#i have no idea how long this is going to end up if i can sustain the momentum and finish it!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[revcleo]

Something which I also think would be useful for people to understand is that they have to strategise their speech.

Right wing people know this, because they speak differently among themselves than they do on social media and such because they want to appear reasonable in their use of dog whistles and such, that make people who know what they're talking about either seem crazy or unable to remove their schostastic terrorism or such.

But what I think a lot of left wing people think is that being correct and on the good side of history etc means that people will always agree with them, or be evil. Never mind that there's the stereotype of leftist infighting, a lot of people seem to be either ashamed of their past and less informed behaviour, or copy the behaviour of their favourite posters (who are usually irony poisoned and sarcastic at the least, and angry warriors of truth otherwise).

The things you've got to do when you come across someone who you disagree with is first think: What do I want out of this encounter?

Do you want to change how anyone thinks?

This can be no, if you just want to let off steam or shout at people, instead think "Is this the right person to shout at?" Will you make yourself look like an idiot?

Shouting at someone can be fine, like shouting is used to either get people in line or get people to fuck off.

Shouting works when it's either someone you largely agree with who is doing something fucked up and you go "what the fuck?" and talk to them, but mass shouting when it's someone you largely agree with does not work in that way. I've never seen a lot of people shouting at someone who they agree with 99% on things, ending up productive. It just creates divides and ends up as a form of harassment.

If you want to shout at someone for catharsis, the best way to do this is to do a sort of preaching to the choir about something fucked up you've seen, or shouting at an in person protest.

Since this is also an option for if you don't want to change someone's mind, if you find someone so entrenched and fucked up in their beliefs that they are unlikely to change, so long as you aren't going to repost their beliefs to shout at them, then shouting at them can be a way to let off steam. It won't do anything else, and may make you more angry, but it's an option.

But what if you want to change someone's mind?

First like, who are you talking to? Let's put them in a few groups:

Fellow leftist, problematic liberal, typical conservative, outright fascist

Starting from the fascist: You will not be able to change their mind and make them realise the folly of their ways.

They can change their own minds, but arguing with them will not do that. It's a special job to deradicalise fascists. The best things you can do are either:

A. bait them into saying something which they can be reported for/look into their blogs to see if they have anything reportable

B. block them, spreading their hate speech just to debunk it is still spreading their hate speech, you can debunk things without sharing the original

C. humiliate them. What you do is you need to make them look stupid by baiting them into showing their ass while you just show calm facts and logic. They often rely on appearing to be the sensible and calm one to appeal to people who are less fascist than they are, because they are irritating and cherry-pick facts it can be easy to get angry, so if you get too pissed off to do this then just block them.

Now on the typical conservative, sometimes they can be the fascist sort, where they're too deep in whatever hole, and you can just treat them as above, but if you learn to tell the difference between people who are just out to waste your time and people who are actually curious and have just picked up fucked up information (such as the example above) then if you just take your time and target your speech to align with some of their preconcieved ideas, you may be able to get them to doubt themselves on something.

You will not be able to make them suddenly a leftist, you also will probably not be able to make them even centrist, but pushing seeds of doubt is fine. Just don't spend too long, and make sure you're definitely able to tell if someone has curiousity or not. People who lack curiosity are often time wasters and will not care at all about what you're saying.

It can also be useful to get a bunch of responses to their thought terminating clichés and channel your inner MCU or something, such as "I thought the left was supposed to be tolerant" "you're confusing tolerant with a doormat/no that's the liberals/of what? assholes?"

With problematic liberals, they may be generally nice people who just say something a bit fucked up, or might just not know about something. Like let's say there's a link you post with saying "White people should read this." and they respond defensively with "Why do I need to read that?" the wrong response would be "Are you some sort of racist or something?" which is starting a fight. Whether they're a racist or not, they are less likely to engage with the information. Instead it's possible to just answer the question, which might be something like "It might be some interesting information you've never thought of before, which can help you treat other people better."

Some people can just be very annoying, feel free to block whoever whenever, and sometimes the way people brains work are different, so you can't figure out what each other means, feel free to say "Sorry, this is just frustrating and I don't think we're going to resolve anything." but someone not being as left as you doesn't mean they are inherently going to go rightwards. You can help them on a journey by giving them suggestions and telling them facts that they might not know.

Saying things like "just fucking google it" really doesn't work nowadays especially, since google is so full of shit. So having a bunch of useful bookmarks might be an idea if you want to try and convince people who are almost leftists to give it a go, rather than telling them to fuck off.

Liberals are much more appreciative of a bit of truth and facts and maybe a podcast recommendation than many leftists think. There's even many liberals who you might talk to when you are out and about IRL, you can convince them of things like sensible nuclear policy and how more bike lanes are good for everyone.

With fellow leftists, there are many different but similar sorts of arguments. Maybe someone is having a bad day and is fighty, maybe someone is just an asshole who loves to pick fights, maybe you have the same thing but from different angles and just need to work out where it is, maybe someone is just frustrated with the way how they feel powerless and has found one thing they can shout about which is unfortunately wrong but makes them feel good about themselves.

You gotta see where people are coming from on things, sometimes you just gotta block people, not that they're even bad, but just like you know fundamentally you're going to find some of the ways they think to be really irritating, or some of their comparatively harmless jokes just piss you off and it's not worth fighting about.

With leftists, sometimes taking the argument on head on is not the best way to go about things, the best thing to do is try and find where the argument comes from. Check in with your comrades, see how they're doing. Try and keep things in plain language if jargon seems to obfuscate your meanings, and try and rephrase things and see if the other person is willing to also rephrase things. Try and reach a stage where you both understand the other person's argument. Maybe you can reconcile?

Also maybe the other person just doesn't know about some information you have as well? Try keeping things cheerful. If someone really is a dickhead then you can just block them.

And one thing I've gotta say with all of this:

If you don't feel up to it, then don't do it, but don't make it worse. If you don't want to talk to someone, then don't. Also don't take this as tone policing, if someone demands politeness when they've not given it, they can fuck off.

Might I give some advice:

Not everyone has (or needs to have) the energy to thoughtfully respond to republicans on the Internet. You do not have to do that.

But some people do, and can. And I think we gotta let them.

An example:

I have a former teacher, I'll call her Grace, who is an incredibly kind woman in her 70s. Devout catholic, had voted for various parties over the years, but has been pretty strictly democrat over the past 15-20 because that aligns with her values of kindness and service.

She shared a post about the pope's recent letter and expressed that she agreed with his concerns about how trump is treating immigrants. A friend of hers commented a long paragraph basically saying "dear Grace I care for you but I don't understand how you can be a Christian and a democrat. Blah blah abortion blah blah gender blah blah drugs."

Grace replied "I'm very busy right now but I am going to respond to you soon with my thoughts". When she did it was an incredibly generous, rational monologue that connected with this person's humanity, their shared religious values, and made a beautiful case for why she supports who she does. I didn't agree with a good half of what she said as I am not a Christian, but the result was an expression of values that I think put her on the side of justice and compassion.

The person replied and thanked her and said she had a lot to think about. It was probably the best case scenario for a Facebook politics conversation

You know what came very close to ruining it? A bunch of (mostly younger) people piling on with "fuck you you racist maga pos" and "no one has to explain anything to you, go to hell" etc etc. Even after Grace wrote that she intended to reply herself.

I watched this republican respond to all the easy, quick insults by saying "this is why I don't think any democrats can be Christian, this is how you all speak to me." If Grace hadn't put so much work into writing her response in a way that was tailored to fit this person, I would not be surprised if that person left Facebook doubly certain that Christian nationalism is the way to go.

I'm not saying we can't cuss out jackasses. I'm not saying everyone needs to respond to bad faith arguments like Grace did or use their time like she did.

But this was on Grace's Facebook page, and interrupted the work she already volunteered to do. Just so these individuals could feel like they "did something" and got a shot off at an enemy.

I think that's selfish and childish and unproductive. They could have said anything they wanted in their own space, but they made grace's job harder for no fuckin reason. And then "loved" her reply and said "that was beautiful Grace, thank you for sharing your thoughts"

Like... Buddies. Pals. If someone volunteers to scrub the toilet fucking let them.

[plutoslastwords]

I see lando as a single dad too and I was wondering if you’d ever write daughter!reader when she’s a teenager and is going through, well her first menstrual cycle and he’s so completely lost lol

shark week

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: lando has no idea how a woman's body works, baby norris doesn't listen in health class. the outcome? chaos.

warnings: your first period?

w/c: 1.5k

a/n: okay so i know that it may be unrealistic that a 12 year old would have never heard of a period but idc. it works in the story. sorry for being so mia!! school is terrible atm 😩😩 love you all!! promise i am working on the requests xx

~~~

Going to high school in Monaco was not fun at the best of times.

Everyone says that surely it must be great! It’s Monaco! But when you don’t speak the language fluently - though you have got quite good after living there for 12 years of your life - and have just transferred to a new secondary school where you know no one, life isn’t great. 

Everyone in Monaco has one or two parents who are rich and famous in some way, meaning you can’t even pull the famous dad card to get yourself some friends. You’re stuck sitting alone at lunch, and being picked last for every team.

Lando hates it. He hates it so so much. He doesn't think he can stand seeing his baby coming home sad every afternoon, and he hates how sometimes he can’t be there to comfort you when life is feeling especially tough. He’s debated many a time just sending you to a boarding school back in England, where at least you could speak the same language as the kids there, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to cope with being apart from you for that much of the year.

Therefore, both you and your dad just have to cope with the unfortunate situations, hoping and wishing that soon enough you’ll find your own feet and make some friends. 

Back to the fact that school in Monaco isn’t great on the best days, school in Monaco is absolute hell on the worst days.

On this particular day, you were sitting in Maths class, your least favourite, how were you meant to be able to understand maths in French when you didn’t even understand it in English. It was whilst the teacher was going on about something to do with algebra that you decided that you’d had enough, you put your hand up and quickly asked to go to the bathroom, you weren’t bothered about this anymore.

You took your normal long route around school to get to the bathrooms, having no intention of going back to your maths class anytime soon. You finally get to the bathrooms and it is there that you learn that you’re going to die.

You know that it is not normal to have blood in your pants. It can’t be normal. You must be dying. You sit there in shock for a moment, before starting to hyperventilate and presume the worst. 

When looking back, Lando knows that it is probably his fault that you got yourself into this situation. You never really listened in your Health classes, as they were all in French, and so it was probably his responsibility to educate you on what was going to happen at a certain point, but he’s still just a young guy, that was not top of his list of what he wanted to talk to his preteen daughter about!

You sit in the bathroom stall sobbing and shaking, surely this is the end, you were practically waiting for the Grim Reaper himself to come and pluck you away. In your disorientated mind the only thing that you can think to do is call Lando.

“Daddy I’m dying!” You bawl into the phone, the words barely coming out through your intense sobs.

Immediately Lando drops everything he was doing, freezing at your distressed tone, his mind going straight to the worst. “Baby?!? What’s going on, are you okay?!?” He practically shouts down the phone.

“No!!” You sob, “I’m dying!!!! Daddy please pick me up I-” You don’t finish your sentence because enough intense sob comes in the way and you fall back into hysterically crying.

Lando doesn’t even think twice before leaping up from his desk and rushing to grab his car keys. “I’m on my way, my angel, you’re gonna be okay, daddy’s gonna look after you.” He tries to soothe, but the worry in his voice is evident. 

When he arrives you’re still a sobbing mess, but you have to drag your tear stained body out of the cubicle and to the front office in order to be dismissed. When you see Lando you immediately jump into his arms, sobs wracking your body.

“Oh darling…”  He says, brokenly, he hates seeing you like this, “What’s happened, my love?” 

You don’t respond, too distressed, he seems to get the message and manoeuvres you to the car, where he drives home as quick as he can, to get you someplace familiar, hoping that that will soothe you slightly.

It works, partially. By the time that you’re home your sobbing has lessened, but you’re still nowhere near stable, still almost shaking with the fear that you’re feeling. Lando sits you down on the sofa with a glass of water, putting an arm around your shoulders.

“Baby, tell me what’s going on.”

“I-I’m dying!! I’m bleeding and I’m dying!” You sniffle.

Suddenly everything clicks for Lando and then his mind goes completely blank. Shit, shit shit shit shit shit. He was not ready for this day, not ready whatsoever. 

“I-uhm-oh.” He stutters, not knowing what to say. “Y-you’re not dying, sweetheart, okay?”

“Yes I am!!! I’m dying!!!”

He has no idea what to do. He was hoping he had a year or two left before today came, but apparently luck was not on his side. He sits there, staring blankly at you, as you continue to cry. 

“Baby, I promise you you’re not dying, why don’t you go change your clothes and I’ll come up to your room in a sec and we’ll chat, okay?”

You shuffle to your room, still sobbing but if you’re dad seems so confident that you’re okay, then surely that means something…?

Lando paces around in a panic downstairs, waiting for his sister to answer the damn phone. There is no way that he can be doing this with no help.

After a horrible phone call, with a lot of him being laughed at by his sister for having a 12 year old daughter and still knowing fuck all about the menstrual cycle, he feels more prepared to actually talk to you.

You’re sitting in your bed, covered in blankets and watching a movie when he knocks at your door.

“Darling, can I come in?” 

You hum in response, tired from all of the sobbing and therefore not bothered to actually speak. He enters, with a shopping bag in his hand.

“How're you feeling, my angel?”

You shrug, curling up smaller in your blanket ball.

“Oh, baby, you’re okay, I promise, it’s all natural, okay?”

“Doesn’t feel natural…”

“It’s your period, angel. It’s your body getting ready for pregnancy”

You pull a face of absolute horror at that, “I’m pregnant?!??!”

His eyes widen and he backtracks immediately “No, no, no, no, you’re not pregnant, absolutely not.” He shudders at the thought, “It’s just so that maybe, at some point in the future, if you do get pregnant, your body is gonna be prepared…”

“So I’m gonna bleed until I get pregnant?”

“No, no, just for a couple days every month…”

“For how long?”

“Uhm, I’m not sure about that… like until your 40? I don’t know…”

“40?!??!?! I don’t want to bleed every month until I’m 40!!!!”

“I know, baby, but it’s just something that all women have to go through, it’s just a natural part of life, you’ll learn to cope with it…”

You pause, taking in his words, before eventually nodding in understanding, but that doesn’t mean that you’re done talking, much to Lando’s dismay, who’d quite like to get this conversation over and done with.

“So why do I need to bleed to be ready for pregnancy?” You question.

Lando knows this one, he practised it on the phone with his sister, “It’s the wall of your uterus shedding-”

“Ew.”

“Because your body got itself ready to be pregnant, and then obviously the egg was never fertilised.”

“So if I did get pregnant then I wouldn’t get my period?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Hm.”

“It’s all very normal, sweetheart, this just means that you’re healthy, okay?”

“Mhm…”

“Good..” He smiles, “You all good?”

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“What am I gonna do now..? With, you know, uhm- I don’t wanna ruin all my underwear…”

“Oh! Yes, that..” He reaches into his bag, “So, uh- these will stick on top of your underwear, and like uh- catch the blood, I guess.. And then you throw them away after wearing them for like 5 hours or so… That sound okay?”

You nod, slightly sceptical, but oh well.

Eventually, Lando leaves to go and do his own thing, and you stew in the knowledge of your new life. After getting yourself showered and cleaned up, as well as trying your new items, you shuffle downstairs, just needing a hug.

“Hey, baby…” Your dad smiles, as he sits on the tv, watching some nonsense reality show.

You don’t reply, just nestling yourself next to him, needing his comforting touch. He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“My baby… getting so big… daddy loves you, more than anything…”

~~~

a/n: fank you for reading!!11 send in any requests xx

[puck-luck]

get cucked | nicojack

warnings: MMF threesome, cocaine use, unprotected p in v, dom m, sub m, sub/switch f, oral m! and f!receiving, handjob, facial, coming untouched, use of handcuffs, jack is put in the cuck chair at one point, begging, praise, dirty talk, all those usual things, jack DOES get rimmed in this, there is slight feminization (one line), jack is a tit man and loves to suck on titties, use of chatGPT for swiss german sentences since i do not know the language and google translate does not have swiss german (just regular german), swiss german nicknames come from this site as always, please let me know if i forgot anything else�� <3

pairing: nico hischier x jack hughes x fem!reader

wc: 6,682

Jack isn’t actually sure how he ended up in this position. It’s a blur. They were at the bar– him, you, and Nico, and then all three of you were at your apartment. Jack remembers the drinks, of course, and the way he’d been flirting with you and Nico like he always does, but a switch flipped somewhere along the way. 

Maybe it was when you’d pulled out that little baggie of white powder, smirking enticingly. It could’ve been when Nico did the first line, tipping his head back after he was done, revealing that long, tan, strong column of neck. Perhaps Jack got here because of the heavy weight of Nico’s hand on the back of Jack’s neck as he inhaled the powder off of the line of your cleavage. 

