#and HAD to scribble it down immediately. i had such a clear vision

[yenqa]

OH! MY MISTAKE | where you can’t for the life of you, remember to call kozume by his first name.

♫ — currently playing... april

warnings – an ankle injury (briefly went over), lmk if theres more!

pairing – kenma x gn!reader

wordcount – 1094

a/n – hi guys !! hope u enjoyy lmk if u do! also this is mot proofread so sorry if its wordy or theres any typos!

kenma isn’t the kind to make many mistakes.

there are times where he’s bound to make mistakes, like when he’s out of breath and messes up his sets a little, or when he’s been playing a game for too long and too many people are talking and the pixels are moving too fast for his brain.

those are the times where he can make the excuse if that he’s too tired. but even then, he still realizes his mistake.

when you first meet him he can tell you’re the shy type. he’s not stupid after all.

he can see you fidget with anything you can latch you hands on as you're introducing yourself to the team individually.

coach nekomata has that same happy smile that he always displays. he can see you constantly look back at him for reassurance.

when you finally approach him he skips to the most important part. he doesn’t care for the formalities, and he is sure you don't care about the wellbeing of every single person on the team.

“you can just call me by my first name, kenma.”

you were taken aback by his abruptness, you hadn’t even had the opportunity to bow before he introduced himself. his face remained a monotone look, it didn’t seem like he cared for you at all.

“oh—okay! what’s your last name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

he is simply oblivious to you, so he says, “it’s kozume, but i don’t like when people call me it. so kenma is fine with me.”

“it’s nice to meet you, kenma-san. it’s an honor to be the manager this year!” you salute to him, he can sense that every bone of your body is tense, and you’re too nervous for your own good.

“it’s nice meeting you,” he pauses, then adds,”don’t take this position too seriously, you’re new, it’s okay to make mistakes and not know things.”

he figures you’re the type to need reassurance on matters like that, he almost adds that you can come to him for help, but it might’ve come off in a different way. which was the opposite of what he wanted.

a warm smile blesses your face as you nod vigorously, barely getting out a “thank you!” before he walks away.

a small smile adorns his face when he turns around while he’s so blissfully unaware of his fatal mistake.

it’s at the next practice when he first notices it.

he’s out of the locker room first as usual. sliding down the wall, he sits down a foot away from you. you’re focused on something that he isn’t sure what.

you shift in your position, quickly casting a look at him before whipping your head back.

he sees you scribbling hard on the paper, then erasing it even harder. it’s when you let out a sigh when he decides to step in.

“are you okay, y/n? do you need help with anything?”

he usually wouldn’t help anyone else, but you’re next to him already, he tells himself.

“oh! hi kozume-san! no i’m okay—just finishing this sudoku puzzle my friend gave me!”

“i told you to call me kenma, i don’t like formalities like that.”

you can feel your cheeks heating up, as you awkwared cover them with your hand you exclaim, “i’m so sorry kozu-kenma! i’ll call you that from now on!”

“it’s okay y/n. just don’t forget next time, okay?”

you agree immediately, and it works for the next couple of hours. until he makes another mistake.

he’s on the floor before he knows it, he can hear the ball slam on the floor, but he can’t ignore the throbbing pain shooting through his body.

his ankle seems to look fine, but he knows he landed wrong after jumping for the ball. he takes his ankle and massages it, it doesn’t do much but he continues to do it anyways.

he can hear a group of footsteps run to him, but his vision seems to be tunneled.

throughout the many voices he can hear yours, loud and clear. “kozume! are you okay?”

he looks up at you, “kenma.”

the team all looks at him in confusion, a few mutters of people calling him delirious.

but you, you immediately get it, your cheeks turn a slight pink shade as you offer him a helping hand.

“sorry kenma! i’ll take you to the nurse now.” he gladly takes your hand. wanting to feel the softness of it forever, but you let go once he’s up.

everyone watches as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and limps to the door, once you’re at it you look back and yell. “me and kozume-san will be back soon! so keep practicing everyone!”

it’s been four months, but still you can’t seem to get over your habit.

many things have changed over the past few months, one being that you and kenma have been dating for two of those months.

though that habit seemed to stick with you even as time went on.

“kozume!” you exclaim, wrapping your arms around him.

a small chuckle escapes his lips, he wraps his arms around you. “you’re still forgetting to call me kenma, y/n.”

“old habits die hard,” you giggle, “oh! also—you’re late for practice! tetsurou was spamming your phone with calls, did you forget?”

over time, you’ve grown much more comfortable with him, as he had with you. even though at the time his ankle seemed to be the worse thing that ever happened to him, it also happened to be the catalyst of your relationship.

he’s grateful for landing wrong fore without that small flap of a butterflies wing, he wouldn’t have memorized the shape of your lips, or the sound of your laugh, or the small moles adorning your face.

“wait—tetsurou?”

you let out a breathy laugh, “yeah he told me to call him by his first name! you don’t mind, do you?”

“you remembered to say his first name but not mine?”

“kodzu-ken i mean. i think kozume is cute! it rolls off the tongue better. i’m sorry!” you raise your hands in defeat, but he’s already walking ahead of you to practice.

you chase after him, “kodzu—kenma wait!”

planting a kiss on his cheek, you take his hand, skipping happily to practice dragging him behind.

“kozume skip with me!”

“i’m not doing that.”

kenma hates the formality of when someone calls him kozume instead of kenma, but with the way his name sounds when you say it, he can’t find it in himself to mind.

yenqa © do not copy, steal or translate.

[theclockonthewall]

I'm so sorry, I accidentally deleted the ask, but this was it:

What about Mark Grayson fresh out on the scene, and he bumps into us and quickly develops a crush on our hero that's been keeping a low profile and is unknown to the public.

A/n: thanks for the ask luvie, hope you like this, acc hope you even see this since I delted the ask😭. Once again, greatly appreciate feedback

Word count: 1.4k

Mark Grayson x fem!hero!reader

Part 1 | part 2

-------------------------------------------------

Mark hovers above the wreckage, chest heaving, the last of the villain’s goons groaning on the pavement below. It wasn’t supposed to be that easy—halfway through the fight, someone had stepped in, silent and precise, disabling three of them in under ten seconds. Mark barely caught a glimps—dark suit, sleek mask, big hood, hidden face behind it, no emblem, no words. Now, as the smoke clears, that same figure gives him a nod. “You’re welcome,” they say, voice calm and unreadable. “Bye.” Before Mark can respond, they're gone, vanishing into the shadows like they were never there.

He taps his earpiece. “Uh, Cecil? Who was that?”

A beat of silence. Then Cecil’s dry voice crackles through. “Just someone who prefers to stay off the radar. Don’t worry about it.”

But Mark’s already replaying the moment in his head, heart thudding with more than just adrenaline.

Mark hovers in place for a moment after she vanishes, still staring at the spot where she stood. Something about the way she moved—so confident, so quiet—sticks with him. Not just the efficiency, but the calmness, the presence. He’s fought beside seasoned heroes, but none have left him this… intrigued.

He tries to shake it off. But later that night, lying in bed, the memory sneaks up on him again. That voice. That nod. That disappearing act. He rolls onto his side and groans into his pillow. It’s not a crush, he tells himself. It’s curiosity. He just wants to know who she is. That’s it. Probably.

The next morning at school, he’s halfway through zoning out in math class, chin in hand, when he catches himself doodling a sleek black silhouette in the corner of his notebook. He immediately scribbles it out and flips the page. Totally fine. Totally normal.

At lunch, it’s worse. He’s barely touching his food, spinning his fork and thinking about how easily she handled those goons—how she didn’t want credit, or attention. Just gone. Who does that? Who is she?

He finally blurts it out to Rex after patrol a few days later. They’re both sitting on a rooftop, feet dangling over the edge, eating greasy fries from a corner stand.

“You ever seen someone dressed in black and silver?” Mark asks, chewing slowly. “No emblem, hooded, masked up, barely talks? She helped me on a job a few days ago. Just—appeared, helped, disappeared.”

Rex raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Once. She helped me with an incident downtown last month. Real ninja vibes. Didn’t say a word. I waved, she nodded, gone.” He tosses a fry in his mouth. “Why?”

Mark sighs. “Same. I can’t stop thinking about it. Like… who is she? Why won’t Cecil tell me anything?”

Rex shrugs. “Ask him again. Or stalk her. You get weird when you're interested in stuff.”

So Mark tries. He asks Cecil. Again.

“Off the radar, Grayson,” Cecil says, not even looking up from his screen. “She works solo. Not interested in teams or fame. Let it go.”

He tries to let it go. Really. But a week passes, and he still finds himself scanning the rooftops during patrol, hoping for a glimpse of black and silver. Nothing.

Until one night, mid-battle, a pipe clangs against the back of his head, and Mark stumbles, gritting his teeth as the villain charges again. His vision blurs for a second—until something darts in from the left.

She’s faster than he remembers. A clean strike to the ribs, a sweep of the leg, and the guy’s down, groaning. Mark blinks as the last few stragglers flee into the shadows, too spooked to keep fighting. Smoke coils around them from a small explosion earlier, and in the orange glow of a broken streetlamp, she looks almost unreal—sharp lines, calm breathing, suit untouched.

He straightens up, brushing dirt off his costume. “Uh… thanks.”

She’s already turning to leave.

“No, wait—!” He floats forward before she can disappear again, hand reaching out instinctively. He catches her wrist, gently.

She pauses, eyes hidden behind her hood, unreadable.

“I just…” Mark’s throat feels weirdly tight. “I never got to say anything last time. I’m, um—Invincible.”

She tilts her head slightly. “I know.”

“Oh.” His hand slips away awkwardly. “Right. That makes sense. You seem like you’d know things.”

There’s a flicker of amusement in her posture—barely noticeable, but there.

He clears his throat, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels. “I was just wondering… if I could know your name? I mean—not your real one. Obviously. Just… what people call you. Or, like, what I can call you.”

She watches him in silence for a moment, then finally says, “Shade.”

“Shade,” he echoes, a little breathless. “Cool name. Mysterious. Kind of suits you.”

Shade glances toward the rooftops. “You should get home. You’re bleeding.”

He looks down. Oh. Right. Blood on his forearm. “Yeah, I—guess I should. Thanks again. Really.”

She nods once, and starts to turn away.

“Wait,” he blurts. “Will I… see you again?”

She smirks behind the mask. “Maybe.”

And then she’s gone.

Mark hovers there alone for a few seconds, heart pounding, cheeks warm beneath his mask, already wondering when “maybe” will turn into “yes.”

A few days later, after another routine patrol, he lands on a rooftop—and Shade is already there, seated on the edge like she’s been waiting.

“Didn’t think I’d actually see you again,” he says, still catching his breath.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she says. “Just wanted to see you, get to know what kind of person you are and all that.”

“Get to know me?” He gestures to himself. “I’m honored.”

Shade shakes her head, amused. "How long have you been here? How did you even know I'd come here?" She shrugs, "Lucky guess..." She looks at him before adding, "Or, I may or may not have been following you the entire time." A low chuckle leaves Mark, already enjoying the little amount of her personality he's been shown.

“So…” Mark rubs the back of his neck. “Can we hang out sometime? Like, not during fights?”

“I don’t like to be seen.”

“That’s fine,” he says quickly. Not wanting to let her go yet, he adds "Since we're in the same line of work, maybe we could do it whitout the masks. You know, face to face, civilian from. That kind of thing.”

She studies him for a long moment, then finally says, “I’ll think about it.”

And with that, she’s gone again—leaving Mark smiling, heart racing, already hoping for next time.

[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (2) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ stan marsh x fem!reader insert | college au, smut

♡ A/N | sorry if this part is kinda fucked up, but i really did enjoy writing the smut LOL. i love u stan <3 thank u guys again for all the support!!! kyle is also based af in this... also this will probably be my last fic for awhile, uni and work is starting back up for me so im rlly sorry!!

♡ C/W | nsfw (18+), all characters are aged up! drinking, smoking, hookups, vomiting, physical fighting, inexperienced reader, p in v, bj's, fingering, reader is kinda manipulative/asshole-ish and depressed, stan is depressed, bi stan

♡ Synopsis | stan thought he could outrun the weight of his feelings, but when the past and present collide at a party, the cracks he's been trying to hide threaten to shatter completely. amid the chaos, one truth becomes impossible to ignore—sometimes, the mess you make is the one you can't escape.

event masterlist | part one

Stan’s breath hitched as he fumbled with his keys, the cold metal slipping in his trembling fingers. He cursed under his breath, his voice cracking as he shoved the key toward the lock again. His vision blurred—not from tears, not yet—but from the suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

Why couldn’t he get the damn key in? His hands were shaking so violently that he couldn’t even do this one simple thing. The door wobbled slightly under his palm as he slammed his other hand against it, his frustration boiling over into a muttered, “Fucking useless.”

Finally, the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside, letting it shut behind him with a loud, hollow thud. The sound reverberated through his skull like the echo of every mistake he’d ever made.

Stan wasn’t expecting to see Kyle sitting at his desk, surrounded by open textbooks and scribbled notes. His best friend’s head snapped up at the noise, his expression immediately shifting from tired concentration to alarm as he took in Stan’s disheveled state.

“Stan?” Kyle’s voice was cautious, his brow furrowing. “What the hell happened? Are you—”

Stan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words jammed in his throat, choking him as he dragged himself to his bed. His legs felt like they might give out, and the second he hit the mattress, he folded in on himself. His elbows dug into his thighs, his head dropping into his hands as his shoulders slumped forward. His hoodie felt too tight, like it was strangling him, and he tugged at the neckline with shaky fingers, desperate for air.

Kyle didn’t move at first. Stan could feel his gaze, sharp and calculating, like he was trying to piece together the puzzle of what had just walked through the door. The silence between them was thick, suffocating, broken only by the sound of Stan’s uneven breathing.

“What the hell is going on, Stan?” Kyle tried again, his voice quieter but no less insistent. “You look like you just—” He stopped himself, his words trailing off when it became clear that Stan wasn’t going to respond.

Stan’s mind was racing, but none of his thoughts made sense. They jumbled together, incoherent and overwhelming: the heat of your skin, the weight of your words, the way you looked at him when you wiped your  mouth and told him you wanted to. The memories hit him like a series of sharp, jarring flashes, each one leaving a heavier weight in his chest.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he stopped it sooner? He’d let it happen—hell, he’d encouraged it. He could still feel your touch, your breath, your voice as you asked if it was okay, and all he could do was nod like some pathetic, desperate idiot.

His stomach churned violently, and he swallowed hard, willing himself to keep it together.

Kyle finally stood, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor grating on Stan’s frayed nerves. His footsteps were slow, cautious, as he approached the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under Kyle’s weight as he sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him.

“Stan,” Kyle said softly, his voice devoid of the usual judgment or irritation. He waited, but Stan didn’t lift his head.

Then Kyle’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and steady. The contact jolted something loose in Stan, and he let out a sharp, broken gasp. The tears came before he could stop them, spilling hot and fast as his shoulders began to shake.

“I can’t—I can’t fucking do this,” Stan choked out, his voice cracking with every word. He dug his fingers into his hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might ground him. “I’m so fucked up, Kyle. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing anymore.”

Kyle’s hand tightened slightly, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t tell Stan it was going to be okay, didn’t try to fix it, and for some reason, that only made Stan’s chest ache more. He wasn’t sure what he wanted Kyle to say—maybe nothing, maybe everything. Nothing felt like it would be enough.

“I keep screwing everything up,” Stan muttered, his voice muffled by his hands. “I’m such a fucking mess. She deserves better than this—better than me. And all I’m doing is—” He cut himself off, a sharp sob tearing its way out of his throat.

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, bright and vivid and so goddamn innocent compared to the mess he’d made of himself. He hated it—hated himself for letting you get caught up in his shit. You deserve someone who wasn’t drowning, someone who wasn’t going to drag you down with him.

Kyle shifted beside him, his presence solid and unmoving. “You’re not a lost cause, Stan,” he said finally, his tone even but firm. “But you can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this. Whatever’s going on, you need to face it. You can’t keep burying it under all this… whatever this is.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, though it came out more like a strangled sob. “Yeah? And what if there’s nothing left to face? What if I’m just broken, Kyle? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

Kyle didn’t answer right away, and Stan could feel the weight of his silence like a lead ball in his chest. Finally, Kyle let out a quiet sigh, his hand still firm on Stan’s shoulder. “You figure it out. One step at a time. But you can’t keep doing this alone.”

Stan shook his head, his hands dropping from his face to rest limply in his lap. His chest ached, his throat raw from the effort of holding back more tears. He stared at the floor, his vision blurred, and muttered, “I don’t know if I can.”

The words felt hollow, heavy, like they’d been pulled from the deepest part of him. For a moment, he thought Kyle might try to argue, to push back against his hopelessness. But instead, Kyle just sat there, his presence a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Stan’s voice was hoarse as he spoke again, barely above a whisper. “I’m ruining everything. And I don’t know how to stop.”

Stan leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, his eyes unfocused as the city lights blurred past. The hum of Kyle’s car engine and the chaotic noise from the backseat felt distant, like it was happening to someone else entirely. Kenny and Cartman were mid-argument—something about who ate the last slice of pizza before they left—but their voices were muffled, almost drowned out by the weight pressing on his chest.

Kyle was muttering under his breath, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel as he navigated through traffic. Stan wasn’t sure if Kyle was complaining about the frat party, the noise in the car, or the fact that he had to drag Stan out at all. Probably all three. But Stan didn’t care. None of it mattered.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. He didn’t need to check to know it was you.

You’d been texting him all day, calling him, leaving voicemails he hadn’t dared to listen to. The notification counter on his lock screen was absurd—double digits at least. It was like you were desperately trying to reach out, to fix something that Stan had already smashed into pieces.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing harder against the window like he could will himself to disappear. Every buzz of his phone was a knife in his chest, sharp and relentless. He didn’t have to read the texts to know what they said. He could hear your voice in his head, asking him why he’d been avoiding you, why he hadn’t answered, why he’d left so suddenly that night. And what could he say? That he’d felt so disgusted with himself, so ashamed, that he couldn’t even face you? That every time he thought about you—about your hands, your voice, your touch—he felt like he was going to fucking unravel?

Stan’s stomach churned as he imagined you sitting in your room, staring at your phone, waiting for a reply that would never come. He could picture it so vividly: the way your eyebrows furrowed when you were frustrated, the way your leg bounced when you were nervous. You probably thought you’d done something wrong. Maybe you even blamed yourself.

He hated himself for that the most.

“Yo, Stan,” Kenny’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and teasing. “You gonna sulk all night, or are you actually gonna have fun for once?”

Stan didn’t move, his forehead still pressed against the window. “Not in the mood, Kenny,” he muttered, his voice flat.

“Shocker,” Cartman chimed in from the backseat, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Stan Marsh, king of depression, strikes again. Someone get this guy a participation trophy for most miserable bastard alive.”

“Cartman,” Kyle snapped, his voice sharp and tired. “Shut the hell up.”

Stan didn’t even flinch. The jab rolled off him like water on glass. He’d heard worse—from Cartman, from himself. His own thoughts were infinitely crueler than anything Cartman could come up with.

His phone buzzed again, and this time, the vibration felt like it echoed through his entire body. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal of the device, but he didn’t pull it out. He couldn’t bring himself to look at your name on the screen again. Couldn’t bring himself to see the timestamp on the last text he’d ignored.

God, why won’t you stop?

The thought hit him like a slap, bitter and sharp. He clenched his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension. He knew why you wouldn’t stop. You cared. You’d always cared, even when he didn’t deserve it. And that was the worst part. Because no matter how many times you reached out, no matter how hard you tried to pull him back, he’d only end up dragging you down with him.

Stan let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into fists in his lap. The party wasn’t going to help. It was just another excuse to drown himself in alcohol and noise, to bury the weight of his guilt under layers of bad decisions. But Kyle had insisted. Said he needed to get out, to “snap out of whatever funk” he was in.

Funk. Like it was something he could just shake off. Like he hadn’t been carrying this hollow, gnawing emptiness for years, long before you’d gotten tangled up in it.

Another buzz. Another text. Another reminder that he was too much of a coward to face you.

He closed his eyes, the cool glass against his skin the only thing grounding him. His mind replayed that night in your room on an endless loop—the way you’d looked at him, the way your voice had wavered when you asked if it was okay, the way he’d broken down the moment he’d left.

He deserved every ounce of this misery.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a two-story house, its windows glowing with multicolored lights. The muffled bass of music thudded against the walls, vibrating through the air. People crowded the porch, cups in hand, laughter and shouts spilling out into the street like the party couldn’t be contained.

Stan dragged himself out of the car, his feet heavy against the pavement as he followed Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman up the steps. The scene was chaotic, but Stan barely registered it. All he could think about was how desperately he needed to shut his brain off, to drown out the endless loop of shame and guilt that had been gnawing at him since he’d bolted from your room.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the stench of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely herbal hit him like a wall. The house was packed, bodies pressed together in a chaotic rhythm that matched the deafening music. Stan scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the makeshift bar set up in the kitchen. Without a word, he started toward it.

Kyle grabbed his arm, his expression tight. “Stan, come on. Maybe you should chill for a second.”

“Get off me, Kyle,” Stan muttered, yanking his arm free. He didn’t stop walking.

“Dude, just let him,” Kenny said from behind, his tone light but laced with a resigned edge. “If he wants to drink himself stupid, it’s not like we can stop him.”

Kyle shot Kenny a sharp look, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he trailed behind, his concern palpable as they followed Stan into the kitchen.

The bar was a mess of half-empty bottles and sticky counters, but Stan didn’t hesitate. He reached for the nearest bottle of clear liquid—vodka, maybe—and unscrewed the cap with shaky hands. A few people around the bar turned to watch as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long, burning swig.

“Jesus, Stan,” Kyle hissed, his voice barely audible over the music.

Stan ignored him, the vodka scorching its way down his throat and settling in his stomach like fire. He took another swig, longer this time, the burn making his eyes water. Someone nearby let out a low whistle, and a few others laughed, their voices mingling with the pounding bass.

“Damn, dude. Save some for the rest of us,” a guy called out, his tone half-amused, half-impressed.

Stan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his grip tightening on the bottle. He didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. The vodka was already doing its job, the edges of his thoughts starting to blur, the weight in his chest loosening just enough to breathe.

Kyle reached for the bottle, his expression tense. “Stan, stop. This isn’t—”

“Leave it,” Stan snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. He pulled the bottle out of Kyle’s reach and tipped it back again, the alcohol rushing through him like a lifeline.

