#if you are looking for more on characters though it is kind of stale

[guiltyasdave]

hold on to this lullaby

chapter 4 • series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~2k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, nightmares, implied death of a character, the angst is once again angsting, reader's thoughts have suicidal undertones sometimes

a/n: girlie is once again going through it. i know that we're moving at a very slow pace but the chemistry is growing, slowly but steadily :)

shoutout to @toomanytookas who left the most thoughtful analysis on the last chapter, and noticed how the doors being open or closed works as a metaphor for the state of their relationship. looking back, that is very true, but truth be told, it wasn't a conscious writing choice on my part lol. i love it so much though and am now using it very purposefully, so thank you for bringing that to my attention and just for being so incredibly kind <3

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

You’re running through the woods, running, running. Searching for something, someone, that you know you won’t find. 

Keep them safe. Promise me. We’ll be there soon. 

No one’s safe. No one’s coming. No one’s there. Your hands are wet, dripping with red, leaving a trail behind you. You trip, falling down to your knees, hands sinking into the earth. There’s nowhere to go, nothing to find. 

Still, you have to keep running. Running running running, searching searching searching. Keep them safe. Promise me. 

You’re used to it. 

Eyes flying open to suffocating, disorienting darkness, gasping for breath in the stale air of your room, the blanket much too heavy on your body. The images that your subconscious conjured up, still playing behind your eyelids. Your heart racing, your mind struggling to find its way back to reality. Lying alone in the darkness, only gradually able to discern your dream from your real life, the horrors blending into one another too intricately, too smilar to be separated. 

You’re still gasping, tears burning hot in your eyes and leaving wet tracks on your face. But it’s not dark, this time. And you’re not alone. The blurry shape of Joel slowly comes into focus, illuminated by the soft glow from the lamp on your nightstand. The weight of his hand is still resting on your shoulder, anchoring you to the present, and you realize that he must have shaken you awake. That you must have been loud.

You’ve wondered before, if you’re making noises, if the sobs that wrack through your body in your dreams follow you into reality. There’s never been a way to find out, before, but now it seems like they do, loud enough to travel through the closed door and wake Joel up. 

Heat blooms on your face, fueled by shame and guilt, both for disturbing his sleep and for your behavior earlier.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice stumbling over the words, thick with sleep and more tears. 

“Hey, no,” he replies softly, soothingly, his voice a deep rumble, his touch still firm on your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

You shrug, too exhausted to argue. His other arm twitches at his side, reaching towards you before he stops himself, sitting back on his haunches, groaning quietly at the movement. 

“You wanna–” he clears his throat, shifting slightly, “you wanna talk about it? Or is there anything else I can do?” 

You quickly shake your head, eyes trained on your hands that are clasped in your lap. He waits for another beat, before he hums, his knees creaking as he stands back up. 

You miss the feeling of his hand on you as soon as it disappears, but you can’t possibly bring yourself to ask for that, so you swallow against the lump in your throat, watching his retreating silhouette in your doorway.

“Joel?” Your hushed voice travels through the dimly lit room. He halts at once, turning back around to face you, the lines on his face somehow softer than you know them. “Could you— keep the door open? Just a little?” 

You’re awake for a long time after he leaves, at first listening to the fall of his quiet footsteps retreating to the other room, the faint rustle of his sheets as he gets back into bed, Ellie’s hushed voice and his responding grumble, but you can’t make out the words. When it’s quiet again, you retreat into the swirling mess inside your head. Unable to turn the light off, unable to close your eyes, terrified of the darkness and the images it might bring back.

You’ve tried not to think about it too hard, afraid of jinxing yourself, but you’ve noticed that you’ve slept better since Ellie and Joel have arrived. It’s like their presence, the change they’ve brought to your life, is enough to keep your mind occupied, like a safety blanket has been draped over you, keeping the worst of it away from you. But yesterday’s events must have ripped holes into it, must have brought the past and its pain to the forefront again. 

You drift back off eventually, nothingness engulfing your tired mind and pulling you into a dreamless sleep that you’re thankful for. 

You’re roused by the sounds from outside the door, the movements of someone being up filtering through the gap that Joel left open last night. It takes a while until you get your bearings, until the memories all come back to you. The familiar fear, the panic. The unfamiliar presence of someone beside you, of a touch on your shoulder.

Following the sounds, you find Joel in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, something that you usually do. You watch him for a second, taking in his messy morning hair, the specks of gray, the furrow of concentration in his brow as he’s stirring oatmeal. The steaming cup in his other hand, almost dwarfed by his large fingers, that you know must contain coffee. 

His eyes widen for a second when he notices you leaning against the doorframe, scrutinizing your face, gauging the state you’re in. You try a tentative smile, taking a step towards him, nodding towards the pot on the stove. 

“Thought breakfast was my job.” You’re pleased with how normal your voice sounds, nothing like the mess from last night. 

Joel shrugs, the expression on his face just a smidge too innocent, too casual. 

“You’re doing more than enough for us. Thought I’d let you sleep in.” 

You don’t have it in you to start a discussion about it, and you wouldn’t know how to explain this to him anyway. How you don’t want him to do things for you, don’t want to know what it’s like to have someone else care for you. Don’t want to feel how nice it is, even in such small doses. How you’re overly conscious of the fact that it will get taken away again before you know it, that you’d do well not to get used to it. How you’re not sure if you’ll be able to survive having something nice ripped away from you yet again. 

So you smile, mutter a thank you, Joel, and when he suggests that you take a shower, that he’ll be finished by the time you’re ready, you agree. Suddenly, you’re aware of the night’s sweat that has dried on your skin, clinging to you and making you feel sticky. Suddenly, you’re desperate to wash it off your skin, to leave the last night behind you and not look back.

With the stream of warm water raining down on you, the stiffness in your neck eases a bit and your breath’s coming more freely again, pieces of the tension that’s been coursing through you since last night slowly melting away. Still, you keep shivering, no matter how much you’re trying to open your body up to the warmth surrounding you, to let it drive out the coldness that’s emanating from your chest. 

Move on, your own voice echoes in your head. Keep living. The promise you’ve made to yourself, that you’re trying to keep, even though some days, you’re not sure why. 

Your arms are wrapped tightly around yourself when you enter the living area again. You’ve pulled on one of your warmest sweaters, one that you’ve knitted yourself, over the course of several long, lonely days, with nothing else to keep your hands and mind occupied. Still, you feel cold. 

Ellie is up now, sitting on the couch, a bowl of oatmeal all but forgotten in her lap and her nose buried in one of the comics you gave her, the artwork on the cover all too familiar to you. She jumps when she sees you, hastily stuffing the book in between her thigh and the cushion beside her, a guilty expression in her eyes as she looks at you. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles before you can say anything, her hands clasped in her lap. It breaks your heart to see her like this, to know that she heard you last night too. How much your behavior must have scared her. That she probably feels responsible, even though your mind was already in a bad state long before you’ve even met her. 

It does hurt, seeing those drawings of galactic adventures that you’ve seen a million times before, with another pair of eyes glued to the pages. Another child excitedly recounting the stories to you over and over, until you basically knew them by heart and listened to them time and time again anyway, because his happiness made you happy. 

The pain of it weighs heavy on you, but not as heavy as the urge to protect her from being hurt, to wipe that guilt off her face. 

“The pages are gonna crumple like that,” you say, softly, hoping to convey with your eyes what you don’t have the words for. 

She slowly pulls it back out, shooting you careful glances. “Are you sure?” She sounds so young right now, so unsure of herself, and yet she’s trying to look out for you, trying not to hurt you, when she really shouldn’t have to. 

You’re nodding, convincing the both of you, that it’s fine, that you’re fine. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “That one’s good, enjoy it.”

You duck into the kitchen, mumbling about urgently needing a cup of coffee. You’re certain that Joel has heard your conversation, and that he sees how glassy your eyes are, but he doesn’t comment on it, just quietly hands you a cup, his fingertips faintly grazing yours.

It’s a subdued kind of day. Both Ellie and Joel are trying hard to act casual around you, but you feel the lingering glances, notice the looks exchanged behind your back, the cloud of worry that’s surrounding both of them. It makes you nervous, weirdly conscious of your every movement. And you’re still cold.

You end up watching another cheap action movie that evening, Ellie curled up on the armchair while you and Joel are occupying the couch. Your chin is resting on your knees, arms wrapped around your legs, eyes fixed on the small TV. But your mind is wandering, barely taking in the scenes playing out on the screen.

Your thoughts keep going back to how Joel touched you last night, how his hand had rested on your shoulder. How good it had felt, how you have the inexplicable need to feel it happening again. How warm his hand had been. You wonder if his touch might be able to finally stop you from feeling like you’re slowly freezing from the inside.

Another involuntary shiver runs through you. Joel’s gaze slides from the screen to you beside him. He doesn’t ask if you’re cold, being familiar enough with you by now to know that you’d deny it. Even as another wave of coldness passes through you, causing your shoulders to tremble slightly.

His brow is creased with worry as he wordlessly leans over to you, spreading the blanket that had been folded over the armrest that he’s leaning against over your shoulders. Your lips tip up in a grateful smile, the long lost feeling of someone caring for you engulfing you in more warmth than the blanket could ever provide. You allow yourself to get lost in it, just for a little while. 

The blanket faintly smells like him, you realize as you pull it tighter around yourself and up to your chin, inhaling deeply. A different kind of warmth is creeping up your cheeks and you turn your face towards the TV once more, oblivious to the way Joel keeps watching you from the corner of his eye. 

When you go to bed later that evening, you leave your bedroom door ajar once again.

thank you for reading <3 comments, reblogs and asks are love and make my day every single time!

[hazbn-oneshots]

Bathtime Headcanons

Just a few headcanons for sharing a bubble bath with the main characters. Enjoy!

Charlie:

oddly enough Charlie doesn’t partake in full baths as much as she favors showers.

She’s busy dealing with the hotel and along with ruling as the Princess of Hell so she much prefers a quick warm spray.

On the occasion, however, she finds herself tired enough that you might just be able to convince her to indulge with you. 

You make a point of dredging up any kind of bubble bath, bath bomb, lotion, anything you can find to ensure that you can provide the best bubble bath possible.

Music plays softly over a small speaker, but it’s drowned out the hushed whispers of words of love as you meticulously wash and condition her hair.

Conditioning is your favorite step. Charlie didn’t need it often as her hair somehow stayed so silky, so every now and then when you got to run a soft brush through her hair, twisting it gently to pin atop her head.

She tries to wash you in return but you always push her hand away, insisting on pampering her after a hard day.

Usually ends with you drying her off and carrying her to bed when she inevitably passes out.

Vaggie:

Vaggie loves baths but she’s hard pressed to admit it. Nothing feels better on sore muscles than a nice soak, ideally with lavender. She loves lavender.

The two of you had been dating for about 6 months before she even entertained the idea of going to you with such a request. 

She was too embarrassed to ask.

-in the end, how she broaches the subject is by surprising you one night when you return home. A few candles lined the edge of the bathtub that was filled nearly to the brim with bubbles.

”I just thought it would be nice, you’ve been gone all day” And you know better to react calmly should you risk spooking the flustered angel with the scarlet red face.

She’s the one that drags it out in the end. She’d wrap her arms just a little tighter around your waist and mutter about how the water would stay warm for just a little longer.

Vaggie gives sweet towel hugs.

Alastor:

Listen, Alastor takes pride in his hygiene. He takes the utmost care to keep himself and his dress in immaculate condition. 

He’ll invest in facial creams, hair creams, body creams, oils, lotions, you name it and he’s used it. 

But baths? No. Absolutely not.

You’ve only attempted to convince Alastor to take a bath with you and neither occasion ended particularly well. The radio demon wouldn’t speak to you for a week after the first failed attempt and had all but removed himself from your life with the second so you couldn’t say you were in any hurry for a third.

However, the two of you have come to a happy compromise. Whenever you found yourself in the mood to draw a bath you would sometimes find Alastor pulling a chair up next to the tub with a book tucked under his arm. So would begin a lovely tradition between the both of you.

More than once you’ve found yourself dozing to the soft static of the Alastor’s voice, and in response the demon would lightly tap his cane against the edge of the tub to rouse you.

Don’t fall asleep though, three strikes and he’ll leave you in the tub. No he doesn’t.

Husk:

Not. A. Fan. Considering his entire being consists of fur and feathers, Husk can and will do everything within his power to avoid bathing if he can. Look, it’s just not his idea of a fun night to sit down with a hairdryer and attempt to wring himself out as best he can.

Inevitably he’d miss a spot and end up with stale wet cat smell and no one likes that, especially not our resident grump.

He won’t make a fuss if you want to bathe with him though. What he will do is laugh while patting your shoulder. “I’ll wait for ya in the room”

The more comfortable he gets, however, you’ll start to see that eventually Husk begins to find reasons just to ‘wander’ into the bathroom with you. He misses you, you know it, but it’s still sweet to see him making the excuse of looking for his lucky pair of boxers.

”The water’s always warm darlin”

You better get the blow dryer ready, the only way you can convince him is if you’ll deal with it. You don’t mind though, the purrs are worth it

Angel Dust:

You and Angel take turns picking which bath bombs and bubble baths that you’ll throw into whichever potion you’ll be brewing up tonight.

Bathtime with Angel was always a favorite for you, you couldn’t think of anything better than getting to curl up with your cuddle bug in your arms. Although things never really stay that way for long.

It’s hard not to tease while washing each other. A slip of the hand here, just a little rough touch of loofah there, just a sweet little taste of what could be but the restraint comes easy in the relaxed atmosphere. Just in times like these Angel will be patient enough to wait until you can actually make it to the bed. 

Angel won’t let you wash his hair. You don’t know why he’s so particular about it but if you interrupt his routine of products then his entire night is ruined so you choose the peaceful route and leave the man be. That doesn’t mean he won’t wash your hair for you if you ask though, those four hands of his do wonders at massaging the scalp.

Angel will 10/10 let you towel dry him every single time and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t use it as an opportunity to make a show at bending this way and that, making sure to get every inch of him.

He looks like a fluffy mess afterwards but hey, he’s your fluffy mess.

Requests open!!

[fuqnia]

I Thought I Was Unique (2) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ kyle broflovski x fem!reader insert | college au, smut

♡ A/N | this part is so fuckin weak, i'm sorry 💀 but it's funny i think! as usual this is long.

♡ C/W | nsfw (18+), all characters are aged up! fighting, inexperienced reader, p in v, oral sex (male receiving), bjs, reader is still stoopid (?), virginity loss

♡ Synopsis | kyle didn’t mean for it to go this far. he didn’t mean to fall for you, didn’t mean to let jealousy and frustration ruin everything. but now, after the party, after the fight, he can’t take it back—and neither can you.

event masterlist | part one

The text from Stan had been simple: “Hey, the guys wanna hang out tonight. Just us, no drama. Kyle won’t be there, promise.” You’d stared at it for a while, guilt twisting in your stomach. You hadn’t just been avoiding Kyle—you’d been avoiding all of them, and they didn’t deserve that. So, against your better judgment, you’d agreed. When Stan pulled up outside your dorm, you grabbed your bag and headed downstairs, only to freeze in your tracks the second you saw Kyle sitting in the passenger seat. Without a word, you spun on your heel and started walking back to your building, your chest tight with anger and dread. But before you could get far, Kenny leaned out the open truck window, shouting, “Oh, come on, [Y/N]! Don’t be a buzzkill!” His tone was light, but you caught the edge of exasperation, and it was enough to stop you. With a resigned sigh and a stomach full of regret, you turned back and climbed into the truck, the tension hitting like a slap the moment the door closed behind you.

The cab of Stan’s ancient, beat-up truck reeks of stale coffee, gym socks, and the kind of regret that only college drama can create. The cramped backseat feels like a torture chamber—Cartman’s elbow digs into your side while Kenny sprawls out, taking up more room than a human being should.

Up front, Kyle is a silent storm in the passenger seat. His arms are crossed, his jaw clenched so tightly you wonder if he’s grinding his teeth into dust. His curly hair catches the glow of the streetlights, but he refuses to turn around, refuses to look at you. Which is fine, because you refuse to look at him either.

Kenny broke the silence first, glancing sideways at you with a sly grin. “Sooo…” he started, drawing the word out. “You gonna tell us what happened at the party? Or are we just supposed to guess?”

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on the passing streetlights.

“Come on,” Kenny pressed, bumping your shoulder lightly. “I’m dying to know. You show up looking like a million bucks, and by the end of the night, your makeup’s running, and you’re crying like your dog just died. What gives?”

“Kenny, knock it off,” Stan snapped from the driver’s seat, shooting him a glare through the rearview mirror.

“I’m just saying,” Kenny said with a shrug, though his tone was too amused to be genuine. “It’s not like she’s been super talkative since she got in the truck. Figured someone should ask.”

Cartman grinned, leaning back and crossing his arms. “My money’s on Damien being an asshole. Or maybe it’s Kyle. Hell, maybe it’s both.” He glanced toward Kyle, who flinched but didn’t turn around. “Come on, Kahl, what’d you do this time?”

Kyle’s jaw tightened, his gaze locked out the window. “Leave it alone,” he muttered, his tone clipped.

Cartman’s grin widened. “Oh-ho! That’s a yes if I’ve ever heard one. What’d you say to her? Or better yet—what’d you do to her?”

“Cartman, shut the hell up,” Stan snapped, his fingers tightening on the wheel.

You sank deeper into your seat, the memories of the party flashing through your mind like jagged shards of glass. Kyle’s words upstairs—low and annoyed—echoed in your ears:

“Are we doing this, or not?”

You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, trying to block it out. The taste of rum still lingered faintly on your lips, mingling with the sting of tears. You could still feel the weight of his gaze on you, his pleading tone to talk it out as stumbled out of that room and down the stairs.

Stan’s voice pulled you back to the present. “Seriously, can we all just… not do this right now? It’s been a long week. Let’s just get to Cartman’s place and chill, okay?”

“Fat chance,” Cartman muttered, shooting you a sideways glance. “Not when you’ve got all this drama just sitting here, waiting to be unpacked. Like, seriously, [Y/N]. Are you even gonna say anything? Or are you planning to keep sulking all night?”

Your fingers dug into your arms as you fought the urge to snap back. But the words lodged in your throat, heavy and bitter.

When the silence stretched too long, Kenny leaned closer again, his grin teasing but not unkind. “For real, though. What happened? One minute you’re having a blast, and the next you looked like a goddamn emo album cover.”

Your hands clenched, your nails biting into your palms.

Kyle’s voice cut through the air, sharp and cold. “I said leave it alone.”

Kenny raised his eyebrows, leaning back slightly. “Touchy.”

Cartman snorted. “What are you, her simp now? Newsflash, dude: it’s not a good look. Makes you seem guilty as hell.”

Kyle’s head snapped around, his green eyes blazing as he glared at Cartman. “Say another word, and I swear to God—”

Stan groaned, slamming on the brakes and pulling over to the side of the road. The truck jolted to a stop, and the sudden silence was deafening.

“Out,” Stan barked, throwing the truck into park.

“What?!” Cartman squawked, his face twisting in outrage.

Stan twisted in his seat, his expression a mix of exhaustion and frustration. “Everybody out. Right now. I’m not driving another mile with this crap hanging in the air.”

Reluctantly, everyone climbed out, the cool night air biting against your skin. You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, keeping your distance from Kyle, who stood stiffly on the other side of the truck.

Kenny leaned against the hood, grinning as if this was all some kind of game. “Alright,” he said, his tone light. “Who’s throwing the first punch?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced down at your nails, picking at the edge of one like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. The chipped polish was starting to flake, and you focused on that, ignoring the weight of everyone’s stares.

Kyle broke the silence, his voice low but tense. “No one’s throwing punches, Kenny,” he said. “But maybe it’s time we talk about what really happened at the party.”

Your stomach twisted, and your head shot up. “Kyle, don’t.”

“Oh, I think we should,” Kyle said, his voice rising as he took a step closer. “Since everyone here seems so curious about why you came running downstairs crying your eyes out, let’s tell them. Should we?”

Cartman smirked, his gaze flicking between you and Kyle like he was front-row at the circus. “This oughta be good,” he said, folding his arms.

“Kyle,” Stan warned, his voice tight.

But Kyle wasn’t listening. He was locked on you, his green eyes filled with anger, betrayal, and something you didn’t want to name. “You begged me,” he said, his voice trembling. “You begged me to help you. To ‘show you,’ so you could be ready for Damien.”

“Kyle, stop!” you snapped, your heart pounding so hard it made your voice shake.

“You don’t get to stop me,” Kyle retorted, his voice cracking with emotion. “You dragged me upstairs. You said you trusted me. And like an idiot, I believed you.”

The knot in your chest tightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his tone bitter. “Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it. You knew exactly what you were doing, [Y/N]. And then you ran off, crying, like I was the one who—” He broke off, running a hand through his curls, his frustration palpable.

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny muttered, wide-eyed. “What the hell happened up there?”

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, stepping forward, your hands shaking with a mix of anger and shame. “You don’t get to twist this around on me. You didn’t have to do it!”

Kyle let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You asked me to kiss you! You begged me to—”

Before he could finish, you shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled back, his mouth snapping shut as he glared at you, his face flushed with a mix of anger and disbelief.

“Go to hell!” you yelled, your voice cracking as your eyes burned with unshed tears. Without waiting for a response, you spun on your heel and stormed back to the truck, your hands trembling.

“Holy shit,” Cartman muttered, a slow grin spreading across his face. “That was… wow. Do it again!”

“Cartman, shut the hell up!” Stan snapped, shoving him hard in the shoulder.

Kenny let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Well, that explains the whole ‘crying with messed-up makeup’ thing.”

Stan sighed, running a hand down his face. “This is why I didn’t want to do this tonight.”

Kyle stood frozen, his chest heaving as his gaze lingered on you. He looked like he wanted to say something—to shout, to argue—but instead, he turned away, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Dude,” Stan said softly, his tone hesitant. “Maybe you should—”

“I need some space,” Kyle muttered, cutting him off before walking off into the opposite direction of you, his shoulders stiff with barely restrained emotion.

Your chest heaved as you turned around and glared at his retreating figure, your vision blurring with unshed tears. The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, raw and venomous.

“Good! Maybe some hobo will finally do the rest of us a favor and take you out, you selfish asshole!”

Kyle froze for a fraction of a second but didn’t turn around. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, his silhouette disappearing under the glow of a distant streetlight.

You let out a shaky breath, the anger and humiliation coursing through you like wildfire. Without sparing a glance at the others, you yanked the door open and climbed in. The door slammed shut behind you with a loud bang that rattled the truck.

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest, and you slumped back against the seat, staring straight ahead. Your heart pounded in your ears, but the muffled voices outside were impossible to ignore.

“She didn’t mean that,” Stan said, his voice strained and uncertain. “Right? I mean, she couldn’t have.”

Cartman laughed, low and cruel. “Oh, she meant it. Did you see her face? She was ready to murder him.”

“Maybe she’s got a point,” Kenny muttered, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “Not about the hobo thing, but… damn, Kyle really didn’t hold back.”

“Neither did she,” Stan snapped, his frustration evident. “This is a mess. How the hell did it even get this bad?”

You clenched your jaw, trying to tune them out, but your thoughts refused to quiet. This is all my fault.

It was the truth. You’d dragged Kyle upstairs. You’d pushed him when he’d clearly been uncomfortable. And when things spiraled out of control—when he kissed you, when everything became too much—you’d fallen apart. You’d run away.

And now you were mad at him. For what? For telling the truth? For being hurt? For showing you a part of himself you weren’t ready to see?

Your throat tightened, and you hugged your arms closer to your body, as if that could keep the flood of emotions from spilling out.

Outside, the voices continued, but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus on the words. All you could think about was Kyle’s expression—the anger, the pain, the disappointment that had flickered across his face before he turned away.

He hates me now.

The thought hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. You closed your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, and tried to steady your breathing.

I hate him too, you told yourself, though the words felt hollow.

The sound of muffled footsteps approached the truck, and you glanced out of the corner of your eye to see Kenny and Cartman making their way back. Cartman climbed in first, huffing as he shoved himself into the middle seat.

“Move over,” he grumbled, elbowing your side. “This isn’t the Cartman-crammed-in-the-corner show.”

You didn’t respond, shifting slightly to avoid his jabs but refusing to meet his gaze.

Kenny slid in next, shutting the door with a soft click. The truck dipped slightly under his weight as he sprawled back against the seat, sighing like he’d just run a marathon.

“Well,” Kenny said, breaking the silence, “that was awkward as hell. And by awkward, I mean absolutely insane.” He glanced at you, his blue eyes sharp despite the lazy smirk on his face. “You good, or should I call in a therapist?”

You stared straight ahead, your arms crossed so tightly it felt like you might snap in half. The last thing you wanted was to talk to Kenny, to Cartman, to anyone.

“Okay, cool,” Kenny said when you didn’t answer, leaning back like he wasn’t bothered. “Silent treatment it is.”

Cartman snorted, folding his arms. “What a shocker. She’s been pulling that act all night. Figures.”

You gritted your teeth but stayed quiet, focusing on the dashboard like it held the secrets to the universe.

“Hey, maybe she’s still thinking about that kiss,” Cartman said with a mocking grin, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “What do you think, Kenny? Think Kyle’s a good kisser? Or was it all, like, sloppy and sad?”

Kenny laughed softly. “Cartman, you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” Cartman said, shrugging. “Somebody’s gotta keep things interesting. Not my fault she can’t handle a little constructive criticism.”

You clenched your fists, the urge to snap at him nearly overpowering, but you bit your tongue.

“Oh, she’s pissed,” Kenny said, leaning toward you slightly, his grin widening. “Look at her. Bet she’s dying to tell us off right now.”

“Yeah,” Cartman added, chuckling. “But she won’t. Wanna know why?” He paused dramatically, his grin growing smug. “’Cause she knows she screwed up. She just can’t admit it.”

“Cartman,” you finally said, your voice cold and sharp, “if you don’t shut up, I swear to God—”

“Oh, here it comes!” Cartman interrupted, throwing his hands up in mock excitement. “Go on, [Y/N]. Say it. Tell me how I’m wrong. Tell me Kyle’s the bad guy, or better yet—tell me Damien’s still your knight in shining armor.”

The mention of Damien sent a fresh wave of guilt and frustration crashing through you. Your nails dug into your palms as you forced yourself to look out the window, refusing to let him see the way his words stung.

The memory of that night surfaced, as vivid as if it had just happened. When you had stormed down the stairs, your face streaked with tears and makeup, the entire party had seemed to pause. Conversations faltered, and heads turned. You could feel their eyes burning into you—judging, whispering. Your boots clunked against the floor as you rushed toward the door, Kyle’s voice calling after you, but you didn’t stop.

Damien had been standing near the corner, leaning against the wall with his usual detached confidence. His eyes locked on you as you approached, confusion flickering in his expression. “Hey,” he had said, stepping closer. “What’s going on? You okay?”

“I just… I need to get out of here,” you had mumbled, barely meeting his gaze.

Without missing a beat, he had tossed his cigarette into a nearby cup and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, guiding you out of the house. The air outside was cold, but it did little to cool the fire in your chest. You barely registered the sensation of Damien’s hand resting against your arm as he led you to his car.

Once inside, the silence had stretched painfully thin, broken only by the soft hum of the engine as he drove. You stared out the window, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying again. But it was no use.

“It might be better if we don’t see each other anymore,” you had whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of the tires on asphalt.

Damien’s grip on the steering wheel had tightened, his jaw clenching. “What? Why?” he had asked, his tone sharp but not entirely surprised.

“I just…” You had trailed off, your voice cracking. “I can’t do this.”

Damien had scoffed softly, shaking his head. “Whatever. Do what you want,” he had muttered, his voice laced with irritation. He didn’t argue further, didn’t push. Instead, he dropped you off in front of your dorm without another word, and you had watched his car disappear into the night, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt settle in your chest.

Back in the present, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. The guilt gnawed at you, but so did the anger—anger at Kyle for pulling you into this mess, anger at Damien for not caring enough to fight, and anger at yourself for starting it all in the first place.

“Nothing?” Cartman taunted. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Kenny sighed, his voice softer now. “Cartman, chill. Seriously.”

Cartman scoffed but didn’t say anything else, slumping back against the seat with a huff.

The truck door creaked open after what felt like an eternity. Stan climbed in first, looking visibly drained, his shoulders slumping as he slid into the driver’s seat. Kyle followed closely behind, his movements stiff, his face set in a grim mask. He didn’t look at you as he closed the door and buckled his seatbelt.

Neither of them said a word as Stan started the truck, the engine rumbling to life. The tires crunched over gravel as he turned back onto the road, heading toward South Park.

You didn’t need to look to know Kyle was probably glaring at the dashboard, his fists clenched tight. And deep down, you hated how much you cared.

The rest of the drive was quiet, tension sitting thick in the air like a fog. Nobody said a word—not even Cartman, who seemed unusually preoccupied with scrolling through his phone. Stan’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, and Kyle sat stiffly, his face turned toward his window.

Finally, the truck rolled into Cartman’s driveway. The house loomed dark and quiet, the porch light flickering faintly. You noticed immediately that his mom’s car wasn’t there.

Cartman hopped out first, shoving his phone into his pocket. “Alright, losers, welcome to Casa de Cartman. My mom’s out of town for the weekend, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. Try not to break anything. Or steal anything. Looking at you, Kenny.”

Kenny snickered, nudging Cartman in the ribs. “Oh yeah? Bet she’s ‘out of town’ with one of her boyfriends again.”

Cartman’s face twisted with indignation, and he shoved Kenny hard. “Shut the hell up, poor kid! My mom has a social life, unlike your sad-ass family!”

“Social life?” Kenny said, laughing as he stumbled back. “That’s what you’re calling it now?”

“Go to hell!” Cartman snapped, shoving past him to unlock the door.

You ignored their bickering, climbing out of the truck without a word. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the events of the night, and the last thing you wanted was to spend another second around any of them.

The second Cartman unlocked the front door, you brushed past him, heading straight for the stairs.

“Uh, where are you going?” Cartman called after you.

“Guest room,” you said curtly, not bothering to look back.

“Don’t touch my stuff!” Cartman yelled, but you barely heard him over the sound of your footsteps pounding up the stairs.

You pushed open the door to the guest room and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind you with enough force to make the walls rattle. The sound echoed in the quiet house, but you didn’t care.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon through the curtains. You leaned back against the door, your arms crossed tightly over your chest as you tried to steady your breathing.

Your mind was a mess, the events of the night replaying over and over like a broken record. Kyle’s words, Cartman’s taunts, the looks on everyone’s faces—it all churned in your head, refusing to settle.

You closed your eyes, pressing the heels of your palms against them, and let out a shaky breath. For now, all you wanted was to shut everything out, even if only for a little while.

A couple of hours had passed, the house settling into an eerie quiet. The faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the occasional muffled sound of laughter—probably Kenny and Cartman—were the only reminders that you weren’t alone.

Curled up on the bed, you stared blankly at the moonlit wall, your knees tucked tightly to your chest. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, those memories came flooding back, sharp and unforgiving.

The faint creak of the door startled you. Your heart leapt, but you didn’t move, your gaze fixed ahead as the door opened wider. Soft footsteps padded across the carpet, and the door clicked shut.

“Hey,” Stan said quietly. His voice was tentative, almost hesitant, and you felt the mattress shift as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

You didn’t respond.

The weight of his hand on your shoulder was light but grounding. His grip was gentle, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your shirt. “Kyle told me everything,” he said after a long pause, his voice low.

Your stomach churned, and you tightened your arms around your knees, your chest squeezing painfully. “Good for him,” you muttered, your voice muffled and heavy with bitterness.

Stan sighed, the sound full of something you couldn’t quite name—sympathy? Frustration? “He didn’t mean for it to blow up like this,” he said, his tone carefully measured. “He’s… messed up about it too. About everything.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound cracking in the stillness of the room. “Well, he’s not the only one.”

Stan’s hand lingered on your shoulder, his grip tightening slightly as if he thought it might keep you from falling apart. “Look, I’m not here to take sides, okay?” he said quietly. “I just… I think you both handled it wrong. But I also think he cares about you more than you realize.”

Your throat tightened, and you blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. “If he cared, he wouldn’t have said all that shit. He wouldn’t have turned everyone against me.”

“[Y/N], he’s not trying to turn anyone against you,” Stan said, his voice soft but firm. “He’s angry. Hurt. And yeah, he’s not handling it well, but neither are you.”

You swallowed hard, your chest aching as you stared at the wall, refusing to look at him. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” Stan said gently. “And I think Kyle knows that too. He’s just… figuring it out. Like you are.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Stan’s hand stayed on your shoulder, grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“Come on,” Stan said softly, his tone encouraging. “You’ve been up here long enough. Kenny and Cartman are downstairs watching some dumb movie. Let’s go.”

You shook your head, burying your face in your arms. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Stan said, his voice firmer now. “Look, I’m not saying you have to talk to Kyle or… or fix everything tonight. Just come downstairs. You don’t have to sit up here alone.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words pressing down on you. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you uncrossed your arms and sat up, your movements sluggish. Stan stood and held out a hand, waiting patiently.

Reluctantly, you took it, letting him help you to your feet.

The warmth of the living room greeted you as you followed Stan downstairs. The glow of the TV lit up the room, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Cartman and Kenny were sprawled across the couch, laughing at something on the screen.

“Hey, look who finally decided to join us,” Kenny said with a grin, glancing over his shoulder.

“You took long enough,” Cartman added, snickering. “We were placing bets on whether you’d cry yourself to sleep up there.”