It was probably what happened right after. The lightbulb illuminated when Jack lifted his head and found Nico’s gaze, pupils blown out and swallowing the expressive brown irises. The tip of Nico’s nose was pink and there was a dusting of snow beneath Nico’s nostril and…

Fuck, Jack couldn’t hold himself back. He’s done so well since rookie year, when he and Nico had taken the tension between them and decided that it just couldn’t evolve into something bigger than friendship. For the sake of the team, they needed to remain friends. They needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

All of that went out the window when Jack lunged forward– or maybe Nico pulled him, considering the grip on Jack’s neck– and smashed his lips against Nico’s. Your gasp had filled Jack’s ears, but Nico was kissing him back just as enthusiastically. Kissing Nico was more intoxicating than the coke, so Jack can’t really be held responsible for the way the night has devolved.

He has a vague idea of how he ended up in this chair. It had something to do with the way Nico had removed your clothes and thrown you on the bed, while Jack stripped himself of his clothes. He expected to get into things right away, to have his dick involved from the get-go. Nico had another plan. 

After Jack had stripped, Nico pointed at you, laying on the bed with your legs wide, and told Jack to go. He told him to make you feel good, to get his mouth on you and make you come. And Jack… well, Jack– you see, he’s never been the biggest fan of giving head. He’d rather receive it and Nico should know that from the locker room talk he’s overheard. Jack went to remind Nico– murmuring a quiet “I don’t– what else can I do?” while trying to ignore how it sounded like he was seeking permission from his captain. Jack always values Nico’s directions and tries not to refute them, but he just– he doesn’t want to eat you out. He’ll kiss you, he’ll suck on your neck or your tits, he’ll put his fingers inside your cunt, but he wants his mouth to be free. He wants– he wants to kiss Nico again.

“Oh, well, if you don’t want to,” Nico said, shrugging. He was standing at your nightstand, digging around for something– he must know where you keep your condoms, you’d mentioned earlier that you and Nico had hooked up a couple of times before– and Jack didn’t see what was in his hands when he turned to quirk his eyebrows inquisitively at the smaller boy. Nico had caught Jack by the wrist and given it a comforting squeeze. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Jack.”

Jack let out a breath of relief. Nico started guiding Jack to your desk chair, settling him on the cushions. Jack went willingly, thinking that the plan would change and Nico might send you between his knees to suck him. 

“In fact,” Nico continues without even pausing. Jack’s thoughts had flown through his head, so fast that Nico hadn’t even paused. He guides Jack’s arms behind him, gently, subtly, so slowly that Jack barely notices. He just stares up at the pretty brunet in front of him, finally within reach after years of waiting, and doesn’t even snap out of it when a ring of cool metal surrounds his wrist and clicks. He’s listening for Nico’s next words. “You don’t have to do anything at all.”

And Nico left him there. Jack blinked, confused, and tried to follow. Something hard and biting stopped him. Jack tugged at the bindings on his wrist again and twisted his spine to try and see what restrained him. He caught a flash of silver and his fingers hooked on a thin chain. Jack took a sudden breath– Nico had locked him in a chair. With handcuffs.

He was hard already. Jack just didn’t expect to get harder the more he pulled on the restraints and failed to escape.

“Nico,” Jack says.

The man is taking off his shirt next to the bed, standing above you, when Jack interrupts. Nico looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at Jack. “Hm?”

“What am I– what am I supposed to do?” Jack detests how unsure he sounds, but he’s really not… he’s not sure. This is new. Nico is new. A threesome is new. Coke was new. Now he’s in handcuffs, naked, dick straining and standing tall, and nothing is happening to him. Nico is making no plans to move you from the bed, it seems, considering how he’s climbing onto the mattress and kneeling by your side.

“Hey, schatz. Lay that way for me, will you?” Nico requests, talking to you instead of Jack. He waits until you’re moving, reclining with your head at the foot of the bed and legs stretched toward the headboard, to reply to Jack. Nico looks up and cocks his head to the side slightly. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“I don’t– what am I supposed to do, Nico?” Jack repeats. He can’t understand it, because he’s perfectly capable of coming up with ideas for the next move normally, but he’s lost here. He’s got this creeping feeling, warm and prickly, washing over him. He wants– it makes him want to listen to Nico. He wants Nico to, what, guide him? It’s probably just because he always listens to Nico’s ideas, right? Because Nico is smart and leads so well that he’s easy to follow? Right?

“I told you, Jack. You don’t have to do anything,” Nico explains. He walks forward on his knees and settles between your legs. He stares at Jack while his hands smooth up your thighs and hips, then over your sides. 

You moan when Nico’s thumbs brush your nipples. The sound steals Nico’s gaze and he has the audacity to quirk his lips into a smile when he looks down at you. 

No– Jack doesn’t like that. He wants Nico to smile at him. A noise that can only be described as indignant leaves Jack’s throat. It was involuntary, but it works. Nico looks back at the chair where Jack sits. 

“You didn’t want to eat Y/N out, Jack,” Nico says. “She let us come to her apartment, shared with us even though she didn’t have to, and you wouldn’t eat her out?”

“I don’t like–”

Nico looks down at you. “I’m sorry he doesn’t want to make you feel good, baby. I’ll make you come. You know I love how you taste. We don’t even need Jack.”

Jack doesn’t like that either, but before he can protest, you’re piping up. It feels like forever since you did. Jack had tunnel vision on Nico, he realizes. After wanting it for so long, he’d lost the threesome aspect. Greedy, he chastizes himself. That’s how he got here, locked up and looking at two beautiful bodies enjoy themselves without him. He was greedy.

“No, I want him here,” you pout. You arch your back and tilt your head back, eyebrows practically reaching your hairline as you look at Jack. “You’re so pretty, Jack. It’s about time you made a move. Nico and I have been talking about it for ages.”

Jack’s mind skips, purely out of surprise. “You’ve been– you talked about it?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Nico robs Jack of the answer by pressing his thumb on your tongue. He shushes you. “Don’t reveal our secrets,” Nico chides. “You’re giving him what he wants too easily.”

“You can’t just–” The words dissolve in Jack’s mouth when Nico leans forward and takes one of your nipples in his mouth. Jack has… he has a good view from this chair. “Oh,” Jack breathes out. His eyes go wide, fixing on the hollow of Nico’s cheek as he sucks your skin. Jack is silent while Nico kisses down your stomach and nears your pussy, but you are not.

“Nico,” you mumble when he sucks a hickey into your thigh. You moan out loud when he plants a sweet kiss on your mons pubis and drags his bottom lip over the hood of your clit. 

Jack swallows hard. You’re writhing on the bed, but Nico has placed his hands on your hips and anchored you in place. Your lower half is cemented to the bed, Nico’s mouth attached to your core, and Jack can almost feel the pleasure radiating off of you. And Nico– Nico’s eyes are boring into Jack. 

His glance could be construed for admiration of your body, as you arch your back and fall into the bed. He doesn’t tease you, which surprises Jack. He expected Nico to savor this, but he’s working his tongue against your clit with a level of skill that Jack can’t even imagine. At least, that’s how it sounds. You sound like a porn star, moaning in a way that is so over the top that it can’t be real… except that you’re sweating and panting and heaving too, and Jack doesn’t think you can fake a reaction like that. 

Jack was distracted by your movement, but Nico’s eyes catch him again. That dark, attentive, evaluating look hasn’t left Jack.

His cock jumps. Jack blinks. It throbs. Jack’s immediate first thought is to fit his fist around the length and provide himself a little relief. But then– then– the handcuffs stop him. The metal prevents him from making any move. 

“Nico,” Jack calls.

The eyes that stayed on Jack for the past few minutes look away. No, they don’t look away, Nico closes his eyes. He digs his fingertips into your hips and drags your cunt closer to his mouth, licking lower until his mouth disappears into your folds. 

Jack’s mouth opens and his tongue goes dry, Nico ignores Jack and focuses only on you. Jack watches as his nose brushes your clit, bumping into the nerves over and over again. 

You jolt with each nudge, moans breathy and whiny. One of your hands is clutching the comforter beneath you, while the other one is free to thread through Nico’s hair and pull. Jack loses himself in the way the strands of hair grow fluffy or jagged because of your grip, standing tall and messy on Nico’s head. The dark, long pieces on top of Nico’s head become highlighted when the light from your bedroom lamp falls on them just right and Jack loses himself in the mesmerizing changes. 

He hears Nico’s voice, muffled between your legs, but deep and gravely nonetheless. “Tastes so good,” he announces to the room. Jack doesn’t respond– he’s not involved. This isn’t a statement for him. Nico must be talking to you, punctuating his sentence by palming the fleshy fat of your behind. Jack wonders what those hands would feel like on his thighs. 

Nico has slapped Jack’s ass before, but it was always in an athletic setting. Or it was when they were celebrating– Jack remembers one time rookie year, before they’d decided to just be friends, when Nico had slapped his ass after a successful shot in pool and let it linger. His palm had been so warm through Jack’s jeans, almost impossibly so. Maybe it was the knowledge that Nico was there that made Jack’s blood grow warm, made his heart rate spike. Then, Nico’s hand had dropped and Jack had to bury the urge to follow Nico around like a lost puppy all night.

“Fuck, prinzli, don’t you wish this was you?” Nico continues.

Jack hears him quietly, barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears and the pulse in his untouched and yearning cock, and nods along even though the question isn’t directed at him. Nico’s hearty chuckle and the returning fixture of Nico’s eyes on Jack snap him out of his trance. 

“What?” Jack asks. The word is a pile of mush in Jack’s mouth, not nice or pristine like he thinks it should be, but at least it’s out. If Nico is looking at him again, then the question must have been for him.

“Don’t you wish you were over here?” Nico rephrases. His thumb fits over your clit and rubs a quick circle. Your volume increases and Jack has to strain to hear Nico. His mouth spits the words out, curling and dancing in the air. “This could’ve been you, J, and I could’ve had a hand on your cock while you did it.”

Jack’s stomach swoops and his cock releases a blurt of precum to match the movement. His lips part and his eyes go wide. “You would’ve–”

“Touched you, yeah,” Nico confirms nonchalantly. 

Jack imagines Nico’s thick fingers sliding along the vein on the underside of his cock. The phantom touch starts slow, but speeds up the more Jack thinks about it. 

“I thought it would be nice,” Nico continues. “You know, for you to put that smart mouth of yours to use, so you can show Y/N that you’re able to do more than just talk back to me. I was going to let you come in my hand while you licked her, Jack. I was going to finger you after and use your own come as lube.”

Jack can’t form a single thought. Nico’s words bounce through his brain, like an input of words in a computer code that are essential for the program to work. Smart mouth… talk back… let you come… lube…

The phantom touch on Jack’s cock, Nico’s invisible and imaginary hand, twists around the head of his cock. Jack grinds up into it, his hips lifting from the chair.

Nico purses his lips and lays an open-mouthed kiss on your clit, his middle finger coming between your legs and sliding into your hole. Jack can hear how you open up for him, how you welcome his touch with a whimper and a roll of your own hips– as much as Nico will allow them to move. His other hand is still pressed into your side, keeping you in place. 

You throw your head back and suddenly, there are two eyes on Jack. The attention makes him preen, makes him feel even more restricted by the handcuffs.

“I want–” Jack cuts himself off, surprised by how foreign and removed from his body his voice sounds.

Nico quirks an eyebrow and flicks his tongue rapidly over your cunt. He squeezes your side with his hand and you open your mouth to respond, like your mind is linked with Nico’s.

“What do you want, baby?” you ask. The genuine curiosity in your voice tips Jack toward desperation. 

“Let me– I’ll do whatever you tell me to,” Jack bargains. He tugs on the cuffs. The metal bites his wrist and hurts. It will probably leave a mark over his blue-green veins, just from the pure effort to keep Jack contained. He knows he’s strong, but not strong enough to break free. He needs Nico to let him loose. “Please, I want this. I can’t– I need–”

“Have you– oh– have you really earned that?” you inquire. Nico nibbles your clit gently to signal that that was the right response. He rewards you for your words by plunging a second finger into your entrance and curling them forward, your body mimicking the movement, but he doesn’t make any move to reward Jack. 

Jack doesn’t understand. He asked nicely. He said please. He offered to do whatever Nico said, even if he doesn’t want to. 

“But– fuck, Schao, I’ll– I’ll eat her out all night if that’s what you want,” Jack adds. There’s an edge to his voice that he doesn’t recognize, but he’s heard it from women he’s been with in the past. It’s pretty when they beg him for more and now Jack is reduced to begging for something. “You don’t even have to touch me. I can– I’ll do it myself, just let me be a part of this.”

Jack perks up when Nico’s lips turn up at the sound of his nickname. He hums as he continues to eat you out and Jack watches his fingers thrust in time with the twitching muscles under the skin of your thighs. It’s the only sign that he heard Jack’s plea, other than the slight smile on his face. His eyes drift shut and Jack balks. He’s– is he ignoring Jack again?

“Nico,” Jack whines petulantly. His hips twitch upward and he feels a flush cross his cheeks. “Nico, please.”

“I’m coming, sunneschii,” Nico chuckles. Jack can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic. “I’m going make our girl come first, then I’ll let you go.”

There’s another reminder that it’s not just Nico and Jack. Jack continues to get caught up in the aura of the man before him. He loses himself in the dark eyes contrasting against your skin, but Jack has to tear himself away. How he wants Nico– he wants him– but you’re here, and you’re an equal part here, and if Jack keeps forgetting that, then he’ll never get what he wants. 

So he closes his mouth and watches Nico’s fingers work inside of you. He watches them fill you, watches a third tease your entrance but never fully slip in. He watches Nico’s jaw pop and manipulate your skin with his movements. He sees how the flat lick of Nico’s tongue to your clit makes goosebumps rise on your skin and make your nipples stiffen into blunt peaks. 

Your view is almost as good as Jack’s. If you look down, you see a strong, athletic, European man holding you close and devouring you. The sprinkling of scruff along his jaw rubs your inner thighs while he eats you out, which he knows you love, so he doesn’t spread your legs like he did the first time he took the journey down. You can see how his motions spark the waves of pleasure that emanate from your body, although the connection dulls the sensation slightly. When you look away, you feel like his touch is a mystery and a surprise, and you get to see the ruined boy across the room. 

Jack’s not as put together as he thinks he is. His bottom lip is swollen from the way he’d been biting it when Nico first started ignoring him. He’s an attention whore and Nico didn’t give him the time of day– it’s entertaining how easily Jack will resort to begging and grinding his pretty cock into the air in order to regain Nico’s scrutiny. His cheeks are red and splotchy from how turned on he is and his cock leaks onto itself, brimming with pearly white droplets and spilling over. The precum cools and disappears as it makes its way down his cock, but his tip is shining and tinged with purple from his need for contact. If this is how he looks before Nico even touches him, then you’re in for a treat.

Jack sees your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your breasts sit high on your chest when you arch your back and he’s starting to wish that he was licking them. He might be, to be frank, insanely attracted to all of Nico, but Jack has always been a tit man and will always be a tit man. Your tits deserve his appreciation.

You make a long and wanton sigh when Nico drags you over the edge. Jack can tell that you’re finally coming when your body relaxes on the mattress. You’d been in near-constant motion while Nico was working, but now he’s lapping at your folds like a cat drinking milk in a cartoon, and you’re not moving a muscle. 

“Jack,” Nico murmurs.

Jack’s heart nearly bounces out of his chest. He’s– it’s his turn. “Nico?”

“I’m going to come uncuff you,” Nico tells him. You take a breath, hearing Nico’s calm voice and letting it soothe you. He kisses the juncture of your thigh and hip. “Are you going to listen to me when I tell you what to do?”

“Yes,” Jack declares. “Whatever you want, Ni.”

He revels in the proud smirk that Nico hides in the skin of your stomach. Nico takes the time to kiss over your stomach, between your boobs– never on them, which Jack thinks isn’t fair to the pretty mounds– and on your mouth. His kiss on your lips is chaste, but your lips slide against each other unhurriedly. Nico doesn’t seem to feel the pressure and impatience coming from Jack while he kisses you. 

Nico pulls away and you whine softly, trying to hold onto his shoulder, but it slips away as he moves off of you and approaches Jack. The key in Nico’s hands, dwarfed in his palm, catches the light and Jack has to hold back an embarrassing squeal of excitement. 

It takes a lot of effort for you to sit up. You feel like you rub slick over your bedsheets, but you want to get more comfortable. You’d like to sit up on the pillows and see what Nico wants to do next– and with whom.

When you turn around, you feel like your body freezes. You’re frozen, but there’s a batch of boiling water surrounding you and you’re cooking from the outside in. The heat of the room has been turned up to… an incomprehensible four thousand degrees celsius because Jack is clinging to Nico and claiming his lips with the ferocity of a rabid animal. 

His hands, pale against Nico’s warm skin, are everywhere. Jack doesn’t seem to know where he wants to touch the broader man now that he’s free. His fingertips paint lines down Nico’s neck and torso. His knuckles are tinged with pink somehow, blushing like the tip of his nose, and you love the way his hands settle on Nico’s waist and dig into the skin there. 

Nico seems amused. His thumbs brush over Jack’s jawline and he’s smiling between kisses, tilting his head this way and that to satisfy the desperate boy mouthing at him. Nico guides Jack toward the bed and Jack is mindlessly allowing his captain to mold his body however he wants it– so long as Jack can continue rolling his entire body to try and get some relief on his bleeding cock. There’s no actual blood, of course, but you use the word for three reasons: the precum is spurting from Jack’s slit like the beading blood on a little wound, his cock is red and angry like a splash of rouge on the walls of a murder house, and, if you look close enough, you think you can see his pulse driving through the veins in his cock. Even if he was being subtle about how badly he wants Nico, his dick would betray his true feelings.