Kenny leaned against the counter, his eyes tracking Stan’s movements with a mix of curiosity and unease. “Guess we’re doing this, huh?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Stan didn’t care about the stares or the murmurs around him. He didn’t care about Kyle’s disapproval or Kenny’s detached amusement. All he cared about was the bottle in his hand and the numbness creeping over him, muting the thoughts that had been eating him alive for days.

But as he took another swig, he couldn’t help but think about how temporary it all was. How the numbness would fade, leaving him raw and exposed again. How he’d have to face your texts, your calls, your voice in his head asking why.

He pushed the thought away, his grip tightening on the bottle as he took another drink, his focus narrowing to the burn in his throat and the faint, fleeting relief it brought.

Stan barely registered the presence next to him until a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, his body tense, but then the unmistakable voice of Cartman broke through the haze.

“Alright, dude,” Cartman said, his tone surprisingly even for once. “Let’s take this outside and chill, huh?”

Stan turned his head, blinking blearily at him. Cartman had a half-empty bag of chips in one hand, crumbs dusting his hoodie. The contrast between Cartman’s casual demeanor and Stan’s unraveling was almost laughable, if not for the fact that Stan couldn’t summon the energy to care.

“What?” Stan muttered, his voice hoarse, the word dragging out like it took effort just to speak.

Cartman gestured loosely toward the back door with the bag of chips. “You heard me. Outside. You’re, like, two seconds away from face-planting into the counter, and I’d rather not have to haul your drunk ass to a hospital. Plus, it’s too loud in here.”

Stan stared at him for a moment, his grip still tight on the bottle. The idea of going outside, away from the noise and the crowd, wasn’t entirely unappealing, but he couldn’t shake the nagging voice in his head that told him to just keep drinking. To keep burying it all.

“I’m fine,” Stan mumbled, raising the bottle again.

Cartman’s hand tightened on his shoulder, uncharacteristically firm. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice lower, almost serious. “And I’m not asking. Let’s go.”

Stan hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced down at the bottle in his hand. The burn of the vodka had dulled, replaced by a creeping nausea he couldn’t quite shake. The room felt too hot, too claustrophobic, the thrum of the music pounding in his skull like a second heartbeat.

Without another word, Cartman started guiding him toward the back door, his grip firm but not rough. Stan didn’t resist, his legs moving on autopilot as they weaved through the crowd. Kenny and Kyle were still in the kitchen, their voices blending into the cacophony around them, but Stan didn’t look back.

The cool night air hit him like a slap to the face as they stepped onto the porch. It was quieter out here, the muffled bass from inside fading into the background. A few people lingered around the edges of the yard, smoking or chatting in low voices, but it felt a world away from the chaos inside.

Cartman let go of his shoulder and leaned against the porch railing, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched Stan with an unreadable expression.

Stan sank down onto the steps, the bottle still clutched in his hand. He rested his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low as he stared at the ground. The vodka churned uncomfortably in his stomach, mixing with the weight in his chest until he felt like he might collapse under it.

“You’re a mess, dude,” Cartman said finally, his tone blunt but not unkind. “And that’s coming from me.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No shit, Cartman.”

Cartman shrugged, his hand rattling the bag of chips as he reached for another handful. “I’m just saying, whatever’s got you spiraling this hard? Might wanna deal with it before you end up, I don’t know, dead in a ditch or some shit.”

Stan looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “Thanks for the pep talk,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Cartman smirked, leaning back against the railing. “Anytime, Marsh.” For a moment, he was silent, his gaze shifting to the bottle in Stan’s hand. “Seriously, though. You gonna talk about it, or are we just gonna sit here while you drink yourself into oblivion?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white as he stared at the ground. The thought of talking about it, of saying any of it out loud, made his throat close up. But the silence felt heavier than the words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Finally, he sighed, the sound shaky and hollow. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said quietly, though even he didn’t believe the words.

Cartman didn’t push. He just stood there, eating his chips. Stan’s chest tightened as the silence between him and Cartman stretched on, his own words hanging heavy in the cool night air. He could feel Cartman’s gaze on him, assessing, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t have it in him.

“So,” Cartman said, his voice casual but pointed as he crunched on another chip. “This spiral of yours—it’s about [Y/N], isn’t it?”

Stan’s stomach dropped. He didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t give Cartman the satisfaction of an answer. His hands clenched into fists on his knees, his nails digging into his palms as he focused on the ground in front of him.

When Stan didn’t respond, Cartman just shrugged, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth. “Figures,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Chicks, man. They’ll fuck you up every time.”

Stan finally looked up, his glare sharp, but Cartman wasn’t even looking at him. He was leaning against the porch railing, staring out at the yard like this was just another Saturday night. For all his bluntness, Cartman didn’t press the issue, and Stan was oddly grateful for it.

He let out a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, when movement caught his eye. Out in the yard, among the small clusters of people, was someone who looked exactly like you. The way they moved, the curve of their shoulders, even the shine of their hair—it all screamed you. His heart stopped, his chest tightening painfully as a wave of nausea rolled through him.

Oh, God. No. Not here. Not now.

Stan felt his stomach twist violently, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he tried to ground himself. His grip on the bottle tightened until his knuckles turned white, but his hands were trembling too much for it to feel steady.

“Dude, are you gonna puke again?” Cartman asked, his tone half-concerned, half-mocking as he finally glanced over at him.

Stan shook his head sharply, his eyes locked on the figure in the yard. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice sounded far from convincing.

It wasn’t until the person turned slightly, giving him a better look at their face, that he realized it wasn’t you. The relief that hit him was immediate but fleeting, replaced by a hollow ache in his chest that left him breathless.

Get a grip, he told himself. You’re losing it.

Without looking at Cartman, Stan pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the alcohol in his system made his movements clumsy. “I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice low and strained.

Cartman raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop him. “Yeah, sure. Don’t die or anything.”

Stan ignored him, his focus zeroing in on the person who looked like you. He didn’t know why he was doing this—why he was chasing a ghost in the middle of a party—but his legs moved before his brain could stop them.

His steps faltered slightly when they turned, their profile confirming what he already knew: it wasn’t you. The sharp pang of disappointment hit him, but he pushed it down, plastering on a crooked grin as he closed the distance between them.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, though it wavered slightly. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the yard.”

The person turned fully, their eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “Uh, hi?” they said, their tone cautious but polite.

Stan shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, trying to steady himself as he leaned slightly closer. “I know this is kind of random, but… you look familiar. Do we know each other?”

They tilted their head, studying him for a moment. “I don���t think so,” they said finally. “But… thanks, I guess?”

“Sorry if I’m coming off weird,” Stan added quickly, the words tumbling out before he could think them through. “It’s just—you have this vibe. Like someone I used to know.”

His stomach churned at the words, the lie leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore—flirting, coping, or just flailing in the dark. Maybe all three.

The person gave him a small smile, their posture relaxing slightly. “Well, I hope they were cool,” they said lightly, their voice carrying a faint edge of humor. “Because that’s a lot of pressure.”

Stan laughed softly, though it felt hollow. “They were… one of a kind,” he muttered, his throat tightening as he glanced down at the bottle in his hand.

The person shifted their weight, their gaze flicking to the bottle before meeting his eyes again. “So… are you okay?” they asked, their tone genuine but hesitant.

The question hit him like a slap, the concern in their voice cutting through the haze of alcohol and self-loathing. He forced another grin, though it felt like it might crack under the weight of everything he was trying to hold back.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Just… blowing off some steam, you know?”

The person nodded slowly, their expression softening. “Well, don’t go too hard on yourself,” they said, their smile faint but kind. “It’s not worth it.”

Stan’s chest tightened, the words hitting far too close to home. He hesitated, the idea forming in his mind before he could stop it. Maybe if he just leaned into this—into them—he could bury the mess he was drowning in. Just for a night.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat, his grin turning slightly sharper, more deliberate. “Do you want to maybe get out of here? Just hang out, away from all… this?” He gestured vaguely toward the party, his pulse racing as he waited for their response.

The person blinked, their surprise evident. They hesitated, glancing around before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t know,” they said, their tone cautious. “I’m not really looking for anything serious.”

Stan’s grin faltered for a split second before he forced it back into place. “Neither am I,” he said smoothly, though the words felt like sandpaper in his throat. “Just… looking for some company.”

They looked at him for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Stan’s chest tightened further, the silence stretching as his grip on the bottle grew tighter. Finally, they nodded, their smile faint but genuine.

“Alright,” they said, their voice light. “Lead the way.”

Stan exhaled, the relief crashing over him like a wave as he gestured for them to follow him. But as they walked toward the edge of the yard, the hollow ache in his chest twisted deeper, darker. He could feel it gnawing at him, an insidious reminder that this wasn’t about connection or distraction—it was about punishment.

Because that’s what he deserved, wasn’t it? To scrape the bottom of the barrel, to throw himself into fleeting moments that meant nothing and left him emptier than before. To chase ghosts and bury himself in mistakes just to forget the weight of your voice, your touch, your trust. He clenched his jaw, his steps heavy, each one dragging him further into the abyss he’d created for himself.

It didn’t matter who they were or how kind their smile was. They weren’t you. And no amount of cheap liquor or borrowed warmth would change the fact that he’d ruined the one thing that might’ve saved him. He wasn’t just falling apart—he was clawing himself to pieces, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

As he led them into the dark, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. Maybe he was beyond saving. Maybe this was all he’d ever be—a mess of regrets and bad decisions, staggering forward just to avoid looking back.

The phone felt heavy in your trembling hands, its screen glowing with the draft of a message you couldn’t bring yourself to send. Your mascara streaked down your cheeks, smudged by the steady flow of tears you hadn’t managed to stop for hours. The lump in your throat ached, a constant reminder of the sobs that wracked your chest. You sniffled, trying and failing to take a steadying breath, as your thumb hovered over the send button.

“Hey… I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.”

The words on the screen blurred through your tears, and your hands shook so violently you could barely hold the phone still. Damien didn’t deserve this—he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been patient and kind, the perfect blend of calm and confident, someone who made you feel like you mattered. And yet, none of it had been enough to drown out the relentless weight of Stan in your mind.

Your chest tightened as you stared at the message, the silence of your room only amplifying the storm of your thoughts. A week had passed since you’d last seen Stan, but his absence had carved itself into every part of your life. You couldn’t escape it—not in the dead of night when you stared at your phone waiting for a message that never came, and not during the day when everything reminded you of him.

Every laugh, every smile you’d shared, every clumsy touch from that night—it all played on an endless loop in your mind, growing louder with every moment he ignored you. And now you were here, mascara running down your face and heartbreak threatening to choke you, about to push away the one person who had actually wanted you.

You felt your stomach twist with guilt as you thought about Damien. He’d been so excited when he’d texted you last night, asking about your weekend plans. The idea of crushing that enthusiasm, of turning his warmth into confusion and hurt, made your fingers falter.

But you couldn’t keep lying to yourself, or to him. Your heart wasn’t in this—how could it be when it was still chained to someone else? To someone who hadn’t even spared you a text in a week? Someone who was probably out there living his life without a second thought for the mess he’d left you in?

Your tears fell harder at the thought, your thumb finally pressing the button as the message sent with a soft ping. The room seemed impossibly still as you stared at the screen, watching the text sit there, delivered but unanswered.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to no one, your voice hoarse and broken.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your body trembled with every sob, your chest heaving as the weight of guilt crushed you. It was unbearable, like a physical ache gnawing at your ribs and spreading through every inch of you. You let your head fall into your hands, your fingers tangling in your hair as shame and regret clawed at your heart.

How could you have been so selfish? So stupid?

You replayed that night in your mind, every detail vivid and suffocating. The way Stan’s hands had hesitated before gripping your hips. The way his voice had trembled when he asked if it was okay. The way he’d broken apart in your room after you’d pushed too far.

You’d told yourself it was for practice, for Damien. That lie sat bitter in your chest now, hollow and meaningless. You hadn’t cared about Damien in that moment, not really. You’d cared about Stan, about distracting him, about being the one to pull him out of the darkness that had been swallowing him whole. But instead of helping him, you’d only dragged him down further.

I used him. The thought hit you like a slap, fresh tears streaming down your face as the realization sank in. You’d taken advantage of his vulnerability, of his trust in you, and for what? To play pretend for a few fleeting moments? To feel wanted?

You pressed your hands against your face, your fingers digging into your skin as if you could scrub the guilt away. “I’m a terrible person,” you whispered, the words shaking as they fell from your lips. “I’m so fucking terrible.”

The silence of your room felt deafening, wrapping around you like a noose. You hoped, desperately, that Stan was feeling better now that he didn’t have to deal with you. That cutting you out of his life had given him some peace, even if it left you feeling hollow and alone.

The thought of him—his face, his voice, his touch—was like a knife twisting in your chest. You wanted to forget, to drown out the ache that wouldn’t let up no matter how much you cried. You wanted the numbness that had always felt so far out of reach. And then, unbidden, your mind drifted to the one thing that might offer it.

Alcohol.

You thought about the parties Stan and the guys dragged you to, the cheap liquor that burned your throat but left your mind blissfully hazy. You thought about how easy it would be to lose yourself in that fog, to forget the guilt, the shame, the sound of your phone buzzing with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

Your breathing hitched as the thought took hold, the temptation curling around you like a siren’s song. You pushed yourself off the bed, your legs unsteady as you stood. Your heart pounded in your chest, your movements shaky and uncertain as you made your way to the closet.

Throwing the door open, you rifled through the clothes hanging limply on their hangers, your fingers trembling as you searched for something—anything—that screamed distraction. Your hand paused on a short black dress, the one you’d worn to a party months ago, the night you’d laughed too loud and let Kenny drag you onto the dance floor. You grabbed it without thinking, pulling it off the hanger and clutching it to your chest like it was a lifeline.

You needed out. Out of this room, out of your head, out of the suffocating guilt that threatened to consume you whole. And if a few drinks and a crowded room were the only way to get there, then so be it.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the makeup wipes on your desk, dabbing at the streaked mascara that had smudged across your cheeks. The image of your tear-streaked face in the mirror only deepened the knot of guilt and shame in your stomach, but you pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand. If you were going to do this—if you were going to escape your thoughts tonight—you couldn’t look like the emotional wreck you felt.

As you applied fresh eyeliner with trembling hands, you heard the familiar jingle of keys outside the door. The knob twisted, and Red stepped inside, her phone in hand and earbuds dangling from her neck. She stopped mid-step when she saw you at your desk, makeup wipes and half-finished cosmetics strewn across the surface.

“Whoa. What happened in here?” she asked, her voice lighter than the concerned look on her face.

You didn’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on lining your lips with the bold red lipstick that matched the armor you were trying to piece together. “Nothing,” you said quickly, your voice tight and unconvincing.

Red closed the door behind her, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took you in. She set her bag down on her bed and crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the frame. “You don’t look like nothing.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to keep your composure. “I’m fine,” you insisted, though your shaking hands betrayed you as you applied a final swipe of mascara.

Red didn’t budge. “Fine,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. “Fine enough to be getting all dressed up for something. Where are you going?”

You capped the mascara with trembling fingers and turned to face her, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “I was going to ask if you’re going to any parties tonight,” you said, deflecting the question. “I thought I’d tag along.”

Red’s brows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t push the obvious lie. “Uh, yeah, I was gonna head to that Pi Kappa party. I heard it’s gonna be huge. Why, though? You haven’t wanted to go out in weeks.”

“I need to get out of here,” you said quickly, your voice too sharp and too quick. You softened it with a weak laugh. “Clear my head, you know? Blow off some steam.”

Her playful grin faltered, her expression softening with something you hated to see—pity. But, thankfully, Red wasn’t the type to prod too much. “Okay, babe. If you’re in, you’re in. Let me throw something on real quick, and we’ll Uber together.”

You nodded, relief mixing uneasily with the lingering ache in your chest as she turned to her closet. While Red rummaged for an outfit, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection in the tiny mirror propped on your desk. The person staring back at you looked composed, ready for a party. But beneath the fresh makeup and tight dress, you were anything but.

“Okay, done!” Red chirped, snapping you out of your thoughts. She stood there in a sequined mini-dress that shimmered under the fluorescent dorm lights, her lips curling into an excited grin. “You ready, or are you still doing that thing where you stare at yourself like you’re in a bad movie montage?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

She grabbed her bag and slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you out of the room with her usual bright energy. Her chatter filled the silence as the two of you walked toward the dorm exit, her voice animated as she hyped up the party and gossiped about who might be there. You nodded along, grateful for the noise to drown out the storm in your head.

But no matter how loud Red’s voice was, or how bright the city lights were as the Uber carried you both toward the party, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen. You hoped the drinks would help. You hoped the crowd would distract you. You hoped you could forget, even if only for one night.

You hated alcohol—the taste, the burn, the way it made your stomach twist and churn. But tonight, you didn’t care. You didn’t want to care. All you wanted was to drown out the heavy, suffocating weight in your chest and replace it with something, anything, that felt lighter. Even if it came at the expense of your body.

The frat house was alive with music, laughter, and the faint haze of cigarette smoke wafting in from the backyard. Red tugged you inside, her arm looped tightly around yours as she greeted nearly everyone who crossed her path. Her energy was infectious, her voice rising over the thrum of the crowd as she exchanged hugs, jokes, and smiles with familiar faces.

You tried to mirror her enthusiasm, but it felt hollow. When she greeted Craig and Tweek, who were standing near the corner with Clyde and Tolkien, you forced a weak smile and waved. Their replies were friendly enough—Clyde even cracked a joke about your absence at previous parties—but their voices blended into the background noise.

Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces you knew: Jimmy and Butters at the beer pong table, Cartman and Kenny arguing over something near the kitchen, Wendy and Bebe chatting animatedly with Heidi and Nichole by the staircase. But there was no sign of Stan. Relief and disappointment mingled in your chest, twisting together in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.

“Be right back,” you mumbled to Red, slipping your arm free from hers before she could protest. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

She nodded, already turning back to her conversation with Bebe, her laughter ringing out as you retreated toward the counter. Your hands trembled slightly as you scanned the selection—plastic cups, kegs, an assortment of bottles in varying states of emptiness. Your eyes landed on a bottle of vodka, the label peeling at the edges, and you grabbed it without hesitation.

No one was looking. No one cared.

You twisted the cap off and pressed the bottle to your lips, the sharp smell making your nose wrinkle. The first sip burned, and you nearly coughed, but you swallowed it down and took another. And another. The fire in your throat spread to your chest, and your stomach twisted in protest, but you ignored it. You kept drinking, the edges of the room blurring slightly as the alcohol began to take hold.

Your thoughts swirled, chaotic and relentless, as you clutched the bottle tighter. You hated how desperate you felt, how pathetic it was to stand in the corner of a party, drinking like your life depended on it. But you hated the silence in your head more—the voice that whispered that this was all your fault, that you’d ruined everything, that you deserved to feel this way.

You deserved it.

The vodka burned, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as everything else. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, setting the empty bottle back on the counter with a hollow clink. The world felt hazy now, the room swaying slightly as the alcohol settled into your system. You grabbed a red Solo cup and filled it halfway with whatever was closest—some dark, amber liquid that you didn’t bother to identify. You just needed to keep going, to stay numb.

You turned back toward the crowd, the cup clutched tightly in your hand. Your eyes scanned the room for Red, but instead, they landed on something that made your breath hitch.

Kyle was at the edge of the crowd, his hand wrapped firmly around Stan’s arm as he pulled him through the throng of people. Stan looked disheveled, his hoodie rumpled and his hair a mess. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place, and he moved sluggishly, like he was trying to resist Kyle’s pull. Kyle leaned in, whispering something urgently into Stan’s ear, his expression tense.

Kyle’s eyes flicked up and met yours, and the world seemed to still for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly as he held your gaze. The knot in your stomach twisted tighter, and your breath felt caught in your throat.

Stan, noticing the shift in Kyle’s attention, turned his head to follow his gaze. When his eyes landed on you, his entire body seemed to lock up. His expression shifted in an instant—his jaw tightening, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing into something unreadable. He froze, his arm still in Kyle’s grip, and for a moment, it felt like the entire party had gone silent.

Then, as if jolted into action, Stan yanked his arm free from Kyle’s grasp and turned sharply, heading in the opposite direction. He didn’t even glance back as he pushed through the crowd, his movements stiff and hurried.

Your chest tightened painfully as you watched him retreat, the cup in your hand trembling slightly. Kyle turned back to you, his gaze softer now, almost apologetic. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but the distance between you made it impossible to hear.

You shook your head, breaking the stare, and looked down into your drink. The liquid swirled lazily in the cup, the faint smell of alcohol wafting up to meet you. You downed it in one go, ignoring the bitter taste, and wiped your mouth again.

Red appeared beside you then, her voice bright and oblivious. “There you are! Come on, they’re playing flip cup in the kitchen!”

You forced a smile, the edges of it wobbling. “Yeah,” you said, your voice hollow. “Let’s go.”

Red dragged you into the kitchen, her arm hooked around yours as she babbled on about the flip cup teams already forming. The room was buzzing with energy, laughter bouncing off the walls as drinks were poured and rules were loudly debated. You scanned the crowd and saw a mix of familiar faces—Clyde, Tweek, Craig, and even Bebe, who was already half-draped over a laughing Jimmy.

“You’re on my team,” Red declared, her grip on your arm tightening as she pulled you to her side. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and you managed a small smile despite the heavy knot still twisting in your stomach.

The game started, the air thick with playful shouts and competitive taunts. Red went first, downing her drink and flipping the cup expertly in one smooth motion. “Boom!” she cheered, throwing her hands in the air.

When it was your turn, you hesitated, the Solo cup trembling slightly in your hand. The alcohol buzzing through your veins dulled the sharp edges of your thoughts, and for the first time all night, you didn’t feel the crushing weight of everything on your chest. You took a deep breath, downed the drink in one gulp, and flipped the cup on your first try.

“Hell yeah!” Red whooped, clapping you on the back. “You’re a natural!”

The cheers and laughter from your team were louder now, and you couldn’t help but laugh along. The alcohol coursing through your system made everything feel lighter, fuzzier, and the tension in your chest loosened just a little more with every round. By the time you’d flipped three more cups flawlessly, you were grinning, your cheeks flushed with both alcohol and the heat of the crowded room.

“You’ve been holding out on us!” Clyde called, pointing at you with an exaggerated look of mock betrayal.

“Where’s this pro-level flip cup energy been hiding?” Red teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You shrugged, laughing as you reached for another drink. “Beginner’s luck,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

As the game went on, you found yourself laughing more, the warmth of the alcohol and the camaraderie of the group easing the heaviness in your chest. The laughter around you started to blur as you spotted him out of the corner of your eye—Stan, standing in the crowd, leaning against the wall with a girl you didn’t recognize. She was all legs and confidence, her hand lightly touching his arm as she giggled at something he said. You couldn’t hear them over the music and chatter, but whatever it was, it made Stan smirk. That smirk twisted something deep in your chest, something sharp and unexpected.

