again, it is something that always happens to him. what is it? not belonging. he is nowhere, in a story written by him that is stained since the beginning (his birth) to the end (his death), a story with no hope of redemption or finding better condition - a story where not even a dream can give him hope.

My sky, shaped by the world doesn't even let me stand under it I lay down and look at yesterday's daydream, all torn up

i love this part. okay.

"my sky" - the sky is something everyone has above their head. it's just there, no matter the planet. adding "my" kinda gives it something poetic abt it, as if the narrator is not reffering to the sky, but a particular something/someone that can be equated to the sky. while this is a possible interpretation

[again, the sky and the color teal resonate with each other, it is an interesting way of fitting till here, but it's not only that!]

we need to dig a bit more. how many skies did ivan see? the one in the slums - glimpses between rundown buildings -, the night sky before his auction, the fake baby blue at anakt, the red metor shower sky with till, the (fake?) one above the stage he died on. what do the have in common? all are concessions/creations given to him by others. adding "my" makes it interesting, because the sky is not something that can belong to a person, but we know ivan feels a connection with what the sky holds.

"shaped by the world" - that's why he added this. it is "his" sky in the measure which it was shaped by someone/something else. his birth, aliens, till, these are all entities that influenced the "sky" ivan claims as "his", as if to say "i can't have the whole thing because so many have taken it away from me/have limited the sky i could reach".

"doesn't even let me stand under it" - not only that, not only the slice of sky he can have is limited, his sky (this remaining slice) doesn't even accept him. how heart-breaking is this? because we know the sky isn't guilty - this is how ivan perceives himself. he feels rejected by people and by the world, as if it was saying to him that he shouldn't have been born. after all, if the sky does't let him stand under it, what place does ivan have left?

this speaks to me abt his authentic inability to belong. while i think we can say that it is not true that he is unwanted, it is not true that the world rejects him, i can sure understand why he sees himself like that - abandoned, ill threated, sold off, "unloved", used as a commodity. his view of himself, crooked as it is, is not baseles.

he can't have a physical place - so he creates his own reality.

saying "I lay down and look at yesterday's daydream, all torn up" makes me think abt little ivan, back on the ground, staring up the same way we would lay on grass and watch the clouds move.

"yesterday" - we can take it literally, so the day prior, of more figuratively, it may refer to the past. the story progresses: there was a time when ivan used to have dreams, maybe rose-tinted, maybe those same dreams he can't fit in now, and he regards them now as something from the past, from which he now distance himself

"daydream" - these were not unconscious dreams made at night, but dreams he conjured willingly, his own narrative, the story of the ivan he wanted to be all tangled in this song.

"all torn up" - like he knows better, now, than to abandon himself to them. they are all torn up, probably by the awareness that they are dreams, and that ivan can't fit in.

ivan is talking abt the attempt at dreaming he made when he was young, and abt his discovery/awareness that it doesn't work for him. let's think of the meteor shower event with till. by escaping with him, ivan tried to fit into till's dream (freedom), but failed. so he stares at this, at his "yesterday's daydreams", and replays them in his mind.

does this mean he stops dreaming? honestly, i don't think so. ivan is a hopeless romantic (not strictly related to love, but "of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality"), a drama queen, a narrator. part of the frustration this song suggest may be related to the fact that despite knowing it is useless, he can't help but doing it.

welcome to humanity, baby! human beings and their souls crave for art.

Fly far, far away Never, never again Come back to me Because it's easier to forget It's so typical Typical to me

although not explicitly said, it appears that here ivan is not talking to himself, seems to be referring to a "you". he doesn't have problems with mentioning himself in the lyrics (happens to me, my sky, I lay down), so it must mean something!

i am a bit torn, here, because it could still mean that he (present ivan) is speaking to little ivan. like he wants to chase away his vulnerable and inexperienced past self, so distant from the ivan he became and needs to be in order to live in relative peace until the end. "fly away from my mind, don't let me reminesh, don't let me remember, forgetting is easier, safer, as i am used to force myself to live survive in ignorance". he could also be asking him(self) to escape, at least within the dream - to go far, far away, in a safe place, so not to experience what he had.

but. in love with you, when you were mine. daydreams and hope and blood stains, a sky that doesn't want him... it feels like ivan isn't only at war with himself, but with a different stain, a different imprint, a different someone. the robotic voice is still there, in the background, like a reminder that this is not only about the ivan-self.

ivan is trying to get rid of something.

he is inviting that something to go away, or maybe chasing it away from him, to safety. imagine that something is a someone. imagine that someone is till. now take these words and make them abt till: "fly away from my mind, don't let me reminesh, don't let me remember, forgetting is easier, safer, as i am used to force myself to live survive in ignorance". what if he is telling till to go away becausse he doesn't want to hurt him with his words and behaviour anymore? what if he also doing it for himself? because if ivan doesn't think abt till, if he doesn't think abt the meteor shower, if he doesn't think about alien stage being the place where one of them will probably have to die, he can put all his efforts into his performance and win. we know he can - r3 ended with him making 90 points. till is good, but r6, absent-minded till? ivan could win. it's just that in the end, he can't.

i like both interpretation, because they both force ivan to face parts of himself he probably doesn't like or can't accept or even better, can't understand.