“Okay,” Nico mumbles. He brings his hands down Jack’s waist and pat his sides. “That’s enough, prinz. I know. Why don’t you go give Y/N some love, ‘kay?”

Jack comes to you willingly. You’re almost surprised. Jack’s allegiance has been clear from the first second of this threesome. You and Nico had been pushing his limits, certainly, by flirting with Jack while you drank beer at the bar and snorted white powder at your apartment. Nico swore that Jack would’ve made a move on you first, but you’d known all along that Jack would break and go to Nico first. It’s obvious how badly he wants the approval of the older boy. It’s obvious how badly Jack wants to prove himself to Nico. 

His solid body collapses on your own. Jack presses you into the pillows and licks into your mouth with the same fervor he afforded to Nico.

Jack is so messy when he kisses. He’s sloppy. His hands card through your hair and get caught on the ends, twisting them between his fingers. He pants between kisses, whining when his shaft drags along your hipbone. He sounds so pretty.

“On your knees, J,” Nico instructs. “You can keep kissing her, but kneel for me.”

Jack bustles around atop you, bracketing your body with his legs. He makes a sad, reluctant noise when his cock loses contact with your skin. He rocks forward slightly and his tip knocks against your abdomen, leaving a line of precum to connect your bodies. 

Nico makes a sharp, castigating noise. Jack freezes. You pull back and look around Jack’s lithe body, finding Nico behind him.

“What’s up, Neeks?” you ask. 

“Don’t worry,” Nico reassures you. He squeezes your ankle comfortingly. “Just keep kissing Jack. Distract him.”

Jack’s eyes open and he frowns, trying to meet your gaze for an answer to his unspoken question. Distract me? You think he’s asking. What does that mean?

You’re not one to question Nico, so you wrap your arms over Jack’s shoulders and tug him closer to kiss him until he’s breathless and lightheaded. You feel Jack jolt in your arms suddenly, then jerk away from you. 

“Nico,” Jack says. His brows come together and he sounds worried. 

“Shh, it’s okay. Trust me,” Nico whispers. You hear him plant a kiss somewhere on Jack’s body. “You’ll feel good, prinzli. I promise I won’t do anything that isn’t good.”

You touch Jack’s cheek, tilting your head at him and meeting his eyes. “I know it’s your first time doing something like this, sweetheart,” you murmur. You pet Jack’s hair out of his face and kiss the tip of his nose. “Nico’s going to take care of you. You know how much he cares about you. He won’t do anything that you won’t like, okay? And we can always stop, if that’s what you want. It’s up to you.”

Jack is silent as he takes in your words, seeming to drink them up. He starts to nod, his hands clutching your waist like it grounds him. “‘Kay,” Jack whispers. “We can– yeah. Let’s…” he trails off, then leans forward and kisses you. He sounded a little lost, not knowing what he was saying, and you think he might have found solace in just doing something else, like kissing you.

You don’t have to look at Nico to know how he’s smiling, proud of Jack for taking the jump.

“Can you multitask, J?” Nico asks.

Jack hums affirmatively against your lips.

“Good,” Nico says. “Will you finger Y/N for me? Make her come?”

Jack is already obeying. His fingers are probing against your cunt, two digits sliding into your hole and curling inside of you.

“Good boy,” Nico praises. “Don’t stop until I tell you.” Nico’s hand finds your knee and pinches the soft skin on the side of the bone. “You can tell him to stop too, if you need it.”

“Will,” you affirm before Jack fills your mouth with his tongue and muffles your words. 

“One more thing,” Nico adds. He smooths his hands over the globes of Jack’s ass, digging his nails into the soft skin. Jack’s heart jumps at the touch. “My cock belongs to whoever lasts longer.”

Jack’s legs tense and his toes curl when he feels Nico’s tongue paint a wet stripe between his cheeks, passing right over his hole. The feeling is foreign and Jack kind of wants to push Nico away. His first instinct is to say ‘Get off me, Schao,’ because his asshole is not something he ever imagined another person would touch.

Then he gets distracted by the way Nico fits his fist around the tip of Jack’s cock and drags it down to the base.

He loses control of his fingers as his body melts into Nico’s touch. 

They still inside of you and you scoff indignantly. “Jack,” you groan.

He registers his name falling from your lips, but he doesn’t hear it. He mouths against your neck mindlessly, feeling you pull on his hair. When Nico repeats his name, Jack looks over his shoulder.

“Keep fingering her, büebli. It’s not a fair fight if you’re not doing your part.” Nico flicks the back of Jack’s thigh. 

“Sorry,” Jack apologizes breathlessly. He pushes back into Nico’s touch. 

Nico quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, you greedy boy,” he muses. He drops his hand from Jack’s cock and palms the globes of his ass, spreading him apart and tonguing along the puckered rim there. “Is this what you wanted?”

Jack whimpers, burying his face against your tits. “Mhm,” he affirms, nodding. His lips catch your nipple and he sucks, as if he’s soothing himself. His fingers have started moving inside of you again and his thumb finds your clit.

You roll your hips into his touch and look down at the two boys before you. Jack sucks on your skin desperately, leaving splotches in his wake. Nico has his eyes closed, showering Jack with attention.

Nico pulls away and brings his pinkie to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit. He winks at you, noticing how your pupils dilated as you realized what he’s planning to do. 

“Schao,” Jack keens. He’s on the verge of begging again. You can hear it in his voice. 

“God, Jack, listen to you,” Nico says. He circles Jack’s hole with the tip of his pinkie, but leans down to lick him and get him more wet, more willing to accept the finger. “You won’t eat out our girl’s pretty pink pussy but you’re falling apart while I eat yours?” He kisses Jack’s rim and nibbles, pushing the tip of his pinkie past Jack’s entrance.

Jack’s jaw drops and the mewl that leaves his mouth breaks halfway through its exhale. His hips drop and his tip finds the juncture of your thigh. It slides into the space between your legs and Jack bucks his hips once, twice, and– shudders.

You feel your face heat up, growing red to the tips of your ears. His cum slides down your thighs, dripping onto the bed below you. His teeth found your tit and bit down while he came– now, he’s licking along the indentations that he left behind, making sweet, satisfied noises in the back of his throat.

Jack feels a bit like he’s floating away. You’re so soft beneath him. He turns his head and closes his eyes, nuzzling against your skin like a pillow. Jack wishes he had something in his mouth, something to suck on… and like you’re reading his mind, you touch his lips. Jack takes your first two fingers in his mouth and swallows around them, humming. Nico is still mouthing along his skin, finding his way up to Jack’s lower back and sucking a hickey there.

“That was so sexy, schatz,” Nico murmurs as he kisses up Jack’s spine. “Coming like that. I barely touched you, baby. My desperate boy. Can’t wait til I get my cock in you one day, make you come undone for real.”

Jack turns his head and blinks his eyes open, finding Nico hovering near his head. You pull your fingers from his mouth and thumb away the bit of spit that collected at the corner of his lips. Jack preens when Nico brushes a thumb over his rosy cheeks, then moans aloud when Nico drops his head and sucks Jack’s bottom lip into his mouth.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Nico mutters. He pulls back and kisses him again, curling the waves at the nape of Jack’s neck between his fingers. 

Jack is smiling dopily, admiring the man before him like he hung the stars. 

“You wanna suck Y/N’s tits while I fuck her, baby?” Nico offers. He pinches Jack’s side, then tweaks his nipple. Jack squeaks at that and squirms away from Nico’s tickling fingers. He burrows into your arms, wrapping himself around you and hiding against your boobs. He starts to move his lips against your skin as soon as he makes contact.

You and Nico giggle together at how easy Jack is after he comes. He’s a sweet, cuddly boy who wants to kiss and suck the skin of his partner until he comes down from the climax. It’s a massive change from who he was before, but you can’t say you prefer either version. The brazen, flirtatious Jack Hughes who is touchy and sassy sets your stomach afire and makes your nose crinkle affectionately, but this version has you simmering and wanting to wrap him in the world’s warmest, fuzziest blanket and kiss all over his face. He’s an angel, either way, and you adore him.

With Jack tucked into your side, curled up and sucking one of your tits while his palm flattens over the other, Nico kneels between your legs. He lifts your ankle, brings it to his lips and kisses it before wrapping it around his waist. He then takes a pillow from the headboard and stuffs it under your hips.

“Do you want me to grab a condom before I start, babe?” Nico asks you, his hand wrapped around his base.

You shake your head. “Need to feel all of you, Ni.”

Jack swoons against your chest, evidently thinking of Nico’s cock in all of its glory. You bring your hand to his head and play with his hair, scratching his scalp and making him sigh as he nibbles the peak on your breast.

“You’re just as greedy as our boy,” Nico teases. He palms Jack’s hip and squeezes. “Hear that? She’s just as bad as you.”

“‘m not bad,” Jack mumbles. 

“No, J, you’re good,” you tell him. He grins and kisses your ribcage, then comes up to rest his head in the curve of your neck. His fingers toy with your nipples still, pinching and twisting and playing.

Nico fits the tip of his cock against your entrance and starts to push forward. You’re open enough from Nico’s mouth, fingers, and Jack’s fingers that he can slide in easily. Nico rolls his hips and grinds forward gently, until you’re lifting your hips and pouting up at him. Jack sees the pout and lifts his head, pecking the corner of your mouth over and over until you turn your head to meet him.

Jack’s kisses are much more subdued now, like his lips glide over yours. You imagine a waterfall painting sun-dried rocks with their mist. That’s how it feels to kiss Jack. 

“Ihr zwei luegt so schöön us,” Nico praises. You’ve never learned Swiss German, and you don’t think Jack has either, but you can tell from his tone that he’s saying something complimentary. 

“Danki,” Jack mumbles.

Maybe he does understand Nico.

“Ihr sind so guet zu mir,” Nico continues. He bends down and kisses Jack’s temple, then yours. His hips are still moving towards you, thrusts becoming more harsh, and Jack smiles into your lips. He doesn’t reply. 

Nico drags another orgasm from you slowly, taking you apart and murmuring in his dialect all the time. His voice lulls you through the climax and the aftershocks spike through your body when Jack suckles on your nipple, flicking the tip with his tongue and digging his teeth gently into your areola. 

“Gueti Meit,” he whispers. 

Nico slips from your cunt without coming. You draw your eyebrows together and tilt your head. “Nico?” you ask. You sound a bit like Jack.

Nico shushes you by holding a finger to his lips. “J, look at me,” Nico says. “Lay on your back.”

Jack’s eyes brighten and he rolls back. “‘Sup, Hisch?” he slurs out, his tongue seeming thick and swollen in his mouth again. 

“Hi, sünneli.” Nico caresses Jack’s cheek and straddles his chest.

You take a deep breath and roll towards them, batting Nico’s hand off of his cock and taking over. You start to stroke him, squeezing and twisting around his tip. You thumb over his slit and lick his frenulum, humming contentedly at the salty taste of yourself and his precum mixed together.

Jack is biting his lip and taking in the scene before him. Nico frees the lip with his thumb before planting both hands on the headboard and throwing his head back, groaning as you increase your speed and tighten your grip. Jack’s hands cautiously come to the back of Nico’s thighs, then grip on when Nico looks down at him and smiles that proud smile. Jack opens his mouth and hollows his cheeks and tries to make himself look as inviting and sexy as he can– he loves when a girl sucks him off and takes his cum all over her tongue and lips and cheeks and he wants to be as pretty for Nico.

The milky white spurts of cum streak out of Nico’s cock forcefully. He’s been waiting all night for this, holding himself back and focusing on the pleasure of the two of you, so his orgasm is strong. 

Most of the cum, stripped from Nico’s dick at your hand, falls onto Jack’s tongue. He pushes the muscle out, enlarging the canvas for Nico. He closes his eyes and you lick a stray stripe of cum from the corner of Jack’s lips, relishing in the taste. 

You loosen your grip on Nico when he’s effectively milked dry, and you bring a hand to Jack’s cheek to turn his head towards you. You kiss him deeply, working your tongue past his lips, tasting the cum and taking some of it into your mouth as you swap saliva. 

Nico separates you and kisses Jack first. Jack doesn’t even flinch at the change, he doesn’t open his eyes, nothing. He’s complacent and relaxed and so hungry to be touched by anyone. After Jack, Nico kisses you. It’s the first time you’ve kissed since he ate you out and you breathe him in.

Nico parts from you and guides your head back towards Jack’s. It’s easy, and you like kissing, so you and Jack fall into a routine. His hand comes to your jawline and pets along the curve. Nico leaves the bed, heading into your bathroom, and he comes back with a wet rag. You hear the shower starting and running in the background when he comes back.

“Okay, enough,” Nico murmurs, splitting you and Jack. He brings the wet rag to Jack’s flushed cheeks and starts to wipe the dried cum away, cleaning him up. 

Jack rolls his head back onto his shoulders and blinks slowly at Nico. 

Nico kisses his forehead, then uses the same rag to wipe between your legs. He kisses your forehead too.

“Are you up for a shower, or do you want a little more time?” Nico asks the two of you, wiggling his way between your bodies and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against his sides.

Jack snuggles up to him immediately, tucking his head into the crook of Nico’s neck and sighing. You hug Nico’s middle and rest your cheek on his pec. 

“Cuddle now, shower later,” Jack decides. He kisses Nico’s pulsepoint. “You smell nice, Schao.”

“Thanks, büebli,” Nico replies. 

“And you’re so pretty, Y/N,” Jack adds. “Pretty tits, ‘specially.”

Nico chuckles and you giggle. “Oh, you think so?” you tease. “Couldn’t tell from all the hickeys you probably left.”

Jack picks his head up and peeks out at you, eyes shining. He’s grinning wickedly. “Sorry,” he apologizes, and you can tell that he doesn’t mean it at all.

[meinii]

"hoodie thief"

summary: Sylus' hoodies have been disappearing lately... the thief was closer than he thought •⩊•

content: fluffy fluff, Luke and Kieran cameo

                      ୨୧·。。·♡·∴·♡·。。·୨୧

Sylus was no fool

at first, he didn’t think much of it—one or two hoodies missing wasn’t a big deal. he probably left them somewhere, maybe in his office or tossed over one of the chairs in Onychinus. but as the days passed, his wardrobe slowly dwindled. hoodies, sweatshirts, even his thicker, oversized ones—all mysteriously gone

and there was only one person who had the audacity to steal from him

you.

Sylus narrowed his eyes. he had seen you wearing his hoodies a few times, the fabric swallowing your frame, the sleeves dangling past your hands. and each time, you acted as if it was no big deal. like it wasn’t a crime against the very fabric of his empire.

the moment you walked into his office that evening, wrapped in yet another one of his hoodies, he just stared

you blinked "what?"

he leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, a slow smirk tugging at his lips "you’re awfully comfortable stealing from me, aren’t you?"

you feigned innocence, glancing down at the hoodie draped over you "oh… this? I—uh—found it"

"found it?" he repeated, amused

"yeah. just lying around"

"in your house?"

"…maybe"

Sylus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. he could force you to return them—could pin you down and strip it right off your body if he really wanted to—but he let it slide, for now

because, truthfully, he liked seeing you in his hoodies.

that might’ve been the end of it—except Luke and Kieran, the ever-loyal informants, decided to stick their noses in where it did not belong

"boss, we have a report on your missing items"

Sylus looked up from his paperwork, giving Luke and Kieran a deadpan stare "You actually investigated?"

Luke grinned "of course. you seemed so troubled about it, after all"

Sylus rolled his eyes "go on, then"

Kieran pulled out a small tablet, tapping the screen "after some thorough research—which included some discreet surveillance—we have identified the culprit" he turned the screen toward Sylus

it was you, sneaking out of his penthouse with an armful of his hoodies, stuffing them into a bag like a professional thief

Sylus let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief "she really had the audacity to smuggle them out?"

Luke smirked "oh, she’s been planning this. we even found a whole stash at her place"

Sylus raised an eyebrow "a stash?"

"mm-hm. neatly folded, stacked in her closet. she’s treating them like trophies, boss"

Sylus chuckled, tilting his head back in amusement. the fact that you collected them, carefully keeping them all together—it was both ridiculous and insanely endearing

"and here’s the best part," Kieran continued, clearly enjoying himself "we confronted her about it. wanna know what she said?"

Sylus smirked "let’s hear it"

Luke cleared his throat dramatically "'tell Sylus I have no idea what he’s talking about. those are legally mine now. he can’t do anything about it.'"

Sylus burst out laughing, dragging a hand down his face "legally hers?"

"she made a contract in her head, boss. if she wears it enough times, it’s hers now."

Sylus shook his head, amused beyond belief "She really is impossible"

Luke grinned "so? what’s the plan? gonna storm her place and reclaim your lost belongings?"

Sylus smirked "no, no… let her have them"

Kieran raised an eyebrow "really?"