Jealousy.

You didn’t get jealous when Stan flirted with people. You’d seen it before, a million times, and it had always been just Stan being Stan. But this? The way he was looking at her? The way she was looking back? It made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t explain.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter as you watched him. He must have felt your stare because his eyes flicked up, meeting yours across the room. For a split second, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression—hesitation, guilt, maybe even regret. But then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and kissed the girl.

Your breath hitched, disbelief freezing you in place. His lips moved against hers with purpose, his hands resting low on her waist as if he wanted to make sure you didn’t miss a single second of it. The girl looped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and your stomach dropped.

They were full-on making out now, right there in the middle of the party, and all you could do was stand there, your mouth hanging open as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman watching too. Kyle looked horrified, his brows furrowed in a deep, disapproving frown. Kenny had a smirk on his face, though his eyes flicked between you and Stan like he was watching a train wreck unfold. Cartman, of course, was laughing, the sound obnoxious and grating as he elbowed Kenny in the ribs.

Your blood boiled. The knot of anger and hurt in your chest exploded into a white-hot fury that you couldn’t contain. “Be right back,” you muttered to Red, your voice tight as you shoved your way through the crowd.

“Wait, where are you going?” Red called after you, but you didn’t answer. Your sights were locked on Stan, your pulse pounding in your ears as you marched toward him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” The words flew out of your mouth before you could even process them, your voice cutting through the party like a thunderclap. You weren’t even sure who you were directing them at—Stan, the girl, the situation itself—but as you stormed across the room, the alcohol buzzing hot and angry in your veins, your focus locked on her.

She turned to you, her perfectly manicured brows raising in surprise before they knit together in irritation. She didn’t flinch under your glare, instead tilting her head and looking you up and down like you were an inconvenience rather than a threat. That expression alone made your blood boil hotter.

Stan stood frozen, his face slack with shock, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when the girl—the one he had just been making out with—was standing there, calm and collected, like she hadn’t just done something unforgivable.

“You,” you spat, pointing a shaky finger at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think it’s cute throwing yourself at someone like him?”

The room seemed to hush slightly around you, but the alcohol made you too numb to care. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head swimming from the vodka and the rage coursing through you.

The girl arched an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a smirk. “Excuse me? Who even are you?” Her voice was sharp, disdain dripping from every word. “His fucking mom or something?”

Her tone was like a match to gasoline. Your vision blurred, your fists curling at your sides as you took another step toward her. “I’m the person who actually knows him,” you slurred, your words tumbling out unsteady but vicious. “Not some random nobody trying to get her claws into him.”

The girl’s face darkened, her smirk replaced by a scowl. “Oh, please,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “If you knew him so well, maybe you’d have done a better job keeping him.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and humiliating, and they cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, tears threatening to prick at the corners of your eyes. But the vodka burned hotter, stronger, drowning out the shame with unrelenting anger.

“Desperate,” you sneered, your voice shaking as you leaned closer to her. “That’s what you are. Desperate enough to kiss a guy who’s clearly not even into you.”

She barked a laugh, the sound cold and mocking. “Desperate?” she repeated, her eyes flashing with disdain. “You’re the one making a scene over a guy who doesn’t give a shit about you.”

The room seemed to tilt, her words cutting through the haze of alcohol and hitting you square in the chest. Without thinking, without even registering the consequences, your hand swung out, the sound of the slap ringing through the air like a gunshot.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as her head snapped to the side, her hand flying up to her cheek. She stared at you, wide-eyed, for a single frozen moment before lunging forward.

“You psycho bitch!” she screamed, her voice shrill as her hands flew toward you. You barely registered the sharp pull at your hair as she grabbed at you, her nails scratching at your arm. You swung back instinctively, your movements clumsy and fueled by adrenaline, landing a hit on her shoulder.

Everything was chaos. People were shouting around you, their voices blending into an incoherent roar. You couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your own heart, the way the room spun around you as the two of you clawed and yanked at each other.

“Hey! Stop it!” Kyle’s voice cut through the chaos, and suddenly, strong hands were gripping your waist, yanking you back. You struggled against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to shrug him off.

“Let me go, Kyle!” you shouted, your voice cracking as tears burned hot in your eyes. The fight, the alcohol, the shame—it was all too much.

“Not a fucking chance, perfect for each other, my ass,” Kyle snapped, his grip tightening as he pulled you farther away from the girl. Across the room, her friend was doing the same, holding her back as she glared daggers at you.

Stan hadn’t moved. He stood rooted to the spot, his face pale and his eyes wide with disbelief. The sight of him just standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing, made your chest ache with something raw and unbearable.

“You’re insane!” the girl yelled as her friend dragged her farther away, her voice echoing in your ears like a siren. “Fucking crazy!”

Kyle finally let go of you when he was sure the girl was out of reach, spinning you around to face him. His face was tight with frustration and concern, his brows furrowed deeply. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice low but filled with anger. “What were you thinking?”

You shoved past Kyle, your breath hitching in uneven gasps as you pushed through the crowd. The hallway blurred around you, voices and music melding into an unbearable hum. You found the bathroom door, yanked it open, and stumbled inside. Before you could slam it shut, Kyle’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist.

“Get off me,” you snapped, your voice breaking.

“Not a chance,” he shot back, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “You’ve already caused enough of a scene.”

Twisting your arm free, you stumbled toward the toilet, dropping to your knees as your stomach twisted violently. Before you could even think, you were retching, the sour burn of alcohol and bile scorching your throat. Shame burned hotter than the vomit, tears spilling down your face as you gagged.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t leave. Instead, he crouched behind you, gathering your hair in one hand and holding it back as you emptied your stomach. “Jesus, you’re a wreck,” he muttered, his voice laced with equal parts exasperation and concern.

You gasped for breath, your body trembling. “Leave me alone,” you croaked, but the words carried no conviction.

“Not happening,” Kyle snapped. “I’m not going to let you self-destruct because you’re too stubborn to deal with your shit.”

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m fine,” you mumbled weakly.

Kyle scoffed, the sound harsh in the small bathroom. “Fine? You’re puking your guts out in a frat house bathroom after starting a fight with some random girl. Yeah, you’re real fine.”

You clenched your fists, anger flaring up alongside the shame. “Why do you even care?”

“Because someone has to!” he shot back, his voice rising. He loosened his grip on your hair but didn’t let go completely, his other hand gesturing wildly. “You’re acting just like Stan, you know that? All this drinking, picking fights, spiraling out like you’re trying to hit rock bottom as fast as you can.”

You flinched at the comparison, your stomach twisting for an entirely different reason now. “Don’t,” you whispered, but Kyle wasn’t done.

“Oh, no, I’m saying it,” he continued, his eyes blazing. “No? So what, you just ‘accidentally’ used Stan, picked a fight with some random girl, and drank yourself into oblivion? Grow up. Take some responsibility for once.”

Your head snapped up, and you stared at him, wide-eyed, your breath catching in your throat. “What did you just say?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Stan… he told you?”

Kyle’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, his gaze hardened. “Of course he didn’t tell me,” he said sharply, crossing his arms. “He didn’t have to. We’ve known Stan since we were kids—I can see the signs. He’s been a fucking wreck since that night you got with Damien. Do you think I wouldn’t put it together?”

Your heart sank, a pit forming in your stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. You hadn’t realized it was so obvious, hadn’t considered that Kyle—or anyone—would notice the cracks in Stan’s carefully constructed façade.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I—”

Kyle cut you off with a bitter laugh. “You didn’t mean to?” he repeated, his voice biting. “Then what the hell were you doing? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been on a one-way trip to self-destruction and decided to drag Stan down with you.”

“I hate myself,” you choked out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t—”

Kyle’s hand tightened on your shoulder, not unkindly, but firmly enough to ground you. His voice softened just a fraction, though the frustration still lingered. “Then fix it,” he said, his tone quieter but still firm. “Before there’s nothing left of either of you to fix.”

You buried your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you sobbed. Kyle stayed for a moment longer, then finally stood, reaching for the toilet paper. He handed them to you without a word, his expression unreadable.

“Clean yourself up,” he said as he turned to leave. “And figure out what the hell you want, because this? This isn’t it.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the sound of your ragged breathing and the reflection of a stranger in the mirror. Smudged makeup, tear-streaked cheeks, and hollow eyes stared back at you, and for the first time, you wondered if Kyle was right.

Maybe it wasn’t Stan or anyone else you were hurting the most.

Maybe it was yourself.

You sat on the cold bathroom floor, the sobs wracking your body so violently that it felt like your chest might cave in. Your cries echoed off the tiled walls, raw and unrelenting. There was no point in trying to quiet yourself—no one left to pretend for. You buried your face in your knees, the damp fabric of your clothes soaking up your tears.

The sound of the door creaking open barely registered through your haze, but the quiet shuffle of footsteps did. A moment later, you felt someone kneel in front of you. You lifted your head slightly, your blurry vision focusing on Kenny’s face. His usual smirk and mischief were nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was soft, his brow creased in concern.

At the sight of him, the sobs came harder, spilling out of you like a dam breaking. Your hands flew up to cover your face, shielding yourself from his gaze, from his pity.

Kenny didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He reached over to the crumpled sheets of toilet paper Kyle gave you, forgotten on the bathroom counter. Slowly and carefully, he began wiping at the streaks of mascara and tears staining your cheeks. His touch was steady, almost too kind, and it made the guilt inside you churn like acid.

“Stop,” you choked out, your voice cracking, though you didn’t mean it. “Why are you… why are you doing this?”

Kenny paused briefly, his gaze flicking to yours before he continued wiping at your face. “Because someone needs to,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “And because you obviously can’t right now.”

His words broke something inside you, and your hands dropped limply to your lap, letting him finish his task. He worked in silence, each swipe of the tissue a quiet reminder of just how far you’d unraveled.

When he finally tossed the crumpled tissue aside, you whispered, “I screwed up, Kenny. I messed everything up so bad, I—I don’t even know how to fix it.”

He sat back on his heels, watching you for a moment. “Yeah, you did,” he said bluntly, his honesty cutting through you like a knife. “But sitting here crying isn’t going to fix it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded faintly. “I just… she didn’t deserve that,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “The girl, the one I fought with. She didn’t do anything wrong. I just—I don’t even know why I went after her like that.”

Kenny leaned back against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest as he studied you. “You know why,” he said, his tone quiet but pointed.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Because I’m a mess? Because I can’t deal with my own shit, so I decided to take it out on some innocent girl? She was just… there, and I hated her for it.”

He shrugged, his gaze unwavering. “At least you’re owning up to it now. That’s a start.”

“I’m a terrible person,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands again. “Stan… he’s better off without me. Everyone is.”

Kenny didn’t respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more measured. “Maybe you are a mess. And maybe you’ve screwed up a lot. But you’re not beyond fixing. You just have to stop running from everything. From Stan, from yourself.”

You sniffled, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late?”

“It’s only too late if you keep doing this,” he said, gesturing to the bathroom, the remnants of your breakdown still visible. “Start being honest. Own your shit. That’s the only way you’re gonna move forward.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sinking into you in a way that left you feeling raw but strangely steady. For the first time, you felt a flicker of resolve, faint but real.

Kenny sighed and pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand to you. “Come on,” he said, offering a small, tired smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up before Red comes in and loses her mind.”

You hesitated before taking his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Kenny said with a faint smirk. “I’m still debating if I should charge you for this therapy session babe.”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh that barely felt real and let him lead you out of the bathroom. Your hand clung tightly to his, like letting go would drop you into some void you weren’t sure you could climb out of. Kenny glanced back, catching the death grip you had on his hand, and chuckled under his breath.

“Relax, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, though the softness in his voice was a sharp contrast to his usual teasing tone.

The music and the noise of the party hit you like a wave as the two of you stepped back into the crowd. People danced, shouted, and laughed in every corner, the chaotic energy of the house thrumming against your skin. Kenny navigated the sea of bodies with ease, tugging you along as if it was second nature.

Then you saw her. The girl from earlier. She stood with her friends across the room, and their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they spotted you. Her glare was sharp, and you could feel the animosity radiating off her group as they stared. A lump rose in your throat, but you refused to shrink under their gaze.

Before you could stop yourself, you stuck your tongue out at her—a childish, stupid gesture that you regretted immediately but couldn’t take back. Her expression darkened, her friends whispering among themselves before one of them dramatically rolled her eyes and turned away.

Cartman’s raucous laugh broke through the tension, loud enough to make your head snap toward him. He was a few feet away, holding a red solo cup and grinning like a hyena.

“You’re a goddamn disaster,” Cartman wheezed, swaggering over to you and Kenny with a look of absolute delight. “Holy shit, this is better than reality TV.”

“Fuck off, fatass,” Kenny muttered, clearly unimpressed.

But Cartman wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, he leaned down toward you, his breath reeking of beer, and whispered something that made your stomach plummet.

“Stan’s watching you. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Your body went rigid, and your grip on Kenny’s hand tightened instinctively. You hated how Cartman’s words set off a flurry of nerves in your chest, but you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing across the room. And there he was.

Stan was leaning against the far wall, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes weren’t on you. They were on Wendy, who was standing beside him, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. He wasn’t looking at her, though. His gaze was distant, unfocused—until it suddenly snapped to you.

The weight of his stare knocked the air out of your lungs. Your stomach twisted as his expression hardened, his jaw tightening slightly. Wendy noticed, following his line of sight, and when her eyes landed on you, her brows furrowed.

Cartman’s grin widened. “Oof, triangle vibes. Messy as hell,” he muttered, stepping back with a laugh.

“Dude seriously, shut the hell up,” Kenny said sharply, tugging you forward before you could spiral further.

“Let’s just… move,” you mumbled, voice trembling as you ripped your gaze away from Stan and Wendy. Kenny gave you a knowing look but didn’t press, instead tugging you toward the other side of the room.

You spotted Kyle near the drinks table, engaged in what looked like a heated debate with Tolkien, his hands gesturing wildly as he made his point. Kenny let go of your hand and went to interrupt, leaning casually into the conversation like he hadn’t just been babysitting your emotional meltdown moments earlier.

Red appeared seemingly out of nowhere, slipping up beside you with a grin. “Well, well, look who’s causing chaos and stealing the show,” she teased, nudging you with her elbow. “That fight back there? Iconic. The stuff of legends.”

You gave her a weak smile, but the lightness in her tone made your stomach churn. “It wasn’t… I shouldn’t have—”

“Relax,” she interrupted, brushing off your guilt like it was nothing. “She had it coming, I’m sure. Besides, you looked badass.”

“I don’t think that’s the takeaway here,” Kyle interjected sharply, stepping away from Tolkien and Kenny to join you. His gaze was serious as he folded his arms over his chest. “What’s the plan here, huh? Keep ignoring each other until the tension finally explodes and ruins everyone else’s good time?”

Your stomach dropped. “Kyle, I—”

“No, don’t even try,” he cut you off, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “You and Stan need to figure your shit out. It’s making everything worse—for you, for him, for everyone.”

You glanced at Kenny, hoping for some kind of backup, but he just shrugged like he agreed with Kyle. “He’s got a point,” Kenny said, sipping casually from his solo cup. “This whole cold war thing? It’s exhausting.”

Kyle stepped closer, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. “If you two don’t talk by the end of the week, I swear to God, I’ll step in myself. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What do you mean you’ll step in?”

“I’ll lock you two in a room, throw away the key, and let you sort it out like adults,” Kyle said flatly, but there was an edge of humor in his voice that didn’t quite soften the weight of his words. “Or maybe just yell at both of you until one of you finally cracks. Either way, this has to end.”

You didn’t know what to say. The idea of talking to Stan, of facing everything head-on, felt insurmountable. But Kyle’s stare didn’t waver, and the weight of his words settled heavy on your chest.

“Fine,” you muttered, barely audible. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Good,” Kyle said, satisfied. He turned back to Kenny, who was smirking into his drink like this was all some kind of sitcom. Red just gave you a sly grin and a thumbs up, clearly amused by the whole exchange.

But you didn’t feel amused. You felt like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and the thought of confronting Stan made your stomach twist into knots. Still, you knew Kyle was right.

Stan lay motionless on his bed, the faded ceiling tiles above blurring into nothingness as his chest tightened with every passing second. The air in the dorm room felt thick, suffocating, like it was trying to choke him out. His phone buzzed once from the desk where he’d abandoned it—just like he’d abandoned you. He didn’t even need to check to know it wasn’t you this time. You’d stopped trying a few days ago, and the silence was worse than the calls ever had been.

Kyle was at his desk, typing something furiously. Stan didn’t care. He barely registered anything outside his own head these days. His mind kept circling back to that night, the way your voice had cracked, the way you’d called him out in front of everyone, and worst of all, the way you’d gone after that girl.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory still played like some sick, never-ending movie. You screaming, your voice loud and shrill and full of venom. That slap—sharp, unforgiving, echoing through the room. Stan’s stomach churned just thinking about it. She hadn’t done anything to you. Nothing but exist, but smile at him, but… but what? Be the wrong girl at the wrong time?

You don’t even know her name, asshole.

But that didn’t stop him from standing there, frozen, as everything spiraled out of control. He could still hear Wendy’s voice in his head, soft but firm as she pulled him aside after it was all over.

“She’s a mess, Stan,” Wendy had said, her eyes piercing through him like she already knew everything. “And you’re making it worse for her. For yourself.” She’d put a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding in a way that should have helped but didn’t. “You need to figure out what you want. Otherwise, this is just going to destroy both of you.”

He’d nodded like he understood, like any of it made sense, but inside he felt like he was fucking disintegrating. The guilt, the anger, the shame—they were eating him alive. He’d wanted to scream at Wendy, to tell her to fuck off, to say that this wasn’t her problem—but he didn’t. Because she was right. She was always right. And that only made it worse.

“You gonna talk to her?” Kyle’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, snapping Stan out of his thoughts.

He stayed silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he stared at the same goddamn spot on the ceiling he’d been fixated on for hours. “No,” he muttered finally, his voice flat and lifeless.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh, the sound grating against Stan’s nerves. “Seriously? You’re just gonna sit here and do nothing? That’s your plan?”

“Fuck off, Kyle,” Stan said, his tone harsher than he intended. He didn’t care.

The scrape of Kyle’s chair against the floor made Stan flinch. He heard Kyle move closer, felt the weight of his stare like a physical thing pressing down on him.

“You’re unbelievable,” Kyle said, his voice low and bitter. “You can’t keep running from this. From her.”

Stan didn’t respond. What was the point? Kyle didn’t understand. Nobody fucking understood.

The door slammed shut behind Kyle, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts again. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he replayed the scene from the party for the millionth time—the way you’d looked at him, furious and hurt and drunk off your ass. The way you’d lashed out at that girl, the sound of the slap still ringing in his ears.

What the fuck had you been thinking? What the fuck had he been thinking, letting it get this far?

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shove the memories aside, but it was useless. They were always there, lurking in the back of his mind. Wendy’s words echoed louder now, and they felt like a slap to the face. You’re making it worse for her. For yourself.

But how the fuck was he supposed to fix this? He wasn’t good at fixing things. He was good at ruining them. And you—you didn’t deserve to be dragged down with him. You deserved better. Better than him. Better than the wreckage he left in his wake.

His chest felt like it was caving in as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He thought about you crying, about the way you’d looked at him when he kissed that girl, about the way you’d tried so fucking hard to act like what happened between you didn’t mean anything when it meant everything.

Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe he needed to figure out what the hell he wanted. But as he lay there, his body heavy and his mind drowning in guilt and shame, one thing became painfully clear:

He didn’t deserve you. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve forgiveness.

Some time has passed, and Stan hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. The ceiling tiles blurred together as he stared blankly, his thoughts a mess of self-loathing and memories he wished he could erase. The muffled sound of yelling seeped through the door, but he chalked it up to his imagination. He was used to noise in his head.

But then the screaming grew louder, sharper. It wasn’t in his head. It was outside.

Before he could sit up to make sense of it, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a bang. Stan flinched, his head snapping toward the noise as Kyle stepped into the room, dragging you behind him.

You were a whirlwind of rage, your voice raw and cracked as you hurled accusations and protests at Kyle. “Kyle, I swear to God—” But the moment your eyes locked on Stan, everything came to a screeching halt.

The room was thick with silence.

Stan sat frozen, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at you. Your hair was a mess, your cheeks flushed from exertion, and your makeup was smeared—but it was your eyes that hit him the hardest. Red-rimmed, puffy, and filled with something he couldn’t quite name. Anger? Hurt? Desperation? Maybe all of it.

Kyle, panting slightly from wrangling you all the way here, broke the tense silence. “The two of you are gonna talk this out,” he said, his voice firm and unforgiving. “You’re not leaving this room until you do. I’ll be right outside, so don’t even think about trying to get out.”

Before either of you could argue, Kyle shoved you further into the room and stepped back, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed ominously.

Stan stared at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear Kyle’s muffled voice outside, probably telling someone off, but it was distant compared to the deafening silence in the room.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” Your voice broke through, sharp and biting.

Stan looked at you then, really looked at you, and felt the weight of everything between you crash over him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, your voice trembling as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re really just gonna sit there like this is nothing?”

“It’s not nothing,” Stan finally croaked, his voice low and rough. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then say something!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Because I’m standing here, trying, and you’re just… just—” You gestured helplessly, your voice cracking on the last word.

Stan sat up slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as he tried to find the right words. “I didn’t ask Kyle to do this,” he said finally, his tone defensive, but weak.

You let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, because God forbid you actually confront anything.”

Stan flinched, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked down at his hands, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the mattress. “What’s the point of this?” he asked, his voice quiet but edged with something raw. “You didn’t want to be here, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for this either. So why even bother?”

Your anger faltered for a moment, your expression softening before it hardened again. “Because I’m tired of this, Stan. I’m tired of us pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m tired of not knowing what the hell we even are. And I’m tired of you avoiding me.”

Stan’s jaw tightened, and he looked up at you with a mix of guilt and frustration. “You think I’m avoiding you because I don’t care? Because I don’t want to deal with it?” He stood abruptly, the sudden movement making you take a step back. “I’m avoiding you because I can’t fucking handle it. Any of it. You. Us. That night.” His voice cracked, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment before the anger surged back. “So what? You just decided to shut me out instead? To let me sit there and drown in my own guilt while you—what? Pretend I don’t exist?”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his back still to you. “Guilt?” He turned then, his eyes blazing. “You think you’re the only one who feels guilty? I haven’t been able to fucking sleep because every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is how much I’ve screwed everything up.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you.

