#in the sense that like i always thought it was cool but i never could. like. figure out how to do that myself. if that makes sense

[void-speaks]

🌧"Hm, we don't really have those kind of luxuries nor the necessity for them, so I just dive head in even if its pouring. I do enjoy rain quite a lot. It's refreshing."

🍳"Well, I'm not exactly the best, but I do know how to make the most basic of things. Sigh, I do wish I had the chance to learn how to cook something more cool and interesting, but oh well. Oh, surprisingly enough, I do. I used to hate any and all kind of chores before, but now it's just something you can shut off your mind for and do on autopilot. Mmm, probabaly omelets. No particular reasons, I just think it's neat."

🧼"It's not like we get much of a choice. In this economy, we shower whenever we can. I do enjoy showering, but I haven't gotten many chances to bathe before, so I can't really tell anything. Again, it's a miracle if we find gel in this situation."

❌️"Obviously I would. It does depend on who is telling me what, but just in general, I would. Hmm... Probabaly Crane. He's seen some shit and has a good base of knowledge about the world, more than me and Aiden have."

🏳️‍"Well, it's hard to say right now. I can't really imagine anything that would make me give up, but there's probabaly something. Like, maybe if I was in complete despair? I don't know, hard to say."

📖"Gosh, don't even get me started on books! I really, really love books. I've always loved reading books even as a child. I mostly favored fantasy and detective novels and sometimes romance I suppose. Queer romance specifically because. Well. Guess. I wouldn't say I have a lot of opportunities to read in that sense that new books that I haven't read are a rare thing to find right now."

⛸️"I'm not... too into sports, to be fair. Would parkour count as a sport? Probabaly not right now. Hm... I guess Carnage Hall fights would be considered a sport? In that case, I don't really follow that stuff at all."

😷"I have an average immune system, so I don't get sick too much. Well, 'staying at home' right now isn't exactly an option, however, when I get sick, I tend to not overwhelm myself with chores, but don't stay in bed all day either. Well, medical masks are surprisingly hard to find, and just regular clothing pieces won't do much, so I tend to stay away from people or be very careful around them."

🥼"No, I don't. Hm, what kind of uniform... To be fair, and don't quote me on this, but Renegade uniform looks sick as Hell."

🥂"Huh, I never really thought about it. I guess I just pat myself on the back or don't really acknowledge them at all."

🛴"Parkour. It's probabaly impossible to get around on a bike in this environment, but it would be nice if I could. Traffic rules aren't really a thing right now, so eh."

🕰"Hm... Now that I think about it, we don't do that too much? Or I suppose we just use the sun as our guide most of the time. Or Peacekeeper sirens or church bells if it's in Old Villedor."

🥰"There's many things that can make me... Well, not happy, but bring some kind of positive feelings for sure. As for loved... I don't know how to answer that."

🐇"I don't. I prefer to live in the now and here. Believing in this kind of thing would be an escapism method for me, and I prefer not to do that."

🎺"I'm getting tired of saying it, but there's not much choice we have nowadays. I'm starting to sound like my grandma... I think. But, if I had to chose from all the songs I know, my current choice would be that tape that Aiden showed me recently. I don't know its name, but it goes like... 'Some people cheat, some people sin, but ohhhhh I play to win, tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-u-u-u-u-u,' and so on. Sorry, I'm not the best singer. Mm, no, not really. Never had a chance to learn. Probabaly the violin. I heard it's a difficult instrument, which is one of the things that intrigues me about it."

💽"Yes! I like collecting books, newspapers from the 'old times,' audio tapes and stuff like that. Really to collect information. But especially books. There isn't a particular reason, I just enjoy doing it. Or I suppose the reason would be that I want to know as much as possible about Villedor and its life and how life was for other people in the hot of the apocalypse."

🧋"Tea. By God how much I love tea. Especially black tea with thyme. I can't even explain it, I just do. My second top tea is from a specific brand, but it's also black tea with apple and... and some other berry. I don't know its name in English. Oh, that entirely depends on the season and how I'm feeling. But generally, I lean more towards warm or hot drinks."

🌻 random in-character questions

an ask game where, instead of replying from your perspective, you answer as if it's your original character/muse/self-insert/etc. answering the question ✨

🌧️ "When outside during the rain, do you use a raincoat, an umbrella, or something else? Do you enjoy rain?"

🍳 "Are you a good cook? Do you enjoy cooking? What's your favorite thing to cook?"

🧼 "Do you prefer to take a shower during the morning or evening? Do you like taking baths? What's your favorite scent of shower gel?"

❌ "Would you do something that someone told you not to do? Why? Is there someone you'd actually listen to more than everyone else?"

🏳️ "What will make you give up?"

📖 "What kinds of books do you read? Do you have a lot of time to read?"

⛸️ "What's your favorite kind of sport? Do you follow sports closely or don't care at all?"

😷 "How often do you get sick? Do you stay at home when sick or do you end up going outside to, say, get some groceries? If you go outside, would you wear a mask?"

🥼 "Do you have to wear a uniform somewhere? If yes, how do you feel about it? If no, what kind of uniform would you love to wear?"

🥂 "How do you celebrate you accomplishments?"

🛴 "What's your preferred way of getting somewhere - own car, public transport, a bicycle, or something else? How well do you follow the traffic rules?"

🕰️ "What do you use to check what time it is?"

🥰 "What would make you feel happy and loved?"

🐇 "Do you believe in other dimensions?"

🎺 "What kind of music do you mostly listen to? Do you know how to play an instrument, and if not, which one would you want to learn to play?"

💽 "Do you collect anything? Why?"

🧋 "What's your go-to thing to drink? Do you prefer cold or hot drinks?"

[theartofwoompwoomp]

I love your sweet comfort Jazz fic. He just fits that perfectly.

I’m wondering about a moment where he goes protective mode. I love sweet fic where the bots goes switch mode on demeanor. Could be platonic or romantic. Something like they’re out and about being goofy then something happens he goes almost feral in protection mode. Does that frighten or impress?

Im their Guardian.

Jazz x reader

a/n : Thanks im glad you enjoyed the fics, personally im never sure if i get the characters personality well, so im glad ya like it. Also thanks for the ask i loved this idea <3

———————————————————————

Now, Jazz is an amazing guardian. His love for human culture and chill personality definitely made it easier for you to get along with him.

And in all the time you have known him, he’s always been the same. Usually when describing him your go to words were “hard worker” and “cool dude”. 

Never once had you truly seen any serious sides of him, unless he was fighting in the war. 

Which is why your image of him never changed.

But that’s the thing with personalities. They can be so complex to the point certain sides only are seen in special circumstances.

Which is why today shouldn’t have been any different.

Jazz knew how much you wanted to go (an event of something you like). You had gotten dressed up and everything. How could he not take you himself? Especially when you’re so excited about it as well.

Once there, he didn’t mind if he had to wait in a parking lot or be in a garage. You both prepared a bunch of things he could do while being in aft-mode.

And time definitely went a lot faster when you called him and stayed on call the rest of the time. 

He felt as he were there with you. 

Both of you continued talking about the surroundings and stuff you got from giftshops. Even buying a shirt that says “I ❤️ Robots”

The whole time his spark was warm at the smile on your face. He loved seeing you light up as you continued talking with him about your interests, and how you got stuff for him and yourself.

But, his first suspicion of something being wrong was from your movement on the screen. You seemed to have speed up your pace. But when the call got cut off he was long gone from the parking spot.

Speeding towards the entrance hoping to pick you up.

When he arrived he saw you not far ahead, but you were worried… and, scared? 

Getting closer he saw someone older than you following behind. … too closely 

Observing a bit more, he saw they had your phone in hand, and were taking you somewhere and trying to not make it obvious. 

His motor went full power as he rushed in alt-mode. And when you turned around with a tear stained face, all of his sense was lost. 

Revving his engine as he not so subtlety headed straight for the person, he stuck out his arm and pulled you in. Tucking you safely inside him and bumping pretty hard into the person hurting you. 

He was pissed.

No one should dare think they could get away with hurting the person most dear to him.

You are everything he has. And no one was going to take that away. Only calming down when you do.

And you were definitely shaken up by the whole thing.

Honestly, it was a bit of a roller coaster. First, you felt extremely relieved you’re big guy had found you. Next, feeling terrified at the thought he might actually put someone down with the fishies. Finally, calmed down cause he didn’t, and the whole time after he treated you with extra care. 

Still inside him as he drove back to base, you place a small kiss on the dashboard and thank him. Feeling him chuckle as the car vibrates. He’d tell ya to rest and start playing a playlist he created for you.

——————————————————————

Masterlist 

[achilles-rage]

hiiii hope im not to late to your prompt party.

how about “tracing a finger across your lover’s scar” and “kissing your lovers forehead or knuckles” for Buck

because I’m a cool lightning strike scar truther 🫙

yess i’m so glad i got a fluffy prompt request!! i was expecting mostly smut ones, so i love this!! this is also an idea i've had for a while, but never got around to writing, so i'm glad i finally got to write it!! also, i know these scars wouldn’t last that long, but just pretend<3

"tracing a finger across your lover's scar" and "kissing your lovers forehead or knuckles" from this post

you still remember the night there was a knock on your door. you weren’t expecting anyone, which was the first red flag, but when you looked through the peephole and saw the familiar fabric of an lafd uniform, you knew something was terribly wrong. 

you could barely look at buck shirtless for weeks; the lightning scars across his torso too painful of a reminder of when you saw him in the hospital. of when his heart stopped. 

3 minutes and 17 seconds.

when buck had finally noticed what you were doing; turning the a/c up so it was too cold for him to sleep shirtless, and always coming up with excuses to either of you taking off clothes during sex, he finally pieced everything together.

“baby, what’s going on? why don’t you want to see me anymore?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest as he stands in front of you in your shared bedroom.

you blink slowly, feeling tears well up in your eyes as you take in his hurt expression. you don’t want to tell him the truth, you don’t want to make it into a big deal. and you especially don’t want to face that he had died. not again.

“i can’t look at those scars everyday, buck. it fucking hurts.” you tell him, voice cracking. 

his brows furrow as he studies your face, and then his expression falls, realization dawning on his face.

“what, you think they’re ugly? you don’t think i’m attractive anymore?” you can see the tears in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly, closing the distance between the two of you and cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“oh, baby, no. of course not.” you assure him in a soft voice. you can’t believe yourself; you’ve put your needs completely over his. you didn’t even think of how this would look to him. “it’s just that, all i think about when i see those scars is how you left me. you died, buck, and then you were in a hospital bed, in a coma. you have no idea what that was like for me. for a while, we didn’t even know if you’d even wake up.” 

he lets out a shaky breath as a tear runs down his cheek, nodding slowly at your words. it’s true, he doesn’t know what that was like, and he feels an odd sense of guilt filling his belly.

“i’m sorry. i just thought that-” he whispers, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against yours as he lets out a long sigh.

you shake your head, smiling sadly as you keep his face right against yours, feeling a tear fall down your own cheek.

“don’t you dare apologize. i’m sorry. i didn’t think about how you’d take what i was doing. your scars aren’t ugly. at all. you’re still you, and you’re still as handsome as you were without your scars, i promise. it was only ever about the memories attached to those scars.” you tell him, voice firm enough for him to believe you, yet soft enough to know that you’re not upset in any way. 

you feel him nod against your forehead, and you finally pull back from him and place a kiss on his forehead, lips lingering on his skin for a second or two longer than normal.

“i love you.” you whisper when you pull back, smile softly as you see the sadness and uncertainty melting from his features. “now take off your shirt.”

he raises a brow, a glimpse of his usual self coming back as he smirks down at you and places his hands on your hips.

“are you trying to get me naked, pretty girl?” he teases, and you laugh softly, shrugging.

“just your shirt, lover boy. wanna see you.” you tell him with a smile, turning him around and pushing him down to sit on the bed. 

he pulls his shirt off quickly, and when it’s off, you’re quick to straddle his lap and push his back down onto the bed. you let your fingers drag across his skin, tracing the patterns of the scar littering his torso. your eyes follow the path of your fingers, touch feather-light as you take in every dark patch of skin. 

buck can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he watches you, eyes darting between your face and your fingers as his hands squeeze your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

when you finally look back up at him, you smile, fingers still pressed against his chest.

“beautiful boy.” you whisper, then lean down and begin to press gentle kisses to his scars, starting at the tips of each lightning strike, then moving up and kissing where each branch of lightning separates from the other, moving in different directions across his tan skin.

he doesn’t know what to do as he relishes in your touch, your attention to his scars feeling so overwhelming and mind numbing. he hadn’t told anyone, but he’s a little insecure about his scars. everyone tells him how cool they look, but he just doesn’t see it. it just reminds him of what happened to him, and what he could’ve lost.but, now, he doesn’t feel bad about them at all, because you like them, and that’s all that matters.

[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (1) ₊˚⊹♡

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Stan, are you even listening to me?”

“Uh… yeah, dude…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You totally have.”

“I haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” he protested weakly.

“You so did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she say anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stan, what—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Stan.

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

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

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

Nothing had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you noticed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stan was a fucking mess.

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

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

He couldn’t fucking stand it.

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

But he hadn’t stopped.

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

Tonight was no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to stop thinking.

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

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

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

And then they were on each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

It never fucking was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[cxvii666]

"GIRLS"

college au! denki kaminari x reader

cw: recreational drug use, bad language, sexual tension, wet and messy public handjobs, men whimpering

wc: 2.5k

loosely inspired by the dare's album "what's wrong with new york?"

girls that's mean just for fun, i like girls who make love, but i like girls that like to fuck

THAT'S WHAT'S UP

"she doesn't like you, y'know."

denki gasped semi-sarcastically, like its obvious that you don't like him and anyone with eyes can see that but it still shocking to hear out of his best friend's mouth.

jirou turns to him with barely concealed mirth in her eyes and she looks up from her phone where she'd been texting momo, asking for her whereabouts.

they were at a party, a sleazy rich kid house party, one of momo's friend's sisters' or something like that. the kind that involved lots of expensive alcohol, shitty bass music, and sweaty hot rich kids that did too much coke and no survival instincts or a general sense of humiliation. one guy had already thrown up twice, two girls had passed out, someone's boyfriend had punched someone else and denki was absolutely fucking loving it.

he and jirou had smoked some good shit with hanta after pregaming and had enter the party at its pinnacle, completely crossfaded. the good kind that makes you feel like hot shit, like you're the baddest on the planet, and that you could fuck anyone you wanted if you tried hard enough.

that was about two, maybe three, hours ago.

he hits the vape he stole from jirou and scrunches his face at her.

"where even is momo?"

he's chosen to dodge the topic. the topic of you.

he only knows you as one of momo's ex talking stages. you run in the same social circles mostly and somehow, you're still amicable, friendly infact, its some weird sapphic thing that denki doesn't get. how you're friends with jirou, denki really doesn't get. like how can jirou be friends with her girlfriend's ex-situation?

well that's what he thought.

until he met you.

and wow.

you're across the kitchen from him now, chatting it up with some guy you just met, and he's laughing at something you said because you have this effortless wit and charm about you that everyone in your vicinity can sense. it rolls off you in waves, your aura is so attraction, so is your hair, and your eyes, and your smile, and the dress you're wearing-

and now you're looking at him, or maybe at jirou, yeah never mind, you're looking at jirou, and before he knows it his best friend is whacking the back of his neck.

