#mostly just for me to look through sometimes

[redfoxwritesstuff]

AN: As we countdown to Christmas, I want to remind everyone once again to be the type of person you wish there was more of in the world. We as a whole decide what is acceptable within our fandom.

CW: Oral sex, voice kink, dry humping, Alastor has hooves, rough sex

Summary: You and Alastor never had the same taste in books but that was alright. You prefered romance of the reather spicy kind. It was never a difference in taste that impacted your days or nights... until you walk into the shared bedroom to find Alastor sitting with your book in his hand and orders ready on his tongue.

Alastor never really understood the appeal of the books he would often find you curled up in the reading chair absorbed in. They were love stories, and he was your love story. What more did you need? It wasn’t something he argued about with you. Just a passing confusion that would linger. 

Alastor would walk in, find you with your book and walk by, a small smile on his face as he shook his head. You didn’t debate or defend your books. They were not something Alastor would like and so you left it be. 

That’s why you were ever so surprised to walk into your shared bedroom to find Alastor sitting in his reading chair with one of your books in his hand, reading the back of the cover. You glanced at him, eyebrow raised as you made your way to the dresser. 

He was humming as he flipped through the pages of the book, finding a general theme of the story from the random pages he scanned as you changed from your day dress to the silky nightgown you favored. The cool fabric skimmed the top of your thighs as you switched your panties out for the silky short shorts that matched it. 

“Alastor?” You called as you walked over to him. “Are you going to join me in bed, or will you be up for a while?” 

Alastor’s red eyes flicked up at you as he opened the book to page one. “Why don’t you sit with me for a while, darling? I’ll read to you for a bit.” 

Your eyes landed on the title of the book in his hands as you settled on the floor in front of Alastor. It wasn’t uncommon for him to read to you, sitting in your reading chair or in his. 

Mostly, he’d sit in his chair and you’d find yourself in his lap, head tucked against his shoulder as he lulled you to sleep with the smoothe sound of Alastor’s voice. Sometimes he would take up residence in your chair, though. 

On those nights, you would sit on the ground at his feet, legs tucked under you as you rested your head against his knee. It was usually on those nights he wasn’t in the mood for a lot of physical contact. Your head against the side of his knee was a compromise you eagerly accepted. 

That was the position you took now, preparing yourself to listen to him read not from one of his books but from yours. Your heart pounded in your chest as you relaxed against the soft chair. 

Alastor started reading and mentally, you followed along. The book he had chosen was one of your favorites, well loved and reread many times. Your mind raced as you mentally counted down the pages until the first filthy scene would begin. 

Surely, Alastor would stop when he realized what kind of book it was. You were so convinced that he would that your heart nearly stopped in your chest when he kept reading. He read about the characters fucking, seeking pleasure from eachother in the most explicate detail as if he was reading the newspaper. 

The sound of his voice, narrating your book, was bringing a flush through your veins. Desire built inside you as he said the most filthy lines. Your thighs rubbed together as his voice continued on, unphased by what he was reading. 

You jumped as Alastor ran his fingers through your hair, reminding you he was still there, as if the sound of his voice allowed you to forget. He read on, each word flowing from his lips as you struggled to keep your body under control. 

“You seem to enjoy this,” Alastor teased as the chapter ended. “Is this why you like these books so much?” 

You looked up at him, face hot while you tried to put on a mask of innocence. He had caught you. While you did not favor or partake in visual phonography, you, like countless other women throughout history, read it in inconspicuous books. 

“I don’t-” You were not sure what defense you were going to go with or why you felt so ashamed in the first place. 

“You’re rubbing your thighs together the same way you do when you watch me undress at night.” Alastor left you no room for argument. You were aroused, and he knew your tells. Hell, he didn’t even need to. His sense of smell was powerful, taking after his deer like nature. 

“It’s fine,” you laughed, waving off your obvious condition, “I know you’re not really-” 

Alastor patted his knee and ordered you to look at him. It was the first time you had done so since you had settled at his feet. His erection tented his night pants, straining against the fabric.

Your eyes lingered on it before you ran them up his torso, taking in the black button up night shirt he wore. It was a habit from life he struggled to let go of. He slept dressed unless the two of you had made love that night. 

“Do you want me to keep reading?” Alastor asked. “Answer honestly, dear.” 

“Yes,” you whispered timidly. “But only if you want to.” 

“Care to make a deal?” Alastor drew out the last word, ears flicking as he spoke. 

“What?” You hesitated, as anyone would when faced with such an offer. “What sort of deal?” 

“Well,” Alastor shamelessly pulled the top of his pants down, letting his considerable cock spring free. If you want me to continue reading, you better make sure it’s entertaining for me, too.

“You- You want a- a handie?” You chuckled nervously, confused by the sudden change from what level of touching you had expected from him. 

“No,” Alastor said after a pause. “I want you to put that pretty little mouth of yours to work.” 

“Oh,” you shuffled around in front of him. You rose up on your knees, wrapping your hand around his cock, and looked at him for approval again. Alastor was ever so fickle when it came to touch. When he nodded, you wrapped your lips around his cock, running your tongue over his head in soft, wet strokes. 

Alastor started reading again as you worked yourself over him, slowly taking in more and more of him as your saliva lubricated his shaft. You breathed long and slow breaths, taking in the scent of his musk. 

You worked him over eagerly, listing to the sound of his voice reading out the most debauched things. The book he had picked was by far one of your more spicy selections. Sex scene after sex scene seemed to flow as your jaw quickly started to ache. 

Alastor’s cock fell from your lips as you gasped for air, moving your weight from knee to knee, seeking any sort of stimulation. Your hand left his shin as you reached for your shorts. 

“Nu-uh-uh!” Alastor said in an eager, singsong voice. 

“What?” Your jaw ached as you formed the simple word, his length and girth making for a challenge to take into your mouth. 

“You don’t get to take breaks while I read,” Alastor patted the top of your head with the back of the book. “I read and you suck. That’s the deal. I didn’t say you could touch yourself while I’m reading.” 

“Alastor,” you whined as he smiled down at you. “You can’t expect me to sit here and suck your cock the whole time? You’re so thick, it’s not like you’re easy to suck.” 

“Tell you what,” Alastor grabbed your chin as he leaned forward, kissing you softly for a moment before continuing. “You can take a break between chapters.” 

“So generous,” you teased him for a moment before realizing he was serious. He intended to read to you until the book was done or it was time to retire for the night. 

“Ha!” Alastor laughed, loud and eager, as if you had made some sort of joke. “I am! I’ll even let you take care of yourself… with my hoof.” 

“You can’t be serious,” you whispered. 

“I am!” Alastor laughed, guiding his cock to point at your mouth, waiting for you to wrap your lips back around his shaft. 

You did, timidly, and were rewarded with his voice, reading once again. You thought yourself to be too good to grind yourself against his leg, his hoof, but as the first chapter finished and the second began, you found yourself straddling his leg. 

You closed your eyes, enjoying the heavy feeling of the head of his cock resting against your tongue. You sucked at him, running your tongue up and down his slit as he read on. His voice continued, steady and unaffected by the ministrations of your tongue. 

You sucked him deeper, trying to get some sort of reaction from him. The tip of your tongue swept under his glans, urging him deeper. Blowjobs were not something you typically enjoyed giving for extended periods of time but for Alastor… you couldn’t say no to him. He so rarely had sexual requests.

The sound of his voice, filthy words dropping from his tongue, filled your mind. “You’re such a hussy,” Alastor growled the words out, putting his own gravel into the dialog written in the book. “Eager for any man’s attention.” 

You moaned around his shaft, fingers wrapping around his calf as you worked your way up and down his cock. 

“Careful Cher,” Alastor said, looking from the book to you. “Don’t get too eager. I didn’t say you could make me cum and I certainly haven’t said you can either.” 

You moaned in agreement, eyes looking up at him pleadingly. You wanted more, to hear him read more, to feel more of him. Alastor waited a moment before directing his attention back to the novel, set in the time he lived and detailing the scandalous relationships of a radio host.

“You will get that when I decide you’re ready,” Alastor read the words in the book, voice steady and not showing a hint of embarrassment. “And not a moment before.” 

You ground your core down on the wiry fur that covered his lower calf, rubbing your silk covered folds against the joints that made up his ankle. Alastor read of a man slapping a woman’s cunt as you rubbed your folds over the ridge where the hard surface of his hoof began. 

All you could think of was the sound of his voice as your saliva ran down his shaft. Alastor read as if he couldn’t feel it drip down his balls or soak into the fabric of his pants. He seemed unbothered as your tongue ran up and down his veins. 

Your jaw ached as you swallowed around him. What was worse, your cunt ached from the need for him. The hardness of his hoof, shiny now with slick that had soaked through your shorts, was unforgiving against the softness of your folds. 

“Each blow to her cunt was followed with a stroke up, running his fingers over her sensitive clit.” Alastor read as you eagerly choked yourself on his cock. “The moans leaving her lips were more and more shameless.” He said easily as you moaned around his shaft. “There was no show now. Each heaving breath, whine and moan was honestly earned.” 

He was driving you insane. Each word that left his mouth rich and wrapped in warm honey made you want him more. You ground your clit against the ridge of his hoof as he spoke, trying to find satisfaction. 

“You like this,” Alastor read, eyes focusing on you, ensuring you knew the words were as much directed toward you as they were toward the story. “You like it when I slap your wet clit, don’t you?” 

Your jaw ached as you slurped around his cock, tongue working to find the vein and trace it. Need for him burned inside you, threatening to burn away at your sanity. There was nothing more you wanted than for him to bend you over the arm of the chair and fuck you until you couldn’t remember your name. 

“You like it,” Alastor read as his cock twitched in the warmth of your mouth. “Knowing they can hear your moans. Do you want me to fuck you?” 

You moaned again around his shaft, eyes watering as you looked up at him as he continued reading. 

“Do you want to put on a show for them? Let them watch me slap your cunt? Let them watch you scream?” Alastor read as you whined and whimpered around his shaft. “Do you want them to see how wet this delicious,” Alastor paused, watching you as he finished. “Sweet cunt gets from pain? I’ll show them.” 

You sucked eagerly on him, enjoying the taste of his pre-cum on your tongue. You bobbed your head, fully engrossed in the task as you went. Slick glued your shorts to your folds, soaked through the fabric. It spread against your thighs, shining in the dim light of the room. 

“I’ll let them watch as I fuck that tight cunt. Watch my dick sink into you. I’ll have you screaming my name until the whole town knows who you belong to.” Alastor read on, voice tight as you ran your tongue over his slit before swallowing him again. “They’ll watch you lick my cum from me.” 

The book slammed shut with a snap before Alastor threw it aside. Your eyes fluttered open as he leaned forward, the book landing dangerously close to the fireplace. 

His cock pushed deeper and deeper into your mouth as he moved forward on the chair. You choked on him as he forced his way into your throat. Fingers wrapped in your hair to pull you off of him, throwing you onto your back. 

Alastor poured from the chair as he climbed your body. His hoof scraped against the wooden floor as he ripped your shorts from your body. He was on you in an instant, hot saliva coated cock pushing into your needy, unpropped hole. 

You moaned, body tense from how close you had brought yourself to orgasm as you rode his hoof. He was unrelenting as he pushed himself deeper, sheathing himself fully in your wet heat. The head of his cock reached deep inside you as he sighed, finally home inside you. 

He indulged in the feeling for a few short seconds, not giving you anything more than those to adjust. Hot fire spread through you as he pulled back, grabbing your thigh and hiking it high along his side before slamming back inside you as he leaned forward, capturing your swollen lips in a hungry kiss. 

You moaned into him as his cock pushed against your walls. Each thrust was punishing, brutal, and wild. He fucked you with the same force you knew the man in the book was going to go on and fuck his darling. The only difference was that he took her on the top of a table inside the speakeasy and Alastor was fucking you on the floor of your bedroom. 

Did he know? You felt too good to care. 

“Fuck,” you moaned, only to have the word choked off by Alastor’s tongue sweeping into your mouth.

He shifted, taking your legs and resting them on his shoulders as he folded you in half. All of his weight slammed down on you, driving his cock into you with all the force he could manage as he swallowed your cries. Your clit poked out between your folds, framed by them as his pelvic bone slapped it again and gain. 

You struggled not to think of the way the man in the book slapped the woman’s clit. Did it feel the same? 

“Cher,” Alastor groaned as he kissed your neck, pushing your knees lower still. “Baby, so good. You’re going to cum for me?” 

“Ah- Al-Al!” You couldn’t form a word, could hardly form his name as each thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

He continued, body crashing into yours as each muscle pulled tighter and tighter. He watched as your toes curled and your ankles shook. Drool ran from the corner of your mouth. Lips, bright red and puffy from being wrapped around his cock for so long, parted, falling open in a gasp as the dam broke.

He could feel each shudder run through your body. Your walls rippled around him, strong waves begging him to fuck into you harder, faster. Who was he to deny? The sound of your cries of his name mixed with his panting breaths and the slapping of his body against your soaked cunt. 

He came with a roar, shadows dancing around the room and fire surging in the fireplace. His power surged, as did his cock, as his punishing pace grew irregular. Hot ropes of white shot out from him, painting your welcoming walls white, rewarding their embrace with his essence. 

His elbows gave out, pushing your legs to your shoulders more as he crashed down, mouth latching on your shoulder as powerful shudders ran down his spine. He ground his pelvis into your core, cock twitching as he emptied the last of his seed deep within you.

You gasped for breath, fingers running through his hair as one leg slipped off his shoulder, receiving the ache in that hip. The cold, hard floor was unforgiving under your back but you struggled to get the motivation to tell Alastor to get off of you. Instead, you both lay on the ground, tangled in each other as you both twitched with the aftershocks of your lovemaking. 

If Alastor was going to fuck you with such feral passion, you wouldn’t mind him reading your dirty romance books to you more often. 

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord where we talk Vox, Hazbin, writing, reading, art and who knows what else. You may even catch some exclusive sneak peeks at upcoming fics from some of your favorite writers including the first page of the next chapter of MisD a day early!!