“Stan…” Your voice was softer now, hesitant.

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

You stepped closer, your own anger fading as you looked at him—really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. “It’s not all on you to fix,” you said quietly. “I messed up too. I—” Your voice faltered, and you looked away. “I’m sorry for how I handled things. For that night. For everything.”

Stan’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he might reach for you. But then he took a step back, his walls going up again. “Sorry doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I know. But it’s a start.”

You hesitated before sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight, and for a moment, you thought he might move away, but he didn’t. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you stared down at them, the lump in your throat growing heavier with each passing second.

“I… I cut things off with Damien,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavier than you expected, like you were exhaling something you’d been holding onto for too long. You hadn’t planned to say it like this, hadn’t planned for your voice to break halfway through, but the weight of everything was too much to hold back.

Stan turned his head slightly toward you, his brows knitting together, but he still didn’t say anything. His silence was unbearable, and you felt like you had to fill the void before it consumed you.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep pretending that it was working,” you continued, the tears spilling before you could stop them. “Not when I—” You bit your lip, cutting yourself off. You couldn’t say it. Not yet.

Stan’s gaze finally lifted to meet yours, his blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Hurt? Anger? Something else entirely? You didn’t know, and the not knowing only made your chest ache more.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. It wasn’t accusatory, but it wasn’t kind either. It was cautious, like he didn’t know what to do with the information you’d just given him.

Your shoulders trembled as you took a shaky breath, swiping at your wet cheeks. “Because you deserve to know,” you said, forcing yourself to look at him even though it hurt. “You deserve to know that I…” You hesitated, your throat tightening around the words. “That I messed everything up. That I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

Stan’s expression flickered, something almost imperceptible crossing his face, but he quickly masked it. He let out a sharp exhale, his hands running through his hair as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Cutting things off with Damien doesn’t change anything,” he muttered, his voice cold and distant. “It doesn’t fix what happened. It doesn’t fix what you did.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you nodded. “I know,” you whispered. “I’m not trying to fix it. I just… I just wanted you to know that it’s over. That he’s not part of this anymore.”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. “It was never about him,” he said, his voice dripping with bitterness. “It was about us. Or whatever the hell this is.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his frustration spilling over. “And I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

You swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting through you like a knife. “I don’t either,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But I miss you, Stan. I miss us. And I’m sorry—God, I’m so sorry.”

Stan’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he stared down at the floor. The room was heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid, the air thick with tension and regret. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence wrapping around you like a shroud.

Finally, Stan lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in weeks. “You don’t get to just say sorry and expect it to fix everything,” he said, his voice trembling. “But… I don’t know. Maybe I needed to hear it anyway.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening as the tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. It was hard to meet Stan’s eyes—those blue eyes that had seen you at your worst, that now held a mixture of exhaustion and guarded curiosity. But you forced yourself to speak, your voice trembling with every word.

“I—” you started, your voice cracking immediately. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I thought… that night in my dorm… I thought if I could make you forget, even just for a little while, that maybe you’d feel better. That whatever you were dealing with, whatever was hurting you, it wouldn’t feel so heavy.”

Stan blinked, his expression hardening slightly, but he stayed quiet. His silence felt like a double-edged sword—an invitation to continue, but also a sharp reminder of how much your actions had hurt him.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you went on, your voice quieter now, each word weighing down on your chest. “I just… I’ve seen you spiral before, Stan. I’ve seen what it does to you, how it eats you alive. And I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Stan let out a sharp exhale, leaning back slightly and running a hand through his hair. “So your solution was to use me?” he asked, his tone bitter but not as sharp as it could’ve been. “You thought making me… what, lose myself in you would somehow fix everything?”

“I wasn’t trying to use you!” you shouted, your voice sharp and raw. “How could you even say that? You think I wanted to hurt you? You think I wanted to make things worse?”

Stan flinched at your outburst but didn’t say anything. His silence only fueled your anger, the dam of your emotions cracking wide open.

“I just wanted to make you feel better!” you screamed, the words tumbling out of you in a messy, desperate rush. “I didn’t know what else to do, Stan! You were falling apart, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t just sit there and watch you drown!”

His head jerked up, his blue eyes blazing with emotion. “So what? You thought kissing me, escalating things—doing all of that would somehow fix me?” His voice cracked, the hurt in it cutting you deeper than you thought possible. “Dude, do you know how fucked up that is?”

“I know it’s fucked up!” you yelled back, your voice shaking as fresh tears spilled down your face. “I know I handled it wrong, okay? I know I made a mess of everything, and I hate myself for it! But I wasn’t using you, Stan. I swear to God, I wasn’t.”

Stan stared at you, his jaw tightening, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white. “Then what the hell were you doing?” he demanded, his voice quieter but no less intense. “What was all of that supposed to be?”

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your emotions threatened to swallow you whole. You looked down at your lap, shaking your head as you sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I was trying to help you,” you stammered. “I just wanted to see you smile again. I wanted to make you feel something good—anything other than what you were feeling.”

Stan’s eyes softened, but his expression remained guarded. “And that’s supposed to make it okay?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

“No, it doesn’t make it okay!” you shot back, your voice cracking as you threw your hands in the air. “Nothing about this is okay! But I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Stan. I just… I just…”

You sucked in a ragged breath, the words bubbling up before you could stop them. “I love you, okay?” you shouted, the confession bursting from you like a wound splitting open. “I love you, and I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember! And I didn’t know what to do when I saw you falling apart, and I panicked, and I made a mistake!”

The room fell deathly silent, your words hanging heavy in the air. Stan’s eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as he stared at you, stunned into silence.

You buried your face in your hands, sobbing harder now, the weight of your confession crashing down on you. “I know I screwed up. I know what I did was wrong. But I swear to you, Stan, I just wanted to help. I just wanted to make it better.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The sound of your crying filled the room, raw and unrelenting, as Stan sat frozen beside you. Finally, he exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as his own emotions threatened to spill over.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before it got so… so fucked up?”

You shook your head, your words muffled behind your hands. “Because I was scared,” you admitted. “Scared that you’d hate me, scared that I’d lose you, scared that I’d mess everything up—and I did anyway.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Yeah, you did,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “But… I’m not blameless either.”

You looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes, your breath catching as you saw the raw vulnerability etched across his face. His hands trembled as they rested on his knees, and his gaze flickered between you and the floor.

“Why do you hate Damien so much?” you asked softly, your voice trembling as you tried to bridge the chasm between you. “And why did you… start to spiral after that night? After we practiced?”

“You want to know why I spiraled?” he asked, his voice low and rough. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Because seeing you happy with Damien—seeing you in a relationship—made me realize something I’d been too scared to admit to myself for years.”

You stayed silent, your breath hitching as you waited for him to continue. His blue eyes, rimmed red from unshed tears, locked onto yours.

“It made me realize I’ve always loved you,” Stan confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words carried a weight that seemed to fill the entire room. “Since we were kids. Through everything. You’ve always been there, and I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe it was just friendship or something, but seeing you with him—watching you look at him the way I’ve always wanted you to look at me—made it impossible to ignore.”

Your heart clenched painfully, and your tears spilled over as his words sank in. “Stan…” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying this to guilt you or make you feel bad. I know I screwed up too, okay? I know I pushed you away when I should’ve just been honest. But watching you be with someone else made me realize how much I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me. And it fucking killed me, because I wanted to be the one who made you happy. I’ve always wanted to be that person.”

You felt like your heart was breaking and mending all at once, the weight of his confession crashing over you. “I didn’t know…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Of course, you didn’t,” Stan said, his tone softer now, tinged with resignation. “I never told you. I didn’t even let myself admit it until it was too late. But it’s the truth. It’s always been you.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you reached out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Stan,” you said, your voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know I was making you feel like that.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and something else—something softer, more fragile. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean to. And I don’t blame you for moving on or trying to be happy. I just… I couldn’t handle it. And that’s on me.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but different this time, as if something had shifted between you. Finally, Stan let out a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know if things can ever go back to the way they were,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way. I’ve loved you my whole damn life, and I don’t know how to stop.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of Stan’s confession pressing against your chest. Your breath caught, your pulse pounding in your ears as you searched his face, taking in every crack in his composure, every flicker of raw emotion in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “But I know I don’t want to lose you, Stan. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

His gaze flickered to yours, hesitant and vulnerable, as if he was bracing himself for whatever came next. “You didn’t lose me,” he said softly. “I don’t think you ever could.”

The knot in your stomach loosened just slightly at his words, but the ache in your chest remained. Slowly, you leaned in closer, your hands trembling as you reached out to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the faintest tremor in his jaw as he looked up at you.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the words left your mouth, the question carrying more weight than you could have ever anticipated.

Stan’s eyes widened for a moment, his breath hitching. He didn’t answer right away, and for a terrifying second, you thought you might have pushed too far, too fast. But then, he nodded, just once, his gaze locked on yours.

You leaned in slowly, your heart in your throat as you closed the gap between you. Your lips brushed his, soft and tentative, like you were both testing the waters, afraid of drowning but too desperate to stay away. His breath hitched again, but then his hands came up, one settling on the curve of your waist, the other tangling gently in your hair.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The guilt, the fear, the pain—it all melted into the background, leaving just the two of you, tangled up in the unspoken truths and years of emotions that had finally come to light.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice shaky but resolute. “I don’t know if I can make up for everything. But I want to try.”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, something fragile but unbreakable. “Me too,” he whispered, his voice rough but sincere. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Stan’s breath hitched as your lips met his again, the sudden intensity catching him off guard. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. He froze for a split second, his heart slamming against his ribcage, before his hands found your waist, steadying you.

What the hell is happening? The thought raced through his mind, tangled with a thousand others—your warmth, the softness of your lips, the way your fingers threaded through his hair like you were trying to memorize every strand. He felt dizzy, like the world had been tilted on its axis and he was still trying to find his balance.

She loves me. The words echoed in his head, impossible and overwhelming. She actually loves me.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. And yet, here you were, holding him like he was something worth holding onto, kissing him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as if to reassure himself this was real.

She’s not pulling away. That realization sent a bolt of something electric through his chest. All the years of pining, of watching you from afar, of convincing himself he could never have this—it all dissolved in the heat of your kiss.

But there was still a tiny voice in the back of his mind, nagging and relentless. What if she regrets this? What if you’re just another distraction, another mistake she’ll hate herself for later? The thought made his stomach twist, but he shoved it down, focusing on the way your lips moved against his, the way your body felt pressed against his.

As you shifted in his lap, pulling yourself impossibly closer, Stan let out a quiet gasp, his hands instinctively gripping your hips. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the world around him. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his as your breaths mingled in the charged space between you.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, his voice cracking. His fingers traced slow, hesitant patterns on your waist, his touch light but grounding. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting this, wanting you.”

You smiled softly, your hands framing his face as you looked at him with an intensity that made his chest ache. “It’s real,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain. “I’m here, Stan. I’m not going anywhere.”

He wanted to believe you. Wanted to believe that he could have this, that he could have you. But the fear still lingered, a shadow he couldn’t quite shake. Still, as you leaned in and kissed him again, Stan let himself forget about the doubts, the guilt, the pain—just for a little while.

Stan blinked, still dazed from the kiss, as he felt you hide your face against his neck. Your breath was warm against his skin, your words spilling out in a nervous tumble.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice muffled and trembling. “I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. I’m not trying to use you, I swear. If you’re not okay with this, just tell me, and I’ll stop. I’ll—”

Stan’s arms instinctively tightened around you, cutting off your rambling. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You pulled back just slightly, your eyes searching his with a mix of uncertainty and vulnerability. Your cheeks were flushed, and your lips were slightly swollen from the kiss, and it hit him all over again just how real this moment was.

“I mean it,” you said, your voice cracking. “I’ll stop if you want me to. I don’t want to mess this up, Stan. I—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip as tears welled in your eyes.

Stan reached up, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His heart clenched at the sight of you so raw and open, and he realized how much he hated seeing you like this—so unsure of yourself, so afraid.

“Stop,” he said gently, his voice carrying a softness he didn’t know he was capable of. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You’re not using me. I promise you’re not.” He let out a shaky breath, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “And if I wasn’t okay with this, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t be here like this with you.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching, and he could see the conflict in your eyes—the doubt, the guilt, the lingering fear that you were somehow doing something wrong. But he wasn’t going to let you spiral. Not now.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Stan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared too, okay? I don’t know if we’re doing this right, or if we’re gonna screw it up, but…” He paused, his thumb still brushing your cheek, grounding both of you. “I don’t care. I just know I want to figure it out with you.”

Your lip quivered as you looked at him. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” you whispered against his shoulder, your voice choked with emotion.

Stan let out a small, relieved laugh, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “We’re in this together, okay? No more overthinking. No more guilt. Just… us.”

You pulled back slightly, your heart hammering in your chest as you looked into Stan’s eyes. They were so close, so full of emotion that it made your breath hitch. The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and unfiltered.

“Can I be yours?” you asked, your voice trembling. “I mean… officially? I want to be your girlfriend, Stan.”

Stan froze, his lips parting slightly as the words settled between you. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened their hold ever so slightly. His brows knit together, a mix of hesitation and disbelief crossing his face.

“You really want that?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost unsure. “Even after everything I’ve put you through?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve made mistakes too, and I know I hurt you, but I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you, and I don’t want to keep pretending like I don’t.”

His breath hitched, and he exhaled sharply, his eyes softening as he took in your words. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice thick. He paused, searching your face for any sign of doubt, before letting out a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah. You can be mine. You’ve always been mine, really.”

Your chest felt like it might explode, the sheer weight of the moment leaving you breathless. Before you could stop yourself, you asked, “So… you’ll be mine too?”

Stan blinked at you, his lips twitching into a faint, lopsided smile. “I wanna be your boyfriend,” he said simply. His voice was rough, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his tone. “I wanna do it right this time. Dates, hand-holding, all of it. I wanna go on walks with you—just us.”

Tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. Relief, joy, and overwhelming affection coursed through you. “I want that too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but sure.

Stan’s hands moved to cradle your face. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The kiss deepened, your breath hitching as you pressed closer to him. Every brush of his lips against yours sent sparks through your body, and you felt a quiet desperation in the way you clung to him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, the intensity of the moment making it hard to breathe.

Stan’s lips curved against yours, and you could feel the faintest hint of a smile as he pulled back just slightly. His forehead rested against yours, and his voice was soft but tinged with amusement. “You’re, uh… getting a little carried away there, dude,” he teased, his own breathing uneven.

Your face burned, and you tried to pull back, but his hands stayed firm on your waist, grounding you. “Sorry,” you mumbled, your voice shaky as your eyes darted away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” Stan interrupted gently, tilting your chin so you’d look at him again. His blue eyes were warm, filled with something so soft and unguarded that it made your chest ache. “I didn’t say I minded.”

You bit your lip, a small, nervous laugh escaping you as you tried to steady yourself. “I just… I really want this to work, Stan. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly, his thumbs brushing soft circles on your hips. “We’ve both screwed up enough to know what we don’t want. This… this is what I want.” His voice lowered, his words carrying an almost reverent weight. “You’re what I want.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they didn’t spill. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower, softer, but no less fervent. The way his hands moved, holding you as if you might disappear, made your heart swell.

You shifted slightly in his grasp, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The soft rustle of fabric drew Stan’s attention, and his hands instinctively tightened their grip on your waist as you pulled the shirt over your head, leaving you in just your bra.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice trembling with nervousness, your eyes locked onto his for any sign of hesitation. Your cheeks burned, your vulnerability on full display, but the warmth in his gaze made your pulse race.

Stan swallowed hard, his eyes flickering over you before quickly darting back to your face. “Y-Yeah,” he said, his voice a little shaky but sincere. “But… you don’t have to do this just because you think you need to.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just— I want to be close to you, Stan. I want this to feel… right. With you.”

His breath hitched, and he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It already does,” he murmured, his voice softer now, steadier. “You don’t have to do anything to prove that.”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding as you searched his eyes. The sincerity in his words made your chest ache, but it didn’t quell the need you felt—this overwhelming desire to bridge every gap that had ever existed between you.

Stan’s hands moved slowly, tentatively, as if giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brushed against your sides, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “We don’t have to rush this,” he said, his voice low, his blue eyes filled with something tender, almost reverent. “I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

“I know,” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief, but it held every ounce of emotion you couldn’t put into words. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you let out a shaky breath. “I want to, Stan. I’m sure.”

Stan exhaled sharply, his hands still resting on your bare sides, his thumbs brushing against your skin. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice laced with both hesitation and determination. “But if you ever feel like it’s too much, just tell me. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered, your lips curving into a faint, nervous smile.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken emotions. And then Stan leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deeper, more certain, more consuming than any before. 

Stan’s fingers played at the hemline of your sweatpants, his touch light but deliberate, sending sparks through your skin. He teasingly dipped his fingers just below the waistband, his lips brushing against yours in a way that left you breathless.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, and his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Can I?” he asked, his fingers still toying with the fabric. “Can I take these off?”

Your cheeks burned as his question lingered in the air, your chest tightening with both anticipation and nervousness. You swallowed hard, nodding before you found your voice. “Yeah,” you murmured, so quiet it was almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. “Yeah, you can.”

Stan hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of uncertainty. When he found none, his hands slid to your hips, his touch steady despite the slight tremor in his fingers. Slowly, he tugged your sweatpants down, his movements careful, almost reverent.

The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off him as he leaned back, his gaze flickering over you. His eyes softened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a faint smile.

“You’re… stunning,” he said, his voice thick, the words carrying a weight that made your heart ache in the best way.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively reached for him, pulling him closer as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t have to say that,” you mumbled, your voice muffled and shy.

Stan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you as he rested his hands on your waist. “I’m not saying it because I have to,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Your laugh was soft, a nervous yet genuine sound that made Stan’s smile widen against your temple. His hands, warm and steady, shifted you gently so your back pressed against his chest, the closeness making your heart race. His breath tickled your ear as he leaned forward, resting his head against your shoulder, his lips brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Stan’s fingers found the waistband of your panties, his touch featherlight, teasing, as he traced the elastic edge with slow, deliberate movements. You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, your hands instinctively rising to cover your face in a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

Stan’s hands gripped your waist firmly, keeping you steady as his lips moved against your shoulder, leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His voice, low and rough, sent shivers straight to your core. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, his fingers teasing just under the waistband of your panties. “Can I touch you? Really touch you?”

Your breath hitched, a mix of nerves and anticipation making your voice tremble. “Y-Yeah,” you stammered, nodding as you shifted slightly, giving him permission. “Please.”

His chuckle was warm, vibrating against your skin. “That’s all I needed to hear.” Slowly, deliberately, his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, brushing against the heat of your slick folds. A sharp inhale left your lips as he dragged a finger down your slit, collecting the wetness there before circling your clit with maddening patience.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe. His lips found your neck again, sucking lightly as his fingers slid back down, testing your entrance. “All for me?”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his arms for support. “Yeah,” you whispered, barely audible, your walls clenching around nothing as you felt his finger press into you, slow and careful.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, his tone soothing yet filled with need. “Relax for me. Let me make you feel good.” His finger eased in deeper, and you bit your lip, overwhelmed by the stretch even though it was gentle. “So tight,” he groaned, curling his finger slightly to test your reaction.

Your hips moved instinctively, seeking more, a soft moan escaping you as he found a rhythm, each slow thrust of his finger coaxing more sounds from you. “Stan,” you gasped, his name leaving your lips like a plea.

He kissed your neck again, adding a second finger with care, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you from pulling away. “You’re perfect,” he rasped, his fingers pumping steadily now, scissoring slightly to stretch you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, making him impossibly harder. “Taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

Your breath hitched at the word, a new kind of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with his touch. Baby. You’d never heard him call you that before, and the intimacy of it sent a jolt straight to your chest. “Baby?” you repeated breathlessly, your voice trembling as you looked back at him. Stan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his fingers never slowing. “Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. “You are, aren’t you?” The way he said it—so natural, so sure—made your heart twist in a way that almost hurt.

Your head fell back against his chest, your thighs trembling as his pace quickened. He curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out, your nails digging into his arm. “Right there,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, Stan—”

“I got you,” he interrupted, his voice low and rough as his lips brushed your ear. “Gonna make you cum for me. Just let go.”

Your walls fluttered around his fingers as he pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent pleasure shooting through you. The pressure built quickly, your moans growing louder as you bucked against his hand. “Stan—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he growled, his teeth grazing your neck as his fingers thrust faster, relentless now. “Let me feel it.”

Your body tensed, then shattered as you came, your cries muffled as you bit down on your lip. Your thighs clenched around his hand, and he didn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your orgasm until you slumped back against him, boneless and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with pride as he pressed soft kisses to your temple. Slowly, he eased his fingers out of you, and your breath hitched at the loss. He held them up, glistening with your release, before meeting your gaze with a smirk. “So sweet,” he muttered, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks burned, but the heat in his gaze made you shiver all over again. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice still shaky. You didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. He leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, grounding you as you melted into him.

Your fingers moved instinctively, threading into Stan’s hair as you deepened the kiss, your lips parting against his in a rhythm that left your heart pounding. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, grounding yet electric all at once. Slowly, your hands trailed downward, brushing over the hem of his shirt before settling at the button of his jeans. You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking up to meet his as you worked the zipper down with trembling fingers. His sharp intake of breath was audible, his lips parting as though to say something, but the weight of the moment rendered him silent. 

Your fingers grazed the waistband of his boxers. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard sent a thrill through you. Slowly, you tugged at the elastic, watching as his cock sprang free, heavy and already leaking at the tip.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers hesitating for a split second before wrapping around him, the weight of him warm and solid in your hand. His reaction was immediate—his head fell back slightly, his lips parting with a low groan that sent shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," Stan muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the sheets beside him. His hips twitched slightly, as though he was holding himself back. "You don’t… you don’t have to—"

You cut him off with a soft laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his precum. "I want to," you murmured, your voice soft but certain, your hand starting to pump slowly, spreading the slickness along his length. "Let me take care of you, Stan."

His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to move with more confidence. You blew softly against his weeping head, watching as he twitched under your touch. “How are you this pretty everywhere?” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your lips curled into a faint smile as his eyes snapped open, dark and filled with need.

“Pretty?” he huffed, a shaky laugh escaping him as he tried to focus on your face. “You’re killing me here, dude.”

You didn’t respond, instead letting your tongue drag slowly down the length of him before circling back up to the head. His reaction was everything—his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through it as his head fell back. "Shit—" he hissed, the sound rough and desperate.