Wake up, wake up In my overwhelming daily life Is it for real? An existence like dust I can't stand to look at it Close my eyes And my mind

"wake up" - he is talking to himself now. as i said, i don't think adult ivan stops dreaming just because he can't abandon himself to his daydreams the way others do. the point his, waking up is like a slap in the face for him - his daily life is overwhelming: medical experimentations, lessons, alien stage awaiting him, songs to record, death, and what remains of him? "an existence like dust"

he can't stand the idea of keeping his eyes on it. he can't find refuge in the dream (so he turns off his mind), he can't find solace in reality (so he closes his eyes). are you starting to get why the song is called nowhere?

Worse and worse This painful wound I become more and more numb In the dark City lights I Can't find anyone Anyone Anyone

the "painful wound" can be a a trauma (his past, threatment at anakt, meteor shower) or simply a mix of everything - it can be his whole life, perceived as a festering wound he can't heal from, that makes him number and number to everything, both dream and reality. the darkness has lights, but no one in sight.

Nowhere, from beginning to end a stained history With that revolting tooth That always happens to me

the chorus repeats, but with a variant - "With that revolting tooth", the saggletooth we and the alien public all love.

hatred toward himself - ivan is incredibly critical of himself, but not in a neautral, objective way. he finds this detail of him "revolting", which is too strong a word and confirms that he cannot be objective when it comes to himself. baby, you are beautiful???? NOTHING is revolting abt you. what the hell.

it may be a reminder of something that happened to him in the slums, though. a trauma, a critica, tortures? i wish i knew!

Nowhere, seeped in purple rigid dream and hope It's stained with blood That's just how it is That always happens to me

his dream and hope take a different hue - purple. it is getting darker, if we think they were initially tinted in a rose-colour. it feels like his daydream is maturing, that there is a temporal shift, so while his first daydreams were rosy, growing up they became purplish. heading toward black?

That's just the kind of kid he is, so laugh Laugh, because he can't do anything No one cares about someone like him There's nowhere in the world for him to rest That's just how he is

another super interesting part. look at the change in subject: he.

i wrote abt ivan's dissonance, his splitting in two, the frustration he feels with himself. i also said he is trying to get rid of something, and it makes a lot of sense that that something is the side of himself he resents/can't understand/can't reason with.

notice how the way he sings this and the next part gets quicker, more raspy, less elegant. it feels like a punch in the face with how intense it is. ivan sounds resentful. not angry, maybe - his voice is soft, haunting, resigned for most of the song, but here? he is letting it all go. he is venting, releasing. "there is nothing to do, kid, things are bound to stay the way they were, the way they are, so just laugh and keep smiling because no one will ever care about you. don't even try, don't look for a place to be, this is how things are and no amount of dreams/efforts will change things up."

so. he is talking to himself. nowhere is a letter to his past self - little ivan, lost between the slums, his daydreams and the hope to be loved. his tone grows louder, more livelier for a moment, because he is feeling it all.

He's smooth, flexible, quite easy Just go past it like it doesn't bother you It's nothing, shake it off and stand tall Again, it's nothing, shake it off and stand tall Like nothing happened

and after talking to himself, he mentions till. i can't fit the English sentence here as something ivan tells himself/kid ivan, it is far from how he perceives himself. the sentence is also in English, so it's like he is highlighting the change in subject.

that's why he reminds himself "don't bother, don't think, ignore it all, forget that it all happened". what? the meteor shower. it comes back to that as a moment where not only till, the whole dream of ivan being able to fit in splits and falls apart - the starting point of the dissonance that will lead ivan to composing this song.

Wake up, wake up In my beautiful life Is it for real? An existence like dust I can't stand to look at it Close my eyes And my mind

the dream has collapsed, so back to reality - the reality he built for himself, where he can control things. this life is beautiful, but it is obviously a lie, because his existence is still like dust, and he still needs to keep eyes and mind closed.

the wound keeps festering - the reality he builds for himself is to have the illusion of a place to stay, but not a mind-numbing one. he knows he doesn't belong, doesn't pretend to find a place for himself, that's why the rest of the verses are the same. it's still him and he is still aware, but there is a disillusioned acceptance to his role.

Nowhere, from beginning to end A festering histerie With these cruel lips That always happens to me

this is also where the anger and loathing he feels toward himself most emerge, i think.

"festering" reminds us of the wound ivan lives with, the one that keeps hurting and keeps him numbed to the pain, but here it is linked to hysteria ("exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion or excitement"). so it really is something ivan feels he can't keep under control. perhaps, the process of putting all this darkness in a song was meant to be cathartic.

