#or like when I use bleach it just doesn’t do anything. and I’m like oh perhaps I’m the stupidest person alive?

[wewontbesleeping]

ok I don’t know how people wear white clothing ever. I do admit I am probably significantly more of a grub than most people, but like. I do not own anything white that hasn’t been stained within the first few wears

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One

Eddie squints into the bright sunlight flooding the kitchen. He’s eating a bowl of lucky charms that taste like chemicals and fake sugar and he’s not even sure he’s going to make it to the end of the first mouthful. The texture is grainy and artificially chewy and Eddie is sure he used to like these.

Steve, the guy in Eddie’s house, sits himself opposite with a neat little piles of scrambled eggs and cut fruit on his plate. He looks at Eddie, gets up again, pulls the blind just far enough that Eddie’s eyes are shaded, and then comes back again.

“Can I get you anything?”

“You can get the fuck out of my house,” Eddie replies. But there’s no bite. No meaning. No energy. No anything behind the words. He’s so fucking tired and so done with it all.

Steve carries on like Eddie hasn’t spoken, and eats his breakfast.

Eddie’s spoon clatters on the rim of the still full bowl; he goes back to bed.

Eddie blinks open gummy eyes to find some electrolyte sports drink thing and a banana sitting offensively on his bedside table. His cock is hard and unrelenting and making him fucking miserable. He flops over onto his back and shoves his hand down his pants, thinking vaguely that he’d kill a dude for a bag. For a pre rolled. For a fucking cough sweet.

He comes too fast, his knot doesn’t even pop, and it feels empty. Like he’s starving and someone handed him a handful of popcorn; doesn’t solve anything. If anything, it’s made it worse.

He clambers out of bed, his sweats soaked with come. When they start to slide off his too skinny hips, Eddie lets them. Watches as they slide to the floor, a wet, pointless mess. Just like him.

Eddie stalks into the kitchen, Steve’s sitting at the table, he has a pen in his hand, and he’s tapping it gently against the page. Doing a cross word or something, Eddie guesses. Where the fuck did he even get a newspaper. Eddie didn’t even know you could still buy newspapers any more.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing something to make all this better? Isn’t that your fucking job, or whatever?”

Steve sits back, he doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid over Eddie being naked, and he doesn’t stare either, just makes normal eye contact like Eddie being bare assed in the middle of the kitchen is a day to day occurrence.

“Are you open to taking a suggestion?”

“Are you open to taking a suggestion,” Eddie snarks back, bitches back, “like what?”

“Have a bath.”

“A bath? Really? That’s all you got for my...recovery or well being or to cure me of being a fucking addict?”

“No. You just stink,” Steve replies, still in his totally even and reasonable tone of voice.

“I’m in rut,” Eddie snaps back.

“Are you?” Steve raises an eyebrow, “can’t smell anything over the arm pint stank.”

“I- you- that’s just fucking rude, aren’t you supposed to be working for me? You can’t say shit like that-”

“I work for Chrissy.” Steve folds his newspaper and stands, “I presume you have a full bath in your en suite.” And Steve just...walks away. Eddie trailing behind as Steve lets himself into Eddie’s room and then into his bathroom.

“Oh. Sure. Just, make yourself at home,” Eddie bitches at him, “you just do whatever the fuck you like.”

Steve sets the bath running, rummages around under the sink and comes up with bubbles and bath salts that Eddie didn’t even know he had.

He wonders vaguely how bad bath salts would burn if he tried to snort them.

And then Steve starts cleaning, while the bath fills. He pulls out supplies, wipes down the counters and sinks. He throws some bleach down the toilet and wipes that down, “get in,” he turns the taps off, “I’m going to find something for this mirror.”

The mirror does look grim, Eddie can’t remember the last time he even had the cleaning lady over. He can’t remember if he’s still paying her. He can’t remember Chris saying a word about her. He wonders vaguely where she’s gone.

Eddie lies there in the steaming water, eyes slitted and vaguely watching as Steve brings the glass back to a perfect mirror shine, climbing up on the counter stretching high to buff away every last smear.

“I had a cleaning lady. Where’d she go?”

“She quit months ago.”

“She quit?” Eddie asks, genuinely surprised, “why?”

Steve raises that eyebrow, “wage dispute.”

“Fuck off, I paid her plenty.”

“Didn’t sound like any amount would be enough for what she was dealing with.” Steve lets that one sit, and Eddie wishes Steve would at least be smug or be a cunt or anything about it, but he’s not, he just delivers it like it’s a calm fact, the same as everything else he has to say. “I’ll do your hair.”

“I’m not a child.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His face is an unreadable mask of cool professionalism that’s screaming, ‘why do you act like one then?’

When he wets Eddie’s hair, Eddie’s sure he pours water all over his face on purpose.

Eddie sits in the tub, Steve perched on the side, and he lets Steve wash his hair. He knows which products to use. He knows which order. He knows what to let sit and when to bring out the wide toothed comb. This is not Steve’s first rodeo with curly hair.

Eddie slumps back at some point, muscles feeling like they’re unwinding and unspooling into the water, his eyes have been closed for ages and he doesn’t remember closing them.

It takes a long time for him to put it together.

“You’re not washing my hair any more,” he slurs. He sounds a little drunk.

“No,” Steve says quietly.

“What, you a masseuse too?”

“I wear a lot of hats. It’s part of the job. I believe in a holistic approach to recovery.”

"Oh yeah," Eddie speaks quietly, "gonna' wave your magic wand and fix me? Solve all my problems and let me skip off into the sunset?"

"No. You're probably going to be fighting this battle for the rest of your life."

"Jesus Christ. Do you have to be so honest about it? Aren't you supposed to be all positive and shit."

"I am being positive. I'm positive you'll always be an alcoholic and a drug addict-"

Eddie snorts a derisive noise.

"But I'm also certain it gets easier, if you stick with it."

Eddie makes another dismissive noise, and goes back to being half asleep, Steve’s sure fingers working into his scalp.

Steve leaves, at some point. The water starts to cool. Eddie starts to become aware of himself, and he doesn’t like it. The rut is there, itching under his skin, but it feels weird and half formed and almost like it’s happening to someone else, far away.

He vaguely wonders about scoring and then realizes he can’t. It just makes him want it more though. The more he tries not to think about it, the more he can’t avoid thinking about it.

He gets out of the water, finding clean towels on the heated rails he dries himself, twisting his hair up on top of his head inside a towel.

His bedroom has also been cleaned, the sheets changed. The drapes are pulled and a window is open, letting in fresh, warm afternoon air.

Steve has laid out a clean tee shirt and sweats on the bed.

Steve can go fuck himself.

Part Three

[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (1) ₊˚⊹♡

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Stan, are you even listening to me?”

“Uh… yeah, dude…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You totally have.”

“I haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” he protested weakly.

“You so did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she say anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stan, what—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Stan.

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

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

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

Nothing had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you noticed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stan was a fucking mess.

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

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

He couldn’t fucking stand it.

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

But he hadn’t stopped.

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

Tonight was no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to stop thinking.

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

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

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

And then they were on each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

It never fucking was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[maeism]

⤿ KENMA KOZUME ౨ glhf<3 ৎ

synopsis : kenma doesn’t believe in attachments, but maybe he’s been playing this one all wrong. after all, in a game where the rules keep changing, it’s hard to tell if he’s winning or just getting left behind.

cw : k.kenma x f!reader, inspired by "glhf<3" by MICO, very bad try at "gamer talk," angst(?).

word count : 1.01k

" oh, my god thought it was love // but then you broke my fall // fought for forever, got a couple months // want someone better? // baby, good luck, have fun "

kenma kozume has always been antisocial. he was always on his phone or using his nintendo. never seen hanging out with anyone other than kuroo. 

the boy spoke a few words and only did it when it was truly necessary. his gaze was always down. his eyes were tired and droopy. but that didn't stop him from being somewhat popular. the bleached haired boy was a starting setter on nekoma’s volleyball team, so his name was fairly known. 

at school he was a quiet, lonely boy. people tried to talk to him but his answers were always vague, empty, and not interested. so no one really knew him. 

the real him that was hidden behind the screen. 

late at night, the computer shined a bright light on kenma’s face in his dark room. as if it were a reflex, he opened riot games and launched valorant. his eyes traveled to his second monitor where discord was already opened. 

scanning through his friends list he saw the multiple notifications from people he did not want to reply to and the zoomed in, smiski profile picture of his favorite mutual. next to the unconventional icon was her name in white font, ‘y/n.’

kenma quickly clicked on the chat and typed out a message.

‘hop on valorant?’

no greeting, no small talk. he was always direct with his texts, especially those to her. he saw something in her, maybe it was the fact he had never met anyone as fun or that she was different from everyone else he had met before. but that's how it always was with her, simple.

except it wasn't, really. 

his eyes hovered over the message after sending it, the cursor blinking on the text bar as if awaiting for something more. something he would never actually type out. 

because there was something about her. something that gave him a slight impulse, a little rush in his dull life. maybe because she was fun without even trying, or how she did not force a conversation and try to fill in the silence with meaningless words like everyone else. or maybe, it's because she wasn't like the other girls he met online. no fake voices, no pretending to “need” him. she just was.

and he liked that. way more than he should.

“bloop.” the notification echoed through his headset. 

‘give me 5,’ she replied, quick and easy, just how he liked it.

slanting down on his chair, kenma’s mind went to her. the girl lived in hyogo, which was pretty far away, but he’s seen her face before, and follows her on instagram so he knows she's not a catfish. 

five minutes later, kenma was still staring mindlessly into his computer, lost in the thought of his online friend until the incoming call sound filled his ears. making him quickly answer it. 

“yo,” she said, casual like always, as if she hadn't just made him stare blankly at his screen for five whole minutes.

“hey,” he mumbled, inviting her to the party without missing a beat.

they queued up, the familiar click of the matchmaking sound filling the silence. it was comfortable. their kind of comfortable. 

the game loaded in. she picked a dualist. classic.

the whole match felt intense. she was doing reckless moves, some that always worked for her. kenma hung back, watching the kill feed light up with her name over and over. 

“you're playing like you've got something to prove,” he muttered, focusing on the game in front of him.

“i do,” she shot back, “proving i’m better than you.”

a smirk tugged on the corner of kenma’s mouth. he didn't say anything. just waited.

a round later, she died early, caught off guard in mid. kenma clutched the round, barely, his last shot shaky but landing anyways.

“lucky,” she said, voice dripping with mock disdain.

“skill issue,” he replied flatly, though he knew what she was capable of.

the next round, she carried again, top fragging like it was second nature.

“see? not luck,” she teased. “just talent.”

kenma’s lip twitched. he didn't let her win. he never had to. she was just that good. but sometimes, he wondered if he played worse on purpose. if only because her victory felt better than his own.

“yeah,” he let out a breathy reply while he bought his loadout for the next round. “guess i'm lucky to have you.”

it slipped out before he could stop it.

silence. just for a second. 

then she laughed. light, unbothered, easy.

“damn right you are.”

and kenma didn't reply. because if he did, he'd have to admit that wasn't exactly what he meant. 

they kept playing. rounds one after another, easy banter filling in the spaces between kills and callouts. it all just felt natural, like a habit. 

then, as the last round ended, a call sound went off from her end.

“oh,” she said, distracted. “i should go.”

kenma’s fingers went stiff on his keyboard. the room suddenly felt quieter, even though she hadn't left yet.

“already?” 

she hummed. “mhm. he's waiting for me.”

he.

kenma wasn't stupid. he knew what she felt. the way her voice was just a little softer. the way her focus had already drifted somewhere else.

he stared at her name in the game, wishing she wouldn't leave. 

“i'll catch you later though,” she added. “don't miss me too much.” and the discord ping echoed through his headphones. reminding him of her departure. 

kenma exhaled sharply through his nose. ‘don't miss me too much.’ there she was, teasing again. and somehow it helped the pit in his stomach. 

he went to the chat with her and typed out ‘glhf.’

a few seconds passed. maybe she wouldn't answer at all. maybe she already moved her whole focus towards that other guy. 

then, ‘thanks<3’

kenma blinked at the screen.

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling into his palm. the little heart sat there, taunting him. a habit. a joke. a hook. 

he shut his computer quickly and leaned back on his chair, eyes closing. 

god, he hated this game.

[edgeray]

Hi Ray! 🍅 Anon here~

Have fun on your holiday and enjoy it to the best you can! Be sure to stay hydrated, the weather is really mental these days.

Just wanted to share a bit of brainrot I had regarding soft Arle, whether or not you choose to make it into a fic is up to you!