[sadistichaunt]

@dickgraysonsptsd : #i've been thinking about this sooo much mal .. sladick dynamic is so sexy when focusing on dick as brain and slade as heart

YOU GET ITTTTT

I dunno this is gonna be such a rambling post but. I definitely think that they themselves believe they embody the opposite (dick as heart and Slade as brain). Dick, especially in opposition to Bruce, is bright and funny and loud. He was Robin , for Christ's sake. But on his own, when he's not under Bruce's wing, he's analytical, he's a bitch, he's downright cold when he wants to be.

But he wants emotion to come easy to him. It doesn't. Look at how he acts- yes, he lashes out at times, but the way that he intellectualizes things leaves little to no room for processing the emotional part of things. (Dick strikes me as the type to be like "well. I understand *why* so and so did this thing- I'm going to act upset because I *should* be upset, but it's mostly playacting through emotion rather than actually feeling it. I know why they did it, I know how to avoid this situation in the future, so it's no skin off my back.) (not that he doesn't feel emotion- he absolutely does. But at his core he's a performer. Who's to say how much of his intensity is real?)

(I'm not as much of an expert on dick as I am Slade, this is my general take on him, not the complete analysis of him)

So when he sees Slade- someone who's cold and analytical and professional, being *emotional?* He gravitates towards it. He craves that realness, that genuine feeling (even if it hurts him in the end) because it's something that he's never been able to obtain for himself.

Slade, on the other hand, fights tooth and fucking nail to keep that Deathstroke reputation. He refuses to give up a name to save his own son for that reputation. But when it comes down to it, Slade is such a deeply emotional person that it colors *everything* he does. There's this line somewhere in TNTT vol.1 when Grant first dies. Slade *knows* the Hive got him killed on purpose. He knows that they were trying to get to him. He tries to play it off as a "I have to finish my son's legacy" but the only reason hes doing anything is because he cares. He loved Grant, in his own fucked up way, and his hurt + anger at his death was what fueled everything for him. No one would blame Deathstroke for ignoring a contract that wasn't even his. No one even knew that Ravager was his son, at least not the people that mattered.

So, just like Dick, he gravitates towards what he doesn't have. He sees someone who, supposedly, has the same mask that he's wearing. A professional and aloof facade. But where they differ is that Slade drops his mask, sometimes. When they're fighting, when the contract gets a little too personal, when Dick says something that digs a little too deep. What pisses him off is that he can't seem to find any cracks in Dick's mask and he wants to be the one to pry underneath it.

Somehow, the personalities between Dick and Slade have gotten totally mixed up in fandom??

Slade is an INCREDIBLY emotionally-person. Nearly all of his major decisions come from his connections with other people. He took up the Titans contract because his son died during it. There's like, at least a dozen lines in TNTT where Slade admits that he doesn't care about contracts, he doesn't care about the money, he takes most important contracts based on his personal investment in them. At his core, he's prideful, but even that is set aside in favor of his relationships.

(even with Joey. Joey just wasn't important enough for him)

Dick, on the other hand, is cold and calculating in almost every sense of the phrase. He's quick as a whip and clever, and his compassion + empathy somehow makes this... Disappear when it comes to fan content. He turns into a caricature of the "bubbly, golden retriever" stereotype instead of the FAR more intriguing personality that he has. He cares, of course he does, but that is overshadowed by his analytical brain. Look at this like from TNTT (I forgot which issue- it's when him and Kory's relationship was in it's infancy)

Dick: Besides. I think I've always been too introspective for my own good.

Kory: I know I love you. Isn't that enough?

Dick: I don't think so. You see, I only think I may love you.

[abigailnussbaum]

The Georgette Heyer Master List

Is it just me, or has Georgette Heyer kind of... gone away? Ten, maybe fifteen years ago, she was a name I'd hear quite often. Especially in the circles of science fiction and fantasy fandom that also overlapped with the avid readership of Jane Austen or Patrick O'Brian, she was often recommended as a sort of Austen methadone. Over at Tor.com, as it was then known, fantasy author Mari Ness did a whole season of reading through Heyer's voluminous back-catalogue. These days, even as romance writing—and especially Regency romance, the subgenre that Heyer arguably created—has gained enormous mainstream visibility, and as science fiction and fantasy romance has become its own wildly successful subgenre, Heyer seems to come up less and less. One might have expected the success of Bridgerton, for example, to inspire some film or TV adaptations of her books (it was, after all, the reason the Austen fanfic series Sanditon came back from being cancelled after its first season), but so far nothing.

This might be one of those cases where the answer is contained in the question. The reason fewer people are reading Heyer is that, although she more or less created Regency romance, there are so many people writing within it now that readers looking for something like Jane Austen, but not quite, have a lot of other options on offer. Which makes it easier to notice the problems with Heyer, or simply the ways in which her style has fallen out of fashion. There is no sex in her books (and no queerness, obviously), but there are poisonous sexual mores—all her heroes have had mistresses who are, quite obviously to them and everyone around them, not the sort of woman one marries, while her heroines, even at the moment of declaring their love to their HEA, feel obliged to "resist" any physical display of affection. Her books are rife with chauvinism, antisemitism, and most of all classism (and frankly, I think the only reason racism is absent is that everyone in these books is white), and while this is arguably more realistic than a lot of starry-eyed modern Regency romances, it is also a reflection of Heyer's own prejudices.

Still, I took in all those recommendations a decade or more ago, and while I may be slow I will usually get around to reading something if a lot of people tell me I should. In the last year I've ended up reading a lot of Heyer—mostly stuff I had in my enormous TBR, or found at a used bookstore, or at the local library, so there's not a lot of intentional choice happening here. I'm not here to say that Heyer is an overlooked gem. All those problems noted above are very much present in her writing, and in addition she has some favorite tropes that she goes back to again and again—in a mere twelve books, the plot strand in which one character is kidnapped across the channel to France, while another character pursues them, going deep into the logistics of finding them and catching them up, recurs a surprising number of times. But she's nevertheless a more interesting writer than I think is commonly acknowledged today, more likely to pay attention to the psychology of her characters (and not in the modern, sometimes quite exhausting, therapy-speak way), and more interested in her setting (Heyer also wrote historical fiction, and some of her romances shade into that genre). I dipped into some of Julia Quinn's Bridgerton novels this year as well, and I have to say, beyond the fact that Heyer is just a better writer, it's a bit more palatable to encounter nasty sexual politics in novels written in the 40s and 50s, than to have to accept that the implied threat of sexual violence is but a stepping stone to true love from a writer whose books were published only twenty years ago.

Below are some thoughts on the Heyer books I've read so far. I will add to them when and as I read new ones, though I think I will continue to leave the selection of those books to happenstance.

S-Tier

Cotillion (1953) - This is the first Heyer I ever read, and to an extent it has spoiled me for the rest of her writing by being such a high water mark. Kitty Charing has been informed by her guardian that she will be forced to marry one of his nephews, and instead decides to run off to the city to find her own match, with the help of gadabout Freddy. The two end up first pretending to be engaged, and then trying to throw Kitty in the path of eligible bachelors, while inevitably falling in love themselves. This is a great book first because it's extremely funny. Heyer had a great ear for the absurd slang of the fashionable London set, and gets a lot of mileage out of Kitty's cheerful refusal to let logic or common sense stop her, and Freddy's Regency himbo antics. More importantly—and rather rarely for Heyer's writing—Kitty and Freddy are true equals. They're both a bit silly and a lot sheltered, but also able to rise to the occasion when it's required, and they lock into each other's wavelength early in the novel and never let go. Inasmuch as they change each other, it's only in revealing that they are able to pull off audacious schemes when someone they care about needs them to, and you can imagine the two of them having a long, ridiculous partnership in crime for the rest of their lives.

Sylvester, or the Wicked Uncle (1957) - Informed that Lord Sylvester, who has a bad reputation that is only partly earned, is about to propose marriage to her, Phoebe runs off with her best friend Tom. When the two of them run into trouble on the road, they are rescued by none other than Sylvester, which throws him and Phoebe together for extended periods, with predictable results. This format—older, powerful man; younger, sheltered woman—is one that Heyer returns to quite often, but it works better here than in any other of her novels. Sylvester isn't cruel or a rake; he's arrogant and high-handed, though often with some justification (most of his bad reputation comes from his self-absorbed, thoughtless sister-in-law). Phoebe isn't a naif, but an intelligent woman with a hidden career as an author that she's quite devoted to. The two of them develop a compelling friendship long before they fall in love, rooted in the fact that they are often the smartest person in the room, and able to help each other steer a tricky situation towards calm waters. The twist that threatens their relationship—before meeting him, Phoebe wrote a novel in which the villain was a thinly-veiled version of Sylvester—is highly original, and the novel's final act, in which Sylvester must pursue Phoebe and his kidnapped nephew into France, is one of the most hilarious sequences I've ever read. By the time the two get together, it's obvious that they could only be happy with each other.

Good

False Colors (1963) - Returning from his diplomatic post abroad, Kit Fancot discovers that his twin brother Evelyn has disappeared, right before he was about to propose to Cressida Stavely. Persuaded by his mother to impersonate his twin for one night, Kit quickly finds himself hosting Cressida and a whole raft of other characters in his country home, while trying to keep up the charade and, of course, keep from falling in love with Cressida himself. This is a book that's interesting more for the background than the main romance—Kit and Cressida are quite sweet, but more because they're a point of calm amidst the chaos of all their relatives and friends. But it's that chaos—especially Kit's mother, an airheaded inveterate gambler whom Kit nevertheless adores— that is the real source of the novel's fun. The fact that Kit and Cressida are able to put all the various crises around them to rest is what convinces you that they will be a good couple, but it's not their further adventures that you'd like to follow.

Charity Girl (1970) - While visiting relatives, Ashley Desford encounters Charity Steane, the penniless ward of a family who are mistreating her. When Ashley later finds Charity running away, he convinces her to let him try to find her a respectable situation, and places her with his childhood friend Henrietta Silverdale. In any other novel you'd expect Ashley and Charity to fall in love (and indeed this is what several characters in the novel assume—when they're not assuming something more salacious). Instead, Ashley's efforts to untangle Charity's family situation, get the best of her odious relatives, and find a safe place for her are a method of throwing him in company with Henrietta, whom he has for years insisted is only a friend. It turns out that Ashley and Henrietta, having rebelled against their families' plan to marry them off at a too-young age, have been shame-facedly pretending that they haven't fallen in love for ten years, and it's only by becoming jointly responsible for Charity that they can work their way around this predicament. The stakes aren't particularly high, but the scenario is original enough (especially for Heyer) to make this a worthwhile read.

Interesting

These Old Shades (1926) - Infamous rake Justin Alastair encounters a runaway, Léon, on the streets of Paris and takes him in as his page. It doesn't take long to realize that Léon is actually Léonie, but the untangling of her convoluted family history—a tale of swapped babies, mistaken identities, and false heirs—is the business of much of the novel, during which, of course, Justin and Léonie also fall in love. The potboiler plot is quite fun, as is Léonie herself—having pretended to be a boy for years, she is at once indifferent to the mores she's expected to adopt as a respectable young lady, and immediately won over by fancy clothes and balls, which allows her to triumph over opponents in both high and low society. But this can't quite get around the problem that Justin is twice Léonie's age, and also a pretty bad person (the character previously appeared in The Black Moth (1921), where he was the villain, and a subplot in These Old Shades even throws Justin into the company a woman he had kidnapped in the previous book). Despite the force of Léonie's argument that she actually wants to be with Justin, this is a book better enjoyed for its rollicking, adventurous middle than its romantic conclusion.

An Infamous Army (1937) - Heyer was simply mad for the Napoleonic wars, and this is one of several books she wrote set in and around them. As aristocrats and officers await the arrival of Napoleon's army in Brussels, Colonel Charles Audley encounters Lady Barbara Childe, a widow with a scandalous reputation. The two feel an instant, powerful attraction, but end up having to navigate Barbara's habit of playing games with her suitors, and Charles's impatience with them, before the battle of Waterloo erupts and forces them both to confront more pressing issues while also realizing the depth of their feelings for each other. It's nice to have a central couple who are older, more experienced people, but An Infamous Army steps away from Charles and Barbara quite often. Sometimes this is quite interesting—the absurdity of 18th century warfare, with Wellington throwing balls for the who's who gathered in Brussels while everyone debates when to flee the city—and at other points quite tedious—several subplots in which Charles's extended family play forgettable matchmaking games. In the end, however, Heyer's interest is in Waterloo itself, with the novel culminating in an 80-page, blow-by-blow description of the battle. This can sometimes be quite moving, when it captures the sheer extent of the carnage, or the confusion of individual officers. But mostly it's just descriptions of military tactics, which is not what I signed up for when I picked up a Regency romance. By the time Charles and Barbara find their way back to each other, you'll mostly be feeling exhausted rather than overjoyed.

A Civil Contract (1961) - Adam Deveril is called home from the peninsula by the news that his father, a viscount, has died, and that the family finances are in such dire straits that Adam may be forced to sell their ancestral estate. The only solution, Adam is quickly made to realize, is for him to marry rich, to which end he's introduced to Jenny Chawleigh, the daughter of a fantastically rich but boorish merchant. In most books we'd expect Adam and Jenny to fall in love, and it takes a while to realize that this is not going to happen. Adam continues to think wistfully about Julia, the woman he had been attached to before his finances made the idea of proposing to her impossible, and the narrative is at pains to point out that he doesn't feel any attraction towards Jenny. What A Civil Contract is about, instead, is class relations. The complicated push and pull between Adam and Jenny's father Jonathan as they negotiate one's social position, and the other's wealth; the delicate negotiations between Adam and Jenny as she learns to understand the importance of tradition to him, and he realizes that she is actually capable of being a great viscountess if he just trusts her a little. The whole thing is a lot more Edith Wharton than Jane Austen, with some great scenes in which Adam is torn between genuine appreciation of Jonathan's energy and intelligence, and disgust at his determination to tear down everything old and replace it with whatever is newest and most expensive. In the end, however, it's all a bit too bleak, and Heyer doesn't quite have the courage to let us sit with that. She tries to assure us that Adam and Jenny have found a genuine partner in each other, and that this, too, is a form of love, but this is not very convincing. In the hands of another author, A Civil Contract would have been the half-tragedy it actually is.

