#i know he has his special Sharps somewhere in there too n not just the one knife

[mingoooossii]

Little things you do that makes ATEEZ feel soft.

Ateez!maknae line x reader

Warnings: fluff and just the boys being whipped <33

A/n: i kinda let this marinate in my head but I think it's been too long. Also the song, not inspired but I was listening to it while making this.

Hyung line. Ateez masterlist. Masterlists.

San.

Tugging his sleeve.

• ok so, ik this is a bit confusing but hear me out.

• this is a thing you do often, grabbing his sleeve for a sense of comfort, to get him to come with you to somewhere

• or simply just...to get his attention.

• for you it's a habit that brings you a sense of familiarity and security that is so comforting.

• you don't even notice it when you do it, it just feels so natural.

• but for him? He never felt so soft before.

• he knew this was a sort of comfort to you and was glad that he could provide it to you.

• and god, you were so adorable.

• that cute expression you wear when you seek for him and that small smile that find its way to your lips when you find him?

• *internal screeching*

• dies a little inside everytime you do it and the next thing you know, he's pulling you into a bear hug.

"Damn it! Why are you so cute?!"

"???"

• good luck trying to escape him now.

Mingi.

Covering him when he's about to bump into something.

• as we all know this man can get quite clumsy.

• so it is not uncommon that he bumps into stuff, especially the kitchen counter corners, and gets bruises.

• he doesn't even notice it most of the time.

• you, however, do notice it and gets worried.

• you tried to tell him before but to no avail, he never even noticed.

• so you made it your mission instead. Covering the sharp corners with your hand whenever he was about to bump into it.

• you did it so often that it was almost instinctive now.

• he, however, took a while to notice this

• and when he did, he was so touched 😭

• he felt like those female leads from those kdramas

• he felt so so special like-

• and now, he sometimes does it intentionally to see if you'd react the same way.

• and gets giddy when you do. (Imagine him giggling with his crescent eye smile 😭 I'm gonna cry-)

"I have something to confess. I'm in love with you."

"... Mingi, we're literally dating."

"I know and I love you."

Wooyoung.

Listening to him.

• this isn't new information but he loved to talk.

• it just comes naturally to him, wanting to share anything that makes him happy.

• now, he knew that not everyone might like this habit of his but it didn't really matter to him.

• not when you looked at him like he put the stars in the sky.

• And you weren't the most extroverted person.

• it just... wasn't your thing so you appreciated him doing all the expressing for you.

• now, he knew you genuinely liked to listen to him (even if it's something random, you'd still listen to it like it's the most interesting thing)

• but he was curious. Why exactly did you like it so much?

• he asked you this one day and you responded,

• "You look happy when you talk, so i wanted to listen because it makes me happy too."

• ...he swore, he just fell deeper in love with you.

"I'm gonna marry you."

"...?!"

Jongho.

Giving him little gifts.

• more specifically, hand-made gifts

• you were big on crafting

• knitting, origami, bead making whatever it is, you loved doing it

• and you also love giving it to him. Whenever you two hang out, you always had something to give him

• and he loved it.

• Even though he pretends to complain abt it at times

• you had often found him staring at your little creations with a soft smile

• though he had always denied it whenever you tried to confront him

• you know that he truly appreciates it

• to him, these were little tokens of your love and that is enough to melt him

• he always has one of your little gifts on him like a charm (because it makes him feel like he's with you even when you two were apart)

• he's also kind of protective over it

• never lets any of the members touch any of the charms (que the members teasing him for it) but he doesn't really care

• he loves you so that's all that matters

"... It's been...a while."

"Admit you love it, then I'll make you another one."

"...I don't know what you're talking about."

[anika-ann]

Precious Night, Holy Night - S.R.

Type: one-shot, establishished relationship, Christmas-themed

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 3,8k

Summary: The space is drowned in shadows, the night having fallen longs hours ago, the only source of glow being the Christmas lights and you, somewhere in the depths of Steve’s sanctuary. At least, that is what he hopes for.

His watch buzzes lightly, reporting that yet another hour he spent away has blended into the next one; and without checking, he knows it’s even worse. Not another hour – another day. Christmas Day.

He left you alone for one of the most special nights of the year.

Warnings: : light angst with hurt and comfort, light issues of self-worth (hello Stevie my dear), mentions of blood and injuries and injury-related pain (not reader), a bit of swearing, Steve being an angsty sap in love (totally a warning)

A/N: Inspired by a lovely song by Janek Ledecký – loosely translated lyrics through the text can be skipped of course. (If you’d like a listen, it’s here; what I adore most about it is the simplicity. No serenades, no extraordinary notes to hit, nothing, he doesn’t even pronounce properly at times – just an ordinary man professing his love, much like I feel Steve would). Divider by @saradika-graphics Enjoy and belated Happy Holidays 💕

Stepping into the apartment feels like the strangest dream; a dream that despite the soft warmth of his home feels fragile to touch, exposed to the cold coil of anxiety.

The space is drowned in shadows, the night having fallen longs hours ago, the only source of glow being the Christmas lights and you, somewhere in the depths of Steve’s sanctuary. At least, that is what he hopes for.

Hope always is a fragile thing, an antithesis to the solidity of fear; and as he closes the door as quietly as he can with one arm in a sling, he wonders whose fear is more suffocating. Yours, that one day, he won’t walk through that door after one of his many missions; or his, that one day, the figurative goblet of patience of yours will overflow and he will come back here only to find the space screaming with emptiness.

He knows the answer, objectively. But the heart and the head are not always in agreement; and he’s a lot more selfish that people seem to think.

His watch buzzes lightly, reporting that yet another hour he spent away has blended into the next one; and without checking, he knows it’s even worse. Not another hour – another day. Christmas Day.

He left you alone for one of the most special nights of the year.

You sleep, the clocks strike a late hour midnight is creeping step by step and behind it, Christmas

The clocks strike, like a cry for help as I await the longest night so that I could turn and look back

The pendulum cuts heavy through the air the vicious circle slowly closing – an anxious feeling drawing claws

There are moments like these when guilt bites heavy and sharp into his gut, his chest full of an ice-cold selfish fear. And he might know that you, staying behind and hoping he comes back alive, have it so much harder than him; but how could he ignore the obvious fact that you are a blessing that his own actions might chase away eventually? A blessing he never wants to let go and guards it with his life?

It is just that the very life sometimes gets in his way. The world does too; the goddamn world he too swore to protect and cannot ignore, because it is a world he lives in and so do you, and he’s saving it for its own sake, as well as his and yours.

And he cannot stay back, cannot merely bear witness from afar. He never could.

That was how he got into the whole mess of waking up seventy years into the future in the first place; that is how he was taken by the all-consuming storm of loving you so much the feeling alone makes it hard to breathe.

Sliding the strap of is shield casing off his shoulder, shrugging off the coat half-draped over his back, he cranes his neck a bit, feeling the stiffness; he nearly dozed off in the car, the heavy coil of dread as well as the giddy excitement of coming home barely keeping him awake. For once, he was grateful for Tony’s flare of dramatics and luxury and private drivers – driving in his state would not be wise, even as Steve would probably handle it despite his exhaustion. The problem was the snowstorm. And yet, even for that, he was grateful; as he walked home, the wind and the sharp snowflakes cut into his cheeks, prickling in his eyes, the sensation jolting him awake.

A little punishment for needing to be a hero; a little punishment for leaving you to be exactly that.

He shakes the melting snowflakes from his hair, ignoring the waves of ache in his left arm crashing down his forearm, then runs his unharmed hand through the wet locks. A few tips almost frosted over, now already giving way to the warmth of the space.

Taking off his boots too, Steve sighs, gulping against the lump that has grown in his throat, and steps further into the apartment, an anxious hope thrumming in his bruised ribcage.

Halfway through the strangest of nights you sleep, on your lips an absent smile – and I’m so afraid I don’t deserve to be so lucky – you dream, and on your lips a whisper: my love

Listening intently over the thunderous pulse in his temples, his shoulders slump suddenly, another tug of pain in his flesh; but by god, he is happy to have the pain ground him in the moment of reality, for it truly feels like a dream.

Your slow, regular breaths.

For the smell of Christmas and all the visual clues – from the decorations, the lights, the plate of gingerbreads you had baked together just before he left, down to your shoes and coats – it was the sounds of your peaceful sleep that undeniably proved your presence with finality. And soothed him.

He truly was coming home. And despite the mission not being a light one, despite his arm being broken in two places, despite the mission lasting way too long to his liking and happening with the worst possible timing – this is the thing that makes his eyes sting with tears.

This and the awfully sharp memory of him leaving, having got the call between decorating gingerbreads of the most ridiculous work-related shapes and preparing dough for Christmas cookies.

It’s so vivid in his mind, the image etched into his brain and bones. Your bright smile slipped, the gorgeous light in your eyes dimming, giving way to resignation and bravery. The mirage of joy dissipated in front of Steve like the steam from above the cups of hot chocolate he had prepared for you two to enjoy, his hands as if reaching out to hold onto it and only grasping air.

“Sweetheart-“

“I know, Steve,” you said, already moving to the sink to wash your hands, hiding your face away from him and tearing his heart in half not with the crack of emotion in your voice, but with the clear effort to mask it.

How he wished you’d screamed at him instead, mad and teary; because a wild emotion like anger meant people cared.

And that was his greatest fear, wasn’t it? That one of those days, you wouldn’t even care anymore.

You wouldn’t care whether he was with you; you wouldn’t care if he came back, because you’d be long gone. How many times had he cancelled dates, called off trips? How many times had he broken promises, only just a little, because he tries not to promise the impossible?

How he did wish he was capable of impossible, just for you. But he couldn’t.

How many times would finally be too many…?

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry, I-“

“Steve. It’s okay. I get it,” you said, turning to him at last. The glimmer of tears in your eyes – waking sensation in his chest awfully reminding him of the one time he had had a punctured lung – showed him just how wrong he had been.

No, he’d rather you didn’t care at all, that you didn’t hurt like this for him. Or did he? He was not quite sure.

But he sure knew that being the reason for your tears, even if kept at bay, was like an eagle’s claws sinking into his chest and pullingand pulling until it seemed it couldn’t even hurt anymore, but it did. Every damn second.

But you held your head so high, gaze shakingly latched onto his to prove he did not have to worry, because you understood his sense of duty; he did not have to worry, because that was what you agreed to deal with when letting him put an engagement ring on your finger with happy tears and a string of the sweetest yes, yes, yes-- that he did not have to worry at all, or not much at least; and that worried him all the more.

He’d pull a miracle if he could, he would, just to see you smile again, just to--- anything. But he could not ignore this, he could not ignore people needing his help, that was what he was born and made into to do, after all; but so was loving you. He wasn’t sure if he believed in fate, but there had to be a special kind of higher purpose in finding you after all the years of loneliness and yearning for someone just like you; you were made for each other, star-crossed lovers battling odds of being born seven decades apart. He must have been destined to meet you; destined to love you.

And now he was disappointing you, again.

How long until you’d stop believing that this was love?

How long until you’d move on to someone was here, always, because that was what your tender heart deserved?

No. Steve would pull a miracle, he had to, just to keep you smiling; just to keep you. A week had to be enough. No, to hell with a week, he’d be done in three days just to make it home in time-

“I’ll try my damnest to be home for Christmas, I promise-“

You shook your head gingerly, eyes turning warmer despite its wet glimmer, your smile a little wobbly – but oh so brave – as you reached out to cradle his face in your palms.

They smelled like gingerbreads and sugar and gentleness he wasn’t quite worthy of.

“Don’t, Steve…” you whispered, his heart dropping to his feet, an icy shiver cutting through his spine. “I… I don’t need you to promise that.”

“What can I do, then? What do you need?” he pleaded, the desperation at missing your Christmas, again, creeping into his voice so acutely he felt he might have shrunk several inches, all the way back to the times before the serum, a too little man, a fierce fighter who’d throw fists with determination much greater than his actual power.

Fighting; but oh so vainly.

Please, just let me fix this--- for you, for us. I have to go, I really do, but I’ll do anything to make up for not being here-

Your smile was a little broken by the edges, like one of those sculptures of angels, weeping for humanity and loving it all the same.

“What I always do, love. For you to come home in one piece and try your damnest to do so,” you echoed his words, your slightly hoarse voice growing stronger at the curse; and so did the steel of determination in his gaze in response.

Because he’d be damned before disappointing you that profoundly. He was always going to tear the world apart to get back to you.

“That I promise.”

That I can do. Always.

“Good,” you breathed.

You stood up on your tiptoes then, bringing your lips to his, pouring love and courage and fears he was too aware of into the kiss, much like wordlessly speaking your plea.

Come home. Come home to me in one piece.

And he would. Oh he would.

‘If we can’t cancel the stream of time,’ you said ‘then I only wish for one thing – for you to never leave me’ ‘alone, I’m a sailboat without wind’ And your lower lip wobbled, soft so I held you, with a vow to try my best

Following the sound of your breathing on instinct, Steve’s own hitches in his lungs, his steps ceasing far away from the bedroom. Instead, his gaze finds you laid on the couch with a view of the tree, sleeping soundly, a fluffy blanket draped over your form; and Steve’s heart aches, along with his neck, as if with sympathy for yours.

You admitted it before, under soft duress, that you sometimes struggled to sleep in the empty bed; you even joked that with how large Steve was, it truly was practically empty, your laugh a little shaky. As shaky as Steve’s legs now felt, the weakness having little to do with the exhaustion of the mission draping over him and everything to do with finding you home, losing sleep without him.

Bucky joked that maybe they should just lie under the tree once they get home, for their dolls to find them in the morning, like the greatest gift to unwrap at Christmas: because they made it home and made it in time.

Steve would argue with the latter; and about the former too. With how the couch was situated, made so you and Steve could rest, bodies half-tangled and your head on his chest, it is that you are now positioned like the greatest gift there could ever be.

And you are.

With your profile illuminated by the soft glow of Christmas lights, Steve is drawn to you like a believer witnessing an icon come to life; a miracle. You, still home, still awaiting him. As your hand fists the comforter, hands almost to your lips, your neck is exposed and so is the hem of Steve’s old shirt you chose as your attire along with a pair of too-long sweats peeking from under the blanket; his again.

Not just awaiting then; missing him. Caring.

His heart swells, the suffocating anxiety slowly giving way to something much more tender.

He steps closer, crouching in front of the couch, eyes feasting on the holy image, tempting to his touch. He does not want to rouse your sleep and yet, he swears he might die if he didn’t touch you this very second, didn’t see your smile upon seeing him home again – and as late as he is, still in somewhat in time.

Home for Christmas – hasn’t he said so?

He’d have run barefoot through the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn had the traffic frozen on the frozen streets, just to make it home to you. He’s glad he didn’t have to do that – but he would. After all, what is a little frostbite if you’d kiss him once he got home? Your lips could melt away the Arctic itself, your embrace a safe haven on the raging seas; he’d take another decade in ice if it meant meeting you. It if meant being loved by you.

Halfway through the strangest of nights you sleep, on your lips an absent smile – and I’m so afraid I don’t deserve to be so lucky – you dream, and on your lips a whisper: my love

As his gaze roams, he notices the light salty traces on your cheeks; ribcage rattled all over again, guilt gnaws at his stomach. You aren’t crying in your sleep, but at some point, you have cried. And it could have just been a sad song, or one of those cheesy but still touching Christmas movies, but his conscience knows better.

You have cried for him.

Worse yet, maybe you have cried because of him.

Hand twitching to sooth the pain already gone, he closes it into a fist instead; he would only be soothing himself, easing his guilt. You have cried and he hasn’t been there – whether that was correlation or causality didn’t matter. It was done. He shouldn’t disturb you. He’ll grab a little snack and sleep off the mission and start making up for his sins in the morning.

Glancing towards the kitchen area, he sighs quietly, gritting his teeth to stand without a hiss of pain.

“Steve…”

He freezes mid-motion, eyes snapping to your face again; a faint smile on your lips, your fingers flex around the comforter again.

In an instant, Steve snaps into preparing for explanations, apologies, his mind a whirlwind of whats and whys and sorries—

And then he realizes you are still asleep.

The soft waves of affection washing over him as he hears his name fall from your lips again nearly suffocate him all over again, the most pleasant weight settling in his heart.

And an uncontrollable urge. You have cried for him; but now, you are dreaming of him and there are no fresh tears; not in your eyes anyway. His fingers twitch again; no more worthy or justified than before, but with painful numbness which can only be erased by finally touching you.

He reaches out carefully, the pads of his fingers laid tenderly over your knuckles.

Due to all my missteps and fails should’ve been long out of the door

So now I whisper into your hair that you won’t get rid of me that easy

You all but stir minutely, a sweet frown to your brow, your breath remaining steady; Steve’s inner turmoil might not be resolved, but is eased enough as not to disturb you further. This is just enough; just enough to keep him sated and exactly as much as he deserves, not more, he thinks, mind set.

His fingers have a mind of their own however, guided by his heart.

The lightest brush over your hair, over the arche of your eyebrow, over the slope of your nose, over your soft cheek and the gentle line of your jaw, his fingers stopping but a breath from your parted lips. He commits your features to memory, revisiting a piece of art he knew by heart but would always reveal something new to him in its timeless beauty.

The brief discontent rumbling from within your throat and your body curling onto itself brings a smile to Steve’s lips as the memory of many mornings – those where he got to wake you up softly, himself already an hour or two ahead for the day – flashing through his mind, his fingers inching further, your breath tickling his skin before he dares to touch your lips.

And then, slow blinks, a sleepy gaze and pursed lips, curling up in a breathtaking smile.

Steve’s heart skips a startled beat, caught red-handed; but he’d commit the crime all over again, because you’re smiling.

The first time, the second time, every time he sees it; his breath hitches again, his ribs crying out; but he could die a happy man right there – maybe only if you kissed him.

You cover his hand resting on your cheek with yours, pressing a quick kiss to his palm, melting all his doubt away.

This. This spark of joy and relief, scrambling to sit up even as you slightly sway because he’s woken you up from a deep slumber, your eyes roaming his figure, taking count of his injuries, checking if he is indeed home in one piece.

And Steve is counting too; his blessings. You are every single one of them, even as you sigh at the sight of the splint and the no doubt still spectacular bruise the shape of a fist over his right eye.

“Hi sweetheart,” he whispers before you can scold him, or say anything at all, his voice shaky, a traitorous tear escaping his eye at the all-consuming emotion etched into your gaze, your sweet features.

Your free hand moves to cradle his cheek carefully, so tenderly for the fear of pressing too hard and making it hurt that it does hurt him – in all the best ways. His eyes slip shut at the sensation, his aching ribcage so blissfully full of affection he might burst.

And it might as well, when he feels your warm breath fanning over his face, before your lips press gently to his forehead.

Halfway through the strangest of nights you sleep, on your lips an absent smile – and I’m so afraid I don’t deserve to be so lucky – and you dream

“Sweetheart,” he echoes, a creak in his voice he is not proud of – but he feels some of your hot tears join his and his hand slips to your waist, guiding you to slide down the couch to join him on the floor, to hold you close and he could weep forever – not because you brushed over his broken arm despite your best efforts, but because it feels like he can finally breathe again, your body pressed to his, bruised ribs or not.

“Did I not tell you to come home in one piece?” you scold him without malice, a wet laugh escaping his throat as he nuzzles your hair, his lips brushing over your temple, your cheek, breathing you in to overwhelm his senses with you until his lips finally, finally find yours, careful but just as eager as his.

And the kiss tastes so much sweeter than the retort forming in the back of his head about how he is in one piece; his bones might not be, but the soft tissues are and the serum and the fast intervention of the talented Avengers Initiative doctors made sure that even his bones are already mending.

Judging by the look in your eye when you retreat to gulp in some air, you heard that train of thought anyway, despite being but an ordinary, extraordinary human. You convey so much emotion in a single glance, let alone with such lingering look.

You look like you want to call him two halves of an idiot and maybe smack him for whatever stunt you knew he pulled, even if you don’t; you look grateful he is your whole idiot and he is still here for you to smack him. Or kiss him again. He’ll take either; as long as you care.

As long as you love him, just as he loves you.

“I got home for Christmas at least?” he offers, earning an exasperated grimace, once again displaying your dilemma.

You choose to kiss him again, softly, a silent involuntary whine escaping him as you let him angle your head to kiss you deeper and consume you whole, and this, if this isn’t heaven, if this isn’t the best Christmas gift ever, you curled around him in a ridiculous shape less than three feet from a Christmas tree, he’ll be doesn’t know what is.

He doesn’t care. He only cares that he has you.

Later, he’ll marvel at how you automatically move to take a turkey out of the freezer to prepare for a Christmas lunch instead of dinner, how you saved him a sandwich just in case, and how his gifts, so thoughtful, are wrapped for whenever he’d come home; how you give him a certain kind of look and caress his cheek and peck his lips when he weakly suggests that you don’t and didn’t have to do any of that, but you never listen.

How your every action is a testimony to how you do not care about when you celebrate Christmas, only that it’s with him.

But for now, he has everything he wants and needs and could ever wish for. It still feels like he wished for too much, more than he’d deserve; but today, he can. It is Christmas, after all, and you are his everyday miracle, his greatest gift.

And for all the greatest gift he gets, he will work for hard every day – and he will cherish it and protect and adore no matter the time of year, keeping the most important promise he ever gave you.

He will always come home; and he will always, always love you.

I swear to you, I don’t always make it easy I swear to you, you won’t get rid of me that easy I swear to you, I’m never gonna leave you I swear to you – and you sleep, unaware my love

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

Thank you if you gave this a read, even post the main Christmas time ✨ If you find a minute, feedback is life 💕

May the end of the year be kind to you ✨

[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (1) ₊˚⊹♡

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

♡ A/N | so originally this was my wip called 'i'm too cool, i'm too cold for this', but i thought the overall theme matched my 1,000 Hearts Special! i also had to split this oneshot into two parts, cause it's so long lolol (i'm so sorry). i hope you guys can tell that stan is my absolute favorite, i love him so much and i hope i did him justice!! this is also super angsty and kinda depressing... mb

♡ C/W | nsfw (18+), all characters are aged up! drinking, smoking, hookups, vomiting, inexperienced reader, oral sex (male receiving), dry humping, reader is kinda manipulative/asshole-ish, stan is depressed, bi stan

♡ Synopsis | the universe has a cruel sense of humor. stan always thought he could keep his feelings buried, hidden behind sarcastic smiles and easy jokes. but when you started looking at someone else the way he wished you'd look at him, he realized too late—he was never meant to have you.

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Stan, are you even listening to me?”

“Uh… yeah, dude…”

Stan Marsh was definitely not listening to you. His eyes were glued to his phone, his thumbs lazily texting a response to someone. You could tell by the way he hummed distractedly under his breath to the current song playing on the radio that he’d tuned you out somewhere between your panicked rant about your date.

You sighed, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other one jabbed at the volume knob of the radio to turn it down. “Right. What was I saying, then?”

Stan blinked, his head snapping toward you like he’d just been caught sneaking a sip from his flask. “Something about… skirts?”

“Close, but not close enough, Stanley.” You reached out to tug on one of his bleached strands, but his reflexes were faster—his hand clamped down your wrist, causing you to swerve slightly on the road.

“Dude! I’m sorry. What were you saying?” Stan pocketed his phone, and you could feel his gaze on the side of your face.

“I was saying,” You turned to him for a brief second, mustering a glare. “That I don’t know what to wear! What if Damien thinks I’m trying too hard? Or not trying enough? Or what if he—”

“Damien doesn’t seem like the type to care about anything,” Stan muttered under his breath, turning to face the passenger window.

You had met Damien a few weeks ago at the beginning of the semester, in one of your shared sociology classes. He had this certain presence, the kind that made people instinctively lean in when he spoke. His dark hair was always perfectly styled, sharp against his pale skin, and he had these striking gray eyes that seemed to study everything—like he was dissecting the world in real time. He dressed like he’d stepped out of an indie rock band’s music video, all sleek black jeans, worn leather boots, and button-ups with just enough undone to show a silver chain beneath. His answers in class discussions were always thoughtful, maybe a little pretentious, but captivating. 

You never expected him to notice you, let alone talk to you, but then one day he did. It started with him borrowing your pen when his ran out of ink, followed by a few casual comments after class. Before you knew it, he was sliding into the seat next to you, effortlessly chatting about everything from sociological theory to obscure albums. Then, out of the blue, he’d asked you out. Just like that. He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal at all, but you’d been internally screaming ever since.

“Are you seriously questioning my judgement? Well I’m soooo sorry Stan, not all of us have a multitude of people throwing themselves at them.” Your knuckles whitened on the wheel. You didn’t dare to face him, as you weren’t sure if you could hold yourself back from slapping him.

Stan scoffed, turning to look at you. “I do not have people throwing themselves at me.”

You snorted, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “Oh please. You literally had two people fighting over you at your concert last month. I saw it with my very own two eyes, Stan. And you know what’s worse? You just stood there looking all… broody and mysterious. Like some kind of edgy anime protagonist.”

Stan groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “They weren’t fighting over me. They were being drunk and stupid.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you muttered, stopping at a red light. “Meanwhile, us plebians are stuck mulling over in their head what to wear to their very important first date.”

You’d always been single. No hand-holding, no kisses, no dates—just you, perpetually on the sidelines while everyone else figured it out. It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed, either. You’d known Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman since elementary school, so you’d watched them all stumble through crushes and awkward middle school dances, then somehow emerge into college with actual dating lives. Kenny was never shy about his flings or the occasional whirlwind relationship, always leaving people dazed in his wake. Stan? He’d been head over heels more times than you could count, dating all kinds of people with that same hopeless-romantic energy he’d had since he was a kid. Even Kyle, methodical and private as he was, had a couple of relationships under his belt. And then there was Cartman—Cartman—who, against all odds and reason, had managed to fumble his way into relationships, too. But no one ever teased you about it. Not once. For all their brutal honesty, they never made you feel bad about being the one who hadn’t crossed those milestones yet. It was almost worse, though, because the way they tiptoed around it made it feel like this glaring, invisible thing you carried with you.

“Dude, just wear whatever you want. It’s not like Damien’s gonna notice, anyway.” Stan groaned, slumping dramatically in his seat.

Your head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing. “And what’s that supposed to mean, asshole?”

“It means,” Stan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “that Damien doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who cares about… fashion or whatever. He probably spends more time looking in the mirror at his eyeliner than he does looking at other people.”

You bit back a laugh, though you could feel the corners of your mouth twitching. “That’s rich coming from you, Marsh. Considering it takes you twenty minutes to do your eyeliner.” 

Stan brushed off your insult and shrugged, his gaze fixed firmly out the passenger window. “Just saying. Maybe you shouldn’t stress about impressing a guy who thinks a pentagram makes for a good accessory.” “Wooow,” you said, dragging out the word. “Judgemental much? Didn’t you spend weeks hanging out with the goth kids?”

“That was different,” Stan shot back. “The goth kids are cool. Damien’s just…” He paused, searching for the right word, then waved his hand vaguely. “Weird.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Says the guy who drank absinthe at a party last month.”

Stan groaned, his head thunking dramatically against the seat. “Can you, like, not bring that up every time I try to make a point?”

“Not when it’s this easy to win,” you teased, the smirk widening on your face as you pulled into the animal shelter’s parking lot.

Stan was already unbuckling his seatbelt, eager to escape this conversation. “Okay, well, good luck with Damien and his pentagrams or whatever,” he mumbled as he reached for the door handle.

“Uh-uh,” you said, reaching out to grab the sleeve of his hoodie before he could escape. “We’re not done here, Marsh. What’s with all the Damien hate? You’ve been weird about this since I told you about the date.”

Stan froze, his hand still on the door handle. “I haven’t been weird.”

“You totally have.”

“I haven’t.”

“Stan,” you said, your voice taking on that warning tone you knew he hated.

Stan sighed, slumping back into his seat and rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not hate, okay? I just…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted to the window again. “I just think you deserve better, that’s all.”

Your teasing grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Stan muttered, his voice quieter now. “Like, someone who actually, I don’t know… cares about the stuff you care about. And doesn’t make you overthink every little thing.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you weren’t sure whether to press him or let it go.

“Stan…” you began, but he cut you off, pushing open the car door and stepping out.

“I’ll text you later dude,” his voice forcedly casual as he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and walked towards the building.

And you’re left sitting in your car, the conversation replaying in your head, wondering what the fuck just happened.

You banged on Stan’s dorm door with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation, the heels of your combat boots clunking against the floor as you shifted your weight anxiously. “Stan! Open the damn door!”

You didn’t care who else might hear you—it was late enough in the day that the halls were quiet, the faint hum of someone’s TV down the hall barely audible over your thoughts.

Your knuckles hit the wood again, this time harder. “Stan, I know you’re in there! Don’t make me break it down!”

No answer.

You sighed, leaning back against the wall for a moment as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. The pentagram necklace resting against your chest felt heavy, the chain brushing your bare skin where the mesh top didn’t cover. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your pleated black skirt, tugging at imaginary loose threads as your brain ran through every possible outcome of your date.

What if Damien thought you were trying too hard? What if you said the wrong thing? What if he—

The door creaked open just as your fist came down for another knock, and you nearly stumbled forward, catching yourself on the doorframe.

“Dude, what’s your problem?” Stan’s groggy voice greeted you, his eyes squinting like he’d just woken up.

“My problem,” you hissed, pushing past him into the dorm, “is that I’ve been panicking all day, and you were supposed to text me back! I needed you, and you fucking ghosted me!” 

After dropping Stan off at the animal shelter, you’d driven back to your dorm, expecting to see a text from him pop up at any moment. But as you rummaged through your closet, swapped out accessories, and fixed your eyeliner for the third time, your phone stayed stubbornly quiet. You kept glancing at it, half-expecting a dumb joke or even a half-assed “good luck” to ease your nerves, but there was nothing. The absence of his usual support left a nagging weight in the back of your mind, a subtle frustration you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried to focus on getting ready.

Stan groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he shut the door. “I didn’t ghost you. I fell asleep.”

“Wow. Amazing. Glad to know my emotional crisis was less important than your beauty sleep,” you snapped, spinning around to face him.

Stan blinked at you, his eyes dropping briefly to your outfit before quickly darting back up to your face. His jaw worked like he was trying to figure out what to say, but nothing came out.

“Well?” you prompted, throwing your arms up. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. “You look fine.”

“Fine?” you echoed, your voice incredulous. “Stanley, I’m trying to look hot and mysterious, not fine!”

Stan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t look fine. You look… great.”

The way he said it, quiet and almost reluctant, made something flutter in your chest, but you shoved the feeling down. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” he protested weakly.

“You so did.”

“Dude,” Stan groaned, leaning against the edge of his desk. “You’re overthinking this. Like I said earlier, Damien’s not gonna care what you’re wearing.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown by the conviction in his voice. “You really think so?”

Stan nodded, his gaze flickering over your face. “Yeah. I do.”

A small, genuine smile broke across your face, and for a moment, the nervous energy buzzing under your skin eased. You crossed the room and plopped down on Stan’s bed, the springs creaking faintly under your weight. His side of the dorm was as predictably disorganized as always: stray clothes on the floor, a stack of vinyls precariously balanced on the nightstand, and his guitar leaning against the wall.

Your eyes wandered over to the other side of the room—Kyle’s side. Neat, minimalist, and a little too perfect. His bed was made like he expected his mom to inspect it, and his desk was spotless except for a neatly stacked pile of textbooks, notebooks, and pens.

Your nails found their way to your mouth, the faint chemical taste of black nail polish making your nose scrunch as you bit down. You didn’t even notice Stan sitting down beside you until the mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

Stan could probably guess what’s going on in your head, but he asked anyway. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, pulling his phone from the pocket of his pajama pants.

You glanced at him briefly before turning your gaze back to Kyle’s perfectly made bed. “My date.”

Stan hummed, his thumbs swiping lazily across his phone screen. “What about it?”

“I don’t know,” you said, your voice quieter now. “What if it’s… weird? Damien’s taking me to an art gallery, and, like…” You trailed off, biting harder on your nails as your thoughts spiraled.

What if you didn’t know what to say? What if Damien started talking about some abstract painting, and you just stared at it like a deer in the headlights? Or what if he asked for your opinion, and all you could come up with was some basic, surface-level comment that made him think you were dumb? You weren’t exactly an art connoisseur—your idea of a masterpiece was a half-decent doodle in the margins of your notebooks.

And then there was Damien himself. What if he wasn’t impressed with you? What if you didn’t live up to whatever expectations he had in his head? He was so poised, so confident, and you felt like the complete opposite. Your stomach twisted just thinking about it.

“Dude.”