"with those cruel lips" makes me wanna scream. because even though i logically link this to ivan and to what he said abt himself in this comic, the song keeps presenting us with instances where we can link some verses to till instead - ivan has been cruel to him, from ivan's pov, but maybe, a part of ivan also blames till for cruelly ignoring him and his sorrow.

Nowhere, seeped in black rigid dream and hope It's stained with blood That's just how it is That always happens to me That always happens to me That always happens to me

"seeped in black"!!!!! darkness fell, ivan's heart is still once more, he is once again in control - resigned to his fate, or better, the fate he assigned himself.

"black" winks at black sorrow - and perhaps this is the moment ivan began to plan his willing demise.

this may also be why the cover says "now here": ivan is here, in pre-alien stage, with this song in his hands, with these memories freshly extracted from his mind, freshly recollected. he disposes of it all and goes back to the short life that remains him, the chaos in his head appeased, the confusion numbed, ready to head toward the black end.

° * °

ivan is presented with all these contrasts and complications and differences between what he would have wanted to be (his dream) and what his reality has to offer (till loving mizi, ivan loveless and unlovable, a death game with an inevitable ending).

i thought nothing hurt more than black sorrow, but this song is painfully ivan. it couldn't have gotten more personal than this, and it makes my heart ache so much.

this is the song the pictures ivan most perfectly. this is also the song ivan never wanted us, everyone, to find. the dissonance and hypocrisis in himself grew to a point that he probably needed to let it out - and what's the best way to do it for someone like ivan who seldom even feels like needing to let it all out? music. he has been studying it profoundly, knows it can be cathartic - has seen his friends, especially till, use music as a medium for emotions, both controlled and bottled up.

he composes and writes this to be abt himself - maybe abt his friends, maybe against the system -, but he does and narrates himself the way he sees himself, the ivan that he thinks he is. we know he is an unreliable narrator, and the song tells us exactly that: this is ivan, someone who can't be trusted when describing himself, so in a way, the unreliability is ivan's most accurate portrait.

he probably felt naked after recording this, so i have a strong feeling ivan himself disposed of it - that is why it was "found" in a warehouse - as the song is ivan's story, but also a cry against the system for making him like this and a love/hate letter, to till and to himself. he couldn't let anyone find it before his death, now, could he?

PART 4 coming soon?

#alnst #alnst ivan #alien stage #character analysis #fangirling and analysis #nowhere lyrics

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storiesabouteli · 23 hours ago

Text

Do The Damage. Part 2 // Dilf! Noel Gallagher X f!Reader (Smut).

prompt: Noel falling for a younger singer who isn’t famous yet and is just starting out, so he guides her like a tutor to boost her career and help her gain more attention. But would this bond remain purely professional? (Involves smut, with the potential to escalate over time and features an age gap.)

Here's Part 1!!!

words: 5,7k.

a/n: It's supposed to be 4 parts, it doesn't have a grand plot, I just wanted to write about this topic. I hope you like it! (and pls use a condom, this is just a fanfic)

Your curious eyes wandered around the vast studio.

“For now, yes, but later there’ll be more people,” Noel replied, noticing your curiosity.

You nodded, hands tucked into the pockets of your dress. LA was unbearably hot, and he was practically freezing you with the air conditioning. He had shown you every corner of the studio, and by now, you felt fairly comfortable. Guitars adorned the walls, along with basses and a drum set from one of those impossibly expensive brands. You stood in front of him, looking a bit like a lost child, genuinely waiting to be told what to do next.

It took him a moment, but he realized your discomfort.

“Alright, I probably didn’t plan this out too well,” he admitted with a soft laugh. Noel had this way of laughing—never showing his teeth, always restrained—yet it still carried an effort to make you feel welcome. He mentioned having read through the songs you sent, even though he had already listened to them before. Now, he said, he knew the exact lyrics. You were both eager and terrified to know his exact thoughts about your work.

“Is it okay if I use the equipment?” you asked, your fingers lightly brushing one of the microphones as you picked up the headphones, waiting for his approval. Everything about this was new, and you wanted to immerse yourself in every detail.

“Feel free to use whatever you want, little’un.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, and you bit the inside of your lip to ground yourself. You glanced at the buttons; they were a mystery to you—just rows of switches without any labels that made sense. Noel seemed to forget that all of this was second nature only to him.

“Alright, let’s start by getting you familiar with everything. Once you’re comfortable, we’ll figure out what to do next.”

It sounded like a good idea.

Time flew by. What felt like mere minutes had actually been hours. Occasionally, the two of you would lapse into silence, but it was never awkward. He had a soothing voice, explaining things as if they weren’t obvious, allowing you to visualize every step. You liked the way he talked.

His hair was longer than the last time you had seen him, the dark strands now interspersed with gray and brushing the tops of his ears. The piercing blue of his eyes shone brightly as he spoke and gestured. He wore a dark button-up shirt, which made little sense given the LA heat, but he looked undeniably good in darker colors. The shirt failed to fully conceal the hair on his chest, which peeked out just enough to be distracting.