"you're staring," she teases in a singsong voice, fucking annoying habit that she stole from him and just for that he snatches her drink from her and downs it in one gulp. "hey, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

denki fake gags slightly before smiling all teeth "you never answered my question, when's your girlfriend getting here?" jirou rolls her eyes at his obvious diversion from the topic "i want her to make me that weird drink she makes with the tequila.... and i'm pretty sure i left my lighter in her car."

"momo won't care y'know." she looks at him with full seriousness and nods in your direction. "you should be more worried about how you're gonna talk to her."

denki says nothing in reply, only sighs and send jirou an affirmative hum so that she knows he's not being pissy and ignoring her.

his eyes cut to you again, the guy you were talking to has gone back to the friends he came with and you're pouring yourself a drink.

and jirou was right, by the way. at first you didn't like him, he laughs too loud at his own jokes, bums cigs off of everyone and everytime you've seen him in passing, at parties like this or nights at the club when jirou's band plays, he's always chatting someone up.

girls of all kinds, tall girls, small girls, girls that do drugs, girls with dicks, blondes, brunettes, gingers, white girls, black girls, brown girls.

you wondered about him. there's gotta be something that he's doing right, because from what you've heard from momo his cool guy persona is simply that, a persona, and he's actually a massive loser who spends most of his time playing pokemon go or holed up in his room watching anime. so how he can pull so many baddies, most of whom speak of him fondly, is a mystery to you.

but damn, he is cuteeee.

like cracked, horny, stoner, twink that would probably beg for it cute.

and you're obsessed.

that's the real reason why you've been throwing shade at him all night, making sly biting comments, getting into dumb senseless arguments, you're playing with him, working him up slowly, and he's enjoying it.

but contrary to popular belief, denki is not the sleazebag everyone thinks he is. sure he's had a few flings with a few friends, drunken nights never spoken of again, and there was that one time where a girl he slept with lied to him about having a boyfriend. but like, aside from that, he's not like horrible.

and momo is his friend, and idk, isn't flirting with her ex kinda weird, and won't you think its weird that he's flirting with you, and omg, what if you think its weird??, and you actually don't want anything to do with him, and this highly charged game made of mean banter and heated stares, is actually just a game and he's been reading all the signals wrong, and you actually don't want him, and he's gonna have to jerk off so hard tomorrow morning to forget about you because the look you gave him after you called him a senseless idiot for spilling vodka on the counter early was sooo hot and he-

"you're spiralling."

jirou rolls her shoulder and starts riffling through her jacket pockets, probably looking for the vape denki has concealed in his right hand. she pauses and looks at the blonde before sighing. "momo's here. she's got your light." she gets up off the counter and pauses. "and maybe drink something before you smoke, you look like you're about to vom all over the floor or somethin'."

"you dirty bitch, i am not nervous, i swear you're so-" jirou leaves him in the kitchen with a resounding cackle and goes out into the main house to find her girlfriend.

the sound of jirous laughter calls your attention over to denki, who's attention you already had, he'd been counting the piercings on your right ear, and a smirk creeps onto your face, as you pick up your cup and make your way over to him.

"do you have a staring problem?" straight to the point, your voice so close to his ear it makes him jump. "huh, oh, what?" he splutters "staring? me?? why would i be staring at you, of all people?"

the red on his cheeks makes you snort and you regard his fake non-chalant lean against the kitchen counter.

"well that's what i'm trying to work out," you say as you inch closer practically caging him in, still keeping direct eye contact.

his breath hitches slightly as his eyes lock onto your own, determined to win whatever game it is your playing, despite the twitch in his jeans.

you're so close you practically taste his breath, he smells like bud, expensive foreign perfume and bubblegum, your hands splayed either side of his hips creep closer to him.

denki can hear the gulp he takes when your hands finally make contact with his body, your thumbs just slightly grazing his outer thighs, he thinks he might actually have a fucking heart attack or something. he keeps his eyes on yours, but trying to centre himself in your gaze seems to have been the wrong decision to make because the way you tilt your head and smile so innocently, like you don't know what you're doing, is sending him to space. and it's your smile that makes him blink and drop his eyes entirely to the curve of your lips, just for a second.

you notice immediately and let out an obnoxious 'ha!' before reaching up and plucking the joint that he had tucked behind his ear, and yeah it was part of the fit, the pink rolling paper matched his shoes, before taking a step back from the blonde.

he responds to your laugh with a scoff and a roll of his eyes which makes your smile grow even wider. you hide this as best you can by taking a sip of your drink effectively finishing it. he looks at you, amber eyes regarding you curiously, like he's awaiting instruction.

"you wanna go out back?" you smile cheekily brandishing your prize, "go smoke this baby before jirou gets back?"

he sniffs and stands at his full height, stuffing his hands in his back pockets before nodding to the exit. and you lead the way to the garden with a giggle.

"it's not my fault. you're the poser walking around with a joint and no lighter." as you finally stamp out then end of the joint. you'd just had to beg some snotty marlboro gold smoking guy for the use of his lighter. "honestly it was more of an accessory than a zoot, you didn't even roll it well."

"you're so mean to me," denki flushes, honest to god his voice sounding more like a whimper then anything else.

you scoff at him. you're not mean, this guys just an idiot, generally easy to make fun of, and has the most adorable reactions whenever you take the piss out of him. you can't help yourself. he's so easy practically throwing himself at you, demanding all of your attention all night and then whining like a kicked puppy and retreating back to hide behind jirou when you don't give him the response he's looking for.

"oh, i'm sorry," you ask soflty and the change in attitude gives him whiplash. "are you alright, denki?" he's growing crossed eyed as he watches your lips getting closer to his.

his knees buckle "yeah, just uh, my iron deficiency."

you pull away to raise your eyebrow about to make a sarcastic remark when he surges forward and captures your lips in his. your hands travel up the back of his neck, and the way you thread your fingers through his hair makes him groan into your mouth. you push against him effectively pining him against the cold stone wall, and he just takes it, lets you control the momentum of the kiss, like he's in the middle of a storm just being thrown around and carried by the waves, and he's fucking loving every second of it.

you swear once you break for air, your lips plump, and wet, and juicy, and soft, and he's already diving back in, he needs more of you. more of your taste, fuck, you taste so good, your lips are so soft and syrupy against his, he feels like he's melting into to your hands.

"careful," you murmur directly into his ear and he keens as you grip his hair tight and tilt his head back to give provide acces to his bare neck.

"please, please, please, please, fuck."

you tug harshly on his blonde locs, his eyes fluttering open at the feeling as you hold his gaze. "what do you want denki? use your words."

he can't think of how to reply, not with your right hand itching at his scalp and your left hand drawing circles on the skin above his waistband. "oh god, i don't- i don't even know- i- fuck."

your left hand has dropped, finger only slightly grazing the front of his jeans but it's enough for him to whine so prettily in your ear and cant his hips upwards into your palm.

"fuck, please-"

you cut him off by mashing your lips into his, he accepts gratefully pouring every inch of his desire into your mouth.

"you're so desperate."

he's nodding, he wants you so bad, your hand feels so good even through the layers of fabric covering his most sensitive parts, but its like his skin is on fire, and the only thing that can put it out is your touch. his hands run along your torso, his finger only just brushing over your nipples, enough to make you gasp into him, as he wraps his arms around your body to deepen the kiss.

as good as this feels, the sounds he's making, the whimpers leaving his lips as he grinds into your hand, are increasing in volume and your entirely conscious of the fact that you are outside, out the open, for anyone to hear or see.

you hiss out his name, but just hearing your voice turns him on more and you have to grip his face with you fingers for him to stop moving and pay attention.

"if you want me to keep going," punctuated by a squeeze to his jaw, "then- look at me when i'm talking to you, then you're gonna have to shut up." your gaze is so intense he's nodding before he's even fully comprehended the words you've said.

his pretty amber eyes roll back into his head as your hand finally slips underneath his boxers and you grasp his hot, sticky, dick with your cold soft hands. "oh wow," you snicker, "you're so messy."

your words make denki whine, silenced by a stern look before he pouts. "what so you can talk but i can't even-, oh fuck-" you squeeze him, the weight heavy in your hands.

"yeah, because you're leaking all over my hand."

he holds in his whine this time cussing under his breath and looking at you. his pretty face obscured by strands of hair all wild and messy sticking up at odd angles. his lips are pink and swollen, drool threatening to spill out of his mouth, cheeks flushed.

"that's not fair," he hisses at you but you remain largely unbothered by his attitude as you thumb his tip. "you're teasing."

"i'm not doing anything, you're the one that can't keep it together."

"i-" he starts but you pick up speed and cover his mouth with your free hand so he's free to buck and whine all he wants.

"look at you, are you gonna finish like this? i've barely even touched you."

its like your words are directly fuelling the grind of his hips, he humps against you furiously, drool spilling all down his face, soiling that hand as well. like he can't help but make a mess in all directions.

you can tell he's close when his eyes start fluttering and his body starts twitching crazily.

your hand drops from his face, quickly wiping the drool onto his tshirt before snaking your way back up and applying light pressure to the base of his neck.

that does it for him as he comes with a whine of your name, followed by jagged breath and the crazy stutter in his hips.

you give him a second to catch his breath before you start tearing into him about the mess he's made and about how he better not have gotten any cum on your dress.

"always complaining about something, i swear," he rolls his eyes and before you can bite back he slips your cum soiled fingers into his mouth and runs his tongue along each individual finger before giving a hard suck. you watch him mouth slightly agape, and the pulsing heat in between your thighs makes itself apparent to you.

"you are such a slut." he grins mouth full and you press down on his tongue. "you wanna get outta here?"

heyyyyyy guys sorry ik i said i'd do part 3 of dealer reader WHICH WILL COME but this was a random burst of inspiration i got last nigjt when i was omw back from the last sesh of the season before all my friends fuck off out of london but and one of my mates is super obsessed with the dare and made us listen to the whole album while we were out on the field ANYWAYS IK U DONT CARE but this was so yummy and juicy to write so i hope u enjoyed 😝😝😝😝😝

[moutheyes]

A fond farewell to Miseinen, See Your Love, and Caged Again

It's actually insane how hot 2025 is coming in. Out of these three series, I was originally only watching Caged Again (hello, I'm moutheyes, and I'm a WeTV Originals acolyte), but thanks to the fine folks here who make nice gifs I gave in and jumped on the bandwagons for Miseinen and See Your Love.

Original script counter: 2 originals, 1 adaptation (a transnational one at that!).

For anyone still waiting to watch the Caged Again finale, I'll put that one behind the cut even though there aren't any spoilers. :)

Miseinen

Somehow both more quiet and more dramatic than I expected. Liked the confusion-separation-reconciliation of it all very much, the way the tumult of youth—feelings amplified by a lack of freedom, sense of suffocation, and the uncertainty of the future—smoothed out, giving way to more even ground where Jin and Haruki could restart their interrupted hearts. The beauty of their relationship was how they saw each other for who they really were, and accepted those initial rough draft versions, and that was enough.

At the same time, the commitment to realism resonated deeply: of course Haruki's trauma meant he needed time to heal away from everything else, and of course Jin's filial nature meant he'd always be torn between duty and desire. The way this extended to the special episode was especially poignant, showing the complex navigation of a now-stable relationship within their separate careers and semi-shared social lives. I also appreciated how they found outlets to express themselves when they couldn't find the right words to say face to face: the letters, the movie, the metaphors they both worked into their art. Both main actors had standout moments, and their chemistry was also top tier—the eyes and the hands! Also loved the moody palette with the constant contrast between cool and warm tones, and the opening song is a total earworm, absolutely unskippable.

Initial rating: 8.0

See Your Love

Okay, so 75% of this show was designed specifically to punch me in a soft and vulnerable place. Shaopeng—and his family—showcased some of the most thoughtful disability rep I've seen in Asian media, not just QL. His storyline was uplifting and affirming, but didn't shy away from his frustrations or hardships, either. The progression and deepening of Shaopeng and Zixiang's relationship is where I thought the script did great work with Zixiang in particular. His devotion to learning sign language and his commitment to doing everything possible to immerse himself in Shaopeng's world, ugh. For such a useless nepo baby, Zixiang was remarkably clear-headed about his own weaknesses, and even leaned into them—his cowardice, his lack of self-sufficiency—to bolster Shaopeng's own confidence. And in return, he gained strength from Shaopeng's resilience to face his own issues head-on. (Special shout-out to Shaopeng's dad, aka the taekwondo instructor the guys from LFCT needed...)

The show did a beautiful job with the central romance, but did leave a few crumbs on the table. The second pairing was deeply unserious and underdeveloped (very cute and appealing dynamic though, I guess there's always fic), and neither Jessica nor Zicheng posed real threats to the HEA. Zicheng in particular never felt like a major player; his local hired thugs were kind of just helpfully inept, and his eleventh-hour interference attempt needed more setup on the emotional front, although I did enjoy the actual confrontation scene.

Initial rating: 7.5

Caged Again

I don't know how they managed to infuse this wacky premise of a show—a panther and a penguin transform into teenage boys and fall in love—with the warmth of a big group hug, but the metaphorical storytelling was a wild success. All of the characters in the show have their own cage keeping them from what they truly desire, whether it's loneliness, trauma, neglect, grief, or pressure from parents and society. It's simple, it's universal, and that's why it works.

It didn't hurt that the cast was disarmingly endearing! Jay was a little ball of charm as Junior, our penguin, whose curiosity about life as a human was surpassed only by his audacity and sass. Ben played panther Sun with a lot of quiet restraint, which worked due to the character's backstory, and Nokia and Jaonine rounded out the main teenager group with a charming soft-bickering dynamic. Add in a colorful support cast featuring real-life couple Porsche and Arm as some needed father figures and queer role models, a Mole Goddess whose hobby was breaking the fourth wall, a school principal with an inner minx, and the world's most Done With Your Nonsense security guard, and every episode was a rollicking good time.

I thought the villains—a pair of animal traffickers—were afforded a bit too much screentime, since they also doubled as additional comic relief, but there was something genuinely heartbreaking about Junior's relationship with Son, the zookeeper whose betrayal leads to some real moments of pathos. (Is there anything to how close Son and Sun are in spelling/pronunciation?) Overall, though, this was an unexpected comfort show with careful character work and a great sense of humor—and another prime example of why I hunger for more original scripts!

Initial rating: 8.0

A very strong start to the year, hope the rest of 2025 can deliver like this.

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Guys, my routine is getting back to normal, so maybe I'll delay the time or day of the posts. I hope you'll forgive me 😩🙏🏻

Pay attention to the signs from now on.

Enjoy it <3

MINORS DO NO MUST INTERACT

Summary: Things are finally moving in the right direction, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt any less.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

LOVE

As Wanda rose from the bed, the silence of the room felt heavy, filled only with the lingering echoes of shared moments. She reached for the blanket now crumpled on the floor, trying to restore the order that had unknowingly been shattered. The room, once immaculate, now bore the traces of desire, of intensity, of something immense and unique that had transpired between the two of you.