Arle with her frame and demeanor is most definitely the Top + Dom in the relationship with reader, but how about when she’s insecure? Seeing reader take care of the children and feeling as though she doesn’t deserve to be as loved as said children, then reader after putting the kids to bed embraces Arle and puts her head against their chest so Arle can hear their heartbeat more clearly while patting Arle and assuring her that they love her for her and that she DEFINITELY deserves to be spoilt… (reader knows Arle too well to not pick up on her tells and knows that Arle’s being harsh on herself)

Or maybe reader writing in to the Tsaritsa (without Arle knowing) to ask if Arle can take a 2 week break just to take care of the children and spend time as a couple (What if!! Tsaritsa was the one who wed them!!! And just closes both eyes and approves time off). Then reader proceeds to spoil Arle in every way possible - breakfast in bed, a warm bath after sparring with the children (no, not that kind of bath, but a fluffy one where Arle gets a shoulder massage and scrubbed clean and gets lots of loving kisses everywhere she’s insecure of), a feast of sashimi and steak tartare for dinner and a soft bed and loving wife in the night. I wanna spoil Arle like that but 😭

Oh! And since Harbingers are like celebrities in Snezhnaya, do you think Arle would have a fanclub there? Think about it! She’s young, has a boatload of money (you CANNOT convince me #4 doesn’t have money when #11 has an unimaginable sum at the bank), can handle kids well (she runs the HotH), and as a Harbinger who fights she probably is ripped (RIP her actual body proportions, they’re limited by Hoyo’s models, nobody is convincing me her body type isn’t like Lady Maria’s from Bloodborne, with abs, guns and muscular. Thighs.)

0 chance that she doesn’t have a line of sapphics lining up for her in Snezhnaya, even with the rumors of her being ruthless and cruel (I mean. If the rumors worked in making people back off. Arle simps like us wouldn’t exist to begin with lmao)… Imagine Arle trying to placate Jealous!Teasing!Reader!! Like Arle coming home on Valentine’s day a bit late to find reader teasing her about having a new lover meanwhile Arle was actually out buying a new dagger for reader to protect themselves with… reader being melodramatic because she knows and trusts Arle enough that Arle would never do anything like that (and Arle knows but plays along)

R: “Oh, woe is me! My wife came home late on Valentine’s with a dagger to end our relationship, whatever should I do?”

Arle: “My love…”

And if the children are around? They’d be busy either pretending they didn’t see anything or resisting the urge to claw their eyes out or handing each other eye bleach. Sending condolences to Lyney when one of the younger children ask something along the lines of

“Brother Lyney, do you think we’ll have another sibling soon if Father and Mother are this loving with each other”

(I headcanon that Arle does teach them sexuality education but not until they’re 10 and before that the older children tell their younger siblings that children pop into existence when Papa and Mama love each other lots)

I’m so sorry this is getting really out of hand but Arle has me in a brainrot when I should be focusing elsewhere 💀

Rest Your Worries, Lax Your Heart

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Thank you, I did have a fun vacation :). Wow that is a lot and I love every single bit of this ask 🍅 anon. It'd be unfair if I just wrote one part and not all of them, so what did I do? Combined all of them as best as I can, but of course some details had to be omitted/changed because of that–hopefully you don't mind. I'm a fucking genius. Also considering that Arle has an anime, but never got a beach episode, this is said beach episode. This took so long because this turned out to be pretty self-indulgent (I'm sure you know which scene it was). This is a long boi, way over what the request range is supposed to be, but hope this is worth it? Somehow, my brain was able to focus for at least like… 4 hours. Started this at 23:00 something, and it's nearly 04:00. 🍅 anon, I enjoy your asks, so I hope you personally enjoy this one :)  Content warnings / info - a bit of suggestiveness, reader is referred to as ‘Mother’ but is otherwise gn!, 3.2k words 

It took a lot of back and forth over the span of four months, writing to the Tsaritsa, but you had finally been able to arrange this without the knowledge of your husband. The Archon, generous as she is, approved of your proposal for a two week long break without much pushback or questioning, saying that loyalty was rewarded and as one of her more productive Harbingers, Arlecchino’s efforts warrant her a break. All the Tsaritsa asked for was the general details of the vacation: when, where, and the activities you would be doing, which was easy enough to answer to. Surprisingly, she bought an entire section of the Sumeru coast along with a sizable cabin for the two of you and the children for the duration of your respite when you told where you plan on the location being. You're not one to turn down such a gracious offer so you accepted it. As a Pyro user, she would surely enjoy somewhere as warm as Sumeru. 

Currently, you're holding the letter from the Tsaritsa, which contains a direct order from the Archon addressed to Arlecchino to stay at Sumeru. No matter how much you plead for her to rest, your husband only says that she can keep working and for you to not worry. Tracing the envelope stamp, you breathe in deeply before knocking on the door.

“Yes?” Called from beyond the door. 

“Can I come in, Arle?”

“Yes, my love,” she says with a lilt. 

You come in, striding towards her, holding up the back of the envelope while trying to suppress your smile. “This was addressed for you.”

Arlecchino takes it with a bit of suspicion at the crack in your facial expression. Turning it over, she notices the stamp, which is the mark of the word of the Archon. She narrows her brows and takes out a letter opener, taking out the letter with a bit more urgency. You watch her expression morph from confusion to mild shock to indifference again. 

“What does it say?” You inquire her, biting your lip to hide the smile.

“It says that I'm going to Sumeru in three days. For a respite.” She eyes you carefully, her eyes glinting red. “But you seem to know that already.” 

You nod, a smile forming . “I thought… you were working so hard, and you deserve a break. I asked the Tsaritsa if it was possible and she agreed to it, even paying for our stay there.” 

Arlecchino's face flicks to something indecipherable, like there was a hesitation, but it quickly disappears before you can think too much on it. She gets up from her desk chair, strutting to you before wrapping her arms around your midsection, pulling you into an embrace. She presses a tender kiss against your forehead. “Thank you, my dear, for your thinking of me. I'm sure the children would appreciate being out of the House. I'll tell the children about this, and we should begin packing.”  

But does she appreciate it? It's for her, after all. You chew on the inside of your cheek but your smile remains in place.

You tilt your head up to kiss her cheek. “I already packed for us. And I told the kids, already.”

“Hm, that's why they seem so antsy lately. Thank you,” Arlecchino hums. “You picked for us already?”

“Yes. Including your clothes,” you chuckle, deviously imagining her in the attires you picked out for her. At that, she raises her eyebrows.

“Oh? What are you planning, my love?” She teases, seizing your chin in her hands and tilting your head up to lock her eyes with yours. You can't stop the giggle that bubbles out. 

“Nothing too… scandalous…” you answer back. “Don't worry, it's nothing too bad. This is all for you to relax, remember? You've been working so hard, been such a good husband, so…”

You lean forward to kiss her on the mouth. Whispering against her lips, you say, “As your partner, it's my duty to make sure you're happy. Isn't that right?”

If she physically could at that moment, Arlecchino would melt underneath your words. 

—

Upon your arrival at Sumeru, you were glad you picked the outfits that you did. Travel with around twenty kids was difficult, but luckily the older kids, the twins and Freminet especially, helped a lot. Everyone was practically vibrating in excitement, with the exception of Arlecchino, though you knew it was mostly because of how inexpressive she usually was. 

Right? 

Currently, the two of you lay on the sand by the crystal clear waters, enjoying the sight of the children playing. The little ones are playing in the sand, presumably sculpting a castle, and the older ones are either engaging in a heated battle involving smacking a ball around or with Freminent in the ocean. Here, you forget that they’re a part of the Fatui, child soldiers for the Tsaritsa; here, they look like normal children and it makes your heart swell. 

Unfortunately, you're stuck in a dilemma–observe your children and take in their contagious laughter, or ogle your husband who is in the most delicious and mouth-watering attire possible. Underneath her short gray collarless jacket, was a cropped, sleeveless turtleneck that exposed her lower half of her toned stomach, including her v-line. Below are tight, black leggings which do little in hiding her muscular thighs. Everytime you look at her, a flush runs to your cheeks and you find yourself too flustered for your stare to linger because of the growing amount of indecent thoughts. You breathe deeply in an attempt to calm the raging storms of desire in your stomach, distracting yourself by observing the waves and digging your feet in the sand. For the sake of your children, you'd like for your mind to be as pure as possible. 

Blackened arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into a lap. You squeal at the sudden contact. Your husband's mouth hovers beside your ear, hot breath brushing against the shell of your ear. 

“Something interesting?” Arlecchino huskily whispers, making you shudder. One hand strokes over your stomach, invoking shivers from you. You inhale sharply before glancing at Arlecchino's face. 

“Just… watching the waves. It's calming,” you lie quickly, wondering if your racing heartbeat can be felt underneath her fingertips. 

“Your heart says otherwise,” she chuckles, turning your head over your shoulder so she can kiss you. 

After a few moments, you pull away from the kiss, and your eyes flick over to the children in the sand, still tossing around that ball over a net. “Why don't you join them? I'm sure they would love it if their Father joined their game.”

“My dear, I would destroy them,” Arlecchino bluntly remarks, and you chuckle. 

“Fair enough, I suppose.”

The two of you watch them in silence until Arlecchino breaks the silence. 

“I like what you picked for me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Your reaction is adorable.” 

Something white-hot pricks the back of your neck. “I-I'm glad you like it. I like it too,” you stammer out, your abashment evident in your voice. 

“I can tell. Perhaps… you'd like to help me put on sun protection?” Arlecchino teases with a small smirk, removing her jacket off to reveal her lean biceps. “Over the pants, if that's alright.”

This handsome–sexy–woman is going to be the death of you, you’re sure of it. Your heart is going into overdrive, and you would be terrified of going into a stroke if you aren't more focused on your husband's physique. If it's not your heart that's going to kill you, it's the pending combustion inside of you. You squeeze your thighs against one another, pooling heat forming between your legs. 

“Y-yeah, sure,” you manage in between your laboring breathing, getting off of her lap to face her. Spreading the paste in your hand, you first venture over her neck, tenderly rubbing over her throat and then her nape, down to her sides. Her skin is hot to the touch, as expected of a Pyro user, but it somehow retains softness and flawlessness despite all the combat and harshness your husband deals with as a Fatui Harbinger. Still, unlike her composed facial features, you can feel that her pulse is as frenzied as yours–it gives you comfort that you’re not the only one feeling this. Your husband hums with contentment, watching you carefully. 

Next, you slide your hands over to her broad shoulders before feeling down her upper arm, deliberate attention to her biceps. A shuddering breath comes from you as she shifts, extending her arms more out towards you. You trace down the markings of her arm before caressing her inky elbow and forearms. Finally, you get to her wrists. An idea pops in your head as you bring her hands to your lips, kissing her knuckles and rings, giving special focus onto her engagement ring. An amused huff escapes from her, and you glance back at her. Her eyes gleam with such a rare fondness, reserved only for you. 

You glance down at the only part of her that's yet been touched, your stomach churning in itself when you're able to get a closer, longer look. You gulp considerably, your hands shaking slightly as they hover over it. 

A charcoal hand wraps around your wrist, gently guiding your palm to her until it's flushed against her skin. “Don't be shy now, love.” She smirks wickedly and you have the sense to kiss that smile off her face. 

“Shut up,” you murmur meekly, but place both hands on her stomach, your fingertips traversing over every dips created by her well-muscles stomach. It feels like your body will implode at any second now, as her body heat infects your fingers and spreads to the rest of your body. You coat her waist before your touch lingers lower, just above the waistband of her pants. You trace the indent of her v-line, your fingers nearly dip underneath her leggings. Before it can, she stops you, grasping both of your wrists with one hand as she leans in to whisper hotly near your ear.

“Let's save that for later, hm?” 

—

“Lyney, what are they doing?” One of the children inquires, as they point at Mother and Father still by the water. Father remains on top of Mother, seemingly applying sun protection, though Lyney isn't quite sure if their position is truly that… innocent. 

“Oh… Father is just helping Mother, like how I helped with the sun protection on your back,” Lyney quickly comes up with an explanation, looking away from them. 

The child remains silent, observing the older male's expression, before looking back at them once more. “Lyney, you said that when a mother and father love each other a lot, a new child comes right?” 

Lyney isn't sure if he was going to enjoy what comes next, though he has an inkling that he won't. “Yes…” 

“Does that mean Mother and Father will bring us a new sibling soon?”

Lyney sputters, looking to Lynette for assistance. 

—

After a nice day at the beach, Arlecchino takes you and the children to a local restaurant. Luckily, she was able to find one that was relatively empty, so there was no problem with fitting you and your twenty children inside. You find that the two of you rather enjoy Sumeru dishes; while you enjoy the variety of flavors, Arlecchino rather indulges in the spiciness of them. Your favorite is between the tandoori roast chicken and the lambad fish roll. Though, something bothers you during your time at the restaurant.