Meh

The Convenient Marriage (1934) - Intending to propose to the eldest Winwood sister, who is already in love with someone else, the Earl of Rule is persuaded, by her younger sister Horatia, to marry her instead. That's basically the story—a marriage of convenience for both parties that turns into a romance. But while in other books Heyer has made a meal of this premise, The Convenient Marriage never convinces you of either its lovers being especially suited to each other, or the rather thin obstacles it places in their path. There are some interesting worldbuilding details—some information about how the invitations to Almack's used to work, or about the mechanics and norms of duel-fighting. And towards the end, there are some good scenes in which Horatia has to outsmart a kidnapper, or her brother has to arrange a highway robbery to retrieve a stolen jewel that might destroy her reputation. But ultimately, the fact that this is all in service of a couple who aren't particularly engaging (and whose age difference—35 and 17—is hard to get over) makes the whole thing a bit of a slog.

Cousin Kate (1968) - Kate Malvern is at the end of her rope, having been chased off yet another governess position by an employer with wandering hands, when a long-lost aunt invites her to visit her country home. When Kate arrives, she soon realizes that her aunt Minerva plans to pressure her to marry her cousin Torquil, and that there are secrets in the estate and the family that are being kept from her. This is Heyer working in the Gothic mode, complete with an isolated great house, a young woman being manipulated and lied to, and a dreadful family secret. It's reasonably well done for what it is, but there were better authors than Heyer working in the Gothic mode—by 1968 you could have read something like Mary Stewart's The Ivy Tree (1961) or Nine Coaches Waiting (1958), both of which do much more interesting, innovative things with the Gothic form than Heyer is even attempting. Finally, there is the fact that the dark secret being kept from Kate has to do with mental illness, whose handling is as tragic and sensationalized as you might expect from this author and era.

Yikes

Devil’s Cub (1932) - The sequel to These Old Shades, this book centers on Justin and Léonie's son Vidal, who has all of his parents' faults and none of their charms. After killing a man in a duel, he schemes to run off with a silly middle class girl, whom he of course feels no compunction about ruining. When her sister Mary takes her place, Vidal is shocked to realize that he has compromised a "respectable" woman, and tries to convince her to marry him. There are further twists, but none of them can get around the fact that the main character of this book is odious, and that the supposed love story between him and the girl he has kidnapped and ruined is highly unconvincing. Not helping matters is that an older Léonie periodically appears to explain that her son has done nothing wrong and that marrying Mary will obviously be the best thing for him, which frankly feels too much like the voice of the author for comfort.

The Spanish Bride (1940) - Based on the real experiences of Captain Harry Smith and his Spanish war bride Juana, this is another novel deeply rooted in the minutiae of the Napoleonic wars, beginning on the peninsula and culminating, of course, in Waterloo. In itself this might simply be boring, but right off the bat we get a scene in which Harry and other officers stand back while their soldiers, enraged after the bloody siege of Badajoz, murder and rape their way through the town for several days. Harry's marriage to Juana is arranged in the wake of this atrocity as a means of protecting her, despite her being only fourteen years old. The rest of the novel is spent careening between detailed descriptions of various battles, and cutesy interludes between Harry and Juana as they settle into their marriage—Harry often exasperated by Juana's stubbornness and emotional outbursts (I don't know, man; if you didn't want a wife who behaves like a child, maybe you shouldn't have married a child); Juana almost slavishly devoted to him but also prone to jealousy and anxiety. (Harry Smith left copious journals so one assumes his side of the story is fairly realistic; Juana Smith's feelings on the whole matter are, as far as I know, lost to history.) The whole thing is alternately boring and gross.

The Grand Sophy (1950) - Charles Rivenhall is informed that his family will play host to their cousin Sophy, whose diplomat father is being sent abroad. Accustomed to keeping house for her father, Sophy quickly takes over the Rivenhall household, rearranging her cousins' financial and romantic lives while a stunned Charles is at first outraged, and then won over. This is a solid premise, but the execution is appalling. Sophy is a bulldozer who interferes in people's lives not because she cares about them but because she always thinks she knows better, and eventually she comes to feel more like a bully than a savior. That Charles is attracted to these qualities might be taken as a defensive trauma response (or, in the hands of a more open-minded author, a kinky tendency), but at no point did I even begin to believe that Sophy had any romantic interest in him (there are a number of Heyer characters who would make a lot more sense if they were queer, but Sophy, in particular, is so clearly a lesbian that the very idea of her happily married to a man breaks one's brain). Adding insult to injury is a lengthy sequence in which Sophy "defeats" an odious Jewish moneylender—read, a collection of poisonous antisemitic stereotypes in human form—whom her cousin has borrowed money from and who, completely unreasonably, expects to be paid back until Sophy threatens him with a gun. I will no doubt ruffle some feather by placing this book—generally held to be one of Heyer's best—so low, but reading it nearly put me off her for life. 

[lilpotatjj]

There it is, the SheKnows FF.

Anon Request: yes

Warning: It's just super sweet and fluffy and both are so adorable especially to each other. If you liked it, share, so more ppl can see and enjoy it :)

(Credits to the GIF Owner!)❤️

A head, heavy and tired, leaned on a strong shoulder. It belonged to Cait which leaned on her blond Scotsman. She slept soundly during the flight to New York. Eternal ocean beneath the plane, as if it were taking a flight into infinity. Sometimes it felt like that for Sam and Cait. Freezing time and just holding your breath and loving each other. Soaking up every second like a sponge that stores water. He looked at her lovingly. On the plane they are alone. Sam slowly and carefully put a hand on her cheek and gently stroked her sleeping face. She was sleeping so soundly that she didn't even notice it at first. The sight of her made the Scotsman smile. Barely realizing his happiness, he hugged the Irish woman tighter, who promptly snuggled up to him more unconsciously and out of habit. A quiet sigh escaped her. God, she looked so happy and content, so snuggled up to him. She didn't need anything more. Cait was happy to always have him by her side, to do interviews together. He held her tightly in his arms and gave her a gentle kiss on her beautiful hair.

The flight lasted less than two hours. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if a stone on his chest was making it difficult to breathe. Cait immediately felt the tension and slowly woke up, instantly looking up at him. "Darling... is everything OK?" she asked worriedly, her voice completely sleepy. Sam just smiled gently at her and stroked her head. "Don't worry Mo Craigh, it's nothing..." he said as best he could with a fake smile, but his wife knows the blond Scotsman too well to believe him. She looked at him with a searching face and raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, something's bothering you," she said, leaving no room for further evasion. He gave in and Sam grinned again. That's why he loves this woman so much. "A lot of questions are being asked again and I wonder how much longer I can keep this up. I love you and God..." he came closer to her face, kissed her briefly, only to stare into her eyes and her soul. "...I really want to show it to the whole world..." his words sounded sincere and at the same time slightly painful. The constant lying and provoking here and there is slowly becoming a nerve-wracking test. Cait smiles understandingly and puts her hand on his cheek to stroke it. "Just a little more, darling, then you can show them... and in between you just sneak a peek here and there," she said determinedly to calm him down and she sat down properly in the airplane seat. Sam looked thoughtfully out of the window and there it was, America. New York almost within reach and only a few kilometers away.

The plane landed and both got off board. They walked through the airport as relaxed as possible, always attracting a lot of attention, both hoping not to be spoken to, but no such luck. Here and there they were recognized and spoken to, but mostly they were very polite fans who didn't ask any unpleasant questions. They then quickly went on to the hotel. When they arrived, both took a breath. There were still two days until the interview and the photo shoot. "Are you hungry? We could find something nice to eat," asked Sam and unpacked a few of his things, while Cait tiredly collapsed onto the bed. "Yes, I'm just going to freshen up quickly and then we can go," she said and stood up. "Alone?" He looked at her with a curious puppy look and waited patiently for his 'treat'. She gave him a cheeky smile. "A little company wouldn't be bad." Cait looked at him provocatively and disappeared into the bathroom, prompting Sam to follow her.

After a very hot shower, both are ready to explore New York City. They are dressed casually and inconspicuously and Cait with a mini bun, looking for an opportunity to eat something. Not the first time here, they stop by one of their regular restaurants. The owner already knew each of them well and made it possible to eat discreetly. Sitting down and ordering the food, Sam stares into space again. "Babe! Dreaming again?" Cait looked at Sam, now more worried. "Sorry, I was thinking about the photo shoot for a moment."

"What are you planning? We have a skript, but still a bit more freedom this time," she said, and the food came to the table at the same time. "That's it...where does it start and where is the limit?" he asked, putting some food in his mouth. He didn't really care what the others thought and he was clearly aware that he had to keep his feet still, but this time he wanted to take it easy, without telling Cait beforehand. After all, she should approach the interview in a relaxed manner and still enjoy the photo shoot.

"Are John, Richard and Sophie already in New York?" she asked, also eating something. "Like us, they wanted to be there two days earlier, I've already written to both of them and asked if they want a drink while they're there." He looked at his cell phone and saw that he had new messages. One from Richard. ~We just arrived. Would ask Sophie and John~ Cait and Sam finished eating and walked around the streets of NYC for a while, this time wearing glasses, a hood and arm in arm without people recognizing them.

In the evening, everyone gradually found their way together. They chose a bar that was rather quiet and not overrun by fans. "Nice to have you here," said Cait as she greeted John, Richard and Sophie. Everyone gathered at a larger table and ordered their first drinks. Sam's good whiskey 'Sassenach' was included.

"A Sassenach for me," said Sam, staring at his wife, who did not miss the emphasis. The meaning was more directed at her than at the alcohol. The bartender, a young woman in her mid-30s, kept staring at Sam and Richard. When she brought the drinks, she tried her best to draw attention to herself with facial expressions and gestures, but Sam and Richard completely ignored her. The only one who gave the bartender a death stare was the Irish woman, a look that directly marked the territory and the pack within it.

Sam loved it when she exuded authority and showed everyone who this handsome Scotsman belonged to. The bartender's face lost color when she saw Cait's expression and went back faster than anyone could see. Sophie just smiled and drank some of her drink. "The cat has its claws out," Sophie joked and Cait ignored her comment as best she could. "What do you think the interview will be like?" John interjected and looked at everyone innocently and curiously. Richard abstained and drank his whiskey again. "There will be a lot of people there again and cameras. Do you think it will go well this time?" Sophie asked the main protagonists of the show. "We'll manage it. The script gives us more freedom this time and yet... I don't want to provoke too much," Sam said dejectedly and drank his drink too. Cait looked at her husband and finally smiled lovingly at him. "You'll manage it" with these words they turned night into day and finally, two days later, the time had come.

Everyone was ready. Cait wore an elegant red dress and Sam a black suit with matching shoes. "You look lovely, Mo Craigh" Sam's voice sounded quiet and slightly seductive. Red simply suited her fabulously and underlined her character completely. "You of all people say that, my dear" she gave him a kiss on the cheek and finally everyone got ready to get started.

They arrived earlier than expected and were ready to do the interview first. Sam and Caitriona both looked at each other, briefly clasped their hands again and smiled at each other. Finally they came out, each with their hands to themselves, sat down together with the interviewer and the atmosphere was relaxed. They started the interview and, as always, showed their hidden, open side. Glances were exchanged, people laughed together and Cait and Sam alternated between making subtle comments that teased out the secret togetherness. Cait had her fingers on Sam here and there, who tried to save face, but often failed. He praised his Irish wife highly, as always, and Cait stroked his arm.

"Peach is your good thing and Pit's your bad" They continued talking. "My peach is... I love saying that" said Sam and continued, while Cait let her gaze wander to her husband's butt for a fleeting moment. After more breadcrumbs were scattered, the interview was finally over. Then came the photo shoot.

First the solo shoot and then the couple shoot. A wide variety of poses were taken. Sometimes back to back

sometimes Cait had Sam firmly in her grip

sitting and lots more. Finally, the group shoot, which everyone had lined up for. It was getting later and later and everyone could feel that the day had been long when the shoot was over. They went to get changed together, making sure that no one saw them going into the changing room together. Totally tired, the Irish woman sat down to take a deep breath. "You were great, Mo Craigh!" Sam said to his wife and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. She smiled lovingly at him as he turned away and started to undress and put on loose clothing. She paused for a moment, looked at his bare butt and had to smile. "What?" he asked innocently, but Cait remained silent and began to change. While she was doing this, Sam came close behind her. "well, well... I already noticed what you did..." his voice sounded rough, as if he was expressing a conspiratorial grudge. "Couldn't take your eyes off my peach, could you?" he said playfully and buried his face in her neck. The Irish woman paused briefly to enjoy his closeness, then she turned to him and cupped his face in her cheek. "How could you...with an ass like that," she said quietly and finally kissed him.

Once they had finished changing, the two of them set off to get to the hotel. When they arrived, Cait went to the minibar in the room to get a glass of wine. The 1.92m man looked at her and grinned. "Netflix and chill?" he asked her and Cait nodded with a small smile. She put two wine glasses on the table and they both sat down on the couch to turn on the TV. She filled both glasses and took her glass in her hand. "You've been really going full throttle all day today, in front of the camera," she said, playfully raising an eyebrow. "Did I?" he said innocently, as if he didn't know what had happened. Cait snuggled up closer to her Scot, who took her in his arms. "I was just... talking about Jamie," he said, pretending to be righteous. She laughed quietly and leaned her head on his shoulder. He enjoyed her closeness just as much and snuggled up closer to her, his wine glass in his hand. "Of course we talked about Jamie and Claire," Cait said smugly and sipped her wine. "Aye Sassenach and you couldn't keep your hands off me again." His gaze wandered to her. Their eyes met and for a moment it felt as if time had stood still. They both had each other and their little family and it was the little moments that were very special and nobody could do anything about it. He slowly came closer to her and blew a tender kiss on the Irish woman's lips, which she was happy to return. Almost in slow motion, Cait pulled away from him and looked at him questioningly. "Do you think anyone noticed anything?" she asked curiously, but the blonde drank quietly from his glass again. "There are some out there who speculate and notice things. We throw too much into the fire for people who have an eye for things like that." He looked at his ring and then stroked her cheek lovingly.