Her gaze swept across the space as she gathered the scattered clothes, and that’s when something caught her attention. There, on the floor near the headboard, something shimmered softly under the lamplight. Wanda crouched down, curiosity piqued, and found a necklace. It was simple, yet the pendant—a golden sun—seemed to emit a light of its own. Strange. She had never seen it before. Wanda held it between her fingers, her eyes narrowing in thought.

The necklace had been placed there deliberately, as if waiting to be found, but she couldn’t recall ever seeing it. She glanced at her own neck, confirming she wasn’t wearing it. The object didn’t belong to her memories, yet it felt familiar, as if it had always been there, silently waiting for this moment.

Wanda twisted the necklace between her fingers, feeling the coolness of the metal and the smoothness of the chain. The golden sun pendant seemed to glow faintly, warming her skin as she observed it more closely. It was simple yet elegant, carrying an air of antiquity—as if it held stories of its own, tales steeped in the weight of years, perhaps even lifetimes.

She tried to recall where she might have seen it or who could have left it there, but her mind offered no answers. Still, the sense of familiarity remained, unsettling and deep. What made it even stranger was the significance the necklace seemed to hold, as though it was part of something larger, something beyond the present—perhaps a fragment of an unknown future. It felt like a missing piece of her own existence.

She turned, her gaze falling on you, still lying there with your eyes closed and your expression serene. The necklace seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, but Wanda didn’t believe in coincidences. In her world, where magic and fate intertwined in mysterious ways, she knew that nothing happened without a reason. That necklace, that golden sun, must mean something.

Wanda watched you sleep, your body wrapped in the warmth of the blankets. For a while, she stood still, her eyes lingering on your peaceful face. You looked so calm, so innocent in that quiet moment. The contrast between the intensity of the night before and the softness of the present made her smile. Yet there was something she couldn’t ignore. Time was passing, and though she loved having you there, her responsibilities called.

“Y/n...” Wanda murmured softly, her voice gentle, as if reluctant to wake you. She reached out, her hand brushing through your hair with tender care. “Wake up, darling.”

Her voice was low, but the underlying urgency was palpable. Wanda didn’t want to break the tranquility, but the hours were slipping away. It was already past four in the afternoon, and she had things to do—like preparing dinner for the boys. She hated interrupting moments like this, but if she didn’t, she knew she’d lose track of time.

“My lazy little girl,” she teased, a playful smile curving her lips, though her tone remained affectionate. “Wake up… You’ll sleep the entire day away if you don’t.”

Her fingers traced your skin once more, this time with a firmer touch, ensuring you’d stir without being startled. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and mild exasperation, though beneath it all was the deep desire to see you happy, to savor life by her side.

“I know it’s cozy there, but, my love, you need to return to reality for a bit.” Wanda’s teasing tone held a deeper truth. She wanted you to know that while your time together was precious, the world outside still waited.

She watched as your fingers twitched, a sign of life stirring beneath the blankets, and her smile widened. Wanda loved seeing you wake like this—sleepy, beautiful, with a vulnerability only she was privileged to witness. She felt at peace, though a part of her buzzed with anticipation, waiting for the moment you’d fully awaken so she could share another touch, another whispered promise.

“Y/n...” Wanda repeated, her voice firmer this time but still soft. She felt the pull to draw you closer, to embrace you, yet she held back, knowing that the peaceful moment would soon come to an end. “Wake up, darling… You have to go, but we still have a little more time, don’t we?”

Your eyes fluttered open slowly, the gentle afternoon light spilling into the room. Despite the glow, your vision remained clouded with sleep, your body too heavy with comfort to want to move. But Wanda’s voice—soft, insistent—lingered in your mind.

“Wands...” you murmured, your voice husky with drowsiness, the nickname slipping out effortlessly, filled with affection and familiarity. It sounded like a reflex, an unconscious expression of the bond between you.

The sound of it made Wanda’s breath catch. Something about that simple word stirred something deep within her, something she couldn’t quite explain. Warmth spread through her chest, an unexpected, overwhelming feeling of belonging that made her heart race. It was as if that one word touched a hidden part of her, something she hadn’t realized was there—a feeling both new and familiar, like finding a piece of herself she hadn’t known was missing.

Wanda stayed still, watching you, her gaze intense and unwavering. She prided herself on control, but in that moment, all sense of control seemed distant. That nickname, so soft, so meaningful, seemed to reshape her world, painting a new reality she couldn’t deny.

Leaning closer, Wanda traced her fingers across your cheek, her touch delicate yet deliberate, as if confirming that you were real, that this wasn’t a dream. “What is it, my little one?” she asked, her voice lower than usual, laced with vulnerability—something she rarely allowed to show. Only you could draw that out of her.

The warmth spreading through her didn’t stop. Wanda wasn’t sure whether she wanted to keep you in that peaceful moment or lose herself completely in what she was feeling. That simple nickname carried an inexplicable power—a bond, invisible yet unbreakable, something beyond words.

As you pushed yourself up from the bed, your legs wobbled, unsteady from rest, as if melted by sleep. The room still hummed with the calm of the aftermath of something intense, and your mind remained hazy, clouded with lingering sensations you couldn’t yet process. Your feet touched the floor unsteadily, nearly tripping before you could brace yourself on the nearest piece of furniture.

And then Wanda’s playful, mischievous giggle sliced through the quiet.

“Mommy got you good, didn’t she?” she teased, her eyes gleaming with a wicked light, her voice dripping with playful malice.

As you looked at her, warmth rose to your cheeks, but instead of shying away, you met Wanda's intensity head-on, refusing to let her have the last word.

"Maybe," you teased, a playful smile lighting up your face, your eyes gleaming with challenge. "But you know you love seeing me like this."

Your response was steady, a blend of well-placed provocation and newfound confidence born from the moments you had just shared with her. Wanda raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your boldness, yet unable to hide her satisfaction at the effect she had on you.

"Oh, you're feeling quite cheeky now, aren’t you?" Wanda chuckled, her laughter laced with desire and undeniable affection. She stepped toward you, her predatory gaze and sly smile promising she was ready to make you surrender all over again.

"What can I say? My sharp tongue is what makes you feel so powerful, isn’t it?" you teased, your grin sharpening as the tension between you both thickened. "But you're hard to resist too."

Your words hit their mark with precision, spoken with the kind of directness that made Wanda's eyes flash with that familiar fire—a hunger that your every word seemed to stoke. This dynamic between you, the playful dance of power, submission, and teasing defiance, had grown into something undeniable. Wanda, ever watchful, took in your every movement, her gaze burning as though every word you uttered was both a challenge and an irresistible temptation.

Her lips parted slightly, her teeth grazing her bottom lip—a gesture she couldn’t quite control, as if she was already imagining the ways she’d claim you again. Her restraint was fragile, that much was clear. She knew time was running out. Responsibilities awaited. You both had lives to return to. But for a fleeting moment, Wanda hesitated, the desire to pull you back into her embrace stronger than any rational thought.

She took another step closer, her presence radiating warmth and pulling you in. You felt the heat between you, the magnetic pull that made your breath hitch and your heart race faster. Every inch closer made it harder to hold back, the urge to lose yourself in her overwhelming.

"You’re impossible," Wanda murmured, her voice low and dripping with desire, barely keeping her composure intact. "But I can’t stay away from you."

You leaned in, your voice soft yet laced with playful defiance. "I know, Wands. You’ll always want more."

Your bodies instinctively closed the distance, pulled by that invisible force binding you two. The air around you crackled with tension, every breath heavier, every glance charged with unspoken longing. Your lips were just a heartbeat away from meeting when—

"Mama!"

The sharp call of a child’s voice shattered the moment, like a bolt of lightning cutting through a storm.

The sound of her boys’ voices echoed from the distance, but it was enough to snap Wanda out of the trance. She froze, a sigh of frustration slipping from her lips as the spell between you broke. You, still caught in the heat of the moment, shivered at the sudden shift in reality. Wanda’s gaze locked on yours, her eyes still aflame with desire, but now tinted with exasperation.

"Time to face reality," she murmured with a soft, amused smile, though a flicker of reluctance lingered in her tone.

When you walked into the dining room, Tommy’s eyes widened, clearly surprised to still see you there.

"Y/N! You're still here?" he exclaimed, the surprise evident in his voice.

You let out an awkward laugh, trying to mask your embarrassment, but unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips.

"Yeah... your mom and I were talking about you two," you began, your voice a little hesitant, as if you were still searching for a plausible excuse. "She gave me some tips about Russian history..."

You glanced at Wanda, who, upon hearing you, raised an eyebrow with a subtle smirk playing on her lips. She was clearly amused by your attempt to justify what had just happened. Her gaze lingered on you, as if she knew exactly what was running through your mind, finding entertainment in your effort to maintain composure.

She said nothing, but the slight curl of her lips said it all: she understood that what the two of you had shared could not easily be explained, and she found the whole situation funny—the way you tried to disguise it, as if the world around you both wouldn't be able to comprehend.

Tommy still looked a little confused, but Billy, ever direct, wasted no time asking the question that seemed to hang in the air.

"Are you staying for dinner?" he asked, his mouth full of food, cheeks puffed out with a piece of chicken.

You opened your mouth to decline, to say you didn’t want to impose, but before you could finish your sentence, Wanda interrupted.

"Yes. Sit down, Y/N," she said, her tone firm but gentle, a tone you knew well.

When you glanced at the table, your heart softened at the sight—a fourth plate, carefully placed, as if Wanda had been expecting you.

It was such a simple thing, yet in that moment, it felt like more than just an ordinary meal. It was an invitation to be part of something, to integrate into the routine she so deeply wanted you to share with her and the boys. Wanda didn’t need to say anything more. That gesture alone spoke volumes, and despite your efforts to resist the idea of staying, something inside you gave in to the need to be part of that scene—to allow yourself to live that moment of connection, of family, with them.

You glanced at Wanda, and without meaning to, a small, sincere smile escaped your lips. That was what she wanted—what she needed, perhaps more than anything else. To feel whole. To feel that you were there with them, in those small, everyday moments.

Wanda watched you with a soft expression, almost as if she feared you might disappear at any moment. She had never truly understood what it meant to feel complete until now. That simple gesture—the fourth plate at the table—was everything she had been longing for.

It wasn’t about grand feats, battles won, or moments of glory. No. It was about that instant. She wanted you there, with them, sharing a meal, laughing with the boys, building bonds that were simple yet profound.

The shy smile you gave her made her chest tighten in a sweet, aching way, a warmth spreading through her. It was a smile of acceptance. Of belonging. And she felt as if, finally, she had found what she had been searching for.

After years of fighting, of loneliness, she never imagined that her happiness would come from something so simple. She had weathered countless storms, defeated powerful enemies, reshaped entire realities, but nothing compared to the satisfaction of seeing you there—so close, so human, so present. It made her feel that everything she had done, all the suffering and sacrifice, had been worth it. Because in that moment, she no longer needed the power to destroy; she needed the power to live.

If she had to fight to protect this, she would. Everything. She would do anything to ensure you remained there, with them. She wouldn’t allow anything to take away that sense of completeness. She never thought she could find peace in something as simple as being with her family—with you—but there it was, as clear as the sparkle in the boys’ eyes.

Wanda glanced at the plate you were about to take and let out a soft sigh. Perhaps it was the first time in a long while that she felt truly alive. No longer just the Scarlet Witch, the world-breaker, but a woman who longed for the warmth of a home. A home she knew, without a doubt, she wanted to build with you.

She didn’t need anything else. Just you. And she would do everything to keep this happiness, even if it meant fighting against fate itself.

Dinner was peaceful, yet there was a subtle tension in the air, a palpable energy that you could barely ignore. Wanda, seated beside you, chatted with the boys about their day, asking questions, laughing at Tommy's thoughtless, animated responses, and trying to provide some guidance to Billy, who always seemed lost in his own thoughts.

You remained quiet, your eyes darting between the boys and Wanda, observing the little moments. The air was filled with laughter and conversation, but something else vibrated between you and Wanda—a pull that thrived on the subtlest touches, the unspoken glances, as if all you wanted was to stay right there, close to her.

When your gaze met Wanda’s, her eyes were sparkling, a gentle smile on her lips. But her gaze spoke more than words ever could. She was attentive, always attentive to you, and the feeling of being seen by her in such a deep, sincere way made your heart race.

You tried to hide it, focusing on the food in front of you, but the rising warmth in your cheeks betrayed your inner thoughts.

And then, an unexpected sensation spread through your leg, making you shiver—not entirely surprised, but still caught off guard.

Wanda’s foot brushed against yours, sliding against your skin with a lightness that seemed intentional yet natural. It was as if she couldn’t keep herself away from you, even beneath the table where no one else could see.

The touch was soft, yet so charged with intent. Wanda was right there, beside you, doing nothing overt, yet everything around you seemed to vanish as you focused on that gesture. You remembered the kiss—the way she had kissed you with such intensity, as if trying to imprint the moment in her memory. The warmth, the urgency, the gentleness—it was as if she had left a mark on you that could never be erased.

You quickly turned, catching Wanda’s gaze once more. She was watching you with a quiet intensity, a subtle smile on her lips. She knew exactly what she was doing, and something inside you could no longer resist.

The energy between you was becoming almost unbearable, and even with the boys chatting excitedly about their plans for tomorrow, all you could do was lose yourself in her presence.

"Y/N, are you okay?" Billy asked, his childish concern pulling you back to reality.

You blinked, confused for a second, before forcing yourself to give a nervous smile. "Yes, of course. Just thinking that it's already late." Your eyes met Wanda's, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background, the warmth of her touch enveloping you once more.

Her smile widened, subtle but filled with silent promises, while the boys continued talking. She was there, present in every moment, but also, somehow, entirely yours. And as much as you wanted to hide behind your shyness, you knew that everything became more intense, more heated, more yours when you were by her side.

Dinner seemed to stretch longer than usual, the conversation flowing smoothly while you tried to remain as composed as possible, though your mind was filled with thoughts of Wanda. Now, as you stood from the table, the sensation of wanting to run away yet stay close to her consumed you.

The boys were distracted with their toys and chatter, and you took the opportunity to say your goodbyes, trying to maintain your composure. "Bye, Tommy. Bye, Billy. See you next Saturday, boys," you said with a smile, though your desire to leave was partially driven by everything that was happening between you and Wanda.

Wanda stood up after you, her expression somewhat serious, but with a soft smile as she motioned for you to follow her. She was calm, yet there was an intensity in her movements—something almost predatory, as if she were holding back something she could barely contain. It only fueled your desire to stay near her, to feel the heat radiating from her presence.

She guided you to the door, and as you passed through it, something in the air seemed to shift. You could no longer ignore what you were feeling—the tension between the two of you becoming almost unbearable. Her presence was in every corner of the house, but there, at the door, it felt like the very point where everything would unravel. You couldn’t hold back any longer. You wanted to kiss her right there, under the soft glow of the night.