Arlecchino is an attractive woman; that much is undeniable, and you're well aware of the fact that she's pleasing to both men's and women's eyes. It is a common occurrence for her to attract the sights of those around her, for whatever the reason, though among the women, it is typically out of admiration. Here, this is the case as well, wandering eyes from other customers, and subtle flirting from the audacious waitress. 

After finishing your dinner, you excuse yourself to the bathroom, only to return to the two of them chatting up, although in reality it’s more like a one-sided conversation and Arlecchino is ignoring her– you're well aware of this, but you find the waitress’ presence pervasive. You approach your table quickly, kissing your husband on the cheek before glancing at the waitress.

“My husband and I would like to order dessert. Can you fetch us a menu, please?” You ask, disguising your ire with a practiced smile. Instantly, the waitress's flirtation dies and she walks away. 

You huff at the sight of the woman. “How could you, Arlecchino? After all we've been through? Talking so casually with her when I'm gone?” You jest with a gasp, faux jealousy in your tone once you notice the relieved sigh from her. Her claws release its hold on the tablecloth, leaving behind tattered sheets. 

“Oh, how I've been caught,” Arlecchino responds monotonously, playing along. “My affair with an unnamed, rather plain-featured woman has been discovered.” 

You giggle as her hand finds yours, interlocking with your fingers. “I'm in disbelief, betrayed by who I thought was my true love.”

“Oh hush now, love. Will Baklava buy your silence and heart again?” 

“Perhaps.” 

The House of the Hearth children gag as Mother and Father conciliate. 

—

“Mother, can't we stay up any longer? We're on vacation. Pleaseeeeee,” one of the children pleads as you usher them to bed, pulling the covers over them. 

“It's not healthy for you to stay up. Besides, you have plenty of time tomorrow and the rest of the two weeks to have fun. Your Father and I can't keep watch over you during the night,” you respond with, kissing them on the forehead. 

“What if Lyney or Lynette watches us?” 

“Lyney and Lynette are probably just as tired. When you wake up, we can go to the beach again, does that sound okay?” 

“Okay… good night Mother.”

You hum in delight, caressing their head. “Good night. Sweet dreams.” 

You silently walk towards the door. Arlecchino leans against the doorframe, observing you wordlessly–again, that unreadable expression appears over her, but this time it lingers. You shut the door as quietly as you can, before turning to your husband.

“Is there something you need, Arle?” You inquire. 

She shakes her head. You don't quite believe her, but you don't address it. “I'm going to go take a bath. Get all this sand off of me. Would you like to join me?” 

Arlecchino nods, and soon the two of you are in the bathroom. You let the faucet run, filling the bathtub with water as Arlecchino removes her clothing. It only takes a few moments before the two of you are seated in the bathtub, but it's a change of position this time. Arlecchino sits in between your legs, facing away from you.

“It's been a while since we've bathed like this, right?” You question softly, lightly carding your fingers through her untied hair. 

“It has been,” she merely replies, her voice almost far-away; like there’s something else on her mind. Even though you only face her back, you can tell from her lack of movement that she’s in deep contemplation.

“What are you thinking about, Arle?” Your husband bristles a bit at the question. Even after being married to you for a couple years, she's still unaccustomed to how you can read her so easily, especially when she prides herself in being incomprehensible to others, even her children. 

“Do you… not enjoy this?” You ask hesitantly with a lump in your throat. You know that she knows what you meant by ‘this’– the vacation; the entire notion of taking a break is foreign to Arlecchino, but you hope that she was able to find this beneficial. If she hates this and this vacation is supposed to be two weeks long… you don't want to say you'd be disappointed but you'd hope she'd at least be able to relax from her Harbinger duties. 

Arlecchino is silent for a few moments. “I admit… I am uneased by this, to be so vulnerable and open to assaults now that we're not in the House of the Hearth. I feel unproductive and restless without my usual work. However, at the same time, I can see how beneficial this is to the children, and it is a nice change for once to see them like this. Being able to spend time with you like this is also rather indulgent, but I cannot complain about it.” 

You smile, a weight lifted off your chest as you lean forward to press a kiss against her nape. “I’m glad. This was for you after all.”

“Although I am gratified that the children are able to experience this as well … I cannot see why you would put this much effort for me. After all, I am…” Arlecchino pauses, raising her blackened hands to her view. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but you're able to get a sense of what she’s trying to say, and another weight is placed heavy on your heart. For as confident and assured that Arlecchino likes to present herself, when it is just the two of you, she reveals a rawer, more unguarded side to her. Often, she confides in you how she grapples with why you can so fondly view her, and every time, your heart sinks. How could your husband think this way? 

Laying your chin over her shoulder, you gingerly place both of your hands underneath hers, stroking the inside of her palm with your thumb. “I know where your thoughts are leading to, Arlecchino, and they're wrong. I love you, Arlecchino. You deserve this. You deserve this treatment, you deserve a break, you deserve to be loved. Your curse, your past… it doesn't matter. These hands…” 

You continue caressing her hand with your fingers. “...They are not cursed. These hands are not unloveable. These are the same hands that protect and care for our children. The same hands that hold me. The same hands that please me. They are a part of you, and they aren't evidence that you are a monster. If you are, you wouldn't have me, and you wouldn't have the children.” 

You kiss down along her bare back, gaining shivers from the woman. “Enjoy this, my love, for me at the very least. You are my husband, so let me do my part in loving you. You've done an innumerable amount of things for me and the children, so consider this to be our repayment for you.” 

“That is why I am doing this for you, do you understand?” You whisper against her skin. 

Arlecchino nods, a shaky breath escaping from her. You finish your treatment around her shoulderblades and gesture for her to turn around. When she does, the first thing that you do is kiss her hands, peppering them with as much devotion as you can give them. To you, nothing is more beautiful. 

“You deserve everything and more. Don't forget that, Arlecchino. So let me do this for you.” It isn't an ask. It is a demand from the one person whose authority is higher than the Tsaritsa: you. 

Arlecchino closes her eyes, and lets herself melt into you. 

[jimothy-hopkins]

This is another one of my many precious Bully ocs, Alice. She’s the sweetest fr. (Also easiest to draw)

Info about Alice!

General Description:

Alice is average height with an athletic, but delicate build. She has short, bleached blonde hair and greens eyes. She is in the paler side, and tends to get burned when she makes any attempt to tan. Alice walks with a straight posture, but tends to be fidgety when still.

Unlike many of her fellow preps, Alice is incredibly kind. She is known to be generous, and gives to those in need whenever she can. She is aware of her privilege and tries to use it to improve the lives of others rather than just take it for herself. As nice as Alice is, she is naive and often gets taken advantage of. She tends to struggle with anxiety as a result from the pressure of those around her.

Interests and whatnot:

Alice is very interested in charity and philanthropy, much like her parents. She attends various events and even starts her own fundraisers for certain causes. Wether that be school bake sales to help the art and theatre department, or going to large charity events to put money towards hospitals and whatnot.

Aside from charity, Alice is also an environmentalist and an animal rights activist. She does her best to improve natural habitats of animals and donates to rescues and shelters so that they have more capacity and care for animals.

One of Alice’s biggest interests is figure skating. Alice started skating at a young age, and has developed a natural talent for it. Skating brings her into a relaxed, but determined state of mind. It is her passion. It is what she is best at. She is deemed a prodigy.

Reputation:

Due to her interest in figure skating and regular fitness routine, Alice is admired by the jocks. She doesn’t cause issues for them, since she is usually very kind.

The greasers hate Alice by association. Alice doesn’t blame them at all- if the shoe was on the other foot she would hate the preps as well. She understands their point of view and does her best to avoid them.

The preps don’t respect her as much as she would like. She really only hangs around the clique because that was where she was initially accepted. They often think she’s childish and silly for starting charities and donating money. She is also in competition with her fellow preps across academics and sports. Their expectations weigh heavy on Alice.

Alice is in very good standing with the bullies. She is dating one of their clique members. (This member is a separate oc of mine, her name is Angelina. I’ll make her ref soon I promise guys.) The pair are quite open about their relationship. Alice and Angelina spend a lot of time with one another.

Alice is straight up afraid of the nerds. She’s heard all about Earnest and wants NOTHING to do with that crowd. If she absolutely had to be by their hangout spots, Alice brings her girlfriend with her to make sure they won’t bother her.

Quotes:

“If money is the root of all evil, I want to try and use mine for good things.”

“Sorry, I have a date with Angelina, cya later!”

“I can’t stand the way they talk about poor people! Just because they don’t have a trust fund doesn’t mean they should be treated that way.”

“One day I’ll skate at the Olympics.”

“Do you need anything? I’m happy to help!”

“Oh, I don’t have a five. Is a hundred okay for you? Here, take it.”

“Derby PAID someone for that ACT score. He’s not that smart.”

“I just feel like I’m a complete failure! They all hate me I don’t know what to do!”

“Snowball fight!”

“Promise you’ll be a real friend, please?”

“I can’t tell if Derby is just born that way or if he’s had plastic surgery. He doesn’t even look real.”

[vincentspissfleshlight]

sano hcs…. please feed me …..

I’m so sorry anon I’m working on them right now I’ll feed you anon!!

Here’s to my starving anon

TW: medical stuff, medical play, needles, slight NSFW mentions.

MINORS FUCK OFF!

Also none of EPs nasty ahh incest with Sano and Akira i don’t like it, nobody likes it.

Sano Kojima from BtD headcannons

Sano often falls asleep at his desk reading an anatomy book about bodies and such, he’s got piles of paperwork in a neat little pile.

His lab smells like cleaning chemicals, bleach and hospital disinfectant.

He likes complete silence while injecting someone with something new.

Clean freak, and I mean a real clean freak, changes his medical gloves and washes everything down every time he uses them.

Everything is neat and tidy, as they should be

I feel like he’d have OCD with things being tidy and clean AND neat

Is Matthew’s doctor, asks the usual questions: “have you been drinking and smoking while taking your medication, Matthew?” “Do I need to upper your dosages?”

Sano definitely has like a gentle soft voice, idk how to describe it but it’s definitely monotone and bored.

He thinks obnoxious people are quite annoying, loud and they hurt his ears

Sano always gets Akira to take Shawn out for a walk, he enjoys petting Shawn too.

Enjoys the heat sometimes, also likes the cold, his lab is at normal temperature but sometimes cold like a fridge

Don’t get me started about the doll room.. that place is CLEAN.. he always washes his other dolls and brushes their hair, using experience top of the top shampoo and conditioner and especially does their makeup too.. he’s obsessed.

Although sano is the older sibling, they get along with each other, Akira being protective of his brother Sano, which is understandable (nothing incesty!)

He’s actually somewhat kind when you’re really in good terms with Sano

Light blue.. like electric light blue.. would be his favourite colour or anything blue, like baby blue

Sano and his adoptive father (Cain) aren’t on good terms, Sano wants to do his own thing with his dolls while Cain thinks is absolutely ridiculous to do such things..

It’s cannon that Sano, Strade and Rire had a threesome.. EP drew it..

Sano has a thing for Strade (I have no fucking idea why)

Rire tried to have sexual relations with Sano, saying that he can make Sano feel better than Strade could (this was when Strade died)

Oh, Sano enjoys sushi trains too!

Speaking of food; he likes bento boxes and Japanese food, raw sushi and beef with ramen are his favourite, or definitely like those yucky ass healthy couscous meals.. Eughhh

If he had a favourite genre of music it would probably be classical or gentle violins 🎻

The only person who can make this stone cold snake demon smile is his brother, when Akira falls or does something stupid with Shawn, getting yeeted by Shawn running off and Akira getting thrown with him.

Fascinated by bugs.. especially centipedes (I fucking hate them) and spiders, anything venomous and dangerous, he likes to keep them to experiment or just take notes on.

Sano likes medical play, if you’re doing anything sexual in that manner with him, he’d want to inject you with something and see how your body would react to that.

Emojis: 🐍🩻🩺💙🔥

He doesn’t want to scar you, he’ll put his belt around your throat gently

Not particularly rough or aggressive like Vincent and Akira are, more of a gentle kinda sex, but still dangerous in its own way especially if he’s got you split open on his medical table.

No tattoos, just ear piercings that’s all.

He’s average down there, he sort of knows how to use it, but he’s not a virgin.

Currently curious about Vincent, curious about why he puts scars and wounds on his doll.

Goes to bed at 8:30pm and wakes up at 7am (fuck your perfect bedtime schedule)

Watches medical videos of doctors digging into brains and bodies.