"oh, yeah" Sylus leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with mischief "I want to see how long she thinks she can get away with this"

that night, you were comfortably curled up on your couch, wearing yet another hoodie of Sylus'. t smelled like him—faint hints of cedarwood, spice, and something unmistakably him. it was oversized, the sleeves pooling over your hands, the warmth of the fabric making you feel safe

you had no regrets. none at all.

until your phone buzzed

Sylus: I know everything

you stared at the message, heart stopping for a second

you hesitated before replying

You: everything about what? Sylus: you’re a terrible liar.

you swallowed, typing as nonchalantly as possible

You: I think you’re mistaken. I am simply a humble citizen living her best life. Sylus: living your best life with my entire wardrobe?

okay. he knew. he definitely knew.

you considered your options

1) play dumb 2) flee the country 3) beg for forgiveness

before you could type a response, there was a knock on your door

your stomach dropped

slowly, cautiously, you opened the door—only to find Sylus leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp with amusement

"you," he drawled "are the worst thief I’ve ever seen."

you cleared your throat, shifting slightly "what brings you here, oh great ruler of Onychinus?"

he smirked "oh, just checking in on my beloved hoodie thief."

You knew Luke and Kieran had snitched. those little traitors.

Sylus stepped forward, towering over you, his fingers tugging lightly at the hem of the hoodie you were wearing

"you didn’t even bother returning one," he mused, tilting his head "you just kept all of them"

you pouted "well… they’re cozy"

his eyes flickered with amusement "and that means they belong to you?"

"yes," you said shamelessly "finders keepers"

Sylus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head "unbelievable"

"you’re not mad, though," you pointed out, a slow grin spreading across your lips "you like seeing me in them."

he exhaled, a smirk playing on his lips "you’re lucky I do"

his fingers brushed against your cheek, tilting your chin up slightly. his voice lowered, warm and teasing

"if you wanted to keep something of mine so badly… all you had to do was ask"

your face grew warm at the implication "I—"

"shh" he leaned down, his lips barely an inch from yours "enjoy your little collection while it lasts. I might just take one back… personally"

your heart definitely skipped a beat

Sylus grinned at your expression, clearly enjoying himself

"sweet dreams, hoodie thief"

and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away—leaving you flustered, warm, and absolutely unwilling to give back a single hoodie

[inbabylontheywept]

I went to summer camp as a kid. Six times, actually. I have many fond memories, and even more terrible ones. Here's one that's a mixture of both.

To set the stage, I had just spent the night in the infirmary due to a big fight I had with almost my entire tent. They never wanted to sleep, and were always obnoxiously loud with a lantern dubbed "the sun" that let me see movement around me with my eyes closed from the shadows passing over it. I was sleep-deprived, overstimulated, autistic-but-unaware-of-that, and twelve years old, and I already disliked these girls because they talked shit about me behind my back and took advantage of naivety. This unfortunate combination lead to a blowout meltdown in which I said some things I regret, so the counselors decided it'd be best if I spent some time away.

Now, this had the unforeseen consequence of putting me in a place with less supervision. This place also had some strange bugs. They were small, about the size of my pinky fingernail. Most of their bodies were in their tails, which curved downwards like a reverse scorpion. They were black and white, sort of striped, with six legs and no wings. Their fangs were very thin, but long, extending out from their faces like brownish parentheses. They had a propensity to bite.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

While messing around with these bugs, I noticed that when they bit, they didn't just chomp and leave. They sunk their fangs in and they kept them there for a long time. Naturally, I decided to see what would happen if I let them, nay, encouraged them to bite me, as an experiment. When would they extricate their incisors from my flesh? Would my reaction to the bites vary depending on the amount of time each bite lasted?

I let these bugs bite me four times, once for about 13 minutes, once for about 5 minutes, once for about 1 minute, and once for 45 seconds (I didn't have a watch, so these are estimates). Then, I forged a peaceful resolution with my tentmates and we went to watch the beginning of Color War.

Except, turns out it's stupid to let unidentified insects taste your blood. The bites swelled up huge. I got chills. My stomach hurt intensely. My counselor took me back to the infirmary to get them checked out.

Needless to say, this was not easy to explain to the nurse on duty ("WHY" "For science!"). His first thought was we needed to figure out what bit me. If only it were that simple.

We combed through the databases for insects in the state. We expanded our search to arachnids, even, although it certainly wasn't one. I drew a little mock-up on a Post-It to show him. There was not a single match. To this day, I have no idea what it was that I let bite me. I was given orders to come back tomorrow to get them checked by a doctor, and also return every morning and night for a week to put warm compresses and medicinal ointments on the bites, and a strong directive to never do anything like that again, with a side of "What the hell were you thinking????"

A couple of months later, after camp, I went to my friend's bar mitzvah. The woman in the row behind me tapped my shoulder. She asked me how the bug bites were. It was the doctor from the infirmary.

-- @dr-robert-chase-apologist

That was a beautiful ending. I have a similar story, but less gruesome than letting bugs bite me. My family used to go up to trips to the Mogollon Mountains two or three times a year. The woods were where my dad always felt the most at peace.

My dad used that time to hike through the trees. And I grew into that eventually, but when I was very little, I felt a particular kinship to the small things of this world. Worms and beetles and woodlice and those peculiar Arizona grasshopers with wings the size of jellybeans and tummies the size of my thumb.

And on one trip, there was an incredible number of these beautiful, fuzzy caterpillars. Picture below.

I went a little crazy about them. They were fluffy, and they were had pretty colors, and they had the cutest, softest, stubbiest little suction cup feets that I'd ever seen. Watching them climb up stalks of grass or over fallen branches was enchanting.

So I caught, like, twenty of them, and most got put in a little terrarium where I could watch them do cute caterpillar things. Mostly eat fresh pine needles and wriggle gregariously. But some I kept out just to play with. I'd put them on my palm, and I'd watch them crawl all the way up to my neck, then I'd move them somewhere else. They tickled, and I was charmed to be their jungle gym.

But apparently, those little hairs break off like fiberglass, and they have some kind of venom on them, so I had these strange, wriggling, almost tattoo like rashes all over my arms up to my neck. Very embarrassing to explain to my parents.

There was an entomologist on the street that I grew up on named Freddie. And he wasn't just a bug expert, he was specifically a caterpillar expert. He had a garden in his backyard that was specifically tailored for butterflies, he'd always draw in clouds of Monarchs during their migration. My parents asked him about the mysterious itchy caterpillars, and he said they were lophocampa ingens, and that I was lucky that I didn't inhale those hairs. They can stick inside your throat and make it swell closed. Scary little bastards.

I'd still see them after that, but never in such numbers. And while I appreciated them, I always tried to keep a few feet of distance. Just to be safe.

(Also, just wanted to clarify that I didn't remember the name for 20 years, I googled "irticating caterpillar Mogollon", and saw the picture. It wasn't until I read the caption that I was like oh yeaaaaah, that's what he called them. But it was one of those memories I could never have pulled at will.)

[menagerofmischief]

sweet as sin -> cl16

main masterlist / navigation

porn star!charles chronicles

tags: everyone's got normal lives (no F1), mentions of porn/OF, very very suggestive (or very light smut idk?), mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex toys

a/n: this is just an introduction to the au. if you have any ideas or things you think would go well with the au, send an ask and lmk <3

“Oh, I don’t know, Gwen!” You said, swirling your straw around in your drink as you eyed the friend. “Other than the fact I’m moving soon, my life is a bit too boring lately. I’m done with dating apps after the last big failure and I just need something interesting to happen!”

“You mean you need to get laid!” She accused, mischief sparkling in her eyes as she giddily sipped her mimosa, already a bit tipsy from all the previously consumed ones. “When was the last time you had a good orgasm?”

You coughed, nearly choking on your drink as you stared at her with wide eyes. “We’re so not talking about this!”

“I’ll take that as a ‘very long ago’,” Gwen said, eyeing you over the rim of her glass. “Just because you’re not dating doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun.”

“Didn’t you hear the part when I said how all the guys are sleazy and disgusting?”

She chuckled, flashing you a smile. “You can have fun on your own. Nothing wrong with that, in fact, it’s my favourite.”

“God,” you laughed, swatting her arm. “You’re definitely too drunk for 12 pm, Gwen.”

However much you tried to push it from your mind and deny, Gwen’s words stuck with you through the rest of the day. A constant echo in the back of your mind that played like a mocking tune whenever you found even a second free.

With a groan you pushed yourself up from your couch, the TV show playing on the screen already long abandoned. In the silence of your apartment you could hear every step you made, every thud of your feet against the ground seemed to echo like a thump of your heart within your chest.

You reached your bedside, eyes narrowed in a glare as you rummaged through the drawer in search of your old vibrator, an unfamiliar sensation stirring in your chest once you finally pulled it out, the thing still fully charged and ready to be used. 

You settled on the bed, head nestled on the pillow as you closed your eyes and tried to tease yourself but it was so damn hard when nothing came to mind. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you reached for your phone, holding it up in a slightly shaky hand you unlocked it and made your way onto the good old trusted … twitter porn.

Your fingers hesitated over a video of a guy. His face was half visible, but his body was in the full picture and he looked sweeter than sin. Hard abs, perfectly toned, arms worth salivating over. Yeah, the guy was made to be pornographic, that you were sure of.

You clicked play, watching as he teasingly ran his hands down his body, wrapping one big hand around his equally as big dick, the sound of his low groaning coming through the speaker.

A sigh slipped past your lips as you mimicked his movement, running your hands down your body, teasingly scraping your nails along your skin before slowly reaching your fingers under the waistband of your shorts.

The video ended just as your fingers reached your clit and a low spark of annoyance ran through you. “Fuck …” you muttured, staring at the replay button. Then the words under the video caught your attention.

Want more? Check out my OF ;)

Next to them was a link. Without thinking twice, or much, you pressed the link, watching as his OnlyFans page loaded up.

You glanced at the vibrator next to you on the bed, Gwen’s words, or more so the “You can have fun on your own,” echoing inside of your head once more.

“Fuck it!” You whispered into the darkness of your room, and then pressed the subscribe button.

taglist: @alenix @briefkittenearthquake @gamesetcheckeredflag @yara011

[helen-with-an-a]

Hi, I was wondering if ale and amor would have kids (I forget if they are mentioned) and if so do you have any hc about all that?

I have mentioned it once? Twice? But I don’t mind talking on more depth loll

Previously mentioned:

Alexia already has baby names picked out (Talia for a girl, Jaume for a boy, unless Alba has a son first (it’s also Alba’s baby boy name) then it’s Eliá) - Amor has said that her family has to be able to pronounce the names/have a translation into her language that Alexia doesn’t mind her family using instead (beyond that she’s not too fussed over the names)

Amor really wants to use Ale’s egg at least once when they have children so she can have a big Alexia holding her hand and a mini Alexia on her hip (she doesn’t mind who carries the baby though)

So, it’s actually at Mapí’s 30th that the idea of kids comes up seriously. Amor and Ale have always known that kids would eventually happen for them but it was never really discussed when/how/who etc

Amor decides she’ll carry first since she’s the younger of the two and will probably be able to continue playing after pregnancy with a little more ease (and Amor hasn’t had any significant injuries and secretly doesn’t want Alexia to sit out from playing any more than she already has)

It takes a few tries but eventually they get pregnant with Baby no1. It’s a girl (Talia). She’s from Alexia’s egg and is quite literally Ale’s mini-me. Hazel eyes and blonde-brown hair and a huge love of football. She grows up to be a data analyst for Barça and eventually is the first female manager of Barça Femení (she was never a good player but she had a knack for the stats and plays etc)

Ale is obsessed with pregnant!Amor. If anything Ale falls even more in love with her. She’s the most perfect partner a pregnant person could ask for. Cravings? She’s out in every shop getting it. In pain? You don’t even have to wince and Ale is there ready for a massage. Morning sickness? Ales got the bucket and a hair tie ready to go and will give all the cuddles you need afterwards.

Mapí makes Amor promise she will never get pregnant again because Mapí can’t stand how in love Ale is (and it’s making her look bad with Ingrid)

Amor and Ale did discuss maybe having one of Amor’s family be the donor but they decided that was a little too weird for them if Amor thought about it for too long she got creeped out.

The birth and things went fine, Amor did struggle a little with breast feeding but she wasn’t too fussed about it, Talia was predominantly bottle fed anyway so that Ale could help out overnight and things

When Talia is 4, they decided they want another kid but Alexia is insistent that she carries. She had retired at this point and Amor is still thriving at Barça.

Ale really wants Amor to be the biological mother this time round and Amor agrees so long as the donor is the same one from Talia (so the kids are 1/2 siblings genetically)

It takes a little longer this time round and Ale gets really in her head about it. Despite knowing what can happen (particularly with “older” women who get pregnant), Ale has a hard time accepting that it isn’t her fault

Amor is practically begging for Ale to stop trying, and give themselves both a break and maybe start up later after a year or so but Ale is insistent. They compromise with one final try

It sticks and Ale ends up carrying twins (both girls) and it’s a comparatively smooth sailing pregnancy and birth. Victòria is the oldest and looks exactly like Amor. She grows up to be a history teacher and insists on having a Barça Femení display and a history of female football timeline in her classroom. She is has a massive agenda to push women’s sport at schools and becomes pretty big in that respect across Spain helping to set up in-school clubs and things for all sports. Rosa is the baby of the family and is a mix of Amor and the donor but does get Amor’s hair and eye colour. Rosa is very much the wild child of the family and spends a lot of time trying to figure out what she wants to do. She travels the world (which Alexia has regular panics about) and does tutoring in English, Spanish, Catalan and German to pay the bills when the money runs out. Eventually she becomes a sports photographer and settles in the WSL (mainly snapping pics for Arsenal)

Every time Amor sees Ale interact with the girls, her ovaries explode. Amor was always a bit on the fence about kids until she met Ale and then she couldn’t imagine not having a baby-Ale in her arms.

Ale has always known she wanted kids but she never suspected how much until she saw Amor. It scared her a little at first because she was always asked in interviews about what she wanted in 10 years time and it was always football. But then Amor appeared and suddenly it was a wife and multiple children and maybe a dog and a cat and it really scared Ale at first but then she was like, nope that sounds pretty perfect to me

When Ale and Amor are like in their 80s they just look around and think “yep, this is the good life�� surrounded by their family, children and grandchildren and they’re just like this … this is what happiness is

[menlove]

"Life After the Bastards: 30 Years On, Macca Tells All"

"Blamed for the break-up for the biggest band in history, Paul McCartney downsized rapidly to cultivate a successful pop smallholding. Yet a bountiful solo career was always dominated by two famous partners, he tells Paul Du Noyer."

i said i'd do this ages ago and then the horrors happened, but this is a written up version of an interview by paul du noyer with paul mccartney from mojo's july 2001 issue.

sidenote: this seems to be the source for the claim that john thought "dear boy" was about him, which is why i bought the magazine because i haven't been able to find a digitized version of the interview and wanted to get the context. but it's a very fascinating interview just in general so it's definitely worth a read!

Wings were a band who seldom felt the feathery end of the critic's quill, but this year we're seeing Paul McCartney's biggest effort so far to rehabilitate the second most popular group he ever belonged to. He's released a double-CD and a documentary, both called Wingspan, that tell the story as he would like it told. And you soon realise that there's more than a muso's pride at stake in this project. "The great thing is," he says, "it vindicates Linda. I know she wanted to do the Wingspan thing. She knew if it was laid out correctly, people would get the idea. With all the slagging off she got, like the famous tape at Knebworth..." (This illicit cassette, from the mixing desk of a live show at the outdoor venue, was for years a dependable source of satirical mirth in music business circles; Linda McCartney's off-key vocals circumnavigate the chorus notes of Hey Jude, while anonymous engineers hoot cruelly.)

"The truth was," her loyal widower continues, "she was doing this (he stands, raises his hands to clap above his head). She was being the big cheerleader: 'Hey Jude, naah-naah-na.' But you don't see the visual, you just here this out-of-tune voice, and I know she always wanted the record put straight. And this does. You see her playing. You hear her singing beautifully. And you see what she was to the group. You see why she had to be in the group. She becomes the ballsiest member of it..."

He settles back on the sofa, here in the Soho office of his MPL company. Around his neck is a slim pink tie of the kind that Elvis used to wear. On his feet are trainers that look less like a gesture to trendiness than a concession to comfort. Just behind him is the Art Deco statuette that appears on a couple of Wings LP sleeves. The other great thing about the Wingspan film, he says,was being interviewed by his daughter Mary. (That's her face you can see, peeping out from Dad's jacket on the cover of the first solo LP, 31 years ago.) "I'd never had such a long natter with her, as doing this. And I used to say to my kids, You're the only ones who never ask me about The Beatles. Their friends would come round and say, 'What was it like being in The Beatles?' I'd go (adopts pompous old git voice), Well, let me tell you... And my kids would all go out the room: 'Oh bloody hell, he's off...' That's how kids are, they don't want to hear about that shit. But their friends would, so I'd chunder on..."

In fact he chunders on about The Beatles a lot more than you might expect. Or about one Beatle in particular, at least. The World's Most Famous Living Liverpudlian is anything but reticent when it comes to the World's Most Famous Dead Liverpudlian. It's quite contrary of him, because for the first 20 years after the group split up, he showed a stubborn reluctance to discuss the subject with his interviewers. They wanted to ask about John Lennon; he wanted to discuss Back To The Egg... Then came a reconciliation with his past that culminated in the Anthology exercise, when the moratorium on Beatle-talk was entirely lifted. And now, in 2001, when the promotional agenda has switched back to Wings, you almost have to coax him off the subject of John Lennon. Is it just force of habit, or maybe the need to exorcise some kind of long-nosed, bespectacled, sharp-tongued ghost inside his head?