Without thinking, you whispered, "I want to kiss you."

Wanda's reaction was instant. She stopped, her green eyes narrowing with a spark of something deeper, more primal. You felt the air between you electrify, and Wanda almost gasped before replying in a husky voice, "I know. I want it too. But we can’t."

That response was like fuel to a fire—a challenge you couldn’t resist. Without giving her time to say more, you stepped closer to her, ignoring logic, ignoring any rational thought about what might happen. All you felt was an uncontrollable desire to have her, to lose yourself in that moment with her, no matter the risk.

"I can’t get enough of you. What are you doing to me?" Your voice came out trembling, more vulnerable than you wanted to admit. But she knew it was the truth.

Wanda’s eyes grew even more intense, a flicker of red flashing through them as her control slipped by a thread. She let out a low growl, as if giving in to everything she had been holding back. "Fuck it," she muttered before capturing your mouth in a ravenous kiss.

The kiss started with urgency—a clash of mouths that unleashed all the pent-up tension between you. Wanda’s lips were warm and soft, moving with an almost wild hunger against yours as her hands slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if she wanted to fuse you into one. The world around you disappeared, leaving only the wet sound of your lips meeting and the frantic drumming of your hearts.

Her tongue met yours in a slow, possessive movement, exploring, teasing, claiming. Wanda tasted you like she wanted to memorize every detail, every flavor. Your bodies leaned into each other instinctively, seeking more contact, more heat, as the kiss deepened, growing messier and more desperate. There was something unstoppable about it—as if both of you were trying to extract everything you could from each other, as if tomorrow might never come.

You felt her nails lightly scratch your skin, and a soft, ragged moan escaped your throat. Wanda, in turn, let out a low growl, barely audible but filled with raw intensity. Your mouths parted briefly to catch your breath, only to crash together again, fiercer, hungrier, as if stopping was impossible.

Finally, the kiss began to slow, becoming gentler but no less passionate. Wanda rested her forehead against yours, your heavy breaths mingling in the cool night air. Your lips still tingled, and both of your faces glistened with the sheen of that shared moment.

"Good night," you murmured, your voice broken and trembling as you tried to catch your breath.

Wanda smiled against your lips, the tip of her nose brushing yours. "Good night, little one. Until tomorrow," she whispered, her tone low and dripping with promises.

She gave you one last look before stepping inside, her green eyes shining under the moonlight, leaving you standing on the sidewalk, still tasting her on your lips and feeling the fire of her kiss burning on your skin.

Wanda paused at the doorway, her hand lingering on the doorknob as if something held her back from simply walking inside. Slowly, she turned to face you, her green eyes raking over every inch of your body with a gaze that made your breath falter. There was something predatory in her stance, something that made the air around you feel heavier, thick with expectation and authority.

"Don’t even think about touching yourself." Her voice was firm, deep, each word carrying a command that tied your stomach into knots.

Heat spread through your body instantly, your face flushing as if her voice alone had the power to ignite a fire within you. Wanda tilted her head slightly, the corner of her lips curving into a small, dangerous smile as she pointed toward your center, warm and pulsing.

"That," she said, her voice softer now but no less intense. "That’s mine."

The look she gave you before stepping inside was enough to leave you breathless, as if she had left an invisible mark on you. And then she disappeared into the house, closing the door with a calmness that contrasted sharply with the storm she had just left brewing inside you.

You stood there, frozen, your heart pounding fiercely and your mind spinning in endless circles. Needy. Dominated. And completely incapable of doing anything except longing for the next night to come far too quickly.

As you remained rooted to the spot, still trying to catch your breath, something began to shift inside you. It was subtle at first, like a calm wave forming on the horizon, but it quickly grew in intensity. It wasn’t just desire burning through your body — it was something deeper, more visceral, almost spiritual.

Your heart seemed to beat in sync with a force that wasn’t solely your own. It felt as if Wanda had marked not only your skin but your very soul. Every word she had spoken, every touch, every gaze now weighed heavily in your mind with a gravity you couldn’t quite explain.

You felt different, as though something inside you had been unlocked. The connection between the two of you was no longer just physical or emotional; it was something greater, something that transcended what you understood as reality. It seemed as if your mind and heart were now inexplicably synchronized with hers, like an invisible thread permanently tied between you two.

It was both terrifying and comforting. Terrifying because you had never felt anything so intense, so absolute. Comforting because, deep down, it felt right. As if you had finally found the place you had always belonged, even without knowing it.

As you walked home, the night air seemed denser, charged with something you couldn’t see but could feel. With each step, the certainty grew inside you: after that night, nothing would ever be the same. You were no longer just yourself. And Wanda was no longer just Wanda. You were something new, something indissoluble. And that filled you with an ache you could barely contain.

You grew up alone. A small orphanage, far from any big city, with cold hallways and beds that creaked with every movement. It wasn’t a bad place, exactly, but it wasn’t good either. It simply was. A space where you existed, but never belonged.

You arrived there when you were only four years old, but the memories of that time were vague, hazy, like a bad dream you could never fully recall upon waking. You knew that something terrible had happened, but the details slipped away like grains of sand through your fingers.

All the social workers told you was that your parents had died in a fire. An accident, apparently, but no one could explain how you had managed to escape. The only thing that remained from that day was the box made of fine wood, given to you by a firefighter.

“Is this mine?” you remembered asking with your small, trembling hands clutching the box.

“Yes,” the firefighter replied, his voice gentle. “It was on the ground beside you. Hold onto it carefully, little one. It’s special.”

You never quite understood what he meant. Special? How could something be special when everything around you had been reduced to ashes?

The following weeks were a blur. You remembered unfamiliar voices, people trying to be kind, but nothing made sense. No one could explain why you had survived when your parents hadn’t. Worse, no one could tell you what they were like. The trauma had erased almost everything. You barely remembered their faces, their voices, or their embraces. All that remained was an echo, a vague sensation of belonging that vanished along with the flames.

And so you were taken to the orphanage.

It was an old building, with walls that seemed to whisper stories of other children who had passed through there — marks of paint and drawings on the walls. Some seemed to cry out for help; others screamed for freedom. You quickly learned that it was easier to become invisible. Easier not to form bonds, because bonds were easily broken in that place.

You clung to the sun-shaped pendant and the note inside the box. “You are our sun, Y/N. Shine for the world.” You read those words whenever the weight of loneliness became unbearable. It was a small ray of hope, but also a bitter reminder of what you had lost.

As you grew older, the sense of not belonging deepened. While other children were adopted, you remained there, year after year, watching temporary friends leave and feeling envious of their new lives. You wanted to believe that you, too, were worthy of love, but each passing day without a family made that belief wither.

You had questions that no one could answer. Who were your parents? Why had the fire happened? Why couldn’t you remember them? And, most importantly, why had they left behind a note that seemed to carry such profound meaning but offered no real answers?

It was in that void that you began to build your own dreams. If you couldn’t have a traditional family, then you would create one. If no one was going to save you, you would find your own strength. And, deep down, there was that silent, almost childlike desire to have someone look at you as if you were the center of their universe.

You dreamed of it. Of a house filled with laughter, of family dinners, of the feeling of safety you had never known. And without realizing it, fate was beginning to prepare you for something you couldn’t yet imagine.

Because while you spent nights in the orphanage clutching the sun-shaped pendant, the universe was weaving its invisible threads, connecting you to something greater. To someone greater. You didn’t know it yet, but there was far more to the words in that note. They were a promise, a reminder that you were more than an orphan, more than lost. You were the sun. And one day, you would shine again. And maybe, just maybe, you would find someone who would shine with you.

High school was a battlefield for you, and it seemed like you never had any armor. You were “the weirdo,” the girl who didn’t fit in anywhere. The second-hand clothes and your shy demeanor didn’t help. People love to find easy targets, and you seemed to carry a neon sign that said, “Attack here.”

Maria Hill was the epitome of all of it. She was the girl who seemed to have stepped straight out of a clichéd American high school movie: cheerleader, popular, confident, always surrounded by a group of followers who laughed at the jokes she made at your expense. She made it her mission to remind you every day that you would never be like her.

“You should be grateful that I even notice your existence,” she once said as she knocked your books out of your hands in the hallway. It was a phrase that summed up the dynamic between you two.

You hated Maria Hill. Not just for the way she treated you, but because it seemed like she enjoyed it. There was a twisted glint in her eyes every time she humiliated you, as if she took pleasure in seeing you vulnerable.

Then came that day. You were in the bathroom, trying to pull yourself together after another round of taunts. The sinks were old and stained, the mirrors smudged with fingerprints and spots no one bothered to clean. You were staring at your reflection, wondering what was wrong with you, when you heard the door open.

It was her. Maria Hill.

“You think you can just run away from me, freak?” she asked, her voice cold and dripping with provocation.

You turned away, trying to ignore her, but she crossed the space between you in seconds, trapping you against the wall. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest.

"Why are you so... irritating?" she whispered, her face so close to yours that you could smell the faint floral scent of her perfume.

You were ready to snap back, to say something sarcastic, but the words died in your throat when she leaned in even closer, her eyes gleaming with something that wasn’t just anger. It was something else, something you had never seen before.

"You drive me insane," she continued, her voice softer now, almost husky. There was something in her gaze that made you completely forget how much you hated her.

And then it happened. She kissed you.

It wasn’t a sweet or gentle kiss. It was filled with anger and confusion, like she was fighting a battle against herself. As if the hatred she pretended to feel for you had twisted into something she couldn’t control.

For a moment, you were paralyzed, shock coursing through you. But there was something in that kiss that ignited a spark inside you. Something that made your whole body react, even as your mind screamed at you to push her away.

When she pulled back, her eyes were filled with confusion, as if she didn’t understand what she had just done either.

"Don’t you dare tell anyone," she said, her voice trembling slightly. Then she turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

That was the day you realized you liked girls. And somehow, you also discovered that there was something about women like Maria Hill — complicated, confusing, and, in a way, dangerous — that drew you in.

You didn’t know what to do with that feeling. Part of you wanted to hate her even more, but another part wanted to understand why she was like that. Why someone who seemed to have it all needed to tear you down to feel alive.

The rest of high school became strange after that. Maria continued to taunt you, but it was different now. More reserved, almost as if she was afraid of driving you away completely. And you... you were trapped in a tangle of feelings you still couldn’t name.

The days after that first kiss were a whirlwind of emotions. Maria seemed determined to keep you under her control, as if she had decided you were a precious secret only she could keep.

After cheerleading practice, when all the other girls had left, she would always find you under the bleachers. Always with that same look — like someone on the verge of breaking their own rules.

"Do you think you can escape me?" she would whisper before pulling you into another kiss. And you, even knowing how wrong it all was, couldn’t resist.

Her kisses were intense, like she was trying to mark you, to claim you as hers. The way she touched you, how she cupped your face in her hands, how she bit her lip when she pulled away — it all felt like a game. But a game where you didn’t know the rules, and she wasn’t willing to explain them.

"You’re mine," she said once, her face so close to yours that you could feel her warm breath against your skin. There was something possessive in her voice, something that made your heart race but also left an uncomfortable knot in your chest.

Because deep down, you knew you couldn’t give your heart to her. There was an emptiness in Maria’s eyes, a black hole of insecurity and confusion that she masked with arrogance. She could kiss you, touch you, tell you that you were hers, but she would never be able to give you anything in return.

And you were right.

At graduation, everything fell apart. You approached her during the party, hoping for... what, exactly? Maybe a kind word, maybe a sign of validation. But what you received was something entirely different.

Maria stood surrounded by her friends, the queen of the night as always. When she saw you, her eyes hardened, as if she was bracing for an attack.

"Oh, here comes the freak," she said loud enough for everyone around her to hear. The laughter that followed cut through you like a knife.

"Hey, Maria! There are rumors that you’ve been making out with the weirdo behind the bleachers!" a boy from her group jeered, his mocking tone drawing more laughter.

The comment echoed through the hall, and you felt the ground disappear beneath your feet. The group burst into laughter, and Maria, instead of denying it or standing up for you, gave a fake smile and let out a forced laugh that shattered you like glass.

"Me? Making out with her?" Maria repeated, her tone dripping with scorn. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, her cruel gaze locking on you. "Come on, do you really think someone like me would ever go for someone like her?"

The group’s laughter grew louder, and your face burned with humiliation, as if every light in the room was shining directly on you. You wanted to disappear, to evaporate right then and there, but you were trapped in a waking nightmare.

"Seriously?" you managed to whisper, your voice trembling and barely audible. But Maria heard you. And for a moment, her smile faltered, her mask slipping just a bit before she quickly put it back in place.

"'Seriously'?" she repeated, stepping closer as if to deliver the final blow. "Did you really think someone like me would ever be with someone like you? It was fun watching you humiliate yourself, but let’s be real — it’s getting pathetic now."

Her words hit like punches, one after another, until you could barely breathe. And then came the final strike:

"Oh, and just to be clear..." Maria leaned in, her voice cold, devoid of any trace of the passion or intensity from your secret encounters. "It never meant anything. You never meant anything."

You stood there, frozen, as she walked away with a smug smirk, tossing her hair back like she had just won a prize.

Your heart was in pieces. Not just because of what she said, but because you had believed, even for a moment, that Maria could be more than the cruel, insecure girl who needed to destroy others to feel powerful.

You left the party early that night, hot tears streaming down your face as you walked home. The pain was overwhelming, but somewhere deep inside, there was a flicker of relief. Because as much as it hurt more than anything you had ever felt, it was over. You were free of her. Free from the manipulation, the confusion, the pain of being treated as something disposable.

And deep down, a small voice whispered: You deserve more. Shine, Y/n.

In that moment, you didn’t know what "more" meant. You didn’t know that the universe had far greater plans for you, that someone much more worthy of your heart was waiting for you. But in that painful moment, you made a promise to yourself — that you would never let anyone treat you that way again.

You stood there, frozen in place, as the world around you seemed to crumble. Each word she spoke felt like a blow, tearing away at the fragile confidence you had built in her — and in yourself.

She had humiliated you, publicly, without remorse. And in that moment, you knew that Maria Hill had never been capable of loving you. She was a storm — chaotic and destructive — and you were just the house she tore down on her path.

As much as it hurt — and it did, like an open wound that never seemed to heal — you also knew, that night, that you had done the right thing by not giving your heart to her. Because it deserved more. You deserved more.

And even if you didn’t know it at the time, the universe was already setting someone aside for you — someone who would show you what it truly meant to be loved. Someone who would give you everything Maria never could.

As you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, thoughts of Maria, the past, and all the pain you carried slowly began to fade, giving way to something much larger. Something overwhelming. Something that scared you, because it was Wanda.

Your heart seemed to beat to a different rhythm just thinking about her. It wasn’t just the way she looked at you — like you were something precious, something she was terrified to lose. It wasn’t just her touch, which somehow found every crack within you and began to fill them. It was all of that, yes, but it was so much more.

You turned onto your side, the crumpled sheets pressing against you, like the very space around you was tightening, pulling you deeper into yourself. Everything felt so distant, yet so close all at once. The silence of your room only amplified the confusion inside you. It was as if the world around you was moving in slow motion, while your thoughts stumbled over one another, chaotic and loud.