Prefers to watch the snuff videos of people in hospitals getting dissected and being tampered with.

Gets slightly annoyed and firm when Matthew doesn’t listen to his medical advice, tells him “you have to listen to me, it’s required that you stop smoking and drinking whilst on these medications.”

Sano isn’t hot tempered, he’s not mad or aggressive.. his cold ass stare says everything.

Likes charcuterie boards and probiotic drinks especially those ones that are good for your gut.

Drives like a clean ass expensive car

I feel like he’d enjoy AHS—

NO HE LIKES HUMAN CENTIPEDE— AAAGHHH

watches murder crime movies/shows like Sev7n, house or something on Netflix (AT A RESPECTABLE HOUR)

Best fucking doctor there is around.. but nobody knows what he does in his spare time LOL

He’s a MURDERER!!

His bedroom is fucking spotless.. no dust or dirt ANYWHERE!!

Enjoy anon, I hope you are full now~ 🐍

[cal1-m3-ell3]

Incorrect Quotes Feat, My Oc:

Part 1!

Lois and Damian

Lois: “You know, you remind me of a slinky.” Damian: “A slinky? Really? How so?” Lois: “You’re not really good for anything, but you bring a smile when you fall down the stairs.”

Jason and Lois

Jason: “Wanna see something cool?” Lois: “Sure.” Jason: *Pretends to drink bleach* Lois: “Why would I want to see that?” Jason: “Because it’s cool.”

Lois and Raven

Lois: “Why do you never smile?” Raven: “Because I’m a dark being of the night.” Lois: “I mean, you could try smiling.” Raven: “Have you ever tried a joke?” Lois: “ people say I put the ‘laughter’ in ‘slaughter.’”

Lois and Starfire

Starfire: “Lois, if I gave you a unicorn, would you be happy?” Lois: “Who wouldn’t be happy with a unicorn?” Starfire: “would you want to ride on it?” Lois: “No, I’m good. It would feel demeaning…”

Damian and Alfred

Damian: “Why are you always around, Alfred?” Alfred: “To ensure your health and sanity, Master Damian.” Damian: “At what cost?” Alfred: …“A small fortune in therapy bills.”

Lois and Dick Grayson

Dick: “Lois, you should join gymnastics!” Lois: “Why? I can’t even do a cartwheel.” Dick: “And yet you’re dating Robin. That’s like being a fish out of water.” Lois: “More like a fish that’s just flopping on the floor.”

Lois and Harley Quinn

Harley: “Got any good jokes, Puddin’?” Lois: “I don’t know, but I can tell you a joke about my life.” Harley: “Tell me!” Lois: “It’s depressing. But hey, at least I’m not a clown.”

Lois and Wally West

Wally: “I run faster than the speed of light!” Lois: …“And I run away from my problems.” Wally: “We’re not the same.” Lois: …“But we both like to run.”

Lois and Green Lantern

Lois: “How do you work that ring?” Green Lantern: “With my mind and willpower.” Lois: “Oh, so you’re just like my motivation.” Green Lantern: “How’s that?” Lois: “It doesn’t show up half the time.”

Lois and Wonder Woman

Lois: “Diana, how do you stay so strong?” Wonder Woman: “By lifting heavy things.” Lois: “I try lifting spirits.” Wonder Woman: “That’s nice… But you should lift weights too.” Lois: “That’s what my emotional baggage is for.”

Lois and Damian

Lois: “I can't believe I'm dating a guy who thinks ‘The class is lit’ is a compliment.”

Damian: “It is, considering our pasts.”

Lois and Jason Todd

Jason: “You know, Kid- your hero name should be ‘The Enigma.’”

Lois: “Why’s that?”

Jason: “Because I can’t figure out why I adopted you.”

Lois and Raven

Raven: “Want to know my secret?”

Lois: “Sure, lay it on me.”

Raven: “I’m always angry.”

Lois: “Are you sure it’s not just your caffeine withdrawal?”

Lois and Kid Flash

Kid Flash: “I don’t do cardio; I am cardio.”

Lois: “And I’m caffeine.”

Lois and Beast Boy

Beast Boy: “I can turn into any animal!”

Lois: “Even a sloth?”

Beast Boy: “That’s just mean.”

Lois and Zatanna

Lois: “Can you do magic?”

Zatanna: “I can make you disappear!”

Lois: “Yeah, but how about something less threatening?”

Lois and Dick Grayson

Dick: “I’m like a bat!”

Lois: “But without the whole ‘hanging upside down’ thing, right?”

Dick: “No, I still do that; it’s funny.”

Lois and Tim Drake

Tim: “You know what would be fun?”

Lois: “...Not talking to me…?”

Tim: “Exactly.”

Lois and Raven

Raven: “I think I’ll just go sit in my dark corner.”

Lois: “You do realize you have friends, right?”

Raven: “Yeah, but who has time for that?”

Lois and Helena Bertinelli

Helena: “Why do we even bother?”

Lois: “Because being bored is worse than fighting crime.”

Lois and Cassie Sandsmark

Lois: “What’s the plan?”

Cassie: “To try not to die this time.”

Lois: “Solid plan.”

Lois and Green Lantern

Lois: “I could use your power for morning coffee.”

Green Lantern: “I can’t make coffee with my ring.”

Lois: “Then...what’s the point?”

Lois and Damian

Lois: “Seriously, how do you get your hair to look so perfect?”

Damian: “It’s a result of years of training.”

Lois: “Years of training in what? Hair care?”

Lois and Duke Thomas

Duke: “Do you have super senses?”

Lois: “Yes, I can sense awkwardness from a mile away.”

Lois and Talia al Ghul

Lois: “You know, we could be allies.”

Talia: “I prefer being an antagonist.”

Lois: “Well, that’s inconvenient.”

Lois and Blue Beetle

Lois: “Do you ever get tired of being a hero?”

Blue Beetle: “No, but I get tired of explaining tacos.”

Lois: “That’s a serious issue.”

Lois and Captain Boomerang

Captain Boomerang: “I’ve got a brilliant plan!”

Lois: “What’s the plan? Throw boomerangs?”

Captain Boomerang: “Well, now that you mention it…”

(Inspired by Parks and Recreation)

Lois and Tim Drake

Tim: “Your destiny is like my phone—always going off at the worst times.”

Lois: “Then I guess we both need better connections.”

Lois and Bizarro

Bizarro: “Me not like it when you act funny.”

Lois: “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Bizarro: “Mood not to be light; mood to be serious.”

Lois and Damian

Damian: “Do you ever feel overshadowed?”

Lois: “By you? Last I checked, I was taller.”

Lois and Nightwing

Nightwing: “Let’s go swing by the city!”

Lois: “Wait, are we talking literal swings or bat-gear?”

Lois and Robin

Lois: “Do you ever question Batman?”

Damian: “Never. He is always right.”

Lois: “That’s what makes you a sidekick.”

Lois and Wonder Girl

Cassie: “What’s your power?”

Lois: “Conveniently avoiding awkward social situations!”

Cassie: “Do you use a cape for that?”

Lois and Jason

Jason: “What’s your power again?”

Lois: “To annoy my family strategically!”

Lois and Raven

Lois: “Can we stop with the emo vibes?”

Raven: “But my life is all dark and dreary, like my soul.”

Lois and Damian

Lois: “What’s your favorite Starbucks order?”

Damian: “I prefer silence.”

Lois and Starfire

Starfire: “I enjoy watching Earth’s cinema!”

Lois: “Wait till you see how plots can be...”

Lois and Tim Drake

Tim: “You’re pretty good at hiding.”

Lois: “Years of practice from my life.

Lois and Wonder Girl

Cassie: “What’s your opinion on hero costumes?”

Lois: “Comfortable enough for naps.”

Lois and Owlman

Owlman: “I think I’m the best.”

Lois: “That’s cute; but my ego is bigger.”

Lois and Wonder Woman

Lois: “Are you really invincible?”

Wonder Woman: “No, my weaknesses are just very specific.”

Lois and Jason

Jason: “My sense of humor is impeccable.”

Lois: “You mean terrible?

Lois and Green Lantern

Lois: “What color do you prefer?”

GL: “Green!”

Lois: “So...you’re not fond of yellow?”

Lois and Damian

Lois: “Going to Gotham Academy is like using a broken pencil.”

Damian: “Why’s that?”

Lois: “Pointless.”

Lois and Jason

Jason: “I’m going to start a band.”

Lois: “What are you going to call it?”

Jason: “The Red Hoods.”

Lois: “Sounds like a warning label.”

Lois and Dick

Dick: “What’s your favorite game?”

Lois: “Dodgeball.”

Dick: “Why?”

Lois: “Because I like Dodging your compliments.”Lois and Batman

Batman: “I don’t need help.”

Lois: “You do need a social life though.”

Lois and Starfire

Starfire: “Lois, why do humans eat so much?”

Lois: “Because they have big feelings.”

Starfire: “I have big feelings too, but I don’t eat.”

Lois: “Yeah, your feelings also probably don’t involve chocolate.”

Lois and Damian

Damian: “I’m not like other kids.”

Lois: “Yeah, you’re like the kid nobody wants.”

Lois and Cyborg

Cyborg: “My technology is advanced.”

Lois: “Sounds like your social skills are not.”

Lois and Raven

Lois: “Are we having fun yet?”

Raven: “Define fun.”

Lois: “Not being broody.”

20. Lois and Damian

Damian: “I’m not a superhero, I’m a sidekick.”

Lois: “That still makes you a hero in training.”

Damian: “More like a hero on probation.”

Lois and Jason

Lois: “What’s your favorite time of day?”

Jason: “Midnight.”

Lois: “Why?”

Jason: “It’s When all the bad things happen.”

Lois and Harley

Harley: “Why so serious?”

Lois: “Because I can’t afford to be a clown.”

Lois and Zatanna

Zatanna: “Do you believe in magic?”

Lois: “Only when it involves saving my skin.”

Lois and Robin

Damian: “I’m Robin; and I’m the Night.”

Lois: “And I’m still not impressed.”

Lois and Starfire

Lois: “Your hugs are lethal.”

Starfire: “But they are filled with love!”

Lois and Cyborg

Cyborg: “Do you want to see my gadgets?”

Lois: “Does that include you?”

Lois and El Diablo

El Diablo: “What’s your trauma?”

Lois: “Just every day of my life.”

Lois and Harley

Harley: “Life is a party!”

Lois: “But I didn’t RSVP.”

Lois and Jason

Lois: “You know what I want?”

Jason: “To conquer the world?”

Lois: “No, a nap.”

Lois and Cyborg

Cyborg: “I can fix anything!”

Lois: “Not my love life.”

Lois and Damian

Lois: “You shouldn’t be so serious.”

Damian: “I was trained to be.”

Lois: “So was I, But I still laugh.”

[rafesplaymate]

helloo! I saw ur recent post abt u and drew in an alternative universe and I was wondering if you have any tips for baby dancers? I recently auditioned and got in, but I’m not fully educated on how to act in order to make the most bank I can.. is there a specific thing that the customers look for? Sorry if this question is too personal, and u don’t have to answer if u don’t want, it’s completely up to u :)

warnings: talks of sex work

first off congrats doll!

secondly…

please be very cautious when speaking to people. your fellow dancers and workers included.

don’t give too much information about yourself or show a lot of vulnerability

i’d recommend coming up with an alias. there’s a lot of crazy people out there, especially in the world of sex work and it’s mostly for your safety! you don’t want them knowing your full name or even your first name.

I’d recommend when you can! To get a pole at your place, again if you can, just to practice consistently and strengthen your skill.

be outgoing!!! flirty!!! fun!!! sweet!!!

you’re selling a fantasy! and men love to feel desired, seen, needed.

but that does not mean being overly nice. just give enough of yourself to gain a good idea of your regulars and the people coming in.

be confident! approach them! don’t wait for them to call to you because almost always they’re going to go for the more confident girls.

take care of yourself!! groom groom groom! smell sweet!! men love sweet perfumes!!! make sure you’re looking good!! they want pretty girls!!! they love blonde girls!!! i use to have black hair and often got told i was intimidating, I’ve been bleached blonde for the past couple years and men find that very sexually enticing! but don’t feel pressured to change everything about you that you don’t want too!!! as long as you look good and you’re confident!

bring good snacks and lots of water!!! dancing is tiring and it’s a workout!! you want to be able to replenish and keep energized but you don’t want to eat anything too heavy that will make you lazy, sick or nauseous.

don’t assume how much you’ll make based of appearances! men can come in, in some gorgeous suits. expensive watches, designer, opulent jewelry and be cheap asses!

but then you have blue-collared workers come in and drown you in cash.

it all really just depends so be friendly to everyone to choose who you think will be most profitable.

keep to yourself outside of working!!! a lot of these other dancers are catty and envious!!! especially toward baby strippers they can be really mean.

so be cordial, professional and don’t fall into petty drama. but also don’t let yourself get bitched around either. make sure you let it be known that you are not the one!

do not fall for it when guys say shit like “i’d much rather spend money on you on a date” or shit like that! they will not be giving you any tips trust! leave them to find the ones who will be paying for the service. and if in the first like 10-15 minutes of talking and one doesn’t ask for a service such as vip/lap dances he’s not going to spend money on you!

men are BUMS! but not ALL of them are. you need to learn how to people watch and decipher the type of men/customers that come in.