Stan’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, and you blinked up at him. He was staring at you now, his phone forgotten in his lap, his eyebrows raised in mild amusement. “You’re biting too hard. You’re gonna end up swallowing your nail polish or something.”

You glanced down at your hand and realized he was right. A chunk of black polish had chipped off one of your nails. You quickly dropped your hand to your lap, heat rising to your face. “Sorry,” you muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” Stan said, leaning back against the wall, his lips twitching like he was holding back a grin. “But seriously? An art gallery? For a first date? That’s so…” He paused, his nose wrinkling as he searched for the right word. “Formal.”

“It’s not formal,” you shot back defensively, though you weren’t entirely convinced yourself. “It’s... refined.”

Stan snorted, his grin breaking free. “Refined, huh? Did he pick it so he could, what, brood in front of a painting and call it romantic?”

You glared at him, though the corners of your mouth twitched traitorously. “No. It’s cultured.”

“Sure, cultured,” Stan said, clearly trying not to laugh now. “You’re gonna spend the whole time pretending to care about a giant ass red square someone slapped on a canvas.”

“That’s not—” You stopped mid-sentence, your mind flashing to a vivid mental image of exactly that, and suddenly you couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up in your throat. “Okay, maybe you have a point,” you admitted, your shoulders shaking with quiet giggles.

Stan grinned triumphantly. “There we go. That’s better.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to stifle the rest of your laughter. “Whatever, Marsh. At least he’s not taking me to, like, a NASCAR show.”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” Stan said, nudging your shoulder with his. “Race cars are cool, ask Kenny.”

You rolled your eyes, the nervous knot in your chest loosening slightly. But as you thought about the date again, the doubt crept back in. “I just don’t want to screw this up,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Stan didn’t say anything at first. He picked up his phone from where it rested on his lap and started scrolling once more. You glanced over and caught a glimpse of Instagram on the display. He was mindlessly flipping through his feed, pausing occasionally to double-tap a picture.

A small part of you wished he’d at least act like he cared. He’d always been the one to listen, to step in and say the right thing when you were overthinking everything. But right now, he looked as if you’d just told him you were picking up groceries, not agonizing over a first date.

“It’s just a first date,” Stan said suddenly, not looking up from his phone. His voice was casual, almost indifferent, as if that was supposed to make you feel better.

You frowned, turning your head to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” He finally glanced up, meeting your eyes briefly before looking back at his screen. “It’s not that big of a deal. First dates are awkward, and they usually suck, but they’re not the end of the world.”

“Gee, thanks for the pep talk,” you said dryly, crossing your arms over your chest.

Stan let out a soft laugh, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him. “I’m just saying, no one’s first date is perfect. Like mine, for example.”

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. “Your first date?”

Stan was your best friend, the one constant in your life for as long as you could remember. He was always there—steady, reliable, and somehow never running out of things to say. But when it came to his relationships, he rarely talked about them. You had a feeling it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, but because he was trying to protect you in some way. Like mentioning all the people he’d dated would only remind you that you’d never had that experience. He never said as much, but you could tell in the way he shifted the conversation whenever it got close to the subject, his voice growing quieter like he was walking on eggshells for your sake.

“Yeah, with Wendy,” Stan said, leaning back on his elbows. “I mean, it wasn’t really a date-date. We were, like, twelve, so we just went to the movies. But it was still a disaster.”

“What happened?” you asked, shifting slightly to face him.

Stan groaned, his face scrunching in embarrassment. “Everything. First of all, I was so nervous that I wore this stupid button-up shirt my mom picked out, and I looked like a kid trying to dress up for picture day.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at the mental image. “Adorable.”

“Yeah, no,” Stan said, shaking his head. “And then I got popcorn, right? But I couldn’t eat any of it because my hands were all sweaty. Like, literally dripping sweat. I had to keep wiping them on my pants, and Wendy definitely noticed.”

“Did she say anything?”

“No, but she didn’t have to. She gave me this look, like…” He mimicked an unimpressed expression, raising an eyebrow and pursing his lips.

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with your hand. “That’s so bad!”

“It gets worse,” Stan said, groaning. “She tried to kiss me during the movie, and I—” He paused, rubbing a hand over his face. “I threw up. Right there in the middle of the theater.”

You blinked at him, your laughter dying in your throat. “You threw up?”

“Yup,” Stan said, his voice resigned. “All over my shirt, the seat, the floor. It was bad. Wendy was horrified. She didn’t talk to me for, like, a week after that.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, before a snort escaped your mouth. It quickly turned into full-blown laughter, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as you doubled over. “Stan, oh my God! That’s awful! I can see why you never tell me about these things!”

Stan chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly my proudest moment. But, hey, at least I’ve learned a lot about kissing since then.”

The comment sent your brain spiraling in a completely different direction. Kissing. Oh God, Damien might kiss you tonight. Your stomach dropped at the thought, like you were stuck on a rollercoaster, only this time you couldn’t see the bottom.

“What if he does try to kiss me?” you blurted, sitting up straighter. Your heart pounded harder just saying the words. “What if I don’t know what I’m doing, and it’s awkward, and then he tells everyone I’m the worst kisser he’s ever had? What if—”

“Jesus Christ,” Stan muttered under his breath, sitting up and dragging a hand over his face. “Dude, relax. It’s just a kiss.”

“Just a kiss?” you repeated, whipping your head around to glare at him. “Stan, it’s not just a kiss! What if I screw it up? What if it’s so bad he decides he doesn’t even like me anymore? Or worse, what if I—”

“Dude!” Stan cut in, his voice louder now as he sat up straighter. “You’re acting like the world’s gonna end if you accidentally bump noses or something. It’s not that serious.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but his unimpressed stare made the words die in your throat. The fact that he wasn’t taking this seriously—you seriously—made frustration boil in your chest.

“You don’t get it,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek. “You’ve always been good at this stuff, Stan! You were number one on that stupid middle school kissing list! People practically lined up to kiss you at every game of spin the bottle. And me? I didn’t even make the list. I wasn’t even ranked!”

Stan let out a long sigh, leaning over to grab his flask from the nightstand. “We’re really bringing up that stupid list now?” he muttered, unscrewing the cap.

“Yes, we’re bringing up the list!” you snapped, throwing your arms up. “Because it’s just proof that you’ve never had to worry about this stuff! People have always just… liked you! You’ve always been good at this kind of thing, and I’ve never—”

Before you could finish, Stan tipped the flask back and drained the whole thing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. You watched, stunned, as he calmly screwed the cap back on and set it down with an audible clink.

“Feel better now?” he asked, his tone flat as he leaned back on his bed and looked at you with half-lidded eyes.

You stared at him, the frustration bubbling over as heat flooded your face. “No, I don’t feel better!”

“Yeah, no shit,” Stan muttered, patting the bed next to him. “Sit down before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

Your jaw tightened, but after a long pause, you crossed the room and sat down, the bed creaking slightly under your weight.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing, shallow and uneven. You stared at your hands, twisting your fingers together in your lap as your thoughts churned. You hated how small and insecure you felt. Hated how easily your nerves twisted into a storm you couldn’t control.

Stan shifted beside you, breaking the silence. “Look,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less exasperated. “You’re freaking out over nothing. Kissing isn’t rocket science. No one’s expecting you to be perfect at it, least of all Damien. And if he is, he’s a fucking idiot.”

You swallowed hard, your chest still tight. “It just… feels like a big deal, okay?”

Stan sighed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I get that. But you’re overthinking it. A kiss is just… a kiss. It doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re making it into this huge thing when it’s really not.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed glued to your lap, your fingers twisting anxiously together. When you finally spoke, your voice was small, barely audible. “You don’t get it.”

Stan frowned slightly, leaning toward you. “What don’t I get?”

“You don’t know what it’s like… to feel not wanted,” you said, the words coming out shakier than you intended. “You’ve always had people, Stan. People who want to date you, kiss you, love you. You didn’t even have to try—it just happened. You’ve never had to wonder what it’s like to go your whole life without someone looking at you like you’re worth something.”

Stan’s expression softened, but you were too wrapped up in your own thoughts to notice.

“I’ve spent years trying to figure out what it’s supposed to feel like,” you went on, your voice tightening. “From books, movies, daydreams. And now that someone finally… finally wants me, I’m scared I’m going to ruin it because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Your throat closed up, and you blinked rapidly, desperate to keep the tears prickling at your eyes from falling. The silence in the room felt deafening, and you braced yourself for whatever awkward response Stan might offer.

Instead, he sighed softly, sitting up straighter. “Stick out your hand,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You glanced up at him, startled. “What?”

“Your hand,” Stan repeated, his tone calm, almost gentle. “Stick it out. Trust me.”

Confused but unwilling to argue, you held out your hand, palm down.

“Now kiss it,” he said, his eyes meeting yours with an expression that was unreadable but sincere. “Like you might kiss someone.”

You froze, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. “What?”

“Kiss the back of your hand,” he said again, his voice soft, careful. “Just… try it. Show me how you think it’s supposed to go.”

Your face burned hotter than ever, and you blinked at him, utterly mortified. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious,” Stan said, his gaze steady. “I just want to help, okay? No one’s here to see it but me. I swear I won’t laugh.”

You hesitated, the room suddenly feeling too warm, too small. But the way Stan looked at you—like he wasn’t judging you, like he actually wanted to help—made your stomach twist. Slowly, reluctantly, you lifted your hand toward your face.

You hesitated, your lips hovering just above the back of your hand. The weight of Stan’s gaze was almost unbearable, and your entire body felt like it was on fire.

But then the embarrassment hit like a tidal wave, and before you could stop yourself, you slapped your hand down onto your thigh. “No,” you said, shaking your head firmly. “I can’t do this. This is humiliating.”

Stan blinked at you, his lips twitching like he was holding back a comment, but he stopped himself. Instead, he sat back slightly, giving you space. “It’s not humiliating,” he said softly. “But if you don’t want to, that’s fine. Just… don’t let this eat you alive, okay?”

You sighed, your hands clenching and unclenching in your lap. “You don’t get how hard it is to even think about stuff like this without feeling like I’m going to screw it up.”

Stan tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Then don’t think about it so much. When it happens, it happens. And if it’s awkward? Who cares? Everyone’s awkward their first time.”

You stared at the floor, your stomach twisting into knots. “Yeah, except everyone else gets over it because they’ve actually done it. Me? I’m going to sit there overthinking every little thing I do. Do I lean in too soon? Do I wait? What if I bump his nose like you said? Or worse, what if my lips just… freeze up? Oh my God, what if I accidentally bite him?”

Stan sighed lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dude—”

“I’m serious, Stan!” you cut him off, your voice rose with each word. “Damien probably knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s cool, and confident, and I’ll just be sitting there like an idiot, thinking about how you’re supposed to breathe while kissing because apparently, I can’t even figure that out—”

“Dude,” Stan said again, this time with more force.

You turned to him, your cheeks burning with frustration and embarrassment. “What?!”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sat up straighter and reached out, cupping your face with his hands. His palms were warm against your cheeks, grounding you, but the sudden contact sent a jolt of shock through you.

“Stan, what—”

Before you could finish, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was soft, tentative, but you were so caught off guard that your body went completely rigid. His lips tasted faintly of the cheap liquor, the alcohol sharp against the warmth of his breath. For a brief moment, all your panicked thoughts froze, leaving only the feeling of his mouth on yours, steady and unhurried.

Then your brain kicked back on. Stan is kissing me. My best friend is kissing me. Holy shit, Stan is kissing me.

You yanked back abruptly, your hands coming up to his chest to push him away as your thoughts scrambled to catch up. “Stan! What the hell? What—why did you—what—”

You could barely string two words together as you stared at him, your face burning hotter than it ever had in your life.

Stan looked… rough. His face was pale, his jaw tight, and his eyes darted to the side like he was about to lose his lunch. For a second, you wondered if he might actually throw up, but when he spoke, his voice was casual. Almost too casual.

“I’m just trying to help,” he said, cutting through your stammering with a nonchalant shrug. “You wouldn’t kiss your hand, so… you just have to kiss me.”

“What?!” you squeaked, your voice pitching higher. “Stan, that’s not—”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, his tone calm despite the slight green tinge to his face. “It’s just kissing. We’re still best friends. Nothing’s changed. I’m just trying to get you out of your head.”

You stared at him, your thoughts spinning too fast to make sense of anything. This felt surreal—like some kind of alternate universe where Stan wasn’t Stan. The same guy who once turned green when someone joked that the two of you should date, muttering something about how gross it was while desperately avoiding your eyes. At the time, you’d laughed it off, chalking it up to his usual awkwardness. Now, sitting here with his hands steady on your face, offering himself up like this was just another casual favor, that memory sat uncomfortably in the back of your mind.

And yet, his voice was so steady, his expression so calm, that the tension in your chest eased slightly despite yourself.

“Okay,” you said finally, the word barely audible.

Stan nodded slightly, his hands still warm on your face. “Good. Now stop overthinking it. Just relax and try again.”

You hesitated, but when he leaned in again, you let yourself meet him halfway. His lips brushed yours softly, and you tried to follow his lead. But as soon as you pressed in, your teeth accidentally clinked against his, and you froze.

“Shit, sorry!” you mumbled against his mouth, pulling back slightly.

“It’s fine,” Stan muttered, his voice muffled. “Keep going.”

You did, trying to relax, but in your panic, you shoved your tongue into his mouth way too quickly, earning a startled noise from him. His hands flexed slightly on your face, but he didn’t pull away, even as you realized how messy and awkward you were being.

When he finally broke the kiss, he leaned back just enough to look at you, his face still pale but his expression surprisingly composed. “Okay,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “First of all, less tongue. It’s not a competition. Take it slow.”

You stared at him, mortified. “Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not embarrassing,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “It’s practice. Now, again. But this time ease up, dude. Seriously.”

You wanted to crawl into a hole, but you forced yourself to nod. “Okay,” you murmured.

Stan’s hands didn’t leave your face. They slid from your cheeks to the sides of your neck, his fingers curling slightly as they rested at the base of your jaw. His thumbs pressed gently against your skin, grounding you in a way that made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t tell if it was from nervous anticipation or the overwhelming vulnerability of the moment.

He shifted closer, his knees brushing against yours. The bed dipped under his weight as he leaned in, his presence filling every bit of space between you. His face was close enough now that you could see every detail—the way his long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, the subtle curve of his button nose, and the soft flush spreading across his face. His dark blue eyes locked onto yours, calm but sharp, like he was reading you in a way no one else ever had.

Your stomach twisted. You felt completely exposed, like every little insecurity you’d ever tried to hide was written across your face, visible to him. It wasn’t just the physical closeness—it was the emotional one, the way he looked at you as if he saw through every wall you’d ever built. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt, and your breath came unevenly, shallow and shaky.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. The warmth of his breath brushed against your lips, tinged with the faint, bitter edge of alcohol. It shouldn’t have been comforting, but somehow, it was.

You felt the soft graze of his nose against yours—a barely-there touch, almost hesitant. It sent a ripple through your body, your skin breaking out in goosebumps as your lips parted slightly, instinctively. And then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t slow. His lips pressed firmly against yours, the kind of pressure that sent your heart racing and made your breath catch in your throat. They were warm, soft but insistent, moving with a rhythm that felt completely natural to him but utterly foreign to you. Your head spun as the faint taste of whiskey mixed with the heat of his mouth, an intoxicating combination that left you reeling.

Your hands stayed frozen in your lap, gripping your skirt so tightly that the fabric bunched awkwardly in your fists. You wanted to move, to do something, but your brain was stuck in a loop of shock and confusion. The kiss wasn’t what you’d imagined—it wasn’t neat or delicate like the other two. It was messy and overwhelming, the heat of his lips igniting something inside you that you didn’t know was there.

Stan tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss in a way that left you breathless. His tongue brushed lightly against your bottom lip, and a tiny gasp escaped you before you could stop it. He didn’t hesitate, slipping his tongue past your lips with a smoothness that made your stomach flip.

Your own tongue moved to meet his, but it was awkward, clumsy. You pressed too hard, not sure how to match his pace, and you felt the faintest hitch in his movement as he adjusted. A wave of embarrassment crashed over you, but Stan didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands shifted slightly, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin below your ears, his touch steadying you in a way that made your chest ache.

His tongue slid against yours, warm and wet, and it sent tiny shivers down your spine. The sensation was so new, so intimate, that it made your entire body tense. Every nerve in your body felt like it was on fire, and you couldn’t stop the soft, shaky noise that escaped your throat. His lips moved with a kind of practiced ease, coaxing you into following his lead, and you tried to let yourself go, to stop overthinking every little motion.

His hair brushed against your forehead, tickling your skin as he shifted closer. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the solid weight of his presence so close to you that it made you feel lightheaded. The wet sound of your mouths moving filled the air between you, each soft smack making your face burn hotter.

The longer the kiss went on, the more you felt like you were falling. Not in the literal sense—Stan’s hands held you steady, his thumbs still stroking your jaw with a tenderness that contradicted the intensity of the kiss. But emotionally, it felt like stepping off a ledge, like trusting him to catch you even though you didn’t know if he could.

Your hands finally moved, faltering as they found his knees. The warmth of him beneath your palms was grounding, and you dug your fingers into the fabric of his pajama pants, desperate for something solid to hold onto. Your chest tightened as his tongue explored your mouth, slow but deliberate, tasting you in a way that left you breathless.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. You still fumbled, your lips unsure of how to match his movements, your tongue moving too hesitantly one moment and too eagerly the next. But Stan didn’t seem to mind. He kissed you through every awkward motion, his mouth guiding yours like he was teaching you without words.

The heat between you felt almost unbearable, the closeness of him making your head spin. You could feel every little thing—his breath ghosting across your cheek, the faint rasp of stubble along his jaw brushing against your skin, the pressure of his lips as they molded against yours. It was overwhelming, and yet you didn’t want it to stop.

When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, gentle but deliberate, a soft whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it. The sound made his grip on your neck tighten slightly, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to anchor you.

Your breaths grew shaky, your chest rising and falling unevenly as his lips slowed slightly, lingering against yours before moving again. The kiss felt endless, like time had frozen around the two of you, like there was nothing outside of the warmth and the wetness and the faint, heady taste of whiskey that clung to his tongue.

Your heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst, and you couldn’t stop the way your body leaned into his, your knees pressing lightly against his as your hands gripped his legs. You felt raw, exposed, like every inch of you was being laid bare, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in further, letting him lead you through the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

His lips moved slower now, softer, almost as if he were giving you time to catch your breath. His tongue slid against yours one last time, gentle but sure, before he finally pulled back just enough to break the kiss.

The space between you felt charged, your lips still tingling from the intensity of the kiss. For a moment, neither of you moved, the silence thick except for your heavy breathing. A thin string of saliva clung between you, glinting faintly in the dim light before breaking. You blinked, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you tried to process what had just happened.

Stan didn’t look at you. His gaze was fixed somewhere off to the side, his jaw tight and his shoulders slightly hunched. The sight sent a ripple of confusion through you, and you wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, suddenly self-conscious.

“Was… was I okay?” you asked softly, the words fragile in the quiet room.

Stan’s fingers tugged at the hem of his pajama pants, and he gave the smallest nod. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low and scratchy.

Something about the way he said it felt off. He hadn’t been like this before—not during the first two kisses, when he’d teased you lightly, his calm, steady presence anchoring you through your nerves. Now, though, he seemed distant, almost closed off, and it made your stomach twist.

Had you done something wrong? Was he regretting this? But before the doubt could take root, another wave of emotion surged forward—relief, excitement, a giddy kind of triumph. You’d done it. You’d kissed someone. Not just anyone—Stan. And while it might not have been perfect, it wasn’t a disaster either.

A smile tugged at your lips as the realization sank in. “I can’t believe I actually did it,” you said, a nervous laugh escaping you. “I mean, I’m probably still terrible at it, but—”

“You don’t suck,” Stan interrupted, his tone firmer this time, though his eyes still didn’t meet yours.

The words warmed something in your chest, and without thinking, you leaned toward him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in a tight hug. His body tensed for a moment, his hands hovering awkwardly by his sides, but then you felt him relax, his breath brushing against your hair as he exhaled slowly.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice muffled against the soft fabric of his t-shirt. It was an old one, a random band tee he’d probably grabbed without thinking, and it smelled faintly of detergent and the faint, lingering musk of his cologne. “Seriously, Stan, thank you. You didn’t have to do this, but you did, and now…” You pulled back just enough to look at his face, your smile growing. “Now I might actually have a chance with Damien.”

Stan didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked to you briefly before shifting away again. His cheeks were flushed, his lips still slightly swollen from the kiss, and something about the sight made your heart stutter.

You pulled back fully, your hands lingering on his shoulders as you studied him. He finally met your eyes, and for a moment, all the noise in your head quieted. Because despite everything—despite the heat of the kiss, the strange tension lingering in the room—this was still Stan.

Your Stan.

You could see it in the way his hair stuck up slightly in the back, like he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down after waking up from one of his infamous midday naps. You could see it in the small, faint scar near his temple from that time he’d slipped on the ice in eighth grade and you’d spent an hour patching him up in your bathroom, ignoring his half-hearted protests that he was fine.

You could see it in the way his pajama pants sat slightly crooked on his hips, like he hadn’t cared enough to straighten them when he’d thrown them on, or in the faint, worn graphic on his tee that you recognized from years ago—a relic from that one summer when the two of you had watched an entire Terrance and Philip marathon, laughing until your stomachs hurt.

He was still Stan. Your best friend. The boy who would send you the dumbest memes at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh. The one who always had a spare hoodie for you to steal when you got cold, even if he rolled his eyes about it. The one who listened to your overthinking without judgment, who showed up when it mattered, even if he didn’t always have the words to say.

Nothing had changed.

Your lips curved into a soft smile, your chest tightening as you realized it. “You’re still you,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

Stan’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, though it looked more like an attempt to mask whatever he was actually feeling. His jaw tensed slightly, and his eyes lingered on you for a moment before flicking downward, his lashes lowering like he wanted to retreat into himself. “Yeah,” he said simply, his voice quieter than before.

Before the silence could stretch, your phone buzzed in your lap, the sound startling in the stillness of the room. You jumped slightly, fumbling to pick it up. Your heart skipped when you saw the notification on your screen: “hey i’m close. u ready?”

A squeal burst out of you before you could stop it. “Oh my God, he’s almost here!” you exclaimed, holding your phone out to him like it was a trophy.

Stan glanced at the screen, his brows knitting together as his lips pressed into a thin line. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the faintest motion, before his gaze flicked up to you.

That’s when you noticed it.

“My lipstick!” you gasped, leaning closer to him. Your dark lipstick was smeared all over his mouth, the edges smudged from where your kisses had transferred it onto him.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, stifling an embarrassed laugh before reaching out without even thinking. “Hold still,” you said, your voice half-apologetic, half-giddy.

Stan frowned slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “What now?” he muttered, though he didn’t move as you pressed your thumb to his bottom lip, wiping at the mess.

“Seriously, just stay still. You’ve got my lipstick everywhere,” you mumbled, your focus entirely on smudging away the dark streaks staining his mouth.

Stan exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t argue, his eyes watching you with something caught between irritation and resignation. “Jesus, you’re gonna rub my face off,” he grumbled.

You snorted, pulling back after a few more swipes. “There. Good as new,” you said, brushing your hands off in exaggerated triumph.

Stan glanced at you, his lips a bit redder than usual from your attempts at cleaning him up. “Yeah, thanks for the world-class service,” he deadpanned, though his tone was tinged with a dry humor that made the corners of his mouth twitch upward for half a second.

Still riding the high from Damien’s text, you pushed yourself off his bed, your boots clunking against the floor as you made your way to Kyle’s desk. The small mirror sitting propped up against the wall caught your eye, and you grabbed it carefully, mindful not to disturb the painfully neat arrangement of pens and notebooks.

Tilting the mirror toward you, you grimaced at the sight of your reflection. Your lipstick was a disaster—smudged at the edges, with faint streaks where it had transferred to Stan. You grabbed the tube from your pocket, quickly reapplying as you muttered to yourself about how ridiculous you must have looked.

You had just finished pressing your lips together to set the color when the dorm room door swung open behind you.

“Hey, Stan, did you—” Kyle’s voice cut off abruptly, and you spun around, lipstick still in hand.

Kyle stood frozen in the doorway, his green eyes darting between you and Stan. His gaze lingered on Stan’s faintly flushed face and the way you were standing by his desk with the mirror in hand. Slowly, his brows knit together in confusion.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Kyle asked, his tone suspicious as his gaze flicked back to Stan, who looked like he was suddenly wishing for a hole to crawl into.

You turned toward him, your lips curling into a bright smile. “Kyle!” you said, your voice light and cheerful, as though his sudden entrance hadn’t just thrown a wrench into the room’s already delicate atmosphere.

Stan stayed where he was on the bed, his shoulders tense and his face flushed. His brows knit together, and his jaw shifted slightly, like he was grinding his teeth. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than under Kyle’s scrutiny.

Finishing with your lipstick, you capped the tube and slipped it into your pocket before stepping toward Kyle, throwing your arms around him in a quick, tight hug. “Stan was just helping me get ready for my date with Damien,” you explained casually, the earlier tension rolling off your shoulders as excitement took its place.

Kyle stiffened slightly in your embrace, his confusion evident in the furrow of his brows and the way his mouth opened and closed without any words coming out. “Uh… helping you how?” he finally managed, glancing over at Stan, who was now rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding both of your gazes.

“Oh, you know, just… advice,” you said breezily, pulling back from Kyle with a grin. “He’s always got something to say about everything, right?” You shot Stan a quick smile over your shoulder, your giddiness softening the edges of the awkward moment.

Stan’s eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief second before darting away again. His face was still a little red, and his lips pressed into a thin line like he was biting back whatever was on his mind.

“I’ll call you after,” you said to him, your voice a little softer now. “Thanks again, dude. Seriously.”

Stan nodded slightly, but his expression was tight, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place.

You turned back to Kyle, patting his shoulder with a laugh. “Don’t let him sleep all day, okay?”

Kyle blinked, his frown deepening as he glanced between you and Stan again. “Right… sure,” he said slowly, his suspicion clearly not eased.

Without waiting for Kyle to press further, you made your way to the door, your boots clunking against the floor. As your hand rested on the handle, you turned back one last time, your chest light and a smile still tugging at your lips.

“Bye, guys!” you called cheerfully before slipping out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.

Kyle turned to Stan, one eyebrow raised in silent question. The look was deliberate, sharp, and something about it made Stan’s stomach churn. It reminded him of Wendy—not completely, but close enough to throw him off. The same perfectly arched brow, the same unspoken expectation, like Kyle was waiting for him to confess to something.

Stan groaned and flopped face-first onto his bed, pressing his face into the pillows. “Dude, don’t,” he mumbled, his voice muffled but heavy with irritation.

Kyle crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Stan shot back, his words short, clipped.

Kyle studied him for another moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say more. Instead, he sighed and turned back to his desk, his chair creaking as he sat down. The familiar rhythm of his keyboard soon faded into the background as time stretched, the quiet settling over the room like a heavy blanket.

The sharp buzz of his phone broke through the stillness, vibrating against the nightstand. Stan ignored it, rolling onto his side and pulling the pillow closer to his chest. It buzzed again, longer this time—someone was calling.

Kyle glanced over, his eyes flicking to the glowing screen. “You gonna get that?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity.

Stan didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the phone as your name lit up the screen. He let it ring, his jaw tightening until the buzzing stopped.

Moments later, a text notification popped up: “stan!! the date was SO good omg i have to tell u everything 😭✨ call me back asap!!!!”

Stan stared at the message, the bright glow of the screen seeming brighter than it should. His thumb hovered over the screen, but he didn’t reply. The message sat there, untouched, the faint “read” notification glowing beneath it.

Kyle swiveled in his chair, watching him carefully. “Why didn’t you answer?” he asked, his voice direct and just a little judgmental.

Stan sighed heavily, finally rolling onto his back. “Because I didn’t feel like it,” he muttered, his tone flat.

Kyle frowned, tilting his head slightly. “You’re acting weird,” he said, his voice blunt.

Stan didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed the pillow and yanked it over his face, blocking out both Kyle’s stare and the faint, accusing glow of his phone. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating, as the seconds ticked by.

Kyle sighed again, muttering something, before turning back to his laptop. The sound of typing resumed, soft but persistent, as Stan lay there, his chest tight and his thoughts racing.

Your text sat unopened on his screen, the emojis and exclamation points mocking him in their cheeriness.

Stan was a fucking mess.

His days blurred into one long, hazy nightmare of hangovers, parties, and mistakes he didn’t even bother pretending to regret anymore. The drinks came first—sharp and burning, chasing the tightness in his chest—but the alcohol only made him sink deeper. The smokes followed, each drag dulling the edges of his thoughts until they felt manageable, almost quiet. And then there were the hookups: faceless strangers, warm bodies, the false promise of connection he knew wouldn’t last.

Every kiss left him hollow. Every time he shoved his tongue into someone else’s mouth, he couldn’t stop comparing it to yours. The clumsy, nervous press of your lips. The way you’d hesitated, the way you’d blushed. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was you. You had felt real in a way nothing else had in a long time, and it pissed him off.

He couldn’t fucking stand it.

He remembered the first time he kissed someone else after that night. Some girl at a party with too much perfume and too little patience. She tasted bitter and desperate, he’d pulled away mid-kiss, muttering something half-assed before stumbling to the bathroom to throw up.

But he hadn’t stopped.

Stan kept going, drinking himself into oblivion and kissing anyone who would have him. Guys, girls—it didn’t fucking matter. The only thing that mattered was trying to forget the way you’d looked at him, all wide-eyed and trusting, like he wasn’t the same fucked-up mess who couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror anymore.

Tonight was no different.

The party was loud and chaotic, the music rattling the shitty walls and the crowd spilling into every corner of the house. Stan sat slouched on a stained couch in the living room, a red cup dangling from his fingers as he swayed slightly, his balance thrown off by the sheer amount of booze in his system.

Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman were standing nearby, talking—or arguing; Stan couldn’t tell—near the makeshift bar in the corner. Kyle’s disapproving stare burned into him from across the room, but Stan ignored it, tipping the cup back and draining the last of its contents.

“You’re gonna fucking die at this rate, Marsh,” Cartman muttered as he walked past, his voice dripping with mockery. “Not that anyone would care.”

“Fuck off, Cartman,” Stan slurred, his words dragging as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached for the flask in his hoodie pocket, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary.

Kenny leaned toward Kyle, muttering something too low for Stan to catch. Kyle frowned, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and the two of them exchanged a look before turning back to watch Stan spiral further.

“Stan, you good?” Kenny called, his tone light but carrying an undercurrent of concern.

Stan waved a hand in their direction, the motion clumsy and dismissive. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his tone made it clear he was anything but. He tipped the flask back, the whiskey burning his throat and pooling hot in his stomach.

Kyle stepped forward, his frown deepening. “You’ve been drinking all night, dude. Maybe chill out for five fucking seconds.”

Stan let out a sharp laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Oh, thanks, Kyle. Didn’t know you were my fucking mom now.”

Kyle’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped back, muttering something to Kenny, who just shrugged and cast another glance at Stan.

Stan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration rattling faintly against the flask. He ignored it at first, but it buzzed again, longer this time.

Kyle noticed and raised an eyebrow. “You gonna answer that?” he asked, his tone sharp.

Stan snorted, pulling the phone from his pocket. Your name glowed on the screen, along with a notification: “stan!! damien said he wants to take me to meet his parents omg 😭 i need advice lol.”

Stan stared at it for a long moment, his stomach twisting painfully. His thumb hovered over the screen, but he didn’t reply.

Kyle frowned, stepping closer. “Why the fuck aren’t you answering her?”

Stan shoved the phone back into his pocket and leaned back against the couch, his head lolling slightly. “Because I don’t fucking feel like it,” he muttered, the edge in his tone daring Kyle to push further.

Kyle narrowed his eyes, his lips pressing into a tight line. “You’re acting like an asshole,” he said, his voice flat.

Stan didn’t respond. He just tipped the flask back again, his gaze unfocused as the whiskey burned its way down.

Kyle shook his head, his frustration evident, but he didn’t say anything else. Cartman let out a loud, exaggerated sigh from the corner, muttering something about “emotional drunk idiots,” but Stan barely heard him.

The noise of the party grew louder, swallowing everything else as Stan closed his eyes, the taste of stale whiskey lingering on his tongue. His head was pounding, his body heavy against the couch, the sounds and lights of the party warping into a single overwhelming mass. Time slipped by, or maybe it didn’t—Stan couldn’t tell anymore. Everything felt stuck and spinning at the same time. He tipped his flask back, only to find it empty, the metallic scrape of nothing hitting his tongue. He grimaced, tossing it onto the coffee table with a hollow clink.