You tried to name what you were feeling, tried to label it, as you always did in order to understand the world. After all, everything had to have an explanation, right? You always needed an explanation for every small gesture, every word spoken, every glance exchanged. But now... now nothing seemed to fit.

What you felt for Wanda wasn’t just passion. It wasn’t something fleeting. It was far too vast, too deeply rooted to be dismissed so easily. It stretched beyond everything you could see, as if its roots ran through the very core of who you were. It wasn’t obsession — there was no frantic need, no fear of losing something you didn’t yet possess. There was no desperation. It was simply big. And, in a way, peaceful. Almost... complete.

You had always been someone who stood on the sidelines of things, someone who never felt entirely at ease in any place, with any person, with anything. You grew up alone, without a true home, without a sense of belonging. The orphanage, school, friends, parties... it all felt distant, like you were always observing from the outside, never truly a part of what was happening around you. It was always lonely, always feeling like a part of you was empty, a quiet space that could never be filled, because you didn’t even know what was missing.

Until Wanda entered your life.

Subtly. Silently. As though she had arrived to fill all those empty spaces you hadn’t even realized were there. And suddenly, there was a fit. Like that empty space, once so hollow and purposeless, had been made just for her. Like Wanda was the missing piece of the puzzle that was your existence.

But it wasn’t just that. It was more. It was her warmth, her protectiveness, the way she saw you — like you were unique, like there was no one else in the world who mattered as much as you did. And when she looked at you, it wasn’t just your face she saw; she looked deeper, as if seeing parts of you that even you didn’t know existed. Parts that belonged solely to her.

Wanda had a way of treating you that went beyond what you could have expected. She was warm, almost maternal, in a way that made your heart swell with a kind of comfort you’d never known. And yet, there was more to her than tenderness. There was something else in her actions — something that couldn’t be described as mere affection. It was as if she didn’t just love you; she wanted you. She wanted to possess you, to dominate you, to be the force that guided and protected you.

There were moments when her eyes hardened, her voice firm and commanding, guiding you down a path she believed to be right. Moments when she tested your patience, pushed your limits, and watched how far you would go to prove yourself. There was a discipline in her that both unsettled and thrilled you. And, deep down, you understood that her need to control wasn’t about power — it was about protection. By holding you in her hands, by claiming you as hers, she believed she was keeping you safe.

And then there were the softer moments, the moments when she showed herself vulnerable, desperate, like a woman who, upon finally having you to herself, feared losing what she had found. As if she were desperate to keep you, to have your heart, to earn your trust. It was as though she wanted you not just as a lover but as something more. As if you were hers entirely. You couldn’t quite understand what it all meant. What you knew was that when Wanda treated you that way—with that gentle touch, that smile of someone who felt in control—you didn’t feel intimidated. On the contrary, you felt cherished, loved, and protected in a way you had never experienced before.

And in moments like those, when she held you close, when your body was next to hers, you finally understood. It wasn’t about passion, nor about desire. It was about belonging. You felt something you’d never felt before—as if you were exactly where you were always meant to be. And despite the intensity of the emotions Wanda awakened in you, there was something comforting about it. Something that told you that, at last, you had found your place.

Your home, your family.

It wasn’t an ordinary relationship, nor something simple to understand. But it was real. And that was all you needed to know. The connection between you two was unique, profound, and layered with complexities you could barely comprehend. But it didn’t matter. Because in Wanda, you had finally found something you never knew you were looking for: belonging.

It felt like a discovery. Something long lost that suddenly fit perfectly, effortlessly, without haste. You caught yourself wondering, in an almost inaudible sigh: Is this what books call love?

But at the same time, something within you refused to allow that answer. Because love, in books, was always something grand, epic, filled with dramatic declarations and gestures that marked the end and beginning of a story. It was always cinematic, full of words and promises. What you felt for Wanda… wasn’t like that. There were no grand gestures, no words that could fully capture what existed between you. It was subtler, more intense, deeper—and because of that, so much harder to name.

It didn’t resemble anything you knew, nothing that could be summed up in a single phrase. It was the way she looked at you, the way she listened to you, the way her presence made everything feel calmer, clearer. It was the way she seemed to see you—a version of yourself you’d never known existed but that was undeniably there, within you. It was her smile, her touch, her energy, as if all of it was an extension of something that had always meant to be.

And what confused you most was that it didn’t feel like a choice. It didn’t feel like something you had controlled, nor something that had been planned. It wasn’t a feeling that arose because you thought about it or willed it into existence, but because somehow, it simply happened. As if it were inevitable.

But then you wondered: Why now? Why her? And at the same time, you felt no need for answers. You didn’t need to understand everything. Something bigger than you was at play, something broader than any logical explanation could offer. You and Wanda were simply… this. Something that defied explanation but undeniably existed. A truth you felt deep in your core, something that surpassed any doubt, any hesitation.

The days following that night were a tangle of emotions and sensations that defied all logic. It was as if an invisible thread, woven by something ancient and powerful, connected you to Wanda. A thread that tightened with every shared moment until it was impossible to tell where you ended and she began.

You started noticing the details. Small gestures that anyone else would overlook but were impossible for you to ignore: the way Wanda's breathing shifted when you entered a room, the slight furrow of her brow when she was lost in thoughts she didn’t share, the barely perceptible dance of her magic in the air when she felt vulnerable.

And then there were the feelings. They came in waves, overwhelming, strange, yet strangely familiar. It was as if Wanda were infiltrating you—beneath your skin, leaving pieces of herself in your mind and heart. You weren’t sure if it was intentional or just the natural result of the connection that seemed to grow stronger with each passing second.

One afternoon, as you reviewed the twins' materials in the library, you felt something different. An anguish that wasn’t yours but manifested in your chest as though it were. Wanda sat two tables away, a book open in her hands, but she wasn’t reading. Her eyes skimmed over the words unfocused, while her magic pulsed restlessly around her.

“Are you okay?” you asked, keeping your gaze on the papers before you, trying to sound casual.

Wanda froze. The silence that followed was as heavy as the air before a storm. “Why do you ask that?” Her voice was low, cautious.

You answered, turning to face her. “Are you nervous? Sad? I’m not sure, but it feels like it’s inside me too, like it’s mine.”

Her eyes narrowed, flickering with a hint of crimson. “Darling, I’m fine.” She closed the book with slow, deliberate movements and leaned slightly closer to you. “Do you feel what I feel?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yes. It’s strange, but at the same time… it feels so right.”

Time seemed to stand still in that moment, as if the library—with its sacred books and dusty shelves—had become a secret haven where the outside world ceased to exist. The silence between you was heavy yet brimming with a palpable energy. You were there, caught between words that could never fully describe what you felt, yet feeling every one of them transform into tangible reality.

For a moment, Wanda stayed silent before abruptly standing—as if giving you a cue to follow. Now, standing between shelves of books—a temple for a teacher and a student passionate about literature—it seemed she was searching for something within herself. Then, a shy smile curved her lips.

Wanda stood before you, her eyes fixed on yours as if she could see everything happening inside you. She seemed so calm, yet the power of her presence was overwhelming. She slowly closed the book, her hand moving with the grace of someone who controlled time itself, and as she did, the tension in the air seemed to intensify. She leaned toward you, the warmth of her breath the only sign she was alive—a flame on the verge of igniting.

“I feel you too,” she said, her voice carrying a depth that made your heart falter. “Your happiness, your sadness… even your thoughts. Especially when you’re thinking of me.”

Your face flushed, but you didn’t look away. You knew it was pointless to try hiding anything from her. Not anymore.

Wanda’s gaze held yours, her presence enveloping you, and something shifted at that moment. She wasn’t just the woman you wanted, the woman you craved, but also the woman you feared—the one who could destroy and rebuild everything inside you. She seemed to know that. She understood the power she held over you, but she also seemed as vulnerable as you were.

“What is it?” you asked, sitting beside her.

Wanda took her time to respond. The silence was charged but not empty; it was the silence of heavy thoughts, of words she struggled to form. Finally, she murmured, “You.”

The word sounded like a confession. Her eyes glowed—not just with scarlet magic but with something deeper, something human. “You’re all I think about, all I want. And that scares me more than anything I’ve ever faced.”

You took her hand, feeling the energy pulsing beneath her skin. “I feel it too. Honestly, it’s terrifying—I’ve never felt anything close to this for anyone—but it doesn’t mean it’s bad, does it?”

She let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I… I should be stronger than this. I should be able to control it. But you…” She paused, her eyes locking with yours, heavy with an emotion that was almost crushing. “You make me want to give up control. And that terrifies me.”

Your heart raced. “Maybe this isn’t about control, Wanda. Maybe it’s about trust. About surrendering to what we are, together.”

When Wanda leaned in to kiss you, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was fierce, filled with desire and urgency, as if it were the last kiss that mattered. She pulled you closer, her body pressing against yours as though she wanted to merge with you, as if nothing else mattered.

The softness of her lips quickly gave way to something more intense, more desperate. Wanda wasn’t testing the limits of your connection anymore; she was crossing them, seeking something only you could give her. Her hands moved to your face, touching your skin reverently, as though she wanted all of you but didn’t want to miss a single moment of this surrender.

Your hands followed suit, seeking the warmth of her body, finding refuge in her heated skin. One hand traveled up her side while the other clutched her blouse, pulling her even closer as if you needed something solid to ground you.

The kiss deepened, becoming more intense, more urgent, as though you were both trying to fill the emptiness in your lives—an emptiness you instinctively knew only the other could complete. The world around you faded, leaving only the touch, the heat, and the overwhelming desire to give yourselves completely.

Hidden among the library’s shelves, you and Wanda were both concealed and exposed in ways no one else could understand. The books surrounding you, filled with stories of love, passion, and loss, were now silent witnesses to a story being written in the intensity of your intertwined bodies and souls. And despite the uncertainty of the future, despite the lingering fear, you knew that in this moment, what mattered most was being together.

The aroma of fresh coffee and aged paper lingered in the air, creating an almost magical atmosphere that grew more intimate with every second. The professor’s words about Balzac danced in the air, but your thoughts were no longer on the writer’s words. They were on Wanda. The heat coursing through your body was indescribable—a strange sensation that consumed you, one you weren’t sure came from her, from you, or both, but one you couldn’t ignore.

The tension spread through the room like an invisible spell, and soon, Wanda’s anger became clear—a strong, palpable emotion you could feel in your bones. It was as if she were inside you, sharing her frustrations in a way that made them impossible to ignore.

"Excuse me," you whispered to the colleague beside you, standing quickly. The teacher shot you a curious look, but you didn’t care. You simply mumbled a hurried apology and rushed out of the room, your heart beating too fast, your steps quick but weighted with the urgency only Wanda could provoke in you.

Every beat of your heart carried you closer to her, and you knew, without hesitation, the only place you'd find her was in her office. When you reached the door, the sound of objects being abruptly moved tightened your stomach. Wanda's low, tense murmuring reached your ears, a wave of desperation mingled with frustration. Without delay, you knocked lightly but didn’t wait for permission to enter.

"Wanda?" Your voice came out hesitant, almost timid, as if you felt vulnerable in a space where the certainty of connection never failed, but the fear of loss lingered.

She stood with her back to you, her shoulders tense, and a pulse of scarlet energy surrounded her hands, creating almost uncontrollable waves—a raw, visceral reflection of her inner turmoil. It was rare to see Wanda like this, completely unrestrained. Her magic was so wild, so untamed. She turned abruptly, her eyes glowing a deep red, her lips slightly parted. But at the sight of you, the glow softened, and the magic around her hands dissipated like a veil.

"What are you doing here?" Wanda’s voice was low, muffled by tension, but there was a softness in it you recognized—a vulnerability hidden beneath the steel of her posture.

"I felt you." Your voice was direct but warm, laced with a sincerity only she could draw out of you. "You’re angry. What happened?"

She looked away, crossing her arms in a defensive gesture, an attempt to shield herself. But you knew her—you knew every movement, every nuance. Wanda couldn’t lie to you. "It's nothing... just trivial things."

You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to her cautiously. "Wanda, I was sitting there, lost in Balzac’s romances, and I felt your anger, your frustration, as if it were my own. This isn’t 'trivial.'"

She let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it—it was bitter. "You feel everything, don’t you?" Her voice carried something you couldn’t identify, but you knew it was more than she let on.

"Yes." You took a deep breath, the weight of your sincerity growing heavier between you both. "I always have, and you know that. And you also know you can’t hide anything from me."

Finally, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing as she ran a hand through her hair, messing it almost absentmindedly. "It's ridiculous. A meeting with the twins' school directors... They questioned my criticisms of the teaching methods in their classes. As if I were incompetent, as if I didn’t know what’s best for them."

You felt the heat of her anger bridge the space between you. It was like an electric current passing through your bodies. Without a second thought, you took another step forward, reaching out to touch her arm—a simple gesture, but one loaded with meaning.

"They’re wrong," you stated firmly, your eyes fixed on hers, conveying a strength only she could draw out of you. "You’re the most brilliant and capable woman I know. No one has the right to make you doubt that."

Wanda’s gaze softened. She seemed like she wanted to protest, but the force of your words silenced her. Relief flickered across her face, though something heavy still lingered—something she didn’t want to admit, even to herself. "You make it sound so simple," she murmured, her voice so low you had to step closer to hear her. "Simple and... easy."

You gave her a soft smile—not one of pity, but of understanding—touching her arm gently. "Because it is, Wanda. What you need to do is let yourself believe it. Now, what do you need? Because I’m here, and you don’t have to carry this alone."

Wanda stayed silent, studying you with an intensity that made heat rise to your cheeks. Finally, she gave a small smile.

"I just need you," she said, and the simplicity of her words made your heart race.

You nodded, allowing yourself a shy smile in return. "Then you have me."

Wanda let out a soft laugh, a sound that reverberated low in your chest as she pulled her chair closer to you. Her gaze was indecipherable—a mix of amusement and something deeper you couldn’t name.

"Come here," she said, her voice low but filled with authority, as she patted her lap lightly.

You blinked, surprised, feeling heat flood your face. "You want me to... sit on your lap?"

"I do," she replied, the certainty in her voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."

With a mock sigh of resignation, one that couldn’t hide the smile forming on your lips, you stepped closer and settled into Wanda’s lap. The warmth of her body was comforting, like a sanctuary only she could provide. Her hands rested firmly on your waist, adjusting you until you felt entirely comfortable yet vulnerable—exposed in a way only she could make intimate.

Your arms wrapped around her instinctively, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if you had no choice but to surrender to this closeness, this touch. And somehow, it gave you a sense of belonging—a deep, irrational belonging you hadn’t known you desired so much.

"You’re so bossy," you murmured, trying to mask your shyness with a hint of teasing. But your words came out laced with a sweetness that made your surrender feel voluntary, though unspoken.

Wanda arched an eyebrow, her usual sharp gaze softened by the slow smile tugging at her lips. Tilting her head slightly, she said in a voice as much a promise as it was a challenge, "Bossy, hmm? Maybe. But you like it, don’t you?"