Unless you see another girl getting harmed, hurt, or taken advantage of. I would highly recommend staying out of other dancer’s business. Truly, i mean that!

Also when other girls approach you for escorting, sugar babying opportunities. if you want to, that’s up to you! BUT you have to make sure it’s LEGIT!!! and you need to make sure that it’s ALL professional. not some “oh my brother knows this guy, we just have to go here and there” yeah… no. there will be people looking to harm you! so don’t be too naive or trusting.

there ARE opportunities out there but you have to decipher the right connections and figure out what’s legit and not legit.

also if you’re going to drink! don’t get sloppy!! don’t get wasted! don’t let any customers give you anything!! and if you’re going to take something! don’t let customers give it to you and don’t do enough to the point where you’re sloppy!! be professional!!!

that’s all I can really think of right now…

I wish you the best of luck girl and please be safe, be smart, and put YOU first!

[hyperions-light]

Seven A Number of Sentences from a WIP on a Wednesday Tuesday

Thank you @lottiesnotebook @mageofquandrix @biowaredisasterbisexual @covertleathers for the tags!

I'm just not going to follow any of the rules of this game lol, here are some lines from my WIP folder on A day of the week

This is like a oneshot thing I might finish for Leth at some point? It's about something of theirs they lost, and their friends trying to replace/give it back to them <3 Unedited first draft, so don't mind the mess!

She doesn’t know how they haven’t seen one, before— they’re everywhere. Junk souvenirs imported from Val Royeax, they are strewn throughout the North of the Thedas; tucked into the corners of taverns and holding up books on people’s shelves. But, somehow, they’ve passed Rook by until now.

They see it resting on a high shelf in an abandoned shop they break into. Their eyes widen, and Neve can’t stop herself from noticing how adorable it is.

“Look!” they call out, excitedly, rushing over to climb on an ancient table so that they can just barely reach it. “A halla statue!”

“You don’t need to steal one of those, Rook,” Neve says, amused. “We can go buy a new one in the market.”

“Oh?” they says, curious eyes touching on her briefly before returning to the halla. It’s weathered, Sun-bleached; the new ones look much nicer. “Do they open?”

“Open?” Lucanis asks. It doesn’t escape Neve’s notice that he is watching them, as well, with that unbelievably sappy look on his face.

“Yeah, don’t they?” Rook asks, trying to shove one of their knives between the upper and lower parts of the base. “The one I had did.”

“When did you have one of those?” Neve asks. Rook notoriously dislikes Orlais, and rarely takes contracts there— it seems unlikely they would have bought one previously.

“Well, it wasn’t this, exactly,” they say. “It was a lot smaller. The legs and horns moved; it would open, and play music.”

They frown at the halla, shaking it a bit.

“It was a different color, too… but I guess my father wouldn’t have copied it, exactly.”

“You haven’t spoken about him, before,” Lucanis prods.

Neve watches them, hoping this isn’t some emotional mine they’ve accidentally stepped in.

“Oh, he died,” they say, tapping the statue against the table. “A long time ago, when I was a kid. Both of my parents did.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucanis says, softly.

Rook looks at him, smiling, already waving a hand dismissively.

“It’s fine! It was so long ago, I barely remember it. But my father was a craftsman— he always made all of this intricate stuff, like Bel does. He was really good at it. And he made me something like this, except about” — they hold their hands up to indicate around a third of the size of the large one— “this big. And its horns and legs moved— it was a puzzle. If you turned everything the right way, the base would open, and it would play a lullaby. You could put small stuff in there.”

“What happened to it?” Neve asks.

Something of such intricacy and sentimental value would surely be displayed, somewhere?

“I lost it,” they say, and now they do sound a bit sad. “In Treviso. It fell out of my pocket when I was running away from someone. I went back and looked, but it was gone.”

They try to twist the halla’s horn, and it snaps off.

“Whoops!” they say. “Good thing no one is using it, I guess.”

They put the pieces on the table and turn back to Lucanis and Neve.

“Well, let’s go! I don’t think there’s anything else in here.”

They walk out the door. Neve and Lucanis share a meaningful look at the statue, before they go.

[iamumbra195]

random bleach time travel inccorect quotes from an AU I will probably never write (Ichigo becomes soul king post tybw cause yhwach body doesn’t hold up and then time travels to the Turn back the pendulm era for reasons I’m too lazy to explain)

Ichigo joined Squad 6 under Ginrei Kuchiki in this AU

...

Ichigo: *likes sitting in the sun, hates the rain, touch starved but still prickly enough to pretend he doesn’t like it ‘cause he was soul king for three years and barely had any proper human contact for all that time, has weird eyes and other weird traits from his hollow*

Hiyori + Kaien: *spying on him*

Ichigo: *straight hissed at someone who got to close when he was injured*

Hiyori: *ticks something else off on the list of reasons why Ichigo might be a cat in human form*

Yoruichi, the real cat shapeshifter:

...

Love: Isn’t it weird that we pay money to see other people?

Ichigo: Plane tickets?

Shinji: Concert tickets?

Lisa: Prostitution?

Love, holding holding his broken sunglasses: Glasses.

...

Hollowified!Shinji: *Screams*

Hollowified!Hiyori: *Screams louder to assert dominance*

Kisuke, concerned: Should we do something?!

Ichigo, observing: *thinking back to his hollow training and how much the Visored fucked with him for fun*

Ichigo: Nah, I want to see who wins this.

...

Kensei: Dammit, Mashiro!

Mashiro: What?! It wasn’t me!

Kensei: Sorry, force of habit. Dammit, Shinji!

Shinji: Not me either.

Kensei: Oh...Then who destroyed the entire training ground?

Ichigo + Kaien who thought it would be fun to spar but went a little too far: 

...

Ichigo: *Gently taps table*

Kaien: *Taps back*

Hiyori: What are they doing?

Kisuke: Morse code.

Ichigo: *Aggressively taps table*

Kaien: *Slams hands down* YOU TAKE THAT BACK-

...

*Lieutenants on a mission*

Kaien: I think we're missing something.

Lisa: Teamwork?

Hiyori: Cohesion?

Ichigo: A general sense of what the fuck we’re doing?

Kaien: ... Where’s Mashiro?

Mashiro: *fighting a bear in a forest three districts away*

Lisa:

Hiyori:

Ichigo: ... Fuck

Kensei: *in Squad 9 barracks* I  S E N S E  A  D I S T U R B A N C E

...

Shinji: Tonight, one of you has betrayed us.

Kisuke: Is it me?

Shinji: No, it’s not you.

Tessai: Is it me?

Shinji: It’s not you either.

Aizen: Is it me, Captain?

Shinji, dying because of Hollowification:

Shinji, mockingly: Is IT mE CaPTaIN?

...

Kyouraku: How did none of you hear what I just said?

Kisuke: I’ve been dissociating for the past two and a half hours.

Ukitake: I got distracted about halfway through.

Lisa: Ignoring you was a conscious decision.

...

Ichigo: Can I be frank with you guys?

Kaien: *confused* Sure, but I don’t see how changing your name is gonna help.

Mashiro: Can I still be Mashiro?

Shinji: Shh, let Frank speak.

Ichigo: 

Ichigo: *lunges at Shinji*

...

Ichigo: *trying not to laugh* Tell Kensei about the birds and the bees.

Mashiro: *serious* They're disappearing at an alarming rate

...

Yoruichi: Soifon, keep an eye on Kisuke today. He’s going to say something to the wrong person and get punched.

Soifon: Sure, I’d love to see Urahara get punched.

Yoruichi: Try again.

Soifon, sighing: I will stop Urahara from getting punched

...

*The Visored+ Hollowified!Kaien is getting into a car*

Ichigo: *the only one who know how to drive* I’m driving

Mashiro, out of view: Shotgun!

Kaien, turning to face Mashiro: Aww! But you had it on the way here-

Everyone except Mashiro: WOAH-

Mashiro, holding a shotgun: No! I found a shotgun! And I want the front seat! *Pumps gun*

...

Lisa: In your opinion, what’s the height of stupidity?

Hiyori: *turning to Shinji* How tall are you?

...

Kaien: 

Ichigo:

Kaien: In my defense--

Ichigo: You have no defense you let Byakuya meet Gin

Kaien: but--

Ichigo: Byakuya. The same cocky shit that tries to fight anything that moves fast enough. And Gin. The creepy shit that thought it was a good idea to work with megalomaniac rather than talk to people

Kaien: You don’t have any room to talk about bad communication but in hindsight it wasn’t my greatest idea--

Ichigo: understatement of the century

Kaien: But I was bored and you have to admit it was a little funny

Ichigo: 

Ichigo: *covering his face because the sight of baby Byakuya getting punted into the Kuchiki Koi pond by baby Gin was actually hilarious but he refuses to admit it* I hate you

...

Kensei: I sometimes drink milk straight out of the container

Mashiro: the COW?

Kensei:

...

Kisuke: You have to apologize to Shinji

Hiyori: Fine.

Hiyori: 'Unfuck you' or whatever.

...

Kaien: I told Ichigo his ears turn red when he lies

Mashiro: Why?

Kaien: So I can do this

Kaien: Hey, Ichigo! Do you love us?

Ichigo, covering his ears: No.

Mashiro: Aw, Berry-tan

Ichigo: Shut up, seaweed brain!

...

*Shinji and Kisuke sitting in jail together*

Shinji: So who should we call?

Kisuke: I’d call Hiyori, but I feel safer in jail

...

Shinji: Hey, how old are you?

Ichigo: Twenty-four--

Ichigo *remembers that the soul society doesn’t have the same age system*

Ichigo: two hundered

Shinji: 

Shinji, concerned: did you just say--

Ichigo, nervously: TWO HUNDRED

...

Shinji: What do you think Ichigo will do for a distraction?

Kaien: He’ll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That’s what I would do.

*several building explode due to Getsuga Tensho*

Kaien: ... or he could do that.

...

Kisuke: I know you’re a time traveler, Kurosaki-san

Ichigo: (Play dumb!)

Ichigo: Who's Kurosaki?

Ichigo: (NOT THAT DUMB!!!)

...

Love: What's a word thats a mix between 'sad' and 'mad'?

Kensei: Disgruntled, miserable, desolated-

Mashiro: Smad

Kaien: Ichigo

Ichigo:...

...

Shinji: Who thinks I can fit 15 marshmallows in my mouth?

Kensei: You’re a hazard to society

Hiyori: And a coward. DO TWENTY.

...

Ichigo, babysitting: Violence isn't the answer.

Byakuya: You’re right.

Ichigo: *sighs in relief*

Byakuya, reaching for a brick: Violence is the question.

Ichigo: What?

Byakuya, running to hit Gin on the head with a brick: And the answer is yes.

Ichigo, running after him: NO-

Ginrei, watching the chaos while drinking tea: ... Today’s a beautiful day

...

Kisuke: *Accidentally hits Hiyori in the face*

Kisuke: *Trying to decide between saying 'I’m fucking sorry' and 'Are you okay'*

Kisuke: ARE YOU FUCKING SORRY?!

Hiyori, confused: What’s wrong with you?!

Shinji: *wheezing in the background*

...

Ichigo: Can you please be serious for five minutes?

Mashiro: My record is four, but I think I can do it.

...

Kaien: Do you think different paints have different tastes?

Mashiro: They do.

Ichigo: ... Why did you say that with such certainty?

...

Shinji: I was born for politics. I have great hair and I love lying.

...

Kisuke: I’d like to offer you moral support, but I have questionable morals.

...

Kaien: Treat spiders the way you want to be treated.

Ichigo: Killed without hesitation.

Kaien: No.

...

Kisuke: *Kicks the door down looking panicked*

Ichigo: What did you do?

Kisuke: Nobody died.

Ichigo: WHAT KIND OF ANSWER IS THAT?!

...

Kaien, euphoric from his date with Miyako: Date someone who will drag you outside at 3am to look at the stars.