When your lips finally closed around him, taking him inch by inch, his hips bucked slightly despite his effort to stay still. You moaned softly around him, the vibrations drawing a choked sound from his throat. "Fuck, baby," he groaned, his voice rough. "You feel so—"

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper until his tip brushed the back of your throat. His grip on your hair tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to ground himself. "Slow down," he rasped, though the way his hips shifted betrayed how much he wanted more. "You’re—fuck—so good."

The wet, lewd sounds filled the room as you worked him over, your hand stroking the base while your tongue teased his slit. His thighs trembled under your touch, and the low, broken moans spilling from his lips only spurred you on. “Dude, I’m—” he gasped, his voice catching. “I’m close—”

He tried to tug at your hair, as if to pull you off, but you shook your head slightly, keeping your lips sealed around him. You tightened your grip on his hips, holding him in place as his cum spilled hot down your throat. He moaned your name, the sound raw and unrestrained, his body trembling as you swallowed every drop.

When you finally pulled back, a string of saliva and his release connected your lips to his cock. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, meeting his gaze with a mixture of shyness and satisfaction. "You taste so good," you murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, letting him taste himself.

Stan was still panting, his chest heaving as his hands cupped your face gently. "You’re… incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He kissed you deeply, his lips moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough. "And, dude, I think you might’ve just ruined me."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your lips against his once more. “Do you…” You hesitated, biting your lip as your cheeks flushed. “Do you have a condom?”

Stan blinked at you, his darkened gaze clearing slightly as your words registered. He stared at you for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and a flicker of something softer, almost hesitant. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low but steady, his thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of intent. “If you are.”

Stan’s lips parted as he let out a shaky breath, his hands dropping from your face to rest on your waist. “I, uh…” He glanced toward his nightstand, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I think I do. Hold on.”

You shifted slightly, giving him space as he leaned over to open the drawer. His movements were hurried but not frantic, his fingers rummaging through the clutter until he found what he was looking for. He held up the foil packet with a small, nervous laugh. “Got it.”

Your cheeks burned as you watched him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. “Okay,” you said softly, your hands fidgeting slightly in your lap. “I’ve never… I mean, I don’t really know how this works, so…”

Stan paused, the condom in his hand, and turned back to you. The teasing smile he usually wore softened into something more serious, more earnest. He reached out, taking your hand in his and squeezing it gently. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “We’ll go slow, okay? We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You nodded, his reassurance grounding you as you met his gaze. “I trust you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Stan’s expression softened further, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I promise.”

You watched as he fumbled briefly with the condom, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he rolled it on. The vulnerability in his movements tugged at something deep in your chest. While he was focused, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra with shaky fingers before sliding it off. Your panties followed, leaving you completely bare before him.

When Stan turned back to you, his gaze landed on your form, and he froze. A breathless laugh escaped him, one hand running through his dark hair as he took you in. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The awe in his tone made your cheeks flush, and you instinctively tried to cover yourself with your arms.

“Don’t,” Stan said gently, his hands catching yours and lowering them. “Don’t hide from me. Please.”

Your heart pounded as he leaned forward, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone before trailing lower. His lips found your nipples, sucking lightly at the sensitive buds, and you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair.

“Ah—S-stan,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He didn’t reply, but the warmth of his kisses and the way he held you so delicately spoke volumes. He positioned his hard cock at your entrance, his eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching your face for any hesitation. His tip was dripping from his previous release, and the way he dragged himself across your slit, in an almost teasing manner, made you shudder.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. “I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

Stan exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against yours as he began to push forward slowly. His length parts your walls, inch by inch. The stretch was unfamiliar, and you tensed for a moment, but his hands on your waist were grounding, his voice soft and reassuring.

“Relax dude,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you. Tell me if it’s too much.”

You bit your lip, focusing on the sound of his breathing and the way his hands held you like you were something fragile and precious. Slowly, he eased further inside, his movements careful until he was fully in. Your hips were touching now, and the sensation was maddening.

“You okay?” Stan asked, his voice hoarse as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes—from pain, but also from the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. “I’m okay,” you whispered, your fingers trailing along his jaw. “I’m more than okay.”

Stan’s lips curved into a soft smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips. “You’re everything,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I hope you know that.”

You didn’t respond with words at first, instead pulling him closer and wrapping your arms around his neck, your lips pressing softly to him again. The kiss deepened naturally, slow and deliberate, as though neither of you wanted the moment to slip away. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping the flesh of your ass, and you could feel the faint tremble in his touch.

“God, Stan…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you gazed into his eyes. Your cheeks burned as you added hesitantly, “Please move.”

Stan exhaled shakily, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint as he slowly drew his hips back. He watched your expression closely, searching for any sign of discomfort as he thrusted forward again.

The stretch was still there, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. Instead, a new kind of heat unfurled within you, building with each careful movement. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the sensation of him, the closeness of his body against yours.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His lips brushed against your temple, trailing down to your jawline as he found a steady but punishing rhythm. “So fucking tight—so tight.”

Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as the pleasure began to build. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Y-you’re so deep, I—” You're cut off by his cock twitching against your walls at your words, a shiver coursing through your body.

His strokes become faster and deeper, his hands roaming your body with reverence. The intimacy of it all—the way he kissed you between every thrust, the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred—sent a surge of warmth through you that had nothing to do with the physical connection.

Stan’s lips pressed against your neck, sucking and nibbling on your soft skin. The tightening of your walls stopped his advances, his breath coming out in soft, uneven pants. “I can’t believe this is real,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “You… you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re—ah—you’re so good f’me.”

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks as your eyes met his. “I—fuck, I love you,” you moaned, your voice all over the place due to the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. “This is s-so not real.”

Stan’s lips captured yours again, a quiet groan escaping him as he deepened the kiss. His thrusts grew slightly faster, more confident, and you arched into him, a gasp slipping from your lips as he fucked that spot that made your vision blur.

“Right there,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice trembling as he clung to you like you were his lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. Always.”

The tension built higher and higher, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge. His name fell from your lips in a breathless chant, and when his hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb circling your clit, it was enough to send you spiraling.

“Stan. Stan, oh my G-god,” You choked out, your nails clawing his shoulder blades leaving red, angry marks in their wake. Stan could feel your slick arousal dripping against him, creating audible squelching noises, and he knew you were close.

Your release hit you hard, your cunt fluttering around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Stan followed shortly after, a guttural moan leaving his lips as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering against yours. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom as it expanded. The way he held you so tightly as if afraid to let go, left you feeling safe, cherished.

As the aftershocks faded, Stan eased himself back slightly, his hands cradling your face as he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse but gentle.

The soft, hoarse question lingered in the air, and you managed a shaky, “Yeah,” your voice barely above a whisper. Stan let out a small breath of relief, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as if grounding both of you. His lips pressed against your forehead again, warm and comforting, before he shifted slightly.

The sensation of him pulling out was slow and careful, but it still made you whine softly, the emptiness leaving a dull ache behind. Your cheeks burned as the sound escaped you, and Stan’s gaze immediately snapped to your face, a faint flicker of worry crossing his features.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his hands sliding down to rest lightly on your hips. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shook your head quickly, your arms wrapping instinctively around his neck to pull him closer. “No,” you murmured, your voice still trembling. “I just… I don’t know. I feel… weird without you.”

Stan’s expression softened at your words, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “Weird?” he repeated, the word coming out in a gentle tease as he kissed the tip of your nose. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?”

You hesitated, the vulnerability of the moment making your chest tighten. “Good, I think,” you admitted finally, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I just… I don’t want you to let go.”

Stan’s arms tightened around you at that, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a soft, contented sigh. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

For a while, neither of you moved, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket. The weight of everything—the vulnerability, the connection, the raw emotion—settled into something warm and steady, a feeling that made you fuzzy all over.

Finally, Stan pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as he broke the silence. “Let’s clean up, yeah? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.

A playful grin tugged at your lips despite the lingering warmth in your chest. “Okay, boyfriend,” you teased, your voice still a little shaky but lighter now.

Stan rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a faint smirk. “Love you, girlfriend,” he shot back, his tone carrying just enough sarcasm to make you laugh softly.

“Good,” you replied, still smiling as you brushed your fingers through his hair. “Because I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

His smirk softened into something more genuine, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve got no idea,” he murmured, leaning in to press another kiss to your lips.

After a moment, Stan pulled back, his cheeks slightly flushed as he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, seriously though, let me grab something to clean us up. Be right back.”

Kyle leaned back against the dorm door, his legs stretched out on the hallway floor as he scrolled through his phone. The muffled sounds of your voices arguing inside were barely audible, but every now and then a sharp tone or raised word would cut through. He rolled his eyes, letting out a soft scoff as he aimlessly refreshed his feed. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Minutes passed, and the dorm grew quiet. Too quiet. Kyle glanced at the door, debating whether to knock or just barge in to check if you two had killed each other. Just as he was pushing himself to stand, his ears caught something unmistakable—a faint moan followed by the rhythmic creak of the bed frame.

Kyle froze.

His phone slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as his eyes went wide. For a moment, he stood there in disbelief, his face heating up so quickly it felt like steam might shoot from his ears. "What the actual fuck?" he whispered to himself, his voice tinged with panic.

The creaking continued, and Kyle bolted, muttering curses under his breath as he sprinted down the hall. His thoughts were a jumbled mess—equal parts disbelief, irritation, and a deep desire to bleach his brain.

Reaching Kenny and Cartman’s shared dorm, Kyle didn’t bother to knock. He shoved the door open, startling the two boys who were mid-conversation. Kenny blinked up at him from his seat on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Cartman, lounging in a beanbag chair with a bag of chips in hand, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s your problem, dude?” Cartman asked, crunching obnoxiously loud.

Kyle stood there, chest heaving, his face still flushed a deep red. And then he started laughing. Not the normal kind of laugh either—it was a borderline maniacal, disbelieving cackle that had Kenny and Cartman exchanging wary glances.

Through his hysterics, Kyle waved a hand, doubling over slightly as he tried to catch his breath. “Don’t ask,” he managed to choke out between gasps of air, his laughter tapering into a slightly unhinged giggle.

Kenny leaned back, taking a long drag from his cigarette as he eyed Kyle skeptically. “Did you, like, witness a murder or something?”

“Nope,” Kyle said, his voice cracking as he wiped at his eyes. “Worse.”

Cartman snorted. “Worse than a murder? Doubt it, bro.”

Kyle just shook his head, sinking into the nearest chair and burying his face in his hands. “Just… I’m never going near that dorm again,” he muttered, his voice muffled but filled with exasperation.

poor kyle... | part one

[m4xgirlie]

A Surprising Invite

Chapter One - Raela’s POV

hello! this is the first real story piece i’m posting here, and i so hope you enjoy it! word count: 2,246

The lights surrounding the paddock and track of the Las Vegas Formula 1 Grand Prix were astounding at night. Soft mood lighting achieved by carefully placed LED and neon lights surrounded the paddock, tables and hospitality zones shrouded in soft purple tones. As “The Way I Are” by Timbaland blared over the speakers, Raela sat at one of the tables, taking careful sips of a Sea Blue Redbull to attempt at fixing an oncoming headache in hopes that it wasn’t a migraine with a slow onset. As the song shifts to Masove’s cover of “I Will Survive”, she noticed someone walking towards where she sat on a slightly raised patio. Her eyesight grew foggy as a man walked closer, an aura of an impending migraine which caused Raela to groan in annoyance as she blinked rapidly to clear her vision. As she did so, the man approaching chuckled.

“Well, I’ve aggravated people before but I don’t think it’s ever been upon approach.” A deep, slightly strained British accented voice said. Raela realized quickly that she had been staring straight at him as she was trying to right herself. She laughed nervously, offering the stranger a sheepish smile as she hesitantly pulled out one of her earplugs.

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry! I’m not aggravated at all, my eyesight was just doing something weird for a moment and usually when it does it’s kind of a sign of impending doom for me.” Raela laughed out, unsure of how else to explain it without just telling him that she had chronic migraines with aura. He laughed heartily in response, his shoulders visibly relaxing an inch.

“Well, I hate to hear that you’re facing impending doom, but I am glad to know you’re not mad at me for approaching you, especially considering I’m a strange man.” He smiled easily, giving Raela a reassuring feeling. She felt eased at his understanding, and nodded at him. He took that as her permission to continue and his grin widened. “I’m one of the pit stop crew over for Oracle Redbull, my name’s Josh. Myself and some of the other crew noticed your outfit and we wanted to ask if you wanted to take a chance at lookin’ at the chassis?” She stared at him in surprise, looking a bit hesitantly down at her outfit.

“Really…? My… outfit, is what convinced you to walk over here and ask?” Raela asked, a little confused. She noticed her outfit could very much be mistaken as sporting primarily Ferrari’s colors, with a golden yellow colored silk blouse type top, a well fitted red leather jacket, and black jeans with the occasional tear or two down the thighs. The only offset that could mark it as a Redbull themed outfit were the navy blue knee high suede boots that she wore. Josh offered her his own sheepish smile as he scratched the back of his head.

“Well, we were kind of hoping you’d take that as the most logical reason because none of the pit guys wanted to run the risk of embarrassing you in case that neat little specs and stats notebook you have is more of a personal hobby.” Raela immediately began to feel warmth blossom from her chest, creeping up her neck before coating her cheeks as she remembered the amount of people in Redbull uniforms or jackets who were walking behind her earlier as she furiously scribbled down new stats about Lance Stroll’s chassis after it failed during FP3 as well as the specs of the track and its ever evolving texture against the tyres due to public use during the daytime.

“Ah- So uh… One or two of you noticed all of that?” She laughed softly. He nodded and looked up at the woman, looking a little nervous suddenly.

“Actually, to be completely transparent, one or two of us noticed that you were in your own world so we stopped to watch all of that. It was fascinating, especially as you put in your own personal notes about the differences in the teams chassis.” He chuckled deeply, noting how he’d felt as he’d watched her scribble about the differences between Ferrari and Toro Rosso or between Alpine and Williams, but particularly about the difference between Redbull and McLaren, as they were the contending teams for the championship title. “We want to see what you think about the Redbull chassis in person, and if there’s anything you think we could tweak. Sometimes fans have wild ideas that turn out to be just what we need.” He explains further. Raela nibbled gently on her lower lip, reaching up to take the claw clip out from under her hair before absentmindedly scratching the back of her head where it had been sitting, then pulling her wavy blue-ish black hair back into the claw clip ponytail she sported, as using claw clips instead of ponytail holders was a way she had found to mitigate some of the migraines. As she finished this small process, she looked down at Josh.

“If I didn’t take this opportunity, I’d be genuinely insane.” Raela grinned, grabbing her notebook and the small purse she carried with her, gently standing from her chair and descending the few steps of the patio. She walked over to Josh, realizing she was much shorter than him than she originally thought. Standing at 5’7”, she only stood to Josh’s chin, making him well over 6’. As the pair walked to the Oracle Redbull pit zone, she wondered softly to herself if everyone on the pit team would be so tall. But once they approached, she noticed the pit and tech teams weren’t the only ones there.

Max Verstappen stood to the side, leaning against the wall with his head back and his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. As she observed, she was unsure if he was asleep standing up, or simply just trying to relax. As she came closer, she saw Sergio Checo Perez sitting on the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he stared out in front of him. Josh grinned and called out to the two racers.

“Max, Sergio! This lovely woman is invited to take a look at the chassis, but I need to go look at something right fast. Take care of her for a second, yeah?” Josh asked, causing Raela to squeak and look up at him suddenly, her heart rate rising as anxiety clawed at the vulnerable muscle. Facing a pit crew is easy, they don’t have their faces plastered everywhere. To face her two biggest heroes amongst the F1 circuit? She quickly schooled her features, slipping into the facade she carefully constructs during her day job as a paralegal. An easy smile slips into place, covering the shock that had flashed momentarily as she held out her hand for each man to shake.

“Raela Perenzi, most of my friends call me Rye, it’s a complete honor to meet both of you.” She gently quips, her tone surprisingly level as she tries to hide the shakiness of her hands. Max smiles gently at her, noticing the hesitance in her posture. He takes her outstretched hand, giving it a warm squeeze as he does so. If Raela wasn’t mistaken, she would swear he gasped slightly as their hands linked, his eyes widening slightly. She felt uncertain that she could tell as well as she usually would against the haze of a headache and anxiety, so she swiftly dropped the idea as she released Max’s hand. As Sergio grasped Raela’s hand, she could see the exhaustion coating his features.

“You look like you need something to drink. If you’d like, I can go grab you some water right quick?” She offered, her need to help people overpowering her anxiety. Sergio scoffed slightly, smiling warmly at the woman in front of him.

“You are a guest, you shouldn’t run errands for drivers. Enjoy your time here.” He said as their hands released. Raela grinned, seemingly to herself before walking purposefully to the back of the pit zone, grabbing a cup off of the side of a cooler, and filling it with water. She gently carried it back to Sergio before softly tapping his shoulder with it.

“This guest just had the random honor of meeting two of the greatest racers in the world. If I have a chance to run even simple errands for you two during downtime, it’s a chance I’ll take.” Raela spoke softly, pushing meaning into her voice. He smiled up at her and took the water, nodding at her in gratitude. Max started laughing softly, looking over at her.

“You’re a lot more level headed than most fans would be right now.” He smirked up at her, looking at Raela through his lashes, head at a slight tilt. This caused her to giggle lightly.

“Yeah, that’s courtesy of a great day job mask that forcibly blocks out even an ounce of social anxiety.” Max started laughing even harder, causing her to grin as he found the humor in her remark. Sergio and Max both noticed as she visibly relaxed even further, her stance seeming to become more fluid as one arm hung at her side, the other relaxing with a thumb looped into her pants pocket.

“So Raela, how long have you been watching F1?” Sergio piped in. She looked down at the man on the couch next to her as she smiled at him.

“Oh, for as long as I can remember honestly. I found it one day while my mom was scrolling channels looking for the morning cartoons I usually watched. When I heard the first zings of the engines passing the cameras and then the different pitches as the drivers dropped their clutch or switched gears, I was just enraptured. I wouldn’t let my mom change the channel again. I think I was maybe 3 or 4?” She recounted, remembering fondly the first F1 race she ever saw on television.

“I hate to be rude, but how old are you now?” Max asks her, his tone gentle. Raela could feel the warmth in her cheeks returning, hoping her answer doesn’t shock the two men in front of her.

“I’m 21, about to be 22 just before the start of the 2025 season.” She responds quietly, scratching at the nape of her neck. Max and Sergio look at each other with visible surprise, and almost something else in Max’s eyes. Raela looks between the two warily.

“Am I missing something?” The hesitance is heavy in her voice as her throat starts to feel tight.

“I genuinely thought you were only 16. You looked incredibly young.” Sergio responds immediately, looking back at Raela. Upon hearing this, she can’t seem contain the almost cackle like laughter that bursts from her chest.

“Oh, well thank you!! But no, I’m 21 and actually a single mother, so I will absolutely take 16 as a compliment right now.” She sighs, relaxing again. She looked around for a moment, starting to wonder where Josh had ran off to, slightly eager to look at the chassis. Max must have noticed, as she heard him speak up.

“Looking for Josh?” He asked. She could hear a soft smirk in his voice, wondering about it for a moment before responding.

“Yeah I am. He said he and some of the other crew members wanted me to take a look at and maybe offer suggestions about the chassis.” She mutters absentmindedly, starting to notice other details of the Oracle Redbull garage. The subtle navy blues with streaks of gold and red swiping their ways over the walls, the shelves with picture frames and water bottles, even the way the floor was impeccably clean.

“He actually asked you over here cause he was curious about you.” Sergio quips, pointing at Max upon the second ‘he’, smirking to himself. Max choked on the water he was drinking, glaring at his teammate as he coughed harshly. Raela snorted shortly, rolling her eyes at Sergio.

“Yeah right. Max Verstappen, 27 year old most badass dutchman who drives for Oracle Redbull Racing in Formula 1 asked for a member of his pit crew to invite me, Raela Perenzi, 21 year old kind of american who’s simply a single mom and paralegal to the pit zone so he could meet her. If that’s reality, I must be living in a Tumblr fan-fiction. Nice prank, Checo.” She sighs, a soft smile on her lips as she continues to look around. She could hear Max clear his throat behind her, a few moments passing before he speaks.

“He was telling the truth.” The seriousness in his voice made her pause in her careful examination of the room. Raela slowly turned to look at him, her eyes wide as she openly stared. She turned to look at Sergio, who nods at her.

“You mean that.” She says, her voice flat and blunt as she looks back over to Max. He seemed to hesitate for only a moment before he responded.

“I saw you and thought you looked extremely interesting, and found myself wanting to know you.” He says, his voice light. She paused, taken aback by his candor. He continued on after a moment. “Let me get your number? I’d like to get to know you.” He asks, a softness in his tone that sounded somewhat like hope. Raela took a moment to think on it, surprised that this was happening to her. After a moment, she begins to nod slowly to herself.

“You get my number.” She said, pausing to watch his face light up with an excited grin before she continued. “On one condition. I get to look at the chassis with you showing me everything.” She says, her voice thick with finality as she smirks at him. This causes him to laugh a little bit before nodding, walking over to her and passing her his phone before taking the lead towards his chassis. She saved her number amongst his contacts, excited to see where this would go.

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Service Wolf

After graduating Nevermore Academy Wednesday attends the prestigious Alighieri Institute to hone her psychic abilities as she continues her detective work. Enid joins her as her service werewolf; there to alert her of visions and try to keep her out of danger as much as possible. All characters 18 years or older. Wenclair.

—————————————————————

Chapter 4

"But we continued through the wood to stray;

The wood, I mean, with crowded ghosts for trees."

"Remember the acronym BARK." The professor said as she wrote it on the whiteboard. "Be aware of your surroundings, Alert as soon as possible, React immediately, and Keep track of time." Enid dutifully scribbled it down in her workbook before doodling in the margins. "Now, let's go through the importance of each." She said, scanning the room. "Who can tell me why it's important to 'be aware of your surroundings'?" A student raised their hand. The professor nodded at them.

"So they don't hurt themselves?" They guessed.

"That is correct." The professor said encouragingly. "It's beneficial to treat psychic seizures similar to typical seizures which means we want to clear our surroundings as much as possible. In addition to being aware of physical objects within the area we also want to be aware of people. Who might have an idea as to why that is?" She asked. Another hand rose into the air.

"Because it could attract attention?"

"Could you elaborate a little further?" The professor asked.

"Uh, people might think it's a regular seizure and call 911?"