The living room was packed now, more people filtering in as the night dragged on. Stan cracked one eye open, his gaze sweeping lazily over the crowd. Tolkien and Clyde stood near the bar, laughing over some inside joke. Tweek was glued to Craig’s side, his hands twitching at his sides as his eyes darted around nervously. Jimmy and Butters were deep in conversation, Jimmy’s hands moving animatedly as Butters nodded enthusiastically. Near the door, Wendy, Heidi, Bebe, Red, and Nichole were huddled together, their sharp laughs cutting through the din of the party.

Stan’s lip curled faintly as his gaze lingered on Wendy. The sight of her made his chest tighten uncomfortably. She looked perfect, polished, like she’d stepped right out of a magazine. She always had a way of making chaos seem effortless, but now it just grated on him. He turned his head away, his stomach churning.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, a faint vibration against his thigh. Another text from you. He didn’t have to check to know—it was always you.

“Stan,” Kyle’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unforgiving. Stan cracked an eye open to see him standing over him, arms crossed, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that made Stan want to throw something. “Get up. You look like shit.”

Stan groaned, shifting slightly on the couch but making no effort to move. “And you look like a fucking hall monitor,” he muttered, his voice slurred and bitter. “Leave me alone.”

Kyle didn’t flinch. “You’ve been sitting here all night,” he said, his tone colder now. “You’re a goddamn disaster, and it’s fucking embarrassing.”

Stan let out a low groan, dragging a hand over his face. “Why do you care?” he mumbled.

Kyle’s scowl deepened, and he reached down, grabbing Stan’s arm and giving it a sharp tug. “Because you’re embarrassing yourself, dude. Now get the fuck up.”

“Christ, just let me sit here,” Stan snapped, jerking his arm out of Kyle’s grasp.

Kenny appeared at Kyle’s side, a grin tugging at his lips. “Come on, Marsh,” he said, clapping Stan on the shoulder. “Get your ass up before Kyle drags you out by your hoodie.”

Stan shot him a glare but didn’t argue, the weight of their combined stares forcing him to move. He pushed himself up from the couch, swaying slightly as the room spun around him.

“Happy now?” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Not yet,” Kyle said flatly, gesturing toward the crowded bar. “Go talk to someone. Be a person for five fucking minutes.”

Stan stumbled slightly as they led him toward the bar, Kenny keeping a steady hand on his shoulder to guide him through the throng of bodies.

“You’re gonna puke, aren’t you?” Kenny teased, his grin widening. “If you do, aim for Cartman. Do us all a favor.”

“Shut up, Kenny,” Stan muttered, his voice hoarse as his gaze swept over the crowd.

Tolkien and Clyde leaned against the bar, nursing their drinks and laughing like the chaos around them was background noise. Tolkien looked up first, his sharp eyes narrowing as he noticed Stan’s state.

“Jesus, Marsh,” Tolkien said, his tone a mix of humor and concern. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”

Clyde snickered, raising his cup in mock acknowledgment. “Or like he’s about to barf on that couch again. Wanna let us know if we’re in the splash zone?”

“Go fuck yourselves,” Stan muttered, slumping against the bar. He reached for a bottle, but Kyle was faster, slapping his hand away for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. “No. You’re done.”

“Fuck off, Kyle,” Stan muttered, but his voice lacked any real fight. He leaned heavily against the bar, his fingers gripping the edge as if it might steady him. His head was pounding, the alcohol and noise merging into one relentless buzz that refused to let up.

The girls approached not long after, their chatter and laughter cutting through the chaos like a spotlight. Wendy was in the lead, her voice carrying as she said something to Nichole that made both of them laugh. Stan stiffened when she spotted him, her gaze lingering a second too long before she started making her way over.

“Stan,” she said, her tone light but deliberate, “you look like you’re about five seconds away from passing out.”

Stan didn’t look at her, his jaw tightening. “Thanks for the observation, Wendy.”

She tilted her head, leaning slightly closer as if trying to get a better look at him. “You’ve been hitting it hard lately, huh? I barely see you sober anymore.”

Stan let out a sharp laugh, finally turning his head to meet her gaze. “What’s it to you?”

Wendy didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned against the bar beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “Maybe I care,” she said simply, her voice softer now. “You ever think about that?”

Stan blinked at her, thrown off by the sudden shift in her tone. He searched her face, half-expecting her to laugh or say something sarcastic, but her expression was… gentle. It made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t name.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the bar. “You care so much.”

“I do,” Wendy said firmly. “I know you think you’re fooling everyone with this whole self-destructive act, but you’re not. We’ve known each other too long for that.” Wendy tilted her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as she studied him. She looked calm, composed—like she wasn’t standing in the middle of a house party with chaos swirling around her. But her eyes had that sharp edge, the one that made Stan feel like she could see straight through him.

“We were together for years, Stan,” she said, her tone soft but cutting. “You really think I don’t notice when you’re falling apart?”

Stan’s lips twisted into a bitter smirk. “Don’t pretend like you still give a shit. You moved on the second we broke up.”

Wendy’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment, she looked genuinely surprised. Then her lips curved into a sly smile, one that sent a wave of confusion crashing over him. “You’re drunk,” she said, leaning in just slightly, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “But you’re wrong about that.”

Stan blinked, his chest tightening as he tried to process her words. His brain felt sluggish, fogged up by the alcohol, but her tone—gentle, almost teasing—set him completely off balance.

“What the fuck are you trying to say?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly as he turned his head to look at her.

Wendy’s smile widened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm. “I’m saying maybe I haven’t moved on as much as you think.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Wendy fucking Testaburger—his ex, his high school everything—was flirting with him. Here. Now. Like the past three years of silence hadn’t happened.

“Bullshit,” he said, though his voice lacked any real venom. “You’re just fucking with me.”

“Am I?” Wendy countered, her tone light but her gaze piercing. “You tell me.”

Stan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he heard your laugh. Bright and clear, cutting through the din of the party like a spotlight. His stomach churned violently as his head snapped toward the sound.

There you were. You were walking in with Damien, your hand looped through his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were laughing at something he’d said, your smile wide, your eyes alight. And it wasn’t just your expression that hit him—it was your whole presence. Your wardrobe had shifted recently, all dark colors and sharp lines, like you were molding yourself to fit Damien’s world. Even your makeup was heavier, bolder. But none of that mattered. All Stan could focus on was how fucking happy you looked.

Your gaze swept the room, and when your eyes landed on him, you froze for a fraction of a second before your face broke into a grin. You raised your free hand, waving enthusiastically, and leaned in to say something to Damien before starting toward Stan.

Panic hit him like a freight train. You were coming toward him, your bright, trusting eyes locked on his, and he couldn’t fucking handle it. Not with Wendy right there. Not with his heart pounding and his chest twisting like it was about to cave in.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he turned to Wendy, cupped her face, and kissed her.

The kiss was messy, desperate. Wendy tensed for a moment, startled, but she quickly responded, her hands coming up to grip his hoodie as she leaned into him. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like anything.

Stan’s eyes opened just slightly, and through the blur of his kiss with Wendy, he saw you. You’d stopped in your tracks, your hand still lightly resting on Damien’s arm. Your smile had faltered, confusion flickering across your face as you took in the scene.

His chest twisted painfully, but he didn’t stop. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss with Wendy like it might drown out the sight of you. His hands tightened on her face, his lips moving against hers with a frantic, sloppy rhythm that felt more like an escape than a connection.

You stood there for a moment longer, your expression shifting from confusion to something more guarded. Then you turned to Damien, muttering something he nodded at before changing your direction entirely. You walked toward Kyle, Kenny, Tolkien, and Clyde, your steps quick and purposeful, but there was tension in your shoulders that hadn’t been there before.

Stan finally pulled back, his chest heaving as he broke the kiss. A thin string of saliva connected his lips to Wendy’s for a split second before she wiped it away with the back of her hand, her brow furrowing.

“What the fuck, Stan?” Wendy asked, her voice low but sharp, her gaze searching his face for answers.

Stan didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on you as you reached Kyle and the others, laughing at something Clyde said, your voice forced but light. His stomach churned, the whiskey and regret threatening to spill over.

Wendy sighed, letting her hands fall from his hoodie. “You’re such a mess,” she muttered, shaking her head. But she didn’t walk away. Instead, she leaned back against the bar, crossing her arms as she watched him with something between concern and exasperation. “Are you gonna tell me what the hell’s going on, or are you just gonna keep acting like a fucking idiot?”

Stan dragged a hand over his face, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at you. All he could do was stare at the ground and try to hold himself together.

“Stan,” Wendy said again, softer this time, but he didn’t lift his head. He couldn’t.

Stan’s stomach churned violently. For a fleeting second, he wanted to tell her everything. How fucked-up he felt. How every day since that night with you had been an endless spiral of booze and bad decisions. How he couldn’t stop thinking about you, no matter how many people he kissed or how much he drank. But the words got stuck in his throat, suffocated by the weight of his own cowardice.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered instead, his voice raw and hoarse. “None of it fucking matters.”

Wendy let out a sharp sigh, her frustration clear. “Stan, you’re being—”

“Hey, guys!” Your voice rang out, cutting Wendy off mid-sentence. Stan’s entire body went rigid as he turned his head toward you, his breath catching in his throat.

“Hey,” Wendy said, her tone surprisingly friendly. “You look great tonight.”

You smiled at her, nodding slightly. “Thanks. You too.”

Stan’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like a warning. You turned your gaze to him next, your expression softening slightly as you addressed him. “Stan, can I, uh… talk to you for a sec? I promise I won’t keep you long.”

His throat tightened, his words failing him as he stared at you. Wendy glanced between the two of you, her brows furrowing slightly before she stepped back, giving you space. “I’ll be with Bebe,” she said to Stan, her voice even, though he swore he caught a flicker of something—curiosity?—in her expression before she turned and walked away.

He turned back to you, his throat tight, his mouth dry. You looked so… you. Like you hadn’t spent the past two weeks filling his phone with unread messages or watching him spiral into a pit of his own making.

“What’s up?” he asked, his voice gruffer than he intended. He cleared his throat, trying to sound normal, but it came out forced.

You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening. “You’ve been kinda hard to get ahold of lately. I figured maybe I’d just corner you in person,” you teased lightly, your eyes searching his face. “Are you okay? You look tired.”

Stan let out a short laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… been busy.”

“Busy, huh?” You crossed your arms, but the teasing smile never left your face. “Well, I hope that means you’re actually focusing on your classes and not just avoiding me.”

He flinched inwardly at how easily you hit the mark, but he shrugged like it didn’t matter. “I’m not avoiding you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you said, the words light but carrying just enough concern to twist the knife in his gut. You stepped a little closer, your voice softening. “Stan, I mean it. Are you okay? You’ve been kinda… off lately.”

“I said I’m fine,” he muttered, looking away. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms as he tried to steady himself.

You frowned slightly, but the concern in your eyes didn’t waver. “You’d tell me if you weren’t, right? You know I’m here for you.”

Stan’s chest tightened. The way you looked at him, like you still believed he was worth something, made his stomach churn. “Yeah,” he said shortly, his voice low. “I know.”

You watched him for a moment longer, your brows knitting together as if you were trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying. Then, your expression brightened again, and you reached out, grabbing his hand. The sudden warmth of your touch jolted him like a live wire.

“So, anyway,” you said, your voice lifting as you smiled up at him, “I was thinking, maybe we could hang out this week? Like, just us? I’ve missed you, Stan.”

Stan froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to say no, to push you away like he had with everyone else, but the way you looked at him—so hopeful, so fucking earnest—made it impossible.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Sure. Whatever.”

Your smile widened, and you gave his hand a quick squeeze before letting go. “Great! I’ll text you, okay?”

Before he could respond, you turned and made your way back toward the group, your steps light and unbothered. Stan watched you go, his chest tight, his head spinning. His hand still felt warm where you’d touched him, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Wendy returned to his side, her sharp eyes scanning his face. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“Nope,” Stan muttered, grabbing a random cup off the bar and downing its contents in one long gulp, the burn barely registering. He slammed the empty cup down onto the bar, his head spinning, his chest tight. Your hand still lingered like a ghost against his skin, and he hated it. He hated that you could just waltz into a room, all smiles and warmth, acting like the past two weeks hadn’t left him feeling hollow. You didn’t know. You couldn’t know. If you did, you wouldn’t look at him like that.

He turned to Wendy, his vision slightly blurry but focused enough to see her watching him with that same skeptical expression. His stomach churned, not from the alcohol, but from the chaos swirling in his head. He needed out. He needed distraction. He needed something to drown out your voice and the look on your face when you’d said you’d missed him.

“Wanna go upstairs?” The words came out blunt, almost mechanical, but his voice was steady. Too steady.

Wendy blinked, clearly thrown off by his sudden proposition. Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she was going to say no, to laugh at him, to call him out for the disaster he was. But then she let out a breath, her eyes narrowing slightly, and she muttered, “Fuck it.”

She grabbed his hand, her grip firm, and started leading him through the crowd. Stan followed wordlessly, his thoughts a jumbled mess. He couldn’t think about you anymore. Couldn’t think about your laugh or the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him. Couldn’t think about the way his chest twisted when you’d squeezed his hand. Couldn’t think about how he’d almost said no because he didn’t deserve to be near you.

He needed to stop thinking.

By the time they reached the top of the stairs, his breath was ragged, his heart pounding. Wendy pushed open the door to an empty bedroom, the faint smell of stale beer and cheap cologne lingering in the air. The bass of the music downstairs thudded faintly through the walls, a dull reminder of the chaos they’d left behind.

The door clicked shut behind them, and for a second, neither of them moved. Then Wendy turned to him, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp, and said, “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah,” Stan muttered, his voice hoarse. “I know.”

And then they were on each other.

Wendy’s hands went to his hoodie, yanking it over his head with practiced ease. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt next, and he let her pull it off, the fabric catching briefly on his shoulders before landing in a heap on the floor. His own hands fumbled with the buttons of her top, his movements clumsy, frantic.

“Jesus, Stan,” Wendy muttered, swatting his hands away and undoing the buttons herself. She shrugged the shirt off, revealing a black lace bra that made his brain short-circuit for a moment.

He didn’t have time to process it. His hands found her hips, gripping them tightly as he yanked her closer. Their lips met in a searing kiss, all teeth and desperation. Her lipstick smeared against his mouth, a bitter, chemical taste that didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should’ve.

Wendy moaned softly against his lips, her nails digging into his shoulders as she pressed herself closer. Stan’s hands roamed, sliding over the curve of her waist, the smoothness of her back, the clasp of her bra. He fumbled with it for a moment before it snapped open, the straps sliding down her arms.

“Better,” Wendy muttered, her voice breathless, her lips brushing against his as she spoke.

Stan didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His head was spinning, his chest tight, his hands shaking slightly as he cupped her tits, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. Wendy gasped, her back arching slightly, and he kissed her again, harder this time. His tongue pushed into her mouth, desperate and messy, and she returned the favor, her hands slipping down to undo his belt.

It was rushed, frantic, like they were both trying to outrun something neither of them wanted to name. Their clothes piled on the floor, forgotten, as they stumbled toward the bed. Stan’s knees hit the edge first, and he pulled Wendy down with him, his hands gripping her thighs as she straddled him.

Her hips rolled against his, the friction sending sparks of heat through his body. His hands gripped her ass, pulling her closer, and she let out a low moan that made his stomach clench. Her lips found his neck, sucking and biting, and he tilted his head back, his eyes squeezing shut.

But it didn’t help. He could still see you. Could still hear your voice, soft and warm, asking him if he was okay. Could still feel the weight of your hand in his, the way your smile had lit up the room.

He bit down hard on his lip, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the bitter tang of lipstick as he pulled Wendy closer, his hands roaming over her body like it might be enough to drown out everything else.

It wasn’t.

It never fucking was.

You opened your dorm door to find Stan leaning against the frame, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. His hoodie was rumpled, the drawstrings uneven, and his dark jeans were creased like he’d grabbed them off the floor. The heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes and the faint slump in his posture told you everything you needed to know: Stan was a mess. Your heart twisted at the sight.

“Hey,” you greeted, your smile soft but expectant as you stepped aside to let him in. “Come in.”

Stan trudged in without a word, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum. He stopped awkwardly in the middle of the room, his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket as he stared at the floor. The scent of lavender and vanilla wafted through the air from the candle you’d lit earlier—one that smelled exactly like the ones his mom used to burn at the ranch. You’d even spritzed on his favorite perfume of yours, the one he once mumbled smelled good during a lazy movie night.

But now, as he stood there, avoiding your gaze, guilt gnawed at you. Kyle had finally clued you in about Stan’s behavior over the past two weeks: the endless parties, the drinking, the hookups. It all hit you like a punch to the stomach. Sure, you’d noticed his texts had been curt, his responses brief, but you’d brushed it off as him being busy or tired of hearing you gush about Damien. Looking at him now, you realized how deeply you’d misread the situation, and the thought made your chest ache.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the heaviness in the air. “Red’s out with her boyfriend,” you said lightly. “She won’t be back until late, so it’s just us. No awkward roommate interruptions, I promise.”

Stan barely acknowledged your words, standing there like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His silence felt heavy, almost suffocating, but you forced a small smile and turned to the TV.

“I was thinking we could watch Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull,” you said, grabbing the remote and navigating to it. “It’s been a while since we made fun of how fucking awful it is.”

That got a flicker of a reaction—a small huff of breath that might have been a laugh. Your heart lifted just slightly.

“It’s still so bad, right?” you teased, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Like, I’m pretty sure it gets worse every time we watch it.”

Stan shrugged, his lips twitching faintly before settling back into a neutral line. “Yeah. It’s garbage.”

“Good garbage,” you corrected with a grin, gesturing for him to sit. “Come on, Marsh. Don’t just stand there like you’re waiting for a eulogy. Sit down.”

He moved toward the bed slowly, like it took effort, and sank down on the edge. His shoulders hunched forward, his hands still buried in his pockets as he stared at the screen. You plopped down next to him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean into the contact either. His whole body felt like it was wound tight, like a spring ready to snap.

The movie started, the overdramatic score blaring through the speakers, and you settled in, leaning lightly against his side. Your eyes flicked to his face, taking in the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hands. He wasn’t watching the movie—he was staring at it, sure, but his gaze was unfocused, distant.

You leaned your head against Stan’s shoulder, your weight light but intentional, hoping the contact would ground him. The movie droned on in the background, the ridiculous dialogue and CGI overload failing to capture either of your attention. You took a breath, the words on the tip of your tongue heavy but necessary.

“Kyle told me everything, Stan,” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the soundtrack. “You’re hurting.”

Stan stiffened slightly under you, his jaw tightening. “Kyle needs to mind his fucking business,” he muttered, his tone sharp and defensive.

You let out a quiet laugh, not mocking but warm, diffusing the edge in his words. “Yeah, well, sometimes his business is caring about you. So maybe cut him some slack.”

Stan didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the screen, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. You bit your lip, hesitating for a moment before continuing.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice softer now. “I’ve been a terrible friend. I should’ve noticed sooner that you were going through it. I just thought…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I don’t know what I thought. I figured you were busy, or maybe sick of hearing me talk about Damien. But that’s not an excuse. I should’ve been there for you.”

Stan didn’t say anything, but the way his shoulders slumped told you he was listening. Your fingers found their way to his hair, brushing through the bleached strands with a gentleness you hoped would ease some of the weight he carried. His hair was soft, slightly damp from the cold air outside, and you played with it absently, letting the silence stretch between you for a moment.

Your thoughts drifted, unbidden, to senior year of high school. To when Wendy had broken up with Stan just before college. He’d been a wreck back then too—drinking, hooking up with anyone who gave him the time of day, getting faded to numb the ache. You remembered how you’d sat with him in the bleachers one night after a party, his head in his hands, his flask half-empty beside him. Back then, you’d thought he might never pull himself out of that spiral. And now, sitting next to him again, it felt like history was repeating itself.

Stan let out a long, quiet sigh, his head tilting slightly toward your hand as you continued to comb your fingers through his hair. His silence wasn’t surprising, but it still made your chest ache. You wanted to help him, to pull him out of whatever dark hole he’d fallen into, but you didn’t know how.

So, you did what you always did: you teased.

“Maybe I should stop talking to Damien if that’s what it takes to get you to say something,” you said lightly, your lips curving into a small, teasing smile as you glanced up at him.

That got a reaction—a faint scoff, his lips twitching into something resembling a smirk. “Don’t do that,” he muttered, his voice low but less tense than before. “That guy’s the only thing you’ve been happy about lately.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the observation. “Stan…”

He shook his head, his gaze still on the screen but softer now, less distant. “I don’t need you to stop seeing him. I just…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into the quiet hum of the room.

You waited, giving him space, your fingers still moving through his hair. When he didn’t continue, you leaned closer, your voice quiet but firm. “You just what?”

He let out a shaky breath, his head lowering slightly. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Forget it.”

You sighed heavily, the weight of his silence pressing against your chest. Without thinking, you reached down, forcing Stan’s head to rest in your lap. He let out a small grunt of protest, but he didn’t resist. His body sank against the bed, his legs stretching out in front of him as his head settled against your thighs. Your fingers resumed their path through his hair, smoothing out the damp, messy strands with a tenderness you hoped he could feel.

“We’re best friends, Stan” you said softly, your gaze fixed on his tired face. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips slightly parted as he stared at the ceiling, but you weren’t sure if he was listening. “I mean, I know you have Kenny, Kyle, and even Cartman. And I love them, too. But what we have? It’s different.”

Stan didn’t respond, but his lips twitched slightly, like he might say something before thinking better of it. You pushed on, your voice steady but imploring. “I’d always go to you, you know? When I needed someone. And you’d come to me. That’s how it’s always been. I don’t know why that’s changed, but…” You trailed off, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Stan, please. Just tell me what’s wrong. Let me be there for you.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Your fingers stilled in his hair, your gaze searching his face for any sign that he’d heard you. Finally, he let out a long, quiet sigh, his shoulders sagging further into the mattress.

“It’s nothing,” Stan said, his voice low and flat. “Just… shit with school. Stress, I guess. And I’ve been partying too much. That’s all.”

You frowned, your chest tightening at how hollow his words sounded. You didn’t believe him—not for a second—but you didn’t press. Stan was like that, always shutting down when he wasn’t ready to talk. You’d learned over the years that patience was the only thing that worked with him.

Instead, you resumed playing with his hair, your nails grazing his scalp lightly in a way that you knew he liked. “Okay,” you said quietly, even though you didn’t mean it. “But you know you can tell me, right? Whenever you’re ready.”

Stan’s lips twitched again, but this time, it almost looked like a smile. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

For a while, the only sound in the room was the muffled noise of the movie playing on the TV. You let the moment linger, hoping the stillness would help him unwind. And then, out of nowhere, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For being a dick about Damien. I shouldn’t have been so cold. If he makes you happy, then… I wanna hear about it. I don’t care if it’s annoying or whatever. I wanna know.”

Your heart lifted at his words, and a wide smile spread across your face. “Really?” you asked, your voice bright with disbelief.

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

Without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to his hairline, your lips brushing against his skin with the faintest pressure. “Thanks, Stan,” you said, your voice warm and genuine. “That means a lot to me.”

Stan didn’t respond, but his eyes drifted shut, his face relaxing just slightly against your lap. You shifted Stan slightly in your lap, your movements careful as you reached down to untie his shoes. He let out a faint grunt, his lips pressing together, but he didn’t stop you. With practiced ease, you slipped them off and set them neatly by the bed. His head remained heavy against your lap, and as you adjusted him again, you caught the faint flush creeping up his neck. You chalked it up to the warmth of the room and the heat from his hoodie, brushing it off with a soft hum.

Wrapping your arms loosely around his waist, you let your head rest against your headboard. “You’re too tense,” you said softly, your voice carrying a teasing lilt. “What’s it gonna take to get you to relax, huh?”

Stan didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of tension visible in the set of his mouth. Still, his shoulders sagged a little more against you, like he was finally giving in to the weight of the moment. Taking his silence as permission, you started talking, your voice bright and a little tentative.

“So, I never got to tell you how my first date with Damien went,” you began, your fingers absently toying with his hoodie strings. “It was actually really sweet. We went to that tiny art gallery downtown—you know, the one with the terrible lighting and the coffee that tastes like burnt dirt?”

Stan let out a faint sound, almost like a grunt of acknowledgment, though his gaze stayed fixed on the ceiling, his brows drawn faintly together.

“Anyway,” you continued, “we spent hours just wandering around and making fun of all the weird sculptures. He’s got this dry, kind of sarcastic sense of humor that threw me off at first, but it’s actually hilarious. I think you’d like him if you gave him a chance.”

You glanced down at Stan’s face. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin, neutral line, but there was a tension in his expression, a way his eyes flicked to the side like he was purposefully avoiding yours. Still, he didn’t say anything, so you pressed on.

“And at the end of the night…” You trailed off, your smile turning a little shy as you felt your cheeks warm. “He kissed me.”

You felt Stan stiffen slightly beneath your arms. His brows twitched downward, and his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. The subtle changes in his face—the slight hardening of his jaw, the faint flicker in his eyes—were enough to make your own stomach twist, but you kept going, your voice soft and sincere.

“It was nice. Sweet, you know? Not like…” You hesitated, a small laugh escaping you. “Not like that clumsy disaster I had with you.”

Stan’s flush deepened, a faint red creeping up his cheeks to his ears. His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into a fleeting scowl before settling back into something more passive. The tension in his expression was unmistakable, but it wasn’t anger. It was something more complicated, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Laughing softly, you pressed a kiss to his temple, your tone playful as you teased, “I’m serious, though. Thank you, Stan. I would’ve been a wreck without you. You really helped me.”

You didn’t stop there. You kissed his cheek, then his forehead, and finally the corner of his jaw, grinning as his flush deepened. “My hero,” you said, light and teasing. “Stanley Marsh, kissing coach extraordinaire.”

“Jesus, dude, quit it,” Stan muttered, his voice low and gruff as he turned his face into your stomach, trying to hide the full bloom of red on his cheeks. His brows furrowed tightly, but there was a faint flicker of a smirk on his lips, almost reluctant.

“No way,” you shot back with a laugh, pressing one final kiss to the top of his head. “You deserve it. I’d still be freaking out if it weren’t for you.”

Stan didn’t reply, instead he just opted to stay slumped in your lap. His weight pressing into you like a deadweight, but you didn’t mind. His hands were curled into his hoodie, his knuckles grazing your thigh every so often, and you wondered how someone could seem so damn tense even while sitting still.

“So,” you started, breaking the silence with a teasing edge in your voice, “about that text I sent you earlier this week? The one about Damien wanting me to meet his parents?” You dragged out the last word in a sing-song tone, grinning as you watched for his reaction.

Stan let out a low grunt, barely lifting his eyes to look at you. “Yeah, I saw it,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

You ignored his noncommittal tone and plowed ahead. “Well, I talked to Nichole, Heidi, Red, and Bebe about it at the party—you know, after you ran off to ‘catch up’ with Wendy.” You wiggled your eyebrows suggestively at the mention, but Stan didn’t bite. “And you’ll never guess what Bebe said.”

Stan rolled his eyes, the barest flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Let me guess. She thinks you’re joining some cult or some shit.”

You laughed, throwing your head back a little. “Exactly! She said Damien’s probably trying to induct me into some weird goth satanic ritual. ‘The boyfriend-parent connection is step one,’” you added in your best impression of her dramatic tone, complete with wide eyes and an exaggerated gasp.

That got a faint snort out of Stan. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“And Heidi?” You leaned down closer, dropping your voice to a mock-whisper. “She was all like, ‘Oh my God, it’s so romantic!’” You fluttered your hands for effect, giggling at your own joke. “I told her I think it’s sweet, but also, like, maybe let’s not dive headfirst into the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing. I’m taking it slow.”

Stan tensed just slightly at your words, his jaw working as if he had something to say but decided against it. He stayed quiet, his hands flexing faintly where they gripped his hoodie.

You kept going, the memory from last night creeping in uninvited. “I mean, it’s not like I’m scared or anything. Damien’s great—respectful and all that. Like last night…” You trailed off, your voice faltering as the memory hit you full force.

You could still feel the heat of his hands on your waist, the way he’d pulled you closer as you straddled his lap. His lips had been soft but firm against yours, his breath warm on your skin. And then you’d shifted, your hips pressing down against him, and—

“Dude,” Stan’s voice cut through your thoughts like a knife. “You okay?”

You blinked, your cheeks burning as you realized you’d gone quiet for too long. “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” you muttered with an awkward laugh. “Just zoned out for a second.”

Stan turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “What were you zoning out on?” he asked, his tone casual but edged with something you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. “Just… Damien. He’s so patient, you know?”

Stan replied with a noncommittal grunt, his eyes fixed on the TV, but you noticed how his fingers flexed slightly. He wasn’t paying attention to the screen, not really, but he also wasn’t giving you any more of an answer. 

You weren’t mad, though. Not really. Your own thoughts were too busy spiraling into a mess of panic and doubt. What came next with Damien? The two of you had kissed, made out plenty of times, and it felt inevitable that the next step was around the corner. The idea should’ve been exciting—romantic even—but instead, it made your stomach twist itself into knots.

You shifted slightly, pulling your knees up to rest on the bed beside you, careful not to disturb Stan’s head in your lap. Your fingers stilled in his hair as you glanced down at him. His eyes were still on the TV, but there was a tightness in his jaw that made your chest ache.

“Stan,” you said softly, breaking the silence. He didn’t respond verbally, but you could feel the slight shift in his body, letting you know that he was listening. You peered down at his face, and the dark circles under his eyes seemed even more prominent than before. 

How should you go about this? Here Stan was, struggling to stay afloat, and you’re just prattling on about how amazing Damien is, all while you knew Stan doesn’t really like him. Shame and guilt coursed through your veins, and you hated how it felt like your blood was boiling. Stan needed a distraction from everything—yet here you were, a constant reminder that wouldn’t let him forget.

The corners of your mouth curved downwards as you continued to look at him, and he stared back, waiting for the words that’d come out of your mouth. “I-I was thinking maybe, you’d let me kiss you again? I uh, could really use the practice.” You blurted out awkwardly. 

Stan tried to shift his head away from your lap, his mouth hung open as he stared at the sight before him—you. He blinked twice, trying to process what he just heard. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and you didn’t allow him to wiggle away from you.

“Dude… what?” was all Stan could stammer out. He licked his lips, his face going red as his eyes darted away, avoiding your gaze.

You felt your cheeks flush instantly, the weight of his disbelief settling heavily in your chest. Panic bubbled up as you scrambled for an excuse, for something to justify the words you’d just let slip. You forced a nervous laugh, though it came out shaky and thin.

“I mean, it’s not a big deal or anything,” you said quickly, your voice high-pitched and rambling. “You know, like last time. It didn’t change anything between us, right? And I was thinking, if I… um… if I get more comfortable with it, maybe I won’t freak out so much when Damien tries to—”

You cut yourself off abruptly, biting your tongue. You couldn’t say his name. Not now. Not when Stan’s expression shifted, his brows furrowing as his lips pressed into a taut line. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to. His eyes darted to the side briefly, then returned to yours, the faint crease between his brows deepening as if he were trying to make sense of your words.

He pushed himself up slightly, his elbows resting on your thighs as he stared at you. His blue eyes searched your face, the tension in his shoulders even more pronounced now. “You’re serious about this?” he asked, his tone quieter but laced with disbelief.

You hesitated, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts. You couldn’t tell him the real reason—that you’d hoped maybe this would be enough to distract him, to pull him out of whatever pit he was sinking into. That seeing him like this, so distant and lost, made your chest ache in a way that felt unbearable. You knew how Stan coped—his hookups, his flings, the way he chased fleeting moments of connection to drown out whatever he was feeling. You hated it, hated how much it hurt to see him like that, but a part of you thought… maybe you could be one of those distractions. Maybe, if you offered him even a sliver of solace, it could make things just a little better—for both of you. But you’d never admit that out loud.

“Yeah,” you said softly, barely meeting his gaze. “I mean, you said before it wasn’t a big deal, right? It’s just… practice.”

Stan’s brows furrowed, his jaw working as if he was biting back whatever thought was on the tip of his tongue. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he exhaled sharply and rubbed the back of his neck.

He opened his mouth, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but you cut him off, the words spilling out of you before you could stop them. “If you’re uncomfortable, you can say no,” you blurted, your voice soft but rushed, your fingers twisting your duvet anxiously. “I swear, Stan, I’ll never bring it up again. We can just forget I said anything.”