“This is pretty heavy, Noel,” you said as he handed you a red guitar with his last name etched into its side. It was clearly well-used, with the wear and tear of countless gigs, but it was still beautiful. Noel seemed amused by the way you pronounced his name, your accent stretching the vowels slightly, like it was meant for you to say it that way. That could be your thing, he wouldn't dare to correct it, he even hoped to hear it again.

The guitars you had played before were lighter, simpler, and less durable.

“You can play it if you want. It’s good to get used to a specific guitar early on.”

You listened, feeling an odd warmth in your chest as you wished he would call you “little one” again. You adjusted the strap, your gaze falling to the floor.

“I don’t know how to play,” you admitted softly, your fingers pressing down on the strings without producing any sound.

He nodded, as if he actually understood.

“What don’t you know, little’un?” he asked softly, his expression calm, as though it never crossed his mind that you could be anything less than genuine. His body was behind yours, close enough that you could feel your heart pounding, and you were sure he could hear it. He reached over, placing his hand on the guitar’s neck and gently adjusting a few strings.

The truth was simple: you hummed melodies, your friends figured out the notes, and then you carried them with you.

“I only know my songs,” you admitted, hesitating. “There aren’t many, and I memorized them with the help of some friends at the pub.” The words felt clumsy as they left your mouth. Without realizing it, you took a step back, bumping into Noel’s solid chest. His hands found your waist instinctively, steadying you. He smelled familiar, and his touch was just as cool and soft as you remembered.

"There’s nowt wrong wi' that. No one’s born knowin’.” he said, his voice low and sure, as though speaking directly into your ear. “I’ve learned a lot since the first album; we can work on this if you’d like.”

His breath brushed your skin as he spoke, dangerously close. “Want to try something?” he asked, strumming a short segment of one of your songs. He had memorized the chords—he’d listened to it that much. It felt odd, but you let it go, too focused on steadying your own breathing.

“I’m not sure...” Your voice faltered, and he laughed softly—a nasal, warm sound. His shirt brushed against your bare arms as he shifted closer.

Taking your hands in his, he guided your fingers, demonstrating each press of the strings and the sounds they produced. The simplicity of the act caught you off guard; your mind felt blank as you followed his movements. His hands were strong yet gentle, his fingers adorned with rings that you couldn’t help but notice. You fixated on the way his skin moved against yours, completely distracted.

“This isn’t sounding right,” you said impulsively, turning your face toward him. His eyes, which had been focused on your hands, now met yours, and the proximity was overwhelming. You immediately looked down, feeling vulnerable, and he noticed your hesitance.

“But it will. Trust me, yeah?” His smile was reassuring, revealing slightly crooked lower teeth and the faint lines of age around his eyes. His thumb grazed the bridge of your nose absentmindedly, a fleeting moment of intimacy that made his cheeks flush. He quickly pulled back, brushing his hand over his own face as if the action had been too much.

God, he was something.

“You’re doing well, tiny one,” he murmured, his tone encouraging. “You just need to relax and give it more time.”

Your fingers ached, and you instinctively pulled your hands back. “You trust me a lot,” you said softly.

He noticed the faint bruising on the tips of your fingers, the start of a superficial cut—nothing unusual for someone unused to playing. His gaze softened as he pressed the edge of his shirt to your hand, stopping the bleeding.

“Shouldn’t you?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “Trust yourself, I mean. So far, I haven’t seen anything in you that doesn’t show how good you are at this...” His words trailed off, slightly disjointed, but you found yourself wishing he’d talk about you like that more often.

Noel made a mental note of your cold hands and the way your short, thin clothing seemed to betray the studio’s chill. He pressed your hand one last time as if silently resolving to make sure you were warm and comfortable next time.

…

In the days that followed, before heading back to the hotel, Noel suggested the two of you go out to eat—a way to spend more time talking. His suggestion seemed casual, but beneath it was a genuine effort to do something meaningful for you. He worried about repeating the mistakes he’d made early in Oasis, afraid of being a bad influence or overwhelming you. At the same time, he simply wanted to be around you. Both feelings were true.

Since you’d spent hours at the studio, and he hadn’t thought to offer you a proper meal, he picked a relaxed spot. It had the feel of the pubs you performed in—live music and warm, dim lighting.

When you arrived, a chill brushed against your arms. Noel chuckled, noticing. You hadn’t seen him carrying a jacket, but he swiftly draped one over your shoulders, his gaze thoughtful over you. The weight of it was reassuring.

“I can control the studio’s temperature, but most places here are air-conditioned. You’ll end up freezing,” he said. You didn’t respond, too preoccupied with wondering whether he’d always have a jacket for you—these oversized, cozy layers that swallowed you whole. You liked the way his scent clung to the fabric and hated that your thoughts weren’t as innocent as they should have been.