"Exactly. It's best not to draw attention to psychics during such a vulnerable time. Many psychics and service werewolves have been separated as nonsupernatural healthcare providers jump in." The professor said, noting it on the board. "Let's move on to the next letter, A, alert as soon as possible. Why might-?" A few hands rose into the air before she had finished. She stopped and nodded.

"So we can get them to a safe area."

"So we can clear the area."

"Because they might not know they're about to have a vision."

"All excellent answers." The professor said, beaming. "I see you've been studying. Next letter." More hands shot up. Enid frowned as her mind began to wander back to the event that landed her here in the first place. She had followed the acronym. She had been aware of their surroundings. She had alerted Wednesday that the other objects would be dangerous. "R, react immediately." The professor said but waved down the numerous hands. "I trust you know why we should react immediately but I'd like to know how you would react." She said seriously. There were a few confused looks among the students.

"How far are you willing to go to protect your psychic?" She continued. "How much force is too much force? How do you prevent a scene from happening in public? How do you maintain an amicable working relationship if you are forced to restrain your psychic?" The professor asked as she started writing on the board. "Answering those tough questions will be your assignment." She said, turning back to them. "I'll provide you with a set of scenarios to choose from. Pick one and answer those questions. I expect a minimum of six pages with at least four peer-reviewed sources to support your answers."

There were a few quiet groans as they started to pack up. Enid put her workbook away and trudged to the professor's desk to grab one of the scenarios.

"Wait a moment, Ms. Sinclair." She said, pulling a separate paper out from her desk. "Since your placement here is more of a refresher course than anything, I'd like your paper to be a reflection." She said gently. "Same questions but what you would have done differently regarding the event from last week." Enid accepted the paper and nodded somberly. "It's not a punishment. Just think of it as an exercise in self-reflection." She said encouragingly. Enid tried to force a smile and nodded again. She didn't want to be reminded of her failure, as if she hadn't thought about all the things she should have done differently.

As Enid left the building she was surprised to find Wednesday waiting outside for her with a colorful drink in hand.

"Wednes?" She asked as she sniffed the air hopefully.

"I," She swallowed, "have procured this obnoxiously colorful beverage as…" She avoided Enid's eyes but couldn't help glancing back. "As recompense for my egregious and erroneous transgressions against you." She shifted her feet nervously. "I hope that it-" But her words faltered as Enid pulled her into a bone crushing hug.

"Wednes…" Enid whimpered happily as she squeezed her again before pulling back. She had to repress a giggle as she noticed how red Wednesday's face had become.

"I, yes, I hope that this can be an adequate first step in my reparations to you." Wednesday said, holding the drink out. Enid happily took it and nodded.

"So if this is the first step-" She pulled the straw to her mouth and took a sip. Her eyes fluttered shut as she savored the intense rush of sugar. Her mind temporarily went blank.

"Yes, I have planned many more steps. As many as it takes to earn your forgiveness for my foolishness." Wednesday said seriously. Enid beamed and took Wednesday's hand in her own.

"I hope they involve more drinks." She said, as she stared at the colorful one before her.

"They could." Wednesday acknowledged as they walked the campus. Enid pressed her shoulder against hers and glanced down at her. She could see that Wednesday had a slight frown and had started chewing her lip. Enid let out a small sigh. Wednesday was too easy to read. Wednesday looked over at her questioningly.

"What new thing did you find out about the case?" Enid asked, repressing a smile as Wednesday's face lit up at once.

"I followed up on your hunch about their digital presence somehow being the linking factor and-" Wednesday began immediately then forced herself to pause.

"-and?" Enid asked, tilting her head to the side.

"Do you wish to discuss the case or would you prefer we talk about a topic of your choosing?" Wednesday asked seriously.

"We can talk about the case." Enid said, squeezing her hand affectionately. "Thank you for asking." Wednesday nodded and leaned into Enid as she continued.

"At first I couldn't determine a pattern. Yes, there were the two professional athletes and a third professed their interest in pursuing a career as such but the others-" Wednesday shook her head. "I looked for anything tangentially related: coaches, school sports teams, sport enthusiasts in general, gym memberships, Kinesiology." She listed off. "And yet nothing of that nature presented itself."

"So I guess we could cross 'targeting jocks' off the list of possible motivations." Enid said, sounding stumped.

"I would have to agree." Wednesday said, stopping to pull a paper from her pocket and unfolding. "However, while I was investigating a link between the victims I stumbled across something linking these murders to another set of murders." She held out the paper to Enid. Enid squinted at the paper as she took it; Wednesday had printed out a webpage.

"Top 100 unsolved murder cases of the mysterious and macabre." Enid read aloud. She looked at Wednesday. The site looked less than reputable.

"There was a set of murders fifteen years ago that share some striking similarities." She said eagerly. Enid looked back at the page. There was a picture of the crime scene with broken bodies arranged in a curved line. "I looked into the victims and again there appeared to be no connection, except for one."

"Okay?" Enid said, scratching her neck. Wednesday reached over and started scratching behind one of Enid's ears. Enid shivered and pushed herself into Wednesday's hand.

"A brother and sister." Wednesday continued. "One of the recent victims was related to someone from this previous case."

"Uh huh." Enid said, only partially listening.

"So I looked back further." Wednesday said. "And while I couldn't find a direct link between two close family members I did find two distant cousins between that case and another from twenty six years ago."

"Were the bodies also arranged in a weird shape?" Enid asked. Wednesday nodded enthusiastically.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62565664/chapters/161142844

[madamefluffnstuff]

Can I request a one shot of Fennorian working hard in his study but Vestige comes in and convinces him to relax 🥺

@rvnwtch and I both had the same idea, and *I* originally got the idea from a post by @i-simp-for-fennorian :3 (which I can no longer find the original post on Tumblr but I can find it on Google for some reason! :,D)

Also thought it would be very appropriate for their Ravenwatch Posting Event.~

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Fennorian?" A soft voice called down the hallway. No answer came. The Vestige walked down the corridor until she reached a familiar door. Inside, the faint sound of bubbling and glass clinking could be heard. A book page turning, followed by a hasty quill scribbling, and the unsettling noise of glass sliding on metal, most likely from the aforementioned vampire moving a test tube from its rack.

"Fenn?" She asked again as she slowly opened the door and poked her head in.

Fennorian had his back to the entrance, arm raised as he held a tiny glass tube up by a hanging lamp. The candlelight revealed a thick, viscous looking fluid with a bright red hue.

Not blood, but a prototype for the Harrowstorm elixir.

"Ah, my friend. Good to see you," he responded, clearly distracted and not completely aware. He placed the test tube back in its slot and plucked some snowberries from a nearby bowl, extracting a few seeds in a practiced motion. The seeds disappeared into the elixir.

"...How long have you been down here?" The Vestige asked as she walked in, very worried and surprised at what she was seeing;

His normally neat and organized workspace was cluttered. Various jars were opened on the shelves, in various stages of being emptied. Lids were strewn about. Papers with notes and sketches and diagrams were scattered about the desks. If one tilted their head and squinted, they would notice slight stains of various colors on his fingers and gloves.

"A few days." He leaned over his most recent notebook and scribbled something down. "I'm on the verge of a breakthrough."

"I've... never seen you this... well. Focused. When did you last feed?" She quickly stepped out of his way as he bustled to another shelf of reagents.

"I have my flask. And an extra, just in case. I'm rationing."

In Fennorian's defense, he did look like he had recently consumed. That did not excuse the fact he clearly hadn't left the laboratory in some time. The Vestige knew the vampire alchemist had a tendency to get tunnel vision when he was focused on his work, but this was bad even for him. What in the world had gotten into him?

"You've obviously been busy."

Fenn nodded, straightening up and turning to the alchemy table. He wordlessly picked up a beaker with a clear liquid inside and poured it into one of the tubes with the red fluid. Almost immediately there was a small plume of colored smoke and a pungent, musky smell, like the local badgers when they marked their territory on the trees. Fenn made a noise.

"No. No, that didn't work," he reached for the quill and ink pot.

"Okay, no." The Vestige interrupted him. "This has gone on too long. You need to take a break."

The alchemist shook his head vigorously. "I am sorry, my friend. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I'm quite alright."

For a split second he almost sounded convincing.

"Fenn, please," the worry evident in her voice. "You're going to wear yourself out. You need to come up for air eventually."

Fennorian returned to his previous location, where his back was turned to her. "I know you're worried, Vestige. But like I said-" he picked up a cylindrical beaker, "-this elixir has to be perfect or-"

"Fennorian Ravenwatch."

He froze. The room filled with a stunned silence. He had never heard her use that tone of voice with him before. Nor had she used his full name before. At least when addressing him. He blinked.

The quiet was broken by the Vestige sighing and walking over to him. "Look... I know this is important to you. Believe me, it's important to me as well," her voice gentle and patient. "But you need to take care of yourself."

He felt her hand on his shoulder. He had to fight the urge to bring his own hand up and hold hers. Instead he gripped the edge of the desk and the beaker still in his other hand.

The Vestige leaned over to look at him. His hair was hiding his face, some plastered to his forehead with tense sweat. Fennorian was very relieved at that moment she couldn't see his eyes. He didn't want her to see him like this. See that she was right. And that it took her raising her voice for him to realize it.

She gently took the glass from his hand and set it on the table, replacing it with her hand. In the same soft voice, she said "I can't make you leave, of course. But, whenever you're ready to take a break and rest, I'll be upstairs." She squeezed his hand, then turned around to leave him to his work.

"...Come here."

The Vestige jumped a little as she felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist and gently lift her up. She turned her head and locked eyes with Fennorian.

"Fenn, what-"

"Just. Stay here for a bit. I'm almost finished with this page. After that, I'll take a break."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Promise?"

He walked back over, her still in his arms, and set her down on the desk, just to the side of his papers. "I promise."

And true to his word, he finished his writing much quicker than she thought he would. In between quill strokes, she would lean over and place soft kisses on his temple. With each peck he visibly relaxed more and more. Before they knew it, he was closing his book and tying the cord around it. The Vestige hopped off the desk and lead him out of the laboratory, the two hand in hand.

~*~

Fennorian stared up at the Vestige, a tired smile on his face as he rested his head in her lap. She looked down at him, also smiling while her fingers worked slow circles into the sides of his head. Their bed was a very welcome reprieve after days in the laboratory.

He adjusted himself and folded his hands across his chest, using her legs as arm rests. She asked if he was comfortable, to which he responded with a nod. With a slight smirk, the Vestige brought her pointer finger to her lips, made a little kissing noise, and pressed her finger to his forehead in a "boop". Fenn laughed.

That laugh was the best thing the Vestige had heard all week.

[antivan-sprig]

A Pyre Side Chat for this lovely summer night!

Sorry this took SO LONG. I was honestly just having fun HCing stuff about Lis and Cara pre VG, but obviously a lot of that wouldn’t come up in a pyre session, I just think it’s neat that she’s one of the few that know who Lis is and vice versa. Anyway- definitely going to revisit these two during summer!

Also- Ghil’an = a Dalish word for guide/teacher and is what Lis calls Viago in private/around people she and Viago trust. I never know where to put the Dalish translations lol

@pixiedurango : So here go into the fire in no particular order (and without context)

- a peach pit

- a little bundle of cat whiskers, tied with a thin thread

- half of an elfroot joint 👀👀👀👀

- a cork from a bottle of red wine

- a carefully tied together long strand of her own red curls

- a parchment. on it a recipe for churros, scribbled down in lucanis (teenager) handwriting

Lisel watched with a sense of awe at everything Cara decided to burn. She couldn’t help but wonder at the reasoning behind each item- the peach pit and the cork, remnants of something she’d enjoyed? Or perhaps a reminder of quality time shared? Liselath couldn’t tell what was written out on the note, try as she might, the fire encompassed it immediately and she saw no hint of whatever message it might have held.

“Sure you aren’t using me to dispose of evidence of something?” Lisel teased, “I’ll know if you are.”

As each item went into the flames, the fire reacted differently. Some items eliciting a hiss, others briefly changing the color of the flames or causing the fire to arc. Once all the items had been tossed in the fire blazed with brilliant light and heat. A purple column of smoke rose, smelling strongly of elfroot. Lisel began to see convoluted visions, shadows crossing through her mind’s eye. It was difficult to ascertain what exactly was happening, Cara had seemingly led a very episodic and busy life thus far.

Liselath hummed to herself in an attempt to focus.

Cara gave a look of concern at her furrowed brow, but just as she was about to break the silence Liselath began to speak in a clear, questioning voice. She opened her eyes to stare at the redhead.

“The stuffed crow you keep beside your bed… I didn’t know Ghil’an gave you that?” Lisel said as she studied Cara’s face, “That’s lucky of you.”

Cara noticed a twinge in Lisel’s tone, but couldn’t quite place what emotion it was. Although she swore it could have been jealousy.

“Or wait…” she paused, audibly confused, “Lucanis gave it to you- not Ghil’an…”

The image was fuzzy, seemingly having two distinct beginnings associated with it.

The fire ebbed and arched in time with Lisel’s breath, a detail only Cara noticed. Lisel was seemingly lost in thought again.

“You read… romantic novels?” Liselath questioned, “I had no idea…”

She held out her hand to the fire, getting so close to it that Cara was surprised it didn’t burn her. Instead it splashed up around her outstretched hand, twisting between her fingers like a snake.

“He returned your bag to you. Perfectly folded. Better than how you’d left it.” Lisel fumbled through the memory, “Secret notes back and forth- a recipe, a confession, a warning. The hallmarks of youthful love.

“The three of you hanging about, smoking. Catarina thinks you’re asleep.” Lisel’s voice was joyful.

The fire took on the sound of voices. A busy street, a marketplace. Coins clinking in small purses. Heavy laden steps in the rain. Rolling carts, the scuffle of rats. Murmurs of those passing through, tourists and residents alike. The sounds of Antiva.

“Your life is dictated by what he wants. Your worth is measured by what you lack: obedience, discipline, respect.”

The shape of each flame blurred and the fire took on a mistlike quality, faint and ethereal. It no longer seemed to put off any heat at all, but somehow staring at it was painful, almost like looking into the sun.

“Grueling mornings, you awaken before sunrise, the only hint of happiness being the peeks beneath his mask. The smell of coffee- prepared just how you like it.”

Liselath rocked side to side for a moment, seeing what else she could ascertain from the memory. But to her surprise, and disappointment, she couldn’t sense anything else. She felt as if she’d somehow taken a wrong turn on a familiar path; not quite sure how it happened but lost nonetheless.

“Caramella,” she said softly, “I think that’s it for now.”

“But come back soon, please?” Lisel said, an altogether unfamiliar phrase to the elf. She’d never once asked someone to stay longer or return unless it was for business.

“I know there’s something more I can tell you. I’m just not sure what it is yet.”

[frondere]

FBR actually introduced me to the song so now whenever i hear it i am plagued by visions (sad brothers) (who kiss)

AHHHHH anon im so glad to plague you with heartache<3 i miss FBR dearly so have a draft of some teen stans i wrote while writing black water lilies :3

The scent of bleach and old mop water clung to the air, thick and biting, as Ford adjusted his glasses and carefully laid out his homework across the dingy floor. The janitorial closet was small, the kind of small that made it impossible to breathe without feeling like the walls were pressing in. Shelves lined the space, crammed with rusting cans of floor wax, half-used bottles of ammonia, and an assortment of grimy rags that looked like they’d been repurposed one too many times. Somewhere in the corner, a slow, rhythmic drip echoed, like a clock ticking down the minutes until their inevitable release.

Ford had expected to be here. This wasn’t his first time locked in the school’s basement closet. It wouldn’t be his last.

But Stanley?

Stan was a new variable.

Ford stole a glance at him—his twin, his mirror image, except where Ford was wiry, sharp angles and slouched shoulders, Stan was solid. Strong. He was still jiggling the door handle, cursing under his breath, jaw set, hair mussed from the scuffle. His lip was split, his knuckles raw, bruises already beginning to bloom on his cheekbone. Ford took a mental note to make sure he iced those later.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Stan was never around for it. His brother had boxing practice, which gave Ford the perfect cover—if he got home late, he could just say he’d been at the library. He’d perfected the lie, worn it in like a well-loved sweater. But today, of all days, Stan had cut practice early. Just needed to hit the bathroom, he’d said. And that’s when he’d caught sight of Ford being dragged toward the basement by a pack of meat-headed morons with letterman jackets and an apparent grudge against kids who could spell "Pythagorean theorem" without stuttering.

Stan had fought. Of course, he had. Five-on-one was unfair, even for Stan, and even worse when he’d already exhausted himself running drills. They’d left him bruised for the trouble before shoving him in alongside Ford and slamming the door shut.

Trapped.

The only light came from a grimy, small window set high on the wall, barely enough to cast more than a few weak streaks of sunlight against the linoleum floor.

“Stan, just leave it,” Ford sighed, adjusting his grip on his pencil as he started scribbling in his notebook. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

Stan twisted to glare at him, his face flushed from exertion, his knuckles already bruising from the fight.

“Ma and Pa are gonna kill us if we’re gone all night,” Stan muttered.

 Ford checked his watch. “Realistically, we’ll be out by 5:45. That’s when Tony—the janitor—usually comes by to grab his supplies.”

Stan stilled, then turned slowly, squatting down in front of him with a considering look. His foot landed on one of Ford’s papers, and Ford made an irritated sound, yanking it out from under him before it could get smudged.

 Stan just grinned like an idiot and, without missing a beat, poked Ford square in the forehead. “How d’you know that?”

Ford froze.

Right. Stan didn’t know.

Didn’t know this had been happening for a while. Didn’t know how many times Ford had been shoved into this exact closet, left to sit and wait, tracing the patterns of mildew creeping up the walls while he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

Ford cleared his throat, backpedaling. “It’s just an assumption.”

Stan snorted, loudly, with all the grace of a pig choking on its own spit. “Oh, yeah? You don’t do assumptions.”

He even mispronounced it—"assump-tins"—and Ford clenched his jaw against the immediate urge to correct him. It would’ve been funny, if Ford weren’t currently feeling like he’d been caught smuggling contraband.

Ford pressed his lips together.

“This ain’t your first time in the ‘closet of the damned,’ huh?”

Ford said nothing.

“Multiple times…?”

Still, Ford didn’t answer.

Stan inhaled through his nose, exhaling slow and long, like a guy trying real hard not to yell at someone. “Y’know what? Lucky for you, I’m too tired to chew you out for not tellin’ me.” He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “But we’re not sittin’ here ‘til six.”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “The door can’t be opened from the inside, Stanley. There’s no way out.”

“There’s always a way,” Stan shot back, determination setting in his face like stone.

Ford shook his head. “I can just tell Ma I was at the library—”

“Yeah? And what am I supposed to say?” Stan interrupted, arms crossed. “I get home before you. You think they’re gonna believe I wasn’t involved? They’ll think I got us both into trouble.”

Ford pursed his lips, but Stan wasn’t finished.

“And you think it’s fair?” Stan jabbed a finger at him. “You get to sit here in your own personal study hall—”

“This is hardly an adequate space to do homework,” Ford interjected, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just convenient.”

“—And I get stuck listening to Ma and Aunt Irina bitchin’ about God knows what all evenin’?”

Ford chuckled at that. “You really think Ma’s gossip is worse than being locked in here?”

“Yes!” Stan threw his arms up. “You don’t know what it’s like! You left me in the trenches, Ford! Irina’s a freakin’ yenta, man!”

Ford laughed,  shaking his head. “You can’t just call her that.”

Stan smirked, giving him a light shove. “Try an’ stop me.”

Ford swatted at him in return, the brotherly back-and-forth breaking through the stagnant air of the room.

Then Stan stood up, stretching, his arms reaching above his head, his muscles shifting beneath his thin, sweat-damp shirt. Ford’s eyes followed without meaning to, tracking the movement, the subtle roll of his shoulders.  Then he started pushing things aside—shoving a mop bucket, shifting a couple shelves, moving a stack of dustpans like it weighed nothing.

“We can probably get out through the window,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Ford stared. “You’re joking.”

Stan turned, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

“Yes.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Poindexter, get off your ass and help me move this crap. We got an escape plan.”

Ford sighed, collecting his papers with quick, meticulous hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Better than bein’ stuck listenin’ to Irina’s third retelling of that time she got thrown outta Macy’s.”

Ford groaned as he stood. “Point taken.”

Stan grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now help me lift this.”

Ford will not admit that Stan was right. He absolutely, categorically, in no uncertain terms, will not admit it.

That would mean admitting that their ridiculous makeshift staircase—haphazardly constructed from precariously stacked paint cans, overturned buckets, and a few wooden crates—actually worked. That it reached the window with just enough height for them both to crawl through. That, hypothetically, they could squeeze out and land on solid ground in one piece.

Moving around, however, was another ordeal entirely. The closet wasn’t made for two teenage boys, let alone two teenage boys maneuvering around each other. It meant bumping elbows, brushing against shoulders, and being uncomfortably aware of the way Stan smelled—sweat and cigarettes, the sharp musk of exertion, but also something lighter, something floral and lingering.

Carla’s perfume. God, that perfume.

It had been giving him a headache for weeks, ever since Stan had started seeing her. Or—more accurately—ever since Ford had started noticing why it bothered him so much.

Being locked in a closet with Stan was one thing. Being locked in a closet with Stan while Ford was knee-deep in questioning the nature of their relationship was an entirely different kind of torture.

He would not think about it now.

Instead, he latched onto the only thing keeping his brain from spiraling: the efficiency. The teamwork. The problem-solving. Yes. Good things.

They were working well together, moving with an almost practiced rhythm. Stan was standing back now, hands on his hips, chest puffed out as he admired their work. He flashed Ford a grin, raising both arms with a triumphant, "Ta-da!"

Ford crossed his arms, eyeing the unstable structure with suspicion. “It hardly seems… stable.” He pressed his fingers against the top paint can, which wobbled slightly, tilting downward at an unsettling angle.

Stan blew a raspberry. “It’s perfect. You’re just mad my big dumb caveman brain thought of it first.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “That is not what I said.”

Stan snickered and stepped onto the lowest shelf, testing his weight before climbing higher. The shelving creaked under him, but held. He reached the window ledge, fingers fumbling against the frame, and Ford could see at least a million and one ways this was going to go horribly wrong.

Stan could lose his footing, come crashing down onto the paint cans, split his skull open—Ford braced himself for impact, fingers twitching, heart climbing up his throat.

But then, a soft click—a creak—and a gust of icy winter air swept into the closet.