Taste restrains Paul from claiming any posthumous victories over John, though it's no secret that he still has some differences with Yoko that are as wide as the Atlantic that normally separates them. But he can't resist smiling at the irony of Lennon spending his last few years championing the sort of domestic cosiness that was once a derided part of the McCartney stereotype.

"Yeah, it's lovely. But you're right to say they were stereotypes. Everyone thought John was the hard, working class hero. As you know, if you look at his house, he was actually the middle class one, from Woolton. We were the scruffs. He had the full Works Of Winston Churchill: nobody any of us knew had that. A set of encyclopedias was the most that anyone in our class had. But he had The Works Of Winston Churchill, and he'd read 'em, I think.

"There were so many stereotypes of John. And I love the fact that in the end- it's one of the great blessings of my life, seeing as he got shot- that during the last year, we made it up. Thank God for that. I would be just so fucked up now, if I'd still been arguing with him and that had happened. I was thinking about it just the other day. It was cool that I'd started ringing him. We'd had a bread strike over here and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says, 'I'm breaking some bread.' Oh! Me too! Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread. He'd just had Sean, and he was talking about just padding round the apartment in his dressing gown, putting the cat out and changing the baby.

"And I'd been doing all of that, and as you say, I'd been stereotyped for it. It was really warm to be able to talk to him that ordinarily, finally. It was like we'd got back to where we'd been when we were kids. It was like we could actually talk about stuff that didn't matter, but somehow it did matter..."

Back in 1970 neither John nor Paul, nor George or Ringo, would find The Beatles an easy beast to walk away from. Paul and Ringo seem to be at peace with it now; John would probably have become so; George never has. Besides the legal wranglings and the personal rancour that persisted between them for a while, there was the unique problem of getting used to living in a world that you no longer ruled.

Pop in the 1960s was like a pyramid. At the top obviously, were The Beatles. Around them and just below, were Dylan, the Stones, the deposed King Elvis, and so on down to the broad base of innumerable also-rans. But pop in the 1970s was more like range of mountain peaks, topped by anyone from Elton John to the Sex Pistols. There was also no unified hierarchy any more, and there hasn't been one since. McCartney can't have found the new world order an easy proposition. But he overcame his doubts the same way that he overcame his blacker periods in The Beatles. In other words, he worked.

It's one of those first post-mop top albums that we discuss in detail today. McCartney (1970) and Ram (1971) were curiously anti-climatic in their day. The first was home-grown, small-scale, contentedly modest, like a record made for his private diversion. The second was sprawling and eccentric, full of unfinished tunes and nonsense rhymes. This was an era when former Beatles were still expected to return from the mountain bearing tables of stone (which Lennon and Harrison certainly attempted to do), not these gaudy, giggling indulgences. Three decades later, McCartney and Ram have endured far better than anyone expected.

It's typical of McCartney, though, that he's still insecure about their worth. He has a peculiar, wrong-end-of-the-telescope way of assessing his talent. He tries to talk up McCartney by telling you that "Dave Stewart really likes it", or boasts that a hippy van driver once yelled across the LA traffic, "Ram! Great album dude!" Recently his girlfriend Heather Mills put it this way: "He is a genius but doesn't realise it, which is delightful."

Towards the end of The Beatles you were dying to get back to playing live in a band, weren't you? But your first move is to go the opposite way and do a totally solo album.

Yeah. I couldn't have another band because I wasn't sure The Beatles had actually broken up. It was on the cusp: we hadn't broken up when I started it, so it was just me doing some solo stuff. And then we had broken up, but things hung on. It basically started from John's decision to leave the band, which came when I said I think we should get back together and do some little gigs. And he said, "Well I think you're daft and I wasn't going to tell you until after we signed the Capitol deal but I'm leaving the band." (Mimes an axe falling) That was, like, The Moment The Beatles Broke Up. But it wasn't in the open until a few months later, when I issued the McCartney album and did this press release with it, which virtually had the announcement. I finally blew the whistle on it. And John was annoyed, even though he hadn't said anything. It turns out, he told me later, that he wanted to be the one who announced it. He was jealous that I beat him to it. But I felt that three or four months was enough to wait around. Either we were just going to fuck about for another year, or we had to actually say to people, "You know what? About three or four months ago we actually broke up." So that was how that happened.

So in your head, The Beatles were still together when you were making McCartney. Whereas the outside world heard it as "What Paul did after leaving The Beatles." I think it seemed a strangely low-key record, as a result.

No. It was on the cusp. There were a lot of funny things around at the time. Allen Klein: he was the one I wanted to sue to get out of it all. But everyone said, "He's not party to any of the agreements, he's just an outside guy. So you'll have to sue The Beatles." So I got into this terrifying thing of having to sue them, scared more than anything of the fact that, as you say, people would just see this album come out, hear my announcement and then hear I was suing The Beatles, without knowing any of the context. So I knew I was in for problems. And I tired my best in the press to say, "Oh, blah blah blah, it was Allen Klein, blah blah." So it was a shitty time for me. The only option was to either let him take it all, and the guys just swim along with him, or fight it. He said I was fine, "Don't worry, McCartney loves me" and all of this. And I knew I was hating the bastard. But to get out of him I had to sue the guys. And, as you know, Liverpool, the mates, no matter how much we were arguing, it's one thing you don't ever want to have to do. So I knew the perception of me would, like, be deadened from there on in. And I suppose in many ways I've been fighting that for 20 years. But it was a clear choice: do that and possibly save it all- or even lose it and pay the lawyers' bills, which was not a terrific option- or just let Klein take it all. 'Cos the others were just with him, gung ho. So I took the option of suing him and had to live with that perception, including: "This is what Paul's done as his first move after leaving The Beatles." Which was actually the nicest bit of the perception: I did an album after The Beatles, so what? The worst thing for me was, I sued my best mates. But the thing is, looking back on it, they now say "Thank you, you got us out of it, we wouldn't have Apple, there'd be no Anthology, no I record, it'd all be in someone else's pocket now." It was the right thing to do, but I knew I was walking into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Very scary, but it was one of those moments in your life when you have to do it.

And, of course, we were hearing McCartney just after Abbey Road, which was at the opposite extreme.

Very produced, yeah.

Despite the problems going on around it, McCartney sounds a pretty cheerful affair.

Yeah, it was, because of Linda. I was just starting with Linda and in my mind the album was my escape from it all. I'd get home, new baby, that joy... any readers who've got a new baby, it transforms your life. I hadn't had a baby before, though we had Heather from Linda's first marriage. Home was a great solace for me, and making this record was "Yeah, this is what I love to do." The rest, outside, was shit, but coming inside it was like a little cocoon. So I either made the album all at home or went down to a little studio in Willesden. Lin and the baby in the control room. Young married life is a very special time. And I always liked doing things on my own. I was the kid in Liverpool who sort of went on a bus to the next stop, to Penny Lane, and got off and just looked around: "Who lives there?" I still like that, it's in my personality to just go somewhere and watch people. Last night I took the Tube home. We went to the theatre, couldn't get a taxi anywhere in the West End. I really get a charge off that. George never used to. His dad was a bus driver. I'd say to him, even when we were famous, I love getting on a bus. He'd say (astonished), "The bus? Why? You've got a car!" But you're just looking at people. And now of course, with fame, they're looking at me a bit.

There's one or two on the Tube last night, cracking up laughing. Guy in a baseball cap, decides he's got to cool himself out, pull it together, gets off at the same stop: "All right mate? Good luck!" So that's where the record got its happiness. And when the time came to release it, I finally had to deal with Mammon, which was Apple. Ring them up and say, "Er, can I have a release date?" Neil [Aspinall] gave me a date. I was kind of boycotting Apple, and Suddenly Mammon decided to change my release date for (adopts sarcastic tone) the massive Let It Be album. And I'm, "You fucking bastards! I've got a release date worked out! How can you do this?" I can't remember what happened, but I certainly shouted loud enough. So it was Rage Against The Machine, me against them. That's why it was a good album for me, and it's pretty funky, some of the little pieces like Momma Miss America have a great sound on them. I was like a professor in his laboratory. Very simple, as basic as you can get, a joy to make. (Scans the tracklist) Teddy Boy was good, I'd tried to make that with The Beatles but no one was having much patience with me. Maybe I'm Amazed was about the biggest song on it. And Kreen-Akrore was about an Amazon tribe I'd seen, who were fighting for survival, I went into the studio and recorded the sound of a bow and arrow going past the mike. Even now that album has an interesting sound. Very analogue, very direct.

The next album, Ram, is famous for its supposed attacks on John and Yoko, isn't it?

Well, Too Many People was a bit of a dig at John, because he was digging at me. We were digging at each other in the press. Not harsh, but pissed off with each other, basically.

Have I misheard, or does it really start with the words "Piss off"?

Yeah. Piss off, cake. Like, a piece of cake becomes a piss off cake. And it's nothing, it's so harmless really, just little digs. But the first line is about "too many people preaching practices". I felt John and Yoko were telling everyone what to do. And I felt we didn't need to be told what to do. The whole tenor of the Beatles thing had been, like, each to his own. Freedom. Suddenly it was, "You should do this." It was just a bit the wagging finger, and I was pissed off with it. So that one got to be athing about them. Once you start, the ball starts rolling. There was a picture that we had for Hallowe'en of the two of us in silly masks that we picked up at a kids' shop in New York. I'm Wimpey out of Popeye, and Linda was another character which looked a bit Oriental. We heard later that they thought that was a dig at them, but it actually wasn't. So when John did a piss-take [in a postcard given away with his Imagine LP], he held a pig instead of the ram. This wasn't posed. Me and Linda decided to catalogue all our sheep, so there's a photograph of me holding every bloody sheep in the flock. Over 100 of them. I was supposed to be cropped out.

Is that where the title came from?

I remember driving up to Liverpool at some point and deciding that Ram would be a good title for an album, then the picture came, and you can "ram" a door down, and a "ram" is a male, like a stag. It just seemed like a good word. Monkberry Moon Delight I liked, so much so that it's in my poetry book. "My long-haired lady." Very '70s. Ram On is a cute little thing on a ukelele, 'cos I used to carry one around with me in the back of New York taxis just to always have music with me. They thought I was a freak, those taxi-drivers. Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey was an epic thing, a Number 1 in America, surprisingly enough. I like the bit that breaks in: "Admiral Halsey notified me, da-da-da, had a cup of tea and a butter pie." It's a bit surreal, but I was in a very free mood. I like all of that. It must have freaked a few people, 'cos it was quite daft. Back Seat Of My Car is very romantic: "We can make it to Mexico City." That's a really teenage song, with the stereotypical parent who doesn't agree, and the two lovers are going to take on the world: "We believe that we can't be wrong." I always like the underdog.

I think John might have taken Dear Boy as an attack on him.

Dear Boy wasn't getting at John. Dear Boy was actually a song to Linda's ex-husband. "I guess you never knew what you had missed." I never told him that, which was lucky, because he's since committed suicide. And it was a comment about him, 'cos I did think, "Gosh, you know, she's so amazing, I suppose you didn't get it.

The LP sounds like you had more tunes lying around than songs to use them in. A lot of the tracks are like medleys of different ideas.

Yeah, Long Haired Lady goes off a bit, Back Seat Of My Car goes off a bit, Big Barn Bed comes off Ram On, that's right.

No writer's block at that point, then?

No, I've been very lucky about writer's block, touch wood. It occurred to me the other day that me and John never sat down on, what was it, 295 songs me and John wrote? And on those 295 occasions, we never came away without a song, which is fucking phenomenal. The only time we nearly did, was Golden Rings, which became Drive My Car. It was "duh-duh duh-duh golden rings..." Um, this is not gonna compute. Finally, we had a ciggie and a cup of tea and our humour came back and Drive My Car came out of that. Some people analyse songwriting. I've never known about it. It's fingers crossed, every time I sit down to do it. I just dive right in and hope for the best, and it seems to work.

Were you feeling in competition with the other ex-Beatles, now?

Yeah, we were all in competition. Which was a weird thing, trying to avoid each other's release dates, like we'd avoided the Stones' release dates in The Beatles. When John or George released an album, I'd check it out, to see where he was up to. I think the truth, as a lot of people have said, is that we were missing each other. We missed the collaborative thing, of John saying, "Don't do that" or "Do that". Sparking each other off. For a while I was certainly very conscious of it. The only good thing was that I had been writing without John for a while, towards the end of The Beatles, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was still a pretty big shock just not to be hanging out with these guys. 'Cos I'd hung out with them since I was 17.

Even when you were not writing together, on later Beatles records, there must have been a stage in the process where the others listened to your songs, and vetoed them or otherwise.

Exactly. John brought me Glass Onion. I remember him out in the garden in St John's wood saying, "What do you think of this?" We would just run it past each other, like you would run it past a mate or a producer. And he actually asked me, "D'you think I should put in this line about the Walrus was Paul?" I said, Oh yeah! It's brilliant. I just generally tended to agree with his stuff, and he tended to agree with mine- like in Hey Jude, i was going to knock out that line about "The movement you need is on your shoulder." He said, "You're not, that's the best line in it." So, often it wasn't negative but bolstering each other up. I might go through the whole studio experience thinking, This line's not right. But the minute he'd signed off on it, I thought, This line is ace! Similarly with him and Glass Onion. It was the strength of unity.

It's always striking that, of the four solo Beatles, George and Ringo got off to the strongest starts.

Yeah, George's All Things Must Pass. As he said, it was just like a diarrhea, he must have held it in for so long. And he had Phil [Spector] and a lot of really good people. And George was just so pissed off with us. I mean, all that anger just came out. Which is a good thing for an album, the "I'll show you" factor, which I had later in Band On The Run, when two of the members left the night before. So George and Ringo did get off to very good starts. John and I took it a bit hard, but all in all throughout the years we all did pretty well as single acts.

You formed a band for Ram, but it's not yet Wings.

Not yet, no. Denny Seiwell turns out to be in the band. Hugh McCracken who plays on a lot of it, who was nearly in the band. He came to Scotland to rehearse, but he was such a New York guy that he didn't really like to be away from America, and I can see that. New York is such a satisfying town, you can walk one block and get anything, whereas you can't do that in the Mull of Kintyre...

The first official line-up of Wings, which makes Wild Life, includes Denny Laine.

Denny came from The Moody Blues. I'd seen him when were out on tour with The Beatles and we'd played with them. My enduring memory is of one night up in somewhere like Edinburgh on tour, we'd had a few drinks and we decided that The Moody Blues would play The Beatles at snooker on this very beautiful, full-sized snooker table. Instead of being sensible and playing one at a time against each other, in a kind of league, they all got on one end of the table and we all got on the other, and I'm afraid the table got trashed. Oh shit. So I knew Denny, I knew we could get on personally and I liked his voice, particularly from Go Now, which I championed. I remember taking that around the BBC in its early days and saying, "Have you heard Go Now by The Moody Blues? It's my favourite record of the moment." And those producers would take notice of us. I was also used to having another lead voice in the group with me, so Denny became that.

And this time there's a friendlier song for John.

Dear Friend was to do with John, a bit of longing about John. Let's have a glass of wine and forget about it. A making up song.

Finally you do what The Beatles wouldn't agree to do, and get back on the road.

It seemed to me that for a band it's essential. We'd given it up in '67 with Sgt. Pepper when our new decree was, "The record will go on tour and we won't. We'll make a great record and send that out instead." But what happened after that was, we made some good records, but missed the stimulus of going out on tour. We missed seeing the whites of their eyes and getting a reality check: "They liked that one, they didn't like that one." And we hadn't done it for so long that my choice was, Either give up music, or continue to make it. I wanted The Beatles to go out as a live band, therefore I ought to go out as a live band. So we got a band and hatched the plan of going out on the university tour. Didn't want a big supergroup, a Blind Faith-style thing. I wanted to try and learn the whole thing again, hopefully learn some new things, rather than just repeat The Beatles things, which had all been done, and been about as successful as anyone in the world was ever gonna be.

But you took the informality to extremes, not even booking hotels.

No gigs or hotels or anything. Looking back, I can't believe we did that. We had the van, the dogs, the kids, and it was just madness. It was like I'd never been in The Beatles, I couldn't rely on any of that fame as a crutch. We went up to these universities, and fate had it that a lot of them were having exams. We didn't ring them up and ask if they'd be ready for us. And the other thing was we walked into power cuts: it was the time of the Great British Three Day Week. My image now is of trying to find our way around the dark North with a torch. Is anyone in? Like trying to find a gig in a mine. But we found a couple. Nottingham was one. Lancaster we played. Newcastle City Hall. Durham. When we did find places it was really cool. The students had a good time.

And you had the unfamiliar experience of handling money again.

Yeah, it had all been cheques and accounts and stuff, bank statements. And suddenly it was 50p on the door. So we came away with these bags of coins, which reminded me of Peter Sellers in Tom Thumb: One for you, two for me... We just counted them out in the van afterwards. Good experience, going through all those hardships, and it got us together as a band.

But that line-up wasn't to last, and nor did any Wings line-up. Why?