Sitting across from him, there was nothing to distract you. The moment felt unguarded, almost daunting. He had loosened a few buttons because of the heat, and the soft collar rested against his rosy skin, his neck chain catching faintly in the light. His eyes, unwavering, were on you, and you felt your stomach flutter.

Your foot brushed against his under the table. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, but neither of you moved. His posture was relaxed as always, his deep, nasal breaths calming despite the quiet tension in the air. Eventually, your foot settled against his calf, taking in the warmth of him.

“What’s that smell?” he asked, breaking the silence, motioning toward the pink tube of moisturizer in your hand.

“Peach,” you said, your voice betraying a small note of excitement. You wanted to talk more but worried that beyond music, you might not be interesting enough for him.

“It’s nice. It makes me feel less tense,” you admitted. He let you take his hand in yours.

His hands were larger, rougher—calloused in a way yours should have been. You applied a small drop of cream, carefully massaging the hardened patches and tracing the prominent veins. Your nails grazed his wrist lightly, eliciting a pleasant tickle. It felt like an eternity, but neither of you rushed the moment.

You smoothed out the creases in his shirt next, your hands brushing against his wrist as you rebuttoned it. You folded the cuffs to what you assumed he’d consider the perfect height. When you looked up, his jacket was still draped over your shoulders, your smile faint but content. He noticed how the strap of your dress sat slightly askew but didn’t say anything. Instead, you adjusted it yourself, catching his gaze in the process.

Noel shifted uncomfortably, silently berating himself for the thoughts creeping into his mind. But as much as he resented the pull he felt, he couldn’t ignore how real it all seemed.

When you finished, you noticed he was watching you intently. You smiled a bit more openly this time, and his eyes softened, as though they were smiling back. The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty—it was full of things neither of you dared to say aloud.

The food arrived shortly after. Noel whispered a quiet “thank you” as you pulled his jacket closer around yourself. He hoped it would carry your scent by the end of the night.

The atmosphere remained easy, the unspoken comfort between you palpable. Noel wasn’t particularly hungry, but watching the way your eyes lit up with every bite and how your smile widened unknowingly made him savor his meal. You made him feel good—better than he had in a long time. Everything else in his life was chaos, except for you.

It had only been a week, but he already felt like he did back in school when he had a crush—looking forward to seeing someone so much it made the days worthwhile. He found himself wanting to avoid trouble, if only to be in a better place whenever he saw you.

At one point, he gently wiped the corner of your mouth with his thumb, clearing away a small smudge. You watched him, reflexively brushing the same spot with your hand afterward. For a fleeting moment, Noel considered bringing his thumb to his lips, but he stopped himself, knowing it would feel too weighted. Instead, he wiped it with a napkin, hesitating to apologize lest it make things awkward.

You didn’t seem to mind. Your cheeks were flushed, and the tingling sensation of his touch stayed on your skin. It wasn’t a mistake—you liked it. And as he sat there across from you, watching your expression under the dim light, Noel knew he did too.

…

"Do you need sunscreen? I didn’t see you apply any yet," you asked, preparing your second layer while Noel hadn’t bothered with any. "How disgraceful, Noel. You hardly seem like an older man." He rolled his eyes at your teasing. Until the rest of the team arrived to record your songs, he kept you busy like that, and also by repeating vocal exercises and practicing breathing. It was embarrassing, but hearing him say, "You're doing great, darling. Let’s try one more time, but you’re getting it right," never failed to make you feel both comforted and eager to hug him.

In the coming weeks, you’d be performing together, singing some of his songs as a guest. Nothing had been rehearsed yet, but the thought alone tied a knot of anxiety in your throat. Sharing the stage with him felt unimaginable, especially since you weren’t used to large audiences.

The wind tousled his hair, and his carefree expression was oddly reassuring. You handed him a bit of sunscreen, but his clumsy attempts to apply it made you laugh. "Alright, Noely, let me handle this." Your cool fingertips touched his face as you removed his sunglasses. The scent of peach lingered in the air as you smoothed the cream over his skin, feeling the roughness of his beard under your hands. Noel closed his eyes, letting himself relax–not that he could much.

Tracing the bridge of his nose with your thumb, you made him sigh, his lips parting slightly. For a fleeting moment, time seemed to slow. Stepping back, you finished applying the sunscreen to his shoulders. Even though you wanted to, you didn't go any lower than that, letting him continue on his own.

When his hands moved across your back in return, his warm touch calmed you. Noel’s thoughts wandered, struggling against the pull of desires he knew he shouldn’t entertain. But something about the peaceful way you smiled, eyes closed, made every barrier he’d built feel meaningless.

Gently moving the strap of your bikini aside to cover your skin, he found himself tempted to press his lips to the curve of your neck, imagining how your breath would hitch at the touch. He shouldn’t want this—he knew it. But in that quiet moment, with you so serene and trusting, resisting felt impossible. You were there, unguarded, as though he was your safe haven. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to be.