A gust of frigid air swept through the cramped closet, sharp and biting against Ford’s exposed skin. Stan exhaled triumphantly. “Woulda been frozen shut if we waited any longer,” he muttered. Then, with an awkward shimmy, he hoisted himself up, sticking his head out like a groundhog emerging from its burrow.

He turned, hair wind-mussed, looking down at Ford. “You just gonna sit there, genius?”

Ford sighed, shoved their bags up first, and squared his shoulders. Stan extended his arm, and Ford hesitated—only for a second—before gripping his brother’s hand.

He had just enough upper body strength to haul himself up. His occasional, reluctant participation in Stan’s boxing lessons hadn’t been completely for nothing, apparently. He scrambled up onto the ledge, feeling the strong pull of Stan’s grip, the muscle flex under his fingers.

But what he hadn’t accounted for—

Was the ice.

Or the fact that Stan had pulled just a little too hard.

Or the undeniable, inarguable momentum of it all.

His sneakers skidded the second they hit the frozen ground. The momentum of Stan pulling him out was just strong enough that instead of landing cleanly, he crashed right into his brother.

Thud.

For a second, he didn’t understand. His brain blanked, skipping like a broken record, stuttering over the scene in front of him.

Then he looked down.

Oh.

He was straddling Stan.

His knees were planted on either side of Stan’s hips, hands braced beside his head in the frost-dusted grass. The press of their bodies was unavoidable, warmth bleeding through layers of winter clothes. Stan was looking up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks darkened—probably from the cold, right?

Ford could feel the heat pooling in his stomach, coiling like something hungry, something dangerous.

This was doing horrible things to his brain. His logical, analytical, very intelligent brain, which had, at this moment, decided to betray him completely by memorizing this position. Burning it into his mind like a red-hot brand.

They were staring at each other.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Ford could feel the way Stan’s chest rose and fell beneath him, fast, uneven.

Could feel the way their hips—

Stan coughed.

The sound was rough, a little strained. His voice came next, also rough, and Ford could swear he was struggling to get the words out.

“Uh. You… gonna get off, or what?”

"Right—yes—"  Ford scrambled so fast to untangle himself that he nearly slipped again. “Yep. Off. Definitely off."

His knee knocked into Stan’s side as he jerked back, and Stan sucked in a sharp breath.

No. No.

Stan wasn’t—he wasn’t, right?

Ford did not have time to think about it.

Not when Stan abruptly reached for his duffle bag, very deliberately positioning it over his lap. Not when his cheeks were still pink, and his eyes were darting anywhere but at Ford. Not when, after a beat of tense silence, Stan suddenly fished something out of his bag and chucked it at Ford’s head.

A scarf.

Ford barely caught it in time, his fingers clenching around the soft wool. “Oh,” he blurted. His voice came out high, too high, and he had to clear his throat before managing a stiff, “Uh. Thanks.”

Stan nodded. Nodded.

Didn’t say anything.

Just adjusted his sweater. Lowered it slightly.

Then, finally, mercifully, changed the subject.

“C’mon, nerd. Let’s get home before we both freeze.”

The walk home was surprisingly easy.

Their legs were stiff from the cold, their breath puffing white into the evening air, but neither of them brought up what happened. Not the janitor’s closet. Not the window. And definitely not—

Ford swallowed hard, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck.

By the time they got home, Ford had convinced himself things were normal.

Normal enough, anyway.

Sure, he had to sit through Aunt Irina’s latest tirade—this time about their cousin Eugene, who was apparently ruining his life again doing God-knows-what. Their mother balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear, her expression flat with practiced patience as Irina’s screeching rang through the receiver.

Stan, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the fruit basket.

He grabbed an apple, bit into it with a loud crunch, and locked eyes with Ford across the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he mouthed yenta at him.

Ford snorted, biting back a laugh.

This felt normal.

Except they weren’t.

Because later, during dinner, Ford found himself staring blankly at his plate, his fork resting uselessly against his palm. He blinked—and suddenly, he was back in the snow. On top of Stan.

His heart kicked against his ribs, a flash of heat rolling through his gut as the image burned fresh in his mind.

His weight pressing Stan down. His hands caging Stan in. The frozen air thick with silence, with heat, with….something that coiled tight between them.

Ford swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, gripping his fork like it might anchor him to reality. He wished—God help him, he wished—the position had been reversed.

His appetite vanished.

And it didn’t stop.

Not when they finished eating, not when they cleaned up, not even when Stan stepped out of the shower, his skin damp, hair mussed, smelling like—

Himself.

Not smoke, not sweat, not artificial strawberry, or any other trace of Carla. Just Stan.

Ford gritted his teeth against the thought, burying himself in his work, ignoring the way his pulse felt too heavy, too loud. It didn’t help that Stan was right there.

Not in any meaningful way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t watching Ford, wasn’t doing anything suspicious—but Ford was still hyper-aware of him.

Stan sat cross-legged on his bunk, surprisingly doing his homework, head bent over his notebook, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

He shifted slightly, watching Stan through the metal reflection of their pencil sharpener. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows over his face, highlighting the bruise still darkening along his cheekbone.

Ford frowned.

Without thinking, he got up, padding quietly to the kitchen.

Their father had already retired to bed, which was a relief—less chance of him asking questions. Their mother, still half-distracted by her soaps, didn’t even glance up as Ford dug around in the freezer until he found—aha.

Two Italian ices. Lemon and Cherry.

He was fairly certain they’d been in there since two summers ago, but they’d serve their purpose.

He grabbed them both, heading back to their room. Without a word, he tossed one at Stan, who caught it with a raised brow.

“For your cheek,” Ford muttered, settling back at his desk and tearing the lid off his own.

Stan chuckled, pressing the frozen treat against his face. “What, no bag of peas?”

“Would you prefer the bag of peas?”

“Nah,” Stan grinned. “This one’s got flavor.”

They both sat in comfortable silence, scraping their wooden spoons against the ice, the occasional skrrk the only sound between them.

Then—“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it—something quiet, simmering just beneath the surface.

Ford didn’t look at him. He stared at his Italian ice, willing himself to sound neutral. “Tell you what?”

Stan gave him a look. 

“Didn’t need you worrying about it,” Ford said eventually, keeping his voice even. “It only just started happening.”

Stan gave him a flat look. “Bullshit.”

Ford clenched his jaw.

“Being shoved around is one thing, ” Stan continued, voice low. “ But getting left there?” He shook his head. “That ain’t right.”

“That isn’t right.”

Stan shot him a sharp, unimpressed glare.

“God, you’re insufferable,” Stan muttered, shaking his head before taking another bite of his ice.

“There wouldn’t have been any way to tell you, anyway,” Ford continued. “You have practice. You’re always busy.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Ford’s spoon scraped his ice just a bit harder. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe Carla or something.”

“Sure,” Stan said, drawing lazy circles against the plastic cup with his thumb. “But you know you’re my priority, right?”

Ford nearly dropped his ice.

His breath caught—his pulse hammered—his whole body locked up for a fraction of a second, his fingers stiff around the frozen plastic. He forced himself not to react. Not to think about what that meant. Not to want it to mean something it didn’t.

Stan stretched his arms, the muscles in his back flexing slightly beneath his shirt. “Not like I even see Carla that much anyway. She’s got French lessons, clarinet crap—” He made a vague gesture. “She’s been on my ass a lot lately. Annoyin’.”

Ford bristled before he could stop himself. His grip tightened around his spoon, but he forced himself to keep his tone even. “She’s probably just—” he cleared his throat, “—invested. Just give her time.”

God, what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to think?

Carla wasn’t even—she wasn’t a bad person.

She was smart. She was capable.

If Ford had any sense, he’d be interested in someone like her.

But the thought of her expecting something from Stan, of wanting something from him that Ford couldn’t even acknowledge wanting—

He hadn’t even realized Stan was looking at him until he turned his head slightly, catching the faintest trace of something unreadable in his brother’s eyes.

Stan searched his face for a second—long enough that Ford felt like he was waiting for something, some kind of reaction, some kind of tell—but whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it.

Because after a second, he just shrugged.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dropping his gaze back to his homework. “She’s pretty okay, I guess.”

[wellthebardsdead]

*okay bugger it were restarting the Devil Prince Au with this set up*

———

Raphael: *carefully stretching out Falûne’s newly emerged wings after removing the curse and the seal* his horns have rotted down to stubs and his wings are deformed from being confined for so long. He’ll need medicine for some time and daily exercise, then that should solve the problem, he should already be flying at this age but that’s no doubt going to be a stunted development too-

Korrilla: *taking notes for him* he’s showing signs of malnutrition but he refused to eat anything offered to him.

Raphael: he would have been too afraid to eat, no matter we’ll fix that issue tomorrow too. *gently tucks him back in and snaps his fingers dressing him in a nightgown fit for nobility* I’ll need to contact a blacksmith to tend to his hooves too, he might need lessons on walking too, he’s already showing deformity from walking on the heel*

Korrilla: *nods* I’ll look into splinting them or getting custom shoes fitted to correct the damage. *scribbles it down before looking up around the room at all the toys* where did you get these from?

Raphael: I purchased a number of them anticipating getting ahold of him at some point… most however I had as a child myself. *looks at Falûne and feels a strange mix of emotions build up inside of him* …But I’ll do my best to give him attention, so he won’t feel the need to entertain himself with them all the time… *places the statue of Hen against his chest as he breathes softly in his sleep* let’s leave him to rest… goodnight, Korrilla. *walks not to the exit, but instead another door Korrilla thought to be a closet, instead leading into his study, now converted into a second bedroom so he can keep an ear out for him*

Korrilla: *nods* night, boss… *looks at Lûne before closing the book and walking over to him, tucking him in a little more and tucking hen in with him, before giving him a kiss on the forehead* goodnight sweetheart, I’m sorry you got such a bad fright… I wish we could have brought you home sooner. *strokes his soft curls back from his face before walking out, leaving the door a crack by mistake*

Falûne: *jolts awake as memories and visions flood his mind, of Keldran, of him beating him, starving him, abusing him, and murdering his mother in front of his very eyes before turning on him, the Vision twisting to that of a frightening red devil with outstretched claws, finally snapping him to consciousness* f-father s-superior?… *looks around the space, more toys than he could ever dream of right at his finger tips and a bed so warm and comfy he almost doesn’t want to move* … *looks down at the statue of Hen, quietly grabbing her and crawling from the bed before awkwardly toddling out of the room on overgrown hooves, completely unaware of the older devil already on his tail*

*a few minutes later*

Falûne: *staring up at the unusual and frightening place around him, sharp reds and the scent of sulphur and heavy perfumes overwhelming him almost as much as his unlocked memory, so much so he doesn’t even think to check if the coast is clear as he steps directly into the entry hall*

Devoted Cambion: Young master? Why are you out of bed? Come here. *immediately stalks towards him*

Infernal Debtor: Hells- young master d-don’t move come along nicely now-

Falûne: *stares up at them in terror as more of them emerge from darkened corners* n-NO! *turns to run and cries out helplessly as he’s lifted up into Raphael’s arms* LET GO OF ME! HELP! LADY SELÛNE SAVE ME! FATHER! FATHER SUPERIOR HELP! HELP ME!!! H-help?… help…

Raphael: *gently casting sleep over him as he holds him firmly in his arms* shhhh, none of that Nephew… let’s get you back to bed now… *turns and leaves his servants standing there perplexed* this may be harder than I thought… *lays him against his chest and pats his back awkwardly, forcing himself to try and display some shape of comfort to keep him calm as he drifts off again*

Falûne: h-hen…

Raphael: *halts mid step* hm? *looks down at him, then back where he’d found him to see the statue* … *walks over and picks it up handing it to him* I’m glad you’ve taken such good care of her… I still remember the birthday I made this for you…

Falûne: *hugs her tight as he stops fighting against sleep* n-no- father… superior did… he-… said… he did…

Raphael: he lied…

Falûne: n-no… you’re- a devil… you’re the liar…

Raphael: *furrows his brow and sighs with exasperation* no… no Nephew… I’m the one telling you the truth… *tucks his wing around him and carries him off back to bed*

[angel-of-the-moons]

Presence, Presents!

Poe x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Fluff, some implied sexy times to follow

A/N: When I found out Poe's birthday was today, I had to write this. Especially since my birthday is tomorrow!

(Poe divider by @/saradika-graphics)

Poe had been strutting around like the prettiest convor in the base all day, marching with his chin held high like he owned the place. His confidence was infectious, renewing many tired Rebels as they scurried about their duties for the day.

Right now, Poe was headed back too his (and yours) quarters, his trusty astromech, BB-8 by his side, tweeting and beeping at him incessantly.

"I know, I know, buddy! But hey, today's my special day, and I wanna take a nap in the arms of the most gorgeous gal in the galaxy." Poe grinned down at the rotund droid.

BB-8 chattered in response, shaking his little head around as he swiveled in place for a moment before skittering alongside his human friend once again, almost knocking into Poe when he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Wait, what?" Poe asked dumbfoundedly, staring down at BB-8 with wide eyes.

BB-8 made an exasperated tweet and wheeled along, bumping into the door that led to your room. Your little slice of heaven away from the chaos of war and dogfights.

Poe hastily punched in his passkey and was met with silence. You weren't in there. By the looks of it, you'd been gone a while, possibly since just after he left for his own mission.

His shoulders slouched and he dropped his head back with a loud groan. "Aw, man!"

He dragged his feet behind him, his vigor all but depleted at your absence and dropped onto your bunk with a hefty sigh, falling back onto the headrest.

Only for his head to not meet the soft downy cushion of your pillows, but clang off of something hard and stiff shoved beneath the soft lumps. Poe turned onto his side and moved the first pillow, and he was met with a long, medium-sized crate with a note stuck to the top.

It was in your handwriting;

"Hi! They needed an extra escort on this training run for the rookies. Be back soon, happy birthday, baby! :D"

Poe's heart lurched in his chest as he smiled fondly at your hasty scribbles of love, and opened the metal box to see what was inside. And when his eyes met with the shiny barrel of a new blaster, he gasped aduibly.

The thing wasn't cheap. Brand-new, not even cleaned for the first time, yet. No signs of scoring from previous useage... the blaster was surely expensive. You must have saved up for it for months without telling him.

"Aw, baby..." Poe breathed, his eyes softening as his hands brushed the barrel of the blaster fondly, immediately drawing a picture of you in his mind's eye; what you must have looked like hiding this from him, the giddy little wiggle of your hips as you stowed the present for him away for him to find.

He sighed and walked his new blaster over to his locker, placing it gently down as if it were made of porcelain and not the durable metal and steel alloys used to fabricate it, and pulled out a small holo-disk.

Pushing a button, the image that flickered up first was a still of his mother and father. Young, rash and bold; their eyes alight with the fires of freedom, the same that burned within him, now.

"Made it another year, guys." He murmured to the hologram in his palm, each word making his heart seize a little painfully in his chest.

"Wish you could meet my girl. Mom, you woulda loved her. She's sassy, smart, and she hits like a pissed off bantha. Did I tell you that's how we met? Got into a drunken argument at a cantina after a mission. I swear, as soon as she was done knocking my lights loose and my vision came back... Whew! I thought I was looking at one of those Angels the old-timers used to rag on about..." Poe sighed, smiling softly. BB bumped into his leg affectionately, twittering softly in camaraderie.

His nostalgia and bittersweet talkings were snuffed out when there was a knock at the door. He cleared his throat and set the holodisk down in his locker, closing the door before announcing, "C'mon in!"

The door slid open and in walked Finn, beaming from ear to ear, "Hey, man! Heard it was your birthday today! Rey and I just got back with Chewie and we were all talking about celebrating!"

His dark eyes scanned your quarters, his brow furrowing. "Where's your pilot-in-crime?"

"Oh, she's on an escort for a training op right now." Poe said, rolling his wrist casually. "Not surprised, she loves helping the new rookies."

"Ah, okay, got it..." Finn gave him a bit of a shrewd glance. "So... what do you plan on getting her?"

"...Getting her?" Poe echoed dumbly, earning a shriek from BB-8, who rammed into his shins again and again.

"Poe, for the love of--" Finn groaned at him, hissing as if he were in pain. "Please tell me you remembered your girlfriend's birthday is tomorrow?"

The pilot blinked, like a porg in somebody's torchlight, his eyes vacant as the realization dropped on him; almost no thoughts behind his gorgeous amber gaze as he looked at his friend, mouth agape.

He grabbed Finn's shoulders and shook him, "I FORGOT MY GIRLFRIEND'S BIRTHDAY HELP ME WHAT DO I DO?!"

Finn grabbed Poe's hands and eased his iron grip, "Okay, okay, there's a local market, we can run out, grab her a gift and be back... Rey might be able to help us pick it out. Maybe if we're fast, we can get it done before your girl gets back from the training run?"

"YES PLEASE!"

"Okay, c'mon, let's go!" Finn said, leading him out by the hand.

"Man... I can't believe you forgot your girlfriend's birthday was the day after yours..."

He felt horrible. Downright nasty, filthy, horrendous. He felt like the worst boyfriend in the universe--how could he forget your birthday? When it was literally the day after his?

He'd been beating himself up over it since they returned from the market; had he really had his head so far up his own ass that he... ugh.

He shook the water free of his dark curls as he stepped out of the refresher, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist, looking like a depressed, drowned womp-rat.

His fingers hit the button and the door slid open, and he went rigid when his eyes landed on you; dressed in your orange pilot's jumpsuit and your helmet tucked against your side as you held the little brown box with the pink ribbon tied around it--a little touch done by Finn, actually--and you turned to grin widely at him.

"Sorry I was gone! One of the escorts got sick and couldn't fly wingman so I offered myself up for it." You chuckled, setting your bulky helmet down on a rickety old chair by the desk that was in much of the same condition.

You lightly shake the box in your hand when you turn to look at him, "And what's this, eh, flyboy?"

Poe grabbed the towel with one hand to keep it around his waist as you two began to hop around each other; just barely keeping your gift out of his reach.

"Hey!" Poe retorted. "No! That's for tomorrow, you minx!"

You cackled mischievously and finally relented, amused by your boyfriend's almost-naked pleading, handing him your wrapped present and letting him stuff it inside of your locker for safekeeping.

You tilt your head and smile wryly at him. "You forgot didn't you."

He twitched and cringed, "....No? Well, what I mean was--well, you see... it's more like... and, uh..." His shoulders dropped as he looked guiltily at you. "...BB-8 told you, didn't he."

"BB-8 told me." You nod with a grin.

"Ah, hell, that little mech is on my last hair!" Poe stomped, glaring at the locked door to your quarters.

You giggle and kick off your boots with a sigh before unbuckling your vest and dropping it onto the floor; tugging your gloves off with your teeth and then leaning up to give Poe a kiss to his damp cheek.

"It's the thought that counts, hon."

"Yeah, but..." Poe groaned. "You got me that blaster, and... I got you some dumb trinket from the market. And no... I won't tell you what it is, even if I'm not proud of it."

Your eyes softened and you slipped your arms around his midsection, your thumbs tracing the dimples low on his back as you brush your nose to his.

"I don't want some expensive thing, baby." You tell him, "I'm happy if we can just spend time together..."

"I know, but I..."

You silence Poe with a kiss to his slightly chapped lips; "Hush. Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll love it. 'Cause I love you, you kriffin' dork."

Poe wrapped his arms around you and pressed his forehead to yours, finally giving you a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Love you too, you cranky ass nexu."

You tilt your head back with a laugh as Poe waggles his eyebrows, his hand dropping to his towel suggestively.

"Y'know... you can always unwrap another present that I'm always carryin' for you..." He hinted playfully.

"Finn and the others can wait a bit."

[forestshadow-wolf]

Ok guys, I sacrificed a newborn lamb, migraine no longer debilitating :)

Cw: slight (nongraphic) emetophobia warning

Anyway totally don't think about simon riley who gets migraines due to trauma because trauma does weird thing to your body

Totally don't think about him ignoring it until he passed out or throws up infront of someone.

Or how he definitely would deny any ailment because "It's just a little headache." When infact his brain is trying to evacuate out the back of his skull, and there's so much pressure behind his left eye that he thinks I'd hurt less to scoop it out with a blunt spoon.

Don't think about how if he was on a mission where his body would automatically go into a sort of fight or flight mode due to his condition

Don't think about how he narrowly misses a shot because his left eye has this quite unique colorful, grainy starbusting phenomenon going on with it, and his right has this odd fading, and puldisng black boarder around it. And when he does fire thsi shot it rings in his ears and actually his vision goes white for half a second. And he'd shake his head to clear his vision, except he has since learded that that does nothing for him except cause an immediate expulsion of his stomach contents.

Don't think about how the action, and the noise, and the lights, and especially the flashbangs only make him want to kill himself, but of course he wouldn't. If only because he would never leave his team without his help, without overwatch, without backup. He'd never leave Johnny.

Or, missions aside, definitely don't imagine him trying to do paperwork but the words aren't words anymore. They aren't even stationary. They just squiggling blobs of black outlined in red or blue or green or purple, and it makes his head feel like it's imploding.

Don't imagine him trying to write out reports but he can't focus at all. He's gripping his pen so hard that his hand shakes. He's not using his computer because he might actually vomit if he has to. He was for a while, forced himself to, after an hour he almost slammed the lid shut and smashed the thing into his wall until it broke into a missiond tiny pieces. He did not do that. Wouldn't be able to explain that to price.

Don't imagine him trying to do signatures but it just comes out as a scribble of nonsense that can hardly be considered on the line. He has to squint to even see the line, much less to coordinate his hand to find the interception point of the line and his pen.

Don't imagine soap silently noticing. He almost doesn't. Almost snaps back when ghost yells at him for nothing really. Doesn't when he sees the telltale squirt of Ghost's eyes and they way his head is tilted to one side ever so slightly.

Doesn't imagine soap doing double time to cover both his and ghost's arses when they're out in the field and sees ghost stumble just slightly after every shot.

Don't think about soap going to ghost's office to coax him out and back to his room. How he makes sure the room is pitch black, had his curtains changed to blackout curtains for this reason. How he poitedly doesn't grab food or drink, against his better judgment, because he knows that it most definitely would not stay down.

Don't imagine him laying ghost's head in his lap or on his belly and massaging his temples, the back of his head, his scalp, even his eye sockets.

Don't think about how he knows exactly how he knows to do all this stiff not only because it's happened to ghost enough times but because he also gets them. From working with chems and explosives everyday for so long, even before then he used to get them. He knows what to do because it's what he likes when he has a migraine this bad. Knows exactly what to do because ghost does the same for him.

And especially doing think about how for both of them they way the other found out is during an episode, and they had to scramble for a trash can or a toilet so that they don't retch their guts up onto the floor.