Kukaku: If anyone, and I mean anyone, wakes me up at 3am to go look at the damn sky they will be removed indefinitely from my life.

...

Aizen, trying to be friends with Ichigo b4 he died: I made tea.

Ichigo: I don’t want tea.

Aizen: I did not make tea for you. This is my tea.

Ichigo: Then why are you telling me?

Aizen: It is a conversation starter.

Ichigo: That’s a lousy conversation starter.

Aizen: Oh, is it? We are conversing. Checkmate.

Ichigo:

Ichigo: *two seconds away from a homicide

...

Mashiro: what is it called when you kill your friend

Ichigo: Amicicide

Kensei: Murder

Mashiro: Homiecide

...

Ichigo: *looks like Kaien and Isshin*

Kaien: *suspicious but has no proof*

Ichigo, lying becuase he doesn’t want to deal with the emotions that come with seeing Isshin again: I’m not a Shiba

Ichigo: *uses Getsuga Tensho*

Kaien, throwing a table: oKAY, I CALL BULLSHIT

...

Ichigo: *having a chill day in Rukongai by himslef

baby Rukia, Renji, and their gang: *chased by a merchant they stole from*

Ichigo: 

Ichigo: *adopts them*

...

Okay, that’s more than enough for one post

Yes, Kaien is hollowfied here because I want him to be, yes, I really like adding animalistic traits to characters I love don’t ask me why

This is so much longer than I planned but it was too fun to stop

[tiddiewitch]

Second Chances - CH. 16

Description: Agathrio AU - Rio gets to the bottom of what's going on with Agatha

Warnings: none

Wordcount: 12K

Notes: I didn't intend for us to end up in a Chili's but here we are.

When Rio headed back into work on Sunday afternoon her first thought was to find Jen. She’d had another sleepless night after getting back late the day before and dropping Agatha off at home. It was the first night they had spent apart since she had found out about the pregnancy and the cacophony of thoughts were louder than ever. She did feel some relief at having decided to involve Agatha’s friends, they should know best how to help ease her through this, and she wouldn’t have to do it alone. Her anxiety lay more in the sense of urgency. Each day that passed with Agatha not knowing put both her and the baby at greater and greater risk and added pressure to the already stressful conversation ahead. So, as soon as she dropped her stuff off in her office she headed down to talk with Monica, the head nurse in labor and delivery. 

Monica was in every sense a boomer. A short plump woman with a severe, bobbed, bleach blonde haircut that just screamed I’m gonna need a manager. She was nosey and controlling and lorded her ounce of power over all those she deemed beneath her. Though, in the presence of doctors, she would do her best to put on the most humble demeanor she could muster. As Rio sauntered up to the nurses station she was greeted with a saccharinely sweet,

“Dr. Vidal! To what do I owe the pleasure of  this unexpected visit?” She was doing a poor job of masking her annoyance at Rio’s disturbance. 

“Jennifer Kale!” Rio barked back at her. 

“Excuse me?” She asked perplexed 

“Is Jennifer Kale working? If not, when is she working next?” 

“Oh let me see…” she clicked around on the computer at a glacial pace, muttering to herself through each page she pulled up. “Jennifer, Jennifer… you know, it’s not often we see you lot down here if it’s not an emergency. Let alone for one of the nurses specifically.” 

“Right…” Rio didn’t engage, instead she drummed her fingers anxiously on the counter as she waited for the answer she was searching for. 

“Must be something pretty important for you to make your way all the way down here from your office on the 5th floor.” Monica was nosing for gossip and using the info Rio needed to extort it from her. 

“Listen, Monica is it? Are you going to tell me when Jen is in or am I going to have to tell the chief nursing officer about the hour nap you take every shift without clocking out?” 

Monica’s face was a mixture of rage and astonishment. “You wouldn’t!” 

“Try me! Where’s Jen!?” She half shouted. 

“You looking for me?” Jen asked as she sidled up to Rio at the nurses station. 

“Hey! Jen! Yes, actually I wanted to ask you something…” she said as she glared and stuck her tongue out at Monica and led Jen into an empty room. She closed the door behind them as she saw Monica peeking over the desk intrigued. 

“Hey! What’s up? When did you guys get back?” Jen asked as Rio pulled her further away from the door. 

“Late last night.” She said abruptly. “Hey, I wanted to see if you’d like to go to happy hour or something? My treat!” It came out more panicked than she intended. 

“Yeah…” Jen laughed, confused by the energy of the conversation. 

“Great, when are you free?” 

“Um…I’m off Thursday and Friday, but I’d have to check with Alice and see if we have any plans.” 

“Oh, Thursday’s perfect! Actually yeah, invite Alice too. Oh and Ralph, it’d be great to have all of you there, really. Just…don’t mention anything to Agatha.” Rio asked. 

Jen rolled her eyes and groaned, “Why? What’d she do now?” 

“Honestly, not sure, hoping you can help me figure that out!”

“Listen, Agatha and I have been friends for a long time but that doesn’t mean I understand why she does the things that she does.” Jen sighed

“At this point I’m less concerned with the why and more with the how and how long.” Rio babbled

“And you can’t ask Agatha?”

“I’m hoping to get an outsider's perspective.” Rio reasoned

“I see why you two get along, neither one of you makes any damn sense. Fine, Thursday.”

“Yes! Thank you!” She hugged Jen before searching her pockets for a card. “Here’s my number, text me! We’ll figure out a time - remember don’t say anything to Agatha! Please!” 

—------------------------------------------------------

It was nearly 2:00 by the time Agatha rolled out of bed on Sunday. She had struggled to settle down after Rio had dropped her off and didn’t fall asleep until nearly three in the morning. Her mind was still consumed by the events of the previous week, particularly their last nights. Rio had seemed distant and antsy the whole last day, hardly speaking to her. She swirled about their conversation at dinner, I shouldn’t have brought it up, why did I bring up kids, clearly it was just a joke. And then there was the way she caught Rio staring at her, like she might explode at any minute. If the whole week had been a trial for their relationship she felt like she had failed. Like somehow Rio was afraid of her, maybe she came on too strong? It made her sick. 

She threw on a pair of sweatpants and her robe and crept down the hallway to the kitchen in search of something to eat. As she rounded the corner she nearly smacked into Ralph who was raiding her fridge. 

“Fuck! Ralph! Don’t do that!” She shouted as her heart slowed back to a normal pace. 

“Don’t do what? I was just getting some cheese.” He replied as he closed the door. “Shit! Girl, you are lookin…rough. What happened, bad week?”

“You could say that. I also slept like shit.”

“It’s 2:00, you’ve been sleeping all day.”

“Doesn’t mean I slept well.” She said as she dug around in her half empty pantry. “You certainly made yourself at home here didn’t you? Really, you ate all my wheat thins?” She didn’t know whether to cry or kill him.

“No, they’re on the coffee table with the rest of my charcuterie. Come join me, I want all the tea about your trip with Rio.” She let him lead her to the couch where she collapsed onto the pillows and stuffed a grape into her mouth. “Was it really that bad?” He asked, seeing her forlorn look.

“Well yes and no. I mean Rio was great! She was super helpful, barely let me lift a finger. She cooked half the time. I’d probably still be sorting through garbage if she hadn’t come and helped.”

“But…?” He asked, seeing the inevitable coming.

“I think…I fucked it up!” She hadn’t expected it but tears began to stream down her face. “I don’t know, she was really standoffish the last couple of days. The whole ride back was practically silent, she just kept looking over at me like I was gonna die or something.” 

“Did something happen?”

“Well…” she sniffled then chuckled to herself, “She had planned this whole day on Thursday, it was so sweet. We went to the museum, a bookshop, I met a few people that she used to work with. This one guy she knew was showing us pictures of his grandson…” she started to sob “and he was so cute, just this little tiny guy…and…I don’t know.” 

“Don’t know what?” Ralph asked as he helped himself to cheese and crackers.

“I saw the way Rio looked at him, and it made me think.” she was hiccuping through the sobs now.

“Oh, honey!” Ralph cooed as he rubbed her leg comfortingly

“I thought I was done with the whole kid thing but…I’m not!” she breathed in shakily “I saw her looking at that baby and thought, maybe it could still be possible. One way or another.” She managed to slow her sobbing. 

“Did you ask her about it?” He asked, cautiously. 

She swallowed back the tears threatening to fall again. “I may have brought it up at dinner that night.”

“I’m afraid to ask, but how did that go?”

“You should have seen the look on her face! She looked like I told her I’d killed her whole family, and then choked on the wine she was drinking.” 

“Yeah, maybe not the reaction you were going for, but it probably just caught her off guard.”

“Then the whole ride back to the house was awkward and silent. I tried to make it up to her later but that didn’t go well either.” 

“What? Did you break her nose trying to ride her face or something?” He joked, attempting to break the tension. 

“Can’t. you. be. serious. for one. second?!” She grunted as she smacked him repeatedly on the arm. 

“Ok…ok, I’m sorry. What happened?” 

“Nothing! Nothing happened!” She shouted

“What do you mean?” 

“Her period started so she asked for a rain check.” She whined

“Ugh…gross!”

“Oh! Grow up!” She shoved him as she rose from the couch and headed into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. 

Just as she turned to put away the creamer Ralph noticed the scratch on her cheek. “Um…what the fuck happened to your face?” 

Agatha rolled her eyes as she returned to the couch, mug in hand. “Oh fuck! I completely forgot about that!” She laughed to herself. To think, she had been so wrapped up in Rio she had completely forgotten about Evanora. “You are not going to believe who showed up at the estate sale!” 

“Who?!” Ralph asked, half worried, half giddy with anticipation. 

“My fucking mother!” Agatha groaned. 

“No!” Gasped Ralph “Tell me everything!” 

“I walk downstairs and she’s standing there talking to Rio. Who knows what she said to her. Of course we get into it and I don’t know, I think she forgot there were other people around, and she smacked me. I didn’t really see what happened after that but apparently Rio shoved her and threw her out of the house.” 

“Oooo knight in shining armor!” Ralph teased. 

Agatha glared at him and rolled her eyes. “Anyway, that’s what this is from. ” 

“So, have you heard from her?”

“Who? My mother?” 

“No, bitch! Have you talked to Rio? Since you got back.”

“I just woke up. I don’t even know where my phone is.” 

“How do you live like this? Go check and see if she texted you before you spiral too much further into this pit of self loathing.” He urged. 

She rolled off the couch in search of her phone, eventually finding it at the bottom of her duffle bag. She could feel her chest tighten with anxiety as she turned it over to check for messages. The glowing screen met her with some instagram notifications, a few emails from work, but nothing from Rio. Her breath stilled in her chest and she could feel a cold lump forming in her throat. Trying not to panic she headed back to Ralph in the living room. 

“Nothing!” She sighed as she tossed her phone at him. “See! I told you! I fucked it up.” She flopped next to him on the couch, burying her face in her hands. 

Ralph swung his arm around her, pulling her onto his shoulder. “Listen, it’s been less than 24 hours. Give her a chance to miss you a bit at least.” 

“But I already miss her!” She pouted. 

“Then tell her!” He dangled her phone in her face. “Instead of crying about it! Because, I love you, but this is pathetic! Even for you!” 

She sat up gradually, taking the phone from him. She stared at the last messages, Rio letting her know she was headed to Boston, and contemplated what to say. In the end she landed on,

Hey hon! Hope you made it to work alright. Already miss you!  💜 

She pressed send and threw her phone on the other side of the couch. She laid back, stretching her legs into Ralph’s lap as Scratchy jumped up onto her stomach and began kneading and purring loudly. 

“How was he for you while I was gone?” She asked. 

“Oh, he was pissed! He kept walking around the house screaming. I’d give him food and treats and he’d calm down for a bit but would start screaming again eventually. He only settled down when I threw your dirty laundry on the chair over there.” 

“I was wondering where that went. I thought you might have tried to wash it!” She chuckled. “Damn, how many treats did you give him? He’s so much heavier!” She groaned as he finally settled in. 

“Listen, I was trying anything to get him to shut up. He’s so needy! I wonder where he gets that from?” He huffed 

As Scratchy sat there purring she could feel the odd spasm return at her side. She pushed him off of her lap to sit up as she pressed her fingers to the spot hoping it would stop soon. 

“Why are you making that face?” Ralph asked, seeing her nose and eyebrows scrunched in discomfort. 

“Ugh, my stomach has been insane lately! I keep getting this weird spasm? Like bubbles or something, but sometimes it goes away if I…” she let out a loud belch, “burp.” 

“Nice!” He commented, a little grossed out. “Did you ever go see a doctor like Jen told you to?” 

She glared at him, “What do you think?” 

“If you’re still having issues you should go see a doctor. It’s probably only going to get worse until you do.” 