“Wait a min," you murmured, your voice soft and drawn out, a lazy whisper. Your fingers, light and unsure, fumbled with his as you untied the bikini string, letting it fall away to expose more of your skin–not in a provocative way, but enough to stir something unspoken. His gaze lingered, heavy and unreadable, though he kept his expression neutral.

Careful not to overstep, Noel began rubbing sunscreen over the newly revealed area, his touch slow and deliberate as he worked down toward your waist, barely brushing your hips. Your skin felt impossibly soft beneath his hands, as if it might break with the slightest misstep. With a final, almost reverent squeeze, he let his hand fall away, your body responding with a subtle shiver at the loss of contact and a faint murmur escaping your lips.

Sitting back, Noel noticed how still you were, your head nestled closer to the makeshift pillow of your towel. A quiet chuckle slipped from him as he realized why–you had drifted off, the process taking longer than either of you had anticipated. For a moment, he allowed himself to watch you, his heart caught between tenderness and restraint.

…

The unfolding of the night felt like the complete opposite of the calm that had settled in you earlier. Your chest was heavy, overwhelmed by a sudden realization of just how famous he was. His button-down shirt still smelled like him, and all you could recall was being pressed against his chest as he carefully guided you to a quieter spot. His fingers had gripped your skin, his gaze grounding, and the relieved words, "I think no one saw us," still echoed in your mind, leaving you shaken.

He hadn’t acted on impulse—there were groups of men looking for him, girls with cameras, and he had made it clear that it was important not to be seen with you. It was terrifying in every sense, but what struck you most was the new ache in your chest, knowing he didn’t want to be seen with you.

"I know this happened because you’re well-known," you said, swallowing hard as you struggled to find the right words. Noel knelt in front of you, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He wasn’t entirely sure how to fix this, but he hoped his presence was enough to offer some comfort. His touch felt right; an unspoken attempt to reassure you, though the proximity unsettled him in ways he couldn’t quite name. Still, given the circumstances, it felt like the right thing to do.

“I’m really sorry, truly. This was careless of me," he apologized, his voice soft but genuine.

You shook your head, your hands gently cupping his face as you pushed his hair back. His deep blue eyes met yours, filled with concern. You were on the verge of tears, and the weight of it all made him uneasy. He wasn’t sure he fully understood your feelings, but they pierced him nonetheless.

"Noel, I might sound stupid, but—" you hesitated. Before you could finish, he pulled you in, his arms wrapping around you with tenderness. Your legs circled his waist as you held onto him tightly. He stroked your hair, surrendering to the closeness, knowing he had never been this intimate with you before—and it was better than he’d ever imagined.

"If they like me, which I really hope they do—you know, with the songs, working with you, and all the pre-album promotion as an artist..." you trailed off, pausing to gather your thoughts. "I don’t want to sound ungrateful. This whole journey with you has been incredible, but... will it be normal?"

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, which made it easier to speak freely without the weight of embarrassment. Noel listened, his mind racing. He hadn’t thought about it like this before—how exposed you’d become to a part of his world he disliked himself. And the truth was, simply avoiding being seen together wouldn’t fix it. Soon, you would be just as much in the public eye as he was.

His tongue rested against the roof of his mouth as your fingers found their place at the nape of his neck, gently tugging at the fine hairs there–much like the way you fidget with the hem of your shirt when you're anxious. It soothed you. Your gaze dropped to his chest, and it hit you that this was the first time you'd held him for so long. He wore a light shirt, but after having seen him without it, the fabric somehow felt far less concealing. You liked everything about this–the warmth radiating from him and the unobstructed view of him in this moment.

He tugged gently at the collar of your shirt, pulling your face closer until his breath danced across your skin. When your eyes met his, you saw no attempt to mask his intent–he was staring straight into your soul. You were beautiful, even now, with red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Understanding the turmoil inside you, he let you whisper through the haze of your emotions, "I can't mess this up.”

His focus didn't waver. Though every part of him wanted to pull you closer, he held back, patiently waiting for you to continue. "I want this too. I just... I don't want you to think less of me, okay?" Tears threatened to spill again. As you instinctively tried to lower your head, he gently tilted your chin back up, fully grasping the weight of what you were trying to express.

"I don't want you to think I'm doing this just because I'm interested in you. I don't want you to see me as..." You hesitated, searching for the right words. Instead of pressuring you, he pressed his forehead lightly against yours, cradling your face in his hands with a tenderness that disarmed you.

"I don't think anything bad about you, uh?" he said softly, unwavering but gentle. "I've never thought that way. These are just your worries, you got me? Nothing's gonna change the fact that I think you're talented and competent. That has nothing to do with how I see you as a professional. You don't have to be afraid of that."

His voice was firm, louder than usual, the roughness in his tone just right. Each word sank in, steadying you as you listened. He swallowed hard, his lips slightly parted, and you couldn't help but notice how patient he was, how perfectly he seemed to understand that you needed this moment to gather yourself. Your fingers tightened around his, and then, finally, your lips found his.

The kiss was slow, tentative. Though you felt self-conscious, unsure of yourself, it was warm, grounding. He pulled you closer, your body naturally molding against his as if you belonged there.