I've never actually thought about it. I know it happened but I've always blanked it. Probably, in my mind, a band is a democratic unit. Everyone has an equal vote, and in The Beatles for 10 years that had been the case. So if Ringo didn't like one of our songs, which wasn't often, Ringo could veto a Lennon & McCartney song. That meant everyone felt good about themselves. But in Wings that wasn't the case. I was the ex-Beatle. So I saw myself as the leader of the group, which I'd never been in The Beatles. There wasn't a leader in The Beatles. People had said that John was, and later people had said that I was, but neither of us ever acknowledged it. It wasn't the deal. People would ask, "Who's the leader of the group?" We'd say there wasn't one. I think once or twice in Hamburg, in the early days, John said, "I am." But we got pissed off, so it became a democracy. But Wings wasn't. It wasn't a dictatorship, but we weren't all equal.

By the '70s there was suddenly lots of other big acts: Led Zeppelin, T. Rex, Bowie, Pink Floyd, even The Osmonds in their way, or Abba. Was it difficult, as a Beatle, to adjust to the new landscape?

I knew it was going to be difficult. There was this thing of Follow The Beatles. You found yourself just one of the acts in the Hit Parade, rather than the undisputed leaders. But I knew by starting the group from scratch that we had to work our way up So anyone like Zeppelin or Bowie who'd been building during the '60s and had now arrived, naturally took precedence. You just had to understand that there are people bigger than you. And it gave us a benchmark. We thought, "We'll be as big as you one day." It was very weird for me, starting all over again. But it wasn't the world's worst thing. It was quite sobering, really. It's good to be knocked off your perch. There was a lot of that with Wings. Not only was I doing things for myself with the band, I was personally doing things for myself, living up in Scotland, mowing the field with my tractor. In The Beatles, the office used to buy your Christmas tree for you. Now I was buying my own Christmas tree. I enjoyed that . It's unhealthy to think you're the big cheese all the time. Within The Beatles, we each reminded each other that we weren't. But I think there is a big risk with stardom. I'd ring up a restaurant and say, Have you got a table? "Sorry sir, we're full booked." It's Paul McCartney here. "Oh! Certainly, Mr McCartney!" I've never been comfortable with it.

It seemed like you were uncomfortable with The Beatles' legacy for most of your time with Wings.

The thing about Wings was we bought into the myth that it could never be as good as The Beatles. I knew it was the world's most difficult thing to bite off. Everything we did was in the shadow of The Beatles, which had recently been this phenomenal band. So we did everything with quite a lot of paranoia. And it's only on looking back, that I think we did a lot of great work. You look at '76, we have this big, big tour, and at first everyone wants to know, "Is this gonna be a Beatles reunion? It's rumored that McCartney blah-blah-blah, George Harrison and Ringo Starr are going to join him on-stage, and John Lennon blah-blah-blah." So it was rumoured The Beatles were going to re-form. Even in our most successful year they were taking our success off us. It was, "Well maybe The Beatles will re-form, that would be good." But the great thing was that three weeks into the tour it was suddenly, "Who cares?" It doesn't matter. This is a great band. And at the end of it we go and set some big world record. So that's good to see. We did this thing that we set out to do. And we needn't have worried.

[larkingame]

so, it's 2025...long time no see.

I'll skip they hi, how are yous and get down to the real meat and potatoes of what I'm here to say. TLDR: Larkin is still being worked on (screenshots + such below) and it's always going to remain a free game, but it's under heavy construction atm. thanks for checking in 🫡

for the two people who want to hear the long sob story that usually comes with these type of posts from online creators: I fucked up my back majorly and was out of work for a long time. I went back to work pre-maturely and! I've fucked it up again. the stress of this, lack of income and the fact that i've been taking a lot of meds to help the injuries (but mess with my ability to stay coherent) has made it really difficult to consistently focus on larkin, writing, social media in general, but it is still getting worked on in bits and pieces.

that said, some back story: I started working on larkin in 2019/2020 and it was really really fun! loved it. had a great time. but then i started posting about it and showed it to other people (and to my surprise they??????? liked it????) which made me put a very large amount of pressure on myself that made it not so fun any more. over time i would go through cycles of it's fun! to it's not fun! and so on and so forth. throughout this time I also had pressure from a lot of people around me (irl) to somehow like. strictly monetize larkin somehow, and as someone who was like VERY INSECURE and obsessed with people like mishka making like insane funds off of her game of the same type?/genre? i gave in to that pressure (if you could not tell by all my occasional dirty deletes of shade towards twc. truly pathetic and if any of yall saw. apologies and thanks for ignoring it.) addressing that: i liked twc when it came out, it was fun for what it was and larkin would not exist without it. so thanks for that miss jenkins and i will probably still passively engage with it on my own time.

but, back to larkin. anyways, the looming pressure of this need to monetize made me hate everything that i was doing and constantly feel like i needed to re-evolve and rework and just, overall not have a fun time with it. throughout the months of november, december and january when i was really missing the days of larkin's existence as an idea when me and my sister would just like walk around our neighborhood and i would just infodump to her about my cowboy vampire ocs. so i found my old larkin notebook and the stickies i made planning plot stuff and avoiding tumblr i just. had fun working on my little cowboy vampire game. like not really thinking about other stuff. and that's essentially it.

so I came to a conclusion: larkin is something i love, and i want to continue loving it. so essentially, i won't be monetizing the game itself. episodes/chapters whatever they end up being in the end will always be free. yay. if you want extra content/want to support me in some way monetarily, feel free to join the patreon, however, I won't really be active on it until i have something substantial to show you game wise. that being said, you can still subscribe for access to the backlog of short stories and art etc. I'm turning off charges each month until i have like a real game for you to play that doesn't make me sick to my stomach to look at or think about. another note: pc players are going to be priority until it's finished. I will have a mobile version but i can't promise you she will be all that pretty.

another note, because larkin is free i can't promise quick turnarounds on anything but what i'll be offering on patreon when i start charging again and additionally: i'm back to making larkin a game for me. i really lost a lot of enjoyment for doing this stuff when i thought about that pressure i put on myself like i mentioned above but also, when i started writing it for other people in mind. first and foremost i am making larkin because i like cowboys, i like vampires, i like horror and religious trauma themes. i'm writing this for me: kc, so i can go on my computer and teehee at all the kissing scenes and make a cool cowboy character with fights. i'm going to make it gay and self-indulgent and basically just have fun with it because it's my game and i am making it and i said so.

all that said here are some of the major things i've done with larkin over this past little while:

updated the website so that it is now useable :)

done a lot of work on the ui:

and i have been rewriting a lot of stuff because I FEEL like it was not good and was not fun for me. THE DEMO FROM LAST JUNE ESPECIALLY. it hurts my stomach to look at.

visually, dan (@tapeworrmart ) has been on his fucking a-game with the art even through my crisis. here's the male ace portrait he put together for me last fall and the art for the main menu:

we also have some more art in the works that i am very excited for because they are in pursuit of new fun features :D

all that said. thanks for the continued support if you're still reading this, appreciate any interest you have in my game.

[insidekatmind]

My Boyfriend's Father~Cho Sang woo

Wearning: +18,smut,age gap,cheating.

A/n: Inspired by a handcanon I read <3

You look at yourself in the mirror for the umpteenth time, nervously licking your clothes. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you wait outside the door, shaking your boyfriend’s hand so hard that his knuckles turn white. "Are you afraid?" he asks with a funny smile. "No!" you answer in a whisper, but your voice betrays you. It’s the first time you meet his father and the idea of making a bad impression terrifies you. But when the door opens and your eyes meet his father’s, the breath is stuck in your throat.Cho Sang-woo is... attractive. Much more than you would have imagined. He has a confident, elegant posture, and his piercing gaze pierces you like a sharp blade. He looks at you for a moment too long, then smiles, a light but intense smile.

“We finally know each other,” he says in a deep voice, holding out a hand to you. When you hold her, the warmth of her skin surprises you. “My son was lucky to find you.” You blush slightly, you are alone under the attention of his father, who tilts his head and looks at you with interest. “So, come here, let me see better,” he says, opening his arms to you. You have no choice. You move closer and he hugs you warmly, but it's the way his hands rest on you that makes you hold your breath. One remains on your back, the other slides dangerously down, touching the limit of what is permissible. It's a moment. Maybe it's just you imagining it. Maybe it's an innocent gesture... or maybe not. When you release yourself from the hug, his smile is still there, reassuring, kind, but something indecipherable shines in his eyes.

“Come on, have a seat,” he tells you, with an elegant wave of his hand. You sit next to your boyfriend, but still feel the warmth of Sang-Woo's hand on your body. And when you look up, he's there, looking at you, with a smile that seems to know something you don't even dare think about. You try to concentrate on the conversation, on the words of your boyfriend who tells you something about his work, his day, but your brain is a mess. Every time you try to turn your thoughts away, the memory of Sang-Woo's touch still burns on your skin. You shouldn't feel this way. He's your boyfriend's father. It's wrong. But every time you look up, he's there. He watches you, attentive, with a hint of amusement in his eyes. It makes you feel vulnerable, exposed, and at the same time… alive. “So,” Sang-Woo’s voice creeps into your thoughts, deep and velvety. “How long have you been together?”

“It's been several months already,” your boyfriend replies, taking your hand with a smile. “She's amazing, Dad, really.” Sang-Woo nods, then tilts his head slightly. “Oh, I can see it clearly.” He says it with perfect calm, yet his voice has something insinuating, almost provocative. You seem to feel it glide across your skin like an invisible touch. Your breathing becomes shorter and he notices it. You can tell by the way his lips curve ever so slightly into a satisfied smile. You try to look away, but it's like being sucked into a vortex. His magnetism keeps you trapped. And the biggest problem is that you like it. You like his look, his control over the situation, the way he seems to read your every hidden thought. “I hope my son treats you as you deserve,” he continues, sipping his glass of wine with an air of complete relaxation. “Because if it wasn't… well, that would be a real shame.”

When the night comes to an end and your boyfriend is drunk, Sang-Woo looks at him with a disapproving glance. “You shouldn't drink too much, Son,” he tells him, his voice stern and authoritative. His tone seems to carry a hint of warning. Your boyfriend apologizes, but Sang-Woo just shakes his head. “Go and rest, I'll take care of her.” Your boyfriend nods and staggers to the bedroom, and you're left alone with him. Sang-Woo's gaze turns to you, his eyes studying you with sharp attention.He takes a step closer, invading your personal space with his imposing presence, and you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. There's something in his gaze that makes you nervous, but at the same time, intrigued. "Let me take you home," he says, and there's no room for refusal in his tone. "It's late. I don't like the idea of you traveling alone."You stare enthralled him for two seconds and then nod. “Thank you,” you whisper.

Sang-Woo's lips curve into a half-smile. He seems pleased with your compliance. "Don't thank me," he replies, his voice low and almost velvety. "It's the least I could do. I wouldn't want you to end up in trouble." He offers you his arm with a small gesture, and you hesitate for a moment before accepting it. His touch sparks a current inside you, a mixture of excitement and uncertainty.Sang woo smiled satisfied now that he had you all to himself and he could have sworn that he would seduce you.

As you both walk to his car, Sang-Woo feels satisfied with the situation. He has you next to him at this hour, and he can't deny that the idea of having you all to himself excites him. He glances at you from time to time, noticing the way your body tenses under his gaze, the way you unconsciously cling to his arm. He knows the effect he has on you, and he relishes it.When you reach the car, he opens the door for you with a gentlemanly gesture, but his hand lingers a little too long on your waist. You feel his touch like a warm flame on the skin, and it makes a shiver run through you. "Careful," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice, an almost possessive note, that makes you swallow. He's enjoying the situation, and you feel like a mouse in the hands of a cat.

You get inside the car, and the interior is enveloped in an intimate silence. Sang-Woo takes the driver's seat and starts the engine without saying a word. The car glides smoothly on the road, and the only sounds are the hum of the motor and the occasional murmur of the radio. You're aware of his presence next to you, his scent invading your senses, making your heart beat faster. His hand is on the gear shift, and for a moment you wonder if his fingers would feel so good on your skin.

As if Sang Woo could read your mind, he put his hand on your thigh and caressed it as he drove. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you feel his hand on your thigh, and gasp softly. Sang-Woo's touch is firm, and his fingers seem to leave a trail of fire on your skin under the fabric of your dress. He looks straight ahead, but the corner of his mouth curves into a sly smile. He looks like he's enjoying making you feel so out of control, and it drives you crazy.Your breath becomes shallower, and you try to ignore the effect he's having on you. But it's impossible. His thumb moves in slow circles, tracing an invisible pattern on your skin, and it takes all your willpower not to shiver. You're hyper-aware of every gesture, every move he does. You don't understand why you're reacting this way, why your body betrays you so shamelessly.You feel your panties getting wet, and it drives you crazy. You can feel the embarrassment rising in you, and you start to wonder how he will react. Will he notice the effect he's having on you? Will he use it against you? You try to move, to shift positions, to do something, anything to break the tension, but he doesn't let you.

Sang-Woo looks in your direction as if he sensed that something was bothering you and you see the hint of a smile on his lips, almost a challenge. "Everything alright?" he asks, and his tone seems innocent, but you know he's fully aware of the situation.You nod. "Your son is very lucky to have a father like you" you say trying to change the subject while still feeling his hand on your thigh. Sang-Woo's thumb continues to draw languid circles on your thigh, and his amused smile widens. "Is that so?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. "Why do you think that?" His tone is relaxed, but there's something in his eyes, a glimmer of challenge, that makes you feel a shiver down your spine.

You notice him pulling into a parking lot and you lick your lips. "Well you take care of him" you whisper feeling more excited with every touch of his. You curse yourself for wearing a skirt. Sang-Woo parks in a secluded spot away from any other cars, and the silence that descends upon you is almost electrifying. "Yes, I take care of him," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. His hand moves higher on your thigh, and it takes all your effort not to moan in response. "But tonight, I want to take care of something else..."His words create a shiver deep in your body, and you can't deny the effect they have on you. You're almost panting now, breathless, waiting for his next move. You know it's not right, you know you shouldn't feel this way, but it's becoming impossible to resist. His touch seems to awaken something primal inside you, something you didn't even know was there.

Sang-Woo can feel your excitement, the tension that builds inside you, and it fuels his own desire. He leans closer, his hand now resting on the inside of your thigh, and you're acutely aware of his proximity, his warmth, his scent surrounding you.Your breathing is heavy as you look at him longingly.

Sang-Woo's eyes are fixed on yours, their gaze almost hypnotising. He's aware of the effect he has on you, and he enjoys seeing you at his mercy. "You know, I've been watching you all night," he whispers, his voice dripping with sensuality. "The way you laughed, the way you talk... you're an absolute distraction." His hand slides higher up your thigh, and you gasp softly, barely able to contain yourself.His touch is almost possessive now, and it fuels your arousal even more. You've never felt so alive and so vulnerable at the same time. It's intoxicating, the way he can make you feel just with a few words and a touch. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to regain control of your own reactions, but it's no use. He has you completely under his spell.

Sang-Woo leans closer, his lips hovering just an inch from your ear. "Tell me," he says in a low, velvety voice, "what do you want?" His hand continues to move up your thigh, his thumb tracing an invisible line on your sensitive skin. You're trembling now, your mind a chaos of conflicting thoughts. You know you should stop this, but you don't want to.You try to find your voice, but all that comes out is a soft moan. "I ..." you stammer, trying to find the words, but your brain isn't working anymore. Your whole body is on fire, responding to his proximity, to his touch, and it makes your head spin.

Sang-Woo chuckles softly, and the sound sends a shiver down your spine. He knows he has you right where he wants you, and he's enjoying it immensely. "Use your words, darling," he teases, his breath on your neck sending another wave of desire through you.You take a deep breath and try again, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I... I want you," you manage to say, and the words leave your lips before you can even think about it. As soon as they're out, you feel a strange mix of embarrassment and excitement.Sang-Woo's gaze darkens at your confession, and his smile turns predatory. He moves even closer, his hand fully placed on your hip now, his touch firm and possessive as he draws you closer to him. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "That's what I wanted to hear."

Sang woo drags you into his lap.Sang-Woo wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his lap with surprising ease. You're suddenly sitting astride him, your legs on either side of his thighs, and the position is both intimate and intensely vulnerable. His eyes are fixed on yours, his breathing heavy with desire.You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the strength of his muscles under your palms as you put your hands on his shoulders. His hands grasp your hips, fingers digging into your flesh through the thin fabric of your dress. He's in control, and you're fully aware of it. He's the one who set this situation in motion, and you're completely at his mercy.

You were shaking with excitement and Sang woo smiles "I bet you're wet" he whispers moving a finger inside your panties.Sang-Woo's words send another wave of heat through your body, and you're unable to suppress the moan that escapes your lips. You're trembling all over, and every touch of his seems to set your nerves on fire. You're both panting, your breaths mingling, and as the tip of his finger grazes your wetness, you gasp, your knees buckle, and your fingers in his shoulder.

Sang woo smiled and put two fingers inside you and hummed satisfied feeling how wet you were. "My son makes you feel like this too, hm?" he hummed moving his fingers inside your pussy.Sang-Woo's words make you shiver, and you feel a sudden pang of guilt in your chest. But his touch, his fingers inside you, are too much for you to think straight. You're lost in the sensation, consumed by the desire he elicits from you. "No," you gasp, your voice barely a whispers.