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared at him, every fiber of your being screaming at you to run, to take the words back, to escape the weight of his gaze. But you stayed, your breath shallow, waiting for his response.

Stan’s hand paused mid-motion on the back of his neck, his eyes flicking back to you. There was something in his expression now—hesitation, uncertainty, and maybe, just maybe, the faintest flicker of something else. His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a low sigh and dropped his hand.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. “I just… I don’t get why you’d wanna do this with me.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his question. “Because…” You hesitated, the excuse you’d clung to suddenly feeling flimsy under the weight of his scrutiny. “Because you’re my best friend, Stan. I trust you. And… we’ve done it before.”

Stan tilted his head slightly, his brows knitting together as he studied your face. “Yeah, but that was different,” he said, his tone tinged with skepticism. “You were freaking out about Damien back then. This… this feels like something else.”

Your stomach twisted at his words, heat creeping up your neck as you tried to think of how to respond. “It’s not,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I promise, it’s just… practice. Like before. Nothing more.”

Stan’s gaze lingered on you, the faint crease between his brows deepening as if he didn’t fully believe you. But after a moment, he sighed again and leaned away from your lap, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Alright,” he said, his voice low and almost reluctant. “If you’re sure.”

Your breath hitched, relief and nerves tangled together in your chest. “I’m sure,” you said softly, though your voice wavered just slightly.

Stan gave you a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint, lopsided smile. “Okay then,” he said, his tone carrying a faint edge of humor as he added, “Guess I’m your guinea pig again.”

You laughed nervously, the sound light but strained. “Yeah,” you mumbled, scooting closer until your knees brushed his. Your hands trembled slightly as they settled on his shoulders, and you felt his warmth seep through the fabric of his hoodie. “If it gets weird, we can stop. Just… say the word, okay?”

Stan’s smile softened, his voice quieter now. “Same goes for you.”

You nodded, though your throat felt tight. As much as you tried to focus on the moment, your thoughts kept drifting back to the first time. The awkward angle, the way your teeth had bumped, and how Stan hadn’t laughed. How patient he’d been, even when you couldn’t stop overthinking every little thing. It had been clumsy and strange, sure, but it hadn’t scared you off. If anything, it had made you feel… safe.

Now, though, the stakes felt higher. Stan wasn’t joking around this time. His eyes were steady on yours, and there was something in them that made your chest ache. You didn’t want to mess this up—not for yourself, but for him. He needed this distraction, even if he didn’t know it.

You leaned in slowly, your breaths uneven as the gap between you disappeared. Your lips barely brushed his at first—a hesitant, feather-light touch that made your stomach flip. You paused, unsure if you should pull back or go further, until Stan tilted his head slightly, closing the distance. His lips pressed softly against yours, warm and firm, and you couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, holding onto him like an anchor as you tried to keep up. Every little movement felt monumental, every shift of his mouth against yours sending sparks through your nerves. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing with a thousand little doubts. Were you too stiff? Too hesitant? Did he notice the way your hands were trembling?

Stan pulled back just slightly, his breath brushing against your lips. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “Relax.”

You let out a nervous laugh, your forehead brushing against his. “Yeah, I know,” you whispered. “Easier said than done.”

His lips quirked into the faintest smile, and he leaned in again, his movements unhurried. This time, the kiss felt different—gentler, less cautious, like he was guiding you through it. You let yourself lean into him, your hands sliding up to the back of his neck as you tried to mimic the rhythm he set. The warmth of his mouth, the faint pressure of his lips—it was overwhelming, and yet, somehow, it made the rest of the world feel far away.

Your breaths mingled as the kiss deepened, and you felt his hands hover just above your waist, unsure of where to land. It wasn’t perfect—you still fumbled, your nerves making your movements a little too hesitant—but Stan didn’t pull away. He stayed with you, his lips moving against yours in a way that felt steady, almost patient. Like he was telling you, wordlessly, that it was okay to take your time.

And then you felt it—a small curve of his lips against yours. He was smiling. Not a smirk or a teasing grin, but something soft, something real. It sent a rush of relief through you, and for a moment, your nerves melted away. Your plan was working. He wasn’t thinking about whatever was weighing him down, not right now. He was here, with you.

The thought gave you just enough courage to take a leap of faith. Your teeth caught gently on his bottom lip, a soft, teasing bite, and you felt Stan freeze for half a second before a low, unexpected moan escaped him. The sound sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach. Giddy and emboldened, you took the opening, your tongue slipping into his mouth to taste him deeper.

Stan responded instantly, his lips parting to meet yours as his tongue moved against yours in a way that was both confident and unhurried. His hands, once hesitant, finally settled on your waist, his fingers curling lightly into your sides as if to steady you. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of your shirt, grounding you in the moment.

Your arms looped fully around his neck, pulling him closer as you leaned into him, the kiss growing more heated. You felt your body shift almost instinctively, your knees moving to straddle his lap. The movement brought you even closer, your thighs pressing against his as you settled into the new position. His breath hitched slightly, and the sound sent a wave of satisfaction through you.

You weren’t thinking about whether you were doing this right anymore. All you cared about was the way Stan was reacting—the way his lips chased yours, the way his hands gripped your waist just a little tighter, the way his breath came faster against your mouth. You wanted him to feel good. You wanted to be the one to make him feel good, even if just for a little while.

Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly as the kiss deepened. His moan vibrated against your mouth, and you felt his hands grip your waist tighter, his fingers digging into your skin like he couldn’t bear to let you go. The heat between you was impossible to ignore now, every grind of your hips against his sending a rush of electricity straight to your core.

A giddy smile spread across your lips, and you could feel Stan noticing it, even as his mouth moved against yours. It was impossible to stop yourself from laughing softly, the sound escaping into the kiss.

Stan pulled back slightly, his lips hovering just above yours as his brows furrowed. His voice came out breathless, his face flushed. “What’s so funny?”

You shook your head, still grinning as your chest heaved. “Nothing,” you said, though your laughter betrayed you. “You’re just really into this, huh?”

His eyes narrowed, his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smirk or defend himself. “You’re the one grinding on me,” he shot back, his voice low and rough, his hands sliding down to your hips. “So don’t even.”

The words sent a thrill through you, and your stomach tightened as you realized just how much he was enjoying this. You moved against him deliberately this time, rolling your hips over the growing hardness pressing against you. Stan’s breath hitched, and his hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter against him. The pressure sent heat pooling between your thighs, and you let out a shaky whimper.

“Fuck,” Stan muttered, his grip tightening as he rutted up against you, the movement clumsy but desperate. His lips crashed back onto yours, swallowing your soft moans as your body moved against his. The friction was dizzying, and the raw need in his movements only made your own desire burn hotter.

You nipped at his bottom lip, tugging it lightly between your teeth before slipping your tongue into his mouth. He groaned, the sound low, and you felt his hands sliding back up your sides, pulling you even closer. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging harder this time, and his response was immediate—a sharp gasp and a rough grind of his hips against yours.

The tension between you was electric, the way his body moved under yours igniting every nerve in your body. You couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped out, your lips brushing against his as you spoke. “Didn’t think you’d get this into it, Marsh.”

Stan groaned, his head tilting back slightly as his hands squeezed your ass. “You’re the one grinding like you’ve got a damn mission,” he shot back, though his voice was rough, broken by the way his breath caught with every roll of your hips.

Your laughter turned into a whimper as you pressed down harder, your body moving instinctively against him. The heat, the friction, the way his hardness pressed against you—it was all too much, and yet not enough. You wanted more. You wanted to make him lose control, to see how far this could go before either of you came to your senses.

“Stan,” you breathed, your voice shaky as you leaned forward, your forehead pressing against his. “Is this… is this okay?”

His eyes met yours, dark and blown wide with arousal, his lips slightly parted. For a moment, he didn’t answer, his hands still gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer. Then he gave a small nod, his voice rough and low. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

His words sent a rush of relief and exhilaration through you, and you leaned down to capture his lips again, your body moving against his without hesitation. His hands guided your hips now, pressing you down harder against him as he rutted up into you. Every movement sent sparks shooting through your body, the heat between you building to a point that left you breathless.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, a tiny voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was going too far. That you weren’t sure what this meant, or if you were ready to find out. You shoved the thought aside, burying it under the heat of Stan’s gaze and the way his hands felt like they were anchoring you to the moment.

Stan’s lips were warm and pliant against yours, his hands firm on your hips, guiding your movements. But just as the heat between you reached a fever pitch, you suddenly broke the kiss, pulling back and leaving him wide-eyed and slightly dazed.

He blinked up at you, his chest heaving as his expression shifted between confusion and frustration. “What—why’d you stop?” he asked, his voice thick, his words barely above a whisper.

You didn’t want to explain—not when the realization that this was going too far sat heavy in your chest. Instead of answering, you let your lips trail to his jaw, then down to his neck, pressing soft kisses into his skin. The taste of salt and faint traces of cologne lingered on your tongue as you sucked lightly, a moan escaping you as you grind yourself harder against him.

“Fuck,” Stan hissed, his grip tightening again, his fingers digging into your waist like he was holding on for dear life. His hips jerked against yours instinctively, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

You pressed your mouth harder against his neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin before soothing it with your tongue. “Stan,” you murmured breathlessly, your voice muffled against his skin. You weren’t even sure what you were asking for anymore—maybe just to keep feeling this, to keep losing yourself in him.

But suddenly, Stan’s hands shifted, gripping your waist with a strength that surprised you. Before you could react, he lifted you off his lap, his movements firm but not rough, and placed you down on the bed beside him.

“What the hell?” you asked, your tone sharper than you intended as you stared at him, your cheeks flushed and your breath coming in shallow gasps. You weren’t going to be the one to break the silence—not when his sudden shift had left you feeling more than a little offended.

Stan ran a hand through his hair, his face still flushed as he looked anywhere but at you. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on the words he wanted to say, and finally, he muttered, “I was… I was gonna cum it if we kept going.”

His confession hung heavy in the air between you, the raw honesty of it catching you off guard. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your chest tightening as his words sank in.

You blinked twice at him, a smile creeping onto your lips as you tried to gather your courage. The tension in the room was almost suffocating, but you reached out, intertwining your fingers with his. His hand was warm, grounding you even as your nerves buzzed under your skin. Without breaking eye contact, you slid off the bed, letting your knees rest on the floor as you knelt in front of him.

Stan froze like a deer in headlights, his free hand flying to his lap as if to shield himself. “Dude, what the hell are you doing?” he blurted, his voice louder than before, tinged with panic. His chest heaved, his eyes wide and darting between your face and the floor.

You kept your tone soft, trying to calm him. “I… I thought maybe we could keep practicing. You know, for Damien.”

“Practicing?” he repeated, his voice raising a notch, incredulous. “You call this practicing? This isn’t kissing, dude! This is you giving me a—” He cut himself off, running both hands through his hair as his voice cracked. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Your cheeks burned as embarrassment and panic bubbled up inside you, but you forced yourself to press on. “It’s not what you think,” you said quickly, your voice shaky. “I mean, it is, but it’s just… it’s still practice. I swear.”

Stan let out a harsh laugh, his frustration boiling over. “Practice?” he repeated, his tone sharp and disbelieving. “You seriously think this is about Damien? Because it sure as hell doesn’t look like it.”

“It is!” you insisted, your grip tightening on his hand. “It’s for him, Stan. I promise.”

His face twisted in a mix of anger and confusion, his voice rising again. “Bullshit! You’re kneeling in front of me right now, and you want me to believe this is about Damien? Come on! This is so far beyond just… just helping you practice.”

You flinched at the accusation in his voice, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. “Stan, please. It’s not weird. I just… I thought this might help.”

“Help?” he repeated, his tone almost incredulous. He shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. “Help who? Me? You think this is gonna help me? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.”

His words cut deeper than you expected, and for a moment, you were too stunned to respond. The weight of his conflict pressed against your chest, and the guilt you’d been pushing down bubbled to the surface. You couldn’t tell him the truth—not now, not when he was already on edge. So you clung to the lie, even as it felt like it might shatter around you.

“It’s not like that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I thought it would make things easier. For me. For Damien. For you, even. I thought…” You trailed off, your words faltering under his intense stare.

Stan exhaled sharply, his hands dragging down his face as if trying to physically pull himself together. “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” he muttered, his voice quieter now but no less strained. “This is insane.”

“It’s not,” you said softly, desperation creeping into your tone. “It’s just us, Stan. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, his expression shifting between anger, disbelief, and something softer that you couldn’t quite place. Finally, he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging as if the fight had drained out of him.

“Fine,” he said, his voice low but resigned. “If you’re sure this is what you want. But don’t… don’t lie to me about why you’re doing it.”

You froze, your heart skipping a beat as his words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, you thought he might see right through you, might call out the truth you were so desperate to hide. But he didn’t press further, his eyes locked on yours like he was searching for an answer you weren’t ready to give.

You stayed silent for a moment, your heart thundering in your chest as Stan’s words echoed in your mind. The weight of his gaze bore down on you, his eyes filled with a mix of uncertainty and something that felt dangerously close to disappointment. A frown tugged at your lips, and before you could overthink it, you leaned forward, rising just enough to press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips.

The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a spark through you all the same. Stan didn’t pull away, but his breath hitched, and you felt his body tense beneath your hands.

Your fingers moved with purpose, unsteady but determined, as they found the zipper of his jeans. The metallic sound filled the charged silence of the room, your fingers brushing against his stomach as you pulled the zipper down. You could feel your own breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts, and your voice wavered as you finally broke the silence.

“Is this okay?” you asked, barely above a whisper, your eyes darting up to meet his.

Stan’s brows furrowed, his lips parting like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His hands gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. For a moment, the only response you got was the flicker of something in his eyes—confusion, hesitation, and a hint of something else you couldn’t quite place.

“I—” he started, his voice hoarse, before cutting himself off. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze darted to your hands, then back to your face. “Are you sure about this? Like… really sure?”

You nodded, even as your nerves screamed at you to stop. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t,” you said softly, your voice steadier than you felt.

Stan’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing as though he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away. “This is… this is so much more than just practice,” he muttered, his tone strained. “You know that, right?”

Your heart twisted at the conflict in his voice, but you forced a small smile, trying to lighten the weight of the moment. “Maybe,” you admitted, your tone soft but teasing. “But it’s still practice. For Damien. Right?”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but you forced them out, hoping they’d ease some of the tension coiling between you. Stan’s expression darkened, his brows knitting together as he let out a quiet, frustrated breath.

“Right,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with something you couldn’t quite name. His eyes searched yours, like he was trying to find some crack in the mask you were wearing, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping as he gave a small nod. “Okay.”

His voice was barely audible, but it sent a rush of relief and adrenaline through you. You leaned in again, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was firmer this time, more deliberate. Your hands lingered at the waistband of his jeans, waiting for any sign that he wanted you to stop. But when his hands moved to your ass, gripping you lightly as he deepened the kiss, you took it as his answer.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of Stan’s jeans, your movements slow and deliberate. The sound of the zipper had already filled the quiet between you, but now, as you tugged the fabric down, it felt deafening. The denim slid down his hips, revealing the waistband of his boxers, and you avoided looking directly at him, focusing instead on the task at hand.

Neither of you said a word. The air between you felt thick, heavy with unspoken tension, and you could feel Stan’s eyes on you, tracking your every movement. His breathing was shallow, and his hands stayed firmly planted on your hips, grounding both of you in the moment.

You paused once his jeans were partway down his thighs, your hands resting on the fabric as you glanced up at him. His cheeks were flushed, a deep red spreading from his ears to his neck, and his gaze darted between your face and your hands like he wasn’t sure where to look.

The silence stretched, and you could feel your own pulse pounding in your ears. Finally, you broke it, your voice barely above a whisper. “Is this still okay?”

Stan hesitated, his lips parting as if he was about to say something. His grip on your hips tightened, and his brows furrowed, the conflict in his expression plain as day. “Yeah,” he said after a long moment, though his voice was strained. “It’s… yeah.”

The reassurance was enough to make you move again, though your hands trembled slightly as you tugged his jeans down further, exposing more of his legs. Your fingers brushed against his skin as you worked, and you felt the heat radiating off him, adding to the tension already building between you.

When his jeans were fully off, you sat back on your heels, your eyes flickering up to meet his. Stan’s face was still flushed, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, and his hands gripped the edge of the bed like he was trying to steady himself.

“You’re really quiet,” you said softly, trying to ease the tension, though your own voice was shaky. “You’re usually not this quiet.”

Stan let out a breathy laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested on his knees before flicking back up to meet yours. “This isn’t exactly normal for us, is it?”

Your lips curved into a small, nervous smile. “No,” you admitted, your voice just as soft. “It’s not.”

Another silence settled between you, and for a moment, you weren’t sure what to do next. The weight of what you were doing—what you were about to do—pressed heavily on your chest. But then Stan’s hands moved, hesitantly reaching for yours, and his fingers brushed against yours in a way that sent a jolt through your nerves.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere. “You don’t have to… if you don’t want to.”

His words made your heart clench, and for a moment, you almost wanted to pull back, to let the tension dissolve into something easier to handle. But the look in his eyes, the way he was trying so hard to give you an out, only made you more certain.

“I want to,” you said, your voice steadier this time as you gave his hands a light squeeze. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Stan didn’t respond right away, but his grip on your hands tightened slightly, and he gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was all the reassurance you needed to take the next step.

You swallowed hard, nerves twisting in your stomach as your fingers grazed the waistband of his boxers. Stan’s breathing had deepened, his chest rising and falling heavily as he avoided your gaze, his eyes fixed on some distant point. He didn’t stop you, though, and that gave you the courage to keep going.

“Tell me what to do,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. Despite your nerves, there was a thread of determination there—a quiet plea that you hoped he’d take seriously.

Stan’s jaw tightened, his eyes finally flicking down to meet yours. His voice was rough, strained. “You’re really serious about this?” he asked, his hands clenching slightly where they rested at his sides.

“Yes,” you whispered, trying to sound sure even though your heart was racing. “I need to know how to do this… right.”

His gaze lingered on you, sharp and searching, but after a moment, he let out a low sigh. “Alright,” he muttered, his tone laced with resignation. “... just take it slow.”

Your fingers hooked into the elastic of his boxers, and you tugged gently, watching as Stan shifted his hips slightly to help you slide them down.

His dick slaps up against the stomach of his tee-shirt, the tip hitting an area that’s bunched around his abdominal and dripping precum onto the black fabric, somehow darkening it.

You look up to him a few times, vision switching between the pretty pink tip of his cock to the clenching of his jaw.

���Is this okay?” you asked, your voice barely audible, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

Stan’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice tight when he finally answered. “Yeah… yeah, it’s fine.”

Your hand hovered hesitantly, and his breath hitched when you brushed against his cock. The sound sent a thrill through your body, and despite your nerves, you felt a small surge of confidence. You wrapped your hand around him gently, and his precum smeared against your skin. You jerked him slowly, wanting to slicken up his cock so you sliding over him would be smooth. Stan’s head fell back slightly, a quiet groan slipping from his lips. 

“Just… grip a little tighter,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he finally looked down at you again. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted as he sucked in a shaky breath. “Not too hard. Just… like that.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip, and when you moved faster, his reaction was immediate. His hips twitched up slightly, and he let out a low curse, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The sound sent heat pooling between your thighs, and you bit your lip, trying to keep your focus.

“Good?” you asked quietly, your voice almost drowned out by the pounding of your heart.

“Fuck, yeah,” Stan groaned, his head tilting back again. “Just keep going.”

You felt the divet of his cockhead sliding under your hand as you stroked him slowly. Every movement guided by the small sounds he made—the sharp intakes of breath, the quiet groans, the way his hips rolled up to meet your touch. You kept your eyes on him, taking in every detail—the flush spreading across his chest, the way his mouth hung open as he panted, the soft curses that fell from his lips like he couldn’t control them.

It wasn’t long before his hand shot out, gripping your wrist lightly. His eyes met yours, dark and heavy-lidded. “Slow down,” he rasped, his voice tight. “You’re gonna… fuck, just slow down.”

You obeyed, easing your movements as you stared up at him, your lips parting as a wave of heat rolled through you. “Like this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Stan groaned again, his head tipping forward as his gaze bore into you. “Yeah,” he muttered, his grip on your wrist loosening slightly. “Just like that.”

Your hand continued its rhythm, your movements deliberate as you watched the way Stan reacted—how his breathing turned shallow, how his lips parted just slightly, how his hips occasionally jerked despite his best efforts to stay still. He felt so warm, and the squelching noises of your hand jerking him off only spurred you on even more.

But then you stopped.

Stan’s eyes flew open, his brows knitting together as his gaze snapped to yours. His lips parted, and for a moment, you could see the question forming on his tongue, but he didn’t ask it. He just stared, chest heaving, waiting.

You hesitated, your voice barely above a whisper as you finally asked, “Can I…?” Your eyes flicked downward, then back to his, the weight of your question hanging heavily in the air. “Can I put it in my mouth?”

Stan’s jaw tightened, and he let out a shaky exhale, his grip on the sheets loosening slightly before he dragged a hand over his face. “Jesus, dude,” he muttered, his voice strained and low. He looked down at you, his expression conflicted, torn between disbelief and something deeper, darker.

“I just…” you started, your voice trembling as you tried to explain. “If I’m going to learn how to… you know, I want to do it right. You said you’d help me, and—”

Stan cut you off with a groan, his head falling back against the headboard. “This is beyond helping, okay? This is—” He stopped himself, his breathing heavy as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. “This is way more than just practice.”

You bit your lip, your cheeks flushing as you avoided his gaze. “I know,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible. “But… you said you didn’t mind. And I… I want to do this for you.”

Stan looked at you sharply, his eyes narrowing as he studied your face. “You keep saying it’s for practice,” he said, his voice low and accusing. “But this… this doesn’t feel like it’s about Damien anymore.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might see right through you. But you steeled yourself, forcing your voice to stay steady. “It is,” you lied, your gaze unwavering as you met his eyes. “It’s just practice, Stan. That’s all.”

The silence that followed was deafening, his eyes searching yours for something he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging as he nodded once, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he said, his voice rough and resigned. “But take it slow. Don’t… don’t push yourself, alright? Just… go slow. Start with the tip.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the vulnerability in his tone sending a wave of guilt and something else—something you couldn’t quite name—crashing over you. You nodded, licking your lips nervously as you lowered your mouth to him. Your tongue darted out first, flicking tentatively against the head, and you felt him twitch beneath your touch. The salty taste was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, and you tried not to overthink it as you wrapped your lips around him, taking just the tip into your mouth.

Stan let out a shaky breath, his hands clenching the sheets tighter. “That’s… yeah, that’s good,” he said, his voice low and strained. “Use your tongue more. Like, swirl it around.”

You obeyed, your tongue moving in slow circles as you took him a little deeper. His reaction was immediate—a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as his hips jerked slightly, though he quickly stilled himself. The sound sent a thrill through you, and you felt a strange mix of nervousness and satisfaction at the idea that you were doing something right.

“Easy,” Stan muttered, his voice tight but patient. “Don’t take too much at once. Just go at your own pace.”

You pulled back slightly, your lips sliding up his length before you lowered your head again, this time taking him a little further into your mouth. Your jaw stretched uncomfortably, and you couldn’t help but gag slightly as you felt him press against the back of your throat. You pulled back quickly, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as you coughed softly.

Stan’s hand shot out, hovering near your face like he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or not. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, his voice gentler now. “Don’t force it. Just take what you can, alright?”

You nodded, blinking back the sting of tears as you took a deep breath and tried again. This time, you moved slower, focusing on the motion of your tongue and the suction of your lips rather than how much you could take. You felt his thigh muscles tense beneath your hands, his breath hitching as you found a rhythm.

“Fuck,” Stan muttered, his voice barely audible. His hand finally settled on your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. He didn’t push or guide you, but the warmth of his touch was grounding, and it gave you the confidence to keep going.

“Try using your hand too,” he murmured, his voice shaky. “Like… twist it a little while you move.”

You pulled back just enough to wrap your hand around his base, your fingers tightening as you followed his instruction. The combination seemed to drive him wild—his hips bucked slightly, and he let out a moan, his head falling back against the headboard.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his voice rough and strained. “S-shit, you’re… you’re doing so good.”

The praise sent a rush of warmth through you, and you couldn’t stop the small, satisfied hum that vibrated against him. His reaction was immediate—his grip on your hair tightening slightly, his body tensing as he let out a sharp gasp.

You kept going, your movements growing more assured as you tuned into every sound Stan made, every subtle shift in his body. The way his breath hitched or the low, broken groans that escaped him told you when you were doing something right. You were nervous—your stomach churned with anticipation—but you pushed through it, focusing on the moment and the way he reacted to you.

Stan’s hand rested in your hair, his fingers tangling gently as his breathing grew more uneven. “God…” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. His head tipped back slightly, and you could see the tension building in his jaw and the way his chest rose and fell sharply.

You adjusted your grip, your hand working in tandem with your mouth, and tried to mimic what had drawn the strongest reactions from him. Your tongue dragged along his length with intentional pressure, and his body jerked slightly beneath you. “Holy shit,” he groaned, his voice breaking at the edges. “That’s… fuck, you’re so much better than you think.”

His words sent a flicker of warmth through you, but you didn’t dwell on them. You kept moving, keeping your pace steady and adjusting whenever his breath hitched or his fingers flexed in your hair. Your nerves hadn’t entirely disappeared, but his reactions gave you something to cling to, a sense of purpose in what you were doing.

Stan’s grip tightened in your hair, his body tensing further. “Wait, wait—” he muttered, his voice strained and desperate. “I’m gonna cum. You don’t have to—”

You didn’t stop. You didn’t even look up. Instead, you pressed forward, your mouth working with a deliberate intensity now as you braced your hands against his thighs for leverage. His protests turned into a low groan, and his hips jerked involuntarily against you.

“Fuck!” Stan gasped, his voice rough and strangled. His hand tugged lightly at your hair, but you didn’t move, your determination outweighing his half-hearted attempts to stop you. “You—shit, you’re gonna—”

Before he could finish, you felt him spill into your mouth, the sudden heat catching you off guard but not enough to stop. You stayed where you were, swallowing instinctively as he came, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. His groans filled the room, and his hand fell from your hair, and his body sagged back against the headboard.

When it was over, you finally pulled back, your lips tingling and your cheeks flushed. Stan looked at you with wide eyes, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. “You… you didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice hoarse and almost incredulous.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, meeting his gaze with a steady determination you hadn’t realized you had. “I wanted to,” you said simply, your voice soft but firm.

Stan just stared at you, his face pale and his blue eyes glassy. The tension in his jaw twitched as his expression darkened into something that made your stomach churn. The haze of intimacy that had clouded the air between you was gone, replaced by a sickening weight. His breaths came in short, uneven bursts, and his shoulders hunched like the act of standing upright was too much for him.

“Stan?” you asked, your voice uncertain as you watched him scramble to his feet. He reached for his boxers, jeans, and shoes, hastily pulling them on with trembling hands. His movements were frantic, uncoordinated, like he was desperate to cover himself up and get away from the moment.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned abruptly, shoving his phone and keys into the pocket of his hoodie. His hands trembled as they clutched the fabric, white-knuckled, like he was hanging on by a thread. You stepped forward, your bare feet brushing against the carpet, but he was already moving—too fast, too erratic.

“Stan, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” you said, your voice rising with desperation as he stumbled toward the door.

He paused just short of the handle, his body stiffening like he was about to explode. Then, as if something inside him snapped, he turned sharply toward the corner of your room. His hand flew to his stomach, and before you could say another word, he doubled over your trashcan and vomited. The sound was wet, jarring, and raw, cutting through the suffocating silence of the room like a blade.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. His entire body convulsed with the force of it, his hands gripping the edges of the trashcan so tightly that his knuckles turned bone-white.

“Stan!” you cried out, rushing toward him but stopping short, unsure if he wanted you there. He was trembling, his breath coming in uneven, ragged gasps as he straightened up slightly. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie, the fabric smearing across his chin as he finally spoke.

“I can’t fucking do this,” he rasped, his voice low and broken. He didn’t look at you—wouldn’t look at you. “I shouldn’t… fuck. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

His words hit you like ice water, and your chest tightened painfully. “What do you mean?” you asked, though your voice was barely audible, trembling with the weight of your confusion and hurt.

Stan let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound bitter and self-loathing. “What do I mean? Look at me,” he snapped, finally turning to face you. His expression was hollow, his eyes shadowed with a pain you couldn’t begin to understand. “I’m a fucking mess, okay? And you’re… you’re not supposed to—” He stopped, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I can’t be your fucking practice, alright? I’m not some… tool for you to figure your shit out with Damien.”

His words felt like knives, each one cutting deeper than the last. “Stan, that’s not what this was,” you started, but he cut you off.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice cracking as he backed toward the door. “Just… don’t. You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it.”

You watched helplessly as he yanked the door open, his movements erratic and desperate. “Stan, wait!” you called out, your voice breaking, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn around.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the room unbearably quiet. The faint scent of sweat and his cologne still lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of how close you’d been just minutes ago. Your knees gave out, and you sank onto the bed, your hands clutching the edge of the mattress as you stared blankly at the floor.

You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity before the words slipped out, soft and shaky, as if saying them aloud might make sense of the chaos: “I just wanted to help you.”

yeah this was kinda fucked up... | part two

[cheeby]

The weight of what comes next

read chapter 1 here, chapter 2 here

content: a multi-part isekai story. reader is aware of the plot, and every minor character is aged up. Jujutsu high is now the University of Jujutsu.

18+, eventual smut

Chapter 3-

“Oh, speak of the devil. Here’s your fellow first year buddy,” Gojo chuckles. “Megumi! C’mon over!”

You turn, expecting… well, you weren’t too sure. The boy walking towards you looks like he’s wandered out of a far-away, wistful daydream. His dark hair flops over his forehead, his expression somewhere between bored and annoyed, and he's giving you a look like he already regrets meeting you. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“This is Fushiguro Megumi,” Gojo announces, lazily draping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. Megumi immediately shrugs him off. “He’s our star student! Aaand the only student here that probably won’t make you wanna gouge your eyes out.”

“How comforting..” You mutter under your breath.

At this, Megumi casts a glance your way, his sharp eyes scanning your face briefly, as though trying to figure you out. You blush under his gaze. It feels somehow different than how Nanami or Gojo look at you.

“Who’s this?” He asks Gojo, ignoring you completely. Umm okayyy..

“This,” Gojo says, motioning towards you with a dramatic flourish, “Is (Y/N) (L/N), our newest recruit. Isn’t she soo lucky to have you as her mentor?" “Mentor?” Megumi repeats, frowning. “What.. are you talking about?” “Oh, right, I didnt mention! You two are going on a mission together.” Gojo’s tone is way too cheerful for what he’s just dropped. “Call it… bonding time!” “Wait, what?” You and Megumi say in unison.

Gojo nods. “I know it's a little fast, but we don’t have other sorcerers available right now. Plus, it's just going to another university and investigating a ~spooky~ special-grade object!” He laughs. “Its nothing too bad. And this is a great way for (Y/N) to gain some first hand experience before starting lessons on Monday!”

Megumi grunts. “Great.” He mutters. “And, (Y/N), since you can't really use your cursed energy right now, you’ll be given a weapon imbued with cursed energy to help you fight any curses! Cool, right?” He grins, putting his face between his hands. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

You and Megumi set out on your mission together. You wonder if this is where you’ll meet Yuji, since universities replace the high schools in this universe. Thank god, you think, relieved. You totally didnt wanna be the only young adult along with some 16 year olds! Even though you’re only a few years older than them, it’s just weird.

Megumi’s barely said a word to you since you’ve met him, but you’re okay with it, since his character's exactly like this in the anime. It’s sort of comforting.

You shift the concealed glaive Gojo lent you in your hands. To anyone else, it looks like some sort of tall instrument in its carrier. Your glaive is beautiful, with intricate carvings along the handle and a blade that gleams unnaturally sharp. It’s surprisingly light too—Gojo explained that it was imbued with energy to reduce its weight and sharpen its blade. You could probably spin it around in your hands if you tried, but you know better than that.

The two of you board a packed train to Sendai, and you settle into your seat next to Megumi. It’s early summer here, and the AC is on full blast above you. Megumi’s in his usual dark uniform, which you think is weird, what university has a uniform? You glance down at your own outfit, the one you've stayed in this whole time—jeans and a cute pink top— and suddenly feel self-conscious. Compared to Megumi’s sleek, polished look, you feel massively underdressed. Then, it hits you: what about all your clothes? You groan. You’re gonna have to buy a whole new wardrobe!

At that, Megumi glances at you, his brow furrowed slightly. “What’s wrong?” He asks quietly.