When you began to pull back, a flicker of doubt creeping in, his hand caught the collar of your shirt again, pulling you back into a deeper, more urgent kiss. The gesture made it clear–he had been waiting for this far too long to let you retreat now. As you leaned back slightly, he held you firmly, sensing how you were beginning to soften against him.

He chuckled into the kiss, his breath against your skin. His tongue brushed yours, the movements slow and deliberate, every kiss lingering as if he wanted to savor each second. The taste was salty–a mix of your tears and the sea–and you couldn't help but laugh softly at the thought of him being "seasoned.”

Your hand reached up to brush the hair from his face, and you took in the sight of him. His cheeks were flushed, his lips swollen, and his beard scratched gently against your skin, a sensation you hadn't fully processed until now. You wanted more, and for the first time, you didn't feel the need to hold back.

"You're beautiful," he said softly. You nodded, your lashes fluttering in a way that made him wonder if it was his words or his voice causing it. Either way, he was determined to keep seeing that reaction.

He ran his calloused fingers along up the curve of your thigh, stopping just at the edge, giving your hips a firm squeeze. Your nails dug into his shoulders in anticipation as your legs parted briefly, giving him better access and also making the fabric of your shirt give him a better view. The bottom of your bikini clung tightly to your skin, leaving faint indentations where the fabric pressed. His lungs filled with heavy air, as did his mouth with saliva, and he kissed the spot with a light bite.

He didn't need to ask, soon your back was against the sheets. You weren't scandalous to his ears, but something about it made you more noticeable, your breathing loud and prolonged. He undid the ties, brushing the rings on the sides, and revealing your flesh little by little. He moved one of your hands that were on your belly away and kissed the spot before looking at you. He wanted so much for this to be comfortable for you.

"Y’alright there, little’un?” Your eyes were teary, and he had barely touched you. You nodded, a simple noise of agreement. Your attention was his, your fingers entering his hair in a caress that made him close his eyes, resting his chin on your skin.

He dragged his face, soaking in your sounds, as the texture of his newly grown beard took hold of your exposure.

He chuckled, his nose touching your center, just enjoying how your fingers tightened in his hair to get him closer. This would take time, he was in no rush. He kissed your skin, groaning as he felt your taste on his tongue and realized how wet you were. His hands tightened around you, holding your hips and dragging them so that it would be better for him.

His body was warm, he pulled away slightly, touching his fingers to you and pushing them in just a little. Your legs moved back, but your only vision was of him leaning his head closer and sucking on his fingers right after, licking his red lips and swallowing cautiously.

"Yer proper good, yeah?" Your lips were a bit open, not knowing if that needed to be answered. It was a short pause, which felt like hours, but soon his eyes were closed and his tongue was firmly inside you.

When his fingers took their place inside you, the wet kisses started to be on your clit. His coordination was remarkable, worthy of what he did for a living. He pushed his fingers until they disappeared inside you, pulsated them in the right place thanks to your whimpering, until your legs tightened a little, and then he pulled them out completely wet and repeated it all over again. His tongue followed this rhythm, unerring, saliva joining with his fingers, your clit pulsating on his lips and he grunted with it as if giving you pleasure was something pleasurable for him.

"Noel," his name sounded like a plea. He had other plans, but your elongated vocals and honeyed voice made him lose himself there, his free hand caressing your belly and your hips trembling shyly against his face. He felt your cum build up on his fingertips and dripping down the corners of his mouth, with each gasp of yours, the more impossible it was to stop.

Your voice was more broken, it was possible to hear your throat scratching. Your eyes were closed, his fingers stuck in his hair, in a way that would certainly make him sore later, your thigh gradually stopped shaking and his muscles relaxed. Noel didn't leave, he just stayed close, with light kisses until it was over, even though your reaction was to rub yourself against him more, his nose brushing against you and his beard hurting you. When your eyes opened, meeting his, it still lasted a little longer until you had no other option but to stop because you felt too sensitive.

Nothing was said, it wasn't necessary. The crossed line already made things more tangible. He kissed your cheek, the salty taste leaving his chest warm. The corners of your eyes still overflowed, and he gently wiped them away. Your gaze followed him, his subtle smile still shining for you. There was a distinct difference from the other relationships you'd had before; you felt cherished there. He could have other relationships that weren't with you, but you were there.

"Do you want me to do something?" Your lack of action irritated you, but the awareness that he was older, had been through this countless times, and that everything had worked out so well from what you'd just seen, left you feeling insecure. You certainly didn't have many people to compare him to, and he did with you—though he wouldn't act on it…

He laughed, in a more sincere way, different from before. He was taking off his clothes, your attention distant yet present on him. His body was mature, the hair filling his chest fully and running down his stomach, he had a well-defined V of his abdomen, although he was not a muscular man. "God," he shook his head, kissing the side of your face.