"The question of whether we feel the same like for Jamie and Claire made me stumble for a moment... I think my answer was neutral enough that people can figure it out for themselves," she said relaxedly and put down her wine glass to completely lie in the arms of her beloved Scot, who did the same and put down his glass. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her hair. Sam gently stroked her hair to massage her head. Cait closed her eyes and was finally able to relax a little more. "I don't care what the media says... you belong to me and that will never change," she whispered tiredly and felt a kiss on her forehead for a small, quiet moment before she fell asleep.

My other Sam and Cait FF's

[fuqnia]

college AU! stan x fem bodied YN

stan and yn are reallyyy close friends, like REALLY close, to the point of kissing eachother sometimes. at this point, him and wendy are not a thing (unless you do poly and we could get some poly action, if not thats fine) and stan and YN like eachother romantically. stan knows he likes them but hasn't come to terms with it, while YN themselves are oblivious to their OWN crush on him because they don't understand their own feelings most the time.

can YN also be a brat (like maybe kind of stuck up and prissy) and also be flirty with people they're comfortable with?

that personality leads me to this: stan snapping and ends up fucking them (maybe confrontational? like, holds their cheeks and asks them if they're even aware how they make him feel, so fuzzy, but also so so so mad! (in a good way of course)

can i have themes of dom/sub (dom stan/sub YN), brat taming, light degradation with heavy praise, impact play?(if you're not comfortable with this one thats fine, i was just thinking maybe spanking of the ass, thighs, and clit), edging, orgasm control, dacryphilia, overstimulation, heavy teasing, and overall just mean but also super soft stan?

thankss (if this request makes you uncomfortable then thats okay)

stan marsh x fem!reader insert (college au)

(��﹏╥) | [A/N] ah my first request ever! this is kinda long for a request, but i wanted to make it special. i'm so sorry for butchering dom/sub dynamics, i haven't really written that yet. and jesus christ i made stan talk alot in this, and i really highlighted how he would definitely wear tons of bracelets for some reason LMAO. again this was a challenge for me bcus i usually write stan kinda softish and quiet. thank u again <3 there's a scene where stan just goes on his phone during the middle of it and i almost died writing it was so funny to me

(╥﹏╥) | [CW] p in v, fingering, p eating, dom/sub dynamics, dacryphilia, edging, overstimulation assholeish stan and reader, cartman is cartman

The room was dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the soft glow of Stan’s TV screen as he sat cross-legged on the floor, completely immersed in his game. Faint sounds of gunfire and laughter from Cartman and Kenny filtered through his headset. Stan leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the controller tightly, his brows furrowed in concentration.

On the bed, you sighed loudly, barely glancing up from your phone as you continued scrolling through TikTok and Instagram. The endless feed of videos and posts did little to distract you from the heavy boredom pressing down on you.

You switched apps, opening Snapchat out of sheer desperation for something interesting. As you flipped through stories, your scrolling halted abruptly at one that made your stomach twist.

Bebe and Clyde were out on another date. The photo Bebe posted showed their hands intertwined across a table, captioned: “My fave person 💕.”

Your chest tightened, an uncomfortable heat settling there. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—it wasn’t like you were into Clyde or anything. Still, the jealousy gnawed at you, bitter and unshakable.

Shaking your head, you exited the app and glanced at Stan, who hadn’t once looked in your direction despite your exaggerated sighs. He was totally engrossed in his game, his headset cushioning his ears and his focus glued to the screen.

“Stan,” you called out, your voice edged with impatience.

No response. His lips twitched slightly, like he might’ve heard you, but he made no effort to acknowledge your call.

You huffed, tossing your phone onto the bed. If Stan wasn’t going to pay attention to you willingly, you’d have to force his hand. Sliding off the bed, you walked up behind him and bent down, placing your hands lightly on his shoulders. Without hesitation, you slid into his lap, grinning as his body stiffened in surprise.

“[Y/N]—what the hell dude?” Stan sputtered, almost dropping his controller as he glanced down at you.

Cartman’s voice blared through his headset. “STAN, YOU DUMBASS! MOVE! YOU JUST GOT US KILLED!”

Stan groaned loudly, hastily muting his mic before turning his full attention to you. “I’m in the middle of a game!” he said, his tone exasperated.

You tilted your head, a playful pout forming on your lips. “Yeah, well, I’m bored,” you said, looping your arms around his neck. “Why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

Stan blinked, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “Because I’m playing with Cartman and Kenny? You know—my friends?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, your voice dripping with faux innocence. “But I’m more important than Cartman and Kenny, aren’t I?”

Stan stared at you, clearly unsure how to respond. His hands hovered awkwardly near your waist, his usual confidence suddenly replaced by uncertainty. “You’re being weird,” he said finally, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned closer, your face only inches from his. “Weird? You’re so dramatic.”

Before he could reply, you closed the small distance between you and pressed your lips to his, your chapstick leaving a faint, sweet taste behind as you kissed him. It wasn’t unusual for you and Stan to kiss—your friendship had always had an element of playfulness—but this time felt different. The way your lips lingered a moment longer, the way your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his hoodie...

You pulled back, giggling softly at the stunned look on his face.

Stan’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as his grip on your hips firmed. His gaze burned with something intense, something unspoken that made your stomach flutter.

But then he exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line as he reached up and unmuted his mic. “I’m back,” he said curtly, his tone clipped as he picked up his controller and resumed his game.

You blinked, taken aback by his reaction. He didn’t push you off, didn’t say anything else—just continued playing as if you weren’t still perched in his lap.

Cartman’s voice crackled through the headset. “About time, dude. You literally lost us the game because you were being a dumbass.”

Stan didn’t respond, his focus locked on the screen. His hands gripped the controller, his movements precise and deliberate, but you could feel the tension radiating from him.

You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his reaction, but he didn’t budge. His jaw was still tight, his eyes fixed on the screen, though you caught the faintest twitch of his lips when you leaned in close and whispered teasingly, “Am I distracting you?”

Stan’s lips pressed into a firmer line, his knuckles whitening on the controller. “You’re fine,” he said evenly, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. His blue eyes stayed locked on the screen, his jaw tight, clearly trying to pretend you weren’t there.

Before he could stop you, you reached up and slipped the headset off his head.

“[Y/N], don’t,” Stan muttered, his voice tense, but you ignored him, slipping the headset onto your own head and adjusting the mic with a sly smile.

“Hey, idiots!” you chirped into the mic.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cartman groaned immediately. “Why the hell are you here? Don’t you have something better to do, like annoying someone else or scamming free drinks with that dumb whore shit you pulll?”

“Cartman, don’t start,” Kenny chimed in, his tone amused. “She’s just here to make sure Stan doesn’t embarrass himself again.”

You laughed, leaning back in Stan’s lap and twirling the cord of the headset. “Aw, Kenny, you’re my favorite. Cartman’s just mad because he missed me.”

“I do not miss you,” Cartman snapped. “You’re like a human migraine. Stan, can you tell your ‘friend’ to fuck off so we can actually play?”

Stan muttered something under his breath, his hands hovering uselessly over the controller. “Give me the headset back, [Y/N].”

But you ignored him, turning your attention back to the game. “Eric, don’t lie. You love when I’m around. It makes your miserable little life less boring.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Cartman barked. “You’re just here to mess with us. And Kenny’s a simp for eating this up.”

“You’re right, I am,” Kenny said, laughing. “At least she’s fun. Unlike you, Cartman.”

“Fuck you, Kenny!” Cartman shot back. “Stan, seriously, can you control your fucking lap gremlin?”

Stan sighed heavily, his jaw clenching as he grabbed the headset off your head and slid it back on. His blue eyes bore into yours, his frustration clear. “Enough,” he said, his voice low and firm.

You blinked at him innocently, your lips twitching into a small smile. “What? I was just being nice.”

“Nobody buys that,” Stan muttered, his hands settling firmly on your waist. “Not even you.”

“Come on, I’m always nice,” you teased, your grin widening as you tilted your head.

Stan stared at you for a long moment, his blue eyes narrowing as though he were weighing his next move. Then, without a word, he unmuted his mic and picked up the controller again.

“I’m back,” he said flatly, his tone cold as he resumed playing.

“Thank God,” Cartman grumbled. “She’s insufferable. Get her out of here, Stan, or I’m rage-quitting.”

“She’s not that bad,” Kenny said with a laugh. “Honestly, she’s more entertaining than watching Stan suck at this game.”

Stan ignored them both, his eyes glued to the screen, though you noticed the way his grip on the controller tightened.

You stayed perched in Stan’s lap as he continued to play, his focus unwavering despite your presence. The faint sound of gunfire and Cartman’s incessant yelling filled the room, but your mind was elsewhere. Your fingers moved idly to his hair, combing through the strands and twisting them gently.

Stan’s bleached hair had grown out since you helped him with it, leaving a stark contrast between the blonde and his natural dark roots. You smiled faintly, remembering the day he let you bleach it in his bathroom. He’d been skeptical at first, grumbling about how “Cartman’s gonna call me a wannabe TikTok e-boy.”

But when you revealed the final result, the look of surprise on his face had been worth every moment.

“Holy shit,” he’d muttered, running a hand through the freshly bleached strands.

“See? Told you it’d look good dude,” you’d replied smugly. Then, on impulse, you’d pressed a kiss to his cheek, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

That kiss had been casual, friendly. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Your fingers stilled in Stan’s hair as the memory brought another one to the surface—the first time you’d kissed him. It was at a party, the two of you leaning against a wall in some corner, slightly buzzed from cheap vodka. Someone had said something stupid, and you’d both dissolved into laughter.

And then, without thinking, you’d leaned in and kissed him.

It hadn’t lasted long—just a brief press of lips, fueled by alcohol and laughter—but it had been enough to make your head spin. Stan hadn’t pulled away. If anything, he’d leaned in slightly, like he’d been waiting for it.

But the moment passed, and neither of you brought it up again.

Kissing Stan had become familiar since then. It was just... something you did. A casual thing. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself.

Your gaze shifted to his profile now, the faint concentration lines between his brows as he played. The glow from the screen lit up his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his lips. You couldn’t help but wonder: Did he ever think about those kisses? Did he feel the same pull you did, the strange comfort of it?

The thought made your chest tighten.

Do you like me?

The question lingered in your mind, unspoken and heavy. Stan had always been a constant in your life—steady, dependable, the one who tolerated your bratty tendencies without complaint. But did he like you?

And more importantly... did you like him?

Your fingers resumed their gentle movement in his hair, your heart beating a little faster as you struggled to untangle your thoughts. Kissing Stan didn’t feel like it should mean anything. But lately, you couldn’t stop wondering if it did.

“You okay dude?” Stan’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. He didn’t look at you, his eyes still on the screen, but the concern in his voice was clear.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just... thinking.”

Stan nodded, his expression unreadable. “You’re quiet.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair one last time before resting your hands on his shoulders. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stan muttered, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press further.

You leaned back slightly, watching him play, the weight of your thoughts settling heavily in your chest.

You shifted slightly in Stan’s lap, your fingers still playing with his hair when your phone buzzed on the bed. The sudden noise made you glance over, and Red’s name lit up the screen.

“Oh, hold on, it’s Red,” you said, slipping off Stan’s lap. He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes glued to the game.

You grabbed your phone, swiping to answer as you perched on the edge of Stan’s desk.

“Hey, Red!” you greeted, your voice instantly bright and flirty.

“About time,” Red said, her tone teasing. “So, are you gonna tell me why you’ve been off the grid? And don’t say it’s because you’re studying babe—I know better.”

You laughed, glancing at Stan out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, you know me. Always finding ways to entertain myself. I’m at Stan’s dorm right now.”

Red let out a dramatic gasp. “Stan? Again? Wow, you two might as well move in together at this point.”

Stan’s fingers faltered briefly on the controller, but he didn’t look away from the screen.

“Right? It’s like we’re married already,” you joked, leaning back and toying with the edge of Stan’s desk.

Red cackled. “God, you two are so weird. What’s he doing? Ignoring you like always?”

“Yup,” you said, your voice dripping with fake indignation. “He’s playing his stupid game. As usual.”

Stan adjusted his headset slightly, the earcups slipping off one ear now. He didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was listening.

“Honestly,” you continued, keeping your tone light, “it’s kind of tragic how bad he is at multitasking. Like, he can only focus on one thing at a time. I bet if I disappeared, he wouldn’t even notice until he lost the match.”

Red let out a snort. “Come on, [Y/N]. Give him some credit. He’s not that bad. And you’re always hanging around him anyway, so clearly he’s doing something right.”

“Eh,” you replied, smirking. “He’s tolerable. Most of the time.” You glanced at Stan again, noting the way his jaw tightened slightly.

“And?” Red prompted. “What about when he’s not tolerable?”

You grinned mischievously, the words spilling out before you could stop yourself. “When he’s not tolerable? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just trade him in for someone better.”

Stan froze. His hands stopped moving, and the room went silent except for the sound of Cartman and Kenny yelling through his headset.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Red asked, her voice curious but amused.

Before you could answer, Stan stood abruptly, pulling off his headset and letting it rest on the chair. He crossed the room in three long strides, his presence making the small dorm feel even smaller.

“Red, I’ll call you back,” you said quickly, hanging up before she could respond.

Stan loomed over you now, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. He reached past you and pressed the power button on his PS5, the room falling into silence as the screen went black.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice low but tight with frustration.

You blinked up at him, playing innocent even as your heart raced. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb, [Y/N],” Stan said, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “That shit you said to Red. What the hell was that about?”

Stan stared down at you, his blue eyes sharp as he waited for an explanation. You leaned back slightly against the desk, tilting your head innocently as you blinked up at him.

“What?” you said, feigning confusion. “I was just talking to Red about how you’re my bestest friend in the whole world.” You clasped your hands together dramatically, flashing him a teasing grin. “She loves hearing about how much I adore you.”

Stan’s jaw clenched, his brows furrowing deeper. “Your ‘bestest friend,’ huh?” he repeated, his tone skeptical, edged with something darker. “Because that’s exactly how it sounded.”

You shrugged, letting out a playful laugh. “I mean, come on, Stan. Red knows you’re my favorite. I was just hyping you up, obviously.”