Your stomach tightened as your gaze landed on Kyle, sitting at the far end of the couch. His jaw was clenched tightly, his posture rigid as his arms crossed over his chest. His brows were furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin, tense line. He glanced at you briefly, his eyes clouded with an uneasy mix of irritation and guilt, before snapping his focus back to the TV like he hadn’t seen you at all.

Stan nudged your shoulder gently. “Go on,” he said quietly.

You glanced around, hoping for another option, but of course, the only open seat was the small space right next to Kyle. Your chest tightened as you hesitated, but Kenny noticed immediately.

“Don’t just stand there looking awkward,” Kenny said, laughing as he gestured to the seat. “Unless you wanna sit on Cartman’s lap.”

“Like hell she will!” Cartman snapped, glaring at Kenny.

Swallowing hard, you shuffled toward the couch and sank into the spot next to Kyle, keeping as much distance between you as the cramped space would allow. The cushions dipped slightly under your weight, and you felt Kyle shift uncomfortably beside you. His fingers tapped against his arm, betraying his restlessness despite the stoic expression he was trying to maintain.

The tension between you and Kyle was suffocating, thick enough to choke on, but of course, nobody in the room cared. Cartman and Kenny were still snickering in the background, while Stan kept glancing between you and Kyle like he was waiting for one of you to explode.

You stared at the TV, pretending to focus on the movie, but every tiny movement Kyle made—every shift of his leg, every fidget of his hands—burned at the edge of your vision. His knee brushed yours at one point, and you stiffened, gripping your thighs like the contact had physically scorched you.

On the screen, Arthur and Lee stumbled through a chaotic sequence during a film screening. Lee, defiant and wild-eyed, started a fire, the flames spreading rapidly as the audience screamed and scrambled for safety. The tension in the room shifted as the two characters were caught, and Arthur was thrown into solitary confinement.

“Holy shit,” Cartman muttered, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Who’s this chick again? ‘Cause she’s got way more balls than this sad fuck.”

Kenny snorted, leaning back against the couch. “She’s his girlfriend, dumbass. Keep up.”

“His girlfriend?” Cartman scoffed, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth. “She just set the building on fire. Are we supposed to root for her or what?”

Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not about rooting for anyone. Just watch the movie.”

The scene shifted again, this time to Lee visiting Arthur in his grim, sterile cell. Her face was unreadable as she told him she was leaving to avoid his influence, but the tension between them was palpable, nearly vibrating off the screen.

The atmosphere in the room grew heavier as Lee asked Arthur to stop taking his medication. Then, without warning, the two of them collided in a feverish kiss, their desperation spilling into something more physical. Clothes were shed, hands gripped at bare skin, and the camera lingered just long enough to make the moment painfully intimate.

Kenny was the first to snicker, though it wasn’t loud. “Alright, didn’t see that coming,” he muttered, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Cartman rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat. “Oh, yeah, this makes total sense. They’re banging in solitary confinement. That’s not psychotic or anything.”

Kyle stiffened beside you, his shoulders tightening as the flush on his face deepened. He muttered a quiet, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath and turned his head sharply, refusing to look at the screen. His hand dragged over his face, his lips tight in a straight line

You felt a strange mix of irritation and something sharper bubble up at the sight of him acting so stiff and uncomfortable. The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them.

“Of course you wouldn’t watch this,” you muttered, your tone low but cutting.

Kyle snapped his head toward you immediately, his green eyes narrowing. “And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

You crossed your arms, your gaze locked on the screen as Arthur crooned his haunting song to Lee. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Kyle wasn’t letting it go. “No, go ahead,” he said, his voice icy. “Say what you’re thinking. You’ve never had a problem before.”

Your jaw clenched as you turned to glare at him. “What’s the point? You’ll just act like you’re above it anyway.”

“Better than acting like a fucking expert on bad decisions,” Kyle shot back, his voice rising just enough to draw the others’ attention.

“Alright, can we not?” Stan cut in, sitting forward in his seat. His voice was tired, like he’d had enough of both of you. “This is starting to sound like one of my parents’ fights.”

“Seriously,” Cartman added, popping a kernel into his mouth. “If you two are gonna have a lovers’ spat, at least keep it quiet. Some of us are trying to watch this trainwreck.”

Kenny grinned faintly, glancing between you and Kyle. “I dunno. Kinda feels like part of the movie at this point.”

You ignored them, your fists clenching as you bit back the words that clawed at your throat. You refused to look at Kyle again, staring hard at the screen like it could somehow swallow you whole.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Kyle muttered beside you, his arms crossing tightly over his chest.

Your nails dug into your palms as the frustration and anger simmered under your skin. It wasn’t just about tonight. It wasn’t just about the party. It was everything that had been building between you and Kyle for weeks—months even. And now, with Arthur singing to Lee through the TV screen, his voice dripping with heartbreak and longing, it all felt unbearable.

You gripped your knees tightly, the popcorn bowl in Cartman’s lap catching your eye. The longer you stared, the more the anger churned inside you, relentless and unrelenting. It wasn’t just about tonight. It wasn’t even just about the party.

It was Kyle’s stupid, infuriating sense of self-righteousness. The way he always had to be in the right, even when it meant twisting a knife into your side to make his point.

But beneath the anger, buried deep where you didn’t want to look, was something else. Guilt.

You clenched your fists as the memories resurfaced: his lips on your neck, leaving marks you couldn’t fully hide, his voice shaky and low as he’d asked, “Are you sure?” You’d said yes. And now here you were, sitting next to him, pretending like you weren’t the one who started it all.

You didn’t want to feel guilty. He deserved your anger—didn’t he?

You glanced at the bowl again, the idea forming in your mind before you could stop it.

“Cartman,” you barked, sharper than intended. “Gimme the popcorn.”

Cartman arched a brow, hugging the bowl protectively. “Oh, sure. Let me just hand over my personal stash so you can—what? Stress-eat your problems away?”

“Just give it to me, Cartman,” you snapped, holding out your hand.

“Fine,” he grumbled, shoving the bowl into your lap. “You’re more annoying than Kyle right now. And that’s saying something.”

You ignored him, grabbing a handful of popcorn and pretending to eat, crunching loudly as if the sound could drown out your thoughts. But your gaze kept drifting to Kyle. His jaw was clenched tight, his arms crossed over his chest, his shoulders stiff like he was trying to hold himself together.

The same shoulders you’d gripped as he kissed you, hesitant at first but quickly unraveling.

The heat in your chest flared again. You didn’t even know why you were so mad anymore—at Kyle, at yourself, at the entire fucking situation. But it was easier to be mad at him.

A kernel left your hand and bounced off his shoulder.

Kyle didn’t react.

Another kernel, harder this time, hit his arm.

Kyle let out a sharp exhale, his jaw ticking, but he kept his eyes locked on the screen.

That was the last straw.

You grabbed a handful of popcorn and pelted it at him, the kernels scattering across his lap and the couch.

“What the fuck, [Y/N]?” Kyle hissed, finally snapping his head toward you. His green eyes were alight with irritation, his brows furrowed in a deep scowl.

“What?” you said, your tone dripping with mock innocence as you grabbed another handful.

Kyle brushed the popcorn off his hoodie, his scowl deepening. “Are you seriously throwing popcorn at me right now?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I hurting your feelings?” you shot back, throwing more.

“Cut it out,” Kyle growled, his tone low and warning.

“Or what?” you challenged, your anger bubbling over. “What are you gonna do, Kyle? Sit there and brood about it? You’re so fucking good at that.”

Cartman snorted from the other side of the couch. “This is getting good. Ten bucks says she’s gonna start throwing hands next.”

Stan groaned, standing abruptly and stepping between you and Kyle. “Alright, enough. Both of you, knock it the hell off.”

You grabbed another handful of popcorn, but before you could throw it, Stan caught your wrist, his grip firm.

“Seriously, [Y/N], stop,” he said, his voice low but sharp.

You stared at him for a moment, your chest heaving as your anger warred with something deeper—shame. Kyle didn’t deserve this. Not really.

But when Stan let go of your wrist, you couldn’t help yourself.

Grabbing the entire bowl, you hurled it at Kyle’s face with everything you had.

The bowl hit with a satisfying thunk, popcorn exploding everywhere as it bounced onto the floor.

Kyle stood abruptly, brushing popcorn off his hoodie with sharp, jerky movements. His face was flushed, his green eyes blazing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice rough with frustration.

Your chest heaved as you glared up at him. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you, Kyle? You act like you’re so above everyone else, like your shit doesn’t stink, but you’re just a fucking hypocrite!”

Kyle’s lips twisted into a bitter snarl. “And you’re just a spoiled little brat who can’t take responsibility for anything!”

Stan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys—”

“Stay out of it, Stan!” you and Kyle barked in unison.

Kyle’s shoulders rose and fell as he glared at you, his chest heaving. For a moment, it looked like he might say more, but instead, he grabbed a stray piece of popcorn from the floor and threw it back at you.

It hit you square in the forehead.

You froze for a split second before grabbing a pillow and launching it at him. “Fuck you, Kyle!”

Kyle caught the pillow midair, tossing it onto the couch with a huff. “You’re an annoyance,” he muttered, his voice quieter but no less sharp.

“Yeah? Well, I guess I learned from the best!” you shot back, crossing your arms as you slumped into the couch.

Kyle stood there for a moment, his fists clenching and unclenching, before muttering something under his breath and storming upstairs.

The tension lingered long after he left, the silence broken only by the faint sounds of the movie.

Cartman rolled his eyes, picking up the now-empty popcorn bowl. “Great. Now what the hell are we supposed to eat?”

Stan slumped into the couch, rubbing his temples. “You guys are gonna kill me one day, I swear.”

You stayed silent, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The heat of your anger was still simmering, but somewhere deep down, you knew it wasn’t all Kyle’s fault. You just didn’t want to admit it.

The movie dragged on until the credits finally rolled, leaving the room in awkward quiet. The hum of the television filled the silence, the black screen casted the room into darkness.

Kenny shifted in his seat, turning halfway around to glance at you. His voice was soft but curious, laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “Alright… what’s your problem?”

You stiffened, your jaw tightening as his words hit like a spark to a fuse.

Stan leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he looked at you expectantly. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said enough—he was waiting, like Kenny, for you to explain yourself.

Cartman stayed where he was, slouched on the couch, scrolling through his phone with disinterest. His silence somehow felt louder than anything else.

It was too much. The tension boiled over, and before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out, loud and raw.

“My problem?” you snapped, your voice cracking with anger. “My problem is that, of course, all of you are taking Kyle’s side! You always do!”

Stan flinched slightly, his brows knitting together. “Nobody’s—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, your voice sharp. “Don’t sit there and pretend like you haven’t been on his side this whole fucking time! It’s always about Kyle, isn’t it? I can’t do anything without it being compared to him!”

Kenny leaned back, his brows raised. “Whoa, okay, chill—”

“Don’t tell me to fucking chill!” you shouted, your chest heaving as your voice cracked again. “You all act like I’m the bad guy, like I’m the one who fucked everything up, but none of you even tried to understand!”

Stan started to say something, but you barreled on, your voice trembling with emotion. “I was happy with Damien, okay? I liked him! But none of you could let me have that. All you did was shit on him, like I wasn’t good enough to decide for myself!”

“Damien was—” Kenny began, but you cut him off again.

“Don’t even start. I never said a word when you guys got into your first relationships. I didn’t complain when Stan got all sappy over Wendy in middle school, and I didn’t laugh when Kenny was trying so hard to impress Tammy like she was the best thing to ever happen to him. And Cartman? God, you never told anyone anything, but we all knew what you were doing, sneaking off and hooking up with random people. Nobody judged you, least of all me!”

You paused, the weight of those memories hitting you. They never told you anything about their relationships. You had to piece it together from whispers, rumors, and the occasional slip in their conversations. You always acted like it didn’t bother you, but it did. You used to wonder if it was because you weren’t one of them, not really. Maybe they didn’t trust you enough to share. Or maybe they just didn’t think it mattered. But when you had someone—when you finally kissed someone, finally felt like you had something that was yours—they tore it apart like it was a fucking joke. Like you were a joke.

Your chest heaved as the tears you’d been holding back threatened to spill. “But me?” you continued, your voice cracking as the emotions swelled. “I finally kiss someone—finally feel something—and suddenly I’m the one who has to explain myself? Fuck all of you!”

The tears broke free then, streaming hot down your face as you buried your head in your hands. Sobs wracked your body, each one pulling more of the anger and frustration out of you, leaving behind an ache so deep it felt like it might swallow you whole.

The room fell into heavy silence, your ragged breaths and muffled sobs the only sound.

Stan shifted uncomfortably, his voice soft but uncertain. “Hey, it’s not… it’s not like that. We weren’t trying to—”

“Save it,” you mumbled through your hands, your voice muffled and thick with tears.

Kenny exhaled sharply, leaning back into the couch. He didn’t say anything, and Cartman quietly went back to his phone, though his scrolling was noticeably slower.

You sat there, your head buried in your hands, as the weight of your outburst settled over the room. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you’d regret this later. But right now, it didn’t matter.

The silence dragged on until Kenny finally broke it. His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, but there was an edge to it that cut through the stillness.

“You’re so clueless, you know that?”

You froze, your hands slowly lowering from your face as your blood ran cold. “What?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Kenny leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms as he looked at you, his gaze uncharacteristically serious. “Kyle. You never saw him as anything more than your best friend. And now you’re acting like none of this makes sense. Like you didn’t notice how he—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, your voice rising, the anger bubbling up again.

Kenny raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t stop. “How he’s looked at you all these years. How he never—”

“I said, shut up!” you shouted, cutting him off, your chest heaving. You shot to your feet, glaring at him. “How the fuck was I supposed to know, huh? He never said anything! He never—he never did anything! And what about all those girls? What about Heidi? And Rebecca? He dated them right in front of me!”

Kenny held up his hands defensively, but there was a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips that only made your blood boil more.

“Don’t look at me like that!” you snapped, your voice cracking. “You’re such an asshole! How dare you even fucking joke about this!”

“Who said I was joking?” Kenny shot back, his voice calm but pointed.

Your breath caught, and you felt your fists clench at your sides. “You’re full of shit. That’s what you are. Just because you think you know everything doesn’t mean you do!”

Cartman looked up from his phone, glancing between you and Kenny with mild interest. “Well, this took a turn,” he muttered.

Stan sighed heavily, standing up and stepping toward you. “Alright, that’s enough. Both of you.”

You ignored him, your focus locked on Kenny. Your voice trembled with a mix of anger and desperation as you continued, “You think you can just say shit like that and walk away? You don’t know what it’s like to be blindsided by something like this! You don’t know what it’s like to have someone drop a fucking bomb on you like that and then expect you to—”

“To what?” Kenny interrupted, his tone calm but firm. “To deal with it? To grow up? Yeah, maybe I don’t know what it’s like, but I can see what’s right in front of me, and so could you if you stopped being so goddamn stubborn.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, your voice breaking as tears welled up in your eyes again. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. You don’t get to act like you understand.”

Kenny shrugged, leaning back against the couch again. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

The dismissive tone hit like a slap, and you turned away sharply, your arms crossing over your chest as you tried to steady your breathing.

Stan stepped closer, his voice soft but firm. “Hey. Let’s all just calm down, okay? This… this isn’t helping anything.”

You turned sharply, your glare snapping to him like a whip. “Do you agree with him?” you asked, your voice low, deadly quiet.

Stan blinked, his mouth opening slightly as if to answer, but nothing came out. His silence spoke volumes.

Your chest tightened, and the knot in your stomach twisted painfully. “I fucking knew it,” you muttered, your voice shaking. “Of course you do. Of course, Stan would take Kyle’s side too.”

Stan reached a hand out, like he wanted to say something, but you jerked away, turning toward Cartman instead.

“And you?” you demanded, your eyes narrowing as you glared at him. “What about you, Cartman? You agree with Kenny too, right?”

Cartman didn’t even look up from his phone, his thumb lazily scrolling across the screen. “Yeah, obviously,” he said casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Kyle’s been pining over you since middle school. Shit’s been pathetic to watch, honestly.”

The room felt like it tipped sideways, your balance faltering for a moment as his words sank in. You trembled, anger and humiliation coursing through your veins like fire.

“Fuck you, Cartman,” you hissed, your voice breaking.

“Join the club,” Cartman muttered, finally glancing up. His expression was as indifferent as ever. “But yeah, I agree. Kyle’s basically had a flashing neon sign above his head this whole time. You’re just too dense to see it.”

Your fists clenched at your sides, shaking as your vision blurred with tears. “You’re all full of shit,” you snapped, your voice cracking. 

Stan let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before stepping toward you again. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s enough.”

“Don’t touch me—” you started, but before you could finish, Stan grabbed your wrists gently but firmly.

“Come on,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Stan, let go of me!” you shouted, struggling against his grip. But he didn’t relent, his grip steady as he started pulling you toward the stairs.

“You’re just gonna blow up again if you stay down here,” he said over his shoulder, his voice tired but resolute. “And I’m not dealing with another screaming match. Let’s go.”

Kenny watched the scene unfold silently, his arms crossed as his lips pressed into a thin line. Cartman let out an exaggerated sigh, muttering something under his breath about Stan being the “mom friend.”

You twisted in Stan’s grip, your cheeks burning with anger and embarrassment. “Let me go, Stan! I’m not a fucking child!”

“Then stop acting like one,” he shot back, dragging you up the stairs with surprising ease. “I don’t care if you’re mad at me. But you’re not doing this tonight.”

By the time you reached the top of the stairs, your breathing was heavy, and your throat burned with unshed tears. Stan released your wrists once you were out of sight from the others, his gaze meeting yours with an exhausted but steady resolve.

“You’re angry. I get it,” he said softly, his voice low. “But maybe instead of blowing up at everyone, you should figure out what you’re actually angry about.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you crossed your arms tightly over your chest, your jaw set in defiance as you stared past him.

Stan exhaled heavily, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Fine,” he muttered, stepping closer. Before you could react, he grabbed your arms firmly, pulling them away from your chest.

“What the hell are you doing, Stan?” you snapped, struggling against his grip.

“You’ll see,” he replied flatly, dragging you toward the guest room at the end of the hall. His tone was calm, but there was a quiet determination in his movements that made your stomach twist.

“Let me go!” you shouted, yanking at your arms, but Stan didn’t falter. He opened the guest room door and practically shoved you inside.

“What the fuck, Stan—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat when your eyes landed on Kyle.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly. His head shot up as the door swung open, his eyes widening when he saw you.

“Stan, what the hell is this?” Kyle said sharply, standing up.

Stan ignored him, placing a hand on the doorframe as he turned to face you. “You two are gonna figure this shit out,” he said simply.

You glared at him, your chest heaving with a mix of anger and panic. “Stan, don’t you dare—”

Before you could finish, Stan gave you a gentle but firm push further into the room and slammed the door shut.

You spun around, your heart racing as you grabbed the handle and twisted. The door didn’t budge. You yanked harder, but it was no use—Stan was holding it shut from the other side.

“Stan, open the fucking door!” you shouted, pounding on it with both fists.

From the hallway, you heard Stan’s muffled voice. “Kenny! Cartman! Bring me a chair!”

“You can’t be serious!” you screamed, banging on the door harder.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Stan replied, his voice calm but resolute through the door. “You two are staying in there until you talk. Or kill each other. Honestly, at this point, I don’t care which.”

You growled in frustration, twisting the handle again, but it was no use.

Behind you, Kyle let out a sharp breath, his voice laced with irritation. “What the hell, Stan?!”

“Figure it out,” Stan called back, his voice fading slightly as he presumably turned to wait for the chair.

You turned to Kyle, your hands still gripping the door handle. His face was a mixture of frustration and discomfort, his green eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours.

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Kyle crossed his arms, leaning back slightly against the bedframe. “Yeah? Well, neither am I.”

The air between you felt heavy, the silence only broken by the faint sound of Cartman and Kenny laughing, dragging what you presumed to be a chair.

You pounded on the door one more time. “Stan! Open the goddamn door!”

“Nope!” came his muffled reply. “You’re not getting out until you fix this.”

You let out a sharp exhale, your hands dropping to your sides as you turned to face Kyle fully. He was watching you, his expression guarded, his shoulders tense.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, your fingers clenching into fists.

Kyle let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, no shit.”

You glared at him briefly before turning back to the door, pounding on it again with both fists. “Stan, I swear to God, let me out!”

There was no response this time, just the faint sound of muffled conversation downstairs.

You slammed your palm against the door one last time before letting out a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping. It was no use. They weren’t going to let you out.

With a huff, you sank to the floor, your legs folding beneath you in a criss-cross position as you leaned against the door. You buried your head in your hands, your elbows resting on your knees, and tried to steady your breathing.

You felt like crying again, the frustration and humiliation clawing at your chest like a vice. But you were so damn tired of crying. What good had it done so far? Your tears hadn’t solved anything, and they sure as hell weren’t going to get you out of this room.

Kyle shifted on the bed, the faint creak of the mattress grating against your nerves. “You can’t just sit there all night,” he said finally, his voice cautious but firm.

“Watch me,” you muttered, your voice muffled by your hands.

Kyle sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. “Look, I don’t want to be in here any more than you do, alright? But maybe if you stop acting like a goddamn brick wall, we can actually get out of here.”

You looked up sharply, your brows furrowing as you glared at him. “You think this is my fault? That I’m the reason we’re locked in here?”

“I didn’t say that,” Kyle replied quickly, his tone defensive. “But you’re not exactly helping, are you?”

“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snapped. “Not after everything.”

Kyle ran a hand through his curls, his eyes narrowing as he got up and paced a few steps forward. “You keep blowing up at everyone like it’s all our fault, but you never actually say what’s going on. You don’t talk, you just—” He gestured vaguely, his voice rising. “You just shut down.”

“Oh, and you’re so great at talking, right?” you shot back, standing abruptly to face him. “Because from where I’m standing, all you’ve done is sulk and blame me for everything!”

Kyle opened his mouth, and for a moment, you thought he might yell. But instead, he shook his head, exhaling sharply as he turned away. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Forget it?” you repeated, your voice cracking slightly. “That’s all you’ve got?”

He stopped, his back to you. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean for things to go this way? Because I didn’t.” His voice was low, almost breaking, as he turned to look at you. “I didn’t want this. Any of it.”

You stared at him, anger bubbling to the surface again, hot and unrelenting, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

“If you didn’t want any of this,” you said sharply, “then why did you agree to do it?”

His eyes widened slightly, the raw vulnerability in his expression giving way to shock. He froze, his lips parting as if to respond, but no words came out.

You pressed on, your voice rising with each word as the emotions you’d been bottling up spilled over. “You could’ve said no! You could’ve told me to fuck off, and none of this would’ve happened! But you didn’t, Kyle. You didn’t. You sat there, and you—you said yes. You touched me, and now you want to act like it didn’t mean anything?”

Kyle’s jaw clenched, his hands twitching at his sides. “I never said it didn’t mean anything,” he muttered, his voice strained.

“Then what the fuck did it mean?!” you shouted, stepping closer to him. “Because I’m fucking tired of feeling like I’m the only one who’s carrying the weight of this. Like it was just some stupid mistake to you.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Kyle snapped, his voice louder now, his eyes blazing as they locked onto yours. “Do you think I don’t think about it? Do you think I don’t regret the way it all went down? Because I do! But you don’t get to stand there and act like it’s all on me. You begged me, [Y/N]. You begged me to help you, and I—” He stopped himself, his voice dropping. “I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do.”

His words cut deep, but your anger refused to waver. “You were supposed to stop me,” you said, your voice shaking. “You were supposed to tell me no. You’re Kyle fucking Broflovski—the moral compass of the group, right? You don’t fuck up. You don’t get caught in shit like this. So why the hell didn’t you stop me?”

Kyle laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and sharp. “Maybe because I didn’t fucking want to,” he admitted, his voice breaking.

The confession hung between you like a thunderclap, the weight of it knocking the air from your lungs.

“I didn’t want to stop you,” Kyle repeated, softer this time, his voice raw. “And that’s the part that’s been eating me alive. Because I knew it was a bad idea, and I still went through with it. I didn’t stop, because…” He faltered, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Because I wanted to.”

Your heart felt like it had stopped, the room suddenly too quiet. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.

Kyle looked up at you again, his expression a mix of anger and guilt. “So, yeah,” he muttered. “If you’re looking for someone to blame, go ahead. Blame me. I deserve it.”

You stood frozen for a moment, his words echoing in your mind, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. Your stomach churned, and the air in the room felt heavier, suffocating.

Without saying a word, you turned and sat down on the edge of the bed, your legs feeling too weak to hold you up any longer. You buried your face in your hands, your fingers pressing tightly against your ears as if you could block out the storm of emotions swirling around you.

But it didn’t work.

Kyle’s voice kept playing in your head, overlapping with Kenny’s, Cartman’s, and even Stan’s. You’re clueless. Kyle’s been pining for you for years. You never saw it, did you?

You clutched your chest as it hit you like a brick to the chest—Kenny had been right. They all had.

Kyle wasn’t angry because of what happened at the party. Not entirely. He wasn’t lashing out because you’d asked him for something impossible or because you’d pushed him too far. He was angry because it had meant something to him, and you hadn’t even considered that possibility.

You’d been so focused on Damien—on proving to everyone that you could have something of your own—that you’d ignored everything right in front of you. Kyle. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he always tried to stay calm when you were upset, even when it wasn’t his fight to pick. The way his voice had softened when he’d asked, Are you sure? that night at the party.

And now here you were, sitting on the bed with your hands over your ears, trying to drown out the truth that had been staring you in the face all along.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen this way,” Kyle said softly, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter now, almost hesitant. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

You lifted your head slowly, your hands slipping from your ears as you turned to look at him. He was standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture tense but his eyes… his eyes looked different now. Softer. Sadder.

He didn’t say anything else, waiting for you to speak, but the words caught in your throat.

“I…” you started, but your voice cracked, and you looked down at your hands. “I didn’t know, Kyle. I didn’t know you felt this way.”

Kyle let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?”

His words stung, but you couldn’t blame him. He was right. You’d been so oblivious, so caught up in your own world, that you’d missed something so obvious.

Your chest ached as you looked up at him again, his expression guarded but vulnerable, like he was bracing himself for another blow.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kyle blinked, caught off guard by your question. “What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?” you repeated, your voice trembling as you stood up, meeting his gaze. “Why did you let me go through all of this—feeling unwanted, like I wasn’t enough? Why didn’t you stop me from dating Damien?”

Kyle flinched slightly at the sharp edge to your tone, but he didn’t look away. His mouth opened, then closed, like he was trying to find the right words but couldn’t. Finally, he exhaled.

“It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice tight.

“Then make it simple,” you shot back, fighting to keep your emotions from spilling over. “You knew how much I was struggling. You knew I didn’t feel good enough for anyone, and you—” You stopped yourself, your voice cracking. “You could’ve said something. You could’ve told me.”

Kyle’s nostrils flared, his fists tightening at his sides. “And what would I have said, huh? That I liked you? That I’ve liked you since we were kids? That I couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else because it fucking killed me? Would that have made it better, [Y/N]? Would that have stopped you from choosing him?”

“Kyle, I…” You faltered, your voice shaking as tears pricked at your eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I’d feel that way about you,” Kyle finished for you, his voice quieter now but no less raw. He looked down, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t tell you because I was scared. Scared you’d look at me the way you’re looking at me now. Like I’m just… some guy who got it all wrong.”

Your hands trembled at your sides, your mind spinning as you tried to process everything he was saying. “You don’t know that,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible.

Kyle let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t I?” He looked up at you again, his eyes searching yours. “You wanted Damien. You chose him. And I didn’t stop you because I thought… maybe if I let you figure it out for yourself, you’d realize that he wasn’t good enough for you.”

You flinched as his words sank in. “You thought I’d come running back to you,” you said softly, the realization cutting deep.

“I thought you’d see me,” Kyle admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “But you didn’t. And by the time I realized I’d fucked up, it was too late.”

You stood there in stunned silence, his confession hanging heavy in the air. The raw vulnerability in his voice, the guilt etched into his features—it all made your chest ache even more.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” you whispered, your voice cracking as the tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over.

Kyle took a hesitant step closer, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Because I was scared,” he said again, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want to lose you, [Y/N]. Not as a friend. Not as anything. So, I kept quiet. And now…” He trailed off, looking away. “Now, I don’t know if I made the right choice.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the tension between you almost unbearable. Then, Kyle moved, sitting down on the bed next to you. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and he kept his gaze forward, staring at the wall like it held the answers to questions neither of you had figured out how to ask.

You hesitated, your hands twisting nervously in your lap as you stared at him. His shoulders were slumped, his usual sharp edges softened by something raw and uncertain. Finally, you turned to him, your voice quiet but steady.

“Kyle,” you started, your throat tightening as his name left your lips. He glanced at you briefly, his green eyes flicking to yours before darting away again.

“We’re supposed to be best friends,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. Anything.”

Kyle let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, some things are harder to say than others.”

You swallowed hard, your throat constricting and your stomach twisting in guilt. “I would’ve listened,” you said, leaning closer, your voice breaking slightly. “If you’d just told me, Kyle—if you’d just said something—”

“Would you?” Kyle interrupted, his voice sharper now as he turned to face you fully. His expression was a mix of frustration and sadness, his brows furrowed deeply. “Would you really have listened? Or would you have brushed it off like you always do, told me I was being dramatic or overthinking things?”

Your stomach churned, a cold knot forming deep inside as shame prickled at your skin. “I wouldn’t have done that,” you said softly, though the uncertainty in your own voice made you wince.

Kyle arched an eyebrow, his lips curling into a small, humorless smile. “Come on, [Y/N]. You’ve known me your whole life. You really think you wouldn’t have?”

His words stung because there was truth in them—truth you didn’t want to face. There had been moments, small ones, where Kyle had tried to say something, where his words had hinted at feelings deeper than friendship. And you’d missed them. Or worse, ignored them.

You dropped your gaze. “Maybe I would’ve,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have tried.”

Kyle sighed, his head dropping into his hands. “I didn’t know how,” he said, his voice muffled. “I thought… I thought if I just kept quiet, if I pushed it down, it would go away. That I could just be your friend and nothing more. But it didn’t work. It never worked.”

The vulnerability in his voice made your throat tighten, as though words would fail you if you tried to speak. And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Kyle,” you started softly. He looked up at you, his eyes glassy with emotion.

You sat there, your hands fidgeting in your lap, your thoughts spinning. This was Kyle—your best friend. The one who always had your back, who was honest with you even when you didn’t want to hear it. He never sugarcoated things, never pretended to be someone he wasn’t. Kyle was blunt, infuriatingly so, but it came from a place of care, of wanting what was best for you. You knew, deep down, that he would do anything for you if you asked. He’d proven it a hundred times over, in ways you hadn’t even realized until now. Like how he’d taken you to prom when no one else asked, saying it was no big deal, but you remembered the way he smiled at you all night, like he was proud to be there with you. He’d always been protective—too much, at times—but it was part of who he was, and it made you feel safe in ways you couldn’t explain. And now, as you sat here, the truth of his feelings laid bare, a question you hadn’t dared to ask yourself lingered in the back of your mind. Would it really be so bad? Being with someone like Kyle—someone who knew you better than anyone, someone who had always been there? You’d spent so much time chasing things that didn’t last, people who didn’t care, and yet Kyle had been right in front of you the whole time. The thought made your chest tighten, a mix of fear and something that felt almost like hope stirring within you.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “But I can’t… I don’t know how to fix this.”

Kyle didn’t say anything. His eyes searched yours, wide and uncertain, his jaw tight with tension. A faint crease formed between his brows, and his fingers traced restless patterns on his jeans. 

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper as you broke the quiet. “When did you know?”

Kyle blinked, his brows furrowing slightly. “Know what?”

“That you liked me,” you said, your gaze dropping to your lap. “When did you realize?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, and you thought he might avoid the question altogether. But then he exhaled softly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quiet but steady. “Maybe I always did. Or maybe it was middle school, when you showed up to school in that stupid homemade shirt for Spirit Week, and everyone laughed at you. I wanted to punch every single one of them.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Or maybe it was prom. Watching you dance, smiling like it didn’t matter that nobody else asked you to go. Like it didn’t matter that it was just me.”

His words caught you off guard, your throat constricting as your pulse quickened.

Kyle glanced at you briefly before looking away again, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I don’t know when exactly it happened. I just… I know that every time something good happened to you, it made me happy. And every time someone hurt you, it made me want to fucking kill them.” He paused, his voice lowering. “And then Damien came along, and I told myself it was fine. That if he made you happy, I could live with it. But watching you with him…” He hesitated, his voice catching slightly before continuing. “It wasn’t just jealousy. It was this stupid, gnawing feeling, like I wasn’t enough. Like everything I’d ever done for you didn’t matter, because someone else could make you smile the way I thought only I could. I thought I was unique.”

The admission hung between you, heavy and raw, as his voice dipped even lower. “And I told myself I was overreacting, but every time I saw him with you, it was like everything I’d tried to bury just came flooding back. And I couldn’t stop it.”

He finally met your gaze, his eyes glimmering with a tenderness that sent a wave of warmth through you. “I guess I realized I liked you the moment I couldn’t pretend I didn’t anymore.”

You were quiet, his words settling over you like a weight you didn’t know how to carry. Your gaze drifted to the floor, your mind racing as you tried to process everything he’d just said. Slowly, you turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest. Without thinking, you reached for the neckline of your shirt, pulling it down just enough to expose the faint, fading marks on your skin—the hickeys he’d left at the party. They were barely there now, just faint shadows of what they had been, but the memory was vivid, etched into you like a scar that didn’t hurt but would never fade completely.