There were no words to deny it, no room left to resist. Wanda’s presence enveloped you with a quiet force, and you couldn’t hide from what you felt anymore.

You didn't know if it was the way she effortlessly had the ability to control you or the way she made it feel so natural, so safe. There were no more words to deny it, no more room to resist. Wanda was drawing you into her presence with the force of a silent magnetism, and you could no longer hide from what you felt.

She sighed, a deep breath that seemed to carry all the tension of her thoughts. Wanda had a unique way of keeping everything under control, but you could feel the anxiety she tried to hide—the immense desire to see you graduate soon, to make your lives together a reality. She wanted the future to be now, for you both to be definitively together. Thoughts of marriage, traveling, building something solid. But more than that, she wanted to have your child. The thought consumed her, but it was a desire she didn’t know how to fulfill.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words died in your throat when Wanda began cradling you gently, her hands moving up and down your back in a soothing gesture. It was comforting, but also strangely vulnerable, as if you’d been reduced to something small and precious under her touch.

“Are all ‘Wandas’ like this?” you asked, more to fill the silence than out of real curiosity.

Her eyes gleamed with a subtle red, and you almost felt her thought before she spoke. “All the ‘Wandas’?”

You hesitated, realizing the depth of the question you’d just asked. “I mean... all versions of you… are they like this? So stubborn, so... intense?”

She laughed again, but this time there was something darker behind the sound. “Perhaps. But the real question is: are all versions of you like this? So headstrong, so brave... so ready to stand against me and then yield?”

The heat on your face intensified, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you let her question echo in your mind. What if... all versions of us were like this? Two opposing forces that, even in different worlds, always found a path to collision—and then connection.

“Do you think we’re always like this? Stuck in this cycle?” you asked, your voice a whisper.

Wanda tilted her head, her fingers tracing slow circles on your back. “Maybe it’s not a cycle,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s a choice we make, life after life. Maybe we’re destined for this... because we want to be.”

Her words resonated within you, like a key turning in an ancient lock. Something clicked, and you knew, with inexplicable certainty, that she was right.

You let your head fall against her shoulder, closing your eyes as you felt her warmth completely envelop you. “Whatever the reason... I think I never want to choose anything but this. You’re perfect. Perfect for me.”

Wanda pulled you closer, her chin resting lightly on top of your head. “Then always choose me,” she murmured.

Wanda fell silent, her gaze deep and attentive, as if trying to read something inside you, something she didn’t fully understand yet. Her expression carried an intensity you could barely bear. Warmth rose to your face, and your chest tightened with an uncomfortable sensation, almost as if the weight of her emotions was spilling over and affecting your own body.

The tension between you, built over the minutes, wasn’t just physical. It was something deeper, more visceral. You felt the pain Wanda tried to hide, and for a moment, everything fell silent, as if time had stopped.

Wanda looked away, breathing heavily, as if trying to regain control. Her tense, anxious body was still close to yours, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts. The concern for the future, the desire to build something solid with you, consumed every part of her mind.

Then, a strong, almost painful feeling grew in her chest. Wanda no longer wanted to hide what she felt. She didn’t know how to deal with it, with this immense longing to have a life with you, to start a family, but at the same time, the fear of not knowing how to make it happen.

You, feeling the same pressure in your chest, brought a hand to it, as if trying to hold back the ache forming there as well. Your eyes filled with tears, and the tension in your body was palpable. “Wanda... are you okay?” you asked, your voice trembling, unsure of what else to say.

Wanda froze at the sound of your voice. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and a sigh that sounded more like a sob escaped her lips. She shook her head but didn’t speak immediately. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, as if she were fighting something consuming her from the inside out.

“No... no, I’m not,” she finally admitted, her voice almost inaudible, broken by a vulnerability she rarely let show. Her green eyes glistened with tears she refused to shed, but you could see the storm inside her.

“I... I don’t know how it’s possible to love someone this much,” she whispered, her fingers gripping her own arms, as if trying to anchor herself to reality. “It’s so strong it hurts.”

You felt your heart tighten. You had never seen Wanda like this: so raw, so exposed. She had always been a fortress, a woman who faced the world with unshakable determination. But now, in front of you, she seemed so human, so scared.

“I have so many enemies,” she continued, her voice even weaker, her eyes lost in the void. “What if they find out about you? What if they hurt you because they know I... because they know how much you mean to me?”

Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling irregularly. It was as if the weight of all her fears was collapsing on her all at once.

You stepped closer, hesitant but determined. “Wanda, look at me,” you asked, your voice soft but firm. When she finally lifted her eyes to meet yours, you held her face in your hands, your thumbs gently stroking her cheeks.

“Breathe with me,” you said, guiding her with your own rhythm, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. Wanda tried to follow, at first failing, but gradually managing to control her breathing.

“I’m here,” you continued, your voice low and comforting. “And no one will take me away from you. Not as long as you’re by my side.”

Wanda closed her eyes, letting a few more tears escape. “But I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” she admitted, almost in a whisper.

You felt the weight of those words, but instead of responding directly, you pulled her into a tight embrace. “You don’t have to face this alone,” you said, your voice close to her ear. “We’re in this together, Wanda. Together.”

Her body relaxed against yours, and you felt her surrender to the comfort of the moment. The anxiety consuming her was still there, but at least for now, she could feel that she wasn’t alone.

“I just need you,” she murmured again, her tone softer now, as if the words carried a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself. She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew with absolute certainty that you were the answer she was searching for.

You closed your eyes, absorbing the intensity of the moment. "I need you too, Wanda. In every way... now and always."

And in that instant, wrapped in a tight embrace and the silence surrounding them, both knew they were sharing something rare and precious—a love so immense that it only grew stronger with each obstacle, each doubt, and most importantly, each choice they made to stay together.

[...]

The house was enveloped in a comforting silence, the kind that only comes after a full day. Wanda carefully closed the twins' bedroom door, her heart warmed by the sight of her sleeping children. This was a ritual she never abandoned, an anchor in her chaotic, magical life. Every night, she tucked them in with the care of someone who knew the value of small moments of peace.

She descended the stairs, her bare feet nearly silent against the wooden floor, and made her way to the living room. Sitting on the couch, Wanda stared into the void for a moment, her thoughts heavy like an impending storm. Something within her was changing—not something recent, but something that had been growing over time, slowly taking shape. The sense that an essential part of her destiny lay elsewhere.

The sound of the lock turning pulled her back to reality. The front door opened, revealing Vision. He entered with his usual serene posture, but his eyes immediately caught the mood in the room.

“Wanda,” he greeted softly, closing the door behind him. “The boys are asleep?”

She nodded. “Like angels.”

Vision smiled, but the smile faded when he noticed her expression. He stepped closer, pulling up a chair and sitting across from her. “Is something wrong?”

She took a deep breath. “Vision, we need to talk.”

His face didn’t change, but a flicker of concern passed through his eyes. He leaned slightly forward. “I’m listening.”

Wanda clasped her hands in her lap, searching for the right words. “I… I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About what we have, what we share. And I realize that, while we’ve built a life together, something is missing.”

Vision frowned, confused. “Missing? Wanda, we have the boys. We have… everything we’ve built.”

She looked at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “Yes, and I cherish every moment. Every memory. You’ve given me more than I could ever ask for. But I can’t ignore… this feeling. That our time together wasn’t meant to be forever. That there’s something else waiting for me. And for you.”

He was silent, processing her words. Finally, he tilted his head slightly, a curious expression forming. “You believe this is about destiny?”

She nodded. “I believe there are paths we’re meant to follow. And, while I’ve loved you with all that I am, our path together is… coming to an end.”

For a moment, Vision remained silent. But to Wanda’s surprise, he didn’t show anger or hurt. Instead, his eyes softened, and a small smile appeared on his lips. “Wanda, you know how much I value your honesty. But I also value your happiness. I always have.”

She blinked, surprised. “So, you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, taking her hands. “Because, deep down, I knew too. I knew that, no matter how beautiful what we created was, it wasn’t meant to last forever. This isn’t about us or this world. It’s about destiny.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, but it was a tear of relief. “Vision, I never wanted to hurt you.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t hurt me. You gave me something few ever experience: the privilege of loving and being loved, even if only for a time. And more than that, you gave me the boys. They are the best part of us.”

She smiled, squeezing his hands. “You are… incredible. I don’t know how to thank you for understanding.”

Vision stood, pulling her into an embrace. “There’s no need to thank me, Wanda. We were a beautiful story. And even though the ending is now, it doesn’t diminish the value of what we had.”

When they pulled apart, Vision looked at her with a gentle sparkle in his eyes. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” Wanda replied.

“Be happy. Wherever destiny takes you, with whomever destiny brings to you, be happy. You deserve that.”

Wanda nodded, feeling the weight of the moment but also the lightness of knowing that even in their goodbye, there was love. And as Vision left, she remained there, in the silent living room, sensing that something new—and inevitable—was about to begin.

[...]

The night was calm, filled with laughter and lively chatter in the dorm. Yelena, Kate, Bucky, and Darcy were all there, immersed in yet another movie marathon. The atmosphere was cozy and light, a perfect contrast to the storm outside. Rain poured heavily, pattering against the windows and creating a soothing sound that matched the setting.

The room was a cozy mess: scattered cushions, nearly empty popcorn buckets, and a blanket or two being fiercely claimed as sacred territory. Kate, ever energetic, stood in front of the TV with the remote in hand, waving it dramatically like a royal scepter.

“All right, listen up, peasants!” she began, with an exaggerated attempt at authority. “Tonight, I pick the movie because I am clearly the most reasonable one here.”

Yelena, comfortably sprawled in an armchair, rolled her eyes as she stuffed more popcorn into her mouth. “Reasonable? You thought Fast & Furious 7 was a historical drama.”

“Hey! It was about family!” Kate retorted, pointing the remote at Yelena as if challenging her to a duel.

Darcy, curled up on the couch under an enormous blanket, raised her hand. “I vote for something with aliens. Maybe Men in Black? Always good to revisit a classic.”

Bucky huffed, sunk into the corner of the couch, guarding a bowl of popcorn like it was a relic. “Why not something serious? Like… I don’t know, The Godfather. Teaches important life lessons.”

“You only want to watch that because you think it’s a kind of autobiography, Mr. Mafia Soldier,” Yelena teased, laughing as she tossed a piece of popcorn at him.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, not even bothering to dodge. “At least it’s not another teen musical someone suggested last week.”

Kate threw her hands up in protest. “Hey! High School Musical is a masterpiece.”

“Okay, guys, focus!” you intervened, trying to contain the growing chaos. “Why don’t we settle this fairly? A vote.”

“Voting is for cowards,” Yelena declared, rising from her chair and stretching her arms. “Let’s settle this with arm wrestling. Winner picks the movie.”

Darcy laughed. “Great plan, Yelena. Except that kind of favors a certain super-soldier in the room.”

Bucky shrugged with a subtle smile. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Or,” you tried again, sighing, “we could just draw names from a hat?”

Kate was already swinging the remote like a lightsaber. “No way! I want a charades duel. Best movie scene wins.”

The confusion only grew. Between clumsy miming, Yelena insisting Shrek was the best movie of all time, and Darcy proposing to watch all the trailers before deciding, you all ended up… back where you started.

“So, High School Musical?” Kate asked hopefully after all the chaos.

“No,” everyone replied in unison.

In the end, you finally settled on The Avengers—because, of course, there’s nothing like watching your own fictional selves in action to end the night.

You were distracted, laughing at your friends’ jokes, but something on your phone caught your attention. It was a message from Wanda.

“It’s over. Vision and I. Can I have you all to myself now?”

The screen illuminated her face in the dimness of the room, and you felt a mix of conflicting emotions. The first was a wave of pleasure, an internal satisfaction, as if an important piece of your destiny had perfectly clicked into place. But immediately after, a knot tightened in your stomach. Wanda was undoubtedly sad. She had shared a life with Vision, with her children, and that wasn’t easy. Nothing about the end of something so significant could ever be simple.

You didn’t think twice. “Guys, I need to step out for a bit.”

“Y/n, it’s past midnight!” Yelena exclaimed, looking at you with concern. “You’re going out in this weather?”

“Y/n, it’s raining out there!” Darcy added, her voice filled with worry. “You’ll catch a cold!”

You ignored their warnings. Nothing at that moment could stop the urgency you felt in your skin. Wanda needed you. She was breaking, and you couldn’t stay there, safe and comfortable, while she faced the emotional storm alone.

Without offering further explanations, you got up and grabbed your bike. The rain was already pouring heavily when you left the building, but you didn’t care. The sensation of cold water hitting your face was a small distraction from the storm raging inside you. You pedaled nonstop, your thoughts jumping from one to another but always circling back to the same conclusion: Wanda needed you now more than ever.

The journey to her house seemed longer than it actually was. Raindrops sprayed through the air, making the night even darker and more intense. By the time you reached Wanda’s house, your hair was soaked, and your clothes clung to your body, but what mattered was that you were there.

You knocked on the door, your heart racing in anticipation, and soon she opened it. Your eyes met, and Wanda, who looked surprised, hesitated for a moment before stepping aside to let you in.

“Y/n…” Her voice was heavy with something hard to decipher, a mix of vulnerability and something else she was trying to hide.

You stepped inside, removing your wet jacket, your steps silent on the cold floor of the entryway. The house was too quiet, the soft lighting illuminating the space, but everything felt... heavy, as if the finality of something had settled in the air.

“What are you doing here?” Wanda said, her voice slightly trembling. She stood in the living room, her shoulders slumped as if the weight of the night had entirely overtaken her.

You hesitated for a moment, still trying to organize your thoughts and the flood of emotions coursing through your chest. "You wanted me all to yourself, didn’t you?" you said, your voice softer than you expected. "And I... I felt I had to come."

Her eyes found yours again, and you saw she was fighting back tears. She looked so vulnerable, stripped of all the strength that usually surrounded her. Without the armor of control you were used to, she was just... Wanda. And that made your heart ache.

“I didn’t want you to come like this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Not in this rain. Not like this.”

You stepped forward slowly, feeling the tension in the air grow with every movement. “And you think I could stay home knowing that you—my other half—are going through this alone?”

Wanda looked at your hands, her eyes lingering on the contact. It was such a small gesture, yet so full of meaning. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet yours, there was something different there—a flicker of hope, perhaps, or relief.

“You’re soaked,” she murmured, almost distractedly, but there was a tenderness in her tone that tightened your chest. “Come. Let’s get you out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold.”

She guided you to the sofa, grabbing a blanket on the way. You sat down, still trembling slightly—not from the cold, but from something deeper. As Wanda knelt to wrap the warm fabric around you, her fingers brushed your skin briefly, and you noticed her eyes lingering on yours again.

“Thank you for coming,” she finally said, her voice a bit steadier now but still loaded with emotion. “I... I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out,” you replied with a small smile. And in that moment, even with the storm outside and the chaos within, there was a strange calm between you two—as if, for an instant, everything was exactly where it was meant to be.

You leaned in slightly, feeling the warmth of the house contrasting with the cold lingering on your body. But more than that, you felt the warmth of Wanda’s presence, and it was enough to melt any remaining hesitation within you.