“Hyping me up?” His voice was low, incredulous. “You told her you’d trade me in for someone better.”

You waved a dismissive hand, still playing up your act. “Oh, that? That was just a joke. You know I didn’t mean it.”

Stan stepped closer, his hands braced on either side of you against the desk. The space between you disappeared, and his intense gaze locked onto yours. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?” he asked, his voice calm but heavy with tension. “Or do you just say shit for the fun of it?”

The teasing grin faltered on your lips for a split second before you forced it back into place. “Relax, Marsh,” you said lightly, though your pulse quickened under the weight of his stare. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

Stan’s head tilted slightly, his jaw tightening as he studied you. “Am I?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “Because it’s starting to feel like you’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you refused to let it show. “Me?” you said with mock innocence, batting your lashes. “Why would I ever do that?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. His presence was overwhelming, and you suddenly became acutely aware of how close he was, how his body practically boxed you in against the desk.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered finally, his voice low and rough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. For once, the teasing remark you had ready in your head didn’t make it past your lips. The intensity in Stan’s eyes held you in place, your heart pounding in your chest as the air between you grew heavier.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unrelenting, as you blinked up at Stan, trying to piece together what exactly had him so worked up. Sure, you’d teased him plenty of times before—this wasn’t new—but something about tonight was different. He wasn’t just annoyed; he was genuinely mad, and it caught you off guard.

“Stan,” you said, your voice softer now, though still carrying that teasing edge. “Why are you so mad? We’re friends. We do this all the time!”

Stan’s brows knit together, his jaw tightening as he took a slow breath. “Friends,” he repeated, his voice low and almost to himself, like he was testing how the word felt on his tongue. He leaned back slightly, straightening up, but his hands stayed braced on the desk, keeping you effectively trapped. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” you asked, tilting your head in genuine confusion. “We joke around like this all the time. Why is it such a big deal tonight?”

Stan’s blue eyes flicked over your face, searching for something, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it. He let out a frustrated exhale, running a hand through his bleached hair, his fingers catching in the grown-out roots. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N],” he muttered, his voice tight. “You can’t just—”

He stopped himself, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he visibly struggled to keep his cool. For a moment, he looked like he was going to let it go, like he was going to step back and walk away from whatever was eating at him. But then his gaze snapped back to yours, and you saw the flicker of something raw and unresolved in his eyes.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but heavy, each word carefully measured.

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words hitting you like a freight train. “What I do to you?” you echoed, your brows furrowing as you tried to process what he was saying. “Stan, I—”

“You don’t get to act like this doesn’t mean something,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now, though his voice never rose above a low murmur. “You don’t get to sit in my lap, kiss me whenever you feel like it, say the shit you just said to Red, and then turn around and call me your ‘bestest friend.’” He spat the last words with a bitterness that made your chest tighten.

“I thought we were just... I mean, that’s just how we are,” you stammered, the confusion in your voice genuine. “We always mess around like that. It’s not—”

“It’s not just messing around for me,” he cut in, his voice breaking slightly at the end. He took a step closer, closing the gap between you again, his hands moving to grip the edge of the desk on either side of you. “I don’t think you even understand what the fuck you’re doing to me, [Y/N]. How you make me feel.”

Your heart was racing now, the weight of his words sinking in but not fully connecting in your mind. “Stan,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“You make me feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind,” he said, his voice strained, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “You waltz in here, act like you own the place, and... fuck. You make me feel so much, and then you just brush it off like it’s nothing. Like it’s some fucking game.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You’d never seen Stan like this—so raw, so vulnerable—and it left you reeling. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain that you hadn’t meant to hurt him, that you hadn’t even realized you were doing it.

“I... I didn’t know,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible.

Stan’s eyes were sharp and unwavering, his frustration palpable as he leaned closer, boxing you in against the desk. “You didn’t know?” he echoed, his voice low and edged with disbelief. “Really? So, what about all those times you kiss me out of nowhere? Like at that party last month, when you were drunk and decided to make me your personal fucking experiment.”

Your heart raced, and your lips parted to defend yourself, but he didn’t give you a chance. He pressed on, his tone growing sharper. “Or what about when you sat in my lap at Kenny’s place during movie night and kept playing with my hair? You acted like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean a damn thing, even though everyone was staring.”

“It’s just how I am,” you said defensively, your voice trembling as you tried to process the weight of his words. “You know that! I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just... it’s just fun.”

“Fun?” he repeated, his jaw tightening as he let out a bitter laugh. “Dude, do you even hear yourself? You sit here, playing with me like I’m some toy, and you call it fun? Like it doesn’t fuck me up every single time you do it?”

“I didn’t realize—” you began, but he cut you off again, stepping closer until his face was inches from yours.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Because you don’t think. You don’t stop for one goddamn second to think about how the shit you do might affect me.”

The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. The air between you was heavy, charged with a tension you couldn’t name, and for the first time, you didn’t know how to talk your way out of it.

Stan’s gaze softened just slightly, though the frustration in his eyes didn’t fade. “You can’t keep doing this, [Y/N],” he said quietly, his voice raw. “You can’t keep acting like this is nothing, like I’m nothing.”

Your chest tightened, and you felt your breath hitch as the gravity of his words sank in. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I didn’t know you felt this way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours for something—an answer, an apology, a sign that you understood. But all he found was confusion and guilt, and it made his shoulders tense even more.

“I don’t think you even know what you want,” he said finally, his voice softer now but laced with frustration. “And maybe that’s the problem.”

The silence was suffocating, your chest tight with a mix of emotions you didn’t fully understand. Stan’s words hung heavy in the air, but something about them—something about the way he said you didn’t know what you wanted—set you off.

Your brows furrowed, and you straightened up, leaning closer to him, your voice sharp as you snapped, “Excuse me? You think you know me so well, Stan? That I don’t know what I want? Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t have a clue.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he stared at you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his tone low and simmering with barely restrained anger.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at him. “It means you don’t get to stand there and act like you’ve got it all figured out while calling me out for being confused. Maybe you’re just pissed because you’re too scared to deal with your own feelings.”

Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his blue eyes darkening as he took a step closer to you. The tension between you crackled like a live wire, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something. Instead, he closed the distance in a single, deliberate motion, his hand gripping your wrist as he pulled you toward him.

“Stan—” you started, but the words were cut off as his other hand cupped the back of your head, dragging you into a searing kiss.

It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fierce, overwhelming, and commanding, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that left you breathless. Your body instinctively leaned into him, your hands clutching at his shirt as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His grip on you was firm, grounding, and you could feel the frustration and need pouring out of him in every movement.

Your heart raced, your head spinning as you pulled away from him. “Stan—”

“Stop,” Stan interrupted, his tone sharp as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the bed. “You don’t get to play dumb about this. Not anymore.”

Your back hit the mattress before you could say a word, his body towering over you as he leaned down, his bracelets clinking faintly with the movement. His bleached hair fell into his eyes, messy and slightly damp with sweat, and his tan skin glowed in the low light of the room. His hands framed your face, steady but firm, his thumbs brushing over your warm cheeks as his intense gaze locked onto yours.

“You’ve been screwing with my head for months,” he started, his voice low but taut with emotion. “Kissing me like it’s no big deal, running your hands all over me, batting your damn eyelashes like... like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” His jaw clenched, and he shook his head slightly, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

Your breath hitched, your lips parting to speak, but Stan didn’t give you the chance. “Don’t even try to tell me it’s ‘just you being you,’” he pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t get it, do you? How much you get to me.”

His lips crashed into yours, silencing whatever excuse or explanation was forming in your head. The kiss was heated, desperate, and when he pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his face inches from yours. A string of saliva broke between you as he spoke, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “You make me feel insane, [Y/N]. Like I don’t know which way is up.”

Your eyes widened as he cupped your cheek more firmly, his thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. His brow furrowed, and his voice softened, tinged with an almost hesitant vulnerability. “Have you even thought about it? What it’s like to be me? To deal with this—deal with you?”

You opened your mouth, unsure of what to say, but Stan wasn’t finished. He shook his head, running a hand through his messy bleached hair and laughing humorlessly. “You’re so fucking clueless. You act like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. But it does. It matters to me.”

His words hit you hard, a swirl of emotions rising in your chest—guilt, confusion, and something deeper that you hadn’t yet put a name to. “Stan...” you started, your voice trembling, but he cut you off again, his hand moving to gently grip your jaw, keeping your attention fixed on him.

“You make me feel so good sometimes,” he admitted, his voice raw and quieter now, almost like it was a confession. “Like... like nothing else in the world matters. But then you turn around, and it’s like you’re trying to drive me insane.”

Your chest tightened as you stared up at him, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of his words, the sheer weight of his emotions—it was overwhelming. But there was no mistaking the honesty in his gaze, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

He sighed, his frustration ebbing slightly, replaced with something softer. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, shaking his head again, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

“I...” You trailed off, your voice barely a whisper, the words you wanted to say slipping through your grasp. You didn’t know how to explain what you felt—didn’t even know if you understood it yourself.

Stan gave a soft, almost exasperated laugh, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Of course you don’t,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of fondness and frustration. “You never do.”

He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours as his breathing steadied, his hand still cradling your cheek. “But you’re gonna figure it out, [Y/N]. You’re gonna figure it out real soon.”

Before you could respond, Stan leaned in again, his lips pressing against yours with a raw urgency that caught you off guard. His hand on your cheek softened, but his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. His bracelets clinked softly with the movement, grounding the moment in the quiet tension of the room.

His lips moved with an intensity that made your head spin, and he groaned low against your mouth, the sound sending heat coursing through you. But as his hand slid lower, you broke the kiss, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. Stan’s brows furrowed instantly, frustration flashing in his blue eyes as you sat back, a little too smug for his liking.

“What now?” he asked, his voice sharp but low, like he was already bracing himself for whatever nonsense you were about to pull.

You tilted your head, your fingers playing idly with the hem of his t-shirt. “Wow, Stan,” you started, your tone saccharine and laced with mockery. “I didn’t know you were so desperate. Did I mess up your game that badly?”

His jaw ticked, the muscle flexing as he let out a short, humorless laugh. “Shut up,” he muttered, shaking his head. His hands rested on his hips for a moment, his bracelets sliding down his forearms, before he leaned in, his expression darkening.

“No, seriously,” you continued, undeterred, your teasing grin widening. “Do I need to apologize to Cartman and Kenny? Tell them their carry bailed ‘cause you couldn’t handle a little distraction?”

Stan’s patience snapped. His hands grabbed the hem of your shirt, and before you could react, he yanked it over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. The motion left you momentarily stunned, blinking up at him as he loomed over you.

“Stan!” you gasped, more surprised than offended. “What the hell—”

“You wanted my attention?” he cut you off, his voice low, the edge in it sending a jolt through you. “Well, you’ve got it. So go ahead. Say whatever smart-ass thing you were about to.”

Your heart raced as his hands returned to your waist, his grip firm but not rough, pulling you closer. His expression was unreadable, a mix of annoyance, desire, and something deeper that made your stomach twist. The way his messy bleached hair framed his face, the soft flush on his tan skin, and the glint of his bracelets as he adjusted his grip—everything about him right now was so painfully, undeniably Stan, and it made your head spin.

You tried to think of something witty, something sharp, but the intensity in his gaze stole the words from your mouth. Sensing your hesitation, Stan let out a soft, dark chuckle, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

As if to emphasize his point, his hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but deliberate as his fingers grazed over the lace of your bra. His lips dipped to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that left you shivering. When his teeth scraped lightly against your pulse point, you let out a soft moan, your nails digging into his arms.

“You think you’re so funny,” he muttered against your skin, his tone carrying just a hint of exasperation. “Always running that mouth, always pushing me. But when it comes down to it...”

Before you could respond, he pinched lightly at your side, just enough to make you gasp. The sound seemed to satisfy him, and his lips curved into a grin as he kissed his way down your neck. “You never know when to quit, do you?” he added, his voice softer now, almost like he was teasing himself more than you.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice faltered as his lips found the edge of your bra, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slid lower, gripping your hips as he pressed you back into the mattress, the weight of him anchoring you in place.

“You’re always so damn smug,” he continued, his tone quiet but sharp. His hand moved to cup your cheek again, tilting your head slightly so his lips hovered just over yours. “But you don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your heart racing from the heat in his words and the way his touch seemed to set your skin alight. “Stan...” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Shh,” he interrupted, brushing his thumb lightly over your bottom lip. “I don’t want to hear it. You’ve said enough.” His smirk softened slightly, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression. “Now it’s my turn.”

Stan pulled his hand away from your mouth, his fingers brushing the strap of your bra as he met your gaze. His expression was sharp, almost unreadable, but there was something deliberate in the way his hand slid to your shoulder, gently pushing the strap down. He moved with an almost casual precision, like he wasn’t just savoring the moment but making damn sure you knew he was in control.

His lips found your neck again, his kisses slow and deliberate as the other strap slid down your arm. You shivered, the cool air against your skin making you hyperaware of every single touch, every bit of pressure from his hands. When his fingers reached the clasp of your bra, he hesitated just long enough to send your heart racing.

“You’re so quiet all of a sudden,” he muttered near your ear, his voice low and full of teasing disbelief. “What happened to all the shit you were saying earlier?”

Your cheeks burned, and before you could retort, he unhooked the clasp with an ease that made your breath hitch. He let the lace fall away like it was nothing, his hands immediately cupping your chest. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, his touch surprisingly tender for a moment—until he gave a sharp, calculated pinch that made you gasp.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk as he watched your back arch instinctively. “That’s what I thought.”

His grip stayed firm, his thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks of your chest as his lips trailed along your jaw, hot and deliberate. “All that attitude,” he murmured, the words spilling against your skin. “And now? Not a damn word.”

The heat in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips when he pinched again, rolling your skin between his fingers with just enough pressure to have you squirming under him.

He chuckled at your reaction, the sound low and rough as his lips made their way down to your collarbone. “Does this feel good?” he asked, the mock sweetness in his tone making your stomach twist in the best way.

You tried to form words, but all you managed was a breathy moan. His smirk deepened, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of satisfaction and that familiar intensity that made your chest tighten. 