You know that what you're doing is wrong, that you should stop, but you can't. His fingers, his voice, they're like a drug, and you're addicted. The guilt and the pleasure mix inside you, a dangerous cocktail that makes your head spin. "Sang-Woo..." you breathe, and it's like a prayer, a plea, filled with need and hopelessness.Sang-Woo's smile widens, pleased with your response. He knows he has you right where he wants you, and no one will ever know about this except for the two of you. It's a secret, a moment out of time. "Yes?" he murmurs, the word wrapped around by his deep, velvety voice. He scissors his fingers inside you, drawing another moan.

You bury your face in his shoulder, unable to face him in this state. It's too much, this mixture of guilt and pleasure that clouds your mind. You're lost in a sea of sensation, and Sang-Woo is the one steering the ship. "Don't," you breathe, your words muffled against his shirt. "We shouldn't," and this time it's a plea.Sang woo adds a third finger making you scream with pleasure. "Now?" he teases you. There’s something wrong with you…You can’t stop this…

Sang-Woo’s gaze darkens as he sees the conflicting emotions in your eyes. “Don’t think,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. “Right now, just feel.” He fingering you with passion.

You moan and cling to him tighter. “So good,” you murmur. Your words fuel his ego and he smiles, pleased with himself. “That’s right,” he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. “It feels good, doesn’t it?” It was almost like a statement because he knew he had you in a mess.

You can feel how much this excites him, how much he enjoy the fact that he can make you react this way. And the worst part is that you enjoy every moment of it, despite knowing how wrong it is. Your body betrays you, responding to his every touch, his every word.You're drowning in an ocean of pleasure, and there's no way back. Sang-Woo is in complete control, and you're caught in a net from which there is no escape. The guilt and the desire mix to form a potion of ecstasy that keeps you hooked.

“I'm coming” you moan and then kiss him.The kiss is a desperate attempt to ground yourself, to find a anchor in the storm of emotions that threatens to overwhelm you. And Sang-Woo responds, his lips moving hungrily against yours, devouring you with an intensity that takes your breath away.You feel your body tremble as the wave of pleasure builds inside you, your fingers clinging to Sang-Woo's shirt, desperately trying to hold onto something, anything, as the world around you spins out of control. He smiles against your lips, pleased with the effect he has on you.You tremble with pleasure and come into his fingers as you moan into the kiss.

It seems like there is no break. There is no room for any other thought than that of what was going on here and it was a vicious cirlce of lust and desire. Lust that was consuming two bodies that were unable to restrain themselves and the desire to let this go on forever.Sang-Woo breaks the kiss to look at you, his eyes burning with an intense look that makes your heart beat even faster. There’s a smirk on his lips, the satisfaction of someone who knows he has you completely in his power. “You like that?” he whispers, and it’s both a question and a tease at the same time.

He takes your fingers off and licks them, moaning. "You taste so good, honey," Sang woo murmurs in satisfaction. His words make you shiver, and you can feel your body responding to his touch in ways you thought impossible. You're completely at his mercy, and he knows it. His gaze is dark, almost predatory, as he looks at you, his words filled with a mix of desire and satisfaction.

“I need more” you whisper desperately as you grind yourself against him like a bitch in heat, moaning. Sang-Woo's expression is satisfied, a dark smile on his lips. "Greedy," he whispers, tilting his head back and enjoying the sight of you so desperate. "You want more, huh?" And before you can answer, he pulls you even closer, his hands roaming over your body, exploring every inch of you.He undresses you with a satisfied smile. His eyes roam over your naked body, taking in every curve and contour. Sang-Woo murmurs an approving sound as he runs his hands over your skin, his touch possessive and hungry. "You are beautiful," he whispers, his voice low and hoarse.

Sang woo kisses and lick one of your nipples while squeezing the other. He continues this for three minutes. Then he takes it out of your mouth with a pop. You're a mess, shaking with pleasure and desire, and you can hardly think straight anymore. Sang-Woo's hands on you are like a flame that just burns brighter with every touch. You want more, you need more, and the words leave your lips unbidden. "Please..." you breathe, and it's a plea, a prayer.

"Are you that desperate to get fucked by your boyfriend's father?" Sang Woo mutters as he squeezes your nipple. His words make your heart skip a beat, and you can feel a pang of guilt mixed with desire. This was wrong, but you couldn't deny the effect he had on you. You wanted him, with a fervor that made no sense, and the shame of the situation only added to the excitement. You could only whimper in response, your body trembling with need, and you knew that he enjoyed it.

"I need you," you moan softly, the words coming out as a plea, a desperate need. It's true, you need him more than you'd like to admit, and it scares you a little."I need you," you moan softly, the words coming out as a plea, a desperate need. It's true, you need him more than you'd like to admit, and it scares you a little.

Sang woo smiles and makes you stand up for a second to pull down your pants and boxers and then you stand back up. "Tell me honey, has my son fucked you yet?" He whispers while caressing your ass.

You can almost taste the desire in the air, the forbidden longing that hangs like a heavy mist. His lips were like velvet, soft and deadly, and you couldn't get enough of them. And his words...they were like a dagger, a reminder of the terrible thing you were about to do. “No,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.Sang woo smiles. "Good" he whispers and takes you in with a bang fucking you hard without making you adapt to his Big size.

“You’re so fucking tight” He growls fucking you harder as you moan loudly whimpering in pleasure. You ride him as he fucks you and you moan loudly screaming his name over and over again. You're a mess, trembling with pleasure and desire, and you can barely think straight, let alone utter a coherent sentence. The sound of your moans and whimpers fills the air, and they echo in both of your heads, drowning in the pleasure.“your pussy is heaven darling” Sang woo murmurs as he pushes himself harder into you.

You can barely form a thought, let alone say anything, but the words are like a prayer to you. You're lost in a world of sensation, and his name is the only thing you know to say. "Sang-Woo..." you whimper, and it's like a mantra, a plea to never stop.He's a man in control of the moment. In control of your body and mind. He knows what he's doing and how to make this pleasurable for you. He's driving you closer and closer to the edge, and you feel like you're losing your mind.He slaps your ass and nibbles your ass as he fucks you harder making you scream with pleasure.

You're beyond the point of no return now, completely his. There's no going back, no turning away from what's happening. His words, his touch, they all make you feel alive, and it's overwhelming.

"I'm cumming" you moan and Sang woo moves faster kissing your neck. "Come baby, cum on daddy's cock" Sang woo whispers. You moan at his words and come screaming "Daddy" he grunts and cums inside you.

The words escape your lips without you even realising it, and they're so natural, so unexpected. But when they're out, you feel a sense of shame mixed with satisfaction. It's like a secret you both share now, a small act of rebellion against the world

[phreaticlayer]

can you keep a secret ~ ?

[lunar-years]

It's really interesting how Peeta's quiet rebellion in the first games is kind of completely overlooked by everyone, right down to President Snow, while Katniss emerges as The Singular Target. To the extent that by the end of the book when they meet Snow, Katniss can tell right away that only she is to blame for the berry trick, whereas Peeta is quickly dismissed and then for a long time, an afterthought,

Like, yes, the berry trick was Katniss' idea, but it comes to her straight from Peeta's rhetoric!! "They have to have a Victor, Katniss" and before that on the cornucopia, when Katniss asks him why they won't just let Cato die already and Peeta responds "you know why." Like...both statements are vague enough to maybe not seem of any big concern to the Capitol, but Katniss is directly picking up on the undercurrent of his words. And you can't convince me that by the time they actually go to put the berries in their mouths, Peeta isn't fully aware of the same thing Katniss is: the Capitol won't let them both die. They need their Victor, or it falls apart. Yet to Snow and the Capitol, they truly believe Peeta is just a lovestruck idiot carrying out a double suicide so they can be together forever, Romeo & Juliet style. Whereas Katniss, in their POV, is doing it out of direct malice towards the Capitol, not love for Peeta. Even Haymitch doesn't let Katniss and Peeta talk afterwards and only tells Katniss the reality of the situation in the Capitol because he thinks that if Peeta finds out the truth he'll get too upset or won't be able to handle it and things will blow up.

This is after an entire Games where Peeta has been doing something that I have to imagine is pretty unprecedented, and definitely in contradiction to the entire mindset of the Games, which that he neglects his own self preservation instincts and safety to protect and save Katniss. He's kind of playing the Capitol the whole time, because right from the beginning he's refusing to participate in the inherent selfishness and division they try to sow in the Games. And he's doing so in ways he can easily get away, because Snow and by extension the Capitol don't see love as anything other than a form of weakness.

And I'm not trying to say that Peeta is this mastermind deliberately plotting intentional rebellion from page one, because yeah, his actions are largely purely driven by love for Katniss. But the thing the Capitol can't understand is that for Peeta, that love has always been inseparable from rebellion. One necessities and fuels the other. The paragraph Katniss spends lamenting on how horrified Peeta would probably be if he heard the way she and Gale talk about the Capitol in the woods is almost laughable as a reader, because girl, Peeta would absolutely be right there with you. Meanwhile, Katniss is shocked at herself when she so much as thinks the word 'murder' for the first time in relation to a death in the Games. It's just fascinating!

And again, that's not to say Katniss isn't also very much rebellious, especially as the narrative goes forward, but what's key is that her rebellion also stems out of love, and it strengthens over the course of the books as her love strengthens. Her first act of rebellion is volunteering out of love for her sister. And then slowly, her mindset in the game evolves from pure survival as she comes to love Rue, then Peeta. In nearly every case it's love that prompts further rebellion. The Capitol just can't see it because they can tell the star-crossed lovers narrative is on her end, but not Peeta's, a ruse. That's why Katniss is singled out as a threat and Peeta isn't. And by the time the Capitol/Snow realizes the love is reciprocated and that Peeta is the key weapon to use against Katniss, the love is already so deeply rooted that nothing can stop the rebellion that follows.

[midnightsnyx]

come back home - jack hughes

pairing: jack hughes x reader warnings: angst with a hint of fluff word count: 879 requested: yes / no author note: i have like a million other projects i need to write but i just need to get my sad feelings out so yeah, sorry lol masterlist requests are open

It’s quiet when you step in to the apartment you and Jack shared which wasn’t unusual in the past few months. Quiet was how the two of you lived lately. Tip toeing around each other as if you were walking on egg shells.

Part of you was tired of it and asked yourself if it was really worth it. But the other part of you wasn’t sure if you knew how to live without him anymore and that thought alone scared you. It made you realize how much you had grown to depend on him.

You hear his voice before you see him.

“You’re home.”

His voice is hoarse and you know that he just woke up from a nap. His ruffled appearance confirms it when he meets you in the living room.

“Yeah,” you whisper, staring at the floorboards. You hadn’t been home for days - not since the fight the two of you had. Your best friend let you crash at her house after you told him you needed space which explains his next question.

“Why?”

Truthfully, you aren’t sure what made you decide to come home. Your friend had told you that you were welcome to stay as long as you needed and had even put her two cents in on the whole situation.

Her words stuck with you since you broke down and told her everything that had been going on.

“He may love you. He probably does… or at least he maybe thinks he does. But that’s not what matters, sweetie. What matters is what he is doing to show you that he does and right now… he isn’t doing anything.” She squeezed your hand and smiled gently. “You deserve someone who goes out of their way to show you how much they care about you.”

The worst part was that she was right. When was the last time he had went out of his way to do something for you? It made you think back to the beginning of your relationship when he treated you like you were the most important thing in his life. But you suppose that all new relationships begin like that.

You realize that he’s still staring at you intently and you try to come up with some reason you came back rather than the truth, which was that you were too dependant on him and you felt like you needed him as much as you needed air to breathe.

“Can you at least tell me one thing?” he asks after you’ve been silent for so long and all you can do is nod.

“Why did you leave?”

You don’t have to think about the answer to this question because it was something that had been haunting you for quite some time.

“I guess I started to feel like I needed you more than you needed me,” you tell him quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself tightly.

“Look at me,” he says and you let your eyes meet his. “I love you.”

You want to believe him but your friends words keep coming back to haunt you. Did he love you or was he drunk on the idea of it? Something your mom told you a long time ago was that there is a distinct difference between loving someone and being in love with them. It’s easy to lie to yourself about loving someone but you can’t lie to yourself about being in love with them.

“How are you so sure?” you ask him.

“How could I not?” he says and you’re about to tell him that his answer isn’t good enough but he doesn’t stop there. “Baby, you’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of when I’m falling asleep at night.” He slowly walks over to you and reaches out with one hand, letting his thumb run across your cheek. “I think about your smile and your laugh and about how you are the only person I want to come home to.” You watch as he looks away from you and stares at a picture of the two of you. It’s from a trip the two of you took last summer during break. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit. You’re scared that if you let things go back to how they were before, you’ll end up back here in this exact situation. “I’m afraid that this will become a cycle and I can’t do it, Jack. I physically can’t handle that.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, he just looks at you as if you’re the only thing in the world, his world, that matters. It makes you weak in the knees and this is the Jack you fell in love with. 

“Just come home,” he whispers. “We can figure everything out. Together.”

It’s a risk, deciding to give everything another shot. To put your heart on the line. But you remember something else your mom told you once.

“The right people are worth staying for”, she had told you.

You take a deep breath and nod, hoping that you’re making the right decision.

“All right,” you tell him and he grins, kissing you for the first time in months and it feels like coming home.

[flufftober]

🍀🍂 Hello and welcome to Flufftober's (first) Fluff Bingo 🍀🍂

In our poll, nearly 50% of you voted for a handful of bingo cards to fill the other half of the year with more fluff before we jump right back into the excitement that is Flufftober - and of course, we're here to deliver 😊

Find all the important info, more cards, and all the prompts in writing below the cut.

We hope you like this event and our prompts, and now

Happy Creating 🥳

🍀 Pick your card - we offer:

🍂 one card with 5x5 prompts (as seen at the top)

🍂 two cards with 3x3 prompts:

🍂 three themed cards with 1x5 prompts:

🍂 and as a bonus, a 3x3 card with tasks instead of prompts:

🍀 How does this work?

🍂 our standard blog rules apply and you'll find answers to most questions on our FAQ post

🍂 aside from that, you can go wild: fill these cards however you like, as quick or as slow as you like, as often as you like, and use as many of them as you like. We just want you to have fun 😊

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🍂 as with all our events, this one will never close, you can always use these cards. If you need a timeframe/deadline because (like me) you'll never finish otherwise, consider these loose goals:

finish until July 1st when we release the new Flufftober list

finish during October, maybe by combining some of these with the Flufftober prompts

finish until the end of the year so you're ready for whatever event we plan for next spring

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🍂 tumblr reblogs will still happen but not daily as you're used to during Flufftober. It will strongly depend on how many posts there happen to be at a time and how the modmin team will have time. But as long as you mention us and/or use the tag (and follow the rules, obviously), reblogs will happen

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🍂 on ao3, our collection for this event is Flufftober Fluff Bingo

Prompts

We're going left to right, top to bottom!

🍂 5x5 card

Fresh Start

To-Do List

Craft Fair

Creature AU

“This was a bad idea.”

Exploring Together

Plushie

Secret Signal

“You’ll love it.”

Late Night

Hidden (...)

“It’s just so much.”

Free Space

Fake Dating

Carnival

“You’re the best!”

Royal AU

Missing the Other

Never ever, ever

Rainbow

Hanahaki

Pep Talk

“I really mean it.”

Hoodie

Movie AU

🍂 3x3 card I

“Where do I start?”

Famous AU

Traveling the World Together

Enjoying a Lazy Day

Task: Write in a tense you usually don’t write/write less than another tense

“You said you had it handled!” - “Yeah, well, I lied.”

Birthday

“Hey, wait, that’s mine.”

Direction

🍂 3x3 card II

“You’re late!”

Hospital AU

Grocery Shopping Together

Going for a Walk

Task: Write from a POV you usually don’t write/write less than another POV

“Could you not do that, please?” - “Spoilsport.”

Sunshine

“I don’t know, you decide.”

Concert

🍂 1x5 card - Smiles

Secret Smile

Relieved Smile

Honest Smile

Devious Smile

Teary Smile

🍂 1x5 card - Hugs

Soothing Hug

Hug in Celebration

Sleepy Hug

Hug from behind

Desperate Hug

🍂 1x5 card - Kisses

Kiss on the Hand

Kiss to distract

Goodbye Kiss

Forhead Kiss

Kiss on the Cheek

🍂 3x3 card - Tasks

Finish your WIP

Sort all your Ideas and/or WIPs

Edit an entire Chapter or Oneshot

Outline a Story

Work on that hard Scene that is giving you so much trouble it is holding you back

Finish the next Chapter of your WIP

Join in a Writing Event (this card doesn’t count 😉 but the others do!)

Finish a Oneshot

Dig out an old Draft and work on it

Have Fun and Go Wild 🥳

[maleyanderecafe]

Predator's Syndrome (Visual Novel)

Created by: @predatorsyndrome

Genre: Romance/Horror

I'll be real with you, when I first played this game I literally missed the entire yandere section and then just decided to wait for an update, but then @clownboymcchucklefuck basically dragged me back in and became a tutorial guide for me, so now we're here! This is a pretty extensive r18 demo with voice acting and secrets and the Predator's syndrome itself is pretty cool- I love the concept of a yandere disease and I wish there were more works that covered this kind of idea.