You smiled softly, the corners of your lips trembling slightly as you tried to lighten the moment. “I guess I should’ve known you liked me,” you said, your voice teasing but quiet. “You don’t leave marks like these for just anyone.”

Kyle’s eyes widened slightly, his gaze dropping to your neck. His face flushed, and he quickly looked away, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you interrupted, your voice softer now. Your own face felt impossibly hot, and you quickly pulled your shirt back into place, avoiding his gaze.

Neither of you spoke, the air dense and charged. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, and his presence beside you felt close and magnetic, the space between you humming like a live wire.

Finally, you took a shaky breath and spoke, your voice barely audible. “I… I liked it,” you admitted, your cheeks burning. “When you kissed me. I liked it.”

Kyle’s head snapped toward you, his eyes wide with surprise. You kept your gaze fixed on your hands, unable to look at him as you continued. “And… I’m glad it was you. That you were my first real kiss.”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t interrupt, his eyes locked on you as if he didn’t dare to move.

Your fingers twisted nervously in the fabric of your pants as you went on, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And I—when you… when you touched me, I liked that too. I mean, I really liked it.” Your face burned hotter with each word, and you felt like you might melt into the floor. But even through the embarrassment, there was a sense of relief in finally saying it—finally being honest.

Kyle stared at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, before his lips parted slightly, his voice soft and almost hesitant. “You… you did?”

You nodded, still not looking at him, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I really did.”

Your hands twitched at your sides, and before you could think too much about it, you reached out and grabbed his hands, intertwining your fingers with his. Kyle’s gaze snapped down to your joined hands. His fingers tensed for a moment, but then they relaxed, curling around yours like he’d been waiting for this all along.

“I was wrong,” you said quietly. “About the party. About everything. The way I acted… it wasn’t fair to you. None of it was.”

Kyle’s brows furrowed, his lips parting slightly as if to protest, but you squeezed his hands, stopping him.

“I didn’t mean any of the things I said,” you continued, your voice breaking. “You’re not a terrible best friend, Kyle. You’re not… you’re not a pathetic jealous asshole. I don’t know why I said that. I was just… angry. At myself. At the whole situation. And I took it out on you.”

Kyle’s expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing as his thumbs brushed lightly over your knuckles. “You had every right to be angry,” he said softly. “I should’ve handled things differently too.”

You shook your head, your grip on his hands tightening. “No, Kyle. You didn’t deserve any of that. You were just trying to help me, to make sure I was okay. And I wasn’t. But you—you were there. You showed me everything, even when you didn’t have to, and I…” You trailed off, your throat tightening as you tried to find the right words.

“I really do appreciate you,” you said finally, your voice trembling. “For everything. For putting up with me, for being there when I needed you, for… just being you.”

Kyle’s eyes glistened slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “You mean that?”

“I mean it,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “And I’m really proud that you’re my best friend. I don’t say it enough, but I am.”

Kyle’s lips quirked into a small, uncertain smile, his hands squeezing yours gently. “You know,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of that familiar sarcasm, “you’re going to make me start crying, and we both know I’m already bad at hiding it.”

You laughed quietly, your chest feeling a little lighter for the first time all night. “Yeah, I know,” you admitted, your voice soft.

The laughter faded, but the warmth lingered as you looked at Kyle. Really looked at him. His eyes were fixed on you, soft and unsure, as though he couldn’t quite believe you were sitting here like this. There was a faint blush on his cheeks, dusting the bridge of his nose, standing out against the light freckles that dotted his skin. His unruly red curls framed his face, a little messier than usual, and his lips were curved into a small, hesitant smile.

Something inside you shifted as you took him in, your chest tightening—but not in a bad way. He looked… cute. Adorably so. You didn’t know how you’d never noticed it before, but it felt so obvious now, like the realization had been waiting for the right moment to hit you.

Your fingers were still intertwined with his, the warmth of his skin grounding you as your grip softened. The way he looked at you stirred something deep in your chest—a mix of familiarity and something new, something that had been quietly growing between you, unnoticed by you until now. You felt it in the way his fingers twitched slightly against yours, in the way his eyes flickered with both nervousness and longing, and in the faint quiver of his breath as he waited to see what you would do.

You leaned forward slightly, your eyes tracing the curve of his jaw, the faint freckles across his cheeks, and the blush that was deepening with every passing second. He froze, his breath hitching as his lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Your heart pounded as you leaned closer, the air between you thick with anticipation, every breath feeling sharp and unsteady. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something raw crossing his face, and his body stilled, as though the moment might shatter if he moved.

Then, just as you were sure he might pull away, he moved too. Slowly, cautiously, like he was afraid to break whatever delicate thread was pulling the two of you together.

Your noses brushed, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. For a moment, your eyes locked, searching his as your heart pounded in your chest. And then, finally, his eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned in fully.

Your lips met his, soft and warm, and your thoughts came to a screeching halt. You hadn’t expected him to feel like this—gentle, steady, but with a hesitant edge that made your chest tighten. He tasted good, the faint hint of peppermint chapstick mixing with something else, something distinctly Kyle. His scent filled your senses too, clean and sharp, like pine and something earthy, comforting in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The kiss wasn’t frantic or rushed, but the closeness of him, the warmth radiating from his skin, made your stomach flutter. You felt hyper-aware of everything—the way his curls brushed lightly against your temple, the slight shift of his hand against yours, the soft sound of his breath mixing with yours.

And then, the thoughts hit you all at once, a flood of realizations that made your cheeks burn. He tasted good. He smelled good. He felt good.

You weren’t supposed to be thinking about your best friend like this.

Panic bubbled up in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you pulled back, breaking the kiss. You didn’t look at him immediately, your face hot with embarrassment as your thoughts spun out of control.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, your voice shaky. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Kyle blinked, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and concern. His lips parted slightly, still tinged with the faintest blush of your kiss, but he didn’t say anything at first.

You shook your head, stumbling over your words as you tried to explain. “I don’t even know what I was thinking. I just—I don’t know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Hey,” Kyle interrupted softly, his voice steady despite the obvious flush on his face. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on you. “Don’t… don’t apologize.”

You froze, your breath catching as his words registered. Hesitantly, you looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. His expression was calmer now, the edges of his earlier nervousness softened by something deeper.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” His hand squeezed yours gently, grounding you. “If anyone should apologize,” he added, his voice dipping slightly, “it’s probably me. I’ve been holding this back for so long, and I didn’t know if you’d… if you’d feel the same way.”

You were silent, his words settling over you like a weight. Your heart pounded so loudly you were sure he could hear it, and your palms felt clammy where they rested against his. You tried to look at him, but the intensity in his gaze made it impossible.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you murmured, “I do.”

Kyle froze, his eyes widening slightly.

“I feel the same way,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You kept your gaze down, your face hot as the words left your lips. “I didn’t realize it before, but… I do.”

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation, a weight pressing down on you as you waited for him to respond. Then, slowly, Kyle’s hand slipped from yours, and you thought for a brief, terrible moment that he was pulling away. But instead, his hands came up to your face, his palms warm and steady against your cheeks.

“Look at me,” he said softly, his thumbs brushing lightly against your skin.

You hesitated, but the gentle insistence in his voice drew your eyes to his. The vulnerability in his gaze was gone now, replaced with something stronger, more certain.

And then he leaned in.

This time, the kiss wasn’t hesitant or unsure. It was deeper, more fervent, as though he was pouring everything he’d been holding back into this one moment. His lips moved against yours with a newfound confidence, his hands keeping your face tilted toward him.

Your hands instinctively came up, gripping the fabric of his hoodie as your body leaned closer to his. The warmth of him, the way his breath mingled with yours, sent your heart racing in a way that made your head spin.

Kyle tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss, his fingers threading lightly through your hair. There was nothing awkward about it now, no hesitation—just him, fully and completely.

You tried to keep up with him, matching the movement of his lips, but Kyle was… really good at this. His confidence caught you off guard, and the way he kissed you—like he’d been waiting for this moment forever—made your head spin.

When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, your breath hitched, and you gasped softly. Kyle didn’t miss the opportunity. His tongue slipped into your mouth, hot and insistent, tangling with yours in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers gripped his hoodie tighter, twisting the fabric as your body leaned closer to his. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his steady hands holding you in place as if to anchor you. The sound of your shallow breathing mixed with his as you panted softly into his mouth, your chest brushing against his with every shaky inhale.

Kyle’s hands slid down slightly, his thumbs brushing the corners of your jaw, and the gentle pressure made your heart race even faster. His kiss was intoxicating—both tender and hungry at the same time, leaving you completely breathless. A quiet sound escaped your throat—a mix between a whimper and a sigh—and you felt Kyle respond immediately, his lips pressing harder against yours as he tilted your head back slightly.

Heat surged through you, sudden and overwhelming, like a fire had been lit under your skin. You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your arms slipped up, wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer, your fingers tangling slightly in the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

The kiss grew messier, less controlled, as your movements became more frantic. Your lips moved against his with a clumsy urgency, each kiss wetter and more uneven than the last. You could feel your inexperience showing in every hurried motion, the lack of rhythm, the way your breaths came in ragged gasps between each connection. You hoped Kyle didn’t notice, even as you felt the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. But if he did, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned into you, his movements steady and sure, meeting your sloppy kisses with a patience that made your stomach flip.

The warmth of his chest brushed against yours, but it wasn’t enough. You wanted to feel him fully, to close the space between you entirely. Acting on impulse, you tightened your arms around his neck and tugged him closer, pressing his chest firmly against yours.

The sudden closeness pulled a sharp inhale from Kyle, and you felt the sound vibrate against your lips. His hands slipped down, gripping your waist with surprising firmness as he steadied you, his thumbs brushing along your sides in a way that sent a shiver through you.

The room felt impossibly hot now, your body buzzing with sensations that were almost too much to process. You weren’t sure what you were doing, only that you didn’t want to stop.

Kyle pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes locking onto yours, his pupils blown wide. His lips were red and slightly swollen, glistening from your kisses, and his breathing was as uneven as yours.

“You’re…” He paused, his voice husky as he swallowed hard. “You’re killing me here.”

His words made your face burn even hotter, and you pressed your hands to your cheeks, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible as you dropped your gaze. “I suck at this.”

Kyle blinked, and then his lips curled into a soft, teasing smile. “You’re apologizing?” he asked, his tone incredulous but playful.

You nodded, still avoiding his eyes. “Yeah… I mean, I’ve never really done this before… besides at that party. I’m still probably so bad.”

Kyle let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm and low as he leaned back slightly to look at you. “Bad?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t say bad. Let’s call it… enthusiastic.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Kyle said, his voice light but steady. You peeked at him through your fingers and saw the way his eyes softened as he looked at you. “I’m just saying, if you’re worried about being bad, don’t be. We’ve got all night, and I’m a pretty good teacher.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the playful edge in his tone making your stomach flip. “All night?” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly.

Kyle leaned in closer, his hands resting on either side of your waist as his grin widened just a little. “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice dipping as his eyes locked onto yours. “Stan’s not letting us out, remember? Might as well make the most of it.”

The teasing glint in his eyes made your cheeks burn even more, but there was something reassuring in his expression, something that made you feel safe despite how embarrassed you were.

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “But don’t laugh at me.”

Kyle’s smile softened, and he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said, his voice low and sincere.

You smiled back at him, your chest feeling lighter as the tension between you eased. But as his words lingered in your mind, a flicker of nervous energy surged through you. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers twitching slightly before you shrugged off your jacket and let it fall onto the bed.

Kyle’s brows raised slightly at the movement, his eyes following the fabric as it slipped from your shoulders. “Uh… okay,” he started, his voice tinged with curiosity, but you moved before he could finish.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him.

He drew in a sharp breath, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your waist. “Whoa,” he muttered, his voice teetering between surprise and amusement.

You felt your face heat up instantly, a mix of confidence and embarrassment warring inside you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his neck to hide the blush spreading across your cheeks.

Kyle chuckled softly, the warmth of his breath brushing against your ear. “Someone’s eager,” he teased, his fingers twitching lightly against your sides. “Didn’t you just say you were new to this?”

You groaned into his neck, your cheeks burning. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his skin.

His laugh deepened, the vibration of it sending a shiver down your spine. “I’m just saying,” he added playfully, “for someone who says they’re bad at this, you’re doing pretty good so far.”

You hummed softly against his neck, the sound more nervous than confident, as you pressed a light kiss to the curve of his shoulder. His warmth was comforting, and even though your heart raced with nerves, you didn’t pull away. Slowly, you tilted your head, letting your lips linger before sucking gently at his skin.

The faint taste of salt and the warmth of his pulse under your mouth made your chest flutter, but you hesitated, unsure if you were doing it right. You tried again, a little harder this time, your lips pressing more firmly as you sucked lightly.

Kyle stiffened beneath you, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested on your waist. For a moment, he seemed quiet, and you wondered if you’d done something wrong—until a low, quiet sound slipped from his throat.

It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to send a thrill through you. A subtle shudder ran through him, his hands settling more firmly against your sides as you continued, your lips brushing against his skin.

“Y-you don’t have to do that,” Kyle murmured, his voice unsteady, almost shy. But he didn’t pull away.

You paused, your lips hovering just over his neck. “I just…” you whispered, your face burning. “I wanted to try.”

Kyle’s fingers flexed against your sides, his breathing uneven as he swallowed hard. “It feels… good,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

His words sent a wave of nervous excitement through you, and you pressed another kiss to his skin, your inexperience making your movements clumsy but earnest. You tried to mimic what he’d done to you at the party, lightly sucking and grazing your teeth against his neck.

Another sound escaped him, rougher this time, and you felt his hands tighten around your waist as his head tilted back slightly.

You pulled back for a moment, your lips tingling, and glanced up at him. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dark and hazy, and his lips were parted like he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Your lips curled into a small, shy smile as you leaned back down, pressing another kiss to the faint mark you’d left on his neck. The quiet hum of satisfaction that came from him made your chest tighten, and you couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped you.

“You’re laughing at me now?” Kyle muttered, his voice thick with embarrassment, though his lips twitched upward.

“Not at you,” you whispered, your breath warm against his skin. “I just… I’m glad you don’t hate it.”

Kyle let out a shaky laugh, his fingers pressing gently against your sides. “Yeah, no chance of that.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, your heart feeling lighter than it had all day. The tension and anger that had hung over you earlier now felt like a distant memory, almost impossible to believe it had been real. Just hours ago, you’d been yelling, hurling insults at each other, and now… now, things were different. Not completely back to normal—this was uncharted territory—but the warmth in Kyle’s touch and the soft, steady way he looked at you made you feel safe, like the foundation of your friendship was still there, just with something new layered over it.

You leaned in again, your lips finding his neck. The skin there was warm and soft, and you pressed a series of light kisses upwards, trailing toward his jaw. You heard him exhale softly, his hands tightening slightly on your waist as you moved closer.

When you reached his jawline, you lingered, kissing the sharp edge of it before humming softly against his skin. The sound was quiet, but the way Kyle shivered beneath you told you it had an effect. His reaction sent a small thrill through you, and you kissed along his jaw until you reached the corner of his mouth.

You pressed a soft kiss there, your lips brushing his skin so lightly it was almost a tease. Kyle turned his head slightly, his green eyes meeting yours as a small, knowing smirk spread across his face.

The expression made your heart skip, and you giggled, the sound bubbling out of you as you leaned in again. “What’s that look for?” you murmured, your voice soft but playful.

Kyle didn’t answer, his smirk widening slightly as his hands shifted higher on your sides. His gaze was steady, amused, but there was warmth there too—something that made your chest feel tight in the best way. You pressed a fleeting kiss to his lips, your cheeks burning as you let yourself get caught up in the moment. His lips were soft and warm against yours, and even though it was brief, the kiss sent sparks shooting through you.

Kyle shifted slightly beneath you, adjusting his position on the bed. The movement made you gasp softly, your breath catching in your throat as heat surged through your body.

Your eyes flicked downward, taking in the way you were straddling him, your knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. The closeness, the weight of the moment, was almost tangible. Your hands pressed against his chest for balance, but it only made you more aware of his warmth beneath your palms.

Kyle noticed the slight furrow of your brow, his green eyes softening with concern. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, his voice quiet but steady.

You shook your head quickly, the warmth in your cheeks spreading as you glanced up at him. “Nothing,” you murmured, though your voice came out shakier than you intended.

Kyle didn’t look convinced, tilting his head slightly as his hands rested lightly on your waist. “You sure?” he pressed, his tone careful but curious.

You hesitated, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the fabric of his hoodie. Your heart raced as you searched for the words, your throat tightening as the question formed. Finally, you took a deep breath and spoke, your voice quiet but clear.

“Is it… okay if we go further tonight?”

Kyle froze for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as your words hung in the air. His lips parted, and a delicate shiver seemed to ripple through him, but he didn’t pull away or tense under you.

You rushed to continue, your cheeks burning as you stumbled over your explanation. “I—I mean, if you’re okay with it. I want to, but I don’t want to make you feel like you have to or—”

“Hey,” Kyle interrupted softly, his thumbs brushing against your sides in a soothing motion. “Slow down.”

You stopped, your breath shaky as you looked at him nervously. His expression was calm now, a small smile tugging at his lips as he held your gaze.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low but gentle. “You don’t have to do this just because you think I want it.”

You nodded quickly, a rush of heat flooding through you. “I’m sure,” you said firmly, though your voice was still a little shaky. “I want to, Kyle. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

Kyle’s gaze softened, his fingers pressing gently into your sides. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice steady and warm. His eyes searched yours for a moment longer, as if to make absolutely certain, before he leaned forward, his lips brushing softly against yours.

The warmth of his kiss sent a spark racing down your spine, and you couldn’t hold back anymore. A rush of excitement bubbled up inside you, and your lips parted eagerly against his. Without hesitation, you slid your tongue into his mouth, meeting his in a bold, messy kiss.

Kyle let out a soft, muffled sound of surprise, his initial hesitation melted quickly, and he began to kiss you back with a fervor that only fueled your eagerness.

Your body buzzed with energy, you wiggled slightly in his lap, trying to get closer. The movement earned a sharp inhale from Kyle, and you felt his fingers dig into your sides as he let out a low groan.

You couldn’t stop yourself; your hands slipped down, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The heat between you was overwhelming, and all you wanted was to feel more, to close the gap between you completely.

You tugged at your shirt, lifting it slightly, but you didn’t want to break the kiss. It was messy and frantic now, your lips clashing as your breathing grew heavier. Kyle seemed to notice what you were doing, and one of his hands slid up to your wrist, halting your movements gently.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to speak, his lips brushing against yours as he panted softly. “Wait—wait a second,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. His eyes flicked down to your hands and back up to meet your gaze, his face flushed.

You froze, your cheeks burning as embarrassment crept up your neck. “I didn’t mean to—” you started, but Kyle shook his head, a small, breathless smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his tone reassuring as his thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Just… let me help.”

You hummed excitedly, your smile widening as you looked at him. Your cheeks were hot, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears, but the thrill of the moment overwhelmed any lingering nerves.

Kyle’s lips quirked into a smirk, his eyes glinting with both amusement and something deeper. “You’re really not gonna make this easy for me, are you?” he teased, shaking his head slightly.

“Not my fault you’re slow,” you shot back, your tone playfully defiant despite the heat rushing to your face.

Kyle scoffed, the sound low and amused, as he leaned forward to kiss you briefly, his lips brushing yours before pulling back. “Alright, then,” he murmured, his voice dropping slightly. “Guess I’ll pick up the pace.”

His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, his fingers brushing your skin lightly as he tugged it upward. The sensation sent a shiver through you, and you instinctively raised your arms, letting him pull the fabric over your head in one smooth motion.

The shirt landed somewhere on the floor, forgotten, as Kyle sat back slightly to take you in.

You suddenly felt hyper-aware of everything—the way his gaze lingered on you, the faint bow on your cutesy bra, the warmth of his hands still resting on your waist. Your arms twitched, almost moving to cover yourself, but when you glanced at him, the look in his eyes stopped you.

Kyle’s face was flushed, his lips slightly parted as his gaze traced over you with a quiet intensity that made your chest tighten. His expression wasn’t teasing now; it was soft, almost reverent.

“You look really good,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the red creeping up his neck.

The compliment made your heart flutter, and you couldn’t stop the shy smile that tugged at your lips. “Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice quieter now, but you didn’t look away.

Kyle’s lips curved into a small smile, his fingers gently toying with the straps of your bra. “Cute bra,” he added, his tone lighter, though there was an edge of playfulness to it.

You let out a soft laugh, your face heating even more. “Stop looking at it so much, perv,” you said, though your tone was teasing as you leaned closer, pressing a fleeting kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Kyle chuckled softly, “Can’t help it,” he admitted quietly. “You’re kind of hard to look away from.”

You shook your head, a breathy laugh escaping your lips as warmth crept up your neck. “You’re so full of it,” you muttered.

Kyle raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he watched you fidget. “Am I?” he teased.

Still laughing lightly, you reached for the hem of his hoodie, your fingers brushing the soft fabric. “It’s your turn now,” you said, your voice quieter, laced with a mix of shyness and playfulness.

Kyle blinked, momentarily caught off guard by your boldness, but his surprise quickly shifted into curiosity. “My turn?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded, tugging gently at the hoodie, trying to pull it upward but hesitating as you glanced at him. “Yeah,” you murmured, your gaze flicking nervously to his before darting away. “I’m not going to be the only one sitting here half-naked.”

Kyle let out a low chuckle, leaning back slightly to give you more room. “Alright, alright,” he said, his voice warm and teasing. “But I’ll warn you now—I’m blindingly pale. It’s a hazard to look directly at me under good lighting.”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched into a small smile. “Kyle, I’ve seen you shirtless before. I think I can handle it.”

He snorted, shaking his head as he reached for the hem of his hoodie. “You’ve got a point,” he muttered, lifting it over his head in one smooth motion.

The hoodie ruffled his curls as it came off, leaving his hair a little messy. He tossed it aside carelessly, leaning back again as his eyes met yours, his cheeks faintly pink.

Your eyes trailed over him, taking in the soft planes of his chest and the faint freckles dusted across his shoulders. He wasn’t overly muscular, but there was a subtle strength in the way his body moved, probably years from basketball.

“Well?” Kyle asked, his lips curving into a crooked smile as he noticed your lingering stare. “Do I pass the test?”

You felt your face heat even more, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice soft. “You pass.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, unsure what to do next. A prickling heat rose in your neck and face, and as the stillness lingered, a nervous energy bubbled up. You rubbed your arms awkwardly, your gaze flicking between his face and the space between you. You wanted to say something, to ask him what to do, but the words stuck in your throat.

Kyle noticed your hesitation immediately, his eyes softening. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he tilted his head slightly, leaning closer. His hand brushed against your arm, steadying you, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

“You’re overthinking,” he said softly, his tone low and reassuring.

Your cheeks burned, and you glanced down, embarrassed. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Kyle interrupted, his voice calm but firm, as if he’d seen right through you. His hand moved to your waist, his touch deliberate yet careful. He guided you closer, closing the space between you effortlessly.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. “Just let me take care of it.”

A sharp inhale escaped you as he leaned in, his hand moving to gently cup your cheek. When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed or hurried. His kiss was soft and steady, each movement unhurried, like he was coaxing you out of your nervousness and silently telling you that everything was going to be okay.

Kyle tilted his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to pull you closer without overwhelming you. The faintest hum came from him, a soft sound of encouragement that made your chest tighten in the best way.

When he pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over yours, his thumb brushed your cheek. His gaze was steady, his eyes warm and full of patience. “Better?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your face hot as you leaned back in, your lips catching his again, softer this time but filled with a growing confidence.

As the kiss deepened, you pressed yourself impossibly close to him, your body instinctively seeking more of the warmth and steadiness he offered. The soft fabric of your bra brushed against his bare chest, and the sensation sent a shiver through you. Your breath hitched slightly, the realization of how close you were making your heart race.

Your hands, clammy with nervous energy, moved from his shoulders to his hair, tangling lightly in his curls. The softness of them beneath your fingers was surprising, comforting, and you used the touch to steady yourself as you tilted your head, leaning further into him.

But as the kiss continued, the heat between you became almost unbearable. The denim of your jeans felt heavy, clinging too tightly to your skin, and the warmth pooling in your body made it impossible to sit still. You shifted in Kyle’s lap, adjusting yourself instinctively, and the motion caused you to gasp softly, your breath hitching against his lips. The sound seemed to break something in him because his hands pulled you just a little closer. His grip was steady but firm, grounding you even as everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

A flutter stirred deep in your stomach as you grinded again, this time more purposefully. The friction sent another jolt through you, and a quiet whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You froze for a second, embarrassed by the sound, but Kyle didn’t falter. If anything, he kissed you harder, his lips pressing into yours with a newfound urgency that left you breathless.

The heat between you was unbearable, your core throbbing with a desperate need that seemed to pulse through every inch of you. Your hips ground against his, the slick friction sending waves of pleasure that curled your toes and made your breaths hitch. Each roll of your body against his made you whimper softly, your panties soaked as you pressed closer, needing more, craving him entirely.

Kyle groaned against your lips, the sound low and rough, and his hands slid down to your hips. His grip tightened again, guiding you as your movements became more frantic.

But then, his hands moved lower.

Before you could register what was happening, his fingers curled into the flesh of your ass, squeezing firmly as he stilled your movements. The sudden shift made you gasp, your lips parting from his as you blinked down at him, dazed.

Kyle’s chest heaved, his face flushed, and his eyes burned with an intensity that made your breath catch. But there was something else there too—something almost panicked.

You pulled back slightly, your heart pounding in your chest. “I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, your voice trembling as you tried to process what had just happened. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” Kyle interrupted, his voice low but firm. His hands stayed on your hips, steadying you as he shook his head. “Don’t apologize.”

You blinked at him, confused. “But I—”

“It’s my fault,” he said quickly, his voice dropping as his gaze darted away for a moment. His cheeks flushed even darker, and he let out a shaky breath. “I… I was about to come.”

The bluntness of his confession hit you like a lightning bolt, your face growing impossibly hot as your body went still. “Oh,” you whispered, the word barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Kyle’s grip on your hips loosened slightly, his thumbs brushing softly against your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine. “I should’ve stopped sooner,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “I just… you felt so good, and I—” He cut himself off, his gaze flicking back to yours, raw and vulnerable. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him, your face hot with a mixture of embarrassment and uncertainty. You hesitated for a moment, your lips parting as you tried to summon the courage to speak. The pounding of your heart in your ears was deafening, and when you finally forced the words out, your voice was soft, trembling. 

“Can I… suck you off?”

He froze.

The atmosphere shifted in an instant, his gaze locking onto yours with an unguarded intensity that sent a shiver through you. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but silence hung between you. Surprise flickered across his face, quickly replaced by an undeniable hunger—a mix of yearning and restraint that made your breath catch. His jaw clenched, his teeth pressing together as if he were holding himself back, and his fingers skimmed your sides with a touch so light it felt like a tease, leaving a trail of warmth that made your stomach flip.

“Did you…” He trailed off, his voice rough as he blinked, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Did you just ask—”

“Yes,” you interrupted, your cheeks flushing even darker as you avoided his gaze. “I mean it. I—I want to.”

Kyle exhaled sharply, his hands brushing over your sides before sliding away entirely, gripping the edge of the bed instead. His fingers dug into the fabric, knuckles paling as though anchoring himself. He leaned back slightly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths as he processed your words.

“You’re serious?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but there was no teasing in his tone—only disbelief that made the air between you feel heavy.

You nodded quickly, your heart racing as you shifted slightly, your thighs brushing against his. “Yes,” you said again, barely above a whisper.

Kyle’s gaze darkened, his eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for any sign of hesitation. When he didn’t find any, his jaw clenched, and his lips pressed into a thin line. The tension in his posture eased slightly as he sat up straighter, his knees brushing against yours.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice low and steady, though there was a faint tremor beneath it. His hands moved back to your thighs, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent a jolt of warmth up your spine. “But… if you want to stop at any point—”

“I won’t,” you cut him off, your voice firm despite the heat rushing to your face.

Kyle’s lips curved ever so slightly, the fleeting expression gone as quickly as it appeared. He shifted back a touch, his hands drifting from your thighs to grip the edge of the bed. His green eyes lingered on you, his voice soft when he spoke. “Alright,” he murmured. “Go ahead.”

You smiled at him, the corners of your lips curling shyly as you reached out and squeezed his hand. The simple touch steadied you, and a soft giggle slipped from your lips, breaking some of the tension in the air.

Sliding off the bed, you settled onto the carpet between his knees, the plush fibers soft beneath you as you adjusted yourself. Your hands rested gently on his knees, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric of his sweatpants.

The position struck you immediately. The memory surged forward unbidden: Kyle on his knees, the way his fingers had curled against you, his sharp words biting into the tension-filled air.

“This is what you wanted, right?” his voice echoed in your mind, the sharp edge of his tone still vivid, as if he’d spoken those words only seconds ago. The way he’d mocked you, his lips curling into that bitter smirk, had made your chest ache even as it set every nerve in your body alight.

Your fingers flexed against his knees, grounding yourself in the present. You glanced up at Kyle now, his expression a stark contrast to that earlier moment. The mockery was gone; his eyes held only warmth and a cautious sort of curiosity. His chest rose and fell slowly, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, his grip tight but not aggressive.

“You okay down there?” Kyle asked, breaking through your thoughts.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, your voice quiet but firm. You smiled again, the memory fading as you refocused on him.

His gaze softened, and he shifted slightly in his seat, his knees brushing against your hands as he adjusted his posture. The movement drew your attention back to the task at hand, the heat between you flaring up once more as you leaned forward slightly.

You hooked your fingers under the hemline of his pants, the motion deliberate despite the trembling in your hands. Slowly, you began to tug them down, your movements careful as if drawing out the moment would help ease the knot of nerves in your stomach. Kyle lifted his hips slightly, helping you, his breathing audible now in the charged silence.

As the waistband slid lower, your gaze dropped, and your breath hitched when you caught sight of him. The black fabric of his boxers strained against his bulge, a dark patch of precum near the tip drawing your attention immediately. The sight sent a wave of heat rushing through you, your cheeks burning as you blinked, struggling to process the image in front of you.

Kyle shifted slightly, the motion pulling your focus lower. The faint freckles that dotted his thighs caught your attention next, scattered across his pale skin like constellations. The juxtaposition of the delicate freckles against the strength in his legs made your throat tighten.

Your hands moved instinctively, steadying yourself on his thighs as you leaned closer. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the faint roughness of his hair brushing against your fingertips. You tried to focus on the texture, on the sensation of his skin under your hands, but your gaze kept darting back to the wet patch on his boxers.

Kyle’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed tightly. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his expression was palpable. His jaw tightened briefly, his lips pressing into a firm line, and the faint flush creeping up his neck deepened.

You offered him a nervous smile, your cheeks burning as your fingers twitched against his thighs. The freckled skin beneath your hands was warm and grounding, but the weight of the moment still made your palms clammy. You rubbed them lightly against his legs, as if trying to steady yourself.

Kyle’s  eyes softened slightly, and he gave you a weak, tentative smile in return, though the tension in his posture didn’t completely dissipate.

Rocking forward on your heels, you leaned up toward him, pressing the lightest of kisses to his lips. The contact was fleeting but enough to make his breath catch, his hands loosening their grip on the bed for a moment.

You hovered close to him, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “Is this really okay?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, and laced with the nervous energy buzzing through you.

Kyle’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze locked on yours. His eyes flicked between your face and the boxers you were tugging at, his breathing growing heavier. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice rough and strained but clear. “It’s okay.”

His words sent a wave of warmth through you, a flicker of reassurance cutting through your nerves. You kissed him again, this time lingering a little longer, the faint taste of his breath mingling with yours as your fingers curled more firmly around the waistband of his boxers.

Kyle groaned softly against your lips, as his hands hovered by his sides, like he was resisting the urge to touch you. “Go ahead,” he murmured, the words half-whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

You nodded faintly, your lips brushing his once more before you pulled back just enough to focus on what came next. Your fingers tightened slightly against the waistband, and with one more glance up at Kyle, you slowly began to ease the fabric downward, a shiver running through you as you revealed him inch by inch. Kyle shifted slightly, lifting his hips to help you, a quiet exhale escaping him as the fabric slid lower. The soft cotton clung to him momentarily, and then, in a sudden, fluid motion, it slipped past his thighs and down to his ankles.

His cock sprang free, slapping lightly against his stomach with a faint, wet sound that sent a shiver through you. The movement left a smear of precum glistening on the pale skin above his navel, and the sight of it made your cheeks flush even hotter.

This was the first time you’d seen one in person, and you couldn’t help but stare. Kyle’s cock was long and thick, the shaft a shade darker than the rest of his pale, freckled skin, with faint veins running along its length. The head was flushed a deep pink, almost red, the slick sheen of precum making it glisten faintly in the dim light.

The faint curve of it toward his stomach gave it a graceful shape, and the sight struck you as unexpectedly… beautiful. His freckles continued down his thighs, faint and scattered, accentuating the way his muscles flexed beneath his skin.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as you took it all in. Your fingers rested on his thighs for balance, and your eyes flicked back up to his face. Kyle’s lips were parted, his breathing shallow, and his gaze burned into you with a focus that made your stomach twist in the best way.

“Hey,” Kyle said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but there was no teasing in his tone—just a steady reassurance that steadied your nerves. “You okay down there?”

You nodded quickly, your voice catching in your throat as you replied, “Yeah. I just… you’re really…” You trailed off, biting your lip as your cheeks burned brighter.