He pulled the fabric of your shirt away, pressing his lips to your clavicle. Instinctively, you turned your face, giving him more space, allowing the kisses to trail upwards. Your fingers traced along his shoulders, then down his arm, only to rise again, lingering on his forearm before tightening around his neck in a hug.

"You’re proper tasty.” Your face nestled against his neck as he nibbled on your skin, making you laugh softly against him. He pulled you tighter, and you could feel every part of him–his warm body, the hairs sticking to your chest, mingling with the sweat between you and the weight between the legs touching you.

"You alright, love?” He pushed your hair away from your face, searching for an answer in your eyes, beyond just words. You nodded, letting his body fall onto yours, the comforting and precise weight settling perfectly.

Your button-down shirt was slightly open, still leaving room for imagination. He could see little of your cleavage, but that wasn't important, even so he sucked the exposed skin in a bite and released it slightly until a subtle mark was left. He adjusted himself, his forehead nearly touching yours, and your half-lidded eyes stayed fixed on him.

The wait was intentional, Noel didn't want to overwhelm you. Your gaze on him was as sensitive as your legs had been minutes ago, his patience more about not hurting you and making this more bearable. He watched your breathing return to normal, only for him to destroy it all over again. He felt sore, craving it so badly, but the whole vision was worth it.

Your nails dug into his back, and in total control, he filled you up. The air left his lungs in a rough grunt as your body was thrust forward by the impact, your hips meeting, and your eyes softly closing as everything fell into place. Your thighs tightened around him, but not so much that he couldn't move. The edges of your eyes started to water again, and he found this to be a new addiction of his.

"Yer can handle it.” The still bodies, the sweat and his voice working on you like anesthetics. He was waiting for you to get used to having him inside and you really needed it, you still felt sensitive, but you liked the sensation. “You're a big girl, right? You can handle it.” The crease between his brows deepened with every word, and there was something so satisfying about it.

Tears streamed down your face and he was attentive to your movements, being careful with you. The effect of his voice on you was very clear, with each syllable or compliment attributed. Your bodies dissolved into the sheets and soon the room was filled with wet noises and your pitiful grumbling.

"I’m ‘ere, ain’t I?” His hands on you, squeezing and pulling your body towards him were very firm, and although good, they would leave marks to be appreciated later. His face above yours was sweating a lot, in a way that made you want to lick it, the corners of his hair were damp and his cheeks and lips were red and you could feel him in your stomach. “I'm all yours, little’un.” His nose pressed against yours, and then his lips, the delicious sweat on your tongue, taking all your remaining breath.

His voice began to sound more distant, his sighs heavier as he went deeper into you following your fingers digging into his skin. You were so delicate beneath him, your movements moderate yet painful, so as not to disturb him, as if you expected to be punished otherwise.

He moved his hand down to your clit, pressing just enough to add to your desperation. His abdomen ached in a good way, your stomach clenching as your entire body wrapped tightly around his. His mouth went dry, and he watched you squirm, your legs suffocating him and your whimpering increasing.

He licked his lips, your body fragile and trembling before him, your little nod indicating for him to continue, not that you could take much. He didn't need much either, the wet noises were more intense, his hips more precise as you writhed and it wasn't long before you were being filled with warmth.

Still you moaned in disapproval as soon as he pulled out of you, he was careful, and you felt him slip out of you between your legs. Nothing was strange anymore, just intimate, in a way it shouldn't be. He then lay down next to you and you didn't know where you belonged or what to do.

Noticing your expression, he draped the sheet over your body. You nestled into his chest, burying your face there as if what had just happened was something insignificant. "I’m the one who should be hiding like this; I’m the old one ‘ere," he said, his tone light and teasing, trying to ease your shoulders. He could tell you were feeling shy.

"You’re good," you murmured, exhaustion settling in as his fingers lazily traced patterns along your back, grounding you to him.

"You’re good too, love," he replied, his eyes fixed on you—calm, unguarded, and without fear. You began to feel a chill crawl up your spine. Was this going to be a problem? He didn’t want to be seen with you, there was a noticeable age gap between you, and though you felt understood by him, you were convinced this was nothing more than a fleeting amusement for him. You told yourself you could handle it, enjoy the moment, but how would it feel to see him again in the coming days?

"I need to take this," he said, grabbing his phone, which you hadn’t even heard ring. Still, he stayed beside you, his calloused fingers exploring your skin with reverence, each touch gentle, as though memorizing you. He mentioned needing to meet someone—Gem, apparently, who had just arrived. Leaning in, he kissed your forehead, then the crown of your head, with tenderness that almost undid you.

"You can stay ‘ere if you want," he offered. "I just need to hand over the studio key to a friend. I’ll be back before you know it."

It was clear from the hesitation in his voice, even in the words he spoke on the phone, that he didn’t want to leave the bed. You nodded with a soft smile, and he kissed your shoulder one last time before reluctantly slipping away.

The question lingered: could you get used to this? Perhaps. But deep down, you knew he had no reason to nurture this.

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