You don't actually see too much yandere in action if you play the main route of Predator's Syndrome, but rather the alternative/bad endings of the game. So for that reason, I'm going to start out with those then go more in depth with the mainline of the story since it does give insight to what happens in the rest of the main route.

The story starts out with Phos driving out in the rain after work. They see what looks like carlights before swerving and hitting something. They wake up for a bit in what seems like a very long dark tunnel before passing out and waking up in a bedroom. Phos ends up meeting a man called Pierrot who helps them reorient to their surroundings. A doctor named Darsha comes in as well to examine them, explaining that Phos was in a car crash and was carried here by Pierrot to the place they are right now, Venus Grove. Darsha leaves and after a nice talk and painkillers, and Pierrot leaves soon after, leaving Phos to examine the house. Phos can explore the bedroom, the living room, the bathroom and the kitchen. Upon examining the trash can in the kitchen, Phos finds a wet paper band with the name Scaramouche on it. Phos goes to sleep and wakes up better, though they realize that there is no service. Phos resides in the living room waiting for them to wake up. Pierrot fulfills his promise of making breakfast for Phos and the two talk about how Phos is going to have to stay a while because their car is completely totaled and there's no one close enough to fix it. Phos starts to panic, but Pierrot calms them down talking about how nice the town is. He advises going to the tailor (his friend) to get some new clothes and they agree. Darsha comes in to check on Phos along with a teenager named Tartaglia. When trying to be friendly to Tartaglia, they find him to be very volatile and rude towards them, though Pierrot assures them that he's like that to any adults. They both go out to the balcony to leave Tartaglia alone and they meet Rosaura, the tailor who almost drops her box of clothing she was carrying. Pierrot fills Rosaura on Phos' situation and Rosura offers to make the clothes for free. Tartaglia comes to get Pierrot for his doctors appointment and Rosura brings Phos to her shop and starts measuring them for clothes. After some talking and making sure that Rosura doesn't overwork herself, Phos heads out. If they decide to head back to their apartment, they will find Darsha there and she brings them to her doctors office to make them tea. Darsha mentions that the room they were in was decorated according to their preference, leaving Phos very confused. Darsha seems confused as well, calling someone to get more information and Phos picks up the name Scaramouche when she calls. Phos mentions that they found a paper bracelet in the trash to Darsha with that name. After thinking for a bit, Darsha decides to get Phos out of there, revealing a hidden doorway. She tries to get them into it, but Pierrot comes from behind at hits Darsha with her metal teapot. Pierrot tries to grab Phos but Darsha is able to stun him with a stungun. The two duck into the mysterious hallway that Phos remembers in their dreams. Darsha is frustrated, as despite knowing the risks, she allowed something like this to happen and starts explaining to Phos the reason for this place existing, but Phos ends up passing out. Upon waking up, Darsha explains that the town they were in was actually a place to treat the syndrome called Predator's Syndrome, which causes someone to become violently obsessed to a person they're attracted to (basically a yandere disease). We can learn through asking questions through Darsha that Predator's Syndrome is often confused with other similar syndromes, that Scaramouche was the original patient that was supposed to come here, but Pierrot purposefully lied and use the armband to pretend Phos was that patient before trying to get rid of the evidence, that the names are all code names that the patients use for each other and that Phos has no recollection of ever meeting Pierrot before. Phos can also read through some folders found in this room which explain the following :

There are stages to Predator's Syndrome, with younger patients being more aggressive while adults are more manipulative and relaxed. The four stages increase the hallucination and danger that the patients are and in the last stage, they are temporarily stronger, though more sensitive to stress, as well as become much more violent. It seems that the last stage can immediately activate when the patient meets their "prey" (or darling) and there are cases where patients will essentially scratch and bleed themselves to death. Predator's Syndrome seems to be something that has been around for a while, though the origin states about a legend with a goddess trapped inside of a doll. The temple it was in was maintained by two orphaned siblings, and the brother started talking to the doll as a way to ease his loneliness. This causes the goddess to fall in love with the brother, though unfortunately one day, the sister ended up breaking the doll by accident. While they tried to hide it, the goddess ended up invading the brother's dreams, slowly weakening him. After finding out the two siblings were able to trap the goddess back in the doll, which lead to her cursing the sister, stating that any offspring she had will carry a curse. Finally, the last folder seems to be a diary of a Darsha who is taking care of the patients, noting things like giving an artificial ear to Pierrot to replace his missing one or her feelings on making Columbina and Arlecchino roommates.

The two are able to make their escape by going up an elevator and escaping to a nearby gas station outside of the town. There we meet up with two coworkers there, Judy and Toby, who seem pretty rattled seeing the state of the two there. After grabbing the medical kit, we can talk to one of the characters as Darsha uses the phone. After a bit, Phos will go to the bathrooms to splash some water on their face. upon this they start hearing a commotion outside including the sound of gunshots. The door is locked and Phos can either try busting through or giving up. If Phos gives up, they will hear three other gunshots and Pierrot opening the door covered in blood. He tries to reassure Phos who is angrily yelling at him though Pierrot takes them in the end. If they try to break though the doors, they will fail until the last gunshot is heard. After breaking out, they find a trial of blood and the sound of Pierrot muttering. Phos stands there horrified as Pierrot talks to them, stating that he was the one who locked them in the bathroom. Phos starts to freak out when Pierrot comes closer to them with the gun and eventually takes them.

Another ending happens after leaving Rosura's shop and following a sound that leads near the edge of town. There, they find Tartaglia trying to cut a hole in the wired fence to escape. He tries to get them to leave, and if Phos continues to pester him, he will end up killing them. As they die, Tartaglia yells out that this place won't stop him from seeing her. If Phos leaves him alone, Tartaglia will explain that he has someone he needs to meet and that his parents put him there. Tartaglia explains that he knows another way out of the town as he's been monitoring the place and knows that food trucks come in and out and knows that Darsha has a key to get out. Tartaglia assigns Phos to get this key while he distracts her. Phos is able to get into the office and is nearly caught by Darsha, though they manage to escape quickly. The two end up going to the secret passageway and Phos can initiate a conversation with Tartaglia. The most important thing we learn is Tartaglia's crush on a girl in his class, when he was locked in a classroom, she helped give him food and now he's determined to go back and find her. However, upon reaching the elevator, Tartaglia betrays Phos and uses the elevator on his own. Pierrot appears behind them, telling them that he was using them as a scapegoat so that they would get in trouble, and Pierrot forces them back to the town, happy that they will live together forever.

If you play the normal route, instead of going back or going to find Tartaglia, Phos will instead wander into the forest where they find someone following them. Eventually, they will meet another resident named Sandrone who tells them that they're walking the wrong way. We learn that he mostly resides in the forest and once we get back to town, Pierrot comes to pick us up. After doing some grocery shopping, Pierrot heads back and we find Rosura and Sandrone who have gotten some welcoming gifts for Phos where clean up happens afterwards. Upon attempting to sleep, Phos will wake up to a loud noise, like a scream and goes out to try to find the source of it outside. They meet Pierrot outside and tell him about it, though he seems to deny that there were any noises at all. Phos can either go back inside or decide to go on a walk afterwards. Returning back with Pierrot will have him making hot chocolate for Phos where we can learn more about his biological parents, like how his father was a musician or how he learned to be so perceptive over things. If Phos decides to take a walk, they will run into Sandrome who will bring them to an open meadow spot where he will talk about his family. Upon going to sleep, Phos will have a strange dream about going down a path, landing in the middle of the town and seeing a figure looming over them. Upon waking up, they hang out with Rosura who brings Phos to the town's cafe. There, they meet up with another character named Pulcino who discuss about Sandrome for a bit and how he always is able to help people who get lost find their way out. Upon reaching the cafe, the two talk about Phos's injuries and what happened to them during the accident and meets Columbia, the waiter of the cafe. After ordering, Rosura asks Columbia to hangout with them, but she declines as her boss Nella still hasn't arrived. Nella arrives and while talking, Phos gets a headache and Columbia helps loose then bandage on their head. Everyone chats for a while with people and we learned that Pierrot is taking a lot of pictures lately. Upon leaving the cafe, Rosurna and Phos hear Pierrot and another character, Arlecchino arguing, seemingly with Pierrot throwing a rock at Arlecchino, though Phos sees that it was actually Tartaglia who threw it. Afterwards, Phos walks way, where Arlecchino tries to comfort and apologize to Phos after yelling before eventually Sandrome had to take him away. Phos can either go to visit Columbia to help her with orders or with Arlecchino where they see both him and Sandrome chopping wood. Upon going back to the apartment, we can hear Pierrot, Darsha and Tartaglia talking about Tartaglia throwing the rock at Pierrot and Pierrot accepting his apology.

Pierrot and Phos talk about Pierrot's condition of getting hallucinations with Phos worrying about him. The conversation is interrupted by Pierrot's half brother Flavio, the two have a brief conversation and gift giving before leaving. Phos sends Pierrot home to sleep and they have a dream again in the hallway. This time they meet a shadow kid who warns Phos that their choices will have more consequences and tells Phos to check the roof tonight. Upon waking up, everyone is scrambling to find Tartaglia, who has disappeared. After looking around, Phos remembers the dream and goes up to meet with Tartaglia, who is moping, afraid of being adult as it's his birthday soon. They can decide to help him by talking to him or by leaving him be, either way, they eventually are met with Pierrot who talks to him before bringing him inside. We also end up hearing Pierrot, Phos and Flavio talk about someone in town that is kept away from everyone, explaining the scream that they heard a couple of days ago as well as a brief talk from Flavio's dad and Pierrot's stepdad. After a talk with Darsha, Phos heads back to bed.

The next morning, Phos wakes up to find a lady who gives her mail before running of and they find out its the clothes that Rosura made for them. After putting it on, and three days have past, we get to talk with Darsha and the others to plan for Tartaglia's birthday party. They all plan to do their part and hold the party at the church and Phos can decide on who to help. Each route will give more insight into a character and their backstory as they help prepare for part of Tartaglia's birthday, though since Pierrot is the main yandere here, I'll just focus on his route. After quickly getting the music and Pierrot buying Phos an absurd amount of pastries, they end up spotting a black cat with different eye colors. They decide to catch it and get some food to lure it (Phos also realizes that the cat reminds them of Shadow kid). After capturing the cat, Pierrot is able to clean the cut on the cat's ear, which seems to affect him as he himself has also lost an ear. It seemed to have happened in a car accident and Phos empathizes with him. They end up going to Pierrot's place and the two of them cook a meal together after hearing Pho's stomach rumble. The two of them talk for a while with Pierrot naming the cat Eclissi and Pierrot explains the legend of Rebis, a perfect god who was split into pieces, a legend he was obsessed with as a child. He talks about his past and how he was homeschooled and wasn't really able to socialize that much as a result. Pierrot talks about how his parents basically gave him up, basically leading him to be adopted by Flavio's parents. Pierrot gets scolded by Phos for thinking he really was worthless and they are given the opportunity to hug him. Another person named Malvina comes to visit Pierrot, and gets everyone to go to the church to celebrate. After talking to Malvina for a bit we learn that the two were essentially childhood friends, though she gives of the impression of being very distant towards Phos. After talking and meeting up with a bunch of people and the preparations end, Phos is drawn to one of the doors at the church and finds a gift that they decide to give to Tartaglia. The bookshelf nearly falls and Pierrot (or honestly, whoever Phos has the best relationship with) comes to save them and the two have a moment.

So as I said before, I completely missed the yandere endings when I first played the game and was going to just wait for some updates until Gab come in and made me play it. It is very easy to miss the endings if you don't know what you're looking for, and because I am utterly hopeless without a tutorial, that's what happened lol. The way that the story is written is pretty intricate and has a lot of mysteries, with Phos being able to interact with everyone in the town and seeing how they live lives. Most of the characters who have the Predator's Syndrome has some sort of injury, either a missing part of the body (like Pierrot's ear or Rosura's eye) or have scars or other markings on their bodies like burns, foreshadowing the likely more violent tendencies those with the syndrome have as well as the more tough times that they had in their childhood. There's also the mystery of the screaming/encaged person in the town, the dreams that Phos has with the child, how Pierrot knows Phos and what happens if you stay in the town. I like how we're able to learn more about the various inhabitants in town and their lives, seeing how complex their relations are with others.

Anyways, the general premise of the yandere in this one is that it seems to be some sort of syndrome, and implied to be caused by some sort of curse. Having a yandere disease (as best to put it) is always really interesting and I very rarely see it in stories. This means that in theory all of the characters that are kept in the town (besides characters like the doctors and other services) likely are yanderes in one way or another (though to who is beyond me), which means there's probably about eight or so characters that are yanderes with at least four of them being guys and two of them being confirmed to be yanderes (Tartaglia and Pierrot), which means that there's more male yanderes to come, yippee. There's also way more chance to see the type of yanderes that can come from this, with various behaviors such as being more violent like Pierrot or perhaps clingy, protective or delusional. I would love to see what variations of yanderes might come from those who have this syndrome and who their target (or targets) are and how it affects the narrative with Phos. How they will tie this to the legend is also something I'm curious about since it seems to be the place where it first was documented.

Anyways, we see most yandere behaviors from Tartaglia and Pierrot. We'll talk about Tartaglia first before going with Pierrot, since he has less to discuss than Pierrot. Tartaglia is the only teen in the entire town, and he seems to be very abrasive towards adults, generally cursing, swearing and being a bit nervous around them. He is usually paired with Darsha who watches over him, though most of the town seems to care about him and Pierrot acts as sort of an older brother to him at times and they all come together to throw Tartaglia a birthday, though it seems that none of them are really close enough to definitively know what he really likes given that they seem to be guessing in terms of what he might like (with respects to food and decorations). We also do see that much like any teenager, he is afraid of becoming an adult and is suspicious about the town as a whole. In the ending where we escape with him, it is possible to irritate him enough for him to kill Phos, showing he's not against violence given someone irritates him. We also learn that he has a crush on a girl in his class who gave him food when he was locked in a classroom. Based on the interactions we have with him in the tunnel, it seems his abrasive attitude extends to his normal life as well, being rather uncooperative with adults, which makes sense given he also doesn't seem to have the best relationship with his parents, though we do know that he has a big crush on the girl who saved him, given that she's the reason he tries so hard to escape, and knowing that he is one of the people who has the Predator Syndrome, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that he is likely yandere towards this girl. He also does betray Phos in the end by shoving them out of the elevator so that he can escape, so he pretty much has no qualms with getting rid of or betraying anyone who gets in his way of getting back to her. It is kind of interesting to see Tartaglia think fondly of someone because even in the main story, we barely get to see him really that happy, even when Phos is able to talk to him on the rooftop. The soft side clearly shows that this girl is very important to him, even to the point of escaping or even killing someone, due to that yandere behavior.

Pierrot on the other hand is generally really kind to Phos throughout the story. He is the one who takes care of them by cooking food. It's clear that he has feelings of abandonment and self-confidence issues, believing that it was right for his biological parents to abandon him as well as the fact that he doesn't take care of himself like not eating or not telling Phos about his condition of hallucination. I'm not sure if part of this is a kind of manipulation on Pierrots part (though I don't doubt that he was telling the truth about a lot of this) given that he seems to gaslight Phos into believing there was no screaming outside when they did hear it, as well as lying to Darsha about their identity so that they'd stay without question. One of the mysteries the story has is how Pierrot lost his ear (stating that it happened during a car accident but he doesn't seem to remember) and how Pierrot seems to know Phos or has fallen for them. It's possible that the two car accidents, the one that Phos got into as well as Pierrot's own car accident are related somehow, though whether it's because that they are somehow related or if it just made Pierrot sympathize for Phos because of it is kind of unclear. Still, even throughout the main story, we do see Pierrot react unhappily when Phos rejects him in one way or another, such as not holding his hand or otherwise doing something else, though its generally pretty subtle. There's also other things like Pierrot getting into photography or constantly doting on Phos that indicate other things too. In the bad endings, we see more clearly his intentions of Pierrot, especially in the ending where Pierrot chases after them after trying to escape with Darsha, with him trying to kill or incapacitate Darsha by hitting her over the head with a kettle, and eventually killing everyone in the convenience store. It's clear that even in this state, he doesn't really want to hurt Phos and wants to prevent them from seeing him kill the rest of the crew ( which is something he does do successfully). Though that being said, it does show that Pierrot is very good at hiding his intentions since he doesn't seem to show his unstable nature that clearly, at least until Phos realizes that Pierrot has been lying about why they're here. In the other ending, he "saves" Phos after Tartaglia ditches them and then drags them back to the town. While it is obvious that part of this is due to the "syndrome" itself, we do see how Pierrot tries hard to create a situation where the two of them can live rather blissfully together, and how sudden his turn is when they try to leave. It makes me wonder what will happen if Phos does try to leave at some point in the main story given that there are many choices that ask the player if they enjoy living in town or if they want to go back to their normal life.

Overall though, the game is pretty impressively long with a lot of detail to things (including a text file that appears in your folder that seems to indicate some sort of ritual, probably associated to the legend), and gets a good look at the relationship with many of the characters. I am curious to see how everyone's syndrome develops and if there will be many yanderes in this game. It is a decently long game, so please try it out if you are interested.