“I’m here,” you said, your smile more a promise than just a reaction. “No matter what’s happened, I’m here, Wanda.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if allowing herself a breath, and then looked at you, her gaze intense and filled with emotions you couldn’t ignore. She took a step forward, the distance between you disappearing almost immediately.

“I... I don’t know what to do with this, Y/n,” Wanda said, her voice low and sorrowful. “This part of me, this thing I carried for so long, it’s just... gone. And now I’m staring into a void. But you... you’re everything I want. Everything I’ve ever wanted. I can’t deny that.”

You took her hand, guiding her to the sofa, where you both sat close but still holding onto the emotional distance Wanda had tried to maintain all this time. But now, that distance was fading.

“You don’t have to do anything, Wanda,” you said, gently stroking her hand. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. We’re here. And that’s what matters.”

The silence between you was comfortable yet heavy. There was no need for more words. You both knew what was happening. And even with the rain outside, the memories of Vision, and the painful ending she had just faced, in that moment, Wanda wasn’t alone. And you would make sure she always knew that.

Wanda looked at you again, her eyes seeming to hold the entire universe—so intense, so full of conflicting emotions. The shadows of pain were still there, but there was something else, something beginning to emerge as a subtle glow in the darkness.

“You’re the only thing that makes sense right now,” she whispered, almost as if confessing a secret even she hadn’t realized she carried. “You scare me... because you’re everything I never knew I needed. But you’re also the one thing I don’t want to lose.”

Your heart raced at her words. There was so much power and vulnerability in them, and you knew this was the moment. Taking a deep breath, you lifted a hand to gently touch her face, your fingers tracing invisible lines on her soft skin.

“I love you, Wanda,” you said, your voice firm but brimming with emotion. Your eyes locked onto hers, diving into that green expanse that now seemed to shine even brighter. “I love you with everything I am. With your fears, with your mistakes, with every part of who you are. And nothing in this world can change that.”

You saw her pupils dilate instantly at your words. It was as if the air around you shifted, becoming denser, more charged with something both terrifying and indescribably beautiful.

Wanda's magic manifested almost uncontrollably, wrapping the two of you in a delicate aura, with subtle sparks and an intoxicating scent that seemed to reflect her very essence. You felt the tiny, shimmering particles touch your skin, like soft tickles igniting every part of your being.

Wanda didn’t speak immediately. She simply looked at you, her eyes glistening with tears that threatened to fall but were held back with her usual intensity. Then, with a slowness that seemed to carry the weight of the world, she placed her hand over yours, still resting on her face, holding it there as if she wanted to etch this moment into eternity.

"You don’t know what you’ve just done to me," she whispered, her voice hoarse and filled with emotion. "I didn’t know I could love like this... I didn’t know it was possible."

Wanda rested her forehead against yours, her eyes closed as the sparks of her magic continued to dance around you. The silence was full, laden with everything that didn’t need to be said but was present in the air.

When she finally opened her eyes, the soft, vulnerable smile she gave you warmed your heart in a way that words couldn’t describe. "I love you," she whispered, as if surrendering the last of her defenses to you. "And I feel so happy..."

You closed the distance between you in a kiss that was delicate and laden with something—love.

The kiss was more than just a gesture. It felt as though time and space had bent around you, creating a world where only the warmth of her lips, the softness of her touch, and the unique essence of your souls intertwined existed. The love between you wasn’t simple. It was dense, heavy with past stories, scars, and unspoken desires that were finally finding a place to be expressed.

Wanda felt her magic pulse to the rhythm of her heart, as if every particle around her vibrated with the force of the emotion threatening to overflow. It was terrifying and yet breathtaking. This wasn’t ordinary love, linear or easy to comprehend. No, it transcended words or explanations. It was like an ancient melody, something that had always existed, just waiting for the right moment to be heard.

When the kiss ended, Wanda kept her eyes closed, taking a deep breath, as if trying to capture that moment within herself. "Do you feel it?" she asked, her voice a reverent whisper.

You nodded because you did. You felt as though you were connected to something greater, something that couldn’t be explained. It was as if the universe had leaned in to create this connection, this bond that defied reason yet was the only thing that felt right in the world.

"It’s like… magic," you replied, and Wanda chuckled softly, a sound full of emotion.

"It’s more than magic," she said, her green eyes shining with a mix of reverence and intensity. "It’s you. It’s what you’ve brought to me, what you’ve awakened in me. I didn’t know I could feel this again—something so powerful it seems to consume everything around me."

Silence settled once more, but this time it wasn’t heavy—just the calm after a storm. You held her hand, your fingers entwined as if they were meant to find each other. The love you shared was a force of its own, something that seemed to flow around you, pulsing, breathing, growing.

There, under the soft light and with Wanda’s magic still dancing in the air, you knew you had found something beyond description or containment. It was a love that transcended everything—a love that was both mystical and real, powerful and delicate. And as Wanda’s eyes glimmered with that touch of red that seemed to illuminate her very soul, you knew you loved the most powerful witch—and the only one—you’d ever known.

~*~

I just want a love like this 🥺🤏🏻

Tag list <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

[mylovesstuffs]

Jin version !

Request: May I pls request jealousy headcanons for BTS members? reader (she's not famous and has a normal job) thinks of them as just friends, cause she never thought they would have a crush on her but they do.Then one day they get jealous when she ignores them for her guy best friend (whom she has a crush on) so they force her to leave but can't confess because they know she only likes them as a friend? unfortunately I am not very good with handling angsty stuff 🥹 so it will be great if you could write some fluffier headcanons about my request

A/N: This is the first post of the series, I hope it's not as bad as I say 😭 it's not the best I know but I'll try my best to improve. I don't know why it didn't turn out like I hoped for.

series masterlist

This is my personal opinion and perspective. It may not accurately reflect their real-life personalities or behaviors.

Jin always tries to be the reliable friend—the one who makes you laugh, gives great advice, and checks in after a long day. But lately, he’s felt like second place to your guy best friend.

He notices how you light up when you talk about your best friend. It stings more than he’d like to admit, but Jin tries to brush it off with jokes like, “Oh, should I start taking notes from him?”

You’ve canceled plans with Jin a few times now, always saying, “I promised g/bsf I’d help him with something.” He plays it cool but spends the rest of the day eating snacks in front of the TV, sulking and grumbling under his breath.

Jin’s jealousy doesn’t make him angry—it makes him hurt. He wonders what your best friend has that he doesn’t, or why you’d never think of him as more than a friend. Am I just not boyfriend material? he mumbles to himself. (Jin, my love, you're not boyfriend material unfortunately instead... you're a husband material)

He gets extra clingy the next time you hang out—offering to cook your favorite dish, teasing you more than usual, and even pulling out his dad jokes just to get your attention lmao.

When you’re with your guy best friend in Jin’s presence, he turns into the ultimate performer. Suddenly, he’s louder, funnier, and more dramatic—ANYTHING to distract you from your best friend.

One day, he snaps when you ignore him mid-conversation to reply to your best friend’s text. Jin blurts out, “Do I have to be him to get your attention?” It catches both of you off guard, and he immediately regrets saying it. *insert skeleton emoji here TT*

Feeling cornered by his emotions, Jin suggests leaving early from your next hangout. “I just remembered I have to be at the studio,” he lies, not wanting to see you fawn over someone else anymore.

He tries to convince himself he’s being selfish. She’s happy, he tells himself. That should be enough for me. But it’s not, and the ache in his chest doesn’t go away.

Jin throws himself into his work, making himself busier than usual to avoid thinking about you and your best friend. Other BTS members notice his uncharacteristic silence and try to pry, but he just brushes it off with a laugh.

One day, you sense something’s off. Jin has been distant—short replies, fewer calls, and even declining an invite to hang out. You confront him, worried you might have done something wrong.

Jin doesn’t confess outright but hints at his feelings. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m not important to you,” he says with a sad smile. It’s the first time he’s ever let his guard down like this, and it leaves you speechless. (Obviously)

You spend the next few days reflecting on your friendship with Jin. You start noticing the little things—how he remembers your coffee order, how he texts you to make sure you got home safe, and how he always seems to know when you need cheering up.

The realization hits you like a truck: Jin isn’t just your friend. He’s the constant in your life, the person who makes you feel safe and valued in a way no one else ever has.

The next time you see him, you decide to test the waters by spending the day with just him. Jin is hesitant at first, worried you’re only there out of guilt, but your warmth and attention slowly ease his nerves.

1By the end of the day, you find yourself looking at Jin differently... like your feelings have finally been reciprocated. When he makes a lame joke, you don’t just laugh—you admire the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. When he cooks for you, you realize how much love he’s poured into every detail.

Jin doesn’t push you to admit anything, but the shift between you two is undeniable. It’s in the lingering glances, the subtle touches, and the way he prioritize you in his noised life. Neither of you says it out loud, but for the first time, you feel like you have a chance.

Closure: It ends with hope. Jin doesn’t need grand confessions; your actions are enough to show him you’re starting to see him the way he’s always seen you. And for now, that’s all he needs...

Now that you’ve started seeing him differently, Jin becomes even more attentive. He insists on cooking you meals, saying, A love as great as mine deserves a feast. He also gets flustered when you sneak up behind him in the kitchen, wrapping your arms around him. His ears turn red, but he plays it off with a smug.

Jin loves teasing you about your newfound affection for him. He’ll smirk and you roll your eyes, but your shy smile gives you away every time, and he EATS IT UP.

He’s a natural flirt but doesn’t even realize it half the time 😭 Like when he adjust your necklace, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone. It leaves you breathless, and he definitely notices.

He runs his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, but the way his touch lingers on your shoulder or arm feels a little more intentional these days.

Jin doesn’t try to be sexy—it just happens. Like when he’s focused while rolling up his sleeves (I'm sorry but I'm drooling) or wiping his hands on a towel, you catch yourself staring. He notices your lingering gaze, smirks, and says, “Like what you see?” (OF COURSE WE DO!!?!?!!!!!!!!!?!!)

Mornings with Jin are pure fluff. He’s sleepy and cuddly, pulling you back into bed if you try to get up too early. He mumbles, “Five more minutes,” but those minutes turn into hours because he’s so warm and inviting you can’t resist.

Now that he knows you like him, Jin is more physically affectionate. He’ll casually rest his hand on your lower back, tug you closer when crossing the street, or kiss your temple as he passes by. It’s subtle but so Jin coded.

Honestly, nowadays his cocky side is very attractive.

Jin in cozy sweaters is a problem. When he’s lounging at home in a soft, oversized knit, you can’t help but want to curl up next to him. He teases you for staring, but secretly, he loves how smitten you are.

He doesn’t openly flaunt it, but there’s something undeniably attractive about the way he carries himself. Whether it’s his low, rumbling laugh or the way he looks at you across the room, there’s a quiet intensity that leaves you flustered.

Kissing Expert™: Once you’re comfortable, Jin’s kisses go from sweet and soft to take-your-breath-away levels of intense. He’s got this way of cupping your face and pulling you in like he’s waited his whole life for this moment.

Jin being Jin, he’ll occasionally get dramatic about how much he loves you. “I’d battle an army of chickens for you,” he declares one day, and while you laugh at his comment, the sincerity in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

Even when he’s being playful or teasing, Jin’s actions always make you feel safe and cherished. Like holding your hand in a crowded place or softly humming a song while you’re together, every little thing he does says, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

[greasydumbfuck]

thinking about frank and sex (in a sad way)

[zandrawz]

Finally watched Kung Fu Panda 4, tell me why it unironically changed my life

[sovaharbor]

bro help the ocs are consuming me. holy shit. i get it now.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

"reblog for something lgbt to happen to you" at this point i'd be grateful if something straight happened to me

[neverendingford]

.

[angelicblondie]

popstar!reader x bodyguard!rafe ~~~ pre-award show ride 18 + MINORS DNI

the scent of tom fords tobacco vanilla and victoria secret tease wafted in the back of the limo, filling your nostrils with the sweetest fusion. kind of symbolic, you thought, of you and rafe - the perfect pair.

your heel tapped on the floor of the car as you sat poised in your seat, rafe sitting to your right, arms rested on the tinted window seal as he gazed out onto the streets.

your eyes flickered to him every so often, almost like you couldn't help it, almost like there was simply a magnetic pull - always has been with the two of you.

tonight was the VMAs, and unlike the very beginning of your carreer, award shows were a lot less daunting. you were up for a couple categories, and even thus far into your career you couldn't shake the pre-show nerves.

rafe looked over, noticing the tapping of your heel which he had come to realize as a nervous habit by now. "hey," he called out, "you good?"

you look over, fluttering your lashes a bit. "why? lookin' to make me better?"

rafe, used to your flirting by now, rolled his eyes with a breathy laugh. "jesus, kid, next time i wont ask."

you bit your lip, moving your leg over to nudge his. "sorry," you held back a giggle, yet you words were sincere. "m'good, just nerves."

he hummed in understanding, looking down as your legs before looking back out the window, his hand wordlessly coming down to grip above your knee, his thumb smoothing over the skin.

you swallowed, taking a breath and attempting to relax into your seat. it was crazy how one little touch from him sent your heart aflame, beating against your chest as warmness spread throughout you. rafe just had that affect on you.

sure, you played it cool - being charismatic was an essential part of your job, you were a master at it. but rafe....he was different. you covered it up by quick remarks and flirty liners, but deep down you both knew that what you two shared - the connection you - was a lot more than that.

a lot more than that time in your dressing room back on tour.

since then, you two had gone back to normal...in your own way. except this time, normal consisted of sly touches and longing looks. heated makeouts once in a blue moon (if your lucky), and knowing stares.

it was exciting, exhilarating, even. you felt in control, even though you had never really felt more helpless. but really, it made sense - everything else in your life was hardly your decision. you didn't get to pick the tour dates, you didn't get to pick which cities, which stadiums. you don't get to pick what events you go to, or when the album deadline is, or who your paired up with on PR dates - thats the managments choice, not yours. a lot of the time, it feels likes your life isnt yours.

but when your with rafe...that all changes.

you could hear the faint sound of classical music that the driver mustve been playing, muffled by the closed divider. the silence between you and rafe was comfortable, his thumb continuing to rub your skin as you tried to pull your eyes away from the contact.

after a moment, rafe speaks up. "when we get there, walk straight to the carpet. take a couple photos, answer a couple questions from reporters, and meet us on the other side."

you sigh softly, rolling your eyes. "i know, i know. its the same every time, rafey," you say, faux annoyed.