His hands started to move, one sliding down your side with an almost lazy kind of purpose. His fingers brushed over your waist before dipping under the waistband of your panties. He paused there, just teasing the fabric, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your skin.

“Look at you,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk as his thumb toyed with the hemline. “All that confidence, all that fire—and now you’re just laying here, waiting for me to decide what happens next.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped lower, brushing close enough to make your thighs tense. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice shaky, “please...”

His laugh was soft but laced with a kind of smug triumph that made your cheeks flush. “That’s better,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower as he let his fingers skim just a little closer to where you needed him. “See? You don’t always have to run your mouth.”

Your body arched toward him instinctively, the anticipation driving you mad, but his movements stayed deliberate, controlled. “Maybe you’re finally figuring out how this works,” he continued, his tone equal parts teasing and sharp. “Or maybe you’re just that desperate.”

Stan’s fingers hooked under the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with an almost lazy slowness. The fabric slid down your thighs, the cool air biting against your heated skin as he tossed them aside without a second thought. His movements were deliberate, but there was nothing showy about it—he just knew exactly what he was doing.

He shifted back, the bed creaking slightly as he knelt on the floor in front of you. The sight made your stomach flip—a mix of nervousness and something much hotter. Propped up on your elbows, you stared down at him, your breath catching as the full picture came into view.

His messy bleached hair framed his face, dark roots peeking through like a signature Stan move—half careless, half effort. His lips, swollen and pink from earlier, twitched faintly into a smirk that was both boyish and entirely too knowing. His band t-shirt clung to his chest, the faded logo stretching every time he breathed, and his gray sweatpants hung just low enough to show a hint of the waistband of his boxers. The bracelets circling his wrists—random, colorful, maybe from some flea market—clinked lightly as he moved, his hands sliding up your thighs.

Stan leaned in, pressing his lips against the soft skin of your inner thigh. The warm graze of his breath against you sent a shiver up your spine, and you couldn’t stop the way your hips shifted forward, searching for more contact.

“Seriously?” you teased breathlessly, your voice cracking slightly but still laced with a hint of defiance. “You’re really gonna drag this out?”

His hands froze for a moment, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. His blue eyes burned, sharp with amusement, but there was a glint of something darker too—something that made your stomach twist. A slow, almost smug grin spread across his face.

“Still talking, huh?” he drawled, his voice low, edged with dry humor. “Bold of you, considering where you are right now.”

Before you could even think of a comeback, his fingers caught the lace of your panties and yanked them to the side with deliberate force. The motion left you exposed, and the cool air against your heated skin made you gasp.

Stan leaned in closer, his breath warm as it ghosted over your most sensitive spot. His gaze locked onto yours, and his smirk widened slightly, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were about to be.

“Guess I’ll have to shut you up,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. Then his mouth was on you.

The sensation sent a jolt of white-hot pleasure straight through you, your head tipping back against the bed as you let out a broken cry. His tongue moved slowly at first, tracing over you with an infuriating precision that made you squirm beneath him.

But when you tried to shift your hips, his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you firmly in place.

“Don’t,” he said against your skin, his voice muffled but firm, sending vibrations through you. “You’re staying right where I want you.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into the sheets as his tongue worked you over. The wet heat of his mouth was relentless, alternating between gentle flicks and firm, lingering strokes that left you trembling. When he slid a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, your hips jerked against his hold despite yourself.

“Stan—fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your chest heaved.

He chuckled softly, his fingers curling inside you in a way that made your head spin. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

The mix of his teasing tone and his rough hands left you breathless, every nerve in your body alight. Just as the pleasure started to build, his thumb brushed over your clit, adding pressure in a way that had your thighs trembling.

You moaned loudly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the sensation became overwhelming. And then his other hand moved sharply, pinching you directly on your clit.

“Shit—Stan!” you cried, your voice high and breaking as your body jerked from the sudden mix of pleasure and pain.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at you with that same infuriating smirk, his lips glistening, his blue eyes lit with mischief. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone mocking but light, as though this was all a joke to him. “You’ve got all the energy to sass me, but now you’re falling apart? That’s cute.”

His fingers stayed inside you, his movements unrelenting as he dragged you closer to the edge with maddening precision. Your hands fisted the sheets, your body arching toward him despite the overwhelming sensations.

“Stan, please—” you whimpered, your voice trembling as tears pooled in your eyes.

“‘Please,’” he mimicked softly, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s new.” His teeth grazed your thigh in a brief nip, and you let out another sharp cry.

Stan’s bracelets clinked faintly as his grip on you tightened, his hands firm against your skin as he kept you pinned exactly where he wanted. The sight of him—his messy bleached hair, his sharp jawline, his flushed face—burned itself into your memory, a perfect mix of control and smug satisfaction.

“Don’t stop,” you managed to choke out, the words barely audible between gasps.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dipping into something darker, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. “I’m not stopping until I’ve got exactly what I want.”

Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t even think of a response. His mouth returned to you, his tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem as he pushed you higher and higher. The lingering sting of his pinch only heightened the sensations coursing through your body, leaving you a trembling mess.

Stan's tongue worked you with an intensity that left you breathless, each flick and swirl sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. When he added another finger, sliding it in with the same slow, deliberate motion as before, the stretch left you gasping.

"Stan—ah—I’m so close," you managed to whimper, your voice trembling as tears began to pool at the corners of your eyes. Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you clutched the sheets beneath you.

You sniffled, overwhelmed by the sensations, your head tipping back as your thighs quivered against his grip. "I’m—oh, God—Stan, I’m gonna come," you cried out, your voice cracking with desperation.

Stan’s mouth continued, his tongue teasing you with relentless precision while his fingers curled inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You felt the pressure building, your entire body tensing as the release hovered just within reach.

And then he stopped.

Stan’s lips hovered over your inner thigh for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, before he pulled back entirely. His fingers left you aching and empty, and the absence was immediate and devastating. Your thighs trembled as you shifted, trying to seek out the friction you desperately needed, but Stan’s hands stopped you with a firm, grounding grip.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice low and steady, with a soft edge of finality that left no room for argument.

Your eyes widened, tears slipping freely now, as you whimpered, “Stan, please… I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted calmly, leaning back and sitting on his heels as he looked at you with a mix of frustration and quiet amusement. “You’ll survive. Trust me.”

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, every nerve in your body screaming for relief, but Stan only sighed softly, shaking his head. His messy, bleached hair fell into his eyes again, and he shoved it back carelessly before gripping the hem of his t-shirt.

Before you could say anything else, he tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The motion revealed the toned lines of his chest and the faint tan that trailed down to the waistband of his sweatpants. His silver chain glinted against his skin, catching the dim light, and you couldn’t help but stare.

Stan raised an eyebrow, catching your gaze as he rested his forearms on his knees, casual but commanding. “You’re staring,” he said softly, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

Your throat felt dry as you tried to find your voice, but all that escaped was a soft whimper. Your hands clenched into the sheets beneath you, and the heat pooling in your stomach twisted painfully as you realized he had no intention of letting you off the hook.

“You’ll live,” Stan muttered again, his tone quiet but deliberate as he stood, giving you one last glance before turning toward his dresser. The lack of attention left you buzzing with frustration and need, but he didn’t seem to care—he was in complete control, and you were left to grapple with the fact that he intended to keep it that way.

Stan walked to his dresser with a lazy confidence, the kind that only made the heat pooling in your stomach worse. More of the hemline of his boxers showed now, and the muscles in his back shifted subtly as he grabbed his phone from the edge of the dresser. He scrolled aimlessly, his bracelets jangling faintly with each movement.

You stared, your breaths shallow, thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to calm the ache he’d left behind. He wasn’t even looking at you, completely unfazed, like he hadn’t just wrecked you moments ago. It made your chest twist—part frustration, part something you didn’t want to name.

“Stan,” you croaked, your voice cracking slightly, and he didn’t even flinch.

He scrolled for another beat, finally glancing over his shoulder at you, one eyebrow arching lazily. “What?” His tone was flat, indifferent, like you’d just interrupted him during an uneventful Tuesday.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You hated how small his lack of reaction made you feel, like the electric tension between you was entirely one-sided.

“I…” you started, but your gaze flicked down to his chest, to the light tan that lingered across his skin and the faint ridge of muscle beneath it. You swallowed hard, trying to piece together your thoughts, but the sight of him standing there— messy-haired, and so effortlessly unaffected—was enough to scramble everything in your head.

Stan sighed like you were being difficult and turned back to his dresser. His hand rifled through the top drawer, and when he pulled back, the foil wrapper of a condom glinted under the soft light.

Your stomach dropped, your body buzzing as he set the condom casually on the dresser, next to his phone. He leaned one arm against the edge, crossing his other hand over his chest, bracelets sliding slightly down his forearm as he glanced back at you.

“You gonna say something, or just keep staring like that?” he said finally, his lips quirking into a faint, cocky smirk.

Your cheeks burned, and you squirmed against the sheets, the ache between your legs sharpening as he stood there, fully in control. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumbled, barely convincing even yourself.

“Right,” Stan said, dragging the word out as he looked back at his phone, tapping the screen lazily. “Sure seemed like it from here.”

The way he brushed you off, so casual and maddening, made the knot in your chest tighten. Your eyes darted to the condom on the dresser, and the implications made your head spin. “Why’d you—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip as frustration prickled at the back of your neck.

“Why’d I what?” Stan drawled, not even bothering to look up this time.

“Y-you…” you faltered again, unsure if it was the tension in your chest or the growing need burning through your veins that had you so tongue-tied.

Stan finally turned, leaning fully against the dresser now, his arms crossed as he looked at you with a mix of amusement and exasperation. His bleached hair was a mess, dark roots peeking through as a few strands fell into his eyes. He shoved them back with one hand, his bracelets clinking faintly before crossing his arms again.

“You’ve been running your mouth all night,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he looked you over. “Now you’ve got nothing to say? Figures.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the heat in your cheeks spreading as you gripped the sheets tightly beneath you.

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “C’mon, [Y/N], spit it out,” he said, his voice low and edged with sarcasm. “You’re looking at me like I’ve got all the answers.”

Your chest tightened, every nerve in your body buzzing as your lips parted again, but the words refused to form. The weight of his gaze, the way his tone was almost mocking but not cruel—it all left you reeling.

“I don’t know,” you whispered finally, the admission feeling heavier than it should.

Stan’s expression softened, just slightly, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Yeah, I got that much,” he said, his voice quieter now but still cutting. His sharp blue eyes lingered on you for a moment, reading you like an open book.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in your chest again as the knot of frustration and need twisted tighter. You glanced at the condom on the dresser again, and your voice broke as you murmured, “Why’d you grab that?”

Stan raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something closer to amusement. “Why do you think?” he said plainly, like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped, and you bit your lip hard enough to sting as your gaze dropped to your hands clenched in the sheets. The teasing tilt in his tone, the sheer audacity of his calmness, made your head spin.

He pushed off the dresser and crossed the room in a few slow, deliberate steps, stopping just short of the bed. His sharp gaze bore into you as he leaned down slightly, his bracelets sliding further down his arms.

“Say what you want, [Y/N],” he said softly, the teasing edge in his voice tempered by something quieter, something steadier. “Or don’t. Either way…” His eyes flicked to the condom, then back to you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I-...” you trailed off, your breath catching as you forced yourself to look at him. And in that moment, it hit you all at once, sharp and undeniable.

You liked him.

Not just liked him—you wanted him, craved him in a way that made your heart race and your stomach twist. It hit you all at once: the teasing, the flirting, the way you got jealous over nothing—it wasn’t friendly banter. It was so much more.

Stan leaned against the dresser, his bracelets jingling faintly as he shifted his weight. The condom in his hand hung lazily between two fingers, and his blue eyes locked onto yours with that sharp, assessing look he always gave when he was trying to figure you out. “You… what?” he asked, the slightest tilt of his head adding to the edge in his voice.

Your chest tightened, the words bubbling to the surface before you could stop them. “I want you to come back to the bed.”

Stan’s brows lifted, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He swung the condom lightly, his voice dipping into a teasing drawl. “Oh, yeah? And what exactly do you want if I do?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as heat crept up your neck. “I want to kiss you,” you admitted, your voice trembling but firm. “I need to.”

The smirk on Stan’s face faltered, replaced by something softer, more serious. He straightened slightly, the humor in his eyes fading as he stepped closer, the condom now forgotten at his side. “You need to kiss me,” he repeated, his tone lower, testing.

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Stan’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his lips quirking as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He placed the condom on the bedside table and leaned down, his hands bracing on either side of you. His lips brushed yours, a soft, fleeting touch that left you breathless.

“You could’ve just said so earlier,” he muttered, and then his mouth pressed firmly against yours, stealing whatever response you might’ve had.

The kiss was different—no teasing smirks or playful jabs, just raw, unfiltered emotion. His hands cupped your face, tilting it slightly to deepen the kiss as his body pressed closer. You melted into him, your hands instinctively clutching at his bare shoulders as the heat between you grew.

Stan pulled back, his lips lingering just a breath away from yours, and his eyes searched yours like he was trying to piece together something important. “Do you even get what you’re doing to me?” he asked, his voice low and rough around the edges.

Your breath hitched, and you blinked up at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I wasn’t sure what I felt,” you said softly, the words stumbling out. “But I know now. I—I want this. I want you.”

Stan’s gaze flickered, something vulnerable slipping through his usual guarded expression. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing over your words, and then he let out a quiet breath, his hand sliding to cradle your face. “No more of this back-and-forth shit,” he said, his voice firmer now. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it for real. None of your games. No bullshit.”

“No games,” you echoed, your voice trembling but certain.

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Good,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. His other hand settled on your waist, grounding you as he leaned in again, his forehead lightly bumping against yours. “Because I don’t think I can deal with you driving me up the wall anymore without this.”

Stan scooted back slightly, hooking his thumbs casually into the waistband of his sweatpants. His blue eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar mix of irritation and amusement flickering in his gaze as he tugged them down just enough to reveal snug black boxer briefs. The way they hugged his frame left little to the imagination, and your eyes instinctively dropped, wide and unblinking.