Don't imagine how they continue to dry heave even when their syomach is empty, so they stay hunched over. Knowing logically that there is nothing left, but the feeling is still there.

Don't imagine them having to sit on the ground and shove their head between their knees to feel even slightly better. Or lying down and resting their cheek against the cold ground.

Don't imagine how they used to have to deal with it alone before they met eachother...

[dramatisperscnae]

hal has heard it from john that kyle has the habit of expressing affection through exchanging music. during his time as the last lantern the architect had been a close friend and companion, so he is as reliable as a source as possible. of course, that gave the older man an idea and though maybe it may come across as old fashioned, he latches onto it as fast as it comes to him.

he finds a co-worker at his current temporary job willing to burn the cd for him, though they eye him like he is a bizarre relic of lost times, bothering with physical cds, but they don't ask questions. by night, during one of their casual meetings at warriors, hal manages to pull kyle aside just for long enough to slip him his gift, inconspicuous enough.

"heard from john you like music, right? so i figured i could be nosey and give you this, kid." they are an item already and he needs no pretense to gift him, but there's a certain charm to these little stolen moments, so he keeps to them. "listen when you're alone. i'll drop by after i'm done with work," which would probably take a week or less, this whole freelance pilot business, "so you can tell me what you thought of it."

Quite honestly, Kyle adores the little stolen moments Hal manages to find for them. They're absolutely not necessary, sure - he and Hal have been together for a while now, even if neither one of them has really put a label on what they are - but the brief moments of affection or intimacy in an otherwise public setting appeal to the romantic in his soul.

Today is no different, Kyle unable to hide his fond smile as Hal pulls him aside to slip a CD, of all things, into his hand. It's blank, just the words For Kyle scribbled on it in Hal's by-now-familiar handwriting. "Sure…" A mix CD? Has to be; if it was all one band, Hal would've just bought the album someplace and given that to him. "Thanks."

It takes him a while to dig out his old Discman - and oh but doesn't that just bring back some nostalgia - and a while longer to find batteries for the thing, but soon enough he's settled in, sketchbook in hand, with the CD playing. The opening chords of the first song are almost immediately recognizable, Kyle unable to help the fond grin as his pencil starts skating over the paper. Bruce Springsteen might not be his usual jam, but it's impossible not to at least be familiar with the man's songs if you like music.

The second song has his pencil pausing for a moment as he glances down at the Discman. It could be a coincidence, having two songs with such a similar theme back to back, but then again…

Once is chance. Two is coincidence. Three is a pattern.

As soon as the third song's lyrics register Kyle just lets his head fall back against the couch, a probably dopey smile on his face. "Hal, you didn't…"

But he did. Kyle knows he did. If the third song hadn't clinched it the fourth one does, and even has tears starting in his eyes as soon as he hears Elvis's voice croon softly through his headphones. He can remember his mother singing along to this song when he was younger, and he can't resist silently singing along himself now. Take my hand, take my whole life too; for I can't help falling in love with you.

That refrain is all it takes to send a sudden spark of inspiration straight to his brain. Kyle's suddenly sitting back up, CD still playing, some part of his mind still listening as his pencil flows across the paper to sketch out the basic shape of the idea he just had. Is it sappy and stupidly romantic? Sure it is. Is it something that will ever happen? God, who knows; he doesn't know how Hal would feel about the idea, but he knows that he'd feel more than a little uncertain himself.

The only dancing Kyle knows how to do isn't exactly the slow kind, after all.

Kyle only pauses twice in his work once he has a clear vision in mind: once to ensure that his Discman is set to keep the CD playing on loop, and once to move into his studio to more fully bring that vision to life. A base sketch is all well and good, but this needs to be a fully realized piece.

Time and the outside world cease to exist as he works, the music flowing through his earphones keeping him focused and perfectly in the zone. Pencil to set the general outline, then pastel pencils to build on that base. Background, foreground, base colors, shadows, highlights…gradually the scene takes shape on the paper in front of him.

A large hall in an Art Deco style with richly paneled white and deep malachite-green walls lit by silver sconces and an elegant chandelier, with a polished wooden floor. On a stage in the background, a band - piano, upright bass, drummer, guitar, violin, trombone, singer - all in black tie. Hints of a crowd in the midground, including some mutual acquaintances - Guy's red hair stands out in one corner, laughing about something with John, while on the opposite side a pair that look suspiciously like Oliver Queen and Dinah Lance study what might be a buffet table.

But all of that pales against the couple in the foreground. Two men share a dance, the only ones on the dance floor; they seem almost to glow in the light from the chandelier above them. The taller is clearly leading, his warm brown hair brushed neatly back, Cambridge gray suit perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and athletic form; the shorter has his black hair artfully mussed, a black shirt and slacks beneath an emerald waistcoat accenting his leaner build. It's clear to any onlooker the feelings they hold for each other, their eyes locked in a gaze full of love and adoration; each believes the other hung the very stars in the sky.

By the time Kyle surfaces from his focus it's almost dawn, the windows of his apartment beginning to brighten as light returns to the world. He stretches, surprised to hear his back pop like bubble wrap getting stepped on, and studies his handiwork with a small smile. Maybe he'll get this one framed before Hal gets back…he'll have to think about that. For now, there's a coffee maker in the kitchen that's calling his name.

The Discman, still playing its lone CD without interruption, gets carried right along for the trip.

[niamhmcgall-embroidery]

‘Of Meadows and Blue Skies’ by Melody Money

‘Of Meadows and Blue Skies’ by Melody Money was a solo show at Visions Art Museum in San Diego in 2021 that now lives on the form of an online and video exhibition on the Visions website. Melody Money is a mixed media textiles artist who prides herself on attention to detail and is “motivated to take a medium that is traditionally worked on a smaller scale and expand it to a larger version” and that's evident in this show.

After Melody Money received her Fine Art degree from the University of Colorado, she went on to study prismatic colour theory at Rudolph Schaefer school of design, and this schooling in colour theory shines through throughout the show. This works’ colour pallet is almost exclusively bright warm blues, greens and yellows. Few of the pieces from this collection use colour pallets that could be described as realist. Instead, Money opts for the sort of colours that you could imagine a child choosing for a scribbled marker pen landscape that features a buttercup yellow sun in the corner of the page. It’s clear that these colours, maybe even more so them the actual pieces themselves, were designed to invoke a child-like wonder and love for nature.

Money’s piece ‘field studies’ is more reminiscent of a sample board than a fine art piece but that makes me love it even more. The piece itself is a 4 x 10 grid of textiles field studies, these studies are predominantly beaded embroideries of local wildlife like birds, butterflies and various flora. Money clearly prefers creatures that fly as, apart from one solitary fish, all the animals depicted have wings of some variety. I do not find this preference shocking as the sky is a constant reoccurring character in her work, always lovingly decorated with swirling winds. This piece being a series of studies and not one final piece makes the work seem a lot more personal to Money, I feel like I am witness to a before unseen part of her process which is both greatly endearing and gives greater context to the rest of the work in this collection.

Money uses beading throughout these pieces, most significantly in ‘Rain’ but also rather heavily in ‘Field Studies’. All the beads she has chosen have either an iridescent or metallic quality to them, this means that in the bright lights these pieces shine. In ‘Field Studies’ a trio of blue iridescent swallows pull your focus immediately and in ‘Rain’ the whole lower third of the piece is alight, shimmering with silver bead work. These circles of beads and stitch create pools and puddles of rain that reflect both the faux, stitched light in the piece as well as the real, dynamic light of the exhibition space. Melody Money has said that light is the key to making her art sing, and I couldn't agree more, the beading on both these pieces would have been significantly less impactful and appealing had she opted for dull beads; it would have completely lost the magical shifting colours of the swallows and apparent glow and movement of the pooled water. The effect that light has on these pieces and really all of Money’s work make it such a shame I was only able to view this exhibition in the form of consistently lit photos and a lower quality than I would have liked video. I do think her work is lovely but to have seen her work in reality, especially in shifting sun light, would have been something else entirely.

‘Rain’ is an incredibly dynamic work, though the art itself is ever-stationary. Money’s use of layered vertical strips of differing shades of blue draws your eyes up and down the piece. This paired with the influx of cascading, downward-pointing triangles, which colours fade from navy to white, creates a faux sense of gravity, like the fabric rain is really falling. This effect and the way that Money has achieved it is beautiful and, in my opinion, makes ‘Rain’ the most visually stimulating piece in the collection.

By comparison, ‘Chant’ at first glance is a much simpler work; the colour pallet is more muted, and it lacks the flashy beading and intricate forms of some of the other pieces. Instead, most of the piece is made up of layers of silk shaded fields. From a distance this embroidery looks simply like blended colour, but up close the individual threads are evident and reminiscent of thousands of single plants and grasses. Due to the simplicity of the design of this piece, the intensity of the silk shading shines through. The most impressive element is the scale of the piece and volume of stitches - this amount of embroidery is a feat to undertake. But what I can only assume is dozens and dozens of hours of work has absolutely payed off, as all these dense stitches create this sense of never-ending, empty fields. This feeling is accented by the inclusion by seventeen beads of small iridescent birds in flight, up over the fields into the waiting bright blue sky above. These tiny birds seem little and insignificant in scale, compared to the force of nature that surrounds them, to a degree that I can’t help but feel small alongside them.

‘Of Meadows and Blue Skies' is undeniably a love letter in fabric and thread to the ever-changing natural world that surrounds Money’s home in Colorado. Having grown up in an environment similarly surrounded by nature, Money’s work really speaks to me, it reminds me of the importance of enjoying and protecting the wild spaces around us. Money says in her artist statement “I try to shine a light on everyday moments” and for me she does that both completely and beautifully.

[woolmasterleel]

It's like Kisaki and Tagshei constructed a train together and ran me over with it because I had such a clear vision of what I want Monarchy to look like and I scribbled it down immediately..... I am so excited oh my god

[wholesomefluffdaddy]

Service Wolf

After graduating Nevermore Academy Wednesday attends the prestigious Alighieri Institute to hone her psychic abilities as she continues her detective work. Enid joins her as her service werewolf; there to alert her of visions and try to keep her out of danger as much as possible. All characters 18 years or older. Wenclair.

—————————————————————

Chapter 2

"Because, by brooding on it, the design

I shrank from, which before I warmly sought."

Wednesday stood just outside their dorm room. Her hand hovered over the handle as she hesitated. She swallowed and turned it.

"Enid, I-" Her words died as soon as she found the room to be empty. She thought for a split second that Enid's absence could be a blessing; A delay from the inevitable crushing guilt when she would have to confront her own inadequacies and apologize. However, it did not. It only made her feel worse as she knew Enid would perseverate over her mistake. Wednesday chewed her lip as she tried to find the best course of action to remedy her egregious error.

Balling her hands into fists she took a deep breath before reaching into her pocket for her phone. She loathed having to use the socially demanding device but she knew it was the fastest way to summon her werewolf. She begrudgingly unlocked it and was suddenly alerted to a new text message from an unknown number. Frowning slightly she tapped the screen to open it.

8 🌀

Wednesday stared at the unusual message then tapped on the number. It didn't bother ringing as an automated voice answered immediately.

"I'm sorry but the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service."

"Strange..." Wednesday said slowly before pacing the room. "Idiot." She cursed herself for getting distracted but something about the message intrigued her.

"It's good to see you too." Enid said, frowning as she stood in the doorway.

"Enid." Wednesday said, walking over and showing her phone to her. "I just received this peculiar message from a seemingly disconnected number." Enid glanced at it then stared at Wednesday unamused.

"And that's really the most pressing thing right now?" She said, feeling irked.

"What? No, you're right. We should be thinking about how-" Wednesday said, turning back around as she headed towards a crime board in the corner of the room.

"I'm staying with Divina tonight." Enid said, breaking Wednesday out of her monologue.

"-what? Why?" She asked, confused.

"I need to clear my head and I can't with you-" Enid gestured to the board as Wednesday scribbled something down. "-it doesn't matter. I'm just going to grab my toothbrush." Wednesday blinked slowly.

"You… You are upset with me?" She hazarded a guess. She paused then shook her head quickly. Of course Enid was upset with her. That's why she had hurried back to the dorm to begin with. "Enid-"

"I'm not… upset with you." Enid said slowly, forcing the words out as she clenched her jaw. She closed her eyes momentarily and Wednesday set her phone down to focus on her. "I'm disappointed with myself for failing to stop you." She said, opening her eyes again.

"You did try to stop me. I just- I thought-" Wednesday battled with herself internally as how best to phrase her next words.

"As a service wolf, your service wolf, I failed you. It's never the fault of the partner." Enid said, with the smallest hint of a quaver to her voice before she cleared it. "That's the first thing we learn in training."

"It wasn't your fault, Enid." Wednesday said, taking a step forward. "I purposely tried to deceive you in order to- to put myself in harm's way." She said, putting a hand to her chest.

"And did I stop you?" Enid demanded.

"You tried to. You told me. I didn't listen. I'm sorry." Wednesday said feeling deeply ashamed.

"I should have held you down." Enid said, clenching her fists.

"You were trying to be respectful, unintrusive." Wednesday argued.

"And is that my job, Wednesday?" Enid nearly shouted as she took a step forward.

"No but-" Wednesday fumbled with her words.

"I got licensed so I could protect you!" Enid said as her claws and fangs lengthened from stress.

"You couldn't have stopped me." Wednesday said, shame welling up inside her like a burst pipe.

"Who's stronger?" Enid said with a derisive laugh. "The Blood Moon werewolf or the 5 foot 1 inch seer?" Wednesday bit her tongue. She couldn't argue with the facts. Had Enid really wanted to stop her, she easily could have.

"You were being cautious." Wednesday said, the taste of iron flooded her mouth as she bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood. "With that kind of strength."

"I'm going." Enid said, holding up her hands and shaking her head.

"Enid, please." Wednesday begged as Enid strode past her and straight into the bathroom. "Please." She continued as Enid walked back out with her toothbrush gripped tightly in her hand. "I'm sorry!" Wednesday said, stepping in front of the door to block her.

"Wednes…" Enid said, repressing a whine.

"I'm sorry." Wednesday said with painful earnesty. Enid pressed her forehead to Wednesday's, who relaxed at once at the touch. Enid pressed a gentle kiss to her lips before moving her aside. "Enid!"

"I love you and I'll see you tomorrow but tonight…" Enid said, feeling as heartbroken as Wednesday looked. She turned away and closed the door behind her. Wednesday stood frozen where Enid left her. She debated between following after her or giving her the space she requested. Begrudgingly she decided on the latter and headed back to the crime board. She needed something else to focus on.

Picking up her phone she reread the message and glanced back at the board. She tried to recall the vision she had before she had touched the other papers. She closed her eyes.

There were bodies scattered on the ground. A lone figure stood in the center of it all. She furrowed her brow. She couldn't remember a face. The figure crouched down and started arranging his victims. Then it struck her. The papers behind the courthouse were arranged in the same manner as the bodies were eight years ago. How could she have missed such an obvious clue?

Opening her eyes she started drawing where the bodies would have been. Once she finished she crossed her arms and took a step back. It looked like a circle connected to a half circle, but what could that mean? Maybe the fact that there were seven victims meant something? What about the papers themselves?

She withdrew the first one she had managed to grab from her pocket. She uncrumpled it and smoothed it out. It was just a flyer for a boxing match. She turned the paper over. There was nothing on the back.

[collecting-stories]

Jellyfish - JJ Maybank

Request: Hey! I was wondering or you could do an outer banks imagine where like in season one the pogues leave kie, Sarah and reader on a boat, and the reader is the one getting stung by a jellyfish. The night goes on and she starts having an allergic reaction the jellyfish sting and her breathing starts to go bad and all dizzy. The girls have to call a mayday. And the sherif/ambulance boat? Comes and gets her or the pogues come back the next morning and she is not well at all. Then hospital. The pogues feel really badx Maybe reader x jj?  

A/N: I just started a rewatch of s1 tonight so I can finally watch s2...also I googled allergic reactions to a jellyfish sting for this. 

Outer Banks Masterlist

✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

Sarah stood beside you, practically holding you up, as you emptied the contents of your stomach into the marsh for the fifth time in so many minutes. The boys plan to strand Sarah and Kiara on the boat hadn’t been a very clever one and when you had protested JJ had jokingly pushed you over the edge of the HMS, claiming that now you too were stranded with them. 

It wasn’t exactly how you’d planned to spend your night, especially with everyone on each other’s nerves as severely as they were, you’d been looking forward to taking advantage of that and spending the night back at your house with JJ. Instead, you were stranded on Heyward’s boat with Kiara and Sarah bitching at each other. Not to mention the angry red mark blossoming over your stomach from the jellyfish that had stung you as you’d tread water earlier.  

“I thought you said you could fix this stupid piece of shit!” Sarah shouted to Kiara as she rubbed her hand along your back. The juxaposition of her kindness to you and her edgyness with Kiara wasn’t lost on you...even as you felt your head swimming.  

“I gotta lay down,” you urged, hands gripping the edge of the boat as you rested your chin against the cool side, staring into the murky water. It was starting to get darker outside but you weren’t paying attention to that anymore. You felt like you were going to throw up again though this time it felt prompted by the dizzy feeling when you moved your head and not the pain shooting through your abdomen.  

“Okay, let’s lay down...do you want a blanket or something?” Sarah asked, eyes darting around the boat to check for any spare blankets or sweatshirts.

You shook your head, immediately regretting the action as your vision blurred. “No...no, it’s so hot.” When you struggled to get JJ’s shirt over your head without moving too much, Sarah grabbed the hem of the shirt and eased it up.  

“She doesn’t need your help!” Kiara yelled from the hatch, looking out at you with concern. You’d been fine earlier, before you’d boarded the boat with them, before the jellyfish stung you, but now you were doing worse and worse. She was trying to fix the boat but it was obvious that JJ and John B’s genius plan had included purposely sabotaging any chance they had of getting the boat back to shore.  

“Obviously, she does!” Sarah shouted back, “she’s puking over the side of the fucking boat! What was in that shit you rolled anyway?”

Kiara looked incredulous at the suggestion that it was the weed they’d smoked that made you like this, “oh cause I poisoned my best friend with weed? Is that it?”  

“Maybe!” Sarah shrugged, “how should I know.”

“Not helping,” you groaned, rolling to the side and pressing your hand against your stomach. “Kie...my stomach is killing me.”  

“What can I do?” She asked, coming back over to you and Sarah.  

“Call for the coast guard or something?” Sarah suggested, looking out over the marsh as if someone would just happen to be driving through. It was pitch black now, the night falling completely. It wasn’t too late yet, close to 9:30p Sarah supposed, but she wasn’t confident that this could last until morning. Who knew when the boys would come back?

“With what phone Sarah? The tower is down.”  

“Swim to shore or something then!” She snapped.

“Sure, no problem...why didn’t I think of that? I’ll jump in the fucking marsh in the pitch black and swim toward what I think might be land!” Kiara shouted.

“Guys,” you snapped, pulling yourself up to the edge of the ship again. You felt like you were going to throw up again but there wasn’t anything left in your stomach, “shut the fuck up! You aren’t helping...I know they messed with the boat, is the radio working?”

“Let me check.” Kiara stood up from your side and headed back to the controls, checking the radio. “I’ve got a signal!”  

You weren’t sure how long it took between Kiara signaling a mayday and the police boat actually coming out on the marsh because you passed out soon after she’d gotten the signal, slumped against Sarah, the pain in your side and abdomen too much for you to bear. Neither of the girls wanted to leave you overnight in the hospital, worried something would happen the second they left your side, so Kiara scribbled a note and left it taped to the window of the boat.  

Gone to the hospital – was all it said. Not very descriptive but extremely alarming, the boys had arrived at the emergency room frantic.  

“What the fuck kind of scare tactic was that Kie!” JJ had shouted down the hallway when he saw his friend outside one of the rooms. A nurse down the same hall shushed him as he passed her and he turned around to flip her off.  

“Excuse me but you three deserve it after the shit you pulled! Leaving us stranded out there with no communication? You’re lucky the radio worked.” Sarah hissed, shoving JJ when he tried to get passed her into the room.  

The second he’d seen her it had been clear the person who was missing, the one who was undoubtedly in the hospital bed in the room he was standing outside of. You’d gotten hurt, seriously if you were here, if they’d had to mayday a police boat.

“What happened?” Pope asked, quieter than his best friend had been able to muster.

“She’s allergic to jellyfish.” Sarah replied, turning a glare on JJ, “when this moron pushed her in the water she got stung and had a reaction.”  

“Is she okay?”

“She’ll be alright...she’s dehydrated though, so she’s on fluids for the rest of the – JJ!” Kiara snapped when he pushed passed her to get into the room. He moved the curtain aside to see you there, still a little out of it from the exhaustion of the night before but you smiled when you saw him.  

“Hey,” he dropped his voice down to a whisper, a contrast to the sharp scrap of the chair that he dragged to your bedside, “I’m so sorry.”

“Guess I’m allergic to something after all.” You managed to tease, recalling the conversation you’d had a few weeks earlier when JJ had begrudgingly given up the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he was trying to make at John B’s when you reminded him that he was highly allergic to peanuts.

He’d claimed that “maybe it went away”, a possibility you both knew to be impossible while you told him that you weren’t stabbing him with an epi-pen if he had an allergic reaction. “I would stab you, if you were allergic to anything,” JJ had replied, settling for jelly on toast instead. 

“That doesn’t make me feel better.” JJ said now, eyeing the bag of fluids that was connected to you via IV. “I would’ve been fine thinking you didn’t have any allergies.” 

“It’s not your fault JJ, it was an accident...I could’ve been stung a million times before this, we literally live on the coast.” You tried to laugh and coughed; throat still sore. JJ grabbed for the pitcher of water at your bedside and poured you a glass, leaning over to help you swallow.  

“Yeah but you didn't get stung a million times before this...you got stung after I pushed you in!”

“We should let you get some rest,” Pope’s voice sounded over JJ’s shoulder and you both looked over to where he was standing at the curtain. He smiled at you, a silent ‘glad you’re okay’ and ‘sorry’ rolled into one.  

You nodded, more than aware that you were on the verge of falling asleep again. Still, you reached for your boyfriend’s hand, settling for his wrist instead as he was still holding the plastic cup. “Will you stay?” you asked, eyes meeting JJ’s.  

“Yeah, of course.” He promised, sitting back down, “I’m not going anywhere.” He didn’t mention the absolute panic that had racked through him when he saw Kiara’s note or realized you were the one that was injured and he definitely didn’t tell you how severely he blamed himself for you getting stung in the first place, instead he just sat there holding your hand and promising that he would stay there with you until you were discharged. “Everything’s okay, you’re okay.”