You blink, caught off guard by his attention. “Oh, uh… just thinking about something. I live kinda.. far from Tokyo, so I’m not sure how I’ll get my clothes and stuff to my room.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Just buy new stuff. Gojo will cover it.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if that suddenly solves everything. He just doesn’t get it! “And on missions, you can only wear your uniform anyway. Obviously not in this case, but you’ll get one soon enough.”

You nod, processing his words. “Don’t you think it’s weird that a university enforces a uniform though?”

Megumi looks away in thought, tilting his head slightly. “I mean, I guess if it was an academic university. But it’s for sorcerers, and we always usually wear some sort of professional wear, I guess. It's just custom in Japan.” You hum in agreement. “I went to a regular university before this… so it’s still weird to me.”

At this, he looks back at you, curiosity flickering across his usually stoic face. God, he’s so cute!

“I was studying physics,” You continue, a hint of pride slipping into your voice. “At a pretty prestigious university in my country.” Even though you were only there for a couple months, it’s still something you’re proud of. You were in your first year of university back home, similar to now.

Megumi nods slightly, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter shock, he says, “That’s… cool.”

Your eyes widen. Did… Megumi just compliment you?

You settle into a comfortable silence for the next hour and a half. Despite yourself, you feel oddly shy sitting so close to him. Megumi Fushiguro, in the flesh. In 2021, when you had first watched the anime, you had the biggest crush on him. Seeing him in person, rather than a 2D character on your screen? Completely swoon-worthy. His lashes are just as long as you remember, his hands just as graceful. You feel your cheeks heat up, and you force yourself to look away before he catches you staring.To your relief, (and honestly your delight), you’d realised earlier that you’re indeed the same age. Then, there was the fact you were in 2018, which was a total mind-fuck of its own. You had figured it out when you pulled out your iPhone 15 in front of Megumi, who had given you the weirdest look.

“What model is that?” He’d asked, frowning.

You were about to say, before you glanced at his iPhone.. 6s?

“Oh, uh, it’s a foreign brand,” you said quickly, shoving your phone back in your bag before he could question it further. ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The train pulls into Sendai in the evening, and the two of you make your way to the university campus.

“There are strong cursed energy residuals near that shed,” he mutters, pointing towards the small structure in the distance. You pause. For the first time, you realise you can feel it too—sticky and all things gross.

You two find the shed broken into, just like in the anime. There is no cursed object in sight. This, of course, sends Megumi into a panic, as he tries to search for it nearby.

“Damn it,” he mutters, stepping around the shed and again circling the area, clearly agitated. You lean casually against the shed, watching him with mild amusement. You’re not exactly sure why, but you don’t feel particularly inclined to help.

“Are you seriously just gonna stand there?” He snaps at you, glaring.

“Hm.. yup.” You grin, trying—and failing— to suppress a laugh. “Its clearly not here anyway, Megu- uhh Fushiguro.” Damn it! Why do you keep saying their first names?!

He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re impossible.” He mutters, before pulling out his phone to call Gojo.

“There’s nothing here. The Stevenson hutch is empty.” Megumi says, evenly.

“For real? That’s hilarious. Maybe it took a nighttime stroll!” You can hear Gojo’s gleeful voice on the other end. You smile to yourself. Megumi’s jaw tightens. “I’m going to punch you.” He says flatly. “Well, no going home until it’s recovered, okay?” Gojo chirps, before the line disconnects. “I’m seriously going to punch him.” Megumi mutters. You can’t help but giggle at his exasperation. As the sky darkens even further, Megumi sighs and puts his phone away.

“We’ll book a hotel, and continue our search for the object tomorrow morning.” Megumi states, already scrolling on his phone for a good deal. “Okay!” You reply brightly, following him back towards the main road.

You check into the hotel, and head to your rooms, which are conveniently next to each other. You’re a little let down at the fact you weren’t forced into a “sorry, we only have one room available” trope, not that you.. wanted to share a room with Megumi of course. You just.. thought it would be funny. Maybe. Shaking the thought away, you settle into your room.

After dropping off your things, (which wasn’t much, at all), you and Megumi head out to grab dinner at a nearby restaurant. The two of you eat in silence, both way too hungry to bother with conversation, beyond the occasional “this is so good” between bites.

When the plates are cleared and you’re waiting for the bill, you stretch and stifle a yawn, glancing across the booth at Megumi. Deciding to break the silence, you try to strike up conversation.

“Soo, Fushiguro, how did you-” before you can finish, a waiter hands over the bill, and Megumi pays with Gojo-sensei’s card. You raise an eyebrow at the sight, but choose not to comment.

“What were you saying?” He asks softly, as he slides the card back into his wallet. Why was such a simple action so hot?! You hesitate. You were going to ask him how he became a jujutsu sorcerer, but you already knew. You had watched JJK 0 the second it came out, after all. “Oh, nothing important. Let’s get back to the hotel and catch some rest!” You say, cheerfully, brushing it off.

Megumi doesn’t reply, just nods in agreement.

You’re jolted awake by a knock at your door. Groggy and disorientated, you sit up as a familiar voice calls through the door. “Hurry up,” Megumi says, sounding irritated. You glance at the clock and groan. You didn’t even set an alarm. The rest of yesterdays night was uneventful, and since Megumi didnt seem up for much conversation, you just called it an early night.

You hop into the bathroom, brushing your teeth, and quickly fix your hair in the mirror, trying to look at least somewhat good, but without the time to shower, you feel super gross walking out in the same clothes as yesterday. Yuck! You open the door after you’ve finished getting ready. “Sorry for being late,” you say, in shame.

Megumi just scoffs. Okay… what’s his deal? ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The train pulls into Sendai in the evening, and the two of you make your way to the university campus.

“There are strong cursed energy residuals near that shed,” he mutters, pointing towards the small structure in the distance. You pause. For the first time, you realise you can feel it too—sticky and all things gross.

You two find the shed broken into, just like in the anime. There is no cursed object in sight. This, of course, sends Megumi into a panic, as he tries to search for it nearby.

“Damn it,” he mutters, stepping around the shed and again circling the area, clearly agitated. You lean casually against the shed, watching him with mild amusement. You’re not exactly sure why, but you don’t feel particularly inclined to help.

“Are you seriously just gonna stand there?” He snaps at you, glaring.

“Hm.. yup.” You grin, trying—and failing— to suppress a laugh. “Its clearly not here anyway, Megu- uhh Fushiguro.” Damn it! Why do you keep saying their first names?!

He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re impossible.” He mutters, before pulling out his phone to call Gojo.

“There’s nothing here. The Stevenson hutch is empty.” Megumi says, evenly.

“For real? That’s hilarious. Maybe it took a nighttime stroll!” You can hear Gojo’s gleeful voice on the other end. You smile to yourself. Megumi’s jaw tightens. “I’m going to punch you.” He says flatly. “Well, no going home until it’s recovered, okay?” Gojo chirps, before the line disconnects. “I’m seriously going to punch him.” Megumi mutters. You can’t help but giggle at his exasperation. As the sky darkens, Megumi sighs and puts his phone away.

“We’ll book a hotel, and continue our search for the object tomorrow morning.” Megumi states, already scrolling on his phone for a good deal. “Okay!” You reply brightly, following him back towards the main road.

You check into the hotel, and head to your rooms, which are conveniently next to each other. You’re a little let down at the fact you weren’t forced into a “sorry, we only have one room available” trope, not that you.. wanted to share a room with Megumi of course. You just.. thought it would be funny. Maybe. Shaking the thought away, you settle into your room.

After dropping off your things, (which wasn’t much, at all), you and Megumi head out to grab dinner at a nearby restaurant. The two of you eat in silence, both way too hungry to bother with conversation, beyond the occasional “this is so good” between bites.

When the plates are cleared and you’re waiting for the bill, you stretch and stifle a yawn, glancing across the booth at Megumi. Deciding to break the silence, you try to strike up conversation.

“Soo, Fushiguro, how did you-” before you can finish, a waiter hands over the bill, and Megumi pays with Gojo-sensei’s card. You raise an eyebrow at the sight, but choose not to comment.

“What were you saying?” He asks softly, as he slides the card back into his wallet. Why was such a simple action so hot?! You hesitate. You were going to ask him how he became a jujutsu sorcerer, but you already knew. You had watched JJK 0 the second it came out, after all. “Oh, nothing important. Let’s get back to the hotel and catch some rest!” You say, cheerfully, brushing it off.

Megumi doesn’t reply, just nods in agreement.

You’re jolted awake by a knock at your door. Groggy and disorientated, you sit up as a familiar voice calls through the door. “Hurry up,” Megumi says, sounding irritated. You glance at the clock and groan. You didn’t even set an alarm. The rest of yesterdays night was uneventful, and since Megumi didnt seem up for much conversation, you just called it an early night.

You hop into the bathroom, brushing your teeth, and quickly fix your hair in the mirror, trying to look at least somewhat good, but without the time to shower, you feel super gross walking out in the same clothes as yesterday. Yuck! You open the door after you’ve finished getting ready.

“Sorry for being late,” you say, in shame.

Megumi just scoffs. Okay… what’s his deal?

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Back at the university grounds, Megumi turns to you, his expression serious.

“The presence of the object is too strong to pin down. It feels like its close by, but it could actually be far away. Special grade cursed objects are always a pain…” he rambles.

You nod along, pretending to be clueless even though you know exactly what the object actually is. “I have no clue who could’ve moved it..” He continues, frustration creeping into his voice as you both make your way towards the sports grounds.

As you approach, you catch sight of a pink-haired boy, Yuji Itadori, hurling a heavy metal ball over 30 meters like its nothing. Your jaw drops.

“Woah…” you mutter under your breath. It’s one thing to see it in the anime, but witnessing it in real life? Insane. “That guy is incredible.” Megumi murmurs. “Pulling off that shot with no cursed energy… that’s difficult.”

You nod, silently agreeing.

Suddenly, the boy darts past you and Megumi, moving so fast you almost lose sight of him. An intense burst of cursed energy hits your senses like a slap to the face.

“The presence of a cursed object!” Megumi yells. “Hey, hold it!” He extends an arm towards Yuji, but he’s long gone. You stifle a giggle.

“That’s not funny, (L/N),” Megumi snaps. “Now we’re gonna have to track that guy down!”

“I heard Yuji can run 50 meters in 3 seconds!” Someone nearby says, as you overhear whispers about the boy’s incredible speed. You and Megumi exchange a look of dumbfoundedness.

By the time you follow the trail of cursed energy to the hospital, it was already late evening. You, of course, know this is not where the object you were trying to locate really is—it’s still in the university, but to not risk disrupting the canon, you go along with Megumi anyway. You also know this was the day Yuji’s grandfather had passed away, so you aren’t really looking forward to meeting him under such awful conditions. It feels.. wrong. You reach the hospital, and hang back, taking a seat off to the side, letting Megumi speak to Yuji, their conversation unfolding just as you remember from the anime. There’s no point in interfering, you think.

You observe the interaction neutrally. Megumi explains the concept of curses to a confused Yuji, and warns Yuji how the object he thinks Yuji’s in possession of, is a special-grade cursed object. Yuji, looking nervous, says he doesn’t actually have the object, as you expect, and tosses the box over to Megumi.

“Its.. empty..” Megumi remarks, his tone sharp. Yuji shrugs, and tries to leave the room, but Megumi grabs him by his arm and stops him in his tracks. “Hold it. Where is it?” He demands.

Yuji hesitates, glancing between you on the chair, and Megumi, before admitting “My friends… they’re planning on opening it up tonight, to see what’s inside it.” You stand, crossing your arms. The air is thick, and you feel a frown forming at the corners of your lips.

“Uh.. why? Is that bad?” Yuji asks anxiously, continuing to look between the two of you.

“It’s worse than bad.” Megumi says through gritted teeth. His voice hardens as he continues.