“Wow,” you said quickly, your cheeks heating up as you scrambled to deflect. “Really going for the bold look tonight, huh? What’s the occasion?”

Stan raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a dry smirk. “Bold words coming from someone who keeps getting caught staring,” he shot back. His hands dropped to his hips, his stance casual, but the sharpness in his voice made your stomach flip.

“I wasn’t staring,” you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest in a weak attempt to look unbothered.

His laugh was short and incredulous, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, sure. Totally convincing.” He shoved his sweatpants down the rest of the way with an almost careless motion, stepping out of them as they pooled at his feet. Now just in his boxer briefs, he took a slow step forward, looming over you with that same unimpressed look that made you squirm.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Always running it, even when you’re caught red-handed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a single word out, he was climbing onto the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart effortlessly, the weight of his body leaving you pinned beneath him. The shift in dynamic was immediate, leaving you breathless as his blue eyes bore into yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“You think you’re funny?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, each word sinking into the tension between you. His thumbs brushed dangerously close to your panties, the teasing touch sending a jolt through your already-overheated body. “Making little comments like that when you’re already soaked? What exactly are you trying to pull here?”

“I wasn’t—” you started defensively, but your words faltered when his fingers trailed up, pressing against the damp fabric of your panties with maddening precision.

“Wasn’t what?” he pressed, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your ear. His voice dipped lower, taking on a mocking edge that sent shivers down your spine. “Wasn’t wet? Wasn’t about to beg me? Careful, [Y/N]. You keep lying to my face, and I might just leave you like this all night.”

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively shifted your hips, trying to get more of his touch. But his grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you firmly in place. He pulled back just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze, his smirk sharp and unforgiving.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his tone soft but cutting. “That’s what I thought.”

He pushed himself back onto his heels, dragging his boxers down in one smooth motion. When he stood again, his cock stood hard and flushed, and the sight made your breath catch in your throat. Without thinking, your hand reached out to touch him, but he caught your wrist before you could get close.

“Seriously?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm that was so uniquely Stan. He shook his head, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve been running your mouth all night, and now you think you get to do whatever you want? Cute.”

His free hand came up to grip your cheek, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make your lips part slightly. “Look at me,” he said, his blue eyes locking onto yours. His tone was steady, but there was a flicker of frustration behind it, a heat that had your stomach twisting. “You’ve been pushing me all night, and now you’re just gonna sit there and wait until I’m good and ready. Got it?”

Before you could respond, he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the condom, his movements deliberate. The soft crinkle of the wrapper made your thighs clench instinctively, but he caught the motion immediately, his eyes flicking down and then back up to yours with a faint smirk.

“You talk a big game,” he said, rolling the condom on with an unhurried precision that made your pulse race. “Guess we’ll see if you can actually handle it.”

He leaned back over you, his hands sliding deliberately up your sides before settling on your hips, his grip strong and grounding. His gaze stayed fixed on yours, his expression calm but charged with something unmistakably hungry.

“I—”

Stan cut you off, his hand pressing firmly but not harshly on the back of your head, guiding you down toward the mattress. “Don’t,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with exasperation. The motion wasn’t rough, but it carried no room for argument. He wasn’t playing around anymore.

You turned your head slightly, trying to catch his eye, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout as your manicured nails reached for his arm. “Stan,” you whined softly, dragging out his name in that teasing tone you knew got under his skin.

Instead of rising to your bait, he let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were still at it. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar sarcastic bite. Without waiting for a response, his hands gripped your hips, shifting you until your head was down against the bed and your ass was up, fully exposed. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he wanted to draw out every second of the tension until it was unbearable.

Stan’s fingers skimmed lightly over your back, trailing down to the curve of your hips. His touch lingered, warm and steady, before his grip tightened enough to ground you. He leaned in just enough for his voice to reach your ears, low and steady, the faintest edge of a smirk in his tone.

“Look at you now,” he said, his words cutting through the thick air between you. “All that talk, and suddenly you don’t have much to say.”

His hands stayed firm on your hips as he lined himself up with you. The weight of his cock against your entrance made your breath hitch, and before you could brace yourself, he pushed forward in one smooth, deliberate motion. The stretch burned, sharp and overwhelming, and your gasp turned into a broken cry as he seated himself fully, leaving no space between you.

Stan didn’t move right away. He stayed buried inside, letting you feel every inch of him as his hands kept you still. The weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way he held you—it was all-consuming. Tears pricked at your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

“You’re awful quiet,” he muttered after a moment, his voice low and thick, almost casual. “What happened to all that attitude, huh? Thought you had something smart to say.”

A choked whimper escaped you, and you turned your head slightly, trying to meet his gaze through your tear-blurred vision. Stan’s face was flushed, his messy bleached hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at you with a mix of irritation and smug satisfaction. That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, sharp and knowing, as if he could see right through you.

When you tried to shift your hips, seeking even the smallest bit of relief, his hands clamped down harder, holding you in place. “Uh-uh,” he said, his voice cutting through your quiet protests. “You don’t get to squirm your way out of this. You wanted me back here so bad, right? So take it.”

Your breath hitched again as you buried your face in the mattress, your muffled cries betraying how much you were feeling. “S-Stan…” you hiccupped, your voice trembling, barely able to form his name.

He leaned over you, his chest brushing against your back, his lips close to your ear. “Oh, now you’re playing the soft card?” he murmured, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Too late for that, sweetheart. You’ve been running your mouth all night, and now you’re gonna deal with what you started.”

As if to punctuate his words, he pulled back slightly and then thrust forward again, slow but deep, the motion stealing the air from your lungs. He didn’t let up, finding a deliberate rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets beneath you, every thrust making your body tremble.

“You know,” he said, his voice almost conversational despite the roughness of his movements, “you’re always so damn sure of yourself. Always pushing, always testing me.” He paused, his hips snapping forward harder, making you cry out. “But now? Now you’re not so cocky, are you?”

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you tried to keep up, your mind spinning from the overwhelming mix of sensations. When you tried to speak, to form even the smallest response, the words dissolved into broken moans, leaving you completely at his mercy.

Stan noticed, of course. He always noticed. “Aw, what’s wrong?” he teased, his voice softer now, but still carrying that playful edge. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, his lips warm and teasing against your skin. “Too much for you already?”

You managed a shaky nod, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your body trembled beneath him. His laugh was soft, almost cruel, as he trailed another kiss along your jawline. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low but filled with satisfaction. “Maybe now you’ll think twice before trying to mess with me.”

Despite the tears pooling in your eyes, your body betrayed you, rolling your hips back into him as best you could, chasing the pressure and the sensation. Stan let out a quiet groan at your reaction, his hands gripping your waist tighter.

“See?” he said, his tone shifting to something gentler but still laced with control. “You can be good when you really try.”

Stan’s movements faltered slightly, his hands gripping your hips as he took in the way your body responded to him. His lips quirked into a soft smirk, but his blue eyes betrayed something deeper—intensity mixed with that familiar, slightly sarcastic glint that was so him.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice low and husky. “You’re really losing it, aren’t you?”

You whimpered in response, unable to form words, your head pressed into the mattress. Stan leaned forward, his breath warm against your shoulder, and chuckled softly. It wasn’t mean—it was teasing, familiar, the same way he always had been, but now it carried the weight of everything happening between you.

“That good, huh?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your breath hitch. “All this, just from me?”

Your body clenched around him at his words, and his sharp intake of breath was proof he noticed. He paused, his hips pressed flush against you as his hand trailed up your back, coaxing a soft arch from your spine.

“Okay, okay,” he teased, his tone shifting, dripping with playful sarcasm now. “You don’t have to answer. You’re kind of... busy.” He punctuated his statement with a slow roll of his hips, drawing a gasp from your lips.

Stan groaned quietly, his head dipping closer to your ear. “Jesus, you’re soaking me,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I didn’t think you could get any better, but here we are.”

His praise made your chest tighten, heat flooding through you as your mind spun. He caught the way your moans grew louder, how your body tensed with every soft word that slipped from his lips.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity, with that cocky-but-genuine air only Stan could pull off. “You like when I tell you how good you are?”

Your response was a broken whimper, your nails clawing at the sheets as you tried to ground yourself. Stan’s laughter was soft, almost affectionate, as his fingers trailed down your side, his other hand gripping your hip tightly to keep his rhythm steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice dropping. “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? You’re fucking perfect.”

His words sent a shudder through you, and he felt it, his smirk widening as he leaned forward again. “I mean it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before biting down gently, making you gasp. “You’re driving me insane in the best way.”

You let out a choked sob, the intensity of his praise, his rhythm, and his control overwhelming you completely. Your legs trembled beneath you as your body clenched around him, and Stan groaned, his own composure slipping slightly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice hoarse now. “That’s it. Just like that. Keep doing that, baby. You’re perfect.”

His words pushed you closer to the edge, your mind hazy with arousal and emotion. Tears slipped from your eyes, and you gasped his name, your voice trembling as you tried to hold on.

“Stan,” you managed to whisper, your tone pleading and raw.

Stan’s pace faltered for a split second when he heard your shaky voice break through the heavy rhythm of your breathing. His blue eyes darted down to you, catching the way tears spilled down your cheeks, your lips trembling as you turned your head away from the pillow to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, voice thick with emotion as you sniffled, your body trembling beneath him.

Stan’s brows furrowed, his jaw clenching, though his movements didn’t let up. If anything, his pace grew more purposeful, his hips snapping into yours as his hands gripped your waist tightly, grounding you to him.

“Sorry?” he asked, his voice low, strained. “What are you apologizing for, huh?”

Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, your lips trembling as you gasped, “F-for earlier. For... everything.”

Stan let out a breathy laugh, the sound edged with something almost disbelieving, his forehead falling forward slightly as he leaned over you. “You’re apologizing now?” he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind, his words brushing against the shell of your ear as he kept moving. “Right when you’re about to come? Really convenient timing dude, don’t you think?”

You let out a choked sob, your body clenching around him as you struggled to keep your gaze locked with his. “I-I mean it,” you said, your voice breaking as your chest heaved, every nerve in your body alight.

Stan’s lips quirked into a crooked smile, his expression softening for a moment before his hands slid up your body, one moving to your face to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear as his eyes bore into yours, his tone quieter now but no less intense.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough but gentle, “I know you mean it. But I’m not letting you off that easy.”

Your eyes widened, another soft cry escaping you as his thrusts grew deeper, hitting the perfect spot that had you unraveling. “S-Stan, I... I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he said, cutting you off, his voice dropping even lower, his thumb tracing slow circles over your cheek. “I can feel it. You’re so fucking close, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, your fingers clawing at the sheets as your entire body tensed. Tears blurred your vision as you whimpered, “Please.”

Stan groaned softly, his gaze unwavering as he pressed a firm, almost possessive kiss to your lips. “Then come for me,” he commanded, his voice dripping with authority, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you focused on him. “Right now. I want to see you fall apart.”

And with his words ringing in your ears, you did.

Stan’s movements didn’t falter as he kept driving into you, his relentless rhythm drawing ragged whimpers and muffled cries from your lips. His hand stayed firm on your chin, holding your gaze as though daring you to look away. His messy, grown-out bleached hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, the pale locks contrasting sharply with his slightly tanned skin. The bracelets on his wrists—simple bands and one woven with multicolored threads—shifted and caught the light with every powerful thrust, his forearms flexing with the effort.

The sight of him was dizzying. His swollen lips parted slightly as his breaths came heavy, a sheen of sweat making his skin glisten under the warm dorm lighting. It was impossible not to stare, the sharp cut of his jawline and the faint dusting of pink across his cheeks making him look so effortlessly gorgeous, so thoroughly wrecked in the best way.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained as his hips snapped against yours. His free hand slid from your hip to grip your waist, his strong fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady. “I should be pissed at you right now, but—fuck—how am I supposed to stay mad when you’re like this?”

You tried to respond, your lips parting, but all that came out was a cracked moan as he hit just the right spot again. Gathering your nerve, you attempted to form words, the teasing edge in your tone still managing to peek through your overstimulated haze. “I-I was just gonna say—”

Stan cut you off immediately, his blue eyes narrowing as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Nope. Not this time.” He shoved two fingers into your mouth without hesitation, the pads of his fingers pressing down on your tongue firmly enough to silence you. “You wanna say something? Too bad. You’re done talking.”

Your wide-eyed stare and muffled protests only spurred him on. His bracelets shifted again as he adjusted his grip, his thumb brushing across your cheek almost tenderly, contrasting the raw intensity in his movements. “God, you’re such a mess,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Look at you—tears running down your face, trying to act like you’ve got something smart to say. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Your moan around his fingers was muffled but unmistakably needy, your body trembling under the onslaught of sensation. The fire pooling in your stomach grew unbearable as Stan’s relentless pace brought you closer and closer to the edge.

“Bet you love it,” he rasped, his head dipping closer as he brought his lips to your ear. His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as his hips slammed into yours again. “You can’t get enough, can you? Always pushing, always testing me. And now look where it’s gotten you.”

The warmth of his skin, the weight of his body pressing you down, the unrelenting heat in his gaze—it was overwhelming. You whimpered helplessly around his fingers, your eyes locking with his again, and Stan groaned low in his throat, the sight of you so thoroughly wrecked beneath him pushing him closer to the brink.

“You look so good like this,” he muttered, his voice barely above a growl. “Completely mine.”

His pace faltered slightly, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release, his bleached hair falling into his eyes. But he didn’t let up, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh and pulling you even closer. “Keep looking at me,” he ordered, his voice hoarse but firm. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Stan’s thrusts slowed, his body trembling as he reached his peak. A guttural moan tore from his throat, raw and unfiltered, as his head tipped back, his bleached hair clinging to his damp skin. His grip on your thigh tightened for a moment before his movements stilled completely, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

For a few seconds, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your labored breathing and the faint hum of the dorm room fan. Stan stayed still, his hands resting on your hips, holding you close as he caught his breath. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face flushed with exertion, and the weight of his release seemed to hit him all at once.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you, there was a flicker of something in his expression—hesitation, maybe even embarrassment. His gaze softened, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a faint, almost self-conscious chuckle, his hand brushing lightly over your waist as though grounding himself.