Kyle raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something closer to a genuine smile. “Really what?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Pretty,” you admitted quietly, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

Kyle blinked, clearly caught off guard, and for a moment, his confident demeanor cracked. His cheeks flushed a deeper red, and he let out a soft, breathless laugh. “I—thanks, I guess,” he said, his voice breaking slightly.

You hummed softly in reply, your throat too tight to form proper words as you adjusted your position on your knees. Tentatively, you reached out, your hand hovering for a moment before carefully wrapping around him.

Your thumb brushed lightly against the silky head, the feeling unfamiliar, and your eyes caught the bead of precum pooling there, glistening faintly in the dim light. Then with a slow, shaky exhale, you swiped your thumb over the tip, gathering the slick wetness. Kyle’s breath hitched audibly at the motion, and you glanced up at him, your cheeks burning as you met his heavy-lidded gaze.

Taking his reaction as encouragement, you smeared the precum along the length of his cock, your fingers spreading it in slow, deliberate strokes. The slickness made your movements smoother, and you felt the tension in his thighs beneath your other hand as his breathing grew heavier.

The warmth of him, the way his cock twitched faintly under your touch, sent a strange mix of nerves and anticipation curling in your stomach. Once you’d coated him thoroughly, you glanced up at Kyle again, your voice trembling as you asked, “What do I do now?”

His eyes flicked down to meet yours, his brows furrowed slightly as he processed your words. For a moment, he just stared at you, his lips parting as if searching for the right thing to say.

“Just… move your hand,” he said finally, his voice rough and low. “Up and down, like this.” He made a small gesture with his hand, his cheeks flushing deeper as he tried to guide you.

You nodded quickly, your gaze dropping back to him as you wrapped your hand more firmly around his length. Slowly, you slid your hand down, the slickness making the movement easier, before gliding back up.

Kyle let out a sharp exhale, his fingers curling against the edge of the bed as his hips shifted slightly beneath you. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice tight. “Just like that.”

You adjusted your grip, your hand moving more fluidly as you grew accustomed to the motion. Each pass drew a faint reaction from him—a sharp inhale, the flex of his thighs under your touch—and you found yourself drawn to his every sound and movement.

“Good,” Kyle muttered, his voice strained but sincere. His eyes softened as he looked down at you, his lips parting as if to say something else, but the words caught in his throat. “You’re doing… really good.”

The praise sent a thrill through you, a rush of anticipation flooding your senses as you glanced up at him. The sight of his flushed cheeks, his slightly parted lips, and the way his lashes fluttered when your hand moved just right made your pulse race even faster.

“Okay,” you whispered, your voice shaking but determined as you continued, your movements growing steadier and more confident with each stroke.

Kyle let out a shaky breath, his head tipping back slightly. He bit down on his lower lip, clearly trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape, but the faintest groan slipped past anyway. His hips shifted forward almost unconsciously, and his hands moved, one settling lightly on the back of your head, the other brushing against your hair as though steadying himself.

You glanced up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sight. His green eyes were half-lidded, their sharp focus unwavering, tracing every subtle movement you made. A faint crease formed between his brows, as though he were concentrating too hard, and the flush on his cheeks deepened with every passing second, highlighting the freckles scattered across his skin. His jaw was tight, the muscle twitching slightly, and his lips pressed together in a way that suggested he was fighting to keep his composure. The intensity in his gaze, paired with the way his shoulders seemed locked with tension, told you everything he wasn’t saying aloud.

Your fingers tightened slightly around him, your breath catching as you hesitated. “Kyle,” you murmured softly, your voice barely audible over the sound of his uneven breathing.

His gaze dropped to meet yours immediately, his brows furrowing slightly as though worried he’d done something wrong. “Yeah?” he asked.

You swallowed hard, your cheeks burning as you shifted your grip slightly. “Can I… put it in my mouth now?” you asked quietly, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

Kyle’s eyes widened slightly, the tension in his expression flickering into something softer, though the flush on his face deepened. He exhaled sharply, his fingers brushing against your hair as though he couldn’t decide whether to guide you or give you space.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse, barely above a whisper. “If you want to.”

Your lips curved into a small smile, the nervous energy in your chest giving way to something braver. You felt the wetness pooling in your mouth as you swallowed and leaned in closer. “Can you… guide me?” you whispered softly, your voice trembling.

Kyle’s chest rose subtly, his eyes locking onto yours as his hand shifted on the back of your head, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. He hummed softly, the sound low and quiet as it filled the space between you.

Tentatively, you stuck out your tongue, the slick sheen of your saliva catching the dim light as it pooled at the tip. A single bead dripped onto him, landing with a faint slick sound that made his thigh muscles flex beneath your hand.

Kyle let out a quiet, broken moan at the sensation, his fingers tightening slightly in your hair as though anchoring himself. Encouraged by his reaction, you leaned in further, pressing the softest of kisses to the head of his cock.

The saltiness of his precum mingled with your saliva, and you felt a faint shiver run through you as the unfamiliarity of it gave way to curiosity. Each kiss grew a little bolder, a little firmer, until your lips parted slightly, brushing the tip in a tentative caress.

As you adjusted your position, your other hand, still wrapped around the base of his length, squeezed reflexively, the pressure firmer than you intended.

“Ah—fuck,” Kyle gasped sharply, his hips jolting forward instinctively. His grip on your hair tightened momentarily before loosening as he let out a shaky breath. “Not so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained but soft, his flushed face glancing down at you with a mixture of surprise and reassurance.

Your face burned as you quickly relaxed your grip, glancing up at him apologetically. “Sorry,” you whispered, your lips brushing against the tip as you spoke, earning another quiet groan from him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his tone slightly breathless. “Just keep going. You’re doing fine.”

His encouragement settled the nerves fluttering in your chest, and you leaned in once more, letting your tongue flick against him experimentally before pressing another kiss to his flushed tip. The soft sound he let out in response sent a thrill through you, bolstering your growing confidence.

Taking a steadying breath, you opened your mouth wider, your lips parting as you leaned in further. The warmth of him against your tongue was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, the faint saltiness mingling with the clean taste of his skin. You hummed softly at the sensation, the vibration making Kyle groan quietly above you.

You eased forward slowly, inch by inch, your lips stretching to accommodate him as the weight of his cock settled against your tongue. Your eyes fluttered shut briefly, the sensations overwhelming, but you forced them open again, wanting to see the way Kyle reacted. He bit his lip hard, his head tipping back slightly as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. His hand tightened in your hair, not to force you but as if grounding himself in the moment.

As you took more of him in, the stretch made your jaw ache slightly, but you pushed through it, adjusting your position to make it easier. The salty slickness on your tongue made the glide smoother, and you felt yourself relaxing into the rhythm, inching closer and closer to the base.

Your eyes began to sting faintly, the effort making your breath hitch through your nose, but you didn’t stop. The faint hum of arousal pooling in your stomach only grew stronger, the wetness between your thighs becoming impossible to ignore as you leaned forward further.

The tip of him nudged at the back of your mouth, the pressure making you pause briefly to steady your breathing. Your fingers gripped his thighs for support, your nails digging in slightly as you adjusted to the sensation.

“Shit,” Kyle muttered above you, his voice rough and strained as he looked down, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Fuck, [Y/N]… you’re…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into a shaky groan as his hips twitched forward slightly.

You glanced up at him, your gaze meeting his, and the intensity in his expression sent a shiver through you. His lips were parted, his face flushed, and the sight only spurred you on. You hummed again, the sound vibrating against him as you inched forward just a little more, the tip pressing deeper against the back of your throat.

A thought flickered through your mind, shaky and uncertain but insistent: you should probably start moving now. Slowly, you pulled back, his cock sliding along your tongue, slick and warm as you adjusted your grip on him. Your hand, still resting at the base, tightened slightly as you began to mimic the motion of your mouth. Leaning forward again, you let your lips close around him once more, inching downward and then back up in a tentative rhythm. The motion was clumsy at first, your movements unsure, but the quiet groans spilling from Kyle’s lips told you you were doing something right.

Saliva gathered quickly, pooling around your tongue and spilling messily from the corners of your mouth as you continued. The wet, slick sounds filled the room, each motion drawing more saliva until it coated his length and dripped onto your hand, glistening in the dim light.

A need burned low in your chest—not just to please him but to see how far you could take him. You glanced up through your lashes, meeting Kyle’s wide, uncertain eyes. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted slightly, and though he tried to stay quiet, his chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths.

“K-Keep going,” he murmured, barely audible, his voice raw and strained. His hand hovered near your head, uncertain if he should touch you, but when you sank a little deeper, the tip brushing the back of your throat, his fingers curled into the sheets instead, gripping tightly.

Encouraged by his reaction, you pushed further, forcing yourself to relax as you took him deeper. The stretch made your throat tighten and your eyes water, but you didn’t pull back. You wanted him to lose control, even if you couldn’t say the words aloud. The wet, muffled sound of your gagging filled the room, and Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat.

“Y-you don’t have to—” he whispered, his voice trembling as his other hand covered his mouth. His words dissolved into a soft, shaky groan when you hummed around him, the vibration making him twitch against your tongue. His hips jerked despite himself, and he immediately froze, his thighs tensing beneath your hands. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

You pulled back just enough to shake your head, your lips brushing over his sensitive skin in the process. Then you moved down again, slower this time, taking him as deep as you could, letting him feel every inch. 

Kyle’s body stiffened, and he pressed his hand harder against his mouth to stifle a low, shaky moan. “Oh, God,” he mumbled, the words barely audible. His other hand hovered again, indecisive, before it finally settled on your cheek. His thumb brushed tentatively against your damp skin, trembling slightly. “I’m... I’m so close,” he whispered, his voice cracking as his eyes squeezed shut.

You didn’t pull back. If anything, you leaned in, silently urging him to let go. The taste of him lingered on your tongue, and you wanted more, needed to take all of him. Your hands tightened on his thighs, grounding him as you moved again, deeper, wetter, swallowing around him.

Kyle gasped softly, his hand leaving your cheek to clutch the bedpost for support. He muttered something too quiet to catch, his body trembling as he finally gave in. His release came in warm, heavy bursts, coating your tongue and sliding down your throat. You swallowed quickly, not letting a single drop escape, even as the taste lingered and his body shuddered beneath your touch.

When you finally pulled back, your lips red and swollen, Kyle was staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. His hand covered his mouth again, as if to hold in the sounds he hadn’t meant to make. His curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face was impossibly flushed.

“You... you didn’t have to...” he started, his voice soft and breathless, but the words trailed off as he looked at you.

You swallowed the last traces of him, licking your lips, and ducked your head slightly, a shy heat creeping up your neck. “I wanted to,” you murmured, your voice quiet but steady.

Kyle’s chest rose and fell as he stared at you, his expression a mix of gratitude and awe. He didn’t speak, his words lost in the haze of the moment. Instead, his hand lingered against your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips with the gentlest touch, like he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

You stayed on the floor, your knees pressing into the carpet as you gazed up at him. Your thighs pressed together subtly, the slick wetness between them making you shift slightly, your body humming with awareness.

Kyle’s hand didn’t move from your face, his thumb brushing over the corner of your mouth with an almost reverent touch. His other hand lifted, hesitant at first, before gently cradling the side of your head. His fingers slid through your hair, his touch so careful.

“You’re... amazing,” he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. His eyes searched yours, his gaze filled with something so pure. “I don’t even know how to... I mean, I—” He paused, his lips curving into a shy, nervous smile. “I just hope you know how much you mean to me.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest feel impossibly tight, your breath catching as you stared up at him. Your lips parted, but no words came out. All you could do was lean into his hand, your skin warming under his touch, your pulse quickening with every second that passed.

“Kyle...” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He leaned forward slightly, his movements slow and unsure, as if afraid of scaring you off. “You’re okay, right?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek now. “I didn’t hurt you or—”

“No,” you interrupted, shaking your head quickly. Your voice was steadier this time, though you still felt the nervousness coursing in your veins. “You didn’t hurt me. I just...”

Your words trailed off, your gaze flicking to his lips. They were so close, warm and inviting, and you couldn’t fight the pull any longer. Hesitantly, you leaned forward, your knees shifting against the floor as you moved closer.

Kyle’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand on your cheek moved to cradle your jaw, his touch as gentle as ever. “You can... if you want to,” he whispered, his voice trembling but impossibly sweet. “I’d like that.”

Encouraged by his words, you tilted your head and closed the gap, your lips meeting his in the softest, most tender kiss. His lips were warm and pliant, moving against yours with a hesitant sweetness that made your chest ache. He kissed you like you were fragile, like he wanted to savor every second, and it made your heart swell. You wondered if he could taste himself, and if he did, he didn’t seem to mind.

You kissed him again, your lips moving softly, savoring the warmth of his mouth. As your hand hesitated over the button of your jeans, your nerves mingled with the building heat between you. You fumbled slightly, the tiny metal button slipping against your fingers before finally popping free. The sound was quiet but loud in the stillness.

Kyle noticed the movement, his lips pausing against yours. He pulled back, his breath soft and warm as he spoke, “Wait... are you sure?” His eyes searched yours, not with hesitation, but with concern—like he wanted you to feel safe, to know you had all the time in the world.

You nodded, your face burning, your hands trembling as you pushed the denim down your thighs. “I... I want this,” you whispered, the words so soft they barely reached your own ears, let alone his.

Kyle exhaled a shaky breath, his lips parting as though he wanted to say something else, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, his hand moved to yours, his touch gentle as he steadied your fingers. “Okay,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Just... let me know if it’s too much, alright?”

The cold air hit your skin as the jeans slipped to your knees, the sharp contrast making you shiver. You couldn’t help but glance away, your cheeks hot as you became hyperaware of the damp fabric of your panties, the way they clung to you in ways you couldn’t hide.

Kyle’s gaze followed yours, but there was no teasing in his expression—only quiet reverence. His lips curved into a soft smile, and his hand returned to your cheek, tilting your face back toward his. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly but filled with sincerity. “You don’t have to be nervous with me.”

A soft hum escaped your lips, a sound of quiet acknowledgment. You pushed yourself upward, moving slowly onto his lap, your thighs settling on either side of his hips. The sudden closeness made your heart race, the warmth of his body grounding you even as your nerves buzzed.

Kyle’s hands shifted instinctively to your waist, his fingers flexing lightly against your skin. “Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to rush.”

“I know,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling him closer as your other hand moved behind your back, fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Then, you felt it: the firm press of his cock against your cunt, separated only by the thin fabric of your panties. The friction sent a jolt of heat through you, and you froze, your face flushing hotter. A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only made it worse. Your clit brushed against him, and you bit your lip, a small sound escaping before you could stop it.

Kyle’s hands tightened subtly on your waist, steadying you. His voice was low when he spoke, soft but steady. “Don’t be embarrassed.” He tilted his head, catching your gaze with his warm, steady eyes. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You swallowed hard, your breath trembling as you tried to find your voice. “I just... it’s a lot,” you admitted quietly, glancing down as your fingers faltered on the clasp.

Kyle’s lips quirked into a gentle smile, and he leaned forward, brushing a featherlight kiss to your temple. “I know,” he said softly. “It’s a lot for me too.” His tone was sincere, devoid of teasing, but there was a quiet confidence in the way he held you—like he’d done this before and knew exactly how to make you feel safe.

With a small, reassuring hum, his hand slipped to your back, his fingers deftly undoing the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. “Here,” he murmured, his voice tinged with warmth as the fabric loosened. “Let me.”

You nodded, your cheeks burning as the bra slid down your arms. Kyle leaned back slightly, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost reverent intensity. Then, the corner of his mouth lifted into a mischievous smirk, a glint of playfulness in his eyes. “You’re blushing,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he leaned in to press a warm kiss to your temple. “It’s cute.”

You shot him a quick glare, your embarrassment spiking, but before you could say anything, his hands slid to your hips, guiding you with an effortless strength until your back pressed against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, cocooning you in his warmth, his breath brushing against your ear as he settled you comfortably against him.

“Relax,” he murmured softly, his voice impossibly tender but laced with just enough teasing to make your heart skip a beat. One hand trailed upward, cupping your tit before his fingers gently tugged at your nipple, rolling the sensitive bud between his thumb and forefinger. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity through you, making your thighs clamp together instinctively.

“K-Kyle,” you stammered, but your voice broke into a soft whimper as his other hand slid lower, brushing over your panties. His touch was slow, his fingers traced the damp fabric, pressing lightly against your clit and drawing slow circles. The friction made your breath hitch, and a high-pitched squeal escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Your hands flew to your mouth, muffling the sound as your face burned hot with both pleasure and mortification. You twisted slightly in his hold, shooting him a sharp, pointed glare. “Stan, Cartman, and Kenny are downstairs!” you hissed under your breath, your voice urgent but breathy. 

Kyle’s smirk only deepened, his eyes glittering with mischief as he pressed his lips to your shoulder. “Then you’d better keep quiet,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. “But I don’t think you can.”

His words made your stomach flip, and you bit down on your lip hard, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to spill out as his hand continued its slow, maddening rhythm over your clit. His fingers on your nipple tugged gently again, and your resolve began to crumble.

You squirmed against him, your body reacting instinctively to his touch. His fingers pressed and circled over your clit making your head spin. You tried to steady your breathing, to regain even a shred of composure, but it was impossible. Every motion, every deliberate movement of his fingers, left you trembling.

Your head lolled to the side, exposing the curve of your neck, and his lips followed instinctively, brushing featherlight kisses against your skin. The warmth of his breath, the softness of his mouth, sent waves of heat rippling through you. “You’re so perfect,” he murmured softly, his voice trembling slightly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

A quiet whimper escaped you, your cheeks burning at his praise. “Don’t say that,” you whispered, your voice shaky and small, though your body betrayed you by leaning into his touch.

Kyle’s lips paused against your neck, and he pressed a firmer kiss there before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “Why not?” he asked softly. His hand didn’t stop moving, his fingers still  brushing over your clit in slow circles. “It’s true.”

You wanted to argue, to push back against the intensity of his gaze, but the warmth in his expression made it impossible. Instead, you turned your head away, burying your face against his shoulder as if that could shield you from the weight of the moment.

“I can feel how much you’re shaking,” he murmured. His hand on your chest moved, fingers trailing lightly along your ribs before resting over your racing heart. “You’re so incredible.”

The sweetness in his words made your stomach twist in a way that was both unbearable and intoxicating. “Kyle,” you whined, your voice breaking as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers slid through your wetness, the first bare touch sending a jolt of pleasure so sharp you couldn’t hold back a gasp.

He stilled for a moment, his fingers hovering, and his other hand came to rest gently on your hip. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke. “I mean it. Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at him, your breaths shallow and uneven. “I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure.

Kyle nodded, his thumb brushing a soothing circle against your hip. “Okay,” he murmured. The reassurance in his voice, the steady way he spoke, made your chest ache even as your body burned with need. His fingers teased at your entrance, brushing against your slit with just enough pressure to make your hips jerk. The sensation was maddening, like he was savoring every second of the moment. His other arm stayed wrapped around you, holding you close as though you were the only thing that existed.

The memory struck suddenly and sharply—the party. The way he had knelt between your thighs, his mouth hot and hungry, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that left you crying out. You could still feel the heat of his tongue, the wet, obscene sounds that filled the room, the overwhelming sensation as your body gave in completely. The way you’d lost control, squirting all over him, had left you reeling with equal parts pleasure and humiliation.

The thought burned through you now, leaving you overwhelmed. Your chest tightened, a hot flush spreading across your skin. “Kyle,” you whimpered, your voice shaky as you pawed at his chest, pushing against him in a rush of embarrassment. “I can’t.”

Kyle froze immediately, his hands lifting from your body as you slid off the bed. “What happened?” he asked, his voice soft but tense, concern flickering in his eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

You didn’t answer, your back to him as you crossed the room to the dresser. The drawer slid open with a creak, and you rifled through its cluttered contents, your fingers trembling slightly as you searched. “No, it’s not that,” you mumbled, your words rushed as you pushed past loose papers and random odds and ends. You knew Cartman’s mom kept condoms here somewhere—of course she did.

Kyle sat up straighter, his gaze following you as his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “Then what is it?” he pressed, his voice firmer but still gentle, like he didn’t want to scare you off. “Talk to me.”

Your fingers finally brushed against the foil packet, and you pulled it free, the cool metal crinkling in your hand. You hesitated for a moment, staring down at it before turning back to him. “I just...” You swallowed hard, your cheeks burning. “I need to grab this first.”

Kyle’s eyes flicked to the packet, his expression softening as understanding dawned. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you quietly, his gaze steady and warm. When you stepped closer, his lips curved into a faint smile, and he reached out, taking the packet from your hand.

“Okay,” he said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He set it aside on the bed before sliding his hands to your waist. His touch was sure and steady, grounding you as his eyes met yours. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, his tone soft.

You nodded, the tension in your chest easing slightly at his response. “I’m sure,” you said.

Kyle smiled again, a small, almost shy curve of his lips as his hands brushed over your hips, pulling you closer. “Good,” he murmured, his fingers trailing along your sides.

You stayed standing, your body buzzing with heat and nerves, unable to make yourself sit down just yet. The house was quiet except for the faint creak of old floorboards and the occasional muffled sound of laughter from downstairs. 

Kyle removed his hands from you, causing you to look over and glance at him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his brows furrowed in concentration as he rolled the condom on. He looked so sure, so steady, and yet you felt like you were barely keeping it together. The image of him there—your best friend, the boy who’d been with you through everything—made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t untangle.

Your chest tightened as you thought about the countless memories you’d shared. The hours spent talking, laughing, fighting, and making up. Every moment of your life seemed intertwined with his. And now, in this moment, you weren’t just best friends anymore.

Pressing your hands harder against your cheeks, you shook your head, trying to push away the thoughts threatening to overwhelm you. But they wouldn’t stop. You wanted him—not just now, not just like this. You wanted everything with him. The realization burned through you, leaving you trembling.

“Kyle,” you said suddenly, your voice breaking as you turned back to him.

He looked up, startled, his hands pausing mid-motion as his eyes met yours. Concern flickered across his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

Your heart was pounding, your hands clenching at your sides as you blurted out, “Will you be my boyfriend?”

The room went still, the air thick and heavy as the question hung between you. Kyle stared at you, his expression frozen in shock. “What?” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

You took a shaky breath, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as your cheeks burned. “I mean it,” your voice trembling. “I want you to be my boyfriend. I… I don’t want this to just be something we do. I want it to mean something. I want you.”

Kyle’s face softened, but his brows drew together, conflicted. He set the condom aside, his hands resting on his knees as he leaned forward slightly. “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

You nodded quickly. “I’ve never been more serious about anything. You’re my best friend, but I… I don’t just want to be your best friend anymore. I don’t think I can be. Not after this.”

Kyle’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the floor as he ran a hand through his curls. “This is… a lot,” he said quietly, his voice tight with emotion. “I don’t even know if I’d be good at that, at being your boyfriend.”

“You’re already good at it,” you said, stepping closer, your hands reaching for him. “You’ve always been good at it. You’ve always been there for me, Kyle. I trust you more than anyone. And this—this feels right. Doesn’t it feel right to you?”

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with so many emotions it made your chest ache. “It does,” he admitted softly. “But I’m scared. If I screw this up, I’m going to lose you, and I can’t—” He stopped, his words catching in his throat as he shook his head. “I can’t lose you.”

You squeezed his hands back, leaning closer, your forehead brushing against his. “You’re not going to lose me,” you whispered, your voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. “You won’t.I trust you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his breath coming shallow and uneven. Then, slowly, he nodded, his lips curving into a small, shaky smile. “Okay,” he said softly, the word carrying all the weight of his emotions. “Okay. I’ll be your boyfriend.”

The seriousness of the moment lingered for a beat longer before you giggled, a nervous, joyful sound that you couldn’t hold back. “That’s it? No dramatic speech? Just… okay?” you teased, leaning forward and giving his shoulder a playful push.

Kyle raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into something between a smirk and a grimace as he flicked your forehead lightly. “What, you want me to write it out for you? Sign a contract or something?” he asked, his voice dry but warm.

Still holding his hand, you glanced down at the way your fingers were intertwined, your laughter trailing off into a soft hum. The sight of your hands together, so familiar yet somehow different now, sent a strange but comforting warmth through you. But as your gaze shifted, you noticed something else—his cock, still hard, the condom snugly in place. The absurdity of the moment hit you all at once, and a burst of laughter escaped before you could stop it.

Kyle blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What now?” he asked, his ears reddening as his eyes darted between you and where your gaze had landed.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped between giggles, doubling over slightly as the laughter spilled out of you. “I just—it’s so funny! You’re sitting there with a condom on, looking all serious, like we’re in some kind of romance movie, and I’m—” You couldn’t finish, dissolving into laughter again as you clutched your stomach.

Kyle groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow,” he muttered, but there was no irritation in his tone, only the faintest hint of amused exasperation. “You have this gift for ruining the moment, you know that?”

“I’m not ruining it!” you protested, trying to catch your breath. “It’s just—it’s us. Look at us!” You gestured between the two of you, a grin still tugging at your lips.

He shook his head, his hands dropping to his lap as he stared at you with mock dismay. “I’m starting to think this was a terrible idea,” he said, though the soft smile breaking through his expression betrayed him.

“Too late,” you quipped, biting your lip to stifle another giggle as you hooked your thumbs under the waistband of your panties. You began shimmying them down, the damp fabric sticking slightly to your skin as you wiggled your hips. The cool air against your thighs sent a shiver up your spine.

He sat up straighter, his eyes flicking between your face and your bare skin. “Wait—wait a second,” he said, holding up a hand like he was trying to slow the moment down. “Are you seriously laughing while…” He trailed off, his cheeks reddening as he gestured vaguely toward your legs.

You grinned, letting the panties drop to the floor as you stepped out of them. “What? It’s funny!” you said, your voice light and teasing, though your heart was racing in your chest. “This whole thing is—kind of ridiculous, don’t you think?”

Kyle rubbed the back of his neck, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tried to hold back a smile. “Ridiculous?” he repeated, his tone laced with quiet disbelief. “You’re standing there, naked, laughing at me, and you think I’m the ridiculous one?”

You stepped closer, still grinning as you leaned into him, your hands resting on his shoulders. “Yup,” you said simply, popping the p.

Kyle’s hands found your waist instinctively, his touch grounding you as he tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “You say that like you’ve got me all figured out,” he teased, his voice soft but laced with challenge. “Think you’re pretty clever, huh?”

Your heart thudded against your ribs, the weight of his hands grounding you as a nervous, giddy energy bubbled in your chest. You slid your hands over his shoulders, leaning into him with a playful smirk. “Not as clever as you, obviously,” you quipped, the sarcasm dripping from your tone as you climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips.

Kyle scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching as if to suppress a grin. “You’ve got jokes, huh?” he said, his hands settling on your waist, squeezing just enough to make your stomach flip. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he added, “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

You hummed weakly in reply, the sound barely audible as the movement brought you closer than ever before. The heat of him pressed against your entrance was immediate and overwhelming. His cock, thick and ready, nudged against you, separated only by the thin barrier of the condom. 

Kyle’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his brows knitting together as he drew in a shaky breath. His eyes searched yours, a mix of anticipation and disbelief flickering in the green depths. “You okay?” he asked softly, though his hands trembled faintly where they held you.

You nodded, the flush on your cheeks deepening as you bit your lip to stifle another whimper. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice unsteady. “I just…” You trailed off, your chest rising and falling as the heat pooling in your stomach grew unbearable.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape of his neck as you leaned in closer. His breath ghosted over your lips, and the need to kiss him, to feel the softness of his lips against yours again, was overwhelming.

Kyle’s eyes flicked between yours, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before returning to your face. “You’re staring,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you shot back, the playful edge in your voice faltering as your hips shifted instinctively, the friction between you sending a jolt of heat through your core.

He exhaled sharply, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer as his lips brushed yours in the faintest tease of a kiss. “Can you blame me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Closing the small gap between you, you pressed your lips to his in a kiss that was insistent, your fingers curling tighter into his hair as you melted into him. His lips parted against yours, and the warmth of his mouth sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.

Kyle broke apart from the kiss and shifted, guiding you carefully toward the center of the bed. The pillows cushioned your back as he hovered over you, the mattress dipping under his weight. One hand braced beside your head, his other resting on your hip, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the moment.

He paused, his eyes sweeping over your face, a poorly concerned smirk dawned on his face.

“What?” you asked, your voice quiet but edged with curiosity, your fingers brushing lightly against the curls falling over his forehead.

Kyle tilted his head slightly, his gaze holding yours as if he was savoring the moment. “I was just thinking,” he said, his tone  teasing, “this is a long way from ‘just one kiss for practice.’”

Your stomach flipped at the reminder, your cheeks immediately heating. “Are you seriously bringing that up right now?” you asked, though the slight crack in your voice betrayed your embarrassment.

“Why not?” His smirk deepened, his thumb brushing slow circles into your hip. “It’s where this all started, isn’t it? You were the one who wanted my help, remember?”

You groaned softly, covering your face with your hands for a moment before looking back at him. “God, you’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Kyle laughed, tas he leaned closer. “You were so flustered back then,” he murmured, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “Practically jumped out of your skin every time I got close.”

“That was your fault,” you shot back, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. “You didn’t have to make it so… intense.”

“Intense?” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something closer to a grin. “I was holding back.”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, your chest brushing against his as you moved beneath him. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly holding back now.”

Kyle’s eyes gleamed, his grip on your hip tightening slightly as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. “No,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not.”

The words sent a shiver racing through you, and your hands slid up to cradle his face, pulling him back toward you. “Kyle,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as your lips hovered just a breath away from his.

His eyes softened, heavy-lidded as they locked onto yours. “Yeah?” he murmured, his voice low, but the look on his face carried more than just desire—it was care, reassurance, and a question all at once.

The weight of him against you was grounding, his cock pressing against your entrance sending a pulse of heat through your body. But the texture of the condom felt strange against your slick skin, a reminder of the uncharted territory you were about to cross. Your fingers slid down to his shoulders, gripping tightly as your breath caught in your throat.

“Will it hurt?” you asked quietly, as you tilted your head slightly, unable to meet his gaze for a moment.

Kyle paused, his expression softened further, the tension in his body easing as he leaned closer. His forehead rested gently against yours, and his breath was warm as he spoke, his voice quiet and reassuring. “Maybe at first,” he admitted, his tone careful. “But I’ll go slow. You’ll tell me how it feels, yeah?”

The care in his words made something in your chest loosen, and you nodded slowly, your fingers tightening against his shoulders. “Okay,” you whispered meekly.

Kyle pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering for a moment before he tilted his head to catch your lips. The kiss was a silent promise he didn’t need to put into words. His hand moved from your cheek, sliding to your waist, holding you steady as he began to press his hips forward slightly.

The initial stretch made your breath stutter, your body instinctively tensing. Your grip on his shoulders tightened, your nails pressing into his skin as you squeezed one eye shut, letting out a small, strained sound.

Kyle froze immediately, his forehead falling to your shoulder as his breath came out in a sharp exhale. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, his hands tightening their hold on you. “You’re… fuck, you’re tight.”

The rough edge in his voice sent a jolt of raw arousal straight to your core, and though the stretch was uncomfortable, the way he reacted made you crave more. You shifted slightly beneath him, adjusting to the pressure, biting your lip to muffle a needy sound as the movement made him sink just a little deeper.

His hand slid up to your side, his thumb brushing over your ribs in slow, soothing circles. “You good?” he asked softly, though his voice was strained, his breathing uneven as he fought to stay still.

You nodded, your hands still gripping his shoulders tightly as you whispered, “Yeah. Just… keep going.”

Kyle let out another quiet curse, his lips brushing against your neck as he pulled back just slightly, giving you time to adjust before pressing forward again, his movements slow and careful. The stretch eased little by little, replaced by a growing heat that made your body arch against him, your breaths coming in shallow, trembling gasps.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and hoarse. “You’re doing so good.”

The praise ignited a flicker of pride through the haze of overwhelming sensation. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him closer as you gasped softly, your body adjusting to the impossible fullness. Your nails bit into his shoulders, grounding you as you fought the urge to squirm.

A low groan rumbled from Kyle’s throat, his lips brushing over the curve of your neck. He stayed still, not thrusting yet, his cock buried deep inside you. The stretch was too much and exactly what you needed all at once, and your breaths came in uneven bursts.

“You’re tight as hell,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the words. A low chuckle followed, shaky but warm. “It’s fucking unreal.”

His mouth moved lower, his lips leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each press of his lips sent shivers racing through you, your body responding to every small movement he made. He dipped his head further, his breath hot against your chest before his mouth closed around one of your nipples.

“Fuck—Kyle,” you gasped, your back arching instinctively as his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. He sucked gently, his hand sliding up to cup the other breast, his thumb brushing circles over the hardened bud.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured between kisses, his words muffled but fervent. “Fucking perfect everywhere.”

A deep ache settled in your pussy, your walls gripping him tight where he stretched you. The pressure was maddening, and every shift sent a pulse straight to your clit. His lips on your chest only added to the tension, making your hips twitch as you craved more. He hadn’t even moved yet, and you were already on edge, desperate for relief.

“Kyle,” you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to ground yourself. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark, the pupils blown wide with lust. The intensity in his gaze was enough to make your stomach flip. “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing to me right now,” his voice rough. His hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly as he willed himself to not move.

Your chest heaved as you squirmed beneath him, the pressure building with every second he stayed buried inside you. “Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hands slid down to his shoulders. “Move.”

He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against yours as he murmured, “You sure?”

You nodded, your thighs tightening around his waist as you whispered, “I need it. I need you.”