“Your friends are going to die.”

~~~~ cliff-hanger! also, i've attached below some pictures of what a glaive is, if you're unfamiliar. they're very pretty looking, and i thought this would be a badass weapon for MC to have. Lmk any thoughts you have about this chapter, and i'll see you next wednesday!

[purplecoffee13]

Mr. Sunshine - pt. 1

Summary: Harry is a chipper guy with a dimpled smile, amazing coffee, and a need for a tutor. You are a smart girl with an obsession with caffeine and a distaste for people. Harry is infatuated with you from the day he met you, and now he’s determined to spend more time, even if that means bribing you with coffee.

Wc: 2.5k

Tropes: grumpy!MC x sunshine!Harry (based off this ask)

Warnings: none. (for now *evil snicker*)

A/N: tumblr won’t let me add a picture for some reason, but just know that I was going to add the one of dunkirk!Harry in an orange sweater and green pants, leaned against the wall with his jaw clenched as he looks at a guy’s phone. I love that picture of him. Okay, anyways, enjoy!

Masterlist

Harry Styles has been obsessed with you from the very first year of Uni. He was paired with you and two other people on a sociology project, and since then, he has been enamored with everything about you.

It wasn't like your charm took him over. If anything, your silent glare is what drew him in. You guys seemed to have the laziest project partners because they barely helped, and whatever suggestions they did have were absolutely useless.

You were a quiet girl. Not necessarily because you were shy, but because you simply didn't feel like talking. You would usually say no more than ten sentences during a group meeting, but everything you did say was always of substance.

The first time you were alone with Harry, it was in the library, where you were supposed to have a group meeting to revise each other's work that you had all divided up. Harry and you were the only ones who actually showed up, and ended up revising each other's, and then the others' work that they had sent via e-mail.

Harry had never laughed harder than that day.

The comments you made while revising their work were so witty and sharp. Their work was incredibly bad, most of the spelling was even wrong. It was quite literally a train wreck, but your quick mindedness kept Harry's dimples on display.

You hadn't even tried to be funny, and you had never experienced someone actually liking what you said and being interested in it. It made you feel weird.

After that, you were sure you would never see Harry again. He was on the rugby team, very popular with the ladies and seemed to have a busy schedule with all the parties he went to. You weren't a stalker, but your roommate couldn't stop talking about him ever since they hooked up somewhere in the first month of uni. She was determined to go to every party Harry went to, as an attempt to sleep with him again, and Y/N had to hear all about it. She was glad her roommate graduated last year, her new roommate was way nicer anyway.

You didn't go to parties. It wasn't like you hadn't tried; you went to three parties in the first week. But that turned out to be the worst decision of your entire life... oh well, that's wasn't the point. The point was, there was no scenario in which you would ever cross paths with Harry again. Except that there was, apparently.

After the summer, fresh in your second year, you entered the auditorium for the introduction class for second years. It was nothing special, just a little welcome back with a presentation on what to expect for this year.

You decided to sit at the front. The louder people usually sat in the back, so you wouldn't be bothered here anyway. You had comfortably taken a seat in the first row, knowing many people would be too weirded out to sit so up close anyway. But about five minutes before orientation begin, you heard the seat next to you creak, and Harry Styles sat down next to you.

"Hi." He smiled at you.

"Hey." You greeted him back, glancing at the podium to see how long it would take for the presentation to start. You hated chit chat, and you knew he could talk a lot.

"How was your summer?" He asked, ever so polite. That was one thing about Harry, he was always nice and sweet. It didn't exactly go with his college reputation, but you also didn't expect any differently from him.

"Oh, just peachy." You said in a bit of a monotone voice, leaning back into your seat, and keeping your eyes fixated on the screen even though there was nothing to see yet. You were in no interest to keep this conversation going. You had chosen the bloody front seats for god's sake!

"Good to hear." Harry grinned at your sarcastic response, turning his head to the podium alike. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about your beautiful face and your ability to give him a stomach ache from laughing all summer. When he saw you sitting alone, he knew it was the perfect opportunity to approach you.

There was about ten seconds of silence, ten beautiful and peaceful seconds. But then it started. That nagging feeling inside of you, and it didn't take you two more seconds before you succumbed to it.

"How was your summer?" You said so softly it could almost be classified as a whisper. Harry's head shot your way, his eyebrows raised.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" You heard the amusement in Harry's tone, and you immediately regretted ever speaking up. You turned your head to him with a fake smile.

"I said, how was your summer, Harry?"

Wow, he liked that.

You had never said his name before, not even when you were in that group project with him. Harry only realized that now that his name fell from your lips. Now, he was definitely going to try and make you say his name more. He liked the way it just rolled off your tongue, even though saying that sentences seemed like a bit of a struggle.

"Why, thank you for asking Y/N! My summer was splendid." He said with an overly excited tone that made you want to push him out of the chair.

"Good to hear." You repeated his words in a murmur. Another few empty seconds went by, and you felt like you had fulfilled your duty. Now you wouldn't have to feel guilty about being impolite, and—

"Yeah, I mean, I went to this surf camp somewhere in Portugal. It was pretty cool. And after that, I went to the Amalfi Coast for a week and a half. Have you ever been to the Amalfi Coast, Y/N? Because I hadn't, and honestly it was even better than I expected. A little touristy though, but I guess that just had mostly to do with the season."

Oh my god. Your face paled. He wouldn't stop talking. Uninterrupted, he kept yapping on and on about this surf camp and the Italian cuisine for three minutes. It were the longest minutes of your life.

But you didn't shush him. You weren't sure why. You knew he was doing this to tease you, but a part of you didn't want to be disrespectful and cut him off. He was the only one who had actually delivered work and showed up to every meeting last year, and he had been nothing but nice to you. So, despite him being an annoying pain in the ass, you decided to just let him talk.

Harry couldn't believe you just let him talk.

He was waiting for you to shut him down, but you didn't. He was able to keep going until the presentation begun. And although you didn't give any verbal input nor did you look at him the entire time he was speaking, he still couldn't believe you let him annoy you without even so much as a death glare. He had never been happier about being ignored.

He kept quiet for the orientation, but it took no longer than fifteen minutes before the presentation ended and everyone was free to go. You took your time with packing your notebook into your bag, mainly to avoid the crowd at the exit.

Harry was waiting until you'd stand up, to walk out of class together, but his friends mobbed him and pulled him along to go and get beer for some king of party that same night. He could've killed his friends. He felt like he blew his shot with you now, but he wasn't going to give up.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

*four weeks later*

You stare at the styrofoam cup in Harry's hands, a bored frown on your face as you look from the cup up at him.

"I bought you coffee." He says. His voice seems relaxed, but there is a hint of stress behind it that you can detect for some reason.

"I didn't ask." You reply in a bored tone, taking the cup out of his hands and taking a sip. Caramel Macchiato. "Thank you."

The corner of Harry's mouth tugs up, and he takes a seat besides you on the park bench. His arm is stretched out behind you, and he turns his entire body towards you. You, however, keep reading your book just like you were doing before he pushed that delicious coffee in your face.

"Y/N." Harry tried to grab your attention, but you keep your eyes fixated on the book.

"Harry." You echo his name.

"You would say we're friends, right?"

"I would not."

"Yes we are." Harry chuckles, but he sounds a bit defensive. You finally look up at him, your face stern as ever.

"I don't think we qualify as friends. Maybe acquaintances." You shake your head.

"We sit next to each other in every class we have together. You like me and we're friends, just admit it, Y/N." He teases. He knows you two are friends, but you are too stubborn to call it a friendship. He also knows that stems from the fact that you haven't had many friends, and thus it is not some kind of way to hurt his feelings.

"I tolerate you."

"You love me."

"You're just lucky I haven't pushed you off this bench."

"There's no point in denying it, Y/N." He dramatically sighs, and you clench your teeth at his toothy grin. You roll your eyes and go back to reading your book. You have learned over the last four weeks that it is best to ignore him. Kind of like a puppy. It stops misbehaving once your turn your back to it.

"So, now that we've established that we are best friends forever, I wanted to ask you a favor."

There we go, you knew there was a catch to this ridiculously good caramel macchiato. Seriously, where did he buy this?

"No." You instantly reply.

"You don't even know what I was going to ask yet."

"If it involves you then I want no part in it."

"Oi! Now that's not how it works, silly! Being friends means you want to be around each other. That's the difference between friends and strangers." He over explains it to you like he would to a child, lightly patting you on your shoulder.

You let out a big sigh, then shut your book and open your bag, getting ready to leave. Harry is being too annoying today; his chipper energy always throws you off. You get up and walk away, taking another sip of the coffee he bought for you. The warm liquid is so smooth and sweet, sugary but just the right amount.

Fuck...

You stop in your tracks, and turn around, walking back to Harry. He is surprised to see you returning to him, and his stomach tenses up out of excitement.

"Where did you get this." You point at the coffee in your right hand. Harry slouches a bit, his legs spread wide. Your eyes accidentally trail off to his legs, but you quickly regain your focus. This is not what that's about— why did you even do that?

Harry, however, has a shit eating grin on his face. He noticed it, the distraction in your eyes. Bingo, he thought. That was his sign.

"Tutor me, and I'll tell you." Harry throws the offer straight on the table.

That's what he came to ask you? Jesus Christ...

"Why?"

"I can't make sense of literature class. I need your help. You're good at writing, I saw the grade you got on that first paper."

He's right, you are good at writing. You've always loved literature and all the theories that came with it. It kind of came with being a loner, you guessed. Or maybe you are such a loner because of your preference of books over people. That thought threw you for a loop, but you quickly got out of your head.

You weigh out the pros and cons of tutoring Harry. You wouldn't ask him for money, because you feel like you know him too well for that. Plus, it just feels like ripping him off, especially when it comes to tutoring literature theories. So what other pros are there besides him bringing you coffee? None. The cons consist of quite literally everything else that comes with tutoring Harry: the free time that you have to dedicate to him, his loud presence, him...

"If you bring me one of these to every session, I will help you." You say, going against your own better judgment. Harry's eyes light up.

Your brain scrambles to understand why you are feeling so opposed to rejecting Harry in any sense of the word, but you can't seem to figure out where the pit in your stomach comes from any time you want to be mean to Harry.

"Really?" He asks in pure disbelief.

"Don't question it, I'll change my mind."

"You're right, you're right." He throws his hands up, a sliver of stress flashing over his face that makes you want lift up the corners of your mouth. Harry gets up and puts his arms around you. You just stand there, one arm stretched out, trying to protect your coffee.

"What are you doing?" You ask, an uncomfortable frown on your face.

"I'm hugging you."

"Well don't. You're separating me from my coffee." You say, and Harry laughs at the strained sound of your voice. He is smiling at you once pulled out of the hug.

"Alright, I've got to split. We'll text about when and where?" He asks, slinging his book bag over shoulder. He turns around to walk away, but he looks back when you speak up again.

"You don't have my number." You say, to yourself just as much as to him.

"Don't worry about it." He calls out and disappears into the distance before you can say another word.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

*5 hours later*

Unknown number:

Hey teach. Told you not to worry about it ;)

You:

Is this the part where I file a police report?

Unknown Number:

If you never want to see that caramel macchiato again, then be my guest.

Anyways, I was thinking about wednesday at 4. That a good time for you, teach?

You:

Not if you keep calling me 'teach'.

Unknown Number:

Right. I'll let you choose another nickname. You have the choice between: buttercup, peanut, or cuddle cakes.

You:

You know what, I'll find that coffee place by myself.

Unknown Number:

Ah, c'mon. I threw cuddle cakes in there especially for you. Personally, I prefer ‘munchkin’.

Y/N? Wednesday work for you?

Hello?

Okay fine sorry, I'll bring the coffee and I won’t call you cuddle cakes.

Please reply, I'm desperate.

You:

Yes, I can see that from the four consecutive texts.

Unknown Number:

:)

You:

Wednesday's fine. See you then.

Unknown Number:

Great. See you then sweet cheeks.

You:

I'm blocking you.

Unknown Number:

Blocking me is blocking the access

to that caramel macchiato.

*seen*

See you Wednesday ;)

[wide-nose-and-wonderful]

Pairing: Franklin Saint x Black Fem Reader!

Warnings/Type: Established Relationship. Brief use of the n-word.  Some Fluffy, Goofiness and a little bit of Smutty Goodness to send you on your way. Imagine One Shot, or something like that.

MINORS DNI! AT ALL! This is not for you.

Word count: 4,444k | Summary: There was a reason we got 1985 Franklin and not 2024 Franklin. Just imagine the husband wit’ a cellphone. A damn fool. That's what. And Leon a fool to cause he'd be right there wit' him. Like y'all ain't done no kinda work. Tick tockin’ n’shit. Haha ain't he sexy tho' em em em. Mr. Saint Mr. Saint you can get it all, you can get it all. And so without further ado' drum roll please....

A smile itches to make itself visible. You instantly become playful because he's playful, and his antics are infectious. “Franklin. Why you got it on black and white mode?” you ask, tilting your head just shy of youthful curiosity. You contend yourself with discovering just why he does things, but the mystery keeps you apt. The camera zooms in on his face, then zooms out. “Cuz we classic babe,” he says, a hint of laughter in his otherwise sexy voice. “We old school. Ain't that right Lee?” 

You wait. Noise from the camera indicates it’s changing direction. The view turns on a cornrow Leon dressed up in his plaid regular, briefly. “Yeah. Nigg-,” he says, giving a wave off, ever moving. His demeanor is not as enthused. You hear Franklin suck his teeth and watch the biggest grin emerge on his face as he turns the phone on himself again. “You know how it go beautiful. Niggas be camera shy n’shit.” 

A laugh escapes because he's horrible with angles. You shake your head and sigh. “Hey, Lee wassup,” you call into the phone. Although he's out of sight, his voice comes in on the speaker from somewhere like an echo. The room they are in must be huge! “Nothin much,” he calls back. “Just here wit’ yo’ annoying’ ass Husband. Glad he decided to call you. Gettin’ on my damn nerves. He don’t got nothin’ ta do.” 

You pay attention. The word husband, ringing in your eardrums. This word makes your heart skip. You consider that if you smile any harder your cheeks might begin to ache. You try not to tempt it. They were already brimming with so much happiness and you'd be subject to their sting every time you got flowers, or a text that came through that said a simple good morning. To have that feeling be permanent! You always wanted to be married, someday. If he was really serious, you already had the colors and venue plans decked out on a vision board you'd made in your free time months before. Maybe the manifesting began to take hold. Somewhere secluded but serene. You visualize a place with Mountains in fall with the changing colors to bring life to the special moment. Perfect! The pictures would be gorgeous, you both in white surrounded by color. 

“Husband?” You repeat, not expressing too much excitement, but just enough. “Oh. You said that, Franklin?” You ask.  

The phone is doing a close up on his face again. Part of his nose and one eye fit the entire screen. “Yep. I sure did.” He eludes with confident confirmation that has you smiling. “Imma get you pregnant. Marry you, all that.” 

You chew lightly at your bottom lip. Cheeks, officially sore by the prospect of that happily ever after. Not the one found in story books, but one that fits your story. “Um boooooy, dang, I get a say in any of this?” He shakes his head. His expression is a smug one flashing across the screen. That familiar smirk that always has your knees weak and your heart at a beat of engrossment. Your mind, sharp and steady, hurries to take these photographic moments of him and store them away deep in files within your memory. 

“Naw, you just be happy and taken care of,” he clamors out. “Anyway, How's things at the house?”

You nod your head. “Deal. Things at the house. Oh you know, same ol’ same ol’. Your mama came by. We talked for a while.” 

He smirks, shakes his head. “Oh shit. Bout’ what? What the hell Cissy Saint don’ said now?”

You laugh. “I’mma tell her you be calling her by her government name, watch.” You smack your teeth at his question. “But, nothing. None of ya’ business. Mother in law stuff.” 

“I already know it was bout’ me.”

You purse your lips and lift an eyebrow. “It was actually about plant soil, but M’Kay Franklin.” 

A knock comes through the phone speakers somewhere off in the background possibly to interrupt whatever comeback he’d muster up to say. You watch instead to notice his attention shift. You can’t see what he’s looking at, but he presents more seriously from his side profile.  

“Yeah, wassup. Y'all ready?” You hear Leon’s voice ask. “Aight. Saint. Let’s go,” he says after. You watch him nod then turn to face your view again. “Gotta go. Call you when I'm done. Love you.” 

“Kay. Love you too. Bye,” you say and blow a kiss before the call ends. 

“Baaaaaabe, what ya dooo-in,” he emphasizes zooming out. You watch. The camera lowers. He provides a good view of his outfit. All black. You hold the phone for his entertainment, a display of you on the bed to answer his question visually. Fresh Poetic Justice braids hide underneath the bonnet. Your face, clear of any makeup. A little smile pulls after hearing the playfulness in his voice come back. “Just reading ma lil ol’ book.” Eyes on him, then down where a makeshift bookmark resides in effort to salvage the place left off, you turn to the next page, held tight to the words of the author.

“Show me.” he coos.

“Franklinnnnn….” you plead. His face zooms in. A cunning grin appears on the phone screen. The forefront for your viewing. “Come on,” he says once more, “Show me.” 

You try to stifle a giggle but it escapes despite your efforts. He's handsome, even more with all the goofiness. “Baby move back you to close,” you encourage and with one hand hold the phone up. With the other you lift up the book, trying to angle both just right so he’s able to see. You sneak a peek of his expression. It bestows one of excitement and joy when you put eyes on the phone. 

“Oh shit, you got Toni out tonight? That’s wassup!” 

You nod, smiling. “Yes yes. I was in the mood, and the movie don’t hit like the book do.” 

“What Chapter you on?” 

You hear footsteps, Leon passes by and walks into the other room. “Five,” You answer.

“Chapter five. Chapter five.” He rubs at the hairs on his chin. “Tryna remember what happens in that chapter. Some crazy shit, probably.”

You smack your teeth and roll your eyes, but the smile remains. “Boy stop frontin’ like you read Beloved. You really over there actin’ for ya’ life right now. Doin’ tha most.”

He throws his head back, laughs and repositions the camera. You get a birds eye view of his forehead. “Damn, why you do me like that? But okay okay,” He shifts the view zooming out so that you get a fuller view of where he’s seated. “I haven’t read it. Saw the movie tho’. I’m sure it's about the same. Concept wise.” 

You shrug. “Hm. Maybe. But you know the books are usually always better than the movie.” 

“Yeah. True that.” 

“Franklin baby. Why you be lying so much,” you say, and blink slowly to look at him. 

He laughs. “I’m not. Stop actin’ like the only book she wrote was Beloved. She got other books too.”

You make a face. “Yeah. None of which you’ve read.” 

“I’m not messin’ wit you go head,” he says with a grin and waves you off.

“Stop frontin’ so much then.”

There are seconds when neither of you speak and you take the opportunity to sneak a peek at a few more lines of the paragraph you're on. 

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. Made another tik tok video today.”

You smack your forehead. “Lord, another one, Franklin.” He had been against the entire thing in the beginning, until you both did one of the trending couple dances that you forced on him. Then challenges, and some more dances. A bonafide tik tok monster. “What have I done? You're like, addicted at this point. You already made one the day before.” 

He smiles. “Naw, listen tho’ this one was fire. It’s me makin’ macaroni n’ cheese, babe.”

You hold the phone away from your face so he can’t see the puzzled expression. When you pull it back, it’s still very much present. “Whaaaaaat?”

“Yep.” This time he smiles proudly. “And my mama taught me her recipe, so you know it smacks.” 

You sigh and nod looking into the camera. “Okay. If the recipe came from Mama Cissy then there’s hope. I’mma let you make it for me so I can taste it when you come back home.”

“Shit, hell yeah. And you know what,” he shakes his finger at the phone. “I’mma fry you up some chicken as a bonus.” 

You shoot up from your comfortable position on the bed waving your hand in protest, almost dropping the whole phone in the process. “No, No, you do the macaroni and cheese, I'll do the chicken! We can’t have another grease fire. Almost burnt down my whole kitchen last time. I couldn’t believe you!” 

He sucks his teeth, whining. “How was that on me? Grease got too hot too fast. It’s yo’ stove. That’s the problem. But that’s wrong tho’, how you ban me forever! Like, I could see if it was for a few months, but forever is a stretch. You mean as hell for that babe. I’m actually hurt.” 

His voice didn’t convey hurt, but he put on his puppy dog eyes through the screen. His sad expression, tempting to believe and otherwise nurture, only because he was cute doing such a performance. You fight through the desire of giving in to it, like you always seem to do, to instead this time hold your ground firmly, and clear your throat. “Because Franklin, nun uh. But,” you smack your teeth. “Since when do you cook? That’s my thing. I’m on dinner duty. Not you. Now all of a sudden you wanna audition for Hell’s Kitchen,” you argue. 

A light chuckle leaves him. So much for puppy dog eyes and being hurt. All that out the window. He appears as a man puzzled. “I said that shit as a joke,” he confirms. “You know me and Gordan would throw down. Like the motherfuckin’ spaghetti can only be cooked one way.” The camera zooms out. You get a fuller view of his form. “But hell back to the point, I gotta learn somehow don’t I? How I'm spose to cook for you after I put that baby in you and you all laid up? Huh, answer me that.” He pauses and grins, like the thought stays on his mind as he licks his lips. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. You wonder whose thoughts are nastier. Diving back into your memory files, you consider which position might align with the impregnation. Missionary eye to eye, doggie style had been the favorite so far, but legs thrown over his shoulders just might win the vote, hands down. “DoorDash,” you rebuttal to his sentiment. 

He nods his head, getting up and moving around the hotel room. “You said DoorDash? Wow. That's cold.” The view takes you into a closet while the new moisture in your panties becomes extremely uncomfortable. His Polo shirts hang in the semi empty space and he searches through them, choosing a Royal Blue out of the bunch. “That’s okay. I’ll remember when the zombie apocalypse comes, won't be no damn door dash, ubereats. None of that. I got the last can of green beans too, and I won’t be sharing that shit.” 

You let go a breath of relief and allow your shoulders to sink. Thank your lucky stars that you mastered the art of the poker face. He wasn’t aware that you were still thinking about him fucking you silly. At Least he’d taken the L for his chicken cooking fiasco. Moved on. Zombie's happened to be a simpler subject to dive into, strangely. “Okay so we’ll both starve then,” you interject. “Cause guess who got the can opener Mothersucka’?” 

You stare at each other. Silence on both sides of the phone until he breaks it. 

“Yeah, okay. I got you.” 

You grin. He’s salty. He always is when you win an argument. 

“Have you eaten yet?” You close the book and focus all your attention on him. 

He shakes his head. “Naw. Me and Lee actually bout’ to go down soon. Imma shower real quick and change.” 

“Okay, well I won’t hold you. Eat well. May you have an abundance of green beans before the end. Love ya much, handsome face.” You finish off with your Whitney Houston impression with a taunting sault. He frowns but there is a hint of a smirk attached to it. He almost laughs. “Love you.” 

You, two points. Franklin, zip!

Your phone is propped up on the dresser providing a full view as you dance. The music from your laptop fills the room. “Come on Frank fuck it up. Show off them famous Saint dance moves!” Shoulders bounce, fingers snap and it all becomes a sing along. Your eyes are on him until you turn, letting yourself feel the music. You spread your legs apart and your ass begins to bounce to the beat, cheeks clapping to its rhythm in your fresh black lace panties. “Oh fuck you givin’ me a whole show, okay. Hell yeah,” you hear him yell out against Paul Russell. You laugh and clap your hands as the song ends and grab the phone, throwing yourself on the king size bed in your shared bedroom. Only after you catch your breath do you notice the bowl of deliciousness. “See Franklin. Got my ice cream melting.” You lift up the phone and switch its position with that of the colorful scoops. A banana split you fashioned just for yourself after the late night craving crept up unexpectedly. You grab at the spoon eagerly taking some nuts and whip cream into your mouth. 

A chuckle comes from the phone speakers and you notice a small flash. “How? You the one got up,” he says with enthusiastic sarcasm. 

“Hecks yeah, that’s my song! My lil boo thang. Mmm.” You notice the room he's in is darker with less light filling up the space when you look in the direction of the phone. The flash might have been him turning off a light, or at the very least, dimming it down. You can see a smirk emerge from where you sit on the bed, back propped up by pillows. There's a bit of ruffling on his end. “You ma’ lil boo thang,” he says.  

It's your turn to laugh. “How? That nigga singing about some other dudes girl. You didn't take me from no one,” you run a spoonful of strawberry ice cream over your awaiting tongue. 

“That's not the point. I could if I wanted to.”

You sigh and poke your lips. “ Oh, hush the hell up Franklin, with yo’ cocky self.”

“Am I lyin’? You know you love it over here on team Saint.”

“Whatever,” you say, eating more of the chocolate and rolling your eyes. But you do smile. 

“Hm. See. That ass ain't say no. But anyway. I liked the lil’ dance you did just now. You look sexy in them panties. Those the ones I bought you?”

The compliment had you feeling yourself. “Oh why thank you. And yeah they are actually.” 

His head tilts just slightly with a squint of his eyes. “I thought it was a set?” 

You nod and look down at yourself. “It is. I just like your T-shirts way better though. Especially when you're away.” 

A smirk finds its way on him. “I see.” 

There's some electricity that runs up your spine. Something about his tone is enticing. You clear your throat to change the subject. “So uh, how was the food?” 

The smirk turns into a smile. “Well I didn't have any green beans as you suggested, but the steak was cooked up perfect. Had that and just a side of fries.”

“Hm. No desert?”

You can hear movement on the other end. Probably him shifting his position. “That's usually reserved for dinner, I thought,” he says. 

You toss a glance at the bowl. “Hm. Not always.” You move the phone and hover it above your face. “Especially ice cream. You can have it any time of the day. Now, make that a banana split and I guarantee you'll get your fill. You like banana splits babe?” Grabbing the edge of his shirt you slowly start to move it up and up until your belly button is exposed, then even further to rest right under your chest. 

“Yeah, I like um,” he licks his lips. “What you doin'?”

How long had it been? You could count the days. Too long. Long enough that you would remove his shirt and your panties, the ones belonging to the set he'd bought, to lay butt ass naked in front of a phone camera. Desperate times, you couldn't take how much of a temptation he became throughout the day. You point your toes as if to model for him, your legs moving in slow motion as your hands begin to explore. The camera tracks this entire process until you position it on the dresser, creating for him a more open view of the bed and you.  

“What do you like about um?” 

You change your voice. Much more sensual. A way to get his attention as you ignore his question and ask more of your own. “What's your favorite part?” You dip your finger and run it through from flavor to flavor. “It's got so many elements to it.” You sit the two fingers on your neck and drag. Your breath doing a hiss from the coldness. You bite at your bottom lip and shut your eyes with a continuous motion of your fingers to the top of your titties. “And the best part, you can design it how you want it. Three scoops, chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.” The heat from your body makes the clump cascade in drips running over the fullness of your breast and some over your nipples. “Chocolate drizzle,” you moan. “A little caramel. Whipped cream. Nuts. So many nuts.” 

“Oh damn. You tryna make a mess. What about the banana?” His voice is different too. Much more involved and curious like pressing you for what might come next. You grin and turn your head to glance at him. “Oh your right, how can I forget the banana?” You face the opposite side where the bowl sits on the bed and pick it up. “That's gotta be my favorite part,” you utter, moving it over your skin. “The texture. It's fullness. The way it feels in my hand.” First it touches over your legs, then the inner thighs. You part your knees and run the furthest end over your exposed clit. 

“Shit, for real…” 

You don’t know what this answer is pertaining to, either in relation to your favorite part of a Sundae, or his reaction to seeing a banana slink over your pussy so eloquently. Either way, the breath he’s let out tells you if he wasn’t already locked in for the ride you were planning to take him, he definitely is at this point. 

“Mmhmm. And you know what,” you whisper.

“What,” he utters in response. 

“It's even better, coated in cream.” You lift your hand, take one end and dip it into the ice and whipped cream, already beginning to melt. When you pull it back out, the white decorates its tip and a bit of its length. You move it slowly toward your lips. Some little drips happen along the way that only roll down your skin as a result. “I remember how you taste Franklin. How your warm cream felt sliding down my throat right before you left.” Finally the tip reaches your plump lips. You part them as the end inserts inside your welcoming mouth, more and more to the back of your throat. You can hear him, noises, a hum, or maybe a moan. You don’t look to confirm any suspicions, instead your smile wraps around the banana once you hear the struggle he's having with his belt. 

You do your best to breathe through it, your mouth now pooling with saliva mingled with the cream as the tip reaches back and tickles at your uvula. A hum of satisfaction at his breathy approval before you start to bob your head. The Saliva and cream stretch as the sensual sounds of sloppy head fill up the room. To busy filling up your throat, you give your free hand its own job to do. What a feeling of bliss to comfort  such tense muscles. You pretend it's his hand that's touching you so tenderly as you listen to his breathing from your end of the phone. Because you see his face and hear his voice, the sensation is more intense when you glance over. All those elements help push for more pleasure. You pull the banana, cream runs down the side of your mouth. “Ahhh, I love feeling you inside me, both ways.” 

“You love it baby.” 

“Yeah, I fuckin’ love it.” Your eyes sink down to your pussy, fingers trailing gently along the slick opening. With your mouth full again, this hot smoldering sensation courses up your spine. You gasp against the weight of the banana and repeat the motion. The sensation served only to grow. An involuntary shiver, the aftermath as his voice encourages you, keep going. Slick, and tight, your clit jots out hardened by arousal, and you do indulge her. His voice triggers the reaction. “Go a lil deeper for me.” So you add another finger to caress your mound, this time slowly, with more pressure applied to your bundle of nerves. A warmth explodes within you and numbs your legs. The desire intensifies. You roll your eyes back in effort to suppress a moan. It's stopped anyway by the blockage. Another push and the slight hit makes you gag. You pull it's end and even more saliva and cream break free as you try to catch your breath. 

The yearning building up in your throbbing center causes you lose interest in the banana and cry out his name, “Franklinnnnn, Mmmmmm…yessss.” All the blood in your legs runs to your pussy, steaming it. And not even the cold from the ice cream can cool it when you dip your hand to apply more, over the surface of your naked body. You are literally burning from the inside. You lift a finger into your mouth and begin to suck and taste your juices mixed with all different flavors. 

“Got damnnnn, baby.” His voice comes in, encouraging you to return pleasure onto yourself again. Moistened from your suckling, the same finger slowly descends downwards and strokes against your tingling bud. The moment your fingertip touches your sensitive core, a loud husky moan of pleasure erupts from your mouth and you shiver slightly as a result. As your fingers dive into your tight, sticky hot cavern, you shut your eyes. Your stroke harder, faster, with a sense of urgency. Moan in this unbridled ecstasy to buck your hips against pleasuring fingers. Yours, but you pretend they are his. “ Fuck your beautiful. I always love the way you taste….I wanna taste you so fuckin’ bad right now it hurts. Lick all that off. Bet that shits hella tight to,” he breathes out. 

With those words and the addition of your name coming in right after, you can almost feel him groaning against your slick lips. If he wasn’t really about his business, he might catch the next plane back home. You were pretty much a living breathing human sundae ready to be devoured, and you wanted so desperately to feel his warm tongue taste every place where the ice cream had run. So you moan, and rest your head back on one of the pillows with that image. “Give ma’ girls some attention…” Pulling at your nipples and needing your breast, you do as instructed. You start panting. You feel a surge of wetness. The very same sensation that came when you thought about all the past positions he'd had you in. “Franklin, I'm almost there…” The vibration of fingers, the wild thoughts swirling, and the fact you can hear him pleasuring himself, moves you closer to orgasm. It doesn't take much. You feel this ripple at your sweet spot. You ride it, bucking your hips while your inner walls squeeze tight, your legs slump down against the mattress, trembling before they go completely, lifeless. 

Closing your eyes to hold the state of euphoria, you catch the sound of his elaborate breathing almost identical to your own. It calms, little by little. 

“Fuuuuck. Didn’t realize how much I needed that, babe.”

You smile but keep your eyes shut to drag your hand and lay it on your stomach, coated by the aftermath of release. “Me too,” you offer as a light murmur and wipe your mouth. With a satisfied sigh you lean over to grab the phone and watch his expression go from happy and otherwise calm to indifferent. You lift your head in concern. 

“Hey. What's wrong?” 

“Nothin’. Just wish I could be there, cuddled up.” He pauses. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too. But soon, like four more days and you’ll be back home. We can do us a reply, only in person.” You sit up. “It won’t be forever. And even if it was,” you smile. “I’d wait for you.” 

A grin blossoms and finds its way back on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, duh. I’m wifey, remember.” you say to reiterate, laugh and look at the ice cream, completely melted into liquid form. “Well, I should probably hop in the shower before I get all sticky. I’ve already made quite the mess. I’ll call you in the morning.” You snap your fingers at a sudden realization. “Or, damn time difference, you call me? That way I don't interfere with business.” You pull the sheet, toss it aside and stand to your feet. Your bare chest, partially in view. 

“Wait. Take me wit’ you.”

You hold the phone up. “Where?” 

“To the shower.” He has the nerve to look you up and down. Turns out you had a certain charm in creating monsters. “I wanna see the clean up process,” he smirks. “Got about thirty more minutes until my next meet up.” 

The grin on your face begins to grow. You look at the life of your battery. 53%. Just enough for a little bit more Saint FaceTime. 

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

PLEASE DO NOT COPY OR CLAIM ANY OF MY WRITING.  -Wide Nose And Wonderful.

Taglist: @fairy-cores-world @megamindsecretlair @notapradagurl7 @hopelessdisasterr @slippinninque

[laxmiree]

[CN] MLQC’s Lucien - Castle Date - English Translation

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for a date that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

"Give me your heart."

I place my fingertips on the black heart on his chest as I lean forward–

The black hue underneath my palm gradually fades away, replaced by a red glow identical to the gemstone on my chest.

When someone's heart is taken, they become the Queen's loyal and devoted toy.

However, only a Queen bound by shackles can take someone else's heart.

Translation under the cut!

T/N: This date has a theme that is a kind of continuation to his latest solo SSR Strategy Game Date. So please read it if you haven’t!

Special thanks to ivi (@ivioivioivi on twitter) for helping me with the translation of this date~

✂———————–

[Subbed Video]

✂———————–

[Transcript Ver]

=[Part 1]=

?? (Lucien): [narrating] "Once upon a time, there was a queen who ruled the whole kingdom."

?? (Lucien): "The Queen had many, many toys. She lived in a castle and lived with her toys."

?? (Lucien): "At the Halloween party, the Queen was so bored! So… she decided to play a new game."

?? (Lucien): "She gathered all the toys and told them to find what they desired most in their hearts within the castle."

?? (Lucien): "'The first toy to find it can gain freedom.' The Queen sat on her throne and announced to all the toys."

?? (Lucien): "But how could the Queen possibly know what each toy desired the most?"

?? (Lucien): "Of course... because the Queen knows everything!"

Lucien: "Now then... let the game begin. But be warned, don't get caught by the Queen during your search…"

Lucien: "...or you'll never be able to leave this castle for the rest of your life——"

MC: [sweating nervously] Lucien, wait... just hold on a second! Let's talk about it after we run to a safe place!

Eerie and urgent footsteps circle endlessly behind as if crazed hands are about to reach out from the darkness, savagely seizing everything.

I don't have time to immerse myself in the joy that lit up my eyes upon finding Lucien as I instinctively obey my fear and start to run.

But the person beside me remains calm and unhurried, smiling as if he's just taking a stroll in an ancient castle.

Lucien: I hope my task requirements haven’t made you feel troubled.

Lucien: My identity card says I need to finish telling this story within 5 minutes of meeting another player.

As his words fall, along with the hurried footsteps behind me, a short but slightly piercing alarm sounds from somewhere unknown.

Lucien: [chuckles] Otherwise, my game will be declared a failure.

The alarm sounds again.

MC: What does this alarm mean...? Did what you just said violate the rules on the identity card?

He smiles without a word, seeming to agree with my judgment.

MC: This is a bit too immersive! Why doesn’t my identity card have any tasks on it?

Despite my complaints, my running footsteps don't stop, and the silent doors repeatedly block my escape routes.

We twist and turn through the old castle until a "click" rings out, nearly making me cry in surprise.

The eerie footsteps grow louder beside my ear. The soles of the shoes rub against the slightly worn carpet, making a rough scraping sound, like sharp nails scratching against my eardrum.

In the darkness, I hold my breath, and that nerve-wracking sound seems to slowly fade away into the night.

I let out a breath of relief, and as I look up, I bump straight into a pair of deep, enigmatic eyes.

The room is cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight, yet his eyes, glimmering with a hidden smile, shine even brighter.

The smoky black makeup extends into delicate marks of mischief, like dried tear stains or the playful strokes of a child’s crayon.

His usually soft hair is now slicked back, the ends styled into slightly unruly arcs that accentuate his sharp jawline.

The black and white suit amplifies the elegant yet bizarre aura, yet it feels perfectly natural on Lucien.

MC: This place did an incredible job with the styling. Once we’re done, I’m definitely filling my entire album with photos of Mr. Jester.

This Halloween, Lucien and I booked a super popular immersive escape room game. Although it’s only for two players, the activity spans an entire large castle.

The script for the game is assigned based on a playing card drawn a week before the game starts. It focuses on a highly immersive experience, and I’ve heard there are dozens of different endings depending on players' choices.

[T/N: Since the script is based on playing cards. Lucien himself might have drawn the Joker card. However, since there's already another Joker in the game, my translation goes with Mr. Jester 😂. In many card games, the Joker acts as a wild card, so I think Lucien getting this role fits with his character 👀]

MC: No, I should say I never expected the 'Queen's toys' to be so plentiful and appealing—and there's also Mr. Jester!

Lucien: I think it's this beautiful doll lady before me that truly makes it impossible to look away.

Our bodies, already pressed together from hiding, are pulled even closer by him. His warm fingertips stroke my cheek, then trail slowly down my neck in a delicate caress.

Lucien: [whispers] The Queen has instructed the toys to seek what they desire most in their hearts. If it were me...

Lucien: ...then surely what I desire most must be right here before my eyes.

=[Part 2]=

Of course, those are just Lucien’s jesting words to tease me. The game is still going on after all.

After my makeup is finished, the staff simply tells me that my identity is ‘Miss Puppet’ and then leads me into the old castle.

If we are all so-called ‘Queen's Toys’, then according to the fairy tale Lucien just recounted…

MC: "Find what the toys desire most in their hearts within this castle…"

MC: That means we need to find the props in this castle that correspond to our identities, and then we should be able to win the game.

But then I have second thoughts, and look at Lucien who is being a bit too mysterious on the side.

MC: "The first toy to find it can gain freedom."

MC: Does that mean that in this game with just the two of us, there can only be one winner?

Meeting my gaze, he leans lightly against the door and smiles lightly.

Lucien: Does this doll lady want to gain freedom?

Lucien's words aren't laced with much emotion; instead, they hold a kind of faint scrutiny and enjoyment that stands outside of winning and losing. 

It seems that more than victory or defeat, he takes pleasure in the interesting developments he's "created" throughout this whole process.

Enveloped by his permeating silent arrogance, I, on the contrary, subtly curl the corners of my lips into a smile and lean closer to him.

MC: Compared to freedom, I'd rather not let a certain Mr. Jester get too bored.

MC: Furthermore, I enjoy a challenge and am prepared to put in all my effort to win.

I gently graze his cheek with my fingertips, letting myself sink into the depths of his profound and mysterious eyes.