She burped again, “Fine, I’ll have Sharon call tomorrow and make me an appointment.” 

—--------------------------------------------------------

After making plans with Jen for Thursday, Rio buried herself in the mountain of work that she had come back to in an attempt to distract herself. The piles of paperwork, staff meetings, and three consultations had kept her busy, but her mind kept running over and over the task ahead. By the time she made it out of the building, just after midnight, she was nearly delirious with exhaustion. In her sleepy haze she sat in her car and finally checked her phone. Along with a series of missed calls from Lilia, she saw the lone message from Agatha. In her preoccupation to solidify her plans she hadn’t even thought to check in with Agatha herself. 

She thought of all the catching up still yet to do from their week away. She was aware of her own trepidation and nerves around seeing Agatha before she had a chance to talk with the others. She needed time to think and prepare. Not that she didn’t want to see Agatha, she just needed to conserve her energy wisely before the inevitable fallout of what was yet to come.

Sorry to get back so late, my love, I’ve been swamped. It’s gonna be a busy week. Not sure when I’ll get to see you, I’ll let you know.

She figured that would at least buy her some time until Thursday. She hurriedly sent the message and headed home before she could fall asleep at the wheel. 

—------------------------------------------------

Agatha awoke the next morning to the sound of her alarm blaring from her phone on the nightstand. She reached over, still half asleep, as she brought the screen to her face to turn it off. With the alarm silenced, her screen flashed back to a text notification she couldn’t quite see without her glasses. She fumbled around in her nightstand drawer until she found her spare pair and blinked her eyes into focus. 

Rio Vidal - message

A sudden rush of fear and excitement bolted her awake. She quickly unlocked her phone and tapped on the message. As she scanned it she felt her heart drop in disappointment. Not sure when I’ll get to see you. It sat heavy in her stomach like a bag of sand. She figured after their week away Rio would be busy, sure, but before they had still been able to make time for each other. She was left with the same feeling of unease she had when Rio dropped her off, and wasn’t sure how to respond, so she pushed herself to get up and moving, determined to brush it off. As she readied herself for work she struggled to find an outfit that fit. All of her pants were snug and her chest was busting out of half of her tops. After changing several times, she ended up throwing on a loose fitting dress under her long navy coat before heading out the door late for work. 

When she entered the administrative part of the building she was greeted brightly by Sharon, “Welcome back dear! Don’t you look radiant today!” 

“The only thing I’m radiating is the desire to sit down and be left alone. I have too much to catch up on.”

“About that dear, Herb is waiting in your office, you have a meeting with the board at 9:30.” 

Agatha groaned and rolled her eyes as she headed down the hallway to her office. “Of course I do. Anything else I should know?”

Sharon grinned apologetically “While you were out they scheduled a seminar with Mr. Kaplan for Thursday evening and on Saturday they want to do an afternoon dress rehearsal of his newly commissioned work for select donors.” 

“And none of this could have waited until I got back to schedule or plan?” 

“They want to capitalize on his availability since he’ll be leaving for Prague on Sunday.”

“Lovely!” she bit sarcastically,  “If you would, I’m going to need the strongest coffee you can bring me before I head into this meeting with the board.”

“You got it dear! Have you eaten anything?” Sharon asked sweetly. 

“Not yet, I haven’t had time.” Agatha replied bluntly. 

“I’ll grab you something to eat as well.” Sharon offered, knowing that might help take the edge off. 

“Please, just a banana or something, I need to cut back on the pastries, half of my clothes aren’t fitting these days.” 

“Will do, dear. Be back in a jiff!” 

Agatha took a deep breath before she burst through the door of her office startling Herb. “Herb! I hear we’re meeting with the board this morning?”

“Oh, Agatha! Glad you made it in! I was worried you might have gotten held up in Boston. How did everything go with the house?”

“Fine. Who called for the meeting this morning?” She wasn’t going to delve into her personal details, especially with this unexpected inconvenience.

“It was a joint decision. I, along with several of the members, wanted to go over plans for the rest of this year in preparation for our upcoming summer season. Due, much in part, to your hard work with the fundraiser earlier this year, we may have the opportunity to invite some more artists into the fold. If so, it could give us the opportunity to attract some new donors, if we can determine the right people and programming and we’d like your input on that.”

“And this needed to happen first thing this morning?” She growled, clearly annoyed. 

“That is due to the board’s availability, unfortunately.” Her explained. 

Agatha sighed and moved to put her stuff down just as Sharon returned.

“Alrighty, dear! I have an iced latte with an extra shot, a banana and a yogurt.” 

“Excellent! Thank you Mrs. Hart” Agatha said dismissively. 

“Sharon, Dear.” Sharon corrected for the umpteenth time. 

“Right. Herb, let’s get this over with.”  

She stormed out of her office with Herb in tow down to the board room. As they neared the glass door at the end of the hallway she could see they were the last to arrive. She swung the door wide, making her presence known, and found her seat between Dr. Jones and Freddy, head of marketing. She sat back and tucked in to her breakfast, finishing her coffee quickly, as Herb dove into the topic at hand. They prattled and bickered, talking in circles about potential programs and what their needs were in attracting new audiences and donors. She was only half listening as her thoughts ping-ponged between all the work she still had to catch up on and Rio’s message. What should she say? It hadn’t left much room for response. Did Rio not want to see her? Was she avoiding her after everything, or was she really that busy? Was she just overthinking everything after how awkward the ride back had been? She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something brewing between them. 

“Harkness? You with us?” Hearing Herb’s voice call out to her she scanned the room, seeing all eyes on her. 

“I heard you!” She snapped. “What do you want me to say Herb? It’s the same discussion we have every year. You keep going back to the same tired works expecting to draw in new people. Without offering them anything different it’s going to be the same tired, old, crowd.”

“Then what are you suggesting?” Spat Martha, the CFO and longest running member of the board. Her wrinkled old face puckered in frustration and condescension at the very thought of change. 

“If you want to attract donors that aren’t going to die in the next ten years you can’t expect them to sit and listen to music. They don’t have the attention spans for that. They need to experience the music.”

“Exactly what I’ve been saying!” shouted Freddy.

“And you know how much I hate to agree with Freddy.” she added. “Other cities have seen success with fusion concerts. I also think Freddy’s idea about the classical rave has legs.”

“Thank you!” Freddy sighed as he patted her shoulder then rested his hand there. “Finally someone is making sense!”

Agatha brushed him off with a look of disgust and annoyance. “Whatever we end up with should be targeted at people under 60 as they are the intended audience.”

Martha retorted at the age comment, sparking another lively back and forth between her, Herb and Freddy. As Agatha sat back, letting them continue to swirl, she felt the odd spasm return once again. This time it was a bit higher, up near her ribs. She shifted, hoping it would release whatever pocket of air was trapped, and waited for it to subside. Through another hour of pointless discussion, her mind still swirling about Rio, the spasm stopped and started, sometimes lower, sometimes higher, adding another layer of frustration to an already enormous waste of her time. 

As the meeting wrapped she quickly gathered her things and made a b-line for her office, catching Sharon at her desk along the way.

“Hey! I’m going to need you to clear my schedule for the rest of today. If I have to deal with one other person after that disaster my head might explode!”

“Of course, dear. Are you alright?” She asked, seeing Agatha’s look of discomfort as she kneaded out another spasm. 

“I’ve got a headache and I keep getting this spasm that’s driving me crazy. Oh, which reminds me, can you call my doctor’s office and make an appointment for as soon as possible?” 

Clearly Ralph was right, ignoring it wasn’t going to make the problem go away and it had already gotten worse. It was time she got it checked out. She swiftly entered her office, closing the door with a slam behind her, and slunk into her chair heavy with the weight of all that had already happened that day, and got started on her mountain of work. 

About thirty minutes later Sharon came by with lunch and some documents for her.

“Here dear, this should help you feel a bit better. Also, I called and made that appointment for you. The doctor is out for the next few weeks so the earliest I could book is a month out.” 

She sighed as she took the bag of food. “Thank you, that’ll have to do.” She waved Sharon out dismissively as she returned to her ever growing list of tasks, catching up on emails and solidifying plans for the newly scheduled seminar she now had to organize for Thursday. All of which took longer than it should have as she kept debating on how to respond to Rio. She’d pick up her phone and stare at it for a while as she thought of what to say only to quickly put it right back down, unable to string together the right words. Was she too in her head about this? Should she ask if anything is wrong or relax about the whole thing? By the time she left work she still had not replied and decided she would talk it over with Ralph when she got home. 

“I just can’t tell if I’m overreacting.” She groaned as she slipped her shoes off, throwing them just beside the door.

“Oh, you’re overreacting!” He laughed

“You can’t possibly know that, I haven’t even shown you the message!” she huffed

“I know you, you’re definitely overreacting.” He said as she handed him her phone to read the message. “So, I wouldn’t say it’s warm and fuzzy, but she also sent it at like 1:00 in the morning. I’m sure she was just tired after a long shift.”

“But what’s the, not sure when I’ll get to see you? Does she even want to see me?” She could feel her chest tighten at that thought. The idea of losing the only person she had let herself open up to, the only person who had let her see she still had love to give, was unfathomable. “What if she never wants to see me again?” Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.

Ralph, seeing the storm brewing, put the phone down and walked over, wrapping her in a hug. “Hey, I’m going to need you to take a breath. You’re kind of at a ten right now.” She took a shuddering breath against his chest. “Good, now look at me.” He sandwiched her face between his hands. “She’s just busy, It’s going to be fine. Give her some space. Just text her to check in and leave it at that. Unless she says something is wrong then you can’t assume anything is wrong.”

Agatha nodded, taking another shaky breath as she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. “You’re right. You’re right. It’s fine, everything is fine. What should I say?” She asked as she picked up her phone.

“Wow this is painful!” He rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Just ask her how her day was. Tell her how yours was. Hell, see if she wants to hang out this weekend. The basics Agatha!” 

She typed out a quick message:

Hey! Thinking about you! Sounds like you came back to as much chaos as I did. Any chance you’d have a break in the mayhem to join me for a seminar on Thursday afternoon? 5:00?

She had Ralph read over it then she pressed send. Her body tingled with doubt and anticipation as she stared at the screen, secretly hoping for an instant reply. 

Ralph grabbed her phone and set it on the counter. “Now, you’re gonna go change, come back and drink this chardonnay with me, and we’re gonna rewatch Real HouseWives of Salt Lake until we fall asleep.” She sighed with a mixture of exhaustion and relief as Ralph nudged her down the hallway.

—--------------------------------------------------

Rio hadn’t had a moment’s rest since she stepped into the hospital late Monday afternoon. She had slept practically until she had to leave, finally finding some relief after having gotten the agreement from Jen to meet on Thursday. She didn’t have a chance to check her phone until nearly midnight when she grabbed a bite to eat. Her heart swelled as she saw the notification from Agatha. She missed her dearly but the pile of work she had to get through before Thursday was practically drowning her. She hurried to read it while nerves fluttered in her chest. As soon as her eyes scanned the word Thursday her stomach was in her throat. No, she couldn’t attend the seminar, she couldn’t exactly say why either. 

Sorry, my love, but the mayhem rests for no one, not even me! Unfortunately, I won’t be able to join you at the seminar. Perhaps we can catch up afterward though?

As she sent the message her heart skipped a beat. Afterward. Afterward, she would have no excuse. She would have to talk to Agatha. She couldn’t let it simmer any further. Might as well get it all over with in one foul swoop. 

With a renewed feeling of anxiety about the whole thing she reached out to Jen, confirming all was in place with the others. 

Hey Jen! We still good for Thursday, 5:00? 

As soon as she set her phone down it buzzed in reply. She snatched it back up, hoping for it to be Agatha, but found Jen’s quick reply instead.

Hey Rio! Yeah Alice and I are down. I haven’t checked with Ralph yet. I’ll ask him tomorrow when I see him.

Rio could feel a lump in her throat as she waited for the last piece of the plan to click into place. 

Sounds good - just make sure he knows - don’t tell Agatha!

Yes, I got it! Don’t tell Agatha! 

Three days still to go and she was ready for the whole thing to be over. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

Agatha had had a fitful night’s sleep. Between her fears about Rio and the three glasses of wine she had, her mind was a vortex she struggled to tame. As she groggily turned off her alarm she could feel the dull throbbing of a headache from the wine along with the return of the spasms. She was surprised to find, as she sat up, a wave of nausea crashing over her. She stumbled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom only to barely make it to the toilet. After she flushed the contents of her stomach down the drain she heard a knock on her bedroom door. She hurried to clean herself up and called for Ralph to enter.