Kyle groaned again, as he pulled back just enough for you to feel the slow drag of his cock against your walls. The stretch sent a sharp wave of sensation through you, your head falling back as your mouth opened in a breathless gasp.

Each thrust was deliberate, his movements measured as though he was testing how much you could take. The sensation built with every inch of him, the overwhelming fullness making your body feel alive in ways you’d never experienced. Your hands clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders as soft, shaky whimpers escaped your lips.

“Kyle,” your voice trembling as his hips moved against yours, his cock pressing into you with every slow  thrust. “I can’t… it’s so much.”

“I know,” he rasped, his lips brushing against your ear. “I’ve got you. Just feel me.”

You did. Every inch of him, every press of his hips, every brush of his lips against your skin—it was all-consuming. Your body shaked beneath him, your breaths coming in short, uneven bursts as the pleasure built steadily.

His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow, teasing circles. The added sensation made your back arch, a choked whimper escaping your lips as you clung to him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and breathless. “You’re so damn beautiful like this.”

You turned your head slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as you murmured, “Kiss me.”

Kyle didn’t hesitate, capturing your lips in a kiss that matched the steady rhythm of his thrusts. His tongue brushed against yours, the kiss deep and intimate, leaving you breathless.

When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours, his eyes dark and piercing, sending a shiver down your spine. “Tell me how it feels,” he murmured.

Your cheeks burned as you stammered, “It feels… it feels like you’re everywhere.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, and he leaned in to kiss you again, his pace never faltering. His hand stayed between your thighs, his thumb keeping up its maddening rhythm as his hips moved against yours.

The pleasure built steadily, every movement bringing you closer to the edge, but Kyle didn’t rush. His focus remained on you, his hands and lips and body working in perfect harmony to keep you teetering on the brink.

“Kyle,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you felt the tension coiling tighter in your stomach. “I can’t… I’m so close.”

He groaned softly, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, “Not yet, baby. Hold on for me. I want to feel you fall apart.”

The words sent a shiver racing through you, and you clung to him tighter, your body trembling as you fought to keep yourself together. The room was filled with the sound of your heavy breaths, the quiet creak of the mattress, and the faint, wet sounds of his cock sliding into you, driving you both closer to the edge with every deliberate thrust.

Kyle’s lips found yours again, capturing your gasp as his hips stilled momentarily, keeping you on the edge of release but not letting you tip over just yet. “Not yet,” he repeated softly, his voice a gentle command that made your chest tighten and your walls clench around him.

Your walls tightened instinctively around him, and his breath hitched against your mouth, his eyes falling shut for a brief moment as if the feeling was almost too much. The corner of your mouth curved into a small smile, your fingers threading through his messy curls as you tilted your head to study him.

There was something endearing about the way Kyle managed to be so restrained even now, his touch careful despite the want thrumming between you. It was a stark contrast to how you’d seen him act when he argued with Cartman—sharp, aggressive, and unrelenting. Here, though, his intensity was softer, quieter, and it filled you with a warmth that made your chest ache.

You tilted your head further, your eyes catching on the way his freckles were dusted across his flushed skin. “You’re cute when you’re bossy,” you murmured teasingly, your tone light despite the heat blooming between you.

Kyle opened his eyes at that, a faint flush crept up his neck, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, his hands smoothed over your sides, grounding you in his touch. “You think so?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with.amusement.

Before you could answer, your attention flicked to the faint sound of movement from downstairs—Stan’s laughter, Cartman’s loud complaints, and Kenny’s muffled response. Your face burned, and you bit your lip, turning your head slightly toward the door.

Kyle noticed the shift immediately, his hands pausing on your waist. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone soft but cautious.

“They’ll hear us.” you whispered, your voice barely audible. 

Kyle let out a quiet laugh, his lips brushing against your temple. “They’re not listening, trust me.”

You glanced at him, your face heating at how nonchalant he seemed about the possibility. “You don’t care?”

“I care about you,” he said simply, his gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that made your breath catch. “That’s all.”

His words sent a fresh wave of warmth through you, but the ease he exuded only made you acutely aware of everything—the wet, sticky sound of him buried inside you, the quiet creak of the mattress, the way his hands lingered on your bare skin. Your breaths mingled in the air between you, your legs tightening around his waist as you arched into him, desperate for him to continue.

Kyle moaned low in his throat,  as if your eagerness had undone whatever control he had left. His movements grew erratic, his hips losing rhythm as the tension between you both coiled tighter and tighter. His breaths were uneven, fanning hot against your neck, where his lips grazed your skin in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

His hands slid upward, fingers searching for yours until they intertwined. He squeezed them tightly, as his lips returned to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bit down gently, his tongue soothing the faint sting.

“God,” he rasped, his voice low and raw. “You’re perfect. Do you feel that? Do you feel how good this is?”

Your lungs stuttered for air, the knot in your stomach winding tighter as his words sent a jolt straight to your core. The ache of his cock pounding you, the weight of his body pinning you down, and the heat radiating between you—it was overwhelming. “Kyle,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your head fell back, exposing the curve of your neck to him like an offering.

His teeth dragged along the curve of your shoulder, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin in a rhythm that matched his increasingly desperate thrusts. He groaned against you, the sound deep and guttural, as he felt you clench around him.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmured, his tone softer now but still tinged with urgency.

You nodded, the movement jerky as your thighs pressed firmly against his hips, your nails digging into his hands. “I can’t,” you choked out, your voice breaking.

“You can,” Kyle whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. His voice was steady, reassuring, even as his own breaths came in short, ragged bursts. “Let go. I’m right here.”

The gravelly edge in his voice pushed you past the breaking point, your back arching as a raw, unrestrained cry escaped your lips. Your walls fluttered and gripped him tightly, your entire body shaking as the release consumed you. The intensity crashed over you in relentless waves, leaving you clutching at him desperately, your breaths shallow and broken as you rode out the bliss.

Kyle moaned, the sound muffled against your neck as he buried himself deep inside you. His fingers squeezed yours tightly, his hips faltering as his release followed yours, filling the condom as his body shuddered against yours. His teeth grazed your shoulder again, followed by soft, lingering kisses as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled with the sound of your shared, uneven breathing. Kyle’s forehead rested against your shoulder, his fingers still tangled with yours. The weight of Kyle’s body pressed against yours, warm and grounding, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. His curls tickled your cheek, damp with sweat, and the faint scent of him—soap and salt and something wholly Kyle—filled the air between you.

You blinked at the ceiling, your vision blurry and unfocused, your chest heaving as you tried to process everything. The warm, sticky press of the condom against your walls reminded you of just how close you’d been, how real this was.

Kyle didn’t move, his body heavy and relaxed atop yours, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. His fingers twitched against yours, the faintest squeeze, as though he was reassuring himself you were still there.

Your lips parted, but no words came. What could you even say? The knot in your stomach hadn’t fully untangled, and your mind felt like static, replaying moments of his lips on your skin, the way he had moaned your name like it meant something sacred.

Kyle shifted slightly, his weight pressing more firmly into you before he seemed to catch himself. His head lifted just enough that his nose brushed your temple, and his voice came, low and hoarse. “Are you okay?”

His question was soft, almost hesitant, but there was no mistaking the concern in it. You nodded faintly, your fingers tightening around his. “Yeah,” you whispered.

Kyle’s  eyes softened, a flicker of relief crossing his features. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment before shifting his weight onto his forearms to ease the pressure on you. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shook your head quickly, your cheeks heating. “No,” you said quietly, glancing away. “Not at all.”

His lips lifted into a small, almost shy smile, and he tilted his head, studying your face. “Good,” he murmured. His hand disentangled from yours to brush a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch tender.

You squirmed slightly beneath him, your body still sensitive, the lingering fullness of him inside you making your stomach flip. Your mind reeled, looping the same realization over and over again: Kyle Broflovski is your boyfriend. You just had sex. You just had sex with your childhood best friend.

The thought was dizzying, almost surreal, and the weight of it had your cheeks burning. You tried to shift your gaze away from him, hoping to clear your head, but Kyle caught the movement, his brows furrowing slightly.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asked softly, his voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat in your cheeks spread down your neck. “I… I just…” You paused, your hands nervously smoothing over his shoulders before dropping to the sheets. “I’m trying to wrap my head around this.”

Kyle tilted his head, his green eyes searching yours. “Wrap your head around what?”

“That this happened,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers twisted in the sheets as your eyes flickered back to him. “That we happened. That you’re…” You trailed off, the words catching in your throat.

“That I’m your boyfriend?” he finished, his lips quirking into a soft smile.

You nodded quickly, your heart pounding as his words echoed in your mind. Boyfriend. Kyle Broflovski is your boyfriend.

Kyle’s smile widened slightly, and he leaned down, his curls brushing against your cheek as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “It’s not that weird, is it?” he teased gently, though there was a faint nervousness in his voice.

“It’s insane,” you blurted, your words rushing out before you could stop them. You quickly shook your head, your hands flying up to cover your face. “No, wait, I didn’t mean it like that—”

Kyle chuckled softly, his breath warm against your ear as he shifted to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. “Relax,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin. “I know what you mean.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, your face still burning. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it too. This is… it’s a lot. But it’s good. Right?”

His question hung in the air, and a lump rose in your throat as you thought about it. It was a lot—more than you’d ever expected or imagined—but as you looked at him, the way his green eyes softened when he met your gaze, the way his touch grounded you, you realized there was no hesitation in your answer.

“It’s good,” you whispered, your voice steadying as you spoke. “It’s really good.”

Kyle’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he let out a soft breath, almost as if he’d been holding it. His hands cupped your face gently, his thumbs tracing soothing patterns on your cheeks. When he leaned down to kiss you, his lips were soft and unhurried, moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—every brush of his lips spoke of care, of longing, and of a quiet vulnerability that words could never convey.

As he pulled back, his gaze softened, and he shifted slightly as if to pull out of you. But before he could move far, you tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Can we just… stay like this for a while?” your voice barely audible, your cheeks warming as you avoided his eyes.

Kyle’s eyes flicked to yours, surprise flashing across his face before it melted into something gentler. He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah,” he said simply. Slowly, he leaned forward, his forehead brushing against your shoulder before he let himself rest against you, his breath warm against the curve of your neck. “We can stay.”

A sense of calm settled over you, like the weight of the moment had finally lifted. His presence beside you felt steady and familiar, the quiet filling the space with an ease you hadn’t realized you needed. The gentle sound of his breathing created a soothing rhythm, anchoring you in the here and now.

Time seemed to stretch, the two of you existing in a bubble of shared warmth and quiet understanding. But the peace was short-lived.

Heavy footsteps echoed up the stairs, the unmistakable sound of someone stomping on purpose—a Cartman classic. Your stomach dropped, panic flashing through you as you remembered where you were.

Cartman’s house.

You barely had time to process the thought before it hit.

A loud, exaggerated moan pierced through the silence, high-pitched and theatrical. “Oh, Kyle!” came Kenny’s voice, dragging out the name in a dramatic, singsong wail that reverberated through the house.

Your body went rigid, your face heating instantly as you clamped your hands over your mouth to stifle a groan of embarrassment.

It didn’t stop there.

“God, you’re so—ah! Fuck, baby!” Cartman’s voice followed, mimicking Kyle with mock desperation and over-the-top grunts that had you wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

Slapping noises echoed next, likely Kenny or Stan clapping their hands together to make it worse. “Do you like that, [Y/N]? Huh?!” Cartman cackled, his voice devolving into laughter that was quickly joined by the others.

Kyle froze, his head lifting from your neck as his entire body tensed. His face flushed bright red, a mix of mortification and anger flashing in his eyes as he muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh my God,” you whispered, your voice muffled by your hands.

Kenny’s voice came again, high and mocking. “Don’t stop, Kyle! You’re so amazing—fuck, I’m cumming!”

The wheezing cackle that followed could only be Stan, his laughter so loud and uncontrolled that it shook the walls.

Kyle sat up slightly, his jaw tightening as he glared toward the door. “They’re dead,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m going to kill them.”

You quickly grabbed his wrist, your legs clamping around him as you hissed, “Kyle, don’t! You’ll just make it worse!”

“How could it possibly get worse?” Kyle snapped, his voice low but edged with frustration.

As if on cue, Cartman’s voice boomed through the house again. “Oh, [Y/N],” he mocked in an exaggerated falsetto. “We’ll figure it out together, baby. I promise.”

Your hands flew up to cover your face again, a groan of sheer humiliation escaping your lips as Cartman and Kenny’s laughter rang out.

“They’re such assholes,” you muttered, your voice muffled.

Kyle didn’t respond immediately. His jaw was set, his green eyes burning with frustration as he shifted slightly, clearly torn between staying and storming out to confront them.

“Kyle, please,” you begged, tugging lightly at his wrist. “Don’t. Just ignore them. They’re being stupid.”

Kyle exhaled sharply, his hands running through his messy curls as he muttered, “They’re always stupid.”

Another loud, exaggerated moan echoed, followed by Kenny’s voice shouting, “Oh my God, Kyle, don’t stop!”

Kyle buried his face in his hands, letting out a groan of frustration. “I hate them,” he muttered. “I seriously hate them.”

Despite your mortification, a small, nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “You’re not the only one,” you said, your voice still shaky.

Kyle glanced at you, his lips twitching despite himself. “You’re laughing?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” you shot back, your face still red as you tried to smother another laugh. “You had to know this was coming.”

Kyle groaned again, but this time it was tinged with reluctant amusement. He shook his head, leaning back down to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing through his damp curls as you whispered, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

this was super fun to write hehe | part one

[marvel-snape-writes]

Being of the Jealous Kind

Snape x original female character

18+ smutty smutty smut smut

7.5k+ words of grumpy Snape smut 😋✌️

Eleanor is in her first stint of training to teach at Hogwarts. Severus Snape had been the teacher she had been most curious about ever since she was his student. Since time had passed from their teacher/student days, they have caught each other's eyes on more than one occasion. The annual party was underway for all to attend, regardless of teacher, student, or status. Severus Snape attended the party, 25% because he felt it obligatory to do so being in his position, 75% because he wanted to see *her*. Jealousy overcomes him and he manages to get a message to her, inviting her to meet him in his chamber at Hogwarts... will either of them get their happy ending?

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Her voice was slightly timid and her knock a little unsure, never having been summoned to his chamber before.

First there was silence for what felt like too long, but she exhaled quietly when she heard footsteps coming toward the door — half from relief and half from fear. Her heartbeat stalled as she heard the large metal lock unclasp from behind the door, almost as if he was purposely slowing down the process of opening it. His scent was the first thing to escape the room from around the crack in the door as it gradually opened; a dark musk like tobacco mixed with whisky, the knowing that he did not smoke and hardly drank only adding to the mystery of him. It was not too strong to overwhelm but strong enough to wrap you up and draw you in.

His shadow was the second thing to pass through the door; a dominant, broad figure, even a little unnerving, but from over the time of knowing him she could almost swear he carried himself like that on purpose. His eyes ran their way from the floor until they pierced hers, her breath hitching in her throat from the intimidating intimacy he always brought to that moment regardless of where you were or whose company you were in.

“Y-You wanted to—” She repeated shyly before swallowing hard as he cut her off;

“Yes,” He spoke simply, his voice lowering now, “I heard you the first time.”

She pressed her lips together and gazed down at her feet, the silence from before now even more deafening with his eyes upon her. He bit the inside of his lip and squinted his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose before pushing the door open a little further as if he had made a subconscious decision in his head before doing so.

“Come.” He said softly, gesturing for her to step inside his chamber.

She followed him inside and swallowed hard when she heard the door shut behind them. Her eyes scanned the room as he now walked in front of her, stopping at his arm chair but not sitting down in it.

“It will never not feel odd to stand in front of you as a colleague instead of a student.” She half laughed, trying to create conversation into the stale environment.

“And, yet, you still know your place…” He spoke quietly, though loud enough for her to hear.

“I…” She paused for a moment, unsure whether to acknowledge what he said or not, “I’m sorry?” She dared herself to say.

“No matter.” He flashed her half a smile this time, “How was the party?”

“Well, you were there… and then you weren't.” She squinted her eyes, looking up at him.

“I am aware I was there, but that is not what I asked…” His eyes met hers, though his expression was more of a glare, “How. Was. The. Party?”

She pressed her lips together from the way he spoke to her and held her hands in front of her, playing with her fingers.

“It wasn’t bad, thank you…” She spoke quietly, only looking at him briefly, “Is that why you asked of me?”

“It may be related to the matter at hand.” His tone returned to normal, stepping further into the room.

“The matter at hand, Professor?” She squinted her eyes.

“Tell me, do you still feel the need to address me as ‘Professor‘ now that we are working alongside each other?” He arched a brow, though a smirk threatened his lips.

“It is your title, is it not?” She looked at him properly this time.

“Correct.” He nodded, gazing over at her for a brief moment before busying himself by dusting one of his book shelves, “Though, I would be a fool to say I don't find it somewhat… one of your more attractive natures, calling me that.”

“Professor?” She tried her best not to show how shocked his comment made her.

“Hm.” Was the only noise he muttered, his back now completely to her.

She watched him as he moved from one book shelf to the next while dusting along each surface, his cloak moving along with him each time and his hair flowing over the top of his collar. She stood there in silence just watching him, though this wasn’t the first time she had found herself in this position. Not in his chamber, but certainly out of it. She admired the way he carried himself; he was harsh when he needed to be and you often felt like you were walking on egg shells around him, but that was almost what attracted her more too him — his power and status. If he was so delightfully forceful when he wasn’t happy with you, the mind boggled at how he would be if he desired you. And that had been the first thought on her mind ever since he was her professor and she was his student.

She decided to play with him, taunt him.

“I was not expecting for Barnaby to ask me to dance with him…” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, tilting her head slightly as she continued to watch him, “Though, I suppose I should've expected it since he did ask me to go with him.”

“Enough.” He spoke softly, his hand pausing with his index finger against the spine of one of his books but his back still facing her.

“He couldn’t really dance,” She giggled, pretending she hadn’t heard him as she continued to taunt, “I think I’ll go back to him now and see if he gets any better throughout the night.”

“I said enough!” His voice was more stern this time, spinning around smoothly and causing his cloak to rise into the air from the draft of air his sudden movement caused.

Her breath caught in her throat from his sudden outburst, lips parting when she saw the look upon his face. His jaw clenched the moment their eyes met and his hands were now held behind his back, exhaling quietly through his nose.

“Sorry, Professor…” She spoke shyly, her eyes still on him, “Shall I excuse myself?”

His eyes squinted, hands clenched behind him as his eyes burned into her before finally speaking softly, “No.”

“No, professor?” She scowled slightly, his intimidating shadow now looming over her as she stepped a little closer to him, “Professor?” She repeated into the silence.

“Stop… S-Stop…” He shook his head, turning around as he groaned out his words, “Stop calling me ‘Professor’.” His teeth gritted, trying to busy himself with dusting his bookshelves again.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” She asked, watching as his cleaning became more erratic.

“It would appear, Miss, that in the time from entering my chamber to now, you have forgotten your place.” His voice remained monotone.

“My apologies…” She bit the inside of her cheek, daring herself to push him even further, “Professor.”

“Don't push it.” The rising anger was heard in his short tempered voice, enunciating each word perfectly.

“It surprises me that someone of your status or power doesn't prefer to be called by that title,” She stepped closer to him, “Or insist.”

“I’ll tell you what I insist…” He grumbled under his breath.

“Yes?” She held her breath slightly, awaiting a loud response from the Professor but pressing her lips together when he remained silent, only letting out small huffs as he dusted along his bookshelf, “Well, alright. I won't talk to your back any longer. Thank you for… whatever this was, but I must be getting back to Barnaby.”

The mixture of her words and her fading footsteps as she turned to walk away caused him to spin around even faster than before, knocking off a couple of books in the process. He raised his wand and fixed the lock on the door, preventing her from leaving.

“Prof…” She tried to say as she turned back around, eyes wide.

“I insist you listen,” He stepped closer to her, “You may leave my chamber when you wish, but please allow me to explain myself…”

She nodded but remained silent.

“Have you let it go unnoticed how we have so often appeared fond of one another? I must admit, as a colleague, you have caught my eye on more than one occasion…” He spoke whilst looking at his feet, his arms now behind his back again.

“I don't understand…” She tried to act like she hadn't found his intense presence wildly alluring even before they had made the teacher-to-student to colleague-to-colleague jump.

“Tell me, Miss Eleanor, do I strike you as the kind of person who would willingly attend an event such as this evening?” He asked, tilting his head as they closed the gap between them a little more, “I think the manor in which I have behaved since inviting you here has proved I am not a… social man.”

“Then why did you…” She gazed up at him with narrowed eyebrows, holding her hands nervously in front of her.

“I came for you…” His tone had never sounded so sincere than it had in that moment, hesitantly raising his hands in want of holding her face within them.

“But… you didn't even talk to me.” She pouted her lips, keeping her eyes on his.

“I’m sorry, I…” He paused, lips still parted as he now cupped her face in his hands, “I saw you and words… failed me.”

“Professor Snape, you…” She spoke quietly, placing her hands against his biceps.

“Stop… calling… me…” He inhaled sharply, their faces now closer, “Please call me ’Severus’.”

“Is this you ‘insisting’, hm?” She bit her lip and giggled, squeezing his biceps in her hands as she leaned up on her tiptoes.

“I have grown so tired of admiring from afar…” Were the final words to leave his lips before they were met with Eleanor’s.

Eleanor’s entire body froze. This was something she had thought about, daydreamed about even, at the back of his class for almost as long as she could remember. She could sense the hesitance in the way he exhaled after the kiss, almost as if he had just remembered that once upon a time they were student and teacher. Eleanor grasped onto the opening of his cloak, breathing shakily against his lips. She dared to lean up and brush their lips together faintly again, letting him know that she was okay, this was okay. A shiver ran through her when she heard the soft whimper escape the Professor’s lips. His large hands brought her even closer to him, their heads tilting now and becoming more comfortable in the kiss as it grew deeper.

They stumbled about the room as their lips parted, hands back and forth from being in one another’s hair and then to their clothes. Grunts left their mouthes, then a giggle from Eleanor as the Professor lightly bumped her up against one of his book shelves.

“S—Sorry…” The apology hardly even became vocal from the intensity of their kisses.

“Shh, let’s go over here.” Eleanor whispered, leading him with his cloak in her fists over to his large armchair but not breaking the kiss.

The Professor felt the hot flush rising through his body as he willingly followed, his hands settling against her hips once the backs of his legs touched the armchair. Eleanor reached up with both hands to place them upon his shoulders, gesturing for him to sit down in it. He did, lips parting as the kiss broke.

“Sit, Professor…” She bit her lip, standing between his parted legs.

“I am not going to ask you again…” He inhaled sharply as she leaned over him, “Stop. Calling. Me. ‘Professor’.”

“Why, hm?” She felt a flicker of cockiness, gazing down into his eyes, “Does it turn you on when people address you as ‘Professor’?”

“Do not be absurd, I work with children who call me that on a daily basis.” He glared up at her, palms against his knees.

The look he gave her made her want to give herself over to him in that instant, the look he would give when he was most displeased with someone’s behaviour. The look that drove her wild regardless of the setting; him being her teacher as a student or him being her teacher learning the ropes as a colleague. It was an expression that had always sent her head spiralling into different ways that she would allow him to take out whatever he was feeling upon her. It always amazed her how quickly he could switch.

“Then, what is it?” She asked, now standing with her hands on her hips.

“It’s the way you say it… the way your lips form the words, the tone of your voice…” He exhaled quietly, biting his lip for a moment before gazing up at her, hardly able to believe he was admitting it, “Frankly, my dear, it makes me weak. Vulnerable, almost. The way you insist on addressing me like so… even though we are now to work alongside each other.”

“But other colleagues call you it, don't they?” She squinted her eyes.

“You are missing the point…” He shook his head, the glare still upon his face.

“Hm?” She tilted her head, trying her best not to smirk.

“It’s you.” He spoke simply, “Come down here.”

“Why?” She tried to push it as far as possible.

“Because your Professor told you to.” His voice was even lower than usual, not quite a command but gravelly enough to turn her legs to jelly.

Eleanor immediately fell into his lap, placing her hands against his shoulders as she felt his arms wrap around her. Their lips smacked together and Eleanor’s fingers found themselves in his hair, tugging at it slightly with several grunts from his lips that followed.

“Eleanor, wait…” He breathed against her lips, unwillingly pulling back.

“Professor Snape, I never had you down as such a tease…” She scoffed playfully when she felt him pull back, her hands still in his hair, “Though, I guess with the power you hold within your position here at Hogwarts you are used to getting your own way as and when you please.”

He paused, swallowing hard as he gazed up at her. He didn't know how much longer he could hold down the fiery desire within him, but something was still holding him back. The position he found himself in, in that moment was what he could've only dreamed of since seeing her at the party, but he was unsure if she, too, felt the same. Little did he know, Eleanor had been having thoughts such as these for a while now, but how would she have ever plucked up the courage to approach one of the most powerful men in the business?

“I am indeed well aware of the power that my position holds and the upper hand that I have over many,” He narrowed his eyebrows, sincerity in his eyes and her cheek cupped in one of his large palms, his thumb faintly skimming over her bottom lip as he spoke, “But I will not allow that to take advantage of something so delicate… without willing reciprocation.”

“Then, you shall have it.” There was barely room for a breath in between his words and her response, her hands now darting to unfasten the cravat around his collar.

Very few breaths were taken between the desperate kisses, Snape’s hands now finding themselves at the zip at the back of her dress. Eleanor nudged herself forward slightly against his lap when she heard the soft groan escape from his lips and smirked when his groan grew louder from her movement. Skilfully, she rid him of the cravat completely and began to unbutton his collar, letting out a shaky breath against his lips when she felt how much his hands were shaking against the fastening of her dress and compared it to how swiftly he locked the door to his chamber, wondering why he didn't resort to the same device to rid her of her dress.

“I would give up spells, potions and power forever for just one chance to tear your clothes off with my bare hands.” He wheezed against her lips, tugging at the zip.

“Do as you please, Professor…” Eleanor whispered, trailing one of her hands down the front of his body.

She mirrored the speed in which he unzipped her dress with the speed she moved her hand down his body, reaching the front of his pants at the same time as he had pulled the zip all the way down. She edged her hand closer to grasping the now evident bulge in the crotch of his pants before teasingly raising both arms above her head to allow him to pull the dress from her body completely. Once the dress was rid of her completely and tossed carelessly to the floor, the Professor’s hands found her breasts, massaging them gently as Eleanor’s hand fell back to his crotch, palming at it slowly. Her free hand placed against his cheek, their tongues tangling briefly before Snape’s breathing was unsteady and he trapped her bottom lip between his teeth, pulling it out as he felt her fingertips now working their way along his clothed erection.

“Are you sure you're doing all of this without magic?” She teased against his lips, “Surely a man of your age is biologically incapable of getting aroused so quickly.”

“Watch your fucking mouth.” He snapped in a quick whisper, earning a sudden moan from her as a result of squeezing her breasts harder as if in some form of punishment.

“Or what?” She found the head of his cock through the material of his pants, pressing her thumb against it.

“You don't even want to know…” He hissed through clenched teeth, the sensitivity of his length sending bolts throughout his body as Eleanor applied more pressure with her thumb.

“Oh, but, I think I do… Sir.” She gazed down at him with a devilish grin, gasping with a soft giggle when she felt his cock twitch against her fingers from the way she addressed him.

Snape lifted his hand to draw her back down into a harsh kiss, tongues immediately touching as she began to grind over his crotch. His moans passed through her lips, feeling himself straining against the material even more than before. Her hands shuffled along to the opening of his pants and began her attempt at tugging them open, gasping when she felt her bra coming apart from the back.

“Mm, what happened to ‘no magic’?” She smirked against his lips, pulling her bra off completely and dropping it to the floor before focusing her hands back on the button of his pants.

“You are causing me to run out of patience…” He spoke uneasily, parting his legs a little further as she managed to unbutton his pants, now fumbling with the zip.

“Sorry, Professor, let me…” She pushed his crotch open fully and reached into the front of his underwear, “Speed things up a little.”

The Professor felt his breath hitch in his throat when he felt Eleanor’s hand wrap around his warm, hardened length. Their kisses became more clumsy, leaving him hardly even able to concentrate as she began to pump her hand up and down his now impatiently pulsing cock, releasing it from his clothes completely to allow her wrist more ease of movement.

“Mmmh…” He whimpered against her lips, his eyes rolling back from the contact of her hand alone.

“Is that nice, Professor?” She whispered seductively, kissing him back just as roughly as she received.

“Don't speak.” He responded bluntly, claiming her lips urgently as precum began to pool at the tip of his cock already.

Eleanor was a little taken back by his response, but little did she know the touch starved reason behind it; her words and actions combined could easily become too much too soon for the aging, deprived Professor. He had to ease himself into it.

Eleanor’s lips parted into the kiss when she felt the sticky string of precum slide down the shaft of his length and onto her fingers, helping with the ease of her jerking motions which in turn sped up. She felt him fidget beneath her and thrust his hips up into her hand a little in order to stress his need. Her thumb brushed under the head of his cock faintly each time her hand slid up to the top, making his breathing change drastically each time. He was barely even kissing her at this point, just eyes tightly shut as her hand blissfully slid up and down his length.

“O—Off, off…” He repeated the word as if in an uneasy stutter, his hands now grasping at the material of her underwear against her hips.

“Anything you want…” She smirked, ridding herself of her underwear completely and placing her hands against his shoulders. Snape narrowed his eyebrows from the new lack of contact against his cock, longing for her to be all over him again.

“Listen to me…” Snape breathed out heavily, swallowing hard as he gazed up into her heavy eyes, “I fucking need this. Do not disappoint me.”

Eleanor felt her heart flutter from his words alone, trying to remember the amount of times she had pictured this exact scene in her mind. Quickly, she snapped herself out of it.

“If you would like to guide me into how not to disappoint you, Professor, be my guest.” She lifted her hips, hovering over him.

She allowed her gaze to fall down to his aching, unattended length — proudly creating a shadow over his lower stomach as it longed for more attention. Her lips parted and her grip on his shoulders tightened, reaching down with one hand to line him up with her perfectly. She leaned in to kiss him again as her hips desperately tried to sit over him at the same time as their lips touching. That was, however, until she found his large hands clamped against her hips and therefore preventing her from moving whatsoever.

“What do you think you are doing?” He asked, glaring at her once more as he tried to calm his breathing.

“I— I’m sorry, I…” She swallowed hard, both hands now trembling against his shoulders, “I thought that was… w-was what you wanted.”

“I said listen to me,” He spoke lowly, now enjoying taunting her despite the built up arousal he held himself, “You need to make your decent slowly.”

Eleanor lost her breath from his words and kept her eyes on his with parted lips as she followed his instructions, slowly lowering herself over him completely and watching as his jaw clenched from each movement.

“L—Like that?” She asked shyly before biting her lip as he filled her completely.

Snape nodded once before speaking, “Don't move yet.”

Eleanor’s eyes squinted, hands continuing to tremble against his shoulders as he leaned forward to reach behind him, pulling his cloak off from behind him. Carefully, he wrapped it around Eleanor’s shoulders and gazed up at her with desire filled eyes, his hands now back on her hips.

“What an honour…” She whispered, glancing at either side of her to look at the cloak now upon her.

Snape reached up to bring her into a kiss again, sinking down into his large arm chair as she began to move over him with the return of each kiss. One of Snape’s hands slid up her back from under the cloak and his kisses became more harsh, grunting each time her hips landed down on his.

“Fuck.” He breathed out shakily, his fingers trembling as they dragged down her back.

Eleanor felt herself go dizzy already from the way that word passed through his lips — more of a breathless moan than speech. She broke the kiss and her head fell forward, nuzzled in the crook of his neck from the dip in his high collar since the buttons had been undone. The aroma of his skin so close to her filled her senses; almost like old leather with a very brief hint of lavender, but only like he had dabbed it on in a half-hearted attempt to cover up his somewhat curious appearance. His clothes, however, smelled like damp paper, books, to be more specific, as if he bathed in them.

“Come back…” His words trailed off when he felt her lips upon his neck, “C—Come back up…” His head tilted to the side, lips parted as she suckled upon a certain patch of his neck, “Back up… Back up here…”

Eleanor smirked against his skin, moving against him in harder motions as his hands clamped her hips again. Guiding her back and forth and willingly showing his desperation turned her on more than she could have even imagined.

“I think I could become quite accustomed to your cock, Professor…” She spoke directly into his ear before pressing a quick kiss to it, “I think it will take several visits to get to know every inch of it, anyway…” Her tongue traced down the side of his neck and then back up to his ear again, “Because its so… fucking… big…”

“Agh!” His voice curdled in his throat, not used to such praise, especially not whilst he had someone using his cock as a pogo stick. Her hands found themselves in his hair again, tugging at it gently as her lips latched onto the crook of his neck and feeling his length pulse with each movement. Snape’s sweaty hands slipped from her hips and his grunts and groans grew in frequency as the fire in the pit of his stomach began to increase.

Eleanor’s movements became slightly more clumsy as the familiar warmth in her stomach, too, increased, panting into his ear. Snape’s heavy eyes opened when he felt a draft, losing himself in the moment even more when he saw it was coming from the cloak — his cloak — still snug around her shoulders and wafting into the air each time she bounced over him. He could feel himself easily able to give in to her in this very moment, and so could she, but that wasn't the way he wanted this to end.

“Stop being such a brat, and listen to me…” He attempted at using his snappy tone, though it fell through as the jolts of ecstasy refused to stop shooting through him, “C—Come back here.”