MC: You better be a bit more serious, okay?

MC: Otherwise... be careful not to get left behind in this castle~

Lucien: …

His eyes seem to freeze for a fleeting moment, but they fill with even more smiles in the next instant.

Lucien: [chuckles] Then this Miss Puppet will have to put in a lot of effort.

Lucien: After all, leaving you all alone in the castle would make me feel terribly lonely.

✂———————–

After issuing a ‘declaration of challenge’, naturally, it's necessary to seek more information.

But this castle is much larger than I imagined. Even though many rooms can't be opened, it'll still take considerable time to investigate the rest.

At the same time, the occasional sounds of clockwork and footsteps add a touch of horror to this dilapidated old castle.

The sounds of footsteps varied, sometimes intense and frightening, and at other times merely a soft, creeping rustle across the floor, creating noises that grate on the nerves.

Lucien: Looks like the party is going well.

MC: This means... the other 'toys' are also searching for things that are important to them, right?

Facing my interpretation, Lucien curls his lips without a word. At this moment, I finally vaguely confirm a certain boundary to Lucien's words.

In our earlier exchanges, there were two instances where he clearly mentioned the task settings for ’this game,' which triggered warning alarms both times.

Moreover, throughout all his interactions and expressions, he has been entirely restricted to addressing me as a 'puppet'.

This indicates that although I still can't further confirm what prop Lucien desires as the ‘Jester’, his words are still an important way for me to obtain information.

MC: Mr. Jester, shall we cooperate for the time being?

MC: There are a lot of rooms here. Given that we don't have much information, I think working together would be more efficient.

MC: There should be other rooms we can open on this floor. How about we each take half and then combine the information?

Lucien: You trust me that much?

Just as his voice falls, a sharp warning sound rings again.

Lucien freezes momentarily, ponders for a while, then nonchalantly lifts his lips into a smile as he looks at me, seemingly waiting for my answer.

MC: Indeed, if you hide any information, I wouldn't notice it.

MC: But luck also plays a part in the outcome. Whoever finds the key clue naturally has the conditions for victory.

MC: Besides, who’s to say it won’t be me hiding the information instead?

Lucien: …

Under the moonlight, Lucien smiles as he leans down and gently lifts my fingertips.

Lucien: Please allow me to apologize for my recent discourtesy.

The moment his thin lips lightly touch the back of my hand, I feel as if I can hear the sound of my heartbeat.

Lucien: Good luck to you, beautiful Miss.

✂———————–

Accompanied by chilling footsteps, Lucien and I begin searching the castle.

Most of the rooms I can access are incredibly shabby, but fortunately, I'm still managing to gather a number of clues.

Using clues from the diaries of some other toys, I quickly identify several key-seeming props mentioned in them and hide those props.

MC: I found a page from a fairy tale, and the content matches what you said earlier.

MC: But it's been ripped out of a book, which means there's a complete version of the story.

Lucien: According to the map, this villa has three floors. The first floor consists of the lobby, reception room, and toy display room, while the Queen’s bedroom is on the third floor.

Lucien: The second floor is fairly special. It has dozens of rooms, and the room numbers aren't in order.

MC: I have a feeling those rooms belong to the toys.

As I speak, I unfurl half of the kraft paper scroll towards him, revealing the words "Toy List".

The paper is filled in symbols of various shapes that look like a child's freehand doodles, each with numbers like "201", "205", "219" written beside them.

MC: There are 13 of these symbol and number combinations, so I'm guessing...the Queen has 13 toys in total.

MC: Corresponding to the 13 rooms on the second floor.

Lucien: It seems our objectives have become quite clear.

MC: That's right. Once we figure out which symbols correspond to which toy, we can use the map to find the rooms.

MC: Do you think... that 'Toy Display Room' might have the answers?

Faced with this probing question, Lucien doesn't respond but simply looks at me deeply as I shake the kraft paper.

In the next second, he lightly flicks his fingers––

A silver key sways and gleams faintly beneath the moonlight.

Lucien: I’m curious too.

I never thought that Lucien would just happen to have the key to the toy display room in his hand.

However, in this kind of adversarial game, having one more condition to compete with him is never bad.

And now, I’m indeed lucky to have made the right bet.

The night seems to grow even darker, and the eerie footsteps cast long, strange shadows, flowing like water past our feet, then slowly fading away.

With a 'click' sound, I follow behind Lucien and walk into the toy display room.

Only the moonlight remains inside the room, falling onto the staggered display stands, where toys of various shapes are placed.

The toys sit quietly in this somewhat rundown room as if they are waiting for someone.

I gently pick up the toys and notice that each has a familiar symbol emblazoned on its body and a heart-shaped hollow on its chest.

I quietly ponder for a moment, and instead of saying anything, I continue searching.

Soon I spot a puppet on the display table at the edge of the room, dressed in the same clothes as mine, except this puppet has a wooden puppet control bar and strings attached to it.

MC: …Wooden control bar?

An inexplicable 'click' sound occurs when I pick up the puppet.

I look at the symbol on the doll in my hand with confusion, my mind spinning.

Is it a similar doll? Or is there another reason? Thinking this, I open the scroll and begin searching for clues.

Suddenly, I freeze.

No matter how many times I check, I can't find the same symbol as the one on the puppet.

But after cross-checking the symbols with the other toys in front of me, I subconsciously hold my breath——

Dachshund spring toy, toy soldier, plush bird, roly-poly toy, carousel, feather pen…

The 13 symbols on the toy list correspond precisely to the 13 toys.

My gaze slowly moves to the figure under the moonlight; the master's smooth fingertips carefully caress the marionette that looks like me.

Then, as if sensing something, he indifferently looks back.

There is no jester toy in this room.

=[Part 3]=

The missing jester, the extra marionette.

At this moment, Lucien and I seem like some kind of aberrant existence.

Neither of us is the Queen’s toy—I immediately come to this judgment.

Then who am I? And who is Lucien?

Could it be that he secretly hid some more important information?

Meanwhile, Lucien also seems to have realized my judgment.

But he still unhurriedly fiddles with the marionette in his hand while gracefully walking up the steps.

Lucien: The Queen hosts a fun-filled party with all her toys.

Lucien: The toys search for what they desire most—ah, it’s their beloved Queen.

He gives a small bow, and as his words fall, a red balloon floats out of nowhere.

I unconsciously grab it, only to see more and more red balloons appearing, until eventually, all that remains are that pair of captivating eyes.

Lucien: So... ultimately, is it the Queen who captures the toys, or the toys who get the Queen?

His voice lingers near my ear, only to dissolve into the moonlit night instantly, along with his disappearing figure.

Following that, the sound of footsteps coming nearer and nearer, yet also more and more numerous.

I don't have time to consider when Lucien learned magic tricks; I immediately run out of the display room through the opened door. 

Those intrigued eyes are firmly imprinted in my mind. This person is playing this game with me very seriously; I can't let him down.

His identity as a jester is definitely not simple, and I... could I be the puppet representing the 'Queen'?

Lucien's words from just now seem to linger in my ears as if hinting. After thinking for a moment, I immediately run carefully toward the third floor.

I've been here before, but the door is firmly locked, and I never found the corresponding key.

Remembering the mechanical sound when I picked up the puppet, I can't help but decide to take a gamble.

Facing the silent door, I take a deep breath and press the door handle down with force—

'Click.'

MC: …As expected!

The pleasure of solving the puzzle makes me feel confident, and I go in cautiously.

The shabby room can't hide its luxury. The large bed is covered with an exquisite embroidered sheet, and the red velvet bed curtains reveal faint patterns.

The fireplace no longer burns, and the vase no longer shines, like servants who, though dejected after being left by their master, still maintain a dignified demeanor.

The walls, covered in cobwebs, are adorned with many picture frames.

But these frames don't contain any scenery or photos—

Instead, they contain all kinds of hearts, big and small. 

I quietly observe them for a long time before continuing to rummage through the room.

Soon, I find an old, yellowed book on the bedside table, with one page torn out.

With the help of light from the moon, I flip through it.

MC: "The Jester laughed loudly, proclaiming that the Queen was bored. She lifted the hem of her bright red dress and decided to play a game..."

MC: "A game of escape."

I realize in hindsight that something's not quite right.

Why is there a marionette with a wooden control bar and strings in the toy display room?

Marionette isn't on the toy list, so what does the symbol on it represent?

Suddenly, I freeze.

——it is Lucien's hint.

Just now, he guided me into thinking I was the Queen, leading me here. But if I really were the Queen, I would be very different from the one in the display room.

MC: As a toy… I'm a marionette.

MC: But the strings on me have already gone.

The toy’s escape is also the Queen’s escape.

At that moment, even though the room is clearly silent, I inexplicably feel as if someone is watching me.

From the very beginning, that gaze has been fixed on me, and all my actions are under his "control."

At this moment, I already understand who the owner of those footsteps outside the door is. After avoiding those searching "toys" and reaching the second floor—

there is a door that has always been tightly shut. Now, it opens its arms wide as if it has been waiting for a long time.

Scratches appear on the door, revealing a symbol identical to the one on the puppet's body.

I hold my breath tightly, expecting to see a familiar figure inside, but instead, I find the room completely empty.

To be safe, I close the door first and then step inside.

As expected, the entire room has already been searched.

A metal box lies on the ground, completely empty inside, with the opened lock quietly lying beside it.

[T/N: So the prop that Lucien needs—the strings and control bar, and possibly the marionette that looks like her—has already been taken by him.]

MC: ….

Am I really going to lose?

As if in response to my heart, the footsteps outside the door stop at the entrance with the sound of a clockwork.

At this moment, I understand why this door is open.

This is an invitation for ‘me’ to take the initiative to step into this cage controlled by him.

There's nowhere to go but through that door.

In the end, I have no choice but to take the initiative to open the door myself, offering myself as a sacrifice and presenting him with a delicious victory.

But I don't want to lose yet.

I stop in front of the door, even holding onto a sliver of luck as I lean toward the peephole, trying to find any possibility of escape—

Lucien: Good evening, dear miss.

Red balloons float mid-air in a green corridor, and a candle burns suspended in the air as if they’re part of a grand illusory melody.

Layer upon layer of cobwebs hang down, and twisted pumpkins are painted black and white.

In the absurd and mysterious world, Lucien raises the corners of his lips, his eyes with painted black tear streaks curving slightly.

He lifts his hand, inclining slightly in a gentlemanly bow as though taking a final curtain call.

Lucien: "A long, long time ago, there was a Queen who ruled an entire kingdom."

Lucien: "The Queen had many toys, and she lived with her toys in a castle."

The graceful yet dangerous jester tells the story again, but he carries it further this time.

Lucien: "But the toys could never get the Queen."

Lucien: "The party ended, and no one gained their freedom."

He smiles gently, and the flickering, dancing candle flames seem to sway excitedly without stopping, yet at the same time, the melting wax flows down like tears.

Lucien: "And so…The party went on, and the Queen, feeling extremely bored, intended to play a new game."

MC: …Is that the full story?

Lucien: No.

Lucien: This story will go on forever.

MC: Why?

Hearing my voice, Lucien puts away his smile.

That pair of profound and mysterious eyes unusually ooze with a hint of long-forgotten coldness, resembling a dark and gloomy sea.

The blood-red balloons are tethered in place and can only swing their body from side to side.

Yet I can clearly see the black tear mark slowly lengthening.

Lucien: Because... 'I' said so.

=[Part 4]=

[T/N: The BGM choice for this part until the end is so damn good. I highly recommend you all listen to it [In my subtitled video, it's on 12:25 time mark]. And the voice acting!!! It's definitely my second favorite, right after the first CG which makes me feel scaroused]

The Jester smiles as he opens his arms, revealing his beautiful and dangerous fangs, waiting to make a curtain call to his sole audience.

Looking at Lucien before me, I take half a step back.

A jester who doesn't exist in the story, a marionette who has lost her strings, a story that will go on forever.

A somewhat bold idea spreads in my mind, causing my heart to inevitably start beating rapidly.

After all, this is a game—and it’s only a game.

Lucien has obtained the prop, but the game isn’t over yet, so the prop alone is useless.

[which mean she still have the chance to win]

The grand door slowly opens, revealing that pair of captivating eyes in even greater clarity.

MC: So, dear Mr. Jester, what is it that you desire?

Lucien: Perhaps it’s simply… to sway with you in a dance that never ends.

With that, he places one hand behind his back, bows slightly, and extends his right hand to me.

The moment I touch his warm palm, it feels like a huge clockwork begins turning again, bringing the entire castle to life.

??: [cheers] Party! Party! We want to keep the party going!

??: Party! Party! We want the Queen’s party!

An unknown dance tune begins to play, and Lucien lifts my hand, guiding me in graceful dance steps and making me sway like the red floating balloons.

The colorful and ambiguous shadows subconsciously draw my attention, but then I’m pulled one step closer to him, leaving no room for retreat.

His hand is clearly only lightly resting on my back, yet I can’t push away even half a step.

Lucien: Dear lady, don't leave my sight.

His voice is soft, but it seems to carry an undeniable power.

For a moment, all I can do is look into his eyes, move my feet in sync with his guidance, and spin under his palm.

He is both my dance partner and the conductor of our duet.

The moonlight sprinkles over the desolate castle, and the sweeping hem of my gown traces luminous arcs amidst the black and white.

My retreat and approach, intimacy and evasion, are all in the palm of his hand—

as if there are some invisible threads that make me dance only for him.

MC: Mr. Jester, do you want to get me?

Lucien: Perhaps I’ve been striving for that purpose all along.

At some point, red strings have been wrapped loosely around my wrists.

The faint touch pressing against the small of my back also seems to remind me that he has already decided to close the curtain on this game.

With a ‘click’, the gemstone on my chest lights up.

In the Jester’s clockwork castle, the escaping Queen has returned to her throne, back under the Jester’s control.

The music ends. In that instant, I seem to catch a flicker of boredom in Lucien’s eyes.

He steps back slowly, his hand about to release me, but I suddenly pull it tightly.

MC: Mr. Jester, the story isn’t over yet.

I take one step forward, not missing the brief flash of surprise in his expression.

The halted music hasn't faded, and the game is still ongoing, just like this story.

I place Lucien's hand back on my waist, leading him to dance with me once more.

MC: "Once upon a time, there was a Queen who ruled over the entire kingdom. The Queen has many, many toys, and she lives in this castle with them."

MC: "Who is her toy, and whose toy is she?"

These are lines written on the last page of the book in the Queen's chamber.

The Jester forgot, even though he exists outside the story, when he entered the story as an escapee character— 

he naturally became a part of it.

As I guide Lucien in the swaying dance, the melody begins to play once again.

I am the Queen of this castle.

MC: Dear Mr. Jester, I welcome you to my castle.

As if summoned, the toys dashed out of the darkness, surrounding us on all sides.

The silver disco ball spins, scattering vibrant specks of light across the entire room.

I pull Lucien's hand, leading his steps as we spin in the middle of the room, as though this is precisely the center of the whole world.

??: [cheers] Queen! Queen! Our beloved Queen!

But Lucien also seems unwilling to be outdone; those deep, profound eyes now brim with even more undisguised mirth.

When I want to take a step forward, he moves even closer, drawing me into his embrace. When he lightly pushes me forward, I sidestep and twirl to his side.

Beneath the flowing melody, a more suggestive and provocative tension pervades the air.

The contending steps and calculating gazes, exchange of critical winning moves—each and every second is savored before victory arrives.

MC: Give me your heart.

I place my fingertips on the black heart on his chest as I lean forward–––

He encircles me even more firmly in his arms, letting me sink deeper into the depths of his eyes.

At the same time, the black hue underneath my palm gradually fades away, replaced by a red glow identical to the gemstone on my chest. The light reflects in our shared gaze.

“Thump”, “thump."

The sensation of heartbeat felt beneath my fingertips seems to make that shade of red even more vivid.

Lucien: What if I refuse?

He speaks as his fingertips caress my chin gently yet resistlessly, his warmth delicately spread through the fabric of his glove.

In places hidden from view, the red strings entwined around my wrists and fingertips gently tighten as though he is orchestrating my entire heartbeat along with the blood vessels.

MC: It's already too late.

My hand gently caresses the seemingly throbbing light, and I lightly tighten my grasp.

MC: Each toy's chest is hollow, and in the Queen's chamber you haven't had the chance to visit... I found all the hearts.​​

When someone's heart is taken, they become the Queen's loyal and devoted toy.

However, only a Queen bound by shackles can take someone else's heart.

MC: You should have left quickly after putting the "wooden control bar" on me

Lucien: [chuckles] I was too greedy.

Lucien: Or rather... from the very beginning, I was mesmerized by something far too beautiful.

Lucien: But I don't feel like I've lost anything.

He makes his heart fit even more completely in my palm, yet at the same time, he also tightens the red strings in his hand, his eyes flickering with dazzling light.

Lucien: If you want this heart of mine, you might have to pay a heavy price.

To get his heart, you must willingly surrender to his control. To not be controlled, you must get his heart.

This game seems like a never-ending story.

Lucien: [whispers hoarsely] Now… answer me once more, please.

Lucien: Do you still want my heart?

— — — — — — — —FIN — — — — — — — — — —

.

.

.

[Afterwords]

If you remember my afterwords about the latest solo date, you might recall how I felt a bit disappointed because it seemed to only highlight his wins. But I think this date washes away some of those disappointments, as it delivers exactly what I want to see in their rivalry—a game where both of them can match each other’s freak wits.

Who won in the end? Who's controlling whom? Personally, I believe it ends with a mutual surrender of control. The marionette willingly surrenders to the Jester's control, but she’s not really under his control, as she has already captured his heart. Meanwhile, the Jester gives up his heart and becomes her loyal toy—but this surrender doesn't feel like a loss to him. Control and surrender blur—intertwined and inseparable, much like the red thread that binds them both.

Another interesting thing is that his date is reminiscent of S2 Chapter 59, where they play "werewolf game" (commonly known in the West as mafia game) as enemies—competing with each other, but ultimately just wanting to keep playing together for as long as possible. A werewolf game that ended in a tie with them killing each other at the end, and now it is an escape game where neither of them wants to escape... Want to compete with all of their might, yet also don't want to stop playing with each other. No matter the game, it'll only be a two-person play and other players are just NPC.

[mrprettywhenhecries]

christmas cookies [g.t.]

Part One of 𝑨 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒏–𝑳𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠

Gator Tillman ✗ Win Lewis

➼ w.c. 1.7k ➼ warnings/tags. hurt/comfort, fluff ➼ a/n. This series takes place about a year after the events of Don't Waste Your Time (on Me), and while technically the main series is still being written, I wanted to take a small break to write some fluff for Win and Gator for Christmas. ➼ cookie divider credit @/saradika

Win laments that she can't find her late mother’s special Christmas cookie recipe, but stubbornly refuses to call her dad for a copy. Despite the bad blood between them, Gator takes it on himself to make the call, surprising her with her mom's recipe.

By the first week of December, Minnesota winter was in full swing, with several inches of snow already on the ground from Thanksgiving, and several more on the way.

Win faintly registered the sound of the front door opening and Gator knocking the snow from his boots as she rifled through the kitchen cabinet, but she was too focused on her hectic search to notice him enter the room until he spoke.

“Front drive’s clean.  What’re you doing?”

Win let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand through her hair.  “I could’ve sworn I had my mom’s Christmas cookie recipe somewhere, but I can’t find it,” she huffed, finally looking up at Gator.  His nose and cheeks were flushed red from the cold, but she was glad to see he’d traded his dingy green ball cap for a knit hat to keep his ears warm.

“You’re baking?  All by yourself?” he asked warily, raising an eyebrow at her, earning himself a flat stare in return, his teasing clearly unappreciated at the moment.

“No, Dot and Scotty are coming over tomorrow to help and I was kinda hoping to make my mom’s cutout cookies.  I haven’t had them since she died,” she murmured, slumping against the counter in defeat.  “I tried some store bought ones once, but they just weren’t the same,” she sighed.

Gator frowned, rounding the kitchen island to join her, looking down at the mess of recipes scrawled on note cards and scraps of paper strewn across the counter.  “Is there anywhere else you might’ve put it?” he ventured, slipping  his arms around Win’s waist and resting his chin on the top of her head. “I mean, probably,” she huffed, turning in his embrace to press her face to his chest.  “But I looked through all mom’s stuff that’s still packed away and I didn’t see it there either.  Maybe it got lost in the move, I dunno,” she sighed, her voice muffled by his hoodie.  Shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath, letting the sharp spicy scent of Gator’s cologne soothe her somewhat.

It was always Christmas-time that she missed her mom most.

When Gator didn’t respond, Win looked up at him, finding a thoughtful frown on his face that she didn’t like, already knowing what he was thinking.

“No,” she said firmly, pulling back. 

“You don't even know what I’m gunna say!” he exclaimed with an incredulous huff, but Win shook her head stubbornly. 

“I know exactly what you’re gunna say, Gator,” she refuted, spinning away from him to gather the mess of recipes from the island counter and straighten them.

“But he probably still has the original—”

“Nope!” Win insisted, interrupting him before slipping away, but Gator wasn’t ready to give up yet, following her into the dining room.

“You’re being ridiculous, you know that right?”

Win finally spun to face him.  “You of all people should understand not wanting to have contact with your father,” she said, her mouth pressing into a hard line.

For a long moment, they stared each other down before Gator sighed, deflating.

“I know,” he breathed, and the space between them pained him.  “Are you really gunna let that get in the way of getting something of your mom’s back though?” 

Win opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out and she snapped it shut in frustration.  “I–  I dunno!” she finally exclaimed, throwing her hands up.  “Maybe Dot has a similar recipe,” she said, losing steam, and the defeated look on her face only twisted Gator’s heart.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she mumbled, shaking her head as she closed the gap between them to fold herself back into his arms.  “I just miss her,” she whispered.

“I know,” Gator murmured, pressing his lips to the crown of her head as he squeezed her tighter.

“You hungry?” she asked after a moment, lifting her chin to peer up at him.  “I can go pick up some Chinese,” she offered, her go-to comfort food.

“Sure, sounds good.  You know what I like,” Gator replied, reluctantly releasing her.  For a moment, he almost offered to go with her, when he had an idea.  “I’m gunna shower while you’re out, kay?” he said, nodding toward the stairs.

“Okay, I’ll be back soon,” Win said, thinking nothing of it.  Brushing a kiss to his cheek as she slipped around him, she grabbed her keys and shoved her feet in her boots before heading out the door, shrugging her coat on as she went.

Gator waited for her to back out of the drive before pulling his phone from his pocket and climbing the stairs.  Scrolling through his contacts, he found the one he wanted, though he’d only used it once before.

As uncomfortable as this call would be for him, if Win wasn’t going to do it, he would.  For her sake.

Dialling the number, Gator took a deep breath and brought the phone to his ear, each shrill ring twisting his gut tighter, but by the time he reached the second floor landing, however, the line clicked and a voice answered hesitantly.  

“Hello?  Who is this?”  

For a moment, Gator was so shocked that Win’s father had picked up that he couldn’t make his voice work.

“Hello?” David Lewis repeated more firmly.

“Uh, hey,” Gator blurted out, pausing to wet his lips.  “It’s Gator… Tillman.  I know this is gunna come outta the blue, but I kind of… need a favour.”

There was a heavy pause before the other man spoke.  “And why the hell would I want to do any favours for you?”

Gator winced, but he wasn’t exactly surprised by his father-in-law’s cold response.  David was clearly still less than pleased that he hadn’t found out about the wedding till after the fact, and even less pleased about Gator’s… less than savoury past.

“Cause it’s not for me, it’s for Win,” he said, hoping that might change his mind.  While there was no love lost between father and son-in-law, the man still cared for his daughter, even if he often had a poor way of showing it.

“So why isn’t she the one calling me, then?” David scoffed and Gator had to fight back a sarcastic laugh.

“Cause she’s stubborn like that.”

David grunted in agreement, but didn’t speak, and Gator took the opening and ran with it.

“Look, I know you’re not my biggest fan, but I just want her to be happy, and doing this for her might just go a long way towards getting the two of yeh back on speaking terms.”

Gator waited, hoping David would take the bait.

There was another long stretch of silence before David sighed.  “Alright.  What do you need from me?” 

Gator’s lips tugged into a cautious grin.

“Do you still have a copy of her mom’s Christmas cookie recipe?”

“Gator!  Dot and Scotty are here!  Are you coming down?”

Win’s shout from the bottom of the stairs roused Gator with a jolt and he sat up, blinking blearily in the dim bedroom before finally focusing on the numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand, surprised that Win was already awake and up.  Running a hand through his hair to tidy it, he slipped out of bed and quickly threw on some clothes before heading down.

The strong smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen and Win handed him a cup as soon as he entered the room.

“Here, just the way you like it.”

“You’re an angel,” Gator murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple before bringing the cup to his lips for a sip, banishing the chill that had gripped him since leaving their warm bed.

“Morning sleepy head,” Dot chuckled, grinning at him as she dropped her tote bag of baking supplies on the counter, a floral patterned apron already tied round her waist.

“Mornin’,” he echoed, flashing her a rueful grin in return.

“Hey Gator, are you gunna help us bake cookies?” Scotty asked hopefully, perching herself atop one of the stools lining the marble island.

“Yeah sure, as long as we can make a certain recipe,” he replied, hiding his smirk in his cup so Win wouldn’t see.

“We were already plannin’ on making oatmeal raisin, y’know,” Dorothy pointed out, but Gator shook his head.

“Actually, I was thinking ‘bout this one,” he replied, pulling a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and sliding it across the counter to Win.

A puzzled frown creased her brow as she picked it up to unfold it, her eyes flicking curiously to Gator before returning to the paper.  Her mother’s distinctive graceful scrawl stared back at her and her eyes widened.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, gaping at the page as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision.

“What is it, hon?” Dot asked, moving closer to get a better look.

“It’s– it’s my mom’s recipe, the one I was telling you I couldn’t find,” Win explained faintly, hastily wiping the dampness from her eyes before her head snapped up to fix Gator with a questioning look.  

“Where did you get this?” she asked, and Gator shrugged, biting back a grin.

“I have my ways,” he said simply, his lips twitching with amusement.

An incredulous smile spread across Win’s face and she threw her arms around his neck, practically jumping into his arms before kissing him breathlessly.

Dot watched the heartwarming display before shaking her head fondly and turning back to her daughter.  “Hey Scotty, why don’t we start getting out the ingredients we need?” she suggested in a hushed voice, ushering the girl toward the pantry to give the couple some privacy.

“I can’t believe you did that for me,” Win exclaimed, her voice thick with emotion, only guessing at the lengths Gator must have gone to to retrieve the recipe for her.

Gator let out a soft laugh and lowered Win back to her feet, though his hold on her didn’t loosen.  The tip of his nose brushed hers as his eyes searched her flushed face.  “Don’t you know by now?  I’d do anything for ya, Winnie.”

Win bit her lip, her hands moving to cup Gator’s cheeks before she raised her chin, pressing her lips to his once more, softer this time, kissing him slowly.

“I’m starting to get the picture,” she breathed, unable to stop grinning.

“Good,” Gator said, pulling back, though his hands lingered at her waist.  “Now, let’s get bakin’, cause I wanna taste these famous cookies of yours.”

➼ taglist. @super-unpredictable98 @heartbreak-sandwich @sailorskunk @emperorpookie @professionalpromqueen

@thecreelhouse @girlwiththerubyslippers @buckysgrace

[pedge-stuff]

Fic request: Pedro or reader has an intense panic attack in a public. Reader has to talk him through it and calm him down enough so they can leave the event. Holding each other in bed.

clean up, aisle 4 (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked," per usual.

thanks, as always, for everything.

summary: sometimes, you deal with the downsides.

——————————————————————————

"I feel like we tried this and didn't like it."

Pedro inspects the back label on the box— some kinda chickpea flour protein pasta 'alternative' that came less-than-highly recommended by his personal trainer— before re-shelving it alongside the other sad, fake noodles.

The grocery store has become a little bit of a minefield. Gladiator 2 prep was exciting, until the rigorous hours in the gym started requiring a specialized diet. He can't eat carbs, you don't eat meat, both of you love frozen pizza, and neither of you really want to participate in the whole classic disordered Hollywood eating thing. And yet, here you are.

Home-cooked meals have consisted mostly of roasted vegetables and dry, baked proteins. You're attempting to eat "clean" in solidarity with him, but...

"We don't need pasta," Pedro laments, turning away from the shelving altogether. "What's left?"

You pull the notes-app list back up. "Whatever kind of frozen fruit you want for smoothies, plus pitted dates. I'd love those wasabi almonds from last month, but I dunno if they have them again. We could get Skinny Pop, if you want it?"

A grimace. "That's fine."

"We don't have to get it, Pedge."

"It's fine, really. We need something for the movie tonight, right?"

His shoulders slump as he pushes the cart onwards. The back right wheel is making a little squeaking sound, sharp and grating on your last damn nerve. This grocery store feels more and more like a minefield with every aisle turn. The balance between supporting Pedro in his training, and wanting him to just say fuck it and be happy, feels entirely precarious.

"Almonds," Pedro mutters, veering right, around an obnoxiously large Goldfish display and the toddler sobbing loudly in front of it. An obstacle course of bright lights and loud sounds. "Almonds, almonds—"

"Ohmygod, Pedro Pascal."

Immediately, no. Two college-aged, tri delta-looking, fresh-from-the-salon type girls, grinning like they'd won the damn lottery. Fans— no one he actually knows says "Pay-drow."

The wheel squeaks again as they grind to a forceful halt; the girls are standing directly in the path of the cart.

"Should we ask for a picture?" They speak at full volume, to each other, as if he isn't standing right in front of them.

"We have to, for the gram. Oh my god."

"Maybe Deuxmoi will pick it up."

Pedro grimaces as they start rummaging for their phones. He's always generous with his time— sometimes a little too generous, so concerned with hurting peoples' feelings that he'll take selfies through the drive-thru window, or walking the dogs. Even one memorable time, pumping gas.

Only at night, lights off, tucked away, does he ever confess his frustrations. As though he should not want privacy; as though being grateful was more important than being safe. Guilt eats him in ways that you alone cannot heal. All you can do is hold him a little tighter.

A phone is thrust towards you. "Can you take a picture of us?"

Before either of you can react, one girl has her arm over Pedro's shoulder. The other, on his waist. He's never been one to shy away from affection— had been pushing the cart single-handedly, with the other on the small of your back, since the dairy section— but that intimacy does not extend to strangers.

They are laughing, chattering— something about Game of Thrones. You distinctly make out so sexy and slay.

But you hardly register them, instead frowning at your partner as you snap a couple pics without looking. He is frozen, eyes fixed somewhere past you, though he offers a wan smile for the camera. Answers a question you can't hear with a half-hearted laugh, before gesturing to the next aisle. A polite gesture, too far from the fuck off on the tip of your tongue.

Pedro attempts to move away, but the girl's arm is still snaked around his waist. Trapped. She reaches to wrap the other around, attempting to encircle him in a teddy bear-style hug. This, here, is the limit.

With a rough, jerky motion, he forces her off of him. "Sorry, sorry," he says quickly. "We need to go."

"But—"

If you push the cart, and it happens to roll over a perfectly manicured foot, well...

Pedro is a few paces ahead of you, stalking towards the almonds like they owe him a grave debt. His fists clench and unclench at his side.

Not good.

His tells for a panic attack are well-catalogued in your brain. You push the cart to one side, mouthing an apology to the man you almost plow down, before approaching Pedro with caution. His chest heaves as he frowns at the Blue Diamond display, breaths noticeably shallow.

"Pedro." Fighting muscle memory, you don't touch him. Don't want to startle him, though concern burns a hole in your own diaphragm.

"Mm."

"Baby, look at me."

His eyes squeeze shut, instead. "I'm good. I'm good."

"Why don't you go to the car, I'll finish up quick."

"I'm good," he insists, voice cracking.

"It's OK if you're not good."

A hitch in his breath, and Pedro's face crumbles. "Just startled me, is all," he whispers, brown eyes pooling remorsefully. "So stupid. Can't even make it through the fucking supermarket to get my fucking fruits and veggies."

You reach for his hand, lithe fingers prying his clench fist apart. Soothe the red-crescent divots in his palm with the pad of your thumb. Wait for him to continue, as if you're not both standing in the middle of the nuts-candy-and-coffee section.

"Everything is just a lot right now," Pedro says, dragging in a shaky but deeper inhale. His other hand swipes across his cheek.

Mentally, you catalogue how difficult it would be to return the items in your cart; how fast you could retrace your steps, and rush the man home.

You bring his palm to your lips, instead. "Go take a smoke," you suggest. "And then we can get the fuck outta here."

"Someone's gonna post it online again. Everyone's talking about how I reek of cigarettes."

"You have reeked of cigarettes as long as I've known you. They are late to this." Tugging playfully on the hand you still hold, you wait for him to crack the barest, thinest of smiles.

"You still love me, though."

"Enough to fight off anyone else who tries to dry-hump you in this Whole Foods."

Slowly, you both retreat to the abandoned cart. "Can we—" Pedro stops himself, unsure of how to ask.

"Whatever it is, babe, yes."

He pushes forward. "What if I was asking if we could get naked right now and run through the supermarket parking lot so people would think we were crazy and leave us alone forever?"

"Then I'd start untying my shoes. It'd be hard to pull my jeans over 'em."

The wasabi almonds are, finally, pulled from the shelf. You proceed to the freezers. "That's not what I was gonna ask," he admits, grabbing a bag of chunked mango.

"Bummer."

"Can we just get some normal fucking popcorn? If one night's worth of fake butter is what does me in, someone else can be the Gladiator, I give up."

For him? Anything.

[mitsuristoleme]

cw: gojo x geto, canon compliant, shoko cameo, angst, NOT proofread

“Satoru!” 

“I love you, Satoru.”

“Satoru, you’re the love of my life.”

Satoru sinks to the ground next to bed, curling into himself. What had just happened?

Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?

What the fuck did that even mean?

His glasses had come off a while ago, lost somewhere in the streets of Shinjuku. 

He wants to cry. He wants to cry so much. The tears just wouldn’t leave his eyes, his heart heavy in his chest, burning a hole through his body. 

“I’ll never leave you.” Suguru had said, his nimble fingers tracing patterns under Satoru’s shirt. 

Lies. 

He lied.

He left him. 

“You’re the love of my life.” Suguru had said for the first time, the words whispered in Satoru’s arms as he passed out after eating his first special grade. 

Was that a lie too? 

Did he ever even love him? 

Why would he leave him behind?

Satoru has no idea how long he sits there spiralling into the dark cavern of his thoughts before the tears start to roll down his face, before his sniffles turn into sobbing and hyperventilating, pulling sharp breaths into his nose for no reason than his body’s need to live on.

“Satoru~” Suguru had almost purred, his eyes crinkling into that signature half moon smile , waving him over, his bag slung over his shoulder, the setting sun behind him making him look ethereal, angelic even.

“Why?” Satoru questions aloud, his voice cracking, a fresh round of sobs forcing itself from his mouth once more. 

His chest hurt. 

Was it from crying too much? Was it heartache?

He vaguely registers his the door clicking open and shut. 

There’s a hand on his back. It’s warm, comforting.

The other hand slides between the cage he’d made with his arms, to grip onto his chin, forcing his head to lift up. 

His eyes are full of tears, he doesn’t know who he’s looking at. His six eyes are sluggish, all he knows is that he knows this cursed energy.

His heart soars for a fleeting moment.

“Suguru?” he croaks.

“No man, it’s me, Shoko. ‘M sorry.”

Satoru wails, “Shoko. Shoko, he- he left, Shoko. He left me.”

She sighs.

“I know. C’mon get up, get in bed.”

She somehow manages to haul him into bed.

Satoru hears her mention a sedative through his sobs. He doesn’t care what she does. 

Theres a prick on the base of his neck. His head swims. 

Shoko runs a hand along his forehead. He doesn’t know if it’s to get his attention or soothe him. Both maybe.

“I’ll be here tomorrow. But you need to sleep right now.”

He nods. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Suguru’s face flashes through his hazy mind. The millionth time tonight. 

He would’ve followed him anywhere. Why didn’t he take Satoru with him? He would’ve died for him. But now? Now he was just dying inside. 

There would be an order for his arrest sent out tomorrow. Satoru would be told to capture his own best friend, his boyfriend- was he his boyfriend anymore? 

He loved Geto Suguru. 

He loved him.

Satoru passes out at that. 

a/n: IM SO SORRY!! if anyone was curious, i was listening to loml and the smallest man who ever lived by taylor swift while writing this. i also almost cried. so. hope you had fun??? comment and reblog mayhaps please?

also i wrote this in like 20 something minutes pls forgive me for any errors

[fortheloveof-sebastian]

The One Who Has My Heart

Pairings: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Summary: The second task of the Triwizard Tournament is to recover what’s been taken from you…little do you know just how true that is.

Warnings: potential kidnapping?, kissing, fluff

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: This request is for @scarydeadlavender Thank you for the prompt, I hope you enjoy it😁

Currently, you’re standing on a platform that’s been erected out of the lake. A few hundred feet below you, the surface of the lake roiled, dark and murky; it made sense why it had earned the nickname of the Black Lake. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine terrifying creatures dwelling within the unpredictable waters.

If the other two champions — a broad shouldered boy from Durmstrang and a wispy, waif-like girl from Beaxbatons — were nervous about this task, this didn’t show it. In fact, they stood on two adjacent platforms, leaning forward with intent.

Your eyes scan the crowd nervously.

Still no Sebastian. You can’t help but feel disappointed by his apparent absence. Where else could he be? He even told you the night before that he would be ready to congratulate you on another win, considering that he had been in detention during the first task. You had tried to assuage his guilt on missing out by insisting that it didn’t matter — and it didn’t, not really — but it had lifted your spirits to think that he might be watching today.

“ — have precisely an hour to recover what’s been taken from them.”

A whistle blows, and the other two champions waste no time diving into the water. You shake your heads, dislodging your worries of Sebastian. A roar of impatience and disbelief assails you from the Hogwarts student section, shouting at you to go and launching you into movement.

You take a deep breath and swan dive into the lake, the icy water engulfing you. The shock nearly immobiles you, until you open your eyes and notice the two other champions are already swimming away, leaving behind a trail of bubbles in their wake.

“I’m here.”

You turn, relieved. Staring back at you is a mermaid, more otherworldly than human, with hair that flows and waves in the current like the tangled black seaweed below you.

The mermaid encircles her arms around your neck and latches a necklace there. Instantly, the pressure of holding your breath releases, and the water clears significantly. The necklace granted you breathing and visibility abilities beneath the water, a special relic that the mermaid swore to bring to you — thanks to Ominis, of course.

Sebastian told you in confidence that his fellow Slytherin had struck up a friendship with one of the fishy beasts, and upon hearing about your latest task, you knew that it would be a great help. Ominis was incensed, understandably, that Sebastian had given away another one of his closely guarded secrets but eventually conceded. After all, he wanted Hogwarts to win the Triwizard Tournament as bad as anyone.

You and Ominis struck a deal with the mermaid, after Ominis vaguely declared that she owed him a favor.

Part of you didn’t believe she would come, most likely because you didn’t trust this mermaid. Her name was Kaya, and she had taken an instant liking to Sebastian as soon as she saw him. Too much of a liking for your taste.

“They said that I needed to recover what’s been taken from me,” you tell Kaya, recalling the only instruction you managed to catch.

The mermaid smiles knowingly. Or else, you think that she’s smiling. Her mouth, lined with razor sharp teeth, looks more cunning then helpful. “And what are you missing, human?”

You rack your brain. Was this task metaphorical? Did they secretly steal away with something from your dorm in the middle of the night?