He hums, squeezing your leg. "just lookin' out f'you," he grumbles, turning away.

you giggle under your breath, seeing his frustration. you reach over to his leg teasingly, squeezing his lower thigh. "aw, c'mon, m'sorry," you mumble, as he looks back, scoffing out a laugh. "whatever, kid. feeling less nervous?"

your heart beat faster against your chest at your now closer proximity. whilst you certainly feel less nervous, you didn't want him to know that. your bit your lip. "not really," your murmur, to which his lips tilt up a bit, sensing your bluff. "no?" he questions.

you nod in agreement, you eyes locked on his, transfixed by the blue. you bit your lip, sitting up straighter in your seat. "yeah...i dunno, i was kind of hoping for a distraction?"

rafe lets out a laugh, catching your drift, leaning back on his seat. "nah, kid, thats bad. m'not gonna mess you up when you got all pretty. the press would love that."

you pout. "i dont mind..." you trail of, keeping eye contacy as your hands trails up his thigh. "please?" you all but whisper.

rafe purses his lips, hand rubbing his jaw. after a moment, he flicks his head in a nod. "alright, c'mon."

with his signal your slowly lean over, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. when the kiss starts slow, rafe breaks apart, smirking. "gone all soft on me?" he whispers. you swallow as your eyes remain on his lips as his do yours. "maybe," you whisper back, reconnection your lips in a more heated kiss, climbing up on his lap.

rafe moves your long dress to pool over the two of you, his hands holding the silky thin material covering your back. your hands gripped his biceps through his suit, humming into his mouth as your lips continued to dance.

your panties brushed over his lap and each time you moved you took in a sharp inhale of breath, causing him to grin into the kiss. his hands moved down to your ass, squeezing the plump covered skin, resulting in you arching your back into him, pressing you into his chest.

"so needy," he mumbled against you, hands still laid flat on your backside. with rosy cheeks, you murmur a flustered, "shut up," but dont deny his words.

with your lips still attached, rafe slipped his hands under the silk, his hands hot over your skin. i hum against him, reaching down to fiddle with his belt, breathing into him.

he hummed back, toying with the lacy sides of your panties. "sure you want to?" he questions breathlessly in a low voice.

"mhm, m'sure," you respond, eyes flickering up from his belt to meet his, cheeks red under his hot gaze. all of the sudden you felt shy, your movement faltering.

his lips quirked up warm smirk, he slid his hands off your skin and moved them down to his belt, finishing the job for you. "i got it," he murmurs, eyes locked on yous.

you bite your lip and looks down, watching as he slides his pants and boxers down to his ankles as you sit up a little. his hands move to your waist, moving you back up his body to hover over his lap. you look back up to him sliding you panties to the side and lining up your entrance with his dick.

you sink down, both of you sucking in breaths at the contact. rafe throws his head back, eyes shutting at the sensation and squeezing your waist, letting out a low groan. you clench around him at the sounds and bite back a whimper, hands pressing against his shoulders.

"oh, rafe," you sigh, body slumping in pleasure as he fills you slowly. "i know princess, i know," he murmurs, voice filled with the same lightness as yours.

"doing so good," he praises, leaning forwards to place a kiss on your shoulder. you hum, starting to lift yourself up, before slowly sliding back down.

rafe guides you, helping to ride him, slowly. every movement pleasurably stings, his length filling you up, causing you to squeeze around him.

euphoria fills you as does he. you feel the warmth of his hot breath against your skin and his hands over the silk covering your hips, the soft grunts and graon coming from his perfect lips. his throbbing head hits your spot, causing you to let out a breathy moan and grip his chiseled shoulders.

when he feels you clench around him, he grins, sliding his rough hands up your back. "close, yeah?" he whispers, and you quickly nod, a pout on your lips and your brows furrowed. "mhm," you answer, biting down on your lip as you look down, watching as you lift up, your dress moving aside to reveal the sight of your around him, causing you to take in a sharp inhale of air.

rafe follows your line of sight, and bites his lip, concentrated on the movement. he looks back up at you, one of his hands coming up to cup your cheek, bringing you focus to him. "hey, look at me," he orders, "want you lookin at me when i make you cum."

you hum, folding your lips inwards as you continue to ride him, not looking away from his face.

"rafe," you whimper, movement getting sloppy. "i know, i've got you," he mumbles, his hands moving down to once again guide you up and down his cock.

"shit," you curse, feeling that coil in your stomach tighten. "m'close."

"let go, baby, c'mon. i've got you."

at his word, the coil burst, euphoria washing over you as your throw your head back, eyes rolling back.

rafe marveled at the sight, in awe as he watched you come down. his hands kept moving you up and down him, letting you ride out your high.

you collapse on top of him, panting into his neck as he let out a chuckle, holding you close to him. you two sit in silence, chests heaving up and down with every breath. "feelin less nervous?" rafe humorously whispers, causing you to let out a breathy laugh, lifting up to dismount him. his words lead you back to reality, remembering that in just a few short minutes, you would be strutting on a red carpet.

you hum. "much. how do i look?"

rafe tilts his head as he tugs his pants back up, considering you. "like you just got your shit rocked."

you scoff out a laugh. "seriouslly."

he laughs. "you look good. you always do."

your cheeks get rosy. your lips form in a pout though, once you realize that you were the only one who came.

he sees your guilty expressions and smiles slightly, waving it off. "dont worry, i'll be ok."

your lips lift in a coy smile. "im not worried," you say, your voice tilting seductively. "we may not have enough time right now but..." you trail off, sliding your panties back up your legs. "i have a good feeling im going to need to slip off to the bathroom somtime during the show, and of course i'll need my bodyguard to escort me," you say, playfully.

he pokes his tongue into his cheek, shaking his head. "your trouble."

you dont respond to his statement, simply shrugging before slumping back into your seat, pulling out your lipgloss and hand mirror, fixing the smudge. after checking over the rest of your appearance, you put everything back in your purse, smacking your lips and looking out the window.

you watch as the car rolls up, the sight of fans, paparazzi, and flashes filling your view.

you sigh, look to the side to see rafe getting ready to step out. he tilts his brows. "ready?"

you nod, biting your lip. "ready."

[kakusu-shipping]

🦃, 🔮, teruteru!!!!!!!!!!

Pumpkin sweetie pie!!! Blessed for him!!!!

🦃 Turkey ― Have you gone through a haunted house with your f/o? how did it go?

We did, once. Teruteru admitted later it's because he thought I'd scare easily and he could show how brave and cool he was and hold my hand and comfort me and all that. That's a fair assumption honestly, I am a big cry baby about basically everything other than Actual Horror.

The opposite ended up happening, I held his hand and he hid behind me and swore like a sailor every time anything jumped out at us. He's probably would have just bolted through the entire thing if I wasn't holding his hand and walking so calmly through everything, so I was probably actually actively making it worse for him thinking back on it.

🔮Crystal ball ― Tell us about a magical AU with your f/o!

A lot of people when making Magic/Monster AUs will make Teruteru a Satyr. And I mean... I can understand why I guess

Metamatronic's Cryptid AU is the one I know best out of all these AUs so it's the one I'd base a magical au version of myself on.. I'm not a very AU creative person..

The idea is Hope's Peak is a Monster school and everyone is a different type of monster who is learning to blend in to the human world, minus the Ultimate Lucky Students who are Human and (mostly) unaware.

I always default to Vampire but that's already taken in this pre-existing AU and I love molding to canon, along with Angel (kind of) so that's my two big aesthetics out...

I guess a Dragon, or Dragon-born style monster would work. The Ultimate Collectors were origonally built with a Dragon motif I abandoned very quickly, they're all about their Horde as collectors and all. It works out.

Unfortunately in doing so I have made Me/Teruteru into a Donkey/Dragon from Shrek style ship and I don't know how I feel about that.

[helaintoloki]

May I request a five x reader where they are living domestically and just being happy and lovey dovey especially experiencing everything they did together while being in the apocalypse, the time commission, stoping the other apocalypses etc (five x Lila doesn’t exist five x Lila doesn’t exist five x Lilia doesn’t-)

a/n: this piece is basically a big fuck you to s4 so enjoy five being happy and domestic with reader and not his own brother’s wife. also five and reader are mentally older adults but physically in their twenties

warnings: language, fluff, mentions of pregnancy

summary: now that the timeline has been fixed and the world is no longer in danger, five can enjoy a peaceful life with you

The sunlight that bleeds through the curtains is almost blinding as Five begins to stir himself awake. Stretching out his limbs until he hears a satisfying pop, he lets out a sigh and moves to reach out for someone that isn’t there. Your spot in bed is still warm which means you haven’t been gone for long, but Five still rises with a sense of urgency when greeted with your absence. Call it muscle memory from dealing with multiple kidnapping ploys against you or an old habit that just won’t die off after having to remain vigilant when protecting you from the enemy, but the poor boy’s heart always skips a beat when you go missing.

He finds you in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of coffee, your back to him as you hum along to the radio that plays on the counter and search for Five’s favorite cup in the cabinet. He has to pause and take a breath to remind himself that you’re not in danger, your life of protecting timelines and ending apocalypses is over, and the fresh start you’ve made for yourselves isn’t in any jeopardy. You’re real, you’re alive, and you’re his.

“Morning,” Five softly calls with a careful smile as he rests a hand on the small of your back and presses a tender kiss to your lips.

“Good morning,” you great cheerfully before handing him his cup of coffee. “I didn’t hear you get up. Did I wake you?”

“Not at all,” he assures you before taking a hearty gulp of the hot liquid. After years of being together you know how to make Five’s coffee just the way he likes it and could probably do so in your sleep if asked. Your thoughtfulness is just one of the many traits of yours that have him wrapped around your finger always.

“We need to go grocery shopping,” you note dutifully as you peek your head into the fridge in search of breakfast. Frowning, you announce, “We’re out of eggs, so I guess it’s frozen waffles for breakfast.”

“Why don’t we go out for breakfast today?” Five suggests with an innocent shrug.

“Really? But you hate breakfast places. They can never make your coffee right.”

“I also hate seeing you eat frozen waffles three days in a row,” he reminds you with a wry chuckle. Maneuvering you out of the way, Five closes the fridge shut and gives you a gentle nudge in the direction of your shared bedroom. “Go on, get dressed. You can wear that new dress you bought the other day.”

“You’re right!” You exclaim with an excited gasp and rush off to your room before Five can change his mind. Not that he would, of course. Five would do anything to see you happy after all the shit he’s put you through in your time together. Sometimes he still wonders why you ever agreed to marry him, perhaps a slip of sanity or lack of care for your own wellbeing, but he wasn’t one to complain. He liked living the quiet life with you, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

~~~

The night air is cool against your bare shoulders as you sit comfortably upon the porch swing and listen to the cicadas sing their evening song. The sun has long since set, but the string of lights that hang above you are enough to allow you to see the pages of your color by numbers book. Beside you, Five sits with a book in one hand while the other rests atop of your legs strewn across his lap. He enjoys sitting in the silence of your company as you remain glued together despite partaking in your own hobbies separately.

“We’ve been married for thirty years,” you state simply, breaking the silence but never once breaking your focus from your coloring book.

“Sure have,” is Five’s thoughtful reply. Setting his book aside, your husband gives your calf a gentle squeeze and turns to look at your concentrated features.

“Not including your siblings, it’s always been just us. Together in the apocalypse, partners under the Commission, husband and wife.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks, not quite sure what point you’re trying to make. Are you rethinking the marriage? Are you finally starting to have regrets about marrying him? He watches with bated breath as you set your materials to the side and finally meet his anxious gaze.

“I want to start a family of our own,” you finally confess, nervously fidgeting with your wedding ring as you await his response with hopeful eyes. “I don’t want it to be just us anymore.”

Sighing, Five leans his head back and shuts his eyes as he processes your request. He can’t say he’s surprised by your question; he’s noticed the way you eye babies in public, how you linger just a little too long to admire the window display of the infant clothing store at the mall, how you’ll hold the twins for hours in your arms and refuse to give them back until Diego has to physically pry them from your grasp. It’s only natural for you to feel this way, but that’s not the problem. The problem is Five isn’t exactly sure how he feels about becoming a father.

“I don’t know,” he admits carefully, taking great caution when choosing his next words so as to not upset you. “Having a kid, becoming parents… it changes everything.”

“I know we couldn’t before because there was the Commission and then the multiple apocalypses, and that’s why I never asked. But Five,” you urge gently, shifting to sit yourself up on your knees so you can reach over and take both of his hands in your own, “all of that is done with. We fixed the timeline, and all that end of the world nonsense is over with for good. No one is coming after us anymore or trying to kill me to get to you. We can properly grow old now and have a simple life together, wasn’t that always the goal?”

The boy is silent as he mulls over your speech. You’re completely right; saving the world and resetting the timeline to its proper place in order to ensure you and his siblings could have the lives you deserved was always the end goal. But after spending his entire existence trying to complete that task, he finds it hard to adjust to his new life of normalcy. Perhaps he’s not exactly scared of becoming a parent, but scared of what a baby would mean in the grand scheme of things. It would be proof that his work is truly over now, that he can turn his survival mode off after having it set to fight for so many years, and that’s a big adjustment for someone like him.

But when he looks at your hopeful gaze and sees the way you anxiously worry your lip between your teeth, he realizes that he’ll do anything to give you the happy life you deserve. He brings one of your hands to his lips and holds it tight as he murmurs his answer into the skin of your palm.

“If you think we’re ready, then I’m in.”

“You mean it?” You gasp while doing your best to withhold your excitement. Your eyes are wide and full of hope as Five lets out a soft chuckle before giving you a reassuring kiss.

“We survived the end of the world several times, how scary could raising a baby really be?”

He isn’t given an answer to his hypothetical question as you fling yourself into his arms and assault his face with multiple kisses along his skin. It’s safe to say his answer has eased your anxieties, and the boy can only laugh as you express your gratitude.

“I’m so happy you agree!” You exclaim giddily, your hands coming to rest upon his chest to ground yourself as you then suggest to Five’s surprise, “Let’s start trying tonight!”

“What?”

~~~

“That has to be the tiniest Hargreeves I’ve ever seen,” Klaus gushes adoringly as he takes in the details of the ultrasound photo in front of him. “Look at the little peanut, isn’t it precious?”

“I can’t believe Five is actually going to be a dad,” Allison notes in astonishment as the three of you turn your gaze to see him arguing with Diego over the proper way to baby proof your home while Ben eggs them on and ruins Luther’s efforts at trying to keep the peace. You’re only two months along, but Five is anxious to ensure that everything is perfect for your child’s arrival.

“You know, you might just be the first 65 year-old woman to give birth,” Klaus points out cheekily. “You should be in a world records book or something.”

“Very funny,” you retort sarcastically before taking back the ultrasound photo to hang up on the fridge. You falter for a moment when your eyes remain stuck to photo and your brain works on overdrive to commit the image to memory as best as you can.

“Everything okay?” Viktor asks after noticing the sudden change in demeanor.

“I just can’t believe this is real,” you murmur quietly, blinking back tears that threaten to spill. “After everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve lost, I guess a part of me worries that one day I’ll wake up and this will all have been a dream.”

“I know how that feels,” Allison assures you with a comforting squeeze to your shoulder. “But I promise you this isn’t a dream, and whatever you need we’ll be there.”

“Because you’re family now,” Viktor adds on with a confident nod. “And we look out for family no matter what.”

“Even though at one point in our lives we’ve all thought about killing each other,” Klaus notes humorously before giving you a tight squeeze.

“Everything okay over here?” Five asks, appearing at your side and placing a comforting hand on your back as you all turn your gazes towards the fridge and admire the newest addition to the family.

“Everything is perfect.”