She paused briefly, blowing cool air against the red patch of skin on his neck and grinning to herself when she felt him shiver as a response before lifting her head to gaze down at his flushed face, arching a brow, “Yes, Professor?”

Snape swallowed hard when their eyes met, opening his mouth to speak but instead placing one of his hands on the back of her head and pulling her down into a bruising kiss.

“Mmh, fuck…” Her hands were on his shoulders again, squeezing them tightly as their kisses grew more and more rough with each motion over his throbbing arousal, “Professor, you…”

“N—No, no…” He shook his head uneasily, though keeping their faces close, “Don't you dare make either of us cum.”

Eleanor’s lips parted from his words, shocked from what appeared to be a sudden change of heart. Confusion hit her when his hands were upon her hips again, relentlessly guiding him up and down his length. Her thighs trembled and their lips smacked back together, whimpering as her orgasm began to climb her body.

“S…Stop letting me ride your unsurprisingly large cock, then…” She gasped against his lips, moaning each time she sat all the way over him.

Snape’s fingertips turned white from how hard he was holding onto her, fighting back the urge of giving in himself, too. He grunted each time his cock twitched madly inside her, wanting so desperately to chase his own climax, but wanting something else even more; to make it clear who really was in charge. It was one thing saying she made him weak, but he certainly could not show it.

‘Pull yourself together,’ He thought to himself, ‘For crying out loud, do not embarrass yourself, Severus.’

“O—Oh, fucking…” He began to gasp uncontrollably, his heartbeat rapidly increasing as he pushed himself as far as he could go before uneasily raising his voice, “A—Alright, alright… Enough!” He commanded for her to stop, even as much as it pained him.

“U—Ugh…” Eleanor whimpered, her heavy eyes half open as they stared down at him, “Th-That was so cruel… I thought this was what you wanted. What you ‘fucking need’.” She attempted to impersonate him from before, mid trying to catch her breath.

“Do not use my own words against me.” He inhaled deeply, glaring up at her and placing his hands on her thighs.

“Then, do not use your cock against me…” She narrowed her eyes, glancing down at his hands, “I’m pretty sure if you so much as sneezed right now, I would—!”

“Quit your whining,” He butted in immediately, afraid of the effect her words would have on her, “Stand up.”

“B—But, my…” Eleanor narrowed her eyebrows, pouting her lips as she struggled to even think about moving her legs, “I’m not sure that I can…”

“Stand. Up.” His tone was more stern this time, able to calm himself briefly by forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing instead of what was crying for release between his legs.

Eleanor swallowed hard and placed her hands against his shoulders, trying to steady herself as much as possible as she lifted herself up off him. The feeling of his length leaving her completely, and the feeling of her no longer sat over him at what was just before their orgasms made them both shudder as their contact completely broke — though she did have to grasp onto the arm of the chair in order to keep herself upright.

“In front of me.” He snapped his finger and thumb, pointing to the space in front of him.

He had to practically put his tongue back into his mouth when she stood before him; cheeks flushed, thighs red, fingerprints — his fingerprints — upon her skin. His eyes took a walk up to her chest, mesmerised for a few moments as her breasts were rising and falling with each shaky breath she took. All of this right in front of him whilst wearing nothing but his cloak still. He knew this would be an image he was going to get off on for a long time… the fact being that it was taking everything in him not to take himself into his hand right now.

“L—Like this?” She asked, gazing down at him. He remained silent, but the image she was met with could've made her forget her own name; the once arrogant, stubborn Professor now slouched in his large armchair with his legs spread, lips parted, breathing heavy and uneasy as his unattended, reddened erection stood proudly through the opening of his pants. He was completely at her mercy in this moment, and she was at his. She bit her lip as her weakened legs threatened to give way before repeating herself, “Like this, Professor?”

Hearing her address him like that again gave the Professor the energy he needed to push himself out of his armchair and catapult himself toward her, gladly met with her arms snaking around his neck again. She leaned up on her tiptoes to press a harsh kiss to his lips, grateful for the support as she leaned against him.

“Wh-Why did you make us stop?” She whimpered against his lips, grasping onto him slightly tighter as he began to walk them — or more like stumble — through his chamber, “Mmm… are you taking me to your bed, Professor?”

“Absolutely not,” He responded instantly in between rough kisses, “Do not be foolish and think you have earned a place in my bed by your actions tonight.”

“I…” She was far too turned on from his scolding reply to form a response for a few long moments as he walked her further into his chamber, “Professor, my legs may just give way if you don't give me a surface soon…” She giggled against his lips before pressing a slightly harder kiss to his lips when she felt her back touch one of the stoney alcove walls, “W-Wait… This isn't your bed… How am I supposed to ride your desperate cock from this angle, hm?” She smirked, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I don't care if your legs are shaking. Fuck, I do not care if you cannot feel your thighs or if your body is trembling…” His voice was like sandpaper against her lips, making her audibly gasp when she felt his hardened length now pressing against her lower stomach as he growled lowly in a gruff tone, “If you are going to act like a slut, Miss Eleanor, I am going to treat you like a slut.”

“Ooh…” Eleanor inhaled shakily, feeling herself being pinned against the wall by his hips, “And are you going to fuck me like a slut, Professor?”

Snape didn't respond verbally, his lips were too focused on being against hers again. She attempted to reach for him again but found her wrists being pinned against the wall by his large hands. She pushed her head forward and took hold of his bottom lip between her teeth, tugging at it slightly as she felt herself being pinned with more force this time. Snape winced slightly as he ragged his lip out from between her teeth, grasping one of her thighs now and raising it to his hip as she hooked it around his waist.

“Are you going to behave for me?” He asked, his tone soft now as he rocked his hips forward.

“Y—Yes…” She whimpered, trying to kiss him again but instead being met with his finger against her lips.

“Yes, what?” His voice remained in the same tone, though slightly quieter this time as his lips came closer to hers.

“Yes, Sir…” She felt her body shiver as he reached down to take his length in his hand and slot it between her legs, though staying still.

“Try… Again…” She could feel his hot breath against his lips this time, once again trying to lean forward to kiss him but groaning in frustration as she kissed only the air when he moved his face back.

“Yes, Professor…” She felt her breath hitch in her throat as he nudged his hips upward, making the tip of his cock press against her.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” He looked down at her with a wicked grin, raising himself a little higher and pushing the head of his length inside her just to taunt her before lowering his hips once more.

“F—Fucking tease…” She whimpered, trying to move her hips in an attempt to create any type of feeling at all, “Stop teasing…”

“Or… what?” Snape smirked, kissing the corner of her lips as he moved his hips again, bouncing the tip of his cock between her legs each time and loving the way she squirmed in response.

“P-Professor!” She cried out in frustration, grasping onto his hair each time she felt the brief contact.

“Yes?” He used his free hand to brush her hair out of her face and watching her closely as he continued to taunt her, “What are you going to do, hm?”

“Beg,” She answered immediately, desperate to kiss him and even more desperate for what she could feel pulsating beneath her, “I am not above begging, Professor,” She inhaled shakily, placing her hands against his neck, “I will beg.”

Snape had all intentions of kissing her and giving her exactly what she wanted — what they both wanted — and leaned in with his lips almost touching hers until he heard her words. Words that set arousal alight like a wildfire throughout his whole body. Abruptly, he stopped himself and pulled back, arching a brow as his tone lowered, though speaking simply, “Then, beg.”

He felt her breathing change against his lips from their faces still being so close, brushing his hardened length between her legs several times. Eleanor snaked her arms around his neck again and grasped onto his hair with trembling fingers, trying to pull him as close to her as possible.

“Se…” It came out inaudible the first time. She tried again, “Sev…” She narrowed her eyebrows, feeling him still taunting her as the grip on her thigh became slightly more firm, “Severus*, please.*”

“Wh…What did you…” Snape swallowed hard, “What did you just call me?”

“Severus.” She repeated, though this time in a more seductive tone.

“Mmmh…” Severus quivered against her lips, awarding her with a kiss each time she repeated his name.

“Severus, Severus, Severus…” She groaned in desperation as she brushed back and forth over the tip of his cock still teasing between her legs and lips parting as she tilted her head, “Fuck me, Severus.”

Hearing her calling him by his name rather than his title made the moment grow somewhat more intimate between the two of them. He couldn't explain it. It was as if they had now crossed the bridge into allowing themselves to get to know one another properly.

Severus pulled her leg up a little higher around his waist and thrust his hips upward in one swift motion, whimpering in pleasure against her lips. Eleanor inhaled sharply from the feeling of him finally filling her again, though this time there was no pause before he started to move his hips at an ungodly pace - his pants pooling around his ankles in the process.

“Mm, fuck, no one is to have you like this other than me. Do you hear me?” He grunted against her lips, bruising them once more as he kissed her before she even had a chance to respond.

“That’s awfully possessive, don't you think, Professor?” She smirked against his lips before letting out a louder moan when he thrust her against the wall in a slightly harder motion.

“I am merely stating my… preference.” Severus paused to let out a moan even louder than Eleanor’s, squeezing his eyes shut in pleasure.

“Sounds more like a command to me…” She grinned, gasping against his lips as his speed increased.

“Take it how you wish.” He responded, reaching for her other thigh and pulling it up to join the other at the opposite hip, “Fucking. Take. It. All.”

“S—Severus!” She cried out in pleasure, squeezing her legs around him and digging her heels into his bottom to urge him not to stop, “Ugh, fuck!”

Severus gripped onto her thighs securely, the force of his thrusts now making their kisses become more clumsy. Eleanor’s fingers tangled themselves deeper into his hair, moaning his name each time she thudded against the cold stone. Their teeth clashed together several times as a result of him now moving his hips at a merciless pace. Despite how deep Eleanor had her hands in his hair, it didn't stop it swishing back and forth as a result of his relentless hips.

Deep down, they both knew it wouldn't take them long to get to the same point they were upon his arm chair. Their pulses raised, breathing changed, thrusts becoming even more desperate — if that were even possible.

“Tell me why you came here instead of Barnaby.” Severus pulled his head back briefly to speak, sweat now gathered upon his forehead and top lip from his unsparing movements.

“Because you told me to, Professor.” She responded, her lips remaining parted in delight from each time he moved.

“No, truthfully,” He gritted his teeth, “You could have stayed with him. Gone with him. Gone to bed with him.”

“You really want to know, Severus?” She whispered lowly against his lips, now rocking against him in time with his thrusts.

“Do you think it's easy, being of the jealous kind?” He growled lowly against her lips, bucking his hips.

“Mm…” She lost her breath from his low-key admittance of wanting her all to himself, “Yes, I could have stayed with Barnaby, gone with Barnaby, but…” She clung onto him, feeling her climax near approaching as she spoke again, “Maybe I was far too occupied already being yours.”

“M-Mmh, fuck!” Severus exclaimed in pleasure, those words being the only thing needed to push him over the edge, “Ugh, shit… Eleanor, f-forgive me!” He gasped, releasing his taunted orgasm with each harsh pulse of his cock.

“Sev… Severus!” She clung onto him even tighter, losing herself to her own climax only seconds later as he continued to drive his hips forward.

Their kiss broke, but only to allow for more exclamations of profanities to be shouted into the chamber, each one bouncing against the walls and becoming shattering echoes around them. Both of them chased their pleasure for as long as possible, clinging onto one another for dear life as their bodies trembled in ecstasy.

Eleanor was the first to mentally come back into the room, laying her hands against his shoulders as she tried to catch her breath. Severus slowly opened his eyes and carefully lowered her feet back down onto the floor, pushing his hair back with his hands. For a few moments, they stared at one another with flushed cheeks, almost as if in disbelief as to what had just happened.

“Prof…” She began, biting her lip as she glanced down at his softening length.

“Get dressed.” Severus spoke bluntly, quickly reaching for his pants and fastening them back up.

“What, you toss my clothes about your chamber and now I have to collect them and put them back on?” She scoffed playfully, placing her hand upon his chest.

He immediately took hold of her wrist, removing her hand as he spoke in a more assertive tone, “Get. Dressed.”

Eleanor was taken aback by his abruptness for a few moments, looking up at him and rolling her eyes when she was met with his glare. She did as he asked, placing his cloak over the back of his armchair and turning back to him once she was fully dressed. She swallowed hard, unsure of whether to speak.

“So… what now, cuddle?” She arched a brow, only half joking.

“I think you ought to return to your own bed.” Severus exhaled quietly.

“Interesting thing to say when you never actually showed me to yours.” She looked up at him, hands on her hips.

“Out.” He gestured toward the door, raising his wand to unlock it.

“How romantic.” She spoke sarcastically, walking toward the door.

“I gave you my cloak so your back wouldn't get cold against the stone.” Severus shrugged and followed her toward the door.

She stopped once she got to the door and smirked, placing a hand on his open collar and biting her lip when she saw the dark red circles upon his neck, “Is this why you wear such high collars, hm?”

“Out.” He glared, swatting her hand away.

“Hang on, are we seriously going to—” She squinted her eyes as he opened the door for her.

“Look,” He glanced down the hall to make sure there was no one there before closing the door again but keeping his hand on the handle as he glanced down at her, “You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted, and now we move on.”

“Move on?” She squinted her eyes, “Wait, did you just admit that, that was what you wanted?”

“Goodnight, Eleanor.” He cleared his throat, opening the door again.

“Sev—?” She tried to ask him again before he cut her off.

“Goodnight.” He swallowed hard, gesturing for her to leave.

“Well, the ‘S’ in ‘Severus’ or ‘Snape’ certainly doesn't stand for ‘smooth talker’.” She muttered to herself as she left his chamber, flattening her dress with her hand as she made her way down the corridor.

Severus quickly shut the door behind him as if it would also shut out the events that had just taken place. It didn't work. Even the aroma of the room smelled of sex; sweat, desire, sweet relief, and partial regret. As quick as the door was shut, he found himself reaching for the handle again. This time, he only opened it slightly, enough for him to just peer down the corridor and watch as she walked down it. Away from him. He wished he could immediately take back the coldness he had shown her after their alcove-stone-knee-trembler. He cursed himself for how well and ashamedly comfortably he could disguise his pure intentions and feelings. He felt regret and guilt for how she must have felt upon leaving his chamber, and as fast as the door was reopened, he was closing it again. He leaned back against the closed door and exhaled loudly through his nose, his back sliding down it until his knees bent up against his chest with his head in his hands, speaking into them;

“Oh, fuck.” He took in a deep breath, “Severus, what have you done?”

-

Thank you so much for reading! This is the first Harry Potter or Snape inspired thing I have ever written, so I won't lie, I was terrified to post this... Please let me know what you think or feel free to send me an ask/request/DM if there's any other plot you'd like me to write and I promise I will try not to read it through my fingers 🤣♥️

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[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 25: Hunting Ground

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 5.8K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The tavern is a grim affair, smelling of stale beer and sweat. Shadows cling to the corners, like oil slicks that refuse to be cleaned away, and the sputtering lanterns hanging from crooked beams seem too exhausted to illuminate the room properly.

The clientele is a mixed assortment of rogues, mercenaries, and people who look as though they have more secrets than morals. A large half-orc with a patchy beard glares at anyone who comes too close, while a wiry elf in a tattered cloak palms a dagger. Even the bartender, a grizzled man with a missing ear, watches with a hawkish stare, his hands never far from the club he has leaning behind the bar.

Astarion leans in close, his eyes shrewd with awareness. “We should split up and cover more ground. It will be easier to catch anything useful if we are not one conspicuous trio.”

Shadowheart nods, her attention already sweeping over the tavern’s interior. “Stay within sight of each other,” she adds, her voice a shade sterner than usual.

You swallow down the knot of anxiety that forms at the thought of leaving Astarion’s side. It’s irrational, you know, given how well he can take care of himself. He could charm half the room and slice his way through the other half if he needed to. Still, the idea makes your fingers twitch with a half-formed desire to grab onto him.

You nod, plastering on a smile that feels far too tight. “Be careful,” you murmur to Astarion, who gives you a wink and a roguish grin.

He slips away into the crowd, moving like silk through the mass of bodies, and Shadowheart gives you an understanding look before heading off. Taking a breath, you step forward and fall into character. A charming yet dangerously mysterious smile slides across your lips, the kind that hints at secrets and makes people wonder whether you’re a friend or a threat.

Your focus drifts across the room, and you catalogue the patrons. Rough-looking sailors huddle over dice games. A pair of cloaked figures whisper harshly at a table near the back. A barmaid moves between tables, her eyes hollow and far away, as if she’s detached from the filth of her surroundings.

This place is a den of treachery, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You know how to play the game, how to be what people in these places expect to see: a pretty face with the potential for ruin lurking just beneath.

A part of you remains on high alert, aware of where Astarion and Shadowheart are, keeping track of the distance between you. Stay focused, you think. Still, you keep one eye on Astarion, his silver hair catching the tavern’s oily light like moonbeams tangled in cobwebs.

He’s joined a game of cards, settling in with the kind of disarming ease that only he can manage. Shadowheart, meanwhile, glides around the edges of the room like a shadow given form. Her wolfish focus is sharp and attentive, missing nothing as she prowls the perimeter.

You take a deep breath, shedding the last of your tension, and begin your hunt with a simple trick: proximity.

You drift close to a group of rough-looking mercenaries boasting about their latest job and make sure they notice you. The trick is to be almost approachable, to seem just out of reach. You toss your hair, and the men’s curiosity sharpens, like wolves sniffing at the edge of the woods.

It isn’t long before one of them breaks away from the pack, sidling up to you with a swagger that tells you he thinks he’s in control of this encounter.

“May I buy you a drink?” he offers, leering in a way that would send shivers of disgust down your spine if you weren’t so practiced at this.

Instead, you tilt your head, considering him, and then let your smile widen just a fraction. “I was about to buy one myself, but I suppose it would be terribly rude to refuse.”

He grins, and you know you’ve hooked him. As he calls for a drink, you let the conversation flow, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. He’s eager to impress, telling you about some recent job escorting a merchant’s caravan, and you listen with feigned interest, nodding at all the right moments.

You slip away at the first chance of escape with a whispered, “Don’t be a stranger,” that leaves him grinning like a fool.

You move on to another cluster of patrons, this time a pair of traders whispering about how business has been suffering. Here, you adopt a different approach: you act the part of a fellow merchant, commiserating with their struggles and sprinkling in enough business jargon to earn their trust. You don’t push too hard, but you nudge the conversation toward anything unusual they’ve heard. They don’t have much to offer.

You glide between groups like a dancer changing partners. Each conversation is a delicate performance, a balance of charm and subtle prying. With a group of dockworkers, you switch to playful teasing, laughing at their ribald jokes and pretending to be scandalized, all the while coaxing out tales of trouble on the docks.

When a more serious crowd catches your eye—hard-eyed mercenaries with their hands never straying far from their blades—you adjust your act once again. Your smile becomes cooler, more challenging, and you weave your words with a thread of danger. They size you up, but when you don’t flinch under their scrutiny, they let you into their circle.

Here, you hear something more concrete: talk of graves being disturbed in strange ways.

It’s not much, but it’s a lead.

You’re nodding along, making the appropriate sympathetic noises as the woman in front of you drones on. Her voice is as grating as boots crunching over shards of broken glass, and you’re only half-listening, the other half of your attention firmly fixed on Astarion.

His laughter—smooth, melodic—floats across the crowd, drawing more attention than a moth-eaten tavern like this deserves. Even now, even here, he’s a beacon. The men and women at his table seem magnetized, drawn to his every gesture.

It’s maddening.

One of them, a rugged brute with arms like tree trunks, leans too close. His hand brushes against Astarion’s shoulder, lingering, and that familiar spark of jealousy ignites in your chest. It coils tight, a snake slithering through your ribcage, and you can’t help the way your gaze sharpens.

It’s absurd, really, the way everyone fawns over him, how they orbit his beauty like planets held captive by a star. Women, men—it never seems to matter; everyone’s drawn in, and you get it. Gods, do you get it, but still, it irks you.

The woman says something that makes your ears perk up, something about people disappearing from the lower districts, especially from a house of healing where the down-and-outs seem to be swept away like detritus in a storm. You refocus, flashing a smile that makes her puff up with importance, but you’re still watching Astarion, your peripheral vision locked onto that table.

You know Astarion can handle himself; you know he’s as dangerous as the blade he keeps concealed in his boot, but that knowledge does nothing to calm the roiling heat in your gut. The man is talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and when his hand drops lower to rest on Astarion’s knee, you feel your fingers curl into fists.

Astarion throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—deliberate, meant to disarm and entice. The minutes creep by, and your patience wears thinner than an old piece of parchment. Your attempts at charming conversation yield no further leads. The whispers and rumours all swirl around the same topics: the city’s underbelly swallowing the unfortunate whole.

Astarion’s game of cards continues, round after round, and he’s building up quite the impressive stack of coin. The gamblers around him are varying degrees of drunk and frustrated, their brows furrowed in disbelief at how thoroughly they’re being played.

Then, there’s the drunken ass—his hands have grown bolder, the touches escalating from lingering grazes to something more presumptuous. That ember of jealousy roars into a bonfire, and you resist the urge to stride over there and burn the oaf to ash.

Astarion remains poised, every move calculated to avoid the touch without looking like he’s avoiding it. His hands perform little flourishes, as if he’s merely emphasizing his amusement at the game, knocking away a grasp with an airy gesture. The ease with which he handles it should reassure you, but instead, it needles at your already raw nerves.

The man laughs, and he reaches out again. This time, he aims lower, his intentions crystal clear. Your vision blurs at the edges with the intensity of your fury, and you dig your nails into your palms to keep from marching over there and making a scene—or worse, letting the magic that hums under your skin break free and turn this entire bar into a funeral pyre.

Shadowheart’s presence is a calming anchor in your peripheral vision, but even she seems tense, her dark eyes darting between Astarion and you. She’s noticed your simmering anger, the way you haven’t moved from your spot in far too long. You press your lips into a thin line, silently willing Astarion to end the game, to finish this charade before your composure snaps like a brittle twig underfoot.

You exhale slowly, reminding yourself that your anger won’t help him. If you intervene, it’ll only draw more attention, but gods, it’s hard.

Gale’s manor looms, a great silhouette of stone and ivy under a sky washed with the fading indigo of retreating night. The air clings to a chill, fog curling in wisps around the base of the steps like restless phantoms. Astarion barely notices. He drifts, an apparition himself, anchored to the world only by the occasional murmur of Kamena’s voice.

His thoughts drift, unmoored, back to that tavern and to every awful, visceral memory it unearthed. His body is present, but his mind has been dragged back into places where hands claimed, used, and discarded. He swears he still feels it—phantom touches pricking along his skin, invisible fingers pawing at him, groping at his waist, his arms, wherever they could stake a claim.

He closes his eyes, but that only intensifies the memory: coarse fingers seizing his chin, breath hot and acrid against his ear, murmurs of desire that were nothing more than knives.

How is it that even with Cazador rotting in some forgotten pit, he remains haunted, every soft whisper of the past ready to drag him back to that hell? A deep shame burns through his chest. He’s stronger now, isn’t he? He should be past this.

But the hands don’t stop, and the breath doesn’t fade, and all he can do is stand there, fighting a war inside his head against ghosts who have never truly let him go.

“Hey,” Kamena’s voice is soft, a flickering candle in the dark, coaxing him back. “Astarion?”

He forces himself to focus, but it’s like trying to pull free of tar. He blinks, realizing he’s still standing in the manor’s foyer, Shadowheart long gone.

“Astarion?” Kamena tries again, worry threading through her words. “Where are you?”

He swallows, finding his voice and hating how fragile it sounds. “I’m… here,” he answers. “Sorry, darling. Lost in thought. Nothing to worry about.”

Kamena knows him too well, sees through every crack and flaw he tries to hide. Her eyes search his face, reading the pain he can’t disguise. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She turns, using her body to guide him toward the staircase, never touching him directly. Instead, she hovers close, her movements careful and deliberate, a hand gesturing to show him the way, an arm raised slightly to ensure he follows.

Astarion’s steps feel heavy, each one an effort as they ascend. He clings to her presence, attention trained forward, focusing on the sway of her movements, on the quiet grace that surrounds her.

As soon as the door clicks closed, Kamena’s fingers snap, and flames spring to life in the fireplace. She moves without hesitation, heading straight for the tub in the corner.

He stands, feeling unanchored, like a ghost in his own skin. His gaze darts to the flickering fire, but the warmth doesn’t touch him, doesn’t sink into the cold that’s burrowed beneath his bones. He walks aimlessly, every step a vain attempt to shake free from the invisible hands still clawing at him.

His eyes catch on the glint of his dagger lying on the side table. He grabs it, the cool steel settling into his hand with a familiar weight. He runs his fingers along the blade’s edge, feeling the whetted sharpness. He doesn’t notice the pressure building, the way his fingertips push into the edge of the blade, carving shallow lines into his skin.

Kamena’s voice floats through the haze, soft and steady, like an angel whispering down from the heavens. “Astarion. Give me the dagger, please.”

Her words tug at the deepest parts of him, the ones not quite lost in the tide of memories. He blinks, startled, as though waking from a dream. Astarion’s gaze drops to his hand, where thin, crimson lines well up across his fingertips. Blood beads and drips, painting streaks down his skin, but he feels oddly detached from the pain.

Kamena steps closer, her hand lifting instinctively as though to take his, but she catches herself. Her fingers hover in the space between them, trembling slightly, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“You’re safe. You’re here, in our room. No one can hurt you. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

Astarion’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt, the dagger feeling heavier with every passing second. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, the movement jagged, unnatural, as if his body is at odds with the instinct to surrender it.

Kamena’s hand reaches out and takes the dagger from him. He feels the absence of the blade in his hand like the absence of a limb.

"The bath is ready,” Kamena gestures toward the steaming tub.

Astarion shifts slightly, forcing his mind to settle as her voice touches him. "Are you trying to insinuate that I smell?"

Kamena hums, a small, amused sound, but she holds his gaze for a long beat, her smile there but tempered. "I’m not saying you smell, but the bath’s there if you want it."

She backs away slightly, giving him space, and in that moment, her gentleness, her patience, is almost more than he can bear.

He presses his fingertips together, the slick of his blood smearing beneath his thumb. The shallow cuts on his skin knit together as if nothing happened. It always heals—mending, sealing, returning to its cold, perfect stillness. A parody of life. Beneath the flesh, the raw, aching wounds of his soul remain open. Festering.

Why is it that his body—a cadaver dressed in silken skin—can stitch itself whole, while his spirit remains in tatters? Why does he carry these invisible gashes, these scars that pulse and throb? A single careless word, a fleeting glance, and the old wounds gape wide, spilling anguish like blood from a reopened vein.

He stares at the red streaks on his fingers, as if the answer lies there, hidden in the crimson swirl. But it doesn’t. It never does. His blood is lifeless, a mimicry of vitality. His soul, if it still exists, is no better. He feels trapped in this silent torment, a scream that no one can hear.

The healing is a cruel joke. His body pretends at recovery, as though that will make him whole, as though that will stitch together the fractured pieces of himself, but it’s a lie.

The promise of warmth, of something alive against his skin rather than that damnable ghost of touch, pulls him toward the tub. Without a word, he moves toward it, feeling the weight of his body dragging. His fingers trail the edge of the tub for a moment before he undresses, his clothes slipping from his body in careless movements. There’s no care, no thought—just the need to shed what feels too tight, too heavy.

Kamena watches him from the corner of her eye as she grabs a cloth and begins wiping the blood from his blade with meticulous care.

Astarion breathes out slowly, his chest tightening for a moment as he lowers himself into the warm water. He closes his eyes, letting the heat settle in his muscles, the soft splash of water against his skin distracting him. It feels different tonight, the comfort almost too much for his fractured mind to hold onto.

He’s lost in the warmth when he hears the soft swish of satin. Kamena’s presence fills the room, and for a brief moment, Astarion allows himself to simply look at her.

She’s wearing satin shorts and a tank top. Her hair, like a cascade of silk, tumbles over her shoulders before she tucks it behind her pointed ear with the grace of someone who doesn’t even need to think about it.

Kamena moves toward his discarded clothes, and without a word, she begins folding them. Her movements are careful and precise, as if she’s the one tidying up the remnants of his life, making order of the chaos. Each fold is deliberate, a small act of care, and it unsettles him in the best way possible.

His mouth opens before his brain catches up. “You’re stunning, Kamena.”

She pauses, and there’s no teasing smile on her lips, no quick retort. Instead, she simply sits down beside the tub. “Are you okay?”

Astarion stiffens slightly, the question landing like a blow he didn’t expect, and he tries to hide behind the banter that has always been his shield. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m positively glowing, as you can see.” His lips twitch, but the effort feels hollow, like something dying before it can be fully born.

Her eyes narrow slightly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the towel she’s holding. “Astarion… I saw what happened at the tavern.”

Astarion feels like a raw nerve exposed to the world. He wants to pull away, deflect, but he can’t. She sees through him, and he’s not sure if he hates it or needs it more than he can admit.

“Ah, that,” he starts, attempting once again to cover the tremor that has snuck into his voice. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of fawning. I’m used to it. Attention like that is... quite familiar, really. You know how it is. People just can’t resist.”

"I don’t think it’s nothing."

Her words sink in like a stone in water. He doesn’t want to show her how much it hurts—how close it is to the old scars, the ones that never really fade, the ones that still feel raw under his skin.

“I am fine,” he insists a little too forcefully, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m always fine. It is nothing.”

Kamena only nods, her eyes never leaving his. There’s no judgment there, no impatience. Just quiet understanding. She’s not asking for his confession. She’s waiting for him to offer it, in his own time.

Her fingertips skim the surface of the water, sending ripples across the stillness. Each movement is fluid and gentle, and Astarion watches her, the rhythm offering a strange kind of peace.

He realizes it then, like a sudden crack in the ice beneath his feet. He’s running too.

His chest tightens, something sharp and jagged biting at the edges of his ribs. Fuck. He’s been pretending, hiding, letting her think he’s fine when all he’s doing is locking himself behind walls she’s never meant to scale.

How could I be so foolish?

His voice is soft when he finally speaks, almost a whisper, like the words are fragile. “I have not felt like that in a long time,” he says, his gaze focused on the water. He clenches his fists, the memory still too fresh, too vivid. “That man at the tavern, he... he made me feel like I was nothing. Just a piece of meat, something to devour. I remember how it felt to be a toy, a tool, a thing that others could use as they pleased.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “That man wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last. All it takes is one touch, one moment of weakness, and I’m right back there. In their hands."

Kamena shifts closer to the tub, her hands resting lightly on the edge, though she doesn’t touch him.

Not yet. Not until he’s ready.

"I know what it’s like," she says, “to feel like you’re stuck, like every move you make could sink you deeper, and you have no idea if you can ever get back up to breathe."

The weight of her words hits Astarion harder than he expects. He can feel it—the echoes of the same fear, the same suffocating hesitation that creeps into his bones whenever he dares to move forward.

He knows she's talking about herself, the careful way she keeps herself distanced. It’s like she’s always half-reached, but never fully here. Her pain, her quiet self-protection—it’s all the same undercurrent that he’s been fighting for years, and it makes him ache in a way he can't quite explain.

Her fingers move over the water again, delicate, almost reluctant. There's a tremor in the motion, like the last fragile thread of a dream slipping away.

Without thinking, Astarion stretches out his hand, a slow, deliberate movement, and he touches her fingers. She freezes, her breath catching in her throat, but then her fingers curl around his.

There’s no grand gesture, no sudden shift. Just two souls, existing in the same fragile space.

The House of Healing stands like a crumbling tooth at the edge of the city, its façade streaked with grime and despair. The wooden shutters hang unevenly on rusted hinges. The smell hits you first—a rank cocktail of sweat, sickness, and something sour that clings to the back of your throat. It’s a place meant for those who have nothing left: no coin, no hope, no other options.

Inside, beds, if you can call them that, line the walls in uneven rows. Most are little more than pallets of straw covered in thin, stained sheets. Patients lie there like abandoned dolls, their faces hollow, their skin sallow. A woman coughs into a rag, the sound wet and deep, while another murmurs feverishly, her voice breaking into fractured words no one listens to.

The healers move through the room like wraiths, their robes smeared with grime and their expressions blank. They look as unwell as the people they tend to.

One of them, a man with a crooked nose and hands trembling from overwork, dabs at a patient’s brow with a damp cloth, his movements slow and mechanical. Another stands over a woman whose breaths come in rattling gasps, muttering a prayer under her breath as if words alone could stave off death.

Gale looks at the scene, more troubled than disgusted. His lips press into a thin line as he steps forward, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. “No one deserves this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. His gaze drifts to a child curled on one of the pallets, his tiny frame too still, too pale. "Not even the poorest soul."

A healer shuffles past you, her face lined like old parchment, her steps dragging. You catch a glimpse of her hands, fingers gnarled and reddened, shaking as she tries to tie a bandage. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even seem to register your presence.

It’s easy to see how someone could disappear here, swallowed by the chaos and neglect. No one would question an empty bed, assuming death had taken its toll again.

Hecat steps closer to you. “So, where do we start?”

“Fan out,” you instruct.

Each step carries you further from the relative order of the main ward. You pass a cracked window, the glass fogged with grime. Outside, the faint sound of the city’s bustle feels worlds away, muffled as if even the streets refuse to acknowledge this place.

You move through the rows of creaking cots, where patients lie motionless or thrash weakly against stained sheets. You kneel by a frail woman whose limbs seem to have withered away like autumn leaves clinging to a branch. Her skin is sallow, her lips cracked, and when you ask her name, her response is little more than a garbled whisper. A sound that isn’t a sound.

“Can you hear me?” you ask louder.

Her head rolls to the side, but her vacant stare continues past you, into some abyss you cannot fathom.