“Shit,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, more to himself than to you. His blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked almost abashed, his usual cocky demeanor stripped away entirely. “You… okay?”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you nodded, your lips parting to respond, but your voice came out in a whisper. “Yeah.”

Stan exhaled a quiet laugh, running a hand through his messy hair as he pulled back slightly, his movements careful, almost tentative. He reached out to the bedside table, grabbing a tissue and leaning back down to press a quick, soft kiss to your temple. “Good,” he muttered, his voice still tinged with that uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I—I didn’t mean to get so…”

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly as if trying to shake off the unspoken thought. His cheeks were still faintly flushed, his bracelets clinking softly as he adjusted his grip on your waist to help steady you. The moment was quieter now, the intensity replaced with something gentler, almost uncertain.

Stan’s fingers brushed over your cheek lightly, his gaze searching yours. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brows furrowing slightly.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice, and you reached up to cover his hand with yours. “I’m okay, Stan,” you said, your voice steadier now. “Promise.”

He gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a faint smile, though the flicker of uncertainty didn’t entirely fade from his eyes. “Good,” he said again, softer this time. Then, after a beat, he added with a wry smirk, “You… really know how to make things complicated, don’t you?”

There was a teasing edge to his words, but his tone was light, almost affectionate. It felt like Stan was trying to bridge the intensity of the moment with something more familiar, something easier to grasp.

Stan exhaled deeply, his forehead briefly resting against your shoulder as he worked to collect himself. When he pulled back, he shifted off the bed, peeling off the condom and tying it off before tossing it into the trash can. His bleached hair was even messier now, sticking to his damp forehead, and the soft jingle of his bracelets filled the quiet room as he reached for a tissue to clean himself up.

You stretched out languidly, turning your head to shoot him a teasing smirk. “So… does this mean you’re not mad anymore?”

Stan froze mid-motion, his head snapping to look at you. The exasperation on his face was instant, though it was laced with amusement. “Don’t start,” he warned, narrowing his eyes but failing to suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

You grinned wider, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I mean, you seemed really mad earlier. Like dude, I was kinda scared for a second,” you said, your voice dripping with playful mockery. “But now? I think you’re just a big softie.”

Stan rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath as he tossed the tissues into the trash with a flick of his wrist. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you how ‘soft’ I am,” he quipped, leaning over to lightly flick your forehead.

You pouted dramatically, rubbing the spot he’d flicked. “Abuse!” you teased, mock-gasping. “I’m gonna tell Red you’re bullying me.”

Stan shook his head, standing up to adjust his bracelets and reaching for his sweatpants. “You’re the worst,” he muttered with a laugh, grabbing the discarded blanket from the floor and tossing it over you. “Now shut up and go to sleep before you actually piss me off again.”

You laughed, pulling the blanket up to your chin as you watched him move around the room. The tension had completely dissolved, replaced with the kind of easy banter that seemed to define whatever the two of you had. Stan shook his head again, but you could see the faint grin on his face as he grabbed his phone off the dresser and flopped back down beside you.

i love red sm...

[bogkeep]

boy oh boy

the other day i looked at my dad's facebook just to like, make a vibe check. prepare myself for what i might have to deal with when visiting. i scrolled through miles of unhinged ramblings about this food additive they give dairy cows that reduce methane emissions. which sounds great to me!!! unfortunately my dad is buying into all kinds of climate change conspiracy theories, and i suppose this hits close to home since he was a dairy farmer in a past life, so said unhinged ramblings are allll about how farmers and politicians alike are being bought by Big Climate and how [milk corporation] is TAMPERING with nature's PERFECT EVOLUTION (something farmers have never done ever) that has been perfected through MILLIONS OF YEARS (citation needed). and ALSO the chemicals make the milk WORSE!!!!!!

and like, i think it's worth questioning the decisions corporations might make for the sake of money, and if concerns had been raised by any people whose opinions i trust, and not my Verified Climate Change Denier father............ my family members who are still practicing dairy farmers haven't made a single post about this. wikipedia has a conspiracy theory section on their page for the food additive. i think it's fairly safe to say this is not the big issue my dad makes it seem.

ANYWAY. i am visiting my parents. my dad proudly declared he has unsubscribed from the farmer's magazine he has been subscribed to for over forty years, just because they have been writing articles in support of the food additive. then my parents had to explain Why to me, which is funny for two reasons:

1) it was mostly to explain why they've switched to a different milk brand, which produces local and - shudders - ECOLOGICAL milk. they didn't want me to get the wrong idea.

2) my brother works for the [big milk corporation] as an automatician. he sometimes brings back dairy products that were mislabeled or otherwise free for the taking. i asked if they're okay with the products he brings back. "of course, we're not EXTREMISTS"

i nod and say nothing. it's not worth getting into debates over milk conspiracies.

[draconicfool]

     “ Adults at least know how t' ignore th' impulse t' pull on things without permission. ” Eros reminded. He was no stranger to wanting his horns and tail touched during more intimate encounters – but to be tugged on so roughly was the opposite of his idea of fun. Not to mention sometimes their hands were still sticky from whatever candy they'd been eating and then cleaning his tail off was an annoying process. He just preferred people not touch it.

     He stuck his tongue out at the other for only a moment in turn. Chuckling as he shook his head. “ Mm, too late f'er that. Think ya'd be stupid if y'didn't think I was. ” Eros teased, continuing what he was doing and taking absent sips of his tea in between.

     When the other left, he was mostly focused on updating patient records and keeping things stocked properly. Making himself dinner. The occasional fighter coming in and needing to be patched up. But it had all more or less settled by morning. When Itto entered, the small dragon was passed out at his desk. Tail curled around his legs for the warmth. But hearing the other's voice, he woke up with a bit of a jolt and rubbed at his eyes.

     Reaching out, he'd take the offered coffee and start nursing it near immediately. Maybe it would help him wake up further than he was at present. The smaller leaned back in his chair and looked over the paper that he was handed. A soft wag coming to his tail before he tucked it away in one of the books on his desk. 

     “ Thank y'sugar. Needed shit like this. ” He replied with a yawn, though, he'd look through the brought items and then up at the Oni. Tail flicking back and forth before he raised a hand to shoo him off again. “ Speakin' of needin' though… y'should go step outside or somethin' f'er a second. I don't really like people watchin' me when I stab m'self with this fuckin' needle. ”

"Pretty sure the same can be said about pretty much everyone to some extent," Itto knew that certain kinds of people out there would want to touch, stroke, or fondle various things that non-humans had. He had people ask him to stroke his horns every now and then but he just ignored them. Nobody was allowed to touch his horns without his permission. He did happen to like them being gripped during certain things but that didn't need to be on the mind at the moment. He knew that kids, especially younger ones liked to tug on things, Eros' tail likely got the brunt of the yanking.

As Eros actually laughed before playfully shoving him, the Oni would grin widely. He'd successfully gotten the doctor to laugh, even if it was because he'd offered the other man a bag of edible dicks. "Careful doc, ya keep threatenin' me with a good time and I might think you're into me." He'd likely stick his tongue out at the other very briefly after he finished speaking. He could tell the doctor was thinking, likely about things that were needed.

He knew exactly what recipe he needed to get for Eros, it wasn't a custard but a cheesecake, when made right the inside was creamy, sort of like a custard was, so he could understand the mix up. Despite how fancy it seemed, the dessert was surprisingly easy to make, which the other would see once he got the recipe and the steps to do to make the cheesecake properly for the other. He'd watch as Eros wrote something down onto a sticky note before folding it and shoving it into his hands.

"Got it, I'll bring everythin' in the mornin'," Itto would open the sticky note to see what would be saving the little doctors ass as he walked out of the clinic and toward his car. After reading whatever was on the note he'd tuck it into his pocket before getting into his car and heading to do the shopping for the fresh fruits and vegetables, he'd make sure the tomatoes and various citrus were kept separate from everything else. He'd store those things properly when he headed home for the night.

Bright and early the next morning, he'd show back up near the clinic and begin carrying the boxes of produce, then everything else. Since Eros had told him to let himself inside whenever he arrived he'd simply do so, but he'd put things down neatly, rather than just all over the place. Whenever he spotted the doctor he'd hold out a cup of coffee for him. "I dunno if the order is gonna be to your likin' or not, but I figured ya would appreciate a coffee this mornin'." He'd head out once more to grab the new oxygen tank for the neighbor who needed it. "I got everythin' that ya can't get from the pharmacy here for ya, medical grade stuff, got ya that recipe too." he'd pull out a sheet of paper with the recipe written on it, along with the steps on how to make it properly.

[moonsidesong]

The mountain top by Lena Raine

so true!!! that's my besties favorite right now too :)

[americankimchi]

it's so hard to take star wars seriously nowadays because i'll watch someone get skewered by a lightsaber and then somehow walk it off with a bacta patch and a slap on the ass. like you're telling me a weapon that can carve furrows into foot-thick solid durasteel doors, dripping melted slag in its wake, when applied to the flesh of a sentient being leaves behind nothing more than superficial damage. like be so ffr. "it cauterizes the wound instantly" this is not a little cut. this is not minor burns. you were IMPALED BY A BEAM OF PLASMA. your ORGANS have been COOKED. your BLOOD has BOILED. your BONES were INCINERATED. what are you TALKING ABOUTTTTTT

[strawberrycamel]

hey psst c'mere... no a little closer... a little closer- there we go

Loop lips are part of a racist caricature of Black people. Stop drawing Black characters with loop lips. I don't care how they look in canon, it's racist.

okay that's all you can go

[i-am-a-fan]

I’m thinking about robots again and cyborgs now too. Because there’s just so much to dissect.

on the topic specifically of robots it’s the idea that they’re completely logical until something breaks that logic. It’s been used a lot against robotic villains by pointing out a flaw in their logic or way of thinking and having them basically blow up. But take into consideration them learning how to stop trying to calculate every outcome because they learn that there’s always something unpredictable that comes along. This trope also works for people who can see the future and learn that they sometimes need to trust in the almost impossible possibilities because things will change. Because it’s a great way to talk about doom thinking and how sometimes you’ll spiral out trying to plan for every single possibility. How you’ll burn ourself out and create the worst case possibilities for yourself because that’s all you can see for yourself up until you accept the smaller possibilities that maybe today a friend will call you out of the blue, or that you’ll buy yourself flowers, or that there’s something wonderful you couldn’t even imagine that lies behind the vile of possibility.

Then there’s cyborgs and how there’s two ways of making them: extension of life willingly or unwillingly.

when it’s willingly it’s mostly the person, or someone else, actively replacing their body parts with the mechanical. Their reasoning lies in the fact that they’re going it to get stronger or to live long enough to see something through. They are consumed by the idea that they have to last and survive even at the cost of their humanity. It’s that fact that you place everything once of your being into something hoping that it’ll fix everything else. You become obsessed with it and in the process lose everything else. You are at fault for it. You caused this and when you look into the mirror, with new eyes and a mechanical arm holding yourself up, you have to ask yourself “where is the me that wanted this?”

When it’s unwilling it’s the same but it’s a dream someone else forced on you. They wanted you to be their secrete weapon. They wanted you to be their super solider. They couldn’t stand the thought of you leaving their side, and so they betrayed your humanity for you. And sometimes they’ll tell you and sometimes you figure it out for yourself. Sometimes when you try and recall a memory it’s all fuzzy with snow-like static. And when you aren’t looking, the person can’t stand to face you eye to eye. They are now an object. You are now just an object that took the place of their friend/lover/son. You, who didn’t want this, have to live with the consequences that someone else made for you. And that causes a disconnect between who you think you are and what you think you were supposed to be.

And lastly, there’s the people who are flesh and blood but think they are nothing more than machines. Because logic is safe, logic is unfeeling, and logic will save you. So, like a willing cyborg, they carve out their humanity to keep themselves safe.

*knocks on door*

do you ever think about Robots and their themes of perfectionism and cyborgs and the inherent idea that they usually can come to view themselves as flawed-?

you should really not open this can of wires…

[wanologic]

Your art style is.awsom. keeeep going.

By the way do you have any ocs? If you do could you show a reference of them?

Thanks, it is impossible to stop so i will keep trudging along hahaha

I have a ton of ocs, but my main ocverse is collateral damage.

You can find it all in the #collateral damage tag, which is actually pretty extensive. Theres not really like, reference sheets for each of them, but this post is a lineup with the full extended cast.

I've also explored a little with an ex-young adult adventurer/protagonist named logan and the transition from Very Important Teen to jaded adult with baggage.

Lastly ive got a project all written out and half designed about a magic university - it was supposed to be a 2023 project that i started, but i was hit super hard with a bunch of really intense life stuff last year (I didn't draw much bc of it) so its a bit tainted with that at the moment - no plans to finish right now. might come back to it eventually.

Theres a few stragglers that i have designs for as well like alice and blair but they dont really have much of an internet life beyond a few posts here and there.

[uncanny-tranny]

You know... it's okay to trust your body. If you are separated from your body to such an extent you feel you cannot trust it, I truly from the bottom of my heart empathize and feel grief for you, but you can trust your body.

It's okay to listen to your body and to heed what it is telling you. I wish you (and your body) well wherever you go. You deserve the peace of mind to feel able to do what you want.

[kyouka-supremacy]

Why are you tagging posts with dates from last year? Did you queue them last year?

… I did.

[carcarrot]

*through gritted teeth* i am going to write my screenplay

[essektheylyss]

You know, with the fact that Ryn went and got herself petrified within a day of finding out just how willing the Ruby Vanguard are to fuck a wizard up, I do think that, while the bar is very low, Essek (as he is during the course of the campaign) really does deserve some credit for never ending up in such a self-imposed pickle that he needed his allied party to show up and save him from himself. In fact, the only time the Nein directly felt the need to worry about him was when Caleb put him in danger without thinking through certain connections that would be made, and even then, that was more of Caleb feeling guilt-ridden about it than actual worrying.

And to be very clear, Essek absolutely was and still to this day in canon is in a massive, self-imposed pickle, but when it actually comes down to it, the Nein were pretty tangential and superfluous to navigating that, and he's predominantly doing the work himself.