Then, it strikes you — Sebastian. Sebastian was missing.

Your heart pounds. You knew he wouldn’t have missed for just any reason! But that means that he was here somewhere, in the lake.

“Sebastian,” you say aloud. “Where is he?”

“He’s safe,” the mermaid says.

You narrow your eyes. “Where. Is. He.”

“I helped you with your task,” the mermaid hauntily replies. “So I’ve just taken my payment.”

“If recovering Sebastian is my task, and you’ve taken him, then you have not helped me!” You shout. Red hot anger shoots through you. “You can’t do this. Bring me to Sebastian. Now.”

“Mr. Gaunt said that I only had to give you the mermaid relic,” Kaya says.

Your hands form into fists. “He also said that you have to help me win.” Resisting the urge to throttle the mermaid, you demand, “You have to take me to Sebastian or else your debt with Ominis — er, Mr. Gaunt — will not be repaid.”

Fae can not be trusted, you remember from your studies. But they also take favors and debts seriously, which you hope is enough to convince this magical creature to listen.

The mermaid studies you for a moment, and it’s as if you can feel your alotted time to complete the task slipping away. Finally, she sighs. “Fine, follow me. But keep up. I won’t go back for you.”

Easier said than done. It’s a battle to keep up with her — although she might’ve alleviated your need to breath air and your poor human vision, you aren’t nearly as fast as her. Her fishlike body cuts effortlessly through the seaweed, churning up sand and rocks in your face as you scramble after her. Fortunately for you, her supposed hiding place isn’t far from where you had dived into the lake from the platforms.

The mermaid points inside the mouth of an underwater cave. “He’s in there.”

You don’t have time to debate whether or not she’s telling the truth. At this point, your concern isn’t about the tournament but whether Sebastian is safe. Forcing your way into the cave, you navigate through the pitch darkness for a few feet before remembering that you have your wand. “Lumos,” you whisper.

Light illuminates your surroundings.

And there, at the end of the narrow tunnel, lays Sebastian. His eyes are closed, and if it wasn’t for the seaweed binding him, you would’ve assumed he was just asleep.

Frantically you dart forward and grab him.

“Depulso!” The spell propels you out of the cave. You cling to Sebastian, his body limply bumping next to yours as you swim for the surface.

The mermaid is nowhere to be found, but you prefer it that way. Cupping your hands, you fight your way to the surface, kicking your legs as fast as you can. Your muscles scream at you but you don’t stop until your bursting above the water, greeted by a chorus of cheers.

Durmstrung has already made it back.

You’re rescued by two older wizards who use their wands to carry you back up onto the platforms. Only then does Sebastian snap out of whatever trance he’s in — sputtering and heaving as he coughs up lake water.

“What’s going on?” He asks weakly.

Quickly you cut him free from his seaweed binding, and help him into a sitting position.

“How much do you know?”

Sebastian shakes his head, the motion sending out droplets of water onto your robes. His lashes are wet also, spiky, beads of water collecting on the ends and somehow, despite having literally just been dragged up from the bottom of a lake, he looks infuriatingly handsome.

“I—not much.” He frowns. “I remember leaving the common room and then…nothing.”

You quickly fill him in: about the task, the mermaid, and his temporary kidnapping. He listens attentively, his features morphing from confusion to shock, and then back to confusion.

“She kidnapped me?” He echoes. Sebastian leans back on his hands. “Well, I suppose I can’t blame her. I am rather good looking.”

You scowl at him. “I should’ve left you for mermaid chow.”

“But wait, if I was unconscious, then that means that I missed another one of your tasks,” he says, straightening. A look of guilt passes over his face.

“It’s not like you could really help it,” you say empathetically. “If you think about it, you’ve been kidnapped twice within the last twenty four hours. I suppose I can forgive you.”

He clasps your hand. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Sebastian, you really don’t have to —”

“And Durmstrang wins the second task!” The announcer booms. “One task Hogwarts, one task Durmstrang. Join us for the last task for the tiebreaker!”

Later that evening, you get an owl from Sebastian requesting your presence. You’ve been trying not to pity yourself for losing the task today, although it’s hard not to when your fellow Hogwarts students cast you accusatory glares. There’s no way you can refuse Sebastian, though — the cheeky bugger — so you heave yourself from beneath your covers and get dressed.

The Slytherin common room is mostly empty, besides a few students who are studying. You traipse inside uncertainly; Sebastian gave you little instructions, just to meet.

“Sebastian?” You call out.

Avoiding the pointed glares from a few of the students, you round one of the magnificent columns and spot a familiar backside. Sebastian’s turned away from you but whirls to face you when he senses your presence. Delight breaks out on his face.

He hastily fills the space between you in two long strides, then sweeps you into a passionate embrace. When his lips find yours, you’re taken aback by his fervent display of affection — it’s as if you’ve been apart for a dreadfully long time, and he can’t wait to reunite. You melt into the kiss. Sebastian’s hands slip behind your neck and around your waist, pulling you close. You’re busy relishing the moment when you suddenly hear the telltale sound of water being splashed.

You pull away from Sebastian just in time to see a large fin swish away from the view of the window looking out into the lake.

“Was that—?”

“Maybe,” Sebastian says, grinning.

“Sebastian,” you scold him. The matching grin that unfurls on your face negates the scalding nature of your tone. “That’s so impolite.”

“What? I think it’s a fitting punishment for a potential kidnapper,” he says defensively.

“Are you going to kiss me in front of the entire Triwizard board then, too?”

Sebastian’s grin widens. “Only if you insist.”

“I can’t believe you,” you say, laughing in disbelief but allowing him to ensnare you in another toe curling kiss anyway.

He punctuates the kiss with several smaller ones, peppering them from the corners of your mouth to the top of your noise. “Why not? I can’t just go around letting psychotic, kidnapping mermaids think they have a chance with me. Everyone needs to know who really has my heart.”

[sonicstalker123]

Korekiyo x Reader who commits s***ide because of Korekiyo’s Death PART 2 (since people loved it so much 🥹)

CW: angst, sewerslide, gore, but with fluff at the end!

Note: Y/N is besties with Himiko and has an odd friendship with Kokichi.

✨she/her pronouns used!✨

Part one: 👇🏻

Shuichi, Maki and Kaito look mortified as they see Y/N’s corpse, whose body is stiff and surrounded in dried blood. Korekiyo’s hat and the bloodied knife are next to her.

“A body has been discovered?! So she’s actually dead?! Monokuma isn’t just screwing with us?!” Kaito asks, looking horrified.

“Yes, Kaito, she’s…. dead. Monokuma would never mess around with this sort of thing. Kaito, Maki, stay here with the body, I’m going to get the others!” Shuichi responds, looking down at her lifeless body. He then runs out of the room and gets the others.

Everybody soon returns and Tsumugi looks down at her and screams. “Y/N is dead?!” Himiko looks at Y/N and gets sick to her stomach and starts crying.

“Why did you have to leave us?!” She yells and sounds heartbroken.

“I don’t know Himiko, but we should start the investigation. These investigations hurt all of our hearts, but we must do this…” Shuichi states, looking for clues and finds a note.

“Hmm, a note? It says ‘This is goodbye, isn’t it? Kiyo made me feel special. He made me feel loved. He really made me feel wonderful. Appreciated. I’ll never forget the memories we made. I couldn’t bare the thought of being away from him for much longer, it was just tearing me up inside. Take this hat and mask and put it on my bed. As a reminder that we will be with one another forever. See you guys in another life. I thought you all were amazing friends’.”

The room falls silent… everybody stops in their tracks, looking at Shuichi as he reads the note. Tears start to form in everybody’s eyes, specifically Himiko’s. Kokichi of all people looks upset. “She thought of me as a friend too..?” Kokichi asks, looking genuinely surprised.

“Yeah right, Kokichi, like she would have ever fuckin’ consider you of all people to be her friend, ya dumbass, especially after the way you always treated her! Always taking her things! Hell, maybe you even took Creepy Korekiyo’s hat from her room!” Miu exclaims.

“Idiot, she always locked the door during the day and Kiyo was protective of her room, especially after I stole this precious necklace of hers. Seems a little too late to give this back to her now?” Kokichi places the necklace next to her respectively.

Shuichi is surprised that he’s being so nice, but resumes his investigation, along with everybody else. “Kokichi, why did you steal her necklace? Did you take that from her when she was alive?”

Kokichi laughs. “Well, duh, of course I took it from her when she was alive! While she was away, probably doing something.” Kokichi looks at Y/N, who’s still limp, but her body is slowly becoming stiff.

Kaito walks close to Y/N, inspecting her, along with Shuichi. “She has deep cuts on her wrist with scissors next to her. A sharp and bloody kitchen knife from the kitchen is in her hands. Seems like she’s been dead for a while, the blood is dried.” Shuichi states.

Kaito looks at her body. “Hey man, that hat she always carried around with her isn’t here. That’s strange, maybe the killer hid that hat somewhere.”

“You’re right, Kaito..! So where did they hide it?” Tsumugi asks.

Kaito shrugs. “Hell if I know. Maybe it’ll show up eventually or maybe it’s in Y/N’s room.”

“Ah! Good idea, Kaito! Let’s head there now!”

Kaito nods and he and Tsumugi leave the area in pursuit of Y/N’s room.

Shuichi looks at the dried blood on the sharp knife and then at her hand, with her phone nearby. He sees the picture that Y/N was looking at shortly before she died.

“Y/N…. We will bring your killer to justice and avenge you…” Shuichi says, while looking at her, with a saddened expression.

Some time passes and Tsumugi and Kaito return. “well. Her hat from Kiyo wasn’t there. The mask he gave her was in her room though.”

“Huh? The hell are you talking about, idiot? Creepy Kiyo’s mask is right next to her! How did you not see it?!” Miu exclaims.

“Oh.” Tsumugi and Kaito say, at the same time.

*DING BONG BING BONG!*

“It’s time for the damn Class Trial…” Maki says, looking at the monitor.

“Yup, exactly! Now get to the Shrine of Judgement, ASAP!!” Monokuma exclaims.

Himiko sighs sadly. “I don’t wanna do this class trial the most….”

“Himiko, I don’t want to either… but we have to! It’s the only way that we can let her rest in peace.” Maki responds.

Himiko sighs. “Y-Yeah… let’s do this.”

Everybody steps inside the elevator. “It feels… so odd and like something is missing in here.” Kaito states.

“Not something, someone. Three people, actually. Gonta, Y/N and Korekiyo are all… dead.” Kaede responds, remembering Korekiyo’s execution.

“Fuckin’ moron! You know that they’re dead, that’s why they’re not here!” Miu states.

Time for the class trial.

Everybody debates and everybody goes back and fourth, trying to figure out who killed her.

Shuichi plays Hangman’s Gambit inside of his head lol.

Plain as day: it spells out one word: SUICIDE.

“The killer was… herself. She committed suicide.” Shuichi states, looking devastated.

Everybody looks horrified and gasps. Even Kokichi.

“So… the paper she wrote was…” Kaede looks at Shuichi, with devastated eyes.

“Yes, Maki, it was her final note. That was her goodbye. And the text she sent Kaito? That was her final text.”

The class trial ends, with saddened looks from everybody. “The very least we could do is do what her final wish was… to take Korekiyo’s mask and hat and place it in her room.” Shuichi states, motioning for Kaito and Maki to follow behind him.

They all walk to where Y/N was and grab the hat and mask. With saddened looks on their faces, they walk towards Y/N’s room. They approach her door. “Hey Monokuma! We know you’re here! … open the door for us… Please…” Shuichi states, Himiko finding and joining them.

Monokuma pops up out of nowhere. “Yeah, sure.” He unlocks the door for them and disappears. Shuichi turns around and notices Himiko. “Himiko? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to say goodbye to her too… All of us do.” She points at everybody standing by her room.

Himiko slowly opens the door, looking heartbroken as she opens the door. “H-Hey, Y/N… I have these pictures… of us here... Mind if w-we hang these up on your wall?..” Himiko hangs up pictures of everybody on the walls. Everybody looks sad as they get the hint and follow behind Himiko.

Kiibo grabs a picture of Y/N and Kiibo, Kaede grabs a picture of herself and Y/N…. And so on. Y/N looks so happy in every single photo. “One last photo… Himiko places two photos on Y/N’s pillow. One of them with Himiko and one of Kiyo and Y/N.

Shuichi notices Y/N’s necklace on her bed. “Ah! Her necklace! How did it get here? Did Kokichi bring it here?” He then notices a picture of Kokichi and Y/N smiling and surprisingly getting along. In the photo, Y/N has a big grin on her face, with Kokichi in the background in Kokichi’s lab. Shuichi picks it up in curiosity and looks at the back. “It says ‘I always thought you were my bestie too… I just had a… way… of sharing it. I’m sorry. Goodbye, Y/N.’? Did they… have a friendship of some sort? Never mind… it’s not important.” Shuichi says as he places her hat next to the necklace with the photo in the middle.

He then gently places the mask next to the hat and puts the picture of Y/N and Kokichi back on the bed, with the necklace wrapped up in it.

Everybody sits on the floor reminiscing about Y/N and their memories.

Y/N’s ghost starts to fly around, watching over everybody in the academy for a moment, but then excitedly flies in the sky, looking for Korekiyo. “Korekiyo!!! Are you here~??”

She continues to look around until she sees Korekiyo’s ghost, sulking. Y/N excitedly flies towards Korekiyo and hugs him from behind. “Kiyo!” Korekiyo reacts to her voice and turns around. “Is that..?” He turns around and hugs her tightly. The two of them hug each other tightly. “I missed you dearly, my beloved rose.” He gives her a kiss on the forehead. “I was so lost without you, I…I even—!” Kiyo holds her close. “Shhh, it’s okay, my dear. What matters now is that we’re together.”

Y/N cries tears of joy as their ghosts sit next to each other as she buries her head in his chest. Kiyo protectively places his hand on Y/N’s head. “Mmh, you always knew how much I loved those.”

Damn this finale was so tough to write, irl stuff kept me busy. I wanted to make it as perfect as I possibly could! I had an alternate ending in mind where Kiyo panicked after Y/N told him that she was her own killer, but I wanted the ending to be the embodiment of fluff.

I hope you all liked this!!

[inferencesarchives]

Ocean's Valentine

captain caviar x gn!reader fluff

summary: how you and caviar spend valentines day on a voyage together <3

warnings: physical touch, pet names (sweetheart), mentions of food

Ah, the open sea breeze, perfect for an evening like this.

Somewhere, out in the vast soda ocean, there was a ship, gently rocking back and forth on the waves. On said ship, a crew of sailors enjoyed a hearty feast, eating and drinking to their heart's content. Each and every crewmate wore joyous smiles upon their faces, all of them celebrating the holiday by sharing laughter and well-wishes with one another.

It was a happy holiday indeed. The cookies were delighted and graciously celebrated their friendships with each other. Every sailor's boisterous laughter quickly filled the dining hall below deck. It truly was a perfect holiday for every cookie on board.

Even after the dinner was over, plenty of crew members were boasting with smiles and laughter. All across the ship, cookies could be seen eagerly conversing with one another, and atop the deck, a certain pair of cookies could be seen sharing a special moment with each other.

"Ha! Now THAT'S a good joke! You're quite the comedian, ya know!" Captain Caviar Cookie laughed at your jokes as he playfully nudged you with his elbow. "You're a real sweetheart, ya know. I'd give anything to see you smile." He looked at you with a starstruck look in his eyes. His sudden compliment left you red in the face, and he chuckled at your flustered expression. "You just look so adorable. I'm glad that we're able to spend our lives together. I love you so much." He cupped your cheek and kissed your forehead.

"Aww, Cav! I love you too," you said as you smiled and hugged him. He was quick to lean into your touch and gently kissed your neck. "Love ya more," he teased. "No, I love you more!" you giggled as you pulled away from the hug. "Oh really? Well, I love you more than anything in the world." He gave you a sharp-toothed smile. "Then, I love you more than anything in the universe!" you told him as you grabbed his hand. "Oh, alright, you win this time," he playfully rolled his eyes before kissing your lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart."

a/n: omg fishbubble is alive no way- anyways CAPTAIN CAVIAR BELOVED <33 HAPPY VALENTINES DAY EVERYONE! also pls request something im trying to defeat writer's block

thanks for stopping by!

all works are written by fishbubble and are not to be reposted, copied, or translated without permission. reblogs are appreciated, though!

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[das-malefitz]

It's a Sin | Secondo/Papa Emeritus II x Female Reader (NSFW)

(A/N: First Ghost fanfic! Uploaded to Ao3 first, but figured I'd give Tumblr a spin too. Image is by Rene Magritte: "The Lovers II", 1928. Getting into the habit of fanfic again; it's been ten years.) Content: Secondo x Female Reader ; Fluff ; Pillow-talk ; Implied Sexual Content ; Heavy Petting ; Relationship insecurities talk WC: ~1500 words You've been involved with Papa Emeritus II for a while, but it's never gone beyond physical affections and romantic professions. The inevitable consequence of such is a confrontation of these emotions, and whether it means much to this grandiose figure of Satanic desire.

---------

Tangled in sheets and limbs, you recover from another wave of ecstasy. The sensation has near brought you to tears more than once, bliss mixing with an overwhelming release. Secondo holds you close—  he always has a hand on you somewhere or somehow—  and the smirk he wears after making you orgasm never gets old. His Papa makeup is smeared, fine tan skin appearing beneath the swipes of white paint and black detail. You can see a bit of your lipstick, a sharp red in contrast, painting his lips a puckered pink. You know that you probably look just as disheveled. 

A small price to pay for delight. 

The sight from the hotel room is a beautiful one, with Paris’s landscape slinking out from the morning fog. It had to be the early morning, somewhere past midnight, and the twinkling lights of a dark city peppered the room with gentle lighting. Secondo had stumbled back in a few hours ago, somewhat intoxicated, still dressed in his papal robes. When he’d seen you he’d lost all his composure, something limited from the post Ritual high anyway, and hadn’t let his hands leave your body since.

As you adjust a little in bed, Secondo looks over at you. His proud, hooked nose casts a pretty shadow over his cheek, making him somehow look younger and sweeter. It’s moments like these you take advantage of seeing another side of Papa Emeritus II. While the crowds go wild, and the women beg for a taste of him, you know that it’s your bed that he returns to every night. Scents of musky sex often perfume his body, but you know that sexual urges are a divine right by Lucifer. To abstain would be an insult, and far from the practices of the Clergy and what they expect of their members… and their Papa. 

You aren’t a Sister yourself, though you have thought about joining. There is nothing against fraternization within the Clergy, not that you know of or that Secondo has told you, but part of you hopes to keep the distance between his work and… You. 

It was hard to feel special at first, or really like you were anything other than another lay, another groupie. Secondo made it clear quickly, however, that you were special. He was never one to play games, not with those hardened eyes. Yet it would be doubt that plagued every post coitus session, despite all the smiles and how sweetly he’d finger you, that things were simply convenient for him. 

“What plagues you, cara?” He asks suddenly, and while you were lost in thought you catch that he’s been looking at you the whole time, silently, with that smirk having fallen so slightly. His gaze traces your form, catching on your lips and your breasts more than once. “You reached climax, no? Tell me I have not failed you— ”

He smiles again, quick to carry on, “— of course not, you look as if you’ve been kissed by Lucifer himself. The blush on your cheeks and your chest… You are beautiful.”

It makes you smile too, but you know that he was right to ask if everything was alright. Your elation was evident, sure, but there were those moments of silence that seemed to catch your nerves. He has only spoken up once or twice about it, but you were quick to dash his concerns.

Now, it seems, he wishes to know more. The tactic of flirtation is a clever, usual one from him. 

“It’s just…” The words struggle to fall from your lips, and your turn fully to face him. You reach up to caress his jawline, your fingers trailing from neck down to the bed and falling with a thump. “It’s stupid. I feel… Jealous, really.”

This makes his eyebrows raise. He struggles to adjust himself, the sweat laden sheet falling from his chest and relaxing around his hips. He sits up, staring down at you.

“Jealous?” Secondo repeats with his hardened stare. He appears angry, a superficial observation of the man, but you know that it’s just the way his brow tends to furrow in concentration. You give an exasperated sigh, a scarlet flush of shame riding on your cheeks. You sit up as well, holding the sheet to your chest, feeling far too exposed in more ways than one. 

“I dunno,” you mumble at first. It’s hard to admit, but you give yourself credit for getting this far. “Jealous… maybe isn’t the word. It’s just that… Remember how I said I was considering joining the abbey? Becoming a Sister? Being able to… join you often, and to worship Satan with the others?”

He nods, slow at first as his memory rushes to catch up.

“I haven’t gone about it yet… and I don’t know if I will. You fuck beautiful women, you sing, you are this… laviscious figure of worship and devotion and it doesn’t bother me as much anymore. Yet I… I dunno, maybe… I’m afraid of being left behind?” The words squeak out of you, your fingers clutching onto the bed sheet. 

“Of being just… just another woman you leave behind. You tour the world, Secondo… You bring so much joy to people. You bring joy to me... I just don’t want to be the one to hold you back. To keep you behind.”

He remains quiet, staring and listening intently. For a second you’re sure that he’s forgotten how to speak—  it’s the only other conclusion for a man who seems to always say the right thing—  or, perhaps, you’ve offended him by trying to remain oh-so important. The burden of duty weighs upon the crown of many who lead, this you know… And it is far more of a dedication than one simple relationship. Your relationship. For months now you’ve felt this way, ignoring it with sex and laughter, and only now has the nerve finally come to say something.

Yet, you’re afraid now. You don’t want to lose him.

Finally Secondo looks at you, and grabs at one of your hands. He kisses the palm lightly, trailing featherlight touches from your wrist to your forearm. He returns his kiss to your hand, holding it close against the curve of his cheek.

There it is again, that glimpse of a younger, more vulnerable man. It feels like a trick of the light, or maybe your own hope that he was different with you.

“Cara. I am not a man who squanders the gifts I have been given. For all that I have… and all that I must do… It does not come second to what I want.”

He draws you close, and you fall forward into his arms. They wrap around you, a warm embrace as he kisses the top of your head. You shudder into the closeness, intimacy filling you and sealing battered wounds. 

“I would not be here if you were simply someone to me, another body to worship before moving onto the next. You… you remind me, cara, that beneath the paint and the robes there is still a man. They see Papa. You see… Secondo.”

His words ring true, lighting your insides with a carnal fire. Pulling back slightly you look up at him, in time to feel your own eyes sting warm with tears.

“Do you mean that?” You ask, your hands clutching at him. 

His hand snakes around your waist, and his nails dig into your flesh enough to make you shudder again. “I do not lie. I crave pleasure as much as I wish to give it. And you are the one that I wish to give it to. On my own time. When I am just a man, naked and bare in front of you.”

You feel the magnetic pull between you two, the same thing that had drawn you to him in the first place, and it clears the distance between your lips. They find his lips, and it’s a kiss that ignites your core. He kisses fervently, perhaps to prove the point, and pulls you even closer.

Before you know it you’ve tumbled back onto the bed, half on top and half sprawled next to him. Secondo swipes his thumb over your cheek, and a wicked grin splits his mouth. 

“Now you must stop this crying, these tears, these worries. Or I will have to make you come again, and again, and again—”

It makes you laugh. You kiss him again on the corner of the mouth, and he utters a little groan, grabbing onto you tighter once more.

“You better. You said you don’t lie,” you say with a tease, letting your hand twirl circles onto his chest.

With that he rolls you over with a hearty laugh, his hungry kiss descending your fears to delicious, sinful paradise.

[emma23]

Waiting for something special:

————————————————————————

The small coffee shop you found yourself in wasn’t anything special—just one of those dingy little places tucked away in the corner of the street where no one ever really went. You had been coming here for weeks now, sitting in the same booth by the window, watching life move on without you.

And then there was Cecil Denis.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened, but somehow, the eccentric man with the too-bright shirts and the cigarette always dangling from his lips had wormed his way into your daily routine. You’d met him by chance, or maybe he’d orchestrated it—it was hard to tell with him. Everything Cecil did seemed intentional, like he knew how every little interaction would play out before it even happened.

Today, you found yourself sitting across from him again, sipping on your drink while he droned on about something you couldn’t quite follow. His hands were animated, his voice lively, but your mind was somewhere else.

“Y/N? You listening to me, doll?” Cecil’s smooth voice cut through your haze, drawing you back to the present. He tilted his head, eyeing you with that same smug, knowing expression he always had.

“Sorry, what?” you blinked, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

Cecil leaned back in his chair, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a tray. “I was saying, you seem distracted. Something on your mind?”

You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to share what had been bothering you for weeks. Cecil was sharp, too sharp, and he had this way of making you feel like you were being put under a microscope.

“It’s nothing,” you mumbled, staring down at your cup.

Cecil hummed, clearly not buying your deflection. “Nothing, huh? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like something.”

You sighed, fidgeting with your spoon. “It’s stupid.”

“Oh, those are my favorite kinds of things to talk about,” Cecil grinned, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “Come on, doll, spill.”

You bit your lip, still debating whether or not to say it. But Cecil wasn’t the kind of guy you could keep things from for long. Besides, what was the harm in telling him? He probably wouldn’t care, right?

Taking a deep breath, you finally confessed. “I’ve never been kissed.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that so?”

You nodded, your face heating up even more. “It’s pathetic, I know. I’m in my twenties and I’ve never even kissed anyone. Like, who does that?”

Cecil’s smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes softened slightly. “No, it’s really not pathetic,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle for once.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I guess I was just waiting for someone special to come along.”

Cecil’s gaze sharpened, and you could feel the shift in the air between you. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Has someone?”

Your breath hitched, and you found yourself unable to meet his eyes. “Maybe,” you muttered, barely above a whisper.

Cecil chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Think you, huh?” His fingers drummed lazily on the table. “So, what do you want me to do about it, doll?”

You glanced up at him, feeling your heart race in your chest. “Will you?”

Cecil tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “If I kiss you here, right now, you won’t be kissing any other men, Y/N. It'll only ever be me.”

Your pulse quickened, your mind racing as you processed his words. He wasn’t joking—there was an intensity in his gaze that made it clear he meant every word. This wasn’t just some casual kiss for him; this was a claim.

But wasn’t that what you wanted? Someone special? Someone who made you feel like you were the only one who mattered?

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay.”

Cecil’s smirk widened, and he stood up, moving around the table to slide in next to you. The scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of cigarette smoke, creating a dizzying combination that made your head spin.

His hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up towards him. For a moment, he just stared at you, his dark eyes searching yours like he was making sure you were ready for this. Then, without another word, he closed the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a slow, deliberate kiss.

The world around you seemed to fade away as Cecil’s lips moved against yours. It wasn’t rough or hurried—no, it was careful, almost reverent, like he was savoring every second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, spreading through your entire body. This was it—the kiss you’d been waiting for, the one that was supposed to change everything. And it was perfect.

When he finally pulled away, you were left breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. Cecil didn’t say anything for a moment, just studying your face with a satisfied grin.

“Well, how was that for your first kiss, doll?”

You laughed, still trying to catch your breath. “Not bad.”

Cecil raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Not bad? Come on, I think I deserve a little more credit than that.”

You rolled your eyes, playfully shoving him. “Fine. It was great. Happy?”

He chuckled, leaning back against the booth. “I’ll take it.” He was silent for a moment before adding, “Told you, though. No more kissing other men.”

You smirked, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I think I can live with that.

[the-traveling-poet]

hello darling! Congratulations on hitting 100 followers! 🥳 I honestly thought you had at least 1000 cause your writing is really good! And so here I am to request a second fic… could you do a Levi x lieutenant reader where the reader has lost someone close, maybe a sibling and even if she’s usually chatty and everything, now she seems distracted and absent and during a mission outside the walls, maybe to capture a titan or something she almost gets killed and wakes up near Levi in the hospital wing? Thank youuu 🧡🧡

Cleansing

With the fifty Seventh expedition led by the Scouting Corps beyond the walls on the rise, Lieutenant Y/N finds herself on the verge of breakdown. Distracted by the grief surrounding her heart over her late friend’s death the previous expedition, Y/N lands herself in the infirmary wing next to a familiar face.

Pairings: Lexi x Grieving!Reader

Warnings: language, depression, injuries, lost loved ones, SFW, grief-to-fluff, s2

Taglist: @21aurora If you want on the tag list for drabbles, headcannons, and one-shots, just DM me~

A/N: Thank you so much my lovely Alex!! I’m thrilled to have even reached 100 lovely followers 🤎 I’m sorry about the wait! I hope I did your vision justice! I always love your requests~ As always if anything wrote doesn’t meet your expectations, let me know and I’ll happily re-write!

Enjoy~

“Prepare yourselves! We ride out in five minuet’s time!”

Commander Erwin’s voice boomed out across the crowd of both citizens and soldiers alike, reaching the ears of everyone gathered. But for the first time in your enlisted life, the confidence in his tone did nothing to boost your morale.

You sat atop your steed near the middle of the crowd of soldiers, your head bowed as you stared down at your hands holding your horse’s reins.

Fifty seven expeditions the Survey Corps has undertaken, and somehow you still managed to draw breath after every single one of them that you’d been around to participate in.

Others hadn’t been so lucky as to survive the missions beyond the walls, and years ago you would mourn their deaths from afar. As a comrade, perhaps as an acquaintance of the fallen. But now…Now, everything was different.

Squeezing the leather straps of the reins, you forced your chin to raise up and locked your gaze somewhere far away from where you sat. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you forced yourself to take deep breaths.

Just a few weeks prior, had been the fifty sixth expedition out into titan territory. You’d figured, back then, everything would go as it always had.

Ride for your life, fight like hell, cover the rear guard, and pray to whatever might be out there you didn’t get your ass ripped a new one by a titan’s sharp teeth.

But you had been sorely mistaken, on that fateful day.

Your duty as Lieutenant within the Special Operations Squad was simple; aid Corporal Levi in any way he demanded, and cover your squad’s rear. But that day, you had been selfish.

There had been a girl. A girl you spent a good portion of your teenage life with while training to become a Scout. She had been nothing short of your un-biological sister. Your best friend. She wasn’t apart of your specialized squad, and you grew weary from the lack of contact the entirety of the formation had had that day with the right wing.

Levi’s command had fallen on deaf ears that afternoon when you steered your horse in another direction. You’d called over your shoulder you would return quickly, but your promise was quickly broken.

By the time you had reached the right wing’s position, you’d been too late. The dismembered and mutilated bodies of her squad laid all about the field in mangled heaps, their blood soaking deep into the earth. Titans roamed about the scene, lazily shifting through the corpses to find anyone alive to eat. Unable to take them all out on your own, and without any aid, you choked back your anguished cry and raised a flair gun over your head. Your vision had been blurred by unshed tears when you squeezed the trigger and rode off.

One last glance over your shoulder showed you what was left of your best friend; her body bitten into half and a silent scream frozen on her white face.

You’d never been the same since, and you didn’t figure you would ever be.

And you certainly knew you’d never forgive yourself for leaving her body out there. For leaving her in the first place, despite duty pulling you two apart.

Now, as you sat as still as a statue upon your horse, you forced your mind to wander elsewhere in your memories. Subtly you used your jacket’s sleeve to wipe at the corners of your eyes and focused your attention on the back of your Captain. He sat further up ahead of you all, nearer to Commander Erwin.

As if physically feeling your gaze on him, he turned to look over his shoulder and met your eye. You held his gaze, but showed no emotion on your face, which ironically matched his expression.

He raised a brow towards you, to which you merely gave a solemn nod. Taking that as all the confirmation he needed, he reluctantly drug his gaze away from you and faced the front.

As the gates began to slowly crank open on their rusted metal gears, you made a promise to yourself.

I won’t stop until you’re avenged, even if it costs me my last breath.

Though you were tasked with the rest of your squad to watch over the newest recruit, Eren Jeager, from the center of the formation, you kept your guard up and eyes peeled for any opportunity to seek your revenge against those man eating bastards.

Every titan that was spotted by your group once the formation had split up had been taken care of by you. You’d break away from the squad at every given opportunity to thin out the titan’s numbers, despite Levi’s constant reprimanding.

“Lieutenant L/N! Back in formation, now. We are not to engage unless necessary, you know this.”

“Sorry sir,” you’d mumble in response once you were back in place behind him, but you weren’t really paying attention to his words. With every kill you racked up, the less you could think straight. In order to keep the tears at bay, you just kept swinging.

═════════════════

A little over an hour later, the Forrest of Big Ass Trees (As Levi had dubbed it) loomed high up into the sky just a mile ahead. Hastening your pace, you followed your Captian inside and gripped your reins tighter.

You’d been briefly informed of the situation at hand the night before this expedition; so now you knew to just keep riding, and wait.

You knew you’d take your revenge soon enough…

By the time she appeared, your hands were off your reins and gripping the handles of your blades. Levi shot you a warning look over his shoulder, but said nothing. You both knew you wouldn’t jeopardize the whole purpose of this mission, emotional or not.

When the trap was sprung by your Commander, the last thread of your patience snapped. Springing into action, you shot away from the group to where you knew your Commander would be stationed, and took a deep breath.

Soon. Soon I’ll give your death reason.

To your surprise, Levi landed only a breath away from where you hung latched onto the tree and scoffed. Shifting slightly from how close he was to you, you held your breath.

“The hell was that, brat? You were supposed to supervise the squad after the bitch was captured.”

“Sorry, sir,” you mumbled again, averting your gaze. “But this is personal.”

He gave you a strange look, somewhere between understanding and surprise. But again, he chose not to ask. He trusted you, after all. Even if he didn’t know what was on your mind at the moment.

So when the Female Titan began to scream, and the ground began to rumble and quake with the thuds of charging titans, Levi hadn’t expected for you to bolt forward into the masses.

His warning fell on deaf ears as Erwin commanded his soldiers to advance and take out as many titans as possible before they reached the Female. As you fought your way through tangled limbs and gnashing teeth, time seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. But only one thing stuck in your mind.

You were doing this for her.

But in your rage, you failed to hear Erwin’s command for retreat. Suddenly finding yourself alone in a hoard of titans broke you out of your haze, and panic took over. Large arms batted you this way and that as you did your best to swivel through the frenzy. Bones crunched under the pressure of harsh blows, cuts formed from poorly aimed swipes of your blades, human and titan blood alike blinding your vision and loosening your grip.

And suddenly, the world around you faded into a blur and went dark.

═════════════════

Startled yells and fearful screams snapped you back into consciousness. You jolted up, only to gasp as a sharp pain ran through your left leg and arm. Holding your injured arm close to your chest, you saw a makeshift sling tied around your limb. Groaning in both pain and annoyance, you lifted your gaze to view your surroundings.

You were holed up in a wagon with several other injured soldiers, some still unconscious. The world around you was moving fast as the Scouts made their retreat from the botched expedition.

Looking over the side of the fast moving cart, you saw Levi riding close by on his own horse. Your movement caused him to snap his gaze towards you, relief flooding his eyes before they turned sharp once more.

“Not a word, L/N. Just be thankful you’re alive.”

His words caught you off guard, causing you to furrow your brow in confusion.

“Captain, what do you me-“

“I said; Not. A. Word, L/N.” He shot back, keeping his eyes trained ahead. His jaw was clenched and his brows drawn close together in a scowl. He was stiff in his saddle, causing you to worry. But per his request, you managed not to voice your concerns just yet. You’d wait until you were all back safely within HQ. For now, you’d try to rest…

═════════════════

Stifling a yawn, you cracked your eyes open once more. Only, this time, you were back inside the walls. The infirmary within HQ, to be precise.

You heaved a sigh, feeling defeated and frustrated. Your body felt weak, shaky even as you lifted a bandaged hand up towards your face. The movement stung, but you did your best to ignore it.

Hearing a shuffle from the other side of the room, you slowly brought yourself up into a sitting position on the cot.

Across from your bed against the far wall stood Levi. His presence here confused you, until you saw the dust rag in his hand.

Thinking not much of it after this, you cleared your throat to speak. “Evening, Captain.”

His shoulders tensed as he glanced over his shoulder, silently evaluating your state. He was still in uniform, dressed and dirtied as though he hadn’t returned from the walls. It unnerved you, seeing the usually pristine man looking so ruffed up off duty.

He set down the cloth and turned to face you, slightly favoring his right ankle. This didn’t go unnoticed by you, but before you could ask he spoke.

“Finally awake? Took you long enough; we’ve been in this damn room for an hour.”

“An hour? We?” You questioned slowly. “You mean, you’re-“

“Fine. I’m fine.” He insisted gruffly, now looking off to the side. “Eyebrows threw a fit that I should have my ankle evaluated, so I’ve been here since you have.”

Glancing over the bed and down at his ankle, you saw he wasn’t applying any pressure to the joint; merely hovering his heel above the ground.

“Doesn’t look fine,” you mumbled. “Broken?”

“Broken,” he affirmed with a scoff.

“Damn…” you whispered, unable to hide your surprise. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Like you can speak. Doctors said you’ve got three broken bones. Arm, hand, and ankle. All left.” he snorted, doing his best to (discreetly) hobble closer to your cot and take a seat.

“I figured as much. But why are you standing? You should be sitting, or laying. You know, to support your ankle while it sets.” You rolled your eyes and changed the topic, worried about his injury.

“Tch, couldn’t just sit here all day. Not in a room this dusty.” He wrinkled in distance, glancing back over at where he’d left the dust cloth on the windowsill.

You sighed, but cracked a smile. “Of course not. We can’t have that. But…” you swung your legs over the side of the bed with a wince. “I can’t have you hobbling around doing it alone. You might get hurt.”

He watched you incredulously as you stood, gathering your balance before shuffling on your leg’s cast and inched towards the window. Levi limped after you, feinting annoyance.

“Again, like you can speak.”

Chuckling, you grabbed a second cloth and attempted to help him. You were his right, and he was your left.

“So, the others come to visit yet?” You asked absentmindedly, wondering where the rest of your squad was. Levi stiffened, his hand stopping in place on the windowsill. His silence started to eat at you as it drug on, leaving fear to cloud your mind.

“Levi…?”

“They…They didn’t make it,” he whispered, his gaze distant as it stared down at his hand.

═════════════════

By the time he had finished his recount of the events leading up to his injury, your hands shook and eyes watered with unshed tears.

“I failed them, too…” You whispered hoarsely.

“Too?” Levi asked softly, finally gazing over at you.

You just nodded, now unable to meet his eye.

“ ‘This is personal.’ Is this what you meant earlier? Why you were so fucking reckless?” He stated suddenly, his eyes narrowing. With a sigh, you gave in.

“Yeah…I’m sorry, but I had to avenge her. The friend I lost, on the fifty sixth expedition a few weeks back. My best friend…She died because I wasn’t there to help her. And now…the others…” You trailed off helplessly, tears finally falling freely down your face.

A sturdy hand found its way to your shoulder, squeezing it softly.

“L/N, don’t. You did your job as Lieutenant, and you fought well. Their deaths are not your fault.” Levi whispered, a strain in his tone.

Sniffling, you looked to him and saw the same grief that clouded your mind swimming there in his own eyes. You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling exhausted from having held in your emotions for so long.

“It’s not your fault, either.” You whispered as you felt the hand on your shoulder slowly slide up and pet the top of your hair.

“I’m just glad you’re still here. You don’t have to go through this alone, and now neither will I.”

A watery smile formed unbidden on your face as tears dribbled down your chin and onto his shirt. You’d never seen your Captain so open and vulnerable, even though right now you knew you looked the same. It sparked a curious flicker in your heart, one you heard resonate in his chest as you pulled him in.

Your silent promise to stay with him at his side, and his silent acceptance of you into his life. Maybe even someday, his heart.