Across the room, Gale’s deep voice carries briefly before faltering. You glance over to see him standing with a man whose head lolls forward, drool pooling at the corner of his slack mouth. Gale straightens, shaking his head at Hecat, who crouches beside another and mutters under her breath. Frustration twists her features, and her shoulders tense like a bowstring about to snap.

Rusted syringes are discarded like broken quills that have long since lost their ink. Dirty rags lie slumped in buckets of water so thick with grime it has the viscosity of tar, and the smell is indescribable—like rot left to fester under the sun.

You spot a healer briskly passing by, their robes torn and smudged. They move with single-minded focus, carrying a tray of empty vials that rattle softly with every step. You reach out, catching their arm.

“Wait,” you say firmly. “What’s happening here?”

The healer doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. They try to keep moving forward. Even as you hold them in place, their worn shoes slide against the floor with each useless step. You shake them vigorously, hoping for any response, but get none.

“Answer me!” you demand.

Heat flares at your palms as you channel the Weave, not enough to hurt but enough that any normal person would instinctively recoil. The healer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Their face remains eerily blank, their eyes as lifeless as the patients’ around you.

Your grip loosens, and they slip away again, disappearing into the haze of the ward. You glance at Hecat and Gale, who have stopped their own efforts to look at you. Gale’s brow furrows, his lips pressed thin. Hecat’s mouth twists, her sharp eyes darting between you and the retreating healer.

The world tilts on its axis as you pivot sharply. A wave of nausea crashes over you, and your stomach churns violently. Your knees weaken, and it feels as though the floor rushes up to meet you. The blood drains from your face, and your mouth floods with bitter saliva as you stagger forward. Before you can collapse, Hecat’s strong hands grip your shoulders, steadying you.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, but you can’t answer, your throat tightening as bile rises.

You double over and retch, the sound harsh and raw in the oppressive silence of the ward. Gale is at your side almost instantly, pressing a neatly folded handkerchief into your trembling hands. You wipe your mouth, head pounding with every unsteady heartbeat.

You wrench yourself free of Hecat’s hold, her concerned protest fading into the background, purpose driving you past the fog of illness and fear. Your gaze fixes on one of the patients, and you fall to your knees beside them, ignoring the wet squelch of the filthy floor beneath you. Your fingers work quickly, brushing aside the layers of grime-encrusted cloth covering their neck, searching for something—anything.

“Hey!” Gale calls from behind you, his voice sharp with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You can’t stop. The thought, the terrible possibility, grips you like a vice. You check their neck, their wrists, their arms—your movements frantic now. Your breath catches as you fling back the sheet covering their lower body, exposing legs marred with a lattice of puncture wounds. Fangs, puncturing flesh over and over like an unholy feast.

“They’re enthralled,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips with grim finality.

The three of you stare in collective horror at the grim tableau before you. Hecat’s jaw tightens, her sharp eyes narrowing, while Gale looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, his complexion pale and ashen.

“This isn’t a house of healing,” you continue, your voice hollow, almost breaking. “It’s a hunting ground.”

You see it now, in every detail—the desperate state of the patients, the apathetic healers who seem to be little more than empty vessels, the pervasive wrongness that saturates this place like a curse.

“They’re feeding on them,” you say, your gaze fixed on the patient’s legs, the bite marks overlapping in a grotesque pattern. “Draining them. Using them. Until there’s nothing left.”

“And then?” Hecat asks, though by the tremor in her voice, she already knows the answer.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. “Then, they’re turned.”

The truth weighs on you like a stone, each piece falling into place to form a picture too terrible to look at.

This isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a factory. A grotesque assembly line, churning out victims and killers in equal measure.

Gale stammers, his words tripping over one another in his urgency, his hands gesturing wildly as if pulling answers from the air. “We can’t just leave them like this. There has to be something we can do!”

You, however, are unmoved. Perhaps it’s cynicism. Perhaps it’s realism. Or perhaps the hollowness within you simply cannot stretch wide enough to encompass this many broken souls. You glance from one bed to another, your gaze sweeping over the withered faces, the slack jaws, the glassy stares that don’t even track your movement. Each figure is a ghost tethered to a failing shell, far beyond any salvation you could offer.

You shake your head, the motion small but resolute. “There’s nothing we can do,” you say flatly.

Gale reels back as if you’ve struck him. “Nothing?” he echoes, aghast. “You won’t even try?”

You meet his eyes, and they burn with the kind of indignation that only comes from belief in a better world—a belief you no longer share.

“Look at them.” You gesture sharply to the room around you. “Do you think they can be saved? Their bodies are ruined. Their minds are gone. They’re not even living, Gale. They’re... leftovers.”

His face contorts, a mix of anger and heartbreak warring in his expression. “How can you say that? They’re people, not scraps on a plate!”

You exhale sharply, the sound carrying more weariness than frustration. “People, once. Now? They’re feeding troughs. Thralls. Whatever they were, it’s gone.”

Hecat steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s right. Even if you pour magic into them, it won’t undo what’s been done. They’re too far gone.”

Gale doesn’t back down. “We don’t know that!” His voice rises, ringing through the grim stillness. “We owe it to them to try. To do something.”

You glance at Gale and Hecat, your voice sharp and decisive. "We should leave. Take a few days to regroup and plan, and then come back when it’s dark."

Gale narrows his eyes, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. "And why, exactly, should we wait?"

“Because this place isn’t for the living. It’s a hunting ground. Come nightfall, the ones we’re after will return to feed, and we’ll be waiting for them."

Hecat smirks faintly, her arms crossing as she leans against the grimy wall. "Using their own trap against them. Clever. A little cruel, but clever."

Gale shakes his head, disapproval radiating from him like a chill. "And in the meantime, what happens to these people? You just leave them here, like bait in a snare?"

You fix him with a cold stare, your voice unwavering. "That’s exactly what they are, Gale. Bait. Better to use it than to let it rot."

Gale’s anger flares, his voice trembling with outrage. “Bait? That’s what they are to you? These are people.” His words lash out like a whip, sharp enough to sting. He takes a step closer, his face set in a righteous fury you once might have admired. “How can you stand here, look at this suffering, and decide their best use is as tools for your goals?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching, unrepentant. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I enjoy it? The only way to help them is to rid Waterdeep of the parasite feeding on them, and using what’s left of these people is the fastest way.”

His eyes widen, disbelief flooding his expression. “What’s left of them?” he spits. “You’ve already written them off, haven’t you? You’ve decided their lives are worth nothing, so why not throw them into the fire?”

You scoff, your voice rising. “You’re godsdamned right I have. Look around, Gale. What do you see? I see empty husks barely clinging to what could generously be called life. I see people who won’t thank us for whatever salvation you think you can offer. I see us wasting time on them when the real enemy is out there, thriving.”

Gale’s hands curl into fists, trembling at his sides. “You sound no better than the monsters we’re hunting.”

That lands like a punch, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you take a step forward, closing the distance between you, your voice a growl. “And what would you have me do, then? Heal them? Bring them all back from the brink with a wave of my hand? The best thing I could do for them is—” Your voice breaks, sharp and bitter. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”

The words are barely out before the heat ignites in you, surging like a storm unbound. Flames curl over your skin, licking up your arms and dancing along your hair. They flicker gold and crimson, light that bends and writhes like living poetry. The air around you crackles, the smell of burning ozone sharp in your nose.

Gale steps back, his eyes widening as the heat pushes against him. “This isn’t justice,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “This is rage. Destruction.”

You laugh bitterly. “Don’t preach to me about justice. Justice won’t bring back the dead or save the next victim. Rage? Destruction? They get results.” The fire swirls higher, casting shadows that twist and shift across the room. “So tell me, Gale—what do you want to do? Save them? Heal them? You can’t even get them to open their eyes!”

Your words echo in the space, your flames their only answer. They reflect off the grimy walls, painting the room in molten light that only underscores the decay. Gale stands frozen, torn between his ideals and the grim truth of your argument. Somewhere, you think you hear Hecat chuckle, low and bitter, but you don’t look at her.

You don’t need her approval.

You don’t need Gale’s either.

All you need is an end to this madness—an end that might, just might, begin with flame.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Hi guys! It's been WAY too long. I'm really sorry. Work is crazy for the holiday months, and I've been told I may lose my job, so... it's been rough. Except spotty updates until at least the end of January (either work calms down or I get let go 🤣)

[seiwas]

Hi 🥺👉👈 I heard you wanted prompts for writing practice so I came to offer help 🤲🫡

It can be for any character (maybe whoever has the nearest birthday if you can't choose?), but the word is "salmon" 🎏💦

P.S. Do you pronounce it "sam-men" or "sayl-mon"?

hi there! thanks for sending in a prompt! 🥺 i'll do kiri! hehe and i pronounce it as 'sah-mon' 🥹

help me get back into the writing groove! send me a character + any word and i'll write a short blurb about it!

contains: food (salmon), brief mentions of cheating (of a diff couple)

kirishima + salmon

"mama, what does love mean?" you ask your mother, wide-eyed and full of wonder.

you were 10 when you first truly wondered what love meant. in your small town, it was hardly ever the grand things. handpicked flowers from the side of the road, sometimes fields if the seasons permitted; baked goods prepared in the early hours of the morning, its scent wafting down your neighbor's porch.

it was the soft goodbye kisses that your mother would give your father as he left for work, and his insistence that she makes the best damn pie this town has ever seen (even though he's allergic to blueberries). love was simple, and it was easy.

so when you moved out of your small town at 18 and faced the big city, you were shaken by the reality that that wasn't always the case.

"he said he still loves me," your first roommate cried to you, heartbroken as she held out the text on her screen. she had caught him with another girl just hours prior.

at 20, the consensus among your friends was that good sex was just as good as love itself.

"dating these days is fuuuucked," yuki plops down on your couch. at 23, the dating scene has proven to be a challenge for most of your friends.

it's either someone isn't enough or they're too much. sometimes, the truth comes later, months into a budding relationship, and the rest of the group has yet another name to add to the growing list of "people who deserve to eat uncooked rice and stale bread".

you agree, but also don't. because you've lucked out, it seems.

though kirishima believes it to be fate more than anything.

who would have thought that spraining your ankle in sophomore year would land you here, now, sharing an apartment with the cute, kind boy you so embarrassingly tripped in front of.

from across the room, you listen vaguely to yuki rant the third time about the girl who stood her up for the guy who was leading her on for months. you've already set out a plate for her to join you and kirishima whenever she's ready, but you know that it won't be until she's told the story the fifth time that she'll notice she's hungry.

the meal in front of you is miso glazed salmon, a favorite in your apartment. you don't make it so often because salmon is expensive, especially the good kind, but kirishima believes that life is all about the treats you let yourself have once in a while.

there's only one slice of salmon left on the serving plate and it's a given that it belongs to yuki. with how busy work was for you today though, it's hard to hide that you're still a little bit hungry.

and kirishima sees it, in the way you attempt to scoop up any remaining sauce on your plate with your spoon; in the way you go for a bit more rice, even when it has nothing to go with anymore.

so he takes one more bite and cuts off the rest of his slice, scooping it up to place it on your plate.

you look at him, confused, furrowing your brows at the fact that there is no way he's done eating; kirishima eats twice as much as you do, thrice even, on heavier gym days. but he only gives you a sweet smile, red eyes twinkling as he motions for you to go ahead and finish it.

warmth fills you in this moment, fuzzy flutter feelings swirling in your belly.

it reminds you of when you were 10, asking your mother what love meant, and she said, "sometimes, it's when they give you the rest of their food even when they aren't finished, and especially when it's their favorite."

[trulybetty]

secret santa.

pairing: tim x cagney (f!reader) word count: 2,108 warnings: none, just tim being tim - set in the tim x cagney universe, somewhere before they become a thing for the first time, but you don't have to read any of that to get this estimated reading time: 10 minutes summary: secret santa at the lapd, for the first time tim is participating. ao3: linked

A/N: forgot to add a little note yesterday in my rush to post! This is for @bluestar22x's Christmas Writing Challenge - I recommend you check it out! Also thank you as always to the lovely @gnpwdrandsnshine for providing feedback and ideas and for always being the best to shout about characters and ideas with! 😘

The LAPD precinct was hardly the kind of place to muster any kind of Christmas spirit. The walls were a dull beige, the air reeked faintly of stale, over-brewed coffee, and the fluorescent lights flickered in a way that might make you question your sanity. But that night, the detectives, officers and support staff had transformed it—twinkling lights hung precariously from any high enough hook, a tree stood proudly (if slightly lopsided) in the corner, and the air buzzed with a rare, warm cheer.

Tim leaned against his desk, arms crossed, scowling at the garish tinsel someone had brazenly strewn around his office while he was out. He didn’t do office parties. He didn’t do tinsel. And he certainly didn’t do Secret Santa.

Except this year, he did.

When the sign-up sheet had been passed around, Tim had ignored it. But when you had casually mentioned how excited you were to participate—how the fact that the precinct had invited the assistant DA to join meant so much to you—he’d swiftly hunted down Betty in Operations, who was arranging the whole thing, to scrawl his name down on the list.

However, he didn’t trust fate to do its job. He’d called in a small favour with Betty—an exchange of the kind of mundane paperwork no one wanted to touch—and suddenly he had the only name he cared about.

You wouldn’t know. He’d swear up and down it was destiny if found out.

Paper snowflakes clung to windows, and the smell of mulled cider filled the bullpen. You were standing next to a crowded, multicultural-filled table laden with an array of foods. The warmth of the party tugged a reluctant smile to your face. It wasn’t every day that the grim halls of the LAPD felt this festive.

Your name echoed from somewhere across the room, “Hey, Cagney, come take a look at this tree! I think it’s leaning more than you do after three drinks.”

Detective Rivera waved you over, you rolled your eyes but laughed anyway. The nickname had stuck after Tim—in irritation of course—had called you Cagney after the two of you had argued over a case. He’d meant it as a pointed opinion that you had overstepped your boundaries as ADA. You were too stubborn and very much relentless—it was why you were so good at your job. But it’d firmly stuck when it’d been overheard by Rivera—though he’d remarked that naming you 'Elizabeth' would be more apt given Tim’s last name. The reference had flown over your head at the time. Tim had shut Rivera down with a withering look that had caused Rivera to laugh even harder when you had asked what was so funny.

Regardless, the name stuck and caught on faster than wildfire across both the precinct and the courthouse. You’d leant into it, mostly in defiance of Tim, fully cementing it when you’d dressed up as the detective one Halloween, and then promptly pulled into court. And thanks to an amused Judge the name and outfit reference were recorded in the case transcript courtesy of the court's stenographer.

Still, you didn’t mind it. It made you feel like one of them—an honorary member of the squad, a role that the actual DA, Connor Wallace, struggled with.

“Hey, at least it’s standing up better than you do under cross-examination,” you countered back receiving a chorus of ‘Oooo’s’ from the pen and Rivera’s signature cackle. “Anyway,” you said as you inspected the artificial tree’s crooked branches, “it looks like someone threw a bunch of ornaments on and hoped for the best.”

“If I didn’t know better,” Rivera remarked, flicking a branch, no one knew how old it was but it had been determined it predated even the oldest of them, “I’d say Tim had been involved.”

You laughed as you looked around the room for the detective, “Speaking of, where is he? I thought he was supposed to be a part of this.”

Rivera took a sip of his cider as he nodded to the other side of the room behind you, “Speak of the devil.”

Tim strode into the bullpen, his mere presence demanding the attention and respect of the room. He had left his jacket behind, dressed in his standard uniform of dark slacks, a white pressed shirt with its sleeves carefully rolled up to his forearms. His signature holster over his shoulders, and as always, one of the three ties you knew he owned hung loose around his neck—a minor display of defiance of having to wear one.

Turning around you just caught the softening of his face as he saw the sight of the wide grin you threw him, “There he is, Mr. Christmas himself.”

For just a second, his shoulders seemed to relax, which made your smile a little brighter. But then, as if catching himself in the moment, he looked away, his expression smoothing back into something neutral.

The gift exchange started with the usual mix of chuckles and groans—cheap mugs, joke gifts, lottery tickets that might pay off someone’s bar tab if they were lucky. You perched on the edge of one of the desks, absently sipping cider, when your name was called.

Placing your cider down you stepped forward, catching a few good-natured jeers about ‘lawyers stealing all the good presents, taking all the credit’, and plucked the neatly wrapped package with your name scrawled on it. The wrapping paper was a deep navy blue, tiny gold stars adorned the thick luxury paper and topped off with a velvet red bow. It was too thoughtful for this crowd. You felt a twinge of curiosity and you looked around the crowd gathered trying to figure out who would have been so thoughtful. Carefully, you opened the present with a reverence that felt almost out of place in the boisterous atmosphere.

You swallowed the gasp, curiosity giving away to something else, something softer, when you pulled back the paper to reveal your gift.

It was perfect. Your kind of perfect.

Nestled in a second layer of delicate tissue paper was a cardboard box, its familiar blue red and white colours standing out to you already. You didn’t need to pull back the paper to know what this was. This was a 6 Transistor Tape Recorder made by North American. Your breath caught. This wasn’t a generic Secret Santa gift, not the kind of gift you’d get someone who didn’t know you. This was personal.

You lifted the box to look inside—it was pristine, in so much better condition than the one you had tried bidding on over the summer. There were maybe a handful of people—if that—you had told about listening to your grandfather dictate his case notes in his study. He had so many devices, but this one had been his favourite.

You turned it over in your hands, a warmth spreading from your chest spreading to your cheeks. “Okay,” you said, raising it slightly for everyone to see, “This is amazing. Whoever my Secret Santa is—you have some explaining to do.”

The room quickly erupted into good-natured whistles, laughter and the odd question of confusion, but quickly enough moved on to the next Secret Santa participant. But one person caught your attention.

Tim.

He was leaning against one of the desks, arms crossed casually sipping from a chipped LAPD coffee mug. He looked like he did most days—stoic, brooding, and completely uninterested in anything remotely festive. You couldn’t help but feel though that he’d been watching every nuance of your reaction to your gift. That was, except for the briefest flicker in his eyes when he caught you looking at him, he raised his mug in a silent cheers and you could feel an unspoken acknowledgement between the two of you.

The office party had thinned out, most of the partygoers had dispersed, off home or to late-night patrols. It left the precinct quieter but still glowing under the soft multicoloured lights strung everywhere.

You knew where to find him—Tim. Picking up your belongings, you headed towards the far end of the bullpen, pushing through the swinging gate and heading back into the warren of offices that served as detectives’ domains and interrogation rooms. You didn’t have to double-check; you’d probably spent more time in his office than he had.

He didn’t hear you approach, his office door wide open, he was sitting behind his desk, swirling whatever was left in his mug.

“Detective Rockford,” you said, announcing your presence as you leant against the door frame, “you really are not much for festivities are you?”

He cleared his throat, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place, “Not really my thing.”

As he spoke, his knuckles tightened slightly around the mug’s handle, and you caught the way his gaze flicked from your face to the gift under your arm before he forced himself to look away.

You pulled your gift out from under your arm, “This is something, though. Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think detective?”

He shrugged, a little too casually—for such a hardened detective, his poker face needed some work, “Could’ve been anyone.”

“Could it?” You asked, tilting your head, and narrowing your eyes. “Because I’m thinking…” you tapped your finger against your bottom lip, “it’s not a coincidence. There’s less than a handful of people I told about this, and only one of them is in this precinct.”

You saw him stiffen slightly, still not wanting to admit his part in the gift, “Don’t know what you’re talking about Cagney. There’s a handful of competent detectives around here and half of them were in on this too, they could have figured it out.”

“You sure?” you stepped closer, placing your gift down, you placed both hands on his desk and leaned forward lowering your voice, “because either you’re my Secret Santa, or you’ve been sharing my secrets with someone else.”

The space between you seemed to shrink, the air thickening. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, his eyes flick down to your hands on his desk. The idea of him gossiping was absurd, and you both knew it.

This is what finally cracked him, he pushed back in his chair and his lips twitched—barely, but enough for you to catch it.

He rounded his desk, avoiding the self-satisfying smirk on your lips. You opened your mouth to revel in your detective prowess, even if it was an open and shut case, when you glanced up. There, just above you and Tim was a small sprig of green tied with a neat red bow dangling from the ceiling.

“Huh,” you said, your voice full of mock innocence, “would you look at that? Mistletoe.”

His eyes followed yours, his posture stiffened and you could see a flush creeping up his neck, “That’s Rivera’s idea of a joke.”

“Sure,” you nodded, looking up at him, “but you know, the rules.”

“The rules?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Uh huh, and we all know how you’re a stickler for the rules.”

For a moment, you weren’t sure if he’d move. His jaw tightened, and his gaze locked on yours. The air between you crackled, growing heavier, warmer. He didn’t pull away when you stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

You were close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave, to see the tight line of his shoulders, as if he were deciding which way to move. Neither of you had mentioned the almost kiss in his car almost two months ago now—when you’d been taking part in the compulsory ride-along, he’d pulled strings then too. Then he had made the first move, this time it seemed like he was debating the value of the moment.

So you made the first move.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft and brief, but enough to feel his breath catch against yours. It was shorter than you’d like, but if you were going to kiss this man, and kiss him properly, it wasn’t going to be in his office with half the department outside the door. When you pulled back, his eyes stayed on yours, dark and unreadable, but his lips parted as if he wanted to say something.

You smiled, a genuinely warm one, feeling your heart pound against your ribs. “Merry Christmas, Tim.”

For the first time since you’d entered his office, his mask cracked, and he gave you the faintest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen, realization dawning on him. “Merry Christmas Cagney.”

[wolf-tail]

General Frustration With Helluva Boss

Sometimes, dealing with Vivziepop media is exhausting. One one hand, you have the violent irrational hateboner for anything and everything she's ever touched that a lot of people, especially on tumblr, have. It feels less born out of actual criticism and that weird flavor of "ouroboros snake eating it's own tail" cringe culture that a lot of people (mainly tumblr users) feel for anything that reminds them too much of their middle school selves. Like, ya'll picked Hazbin over South Park in the "worst cartoon ever" pole. South Park, the show that made antisemetism cool to hundreds of white tweens. That South Park. Yeah, that flavor of criticism is about as helpful or productive as bullying the kids in your local dead mall's Hot Topic.

On the other hand, you have the people who act like Viv and her team are incapable of wrongdoing and that any direction their projects going is the direct word of god and criticism of any aspect of either of her shows is a literal war crime.

I belong to neither camp because I enjoy my ability to critically think.

They're a long, LONG shot from perfect but there are things to like about both shows. Unfortunately, there's even more to criticize.

The Hazbin/Helluva fandom has a reputation for being childish, (often because a lot of them are actual children who have no business watching either show), whiny, and media illiterate. A creator can rarely if ever be blamed for the stupidity of certain members of their fanbase, though. Given the inane and frankly ridiculous misinterpretation of the character of Stolas by fans who are dead-set on viewing him through the most red-tinted "Ron the Death Eater" headass lenses, if I were a writer for Helluva I'd be tearing my damn hair out. But, sometimes, I wonder if Helluva's writing encourages the kind of dumbassery it's fans are prone to, mainly, with the latest short.

As soon as I saw the thumbnail, I knew what was coming. I tried to stay hopeful, I tried to think that Viv and her team wouldn't do this, but my expectations for this show are probably wayyyy higher than they should be.

The Helluva Shorts are Viv's little way of having her cake and eating it, too. With the plot of the full episodes being almost completely dedicated to more drawn-out character driven emotional beats, the shorts are allowed to maintain the monster-of-the-week mercenary assassination type plots, where I.M.P. has a target to kill and a specific goal to overcome for the episode. (Short 1 is an exception, and strangely the best out of all of them. It helps develop Millie's almost completely flat character and prioritizes her over the male characters she typically gets shafted for.) Short 3, Weeaboo-boo, is the weakest short by far, something even hardcore fans of the show would agree on.

To spare everyone the misfortune of having to watch it, let me summarize:

I.M.P.'s latest target is Emberlynn Pinkle, a twenty-something college student living at home with her parents. Her case file actually gave me some hope for this short, as the reason I.M.P.'s client wants her dead is over bullshit and inane shipping drama, something I sadly have experience with. I thought this short was going to critique the kind of nonsense the worst types of fans (like the ones outlined above) get up to, but instead, it just took one big look at fandom culture as a whole, and like a woman-hating redditor obsessed with powerscaling, decided to spit in it's face and call it a whore.

Emberlynn is portrayed as a sickeningly cliche charicature of female fandom, a horny loser burdening her parents, obsessed with sex, who writes dumb and lame fanfics about her dumb and lame self-insert oc. She feels like she was an attempt at a tounge-in-cheek little self-depreciating humor bit about fandom, but feels stale and mean-spirited.

She's a loser weirdo for being a monsterfucker, despite half the jokes in the show being about weird kinky sex. She's a horned-up creep for getting exited about being hunted by a demon and thinking he's here to have sex with her, despite that being THE LITERAL FIRST THING STOLAS DOES WHEN BLITZ BREAKS INTO HIS HOUSE, the only difference between him and Emberlynn being that Stolas has a tragic backstory, and is a man. Blitz kills her and sends her to hell, where she gets a sickass demon form I might add,

and is nothing more than a stalky, obsessive fangirl.

...

Do you ever wonder why creators hate their female fans?

We've already done this same song and dance with Supernatural, but I expected Vivzie, a woman herself who's made jokes about the kind of misogyny women in her field of work experience, to not treat female fandom with the same "icky girls ruin everything with their stupid horny bullshit" sentiment that the Japanese incels on 2chan who came up with the word fujoshi. But I expected too much from her I guess. How the fuck did The Amazing World of Gumball handle fanfic culture in a genuinely funnier and kinder way than she did!?

Viv is just doing what she does best, creating a female character with interesting potential and the teeniest weeniest bit of something resembling body diversity in her cast of stick figures, making her annoying, and letting her rabidly misogynistic fanbase trample all over her. She did it to Mimzy, and funnily enough, Emberlynn kinda looks like her.

This short sucked complete ass, and is just more proof that Viv sucks at writing female characters. I'm disappointed, she did Emberlynn and Mimzy so damn dirty.

[envy-of-the-apple]

if you have a rules post where this is answered, sorry, i totally could not find one, but.

how do you feel about yandere!reader? you typically write them with a bleeding heart even though they're all very realistic, which is awesome for immersion. but i have kinda a soft spot for reader who gets so sick of everything they start Partaking Of The Insanity sdkhfjgdg

eldritch gojo though... Not Normal Gojo who is 100x more developmentally stunted/twisted than he appears... gojo who sees so much about the world that he legit thinks he's on a higher level of existence, because "in a world where all men are blind, the man with one eye is king".

soooo much of my attraction to gojo at first was wanting to eat that man for breakfast and force him back down to reality. when i saw hidden inventory and learned he LITERALLY GOT MURDERED and that made him MORE FULL OF HIMSELF instead of less,,, god it takes a special kind of crazy to take away what he did from a near death experience. but god do i love him.

ughhh you dont understand i read this amazing fic where gojo was an eldritch horror and it was the best thing i ever read and i wanted to eat it and i now am in love with this interpretation of gojo. eldritch gojo is THE best version of gojo i said what i said.

but there are just so many different facets of gojo and i think thats a huge reason why ppl love him so so much! like ive never read a gojo fic where i feel like hes ooc.

hes just such a mystery, right? i rlly hope gege never confirms gojo's childhood, or his personality, or anything like that because part of gojo's character is that you're never gonna understand him.........ugh he's such a tragedy omgejergjrij-

ngl i HATE yandere!readers with a burning passion. im sorry i just never got it. like irl im obsessed with gojo why would i wanna write about real life????? also, it has a lot to do with the fact that i try to make my reader-inserts as blank and stale as possible. as little as personality, no description of looks, just so more ppl can relate. if i wrote a yandere!reader im gonna have to make them an active character, rather than a passive one and it'll be hard to do that to keep them a blank slate.

[warpedpuppeteer]

I ask where? Are these scenes not on my tv? Also blaming buck for the date? REALYYYYYYY

Hi there! Thanks for sending this ask. The only explanation I have is that they're all mass hallucinating. Suffering some kind of delusional disease. Let's pray for their health 🙏🏽 Also, hope you don't mind but I'm about to rip these losers a new one.

He was so kind when he left Buck on their first date just because Buck was still new to queer dating and said something stupid in a panic which btw shouldn't have even offended him because he KNEW Buck was new to this.

He was so perceptive when he made the lame ass kink joke when Buck had been worried about his father figure DYING and shared a bit of his trauma with him.

He was so considerate when he took into account how excited and stressed Buck was about Chim's bachelor party and decided to *check notes* not to dress up because *squints at smudged writing* he was on duty even though he still could have made some kind of effort.

"Man looks intimidating" meanwhile him 🗿. He looks dumb as rocks. That's an insult to rocks. Rocks have personality.

"He's huge" yeah a huge waste of time.

Again, these weirdos have twisted Buck's character into some kind of damsel in distress and the other one as his white stale bread knight. Also reeks of heteronormative nonsense.

BUCK is huge and capable and gentle! Stop stealing other character's traits just to paste it onto your white bland plot device character!

"Always making sure Buck meets him halfway" oh you mean like the time he kissed Buck without asking first? Or the time he didn't tell Buck he was leaving until his uber came and didn't even have the decency to order one for Buck?

"giving him assurance" oh you mean like the time he said enjoy it while it lasts when Buck was happy about something?

Should I go on because I can and will dismantle every single delusional thought these mfs have.

Next.

You know what's not healthy for the beginning of a relationship? Walking out of your first date because your newly queer partner didn't want to come out of the closet to their best friend (and not to mention the best friend's gf was there).

You can be upset if you already expected your partner to be open about their queerness but Buck didn't say jack shit to him. He just wanted to try going out because he was attracted to him! Thumbtack didn't't say jack shit to Buck either.

As an older queer person, he should be more than aware that coming out to people you love can be terrifying! Even if they are good people. Sure you can expect to date someone who's only out but how tf was Buck supposed to know that when this is literally their first date?! Also this mf was so deep in the closet when he was working he had a fake girlfriend and everything so this is really fucking rich coming from him. Like, the audacity?

And not to mention he didn't say anything and just walked out, letting Buck chase after him in confusion and then left him on the sidewalk letting Buck feel BAD FOR NOT COMING OUT. You know how fucking insane that is??! So get the fuck out of my face with this nonsense.

I'm absolutely convinced Trolldemort stans are the kind of people who would absolutely create or join a racist, homophobic, misogynistic cult. Same creepy vibes.

[amostimprobabledream]

Smash or Pass the Bleach Captains?

I've always wanted to answer this question! (Going with the TYBW roster of captains here.)

Shunsui Kyoraku

Normally I don't like hairy men, but he's a Smash. You get the feeling he knows what he's doing, he could teach you a lot. Plus the fact he becomes head captain means fucking him is like an instant boost of clout.

Soi Fon Pass. She's pretty and has a great character design, but she ain't my type. Not to mention she seems to have some unresolved Yoruichi issues to sort out.

Rose Otoribayashi

Who? Anyway, Pass. There's nothing about Rose I find particularly interesting as a character and Bleach has much sexier blondes than him.

Retsu Unohana

Pass. I've never really cared much about Unohana as a character because I always found her "soft-spoken but terrifies everyone" gimmick kind of stale, especially since I thought the reveal of her being the First Kenpachi was so obvious. Her design is fine but not my personal tastes.

Shinji Hirako

I love Shinji as a character, but I think I'd prefer to hang out with him than fuck him. Though, I can't help but feel he'd be great with his tongue...but...realistically, Pass.

Byakuya Kuchiki

Byakuya's personality is kind of dull for my personal tastes, but that face card of his doesn't decline, so Smash.

Saijin Komamura

I'm not a furry, so Pass. I'd hang with him, though.

Lisa Yadomaru

Pass. I like Lisa but the glasses and braids look isn't my thing. Also she's so deadpan I'd fine it hard to tell if she was being serious or not.

Kensei Muguruma SMASH SMASH SMASH. He is SO fine and so mean. I love the punk aesthetic, I love his voice and THEM ARMS. God. Kensei's one of my personal hottest Bleach men, I've loved him ever since he was first revealed with the piercings and the crew cut. When his TBTP haircut was shown I went mental. (I like his current look but Kensei with bangs was elite.) Also his surly attitude is very attractive to me. What can I say, I like 'em mean.

Toshiro Hitsugaya

Pass. Like 90% of time he looks like a middle-schooler, and even in his adult form, his personality isn't really attractive to me, it's that stick-in-the-mud attitude for other more bombastic characters like Rangiku to bounce off. I don't find Hitsugaya especially interesting on his own. His eyes are pretty, though.

Kenpachi Zaraki

Smash. Yeah, I'd fuck Kenpachi, he'd maul you like a bear but in a good way. Also I find his laid-back cockiness kind of refreshing. And his mouth is enormous, if you know what I mean. And the MUSCLES. You'd definitely come multiple times.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi

Smash. I've always liked Mayuri and under all his facepaint he is SMOKING hot. Is he evil? Yes. Does he have a nice voice, cool af fight scenes and is consistently one of the smartest, most interesting characters? Also yes. I love intelligent men.

Jushiro Ukitake

Pass. Firstly my friend is in love with him so I don't want to lewd her husband. Secondly, he's just so not my type - objectively he's a very pretty man but I find his personality extremely boring. Nice guys just don't float my boat, and I generally don't go for men with long hair. (Sorry, fam. XD)

[sinsandsweetness]

Irrevocable (sex and zombies- chapter 4)

pairing- {Rick x fem!reader)

summary- Reader finally gets what she's been longing for. Well... almost anyway.

warnings- 18+ content, MDNI, angry Rick Grimes, he is kinda mean for a moment, mentions of character death, typical twd violence I suppose.

notes- time jump to after the farm is overran.

An arrow missed your face by an inch, piercing the skull of a dead one behind you. 

You gave Daryl a quick glare but continued on, putting another one down with your knife. You and a few others were clearing a grocery store. Seeing if there was anything left. Anything still edible. 

Lori, Carl, Beth, Hershel, and T-dog, had stayed back at the house you were all staying in. Back where it was at least cleared out and locked up. Not a permanent residence, but for a week it would do. 

You were all hungry. Practically starving. You had noticed your hip bones in the mirror of the bathroom that morning. More prominent than you’d remembered a few months ago. 

“Clear!” You heard Rick call from the back of the store. It was a small town grocery store. Nothing special. And a lot had been taken. But there was some dried goods, a few cans left too. 

All of you sat in your respective aisles, eating stale chips and resting your legs. You had no vehicle. Not anymore. 

You sat across from Rick, and watched him lick the salt off his fingers. You had to look down at your own bag for a moment to collect your wandering thoughts. 

He tapped his boot against your leg though, inviting your gaze back to his face. Beard a little long, and face a little dirty. But still just as handsome. 

He smiled and grabbed your boot to pull you forward, earning a little laugh as you got dragged closer to him and fell on to your back. He then grabbed your hand pulling you towards him. Forcing you to fall forward in between his legs. For a moment you stayed there. Smiling big at his playfulness. But you decided to move, and shifted so that you were sitting down again. Both of were now facing the same empty shelves. You in between his legs. 

Trying not to think about the fact that you were in between his legs. Practically in his lap. You leaned back into him, like he was your own personal couch cushion.  

He snaked his arms around you and nuzzled into your shoulder, air warming your t-shirt when he let out a big sigh. 

He knew you wanted him like this. But you also knew boundaries. And when not to cross the line. The two of you had done a decent job at keeping things tame. Overstepping once or twice, but never enough to feel any guilt. Kind of like this. Playful flirting, long glances from across the table, touches that lasted a few seconds too long. You’d even kissed him. You’d made your move but respected his rejection. Partly because you knew that he was married. The other part because you were holding on to the hope that he wanted you too. What you had been hoping for since Rick arrived at your camp in Atlanta. Something pulled you to him like a magnet. 

And now, he had been the one to pull you. He was the one practically cuddling you on the floor of the supermarket right now. 

Turning your neck you look back at him, eyes quickly shifting to his lips. But he shook his head and smirked. Not that you were going to. You rolled your eyes. Leaned your head back and stayed pressed up against him for the few more minutes you’d have left until the group wanted to go back. 

Eventually, Maggie and Glenn called out for you on their way back to the front door. They saw the two of you on the ground but their eyes didn’t linger. 

“Coming,” Rick's voice answered next to your ear. You went to get up, turned around and reached a hand out to help Rick up. 

Everyone sat in a circle around a low fire that night. Eating their portion from the finds earlier. Cans mostly. Beans and corn. You gave extra to Lori. And then plopped down next to Daryl. He was scowling at first but as soon as you draped your blanket over the two of you he softened up a little. His shoulders relaxed and he even leaned in closer. It was cold in the house. And having to keep the fire as low as possible meant that there was very little heat anyway. 

When the fire went out you shifted even closer to Daryl. Snaking your arm around his waist and tucking your face into his neck. You would have earlier but didn’t really care to make Rick watch. Not that it was a secret. 

Daryl didn’t move. He never cuddled. Not since you two had started and he probably never would. But you were touch starved and needed it. And right now at least, he didn’t seem to mind being little spoon.

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

A few painful weeks went by. And then Daryl and Rick found the prison. 

It was nice. More than nice. It was perfect. As soon as the cells were cleaned out at least. And there was privacy. Beds. Blankets. 

Then there was even lots of food, at least after Rick found those prisoners. 

But lots had happened while you were all settling in. Hershel’s leg. The inmates. Walkers. It was a lot. 

And then things went south. Lori's death was unexpected. That one hurt. 

Rick was hurt.

Initially you all gave him space as he went off to clear a cell block all alone. People need time. Time to heal. To be ok. And he would be. Eventually.

And no one blamed him. He’d been through hell. Killed his best friend. Had a baby and lost his wife within the span of a few months.

You made the mistake of trying to talk to him. Thinking that your previous friendship would roll on even after his wife’s death. But for whatever reason, likely just grief, he lost it on you. 

He rushed out of the cell block and you couldn’t help but follow after him. Even through the couple of comments from Hershel and Glenn to “just give him some space”.

You jogged to catch up to his face paced getaway. His hatchet held loosely in his hand. 

“Are you serious?!” You were shocked. He hadn’t acknowledged her. His baby girl. He didn’t even look at her. Just checked on Carl and left to kill more walkers.

He came to a stop and stood still. Not facing you. 

“What, you don’t wanna hold her? Feed her?” You continued.

“Don’t.” He spoke firmly. 

“Don’t what? Don’t bring up the fact that there is a newborn baby in the other room that you haven’t even acknowledged?!” You were offended. For her. For Lori. I mean of course he was allowed to grieve but come in man. Suck it up. It’s his kid for Christ sake. 

He didn't answer, 

"At first I got it Rick, you needed a minute to blow off some steam. But we're safe in here. She- you haven't even held her. Lori- she- she would have wan-"

He turned around and approached you fast, hatched swiftly piercing into the wall beside you. The air from his swing was cold on your face. 

“Drop it.” 

You were stunned. Back against the wall and his arm up near your face. His hand was still gripping the hatchet. Your heartbeat was going insane. 

“You have no idea what’s going on in my head. You don’t have the right to judge me for how I’m dealing with this,” his tone was angry. Furious even. 

“She’s your daughter-“ your voice cracked.

His free hand came up to grab your face. Hard. Aggressively pulling you close. To hear him perfectly. Crystal clear. 

“Shut your fucking mouth-” 

You did. Cheeks hurting from his grasp. 

“-and drop it.” He let you go with a slight push. Dislodged his hatchet from the wall and stormed off. 

You walked back to your cell, fighting off tears.

You avoided him the rest of the day. The entire next week actually. Avoiding eye contact. Not speaking. 

You did what came natural to you and distracted yourself with something familiar and… well, easy.

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

“Fuck.” Daryl groaned a little louder then you’d prefer. 

“Shut up man.” you whispered, rolling your hips onto him. His fingers digging into your ass. Pulling you back down on to him. 

“Keep doin that.” he looked up at you through his heavy eyelids and thick eyelashes. 

You circled your hips again. And again. And again. 

Finally he flipped you both over and finished you off. 

“Gonna need more of these.” He said while rolling off the condom and tossing it in the trash. 

You rolled your eyes and searched for your clothes, hidden in the blankets. It was first thing in the morning. New day. Same routine. Though usually it didn’t start quite this way. Waking up to Daryls face between your legs, doing that thing with his tongue. You knew the one. 

The knock at your cell door was abrupt and you only had enough time to cover yourself with the sheets before Rick opened the curtain. He started saying something but paused when he saw you holding the white sheet to your chest. And then his eyes went to Daryl who was standing next to you and doing up his belt. 

Rick's jaw clenched. “Breakfast is ready.” He informed you both. 

Shit. 

After avoiding Rick’s glare at breakfast you were ready to go check traps with Daryl. Instead, Rick pulled you aside. 

“I was hoping you could help me clear some of the other cell blocks today.” His hand on his hatchet. No emotion on his face. 

“Oh,” Definitely surprised but you tried not to show it. “Sure.” 

You grabbed a machete and followed him to the cell block. The hallways were dark. Just a tiny flashlight to lead the way. It was relatively easy. Most of the bodies were already dealt with. Just had to be moved to the yard. 

The next cell block however, was a little more difficult. More walkers than the last. Not that it was an issue.

Rick's hatchet came up and made you flinch. Piercing the corpse right behind you. You swallowed. The body thunked to the floor. Rick's face was so close to yours you could feel his breath. 

“Pay attention,“

You nodded. You'd glanced at his lips. So quickly. Maybe he didn’t notice. 

The two of you helped clear the rest of the block. Walker blood spraying both of you with every swing of your weapons. 

Covered in blood, you made your way back to the main cell. It was dark out now. You’d been working the whole day. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t taken a break at all. You passed the courtyard and headed for the water barrel, scooping a handful and slurping it into your mouth. Rick was right behind you. Maggie and Glenn were on watch in the tower above. But they weren’t paying attention to the two of you. 

Rubbing your wet hands on your face you could feel the blood. The grime. You needed a shower. Desperately. 

“What?” You asked Rick who seemed to be staring at you. For a little too long. 

“Nothin,” he licked his lips and cracked his neck. “You should uh… go wash up though,” he pointed to the blood all over your clothes. As if he was any less covered. You nodded and walked past him. Feeling his stare continue as walked back towards the cells.

Your shower felt glorious. And your pyjamas felt even better. 

Back in your cell, Rick was already sitting on your bed. Showered as well. His damp hair combed back, waves and curls forming behind his ears. 

“Good job today,” he moved over, inviting you to sit down. 

“Thanks…” you weren’t sure what he was doing. 

“I’m grateful,” he started. Looking down at his hands. 

“You’ve done so much for us, for me,” he went on. It wasn’t a lie. You’d been a major help with the initial taking over of the prison. And even more while you were on the road those months in the winter you’d given everything to Lori, to Carl. To anyone but you.

“Least I could do,” you were confused. He’d seemed mad at you for a week and then when he caught you and Daryl this morning he seemed even less impressed. Now he was... back to his usual self. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you…” you knew what he was talking about. He didn’t have to explain. 

“It’s ok.” You didn’t really wanna talk about that. 

“No it’s not. I lost it on you and that wasn’t okay.”

“Yeah, I mean it wasn’t cool.” You nod and clasp your hands in your lap. 

“I shouldn’t have been so harsh. And I- I just… I acted out. And I’m sorry.”

“You lost your wife. And now there’s a newborn. I don’t really blame you for being on edge.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you .”

“Yeah. You shouldn’t have.” You agreed. 

His hand went to your thigh, rubbing up and down

“So you and Daryl…” he changed the topic. 

You wanted to suffocate yourself into the pillow. 

“I didn't realize that was still..."

"Happening?" you finished his sentence. Avoiding his eye contact, and instead focused on your hands.

"Yeah. I mean I'd heard that you guys...well...I never really knew for sure."

“Yeah well...” Your voice was quiet. You weren’t gonna lie. But it was a little awkward. 

"Since the farm?" He asked.

"Atlanta..." 

He nodded slightly. Realization hitting him slowly. All that time you had been pining over him, you’d also been fucking Daryl. There was a hint of what you could only assume was disappointment in his eyes. 

“You were married so…” you told him like it was an excuse. Well it was an excuse. You couldn’t very well have had him at the time. 

“Well I’m not anymore.” He looked up at you. A mix of sadness and suggestiveness on his face. It was true though. There wasn’t anything holding him back from you anymore. Just grief. 

His pupils were dilated and his hand was still on your leg. He brought his other hand up to the back of your neck, pulling you into him. 

“Rick-“ you protested. He was obviously not well. 

“Shh” he presses your foreheads together. You couldn’t help but let your eyes close. He wasn’t thinking clearly. Broken hearted. Looking for something to fill a void. But some part of you didn’t care. Anything he’d do in the next moment was ok with you. 

“God you're so soft...” his thumb rubbed your cheek gently. Finally his lips met yours and you though hesitant, you found yourself pulling him down on top of you. Gently. His hands roamed up and down, under and over your shirt. Mouths moved against each-other, exploring all over. His damp hair tickled your neck when he dipped down to kiss your collarbone. 

“You’re not thinking right,” You say to him softly. 

“Just be quiet,” he whispered into your skin, hand reaching beneath your waist band, finding its way to your panties. Your heart skipped a beat. There was no way this was actually happening. You couldn’t help the moan that left you when his fingers found your clit, rubbing soft circles over your underwear. 

“Rick we shouldn’t-“

“Shh,” he cut you off and went back to kissing you. Tongue tracing your lips. Inviting you in even more. Closer. His other hand found it's way up your shirt, and you arched as far into his touch as you could.

You both shot up at the sound of Rick's name being called. Beth was looking for him. Probably to hand Judith off. 

The blush was still apparent on your face as Beth peeled around the curtain. Even though Rick was now standing. She seemed oblivious though.

“You want me to put her to bed or did you wanna take her?” She asked Rick. He took Judith from the girl and bounced her in his arms, rocking back and forth. Sleepy. She didn’t make a sound. He looked over at you and chewed at his bottom lip. 

“We should get some sleep,” you tell him. 

He nodded a quick “Goodnight” and hesitantly left your cell. 

You touched yourself the second the curtain closed. 

[ladyofthe-manor]

Ronmione shippers... in 2024?

I don't know what I did to big Tumblr for them to be punishing me with my timeline but lately I've been bombarded with Dramione hate seemingly out of the blue. I don't know why, but it has been kind of funny to see other people's posts.

I saw someone wrote out a list of reasons Dramione would NOT work, and it included things like "Hermione being unforgiving and petty" and "Hermione shouldn't need or want a man to change for her" and it left me honestly baffled. Maybe it should be a prerequisite that you read Dramione fanfiction before you attempt to bash it, because clearly some of these people are just outing themselves.

The misogynistic hatred of Hermione as a character is nothing new, so I won't touch on it here, but some of these posts are so telling.

I will talk about Draco though, because he gets almost double the flak because of all the hatred of Drarry on top of it all (which reads as homophobic to me but well, that's a story for another time.)

Most Dramione readers and writers don’t ship Hermione Granger and the 12-year-old boy that prayed on her downfall and wished for her death. Do you think we seek out 100k+ word stories just for the long awaited epilogue where he calls her a mudblood in their marital vows? 

Are you that judgmental that you would begrudge a sixteen-year-old (threatened with the death of his mother) the chance at redemption?

A brainwashed, bullying, ignorant CHILD? Who goes through an entire war? Who watches and is forced to participate in torturing his own classmates? Do you really think he went through all of that only to come out on the other side STILL believing everything he was taught? Or is it more feasible that he might have had a change of heart or two?

(And honestly, even if he does come through the war still believing in blood purity, the fanfictions that explore his subsequent journey of self-discovery and learning are some of the most popular on ao3. I wonder why?)

Isn’t it more exciting to read about Draco and EITHER his redemption arc, or if you hate him so much, his own downfall? Especially over canon pairings? Ron and Hermione are childhood friends-to-lovers. BORING. 

You can't have it both ways. I've seen people absolutely shit on Hermione for the birds, and the permanent disfiguration, and the jar, but jeez, do you know who would have loved that side of her? Probably Slytherin Draco, don't you think? Or is it Ron, the object of her ire with the birds and the one that thought she took it too far and was too ruthless?

Also, to so confidently argue that Hermione would never forgive Draco and that he would never change (even for himself if not for her) is such an incredibly pessimistic outlook on life that I can almost understand why you sad people still ship Ronmione. It's giving... ordering chicken tenders at a fancy restaurant. Grow up, lmao.

Hermione can forgive her childhood bully... for HERSELF. Draco can unlearn the harmful brainwashing of his childhood... for HIMSELF. And then the two of them can learn from the other's experiences and heal together. Or they can bicker until the sun comes down and turn slowly from enemies to lovers. Or they can become friends to lovers. The possibilities are endless, and more importantly, it allows for something Ronmione inherently lacks: GROWTH.

It's especially funny to me, because unless you specifically go looking for it, most of the quality Dramione fanfiction that gets posted on a DAILY basis doesn't even mention Ron except to say that their stale high school sweetheart relationship ended quietly and amicably and everyone moved on. You guys love to go on and on about Draco and Dramione readers are sitting there like... Ron? We don't think of you.

[electronickingdomfox]

"Bloodthirst" review

It's Resident Evil, but the zombies are vampires!!

Novel from 1987, by J. M. Dillard. Kind of a retread of her previous novel ("Demons"), but substituting demonic possesion with vampires. Of course, there's nothing supernatural going on, but a scientific explanation behind everything. I found it less scary than the previous entry, though it's in the same spirit of horror story, this time with a political background as well.

The initial setting is intriguing, even though it's fairly obvious what's going on and who are the villains, from the earliest chapters. The ending is also exciting, and reminded me of an actual TOS episode. The problem is the rest of the novel, and by that I mean like 90%. I had the impression of reading chapter after chapter of barely anything but filler. Kirk does little more than talking through the terminal with this or that. McCoy does little more than telling Kirk "they're close to find a vaccine" and fretting over Chapel's sickness. Spock does... nothing, really. The fact that the story was extended artificially to a breaking point is obvious by the fact it takes the crew SEVERAL DAYS to find an intruder in the ship (an intruder who wears a red cape, is sick and insane, and screams in pain every time light touches him). This with a crew of more than 400 persons, and with the full security team activated at all times (what the hell!?).

To add more padding to it, there are lengthy scenes focused on a group of redshirts. Now I don't have a problem with original characters having their spotlight if they're interesting and play some role. But these guys just reflect about their High School dramas, and they don't have a distinct role compared to any other redshirt: that is, being attacked and suffer a lot. The other characters are a mixed bag. The most interesting is probably Adams, the "vampire", and the passages that follow his sinister deeds are the only ones that keep the plot moving, in that stale middle section. Kirk is serviceable. In particular his friendship with Admiral Quince felt like the real thing. And he gets to do some of his cunning negotiations at the end. McCoy on the other hand... Look, this author makes him funny on occassion, but in my opinion, she has a REALLY odd idea of the character. From the "dirty old man" trait, to his clumsiness and cowardice. The guy who would offer himself for torture in "The Empath" is here scared shitless at the prospect of it (well, he's scared of dark corridors too, so...). Fortunately, there's no Mary Sue on sight this time. Unfortunately, there's still the obligatory romance "out-of-left-field" for McCoy, that this author seems so fond of. This time in the shape of... Christine Chapel??? We're suppossed to believe that she's not just the closest person to McCoy (closer even than Kirk!), but that all this time, they've been repressing romantic feelings for each other. And that Chapel isn't really attracted to Spock, but only chose him because he'd never return her feelings... Yeah, weeell, how about... NO.

Other random weird bits: Nobody knows what a vampire is in the 23rd century (only Chekov has heard about this legend, that had survived for hundreds of years so far). And a crippled Enterprise can only manage to go at warp 9! (c'mon Scotty, I'm sure you can do better than this shitty, fast-as-fuck warp 9 speed...). Spoilers under the cut:

The Enterprise receives a distress signal from a scientific station at planet Tanis, but upon beaming down, they just find a deserted lab, two dead scientists missing most of their blood, and a single survivor: Dr. Jeffrey Adams. Adams looks gaunt and is obviously suffering some kind of disease that makes light painful for him. He's brought to sickbay, and needs continous blood transfusions to survive. But when Kirk interrogates him, suspecting the scientists were doing illegal research on biowarfare, Adams says they were just working on agricultural projects and that the other two commited suicide. Nonetheless, the evidence at the station points to Adams as the murderer, and it seems he had drunk the blood of the victims too. The fact that Admiral Rodrigo Mendez, head of weapons research, is awfully interested in destroying any trace of the virus, and quickly bringing Adams to trial, makes it all the more suspicious. However, the landing party is unable to recover any sample of a virus at the station, and records had been destroyed, so the Enterprise starts travelling to the nearest starbase.

After being informed of this, Adams accuses Mendez of being the mastermind behind the virus development, and begs Kirk to not surrender him to Mendez, since the admiral wants to kill him. Kirk is unwilling to believe at first that Mendez, or any other top brass at Starfleet, would be involved in such deadly project. Besides, upon learning that one of the dead researchers was Mendez's son, he dismisses the admiral's behavior as natural resentment. Nonetheless, Kirk contacts his friend, Admiral Quince Waverleigh, at Starfleet HQ, to see if he can unearth some dirty laundry among the top brass.

Meanwhile, Adams attempts an escape from his isolation chamber at sickbay, and injures Chapel, drinking some blood from her head wound. Adams doesn't go far under the light. But Chapel has contracted the disease, which is contagious upon contact, and slowly slips into a coma. In the end, McCoy realizes that Chapel has died, and disconnects life support. And there's a lot of drama about this, but since the reader can probably guess where this is leading to, and what the solution will be, the scene doesn't have all that much impact. Apart from this, Spock has recovered some info from the fragmentary records at the station, that tell about a Vulcan researcher who had also died at an earlier point. This suggests that there was, in fact, two versions of the virus: a first one that was deadly to Vulcans (and thus, Romulans too), and the current mutation (probably accidental) which is deadly to humans. This deepens Spock's suspicions about Mendez, since he had lost his wife in a Romulan attack.

Once in the starbase, Adams is brought to a detention cell, which he promptly escapes again, this time more successfully. First, he attacks a guard and steals her red cape, to better protect himself from the light, as well as a device that blocks tricorder readings. After this, Adams kidnaps Lisa (a redshirt on shore leave), and forces her to ask for a beam up directly to her quarters in the Enterprise, where he also attacks her and drinks her blood. And then comes a loooong period where everyone is searching frantically for Adams throughout the ship. And yeah, he can block tricorders, but it's not like he's invisible or anything... He goes as far as entering sickbay and stealing transfusion equipment to draw more blood! (his next victim being Stanger, another redshirt).

For his part, Admiral Quince starts noticing strange things going around him, ever since he started investigating: sudden personnel transfers, tampering with his terminal, etc. He sends Kirk a quick anonymous message, to warn him that things are looking ugly. Yet Kirk is unable to reach him afterwards, and later is notified of Quince's sudden death in an "accident". This is the last straw that convinces Kirk of Mendez's guilt, alongside a small clique of corrupt admirals. So he decides to lure him to Tanis and catch him red-handed there, with a bluff: he tells him that Adams has been captured and has spilled the beans about the R-virus (the incriminating Romulan strain), and that they have found the evidence at Tanis.

At sickbay, Ensign Stanger wakes up from the dead after having been infected. And even though he shows some early signs of "vampirism", his good side wins in the end, and he's able to protect his friend Lisa and capture Adams (at long last!). McCoy has also developed an effective vaccine, that he administers to the whole crew and Chapel, who's also waking up from the dead (but strangely enough, much slower than Stanger?). The modus operandi of the virus is thus revealed: at first, it sends the host into apparent death (actually, hybernation) while it consumes the bloodstream's heme; once the host is depleted of heme, he wakes up and starts craving blood and infecting others. (But I don't know, as a bioweapon, it doesn't seem so effective to me...).

In the final chapters, Spock and McCoy beam down to Tanis and confront Mendez, who demands the samples of the R-virus (which they actually don't have). But just then, a transporter beam captures them and they appear in a Romulan ship. As it turns out, Adams had contacted the Romulans, promising them the samples of both virus in exchange for his freedom. Kirk forces Adams to cooperate by refusing to give him the cure, until he tells them where's the R-virus, so Adams confesses: the original R-virus had been hidden all this time inside a locket that he wore around his neck. The Romulan commander threatens Kirk, saying that he'll kill Spock and McCoy if he doesn't surrender Adams. Yet Kirk tries to negotiate with him and buy time, now that he has the only sample in his hands, though the Romulan doesn't agree to destroy the sample. However, Spock, McCoy and Mendez had managed to escape from their cells in the meantime. And after a run through the enemy ship stunning Romulans (with McCoy closing his eyes every time he has to shoot, the poor devil), they manage to lower the shields and beam themselves to the Enterprise, which promptly warps away. In the transporter room, Mendez makes a last, desperate attempt to escape with Adams and the sample. But Spock tricks him into confessing everything, and then Kirk informs him that he's been monitored, and now Starfleet knows everything about his involvement in the illegal research. In the epilogue, Kirk reflects about his lost friend Quince. And there's a moving scene where he receives a posthumous gift, with a last message from his friend, telling him to not feel guilt about his death.

Spirk Meter: 0/10*. Kirk and Spock barely exchange a couple of lines throughout the novel.

There isn't a lot either in other departments. Spock and McCoy don't seem to like each other much, though McCoy asks Spock for company while disconnecting Chapel from life support. Though it's hard to read that as Spock/McCoy, when it's evident that McCoy's full concern is for Chapel in this book. Maybe, maaaaybe, one could read some McKirk in the final scene, when McCoy drinks with Kirk in his quarters and comforts him about Quince's death. But at this point, that's like begging for crumbs.

*A 10 in this scale is the most obvious spirk moments in TOS. Think of the back massage, "You make me believe in miracles", or "Amok Time" for example.

tagged: @bonez-artistry

[gingermintpepper]

I hear the original Odysseus and Epic the musical’s Odysseus are pretty different to the point they’re sorta their own characters- how do you feel about this?

Hello beloved Anon!! Thank you so much for the ask <3

Generally, I feel like a very big part of the appeal of adapting stories, especially myths, comes from seeing what these stories and characters mean to the author and how their interpretations of the themes and conflicts in a piece of classical literature are expressed in their interpretation of the story as a whole. This, naturally, means that I fully expect and look forward to unique interpretations of well loved figures whenever I hear that something is going to be adapted! I love being able to see what aspects of a character has stuck with an author, I love being able to trace said aspects back to the original myth and see what other places the author has picked up inspiration from along the way to inform their interpretations! A big part of the appeal of reading and interacting with a whole lot of different mythical media comes from my genuine excitement and anticipation in seeing how a favourite figure of mine has been adapted or how a moment from a story that I really like has been handled!

With respect to specifically Epic and the Odyssey, my opinions on how the characters have been adapted are somewhat mixed. Putting aside my general misgivings about the current writing of the musical, I really like the directions Herrans has taken with the theming and the broad strokes of Odysseus' character and consequent arc. I like the idea of Eurylochus as a well-meaning but still very fallible second, I like the idea of Odysseus and Athena's close-knit mentorship that completely goes to shit after the Cyclops Incident, I even really liked a lot of the representations of the gods - from Hermes' carefree and relaxed kind of power to Aelous' frivolous cruelty to Zeus' power and command prior to God Games. A lot of the interpretations in the Wisdom Saga are things I feel much more neutral-negative about though. While Telemachus' ingénue-esque naivete and enthusiasm in Legendary and Little Wolf is endearing, I much prefer the Odyssey's slight desperate but unfailingly politically apt Telemachus - the wily son who helped his mother with her staling schemes and who was praised for his wit by his father. Telemachus is a young man and while he's technically characterised as such in EPIC, he's also treated in the same way a Disney Princess is where she is technically a young woman but must still appeal to very small children and I'm just not a big fan of that. I'm also not a big fan of Antinous' characterisation though that was something I was originally intensely excited about in the early days of following EPIC! Hold Them Down is a song I'd been dying to hear a full version for because I felt like it captured the quiet menace of Antinous so well - his charisma, his vile motivations, his absolute disdain for the strong-willed Penelope who has thwarted his attempts to take Ithaca for himself and the way his mask has slipped from barely cordial but socially correct visitor to absolute monster who is willing to do anything to get that crown. Just, UGH, Hold Them Down had me HYPED, but the Antinous we got in Little Wolf was... inelegant. Not subtle at all, crass with his intentions - the kind of guy who would've gotten kicked out ages ago for contempt against the queen. The whole political aspect of why they couldn't just kick the damn suitors out is that technically they'd never done anything punishable that would justify rejecting them and sending them on their way. Antinous was the head of that malicious compliance - the one who had the intelligence to be menacing but not so much that his words could be blatant insults or threats. That was part of the whole point of Odysseus striking Antinous down first! Little Wolf's Antinous,,, was not that and I found myself intensely disappointed by it considering that he was that in the earlier versions of Hold Them Down.

My other misgivings in terms of characters just have to do with Apollo, Hephaestus and Zeus in God Games tbh. I'm someone who is generally more concerned with the portrayal of gods in a work than I am with the humans and EPIC has a super unique take on all of the gods that accompany and inhabit its world. I've made a separate post voicing my misgivings about Epic's Apollo but I don't have a long laundry list of issues with EPIC's Hephaestus, I just wish he had more time to shine and that there was more to chew on with respect to his argument. Zeus however is in a similar boat to Antinous where in the first half of the play he was perfect - literally the perfect neutral god-figure who was simply doing his job and obviously not personally swayed one way or another when it came to Odysseus and was maybe having some fun at his expense in Thunderbringer. His violence in God Games then was not only greatly surprising and seemingly out of character, it was also completely unsubstantiated in the story of EPIC itself. Zeus had nothing against Odysseus, he has no particular reason to bar Athena from rescuing him. Likewise, he is the one who offers up the proposal of a game, why would he have a problem with losing it? The reason of 'he doesn't like to lose' doesn't cut it for how extreme his reaction was and it completely undermines what was a genuinely super enjoyable and different take on Zeus in a modern Western-based greek myth inspired piece of media. Absolutely such a tragedy to me.

Of course, to me, the biggest actual crime of adaptation that EPIC's committed with respect to its characters is that we only have about 10 songs left based on Herrans' original outline for the musical and Penelope still has not had a single song or showing or meaningful reference apart from "I am Odysseus and I miss my wife (her name is Penelope)". The Odyssey was a twofold story split between Odysseus vibing on the way back to Ithaca and the political bullfuckery that was awaiting for him when he inevitably returned to Ithaca. The center of that aforementioned political bullfuckery was Penelope and Telemachus. Considering Penelope has been Odysseus' guiding motivation for the entire play, the fact that there has not been a single solid piece of real characterisation that can be attributed to her this late in the story is uh! Criminal actually, and it's the only thing for which I hold some level of genuine disdain over.

In conclusion: I generally quite look forward to people doing adaptations and interpretations of myths and such! I generally think EPIC's done a good job with the adventure and exploration part of the epic but the political and domestic aspect of it really isn't where Herrans shines as a writer and it shows.

[phoenixyfriend]

Don't Want that Scarlet Letter

Read on AO3

Written for @anakin-rarepairs-week, Day 4: Instincts

Anakin is an alpha. Anakin is poisoned. Anakin enters a rut. Anakin will very possibly die of an adrenaline-induced heart attack or fever if he does not satisfy his rut. Mace is an omega. Mace is emphatically not Anakin's mate. Mace is willing to do what is necessary to keep his fellow Jedi alive. A mated alpha does not treat a homewrecking omega kindly, but Mace can put up with that for tonight.

WARNING: So this fic has very dubious consent of the 'situationally necessary' variety. Both characters agree to it while in their right minds, due to the risk of death if they don't, but it's clear that neither of them would like for this to be happening.

Mace pulls Anakin into the empty wreckage of a house, windows long since broken in and larders emptied. They won't get much shelter from the wind, but there are still some threadbare blankets and a bed with a mattress. If they're lucky, there aren't even any pests nesting in it.

They're cut off from their men, and rescue won't be possible for days yet. Mace would risk it on his own, but Skywalker is stumbling and dazed, bleeding sluggishly from a wound in his abdomen; it is small, from a dart carrying something, and would have likely ended up quite a small hole if not for how the fabric had been yanked to one side by a passing droid during a flipping maneuver, and torn the projectile out in the most damaging way possible. Skywalker is likely concussed and almost certainly poisoned. Mace doesn't trust that the boy would make it, if left to his own devices while Mace runs for backup.

Skywalker growls low, and Mace hums a little as he starts pulling away the layers of tunic. The growl raises to a snarl, and Mace looks up. He meets Skywalker's eyes, trying not to let himself believe that this is turning into a battle of wills. Skywalker's just too unmoored to think clearly, that's all.

"I just need to access the wound," he says, clearly as he can. "I have bacta in my bag. It won't be enough, but it will help. Does that sound doable?"

Skywalker stares at him for a moment, struggling, and then his head falls back with a groan.

Mace takes it for agreement. At the very least, Skywalker doesn't protest when the muddied robes and tunic are pulled away. Mace wastes some precious water washing the wound out, and then smears it with bacta and covers it with the sealant.

Skywalker grunts. "We might've needed that, later. It was just a flesh wound."

"It was worse than it looked," Mace counters, "I suspect it would have gotten infected sooner rather than later without some kind of antiseptic applied, and bacta is what we have."

Skywalker huffs, but doesn't argue.

"I'm going to look for more blankets," Mace says. "Try not to move. See if you can meditate to neutralize whatever that poison was."

He gets an affirmative grunt out of the Knight, which is about as much as Mace could hope for right now. He heads off, scouring the small building for anything useful. There is one blanket he finds that's worth taking, heavy and thick, though too scratchy to place against the skin, and some towels that don't yet smell musty or overly stale. There is even a drawer of table linens, and he takes a few of those as well; they will make for a good barrier between them and the scratchy top blanket.

There isn't any food, but the water runs. He doesn't trust it. However, he does have a few purification tablets, so that'll still work fine. It runs clear enough after a minute or so.

By the time he makes it back to Skywalker, the young man is pretty clearly trying to meditate, but Mace has doubts as to how successfully. There's a pinch to his brow, and sweat that Mace can smell from across the room.

Frustrated, anxious alpha.

Frustrated, anxious, aroused alpha.

"Skywalker?" he asks, hoping he's wrong about the assumption he's got brewing.

"I think they dosed me with a rut-inducer," Skywalker says, jaw tight and voice tighter. He does not yet open his eyes. "If they're using it as a weapon, it's going to be a strong one, isn't it? The kind that the medics warn can be deadly?"

Probably. Mace isn't a medic, though, and he's more familiar with his own anatomy than that of an alpha. Being older than Skywalker doesn't mean much when it's a subject like this.

"Is there still time to flush the toxin?" Mace asks. "I may be able to help."

Skywalker grimaces. Finally, he opens his eyes. "It's worth a shot."

--

(Continue on AO3)