“Hey, I heard you up, everything ok?” He asked, seeing her stumble out of the bathroom a bit disheveled. 

“No! I knew I shouldn’t have had that third glass last night. It didn’t stay with me this morning. What are you doing up?” She looked at him in confusion, Ralph rarely rose before noon.

“I’m meeting Jen at the gym before her shift.” He explained

“The gym? Who are you trying to impress?” She spat back with a laugh

“Listen, I’ve got to get my shit together before my next cruise contract. I can’t afford to replace my entire wardrobe.” 

Agatha narrowed her eyes at him, not entirely buying that excuse, and moved to double check the time on her phone. She caught a glimpse of Rio’s message and she immediately felt the prick of disappointment. She had hoped Rio’s presence could save her from what was promising to be a dismal affair. And again, it was how she phrased it, perhaps we could catch up. Was she unsure? It felt very noncommittal. 

‘What is it?” Ralph asked, seeing her pause.

“Rio texted.” She replied shortly

“Good, what did she say?” 

“She can’t make it on Thursday.” She lowered the phone, pressing it into Ralph’s chest as she passed him to start getting dressed. 

“That sucks! Did she say anything else?” He asked as he unlocked her phone and read through the message. Agatha ignored the question as she dug through her closet trying to find something that wasn’t a struggle to put on. “She asked if you wanted to get together afterward.” He called out to her. 

Agatha rolled her eyes as she squeezed into a purple sweater. “She asked if I wanted to catch up after.” She groaned, throwing off the sweater to try again. 

“And…?” Ralph asked, “Do you?”

“Would I like to see her? Yes. Would I like to have dinner, or maybe grab a drink or something? Yes. Do I want to catch up? It feels like an afterthought, like I’m a childhood friend she hasn’t seen in a long time and I’m in town so we should catch up.” She grumbled as she stuck her head through an oversized dress shirt. 

“You’re reading into things again.” He scoffed, annoyed. “You’re mad because you like her and you’re worried she may not be as head over heels.” Agatha let out a frustrated grunt as she struggled to zip up another pair of pants. “Move, those pants don’t go anyway.” Ralph pushed past her to dig around in her closet. 

“At this point I don’t care what they look like, I just want them to zip!” she whined. “I am so sick of whatever is going on with my digestive system. I’m so bloated, that weird spasm keeps coming back, I have heartburn half the time.” Her eyes grew wide with concern as she gasped, “What if I have a tumor?!” 

“Did you make an appointment with your doctor like I suggested?” Ralph sassed

“Yes, my assistant set one up but it’s not for like a month.” 

“Ok well, you have something scheduled at least. Just try not to worry about it too much until then. As for Rio, you clearly want to see her just say so, who cares how she phrased it.” He said as he pulled out a flowy skirt with a stretchy waist and an oversized sweater. “Here!” He shoved the items at her as he headed toward the door. “You want me to make you a protein smoothie? It should help with the hangover.” 

“Yes! And two ibuprofen!” She easily slid on the garments and went to check herself out in the mirror. She hated when Ralph was right. Though she wouldn’t have picked it out herself, the outfit was quite flattering and comfortable. She sighed, annoyed at that fact, and went to grab her phone off the bed to re-read Rio’s message. 

Ok, maybe she was reading into things, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Before they left Rio would text her throughout the day, she would stop by before her shift, she’d leave her voice messages when she’d gotten home late for Agatha to wake up to. And now, not sure when I’ll see you…maybe we can catch up afterward. It felt like she was being strung along. She loved Rio, and thought Rio loved her, but now she was growing frustrated at the seemingly half hearted responses. Perhaps it was time for Rio to get a taste of her own medicine. Without responding she threw her phone in her bag, determined to wait and see, would Rio reach out again? 

—--------------------------------------------------------

By the time Ralph entered the Planet Fitness he was already 20 minutes late to meet Jen. He put his stuff away in the locker rooms and went in search of her, finally finding her on the second level finishing up a run on the treadmill. She glared at him and hopped off as he approached her. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” She growled at him as she moved to wipe down her machine. 

“Girl, do not get me started! Agatha’s been driving me absolutely nuts! If I wasn't starting a new contract in a month I’d be moving in with you. Tomorrow.”

“You know those aren’t the only two options, you can rent an Airbnb or something.” 

“Yes but then I’d be spending money and you know I only use that for food, wigs, and trips.” 

Jen rolled her eyes as she led them to the weights. “What’s Agatha torturing you with now?” She asked as she started a set. 

“So you know how she can be dramatic and emotional, and that emotion is usually bitch.” 

“Oh, I remember!” 

“Well she’s figured out how to take it to a new level. On top of her regular charm she’s been whining and crying about Rio cuz I guess things were weird in Boston? I hate managing relationship drama and she’s been so needy! Really I think she’s just overthinking everything and blowing this way out of proportion.” 

“Huh” Jen breathed with a look of confusion and curiosity. 

“Huh? What huh?” Ralph asked as he started his set. 

“Well, funny you mention Rio. She tracked me down at the hospital on Sunday and was being weird and cryptic. She wants to take us to Happy Hour on Thursday.” 

“Chili’s?” Ralph perked up excitedly

“I’m sure she’ll take us wherever.” Jen dismissed “but, she specifically said don’t tell Agatha. That means you too!” 

“Oof, I will do my best! You know I can’t hide shit from her. She's going to smell something’s off, she’s already on edge.” 

“Well, do your best. Avoid her if you can.” Jen advised. 

“Did she say what it was about?” Ralph asked. 

“No, like I said, she was being cagey. Just said she wanted our outsider input on something.” She shrugged. 

“Ugh” Ralph grimaced “You don’t think she’s going to break up with her do you?!” 

“Fuck, I hope not! I don’t want to deal with that aftermath!” Jen exclaimed. 

“You’re telling me! I’m the one living with her!” Ralph emphasized “

Wait, if she was going to break up with Agatha why would she take us out in the first place?” Jen asked. 

“Good point. Maybe she wants Agatha to move in with her?” Ralph guessed. 

“Agatha owns that house.” 

“Yeah, but would you want to give up that sick apartment?”

Jen shrugged in agreement, “Well whatever the fuck is going on it needs to resolve itself quickly. I don’t like being dragged into this bullshit. I do want some free margaritas though, so are you in?” 

“When?”

“Thursday, 5:00.”

“Can we go to Chili’s? I’ve been thinking about chicken crispers since karaoke.”

“Yes, I’ll see if she’ll take us to Chili’s” 

—————————————————

Upon heading into another jam-packed day on Tuesday afternoon Rio was buzzing with anticipation. She hadn’t heard from Jen or Agatha and her anxiety as the day grew closer felt like it could crush her at any minute. Unfortunately she didn’t have time to resolve any of it as she was already running late for her first consultation. She hurried in, throwing her stuff down in her office and rushed to her meeting. Four consultations, two insurance approval calls, and a missed dinner later she finally made it back to her office to finalize her patient paperwork. As soon as she settled into her chair there was a knock at her office door. 

“Come in!” She called

“Hey! How’s it going?”A rush of relief washed over her as Jen stepped into the room and she hopped up to greet her. 

“Jen! I’m so glad to see you! Did you get a chance to talk to Ralph, is he able to come?” 

“Yeah” she chuckled at Rio’s exuberance  “He said he’ll come if you’ll take us to Chili’s.” 

“Done!” She felt a million times lighter at the news. “5:00 still works?” 

“Yeah, we’ll meet you there! Anything else you can tell me about this super secret happy hour?” She asked, trying to sound casual though her curiosity was evident. 

Rio’s eyes widened at the question, “Well…I…um. I think it would be better if I just went over everything when we’re all together.”

“You’re not trying to break up with her are you?” Jen asked bluntly. 

Rio shook her head in shock, “What?! No!” 

Jen sighed with relief, “Oh, thank god!” 

Rio laughed in confusion, “Is that what you thought this was about?” 

“Well, yeah! You’ve both been fucking weird since you got back. Ralph says Agatha’s a mess.” 

Rio’s heart dropped hearing that. “What do you mean?” 

“I guess she’s stressed and thinks she fucked things up with you.” Jen explained. 

Rio’s face drew white with panic, “No! Holy shit, no. I’m just…I’m worried about her, but this week’s been crazy, my sleep is all messed up. I’ve not really been myself. I just needed a little space before we talked.” 

“Well, if you’re not breaking up with her I’d tell her that before she spirals any further.” Jen advised and she made her way to the door. “Sorry, but this is the crazy you signed up for.” 

“Heh, you have no idea.” Rio huffed under her breath. “Thanks Jen! I’ll see you all Thursday!” 

Rio slumped against the door as she closed it behind Jen. Fuck! The last thing she wanted to do was upset Agatha.

———————————————

As Agatha made it home Tuesday night she was a ball of frustration and rage. On top of another chaotic day trying to coordinate the seminar on Thursday and plan for the impromptu recital on Saturday she still hadn’t heard from Rio. She was doing her best not to imagine the worst case scenario, but at this point she could only feel it as inevitable. Had she even noticed Agatha hadn’t responded? Did she even care at this point? She was angry, at herself, at Rio, at the whole situation. Why had she let herself believe, even for a second, that this could work? Clearly, she wasn’t meant to find love. She wasn’t meant to be loved. She wasn’t meant to have a family. She wished she could just let that piece of her die so she didn’t have to feel the pain of this rejection. 

She bust through her door and threw all her things beside it in a huff. She stormed into the kitchen and began preparing herself something to eat. Just as she was slinging around pots and pans, trying to find the one she was looking for, Ralph wandered into view, saw the angered chaos, and quickly tried to make an exit. 

“Where are you going?” She snapped. 

Ralph froze, clearly trapped. “I was coming to get something to eat, but it can wait. I see you’re…busy” he muttered tentatively. 

“What did you do with my cast iron pan?” She asked accusingly

“It’s in the oven.” He explained calmly, hoping to dispel some of the tension as he went and grabbed it for her. “I was seasoning it for you.” 

Agatha let out a huff, “Oh, thanks.” Then quickly turned back to preparing her food. 

“Rough day?” He asked, already anticipating the answer. 

“No!” She shouted sarcastically “Everythings fine! See!” She gave him a cheesy grin before her face immediately fell. 

“Alright” he laughed nervously, “as long as you’re good!” He eased back once again trying to escape. 

“You know, I am this close to telling Herb to shove this fucking seminar. Why do they feel the need to do these things?! Nobody wants to go, I have to work with Freddy to try and get butts in seats and I swear if he pats me on the back one more time I’m going to break his fucking arm.” She threw the vegetables she was cutting aggressively into a bowl. 

Ralph let out an exasperated sigh as he settled onto the stool at the counter, he had lost his chance to leave, he was in for the long haul now. “Oh boy, that’s the worst.” He said less than enthusiastically. 

“Please tell me you’re free and can come to this stupid thing so I don’t have to go by myself!” She whined. 

“When is it?” 

“This Thursday, 5:00.” 

Ralph let out a nervous cough. “I…uh…no, sorry I’m busy.” 

“Seriously?!” She groaned. “What could you possibly be doing at 5 on a Thursday?” 

“Hey! I have a life! I made plans.” he exclaimed

“Oh really? What plans? And can I talk you out of them?”

“I’m sorry but free chicken crispers and margaritas are involved so it’s going to be a hard no!” 

“Can’t I just take you to Chili’s afterward instead?” she begged, pouting her lip. 

“Aren’t you seeing Rio after?” He asked slyly

Agatha glared at him and turned back to the stove, “I don’t want to talk about her.” 

“Oh, come on, you’re not still pissy about what she texted you!” He groaned

“I don’t want to talk about it!” she emphasized

“Ugh! You are so dramatic! Either tell her how you’re feeling or shut the fuck up about it!” He said as he got up, grabbed a box of cereal and headed to his room.

Agatha stood in the kitchen stewing as she finished cooking her dinner. She was frustrated with work, devastated by Rio, and now enraged at Ralph. She wanted to eat her dinner as quickly as possible, take a shower, and go to bed. 

The next morning she awoke with her alarm, still feeling the lingering heat of anger from the night before along with the ever familiar presence of heartburn. She groaned at the ache as she rolled over reaching for her phone. As soon as she recovered from the blinding glow of the screen she caught sight of a voice notification from Rio. She scrambled to throw her glasses on and sat up quickly scrolling to the message. Her thumb hovered over the message, unsure of what to expect. Then she closed her eyes and pressed play. 

Rio’s voice, tired and gravely, echoed through her speakers, “Hey, Cariño! Sorry, I know it’s late. This week has been…hectic, to say the least. I’ve been thinking about you, hope you’re doing alright. I’m sorry I can’t make it to your seminar but let me know if you’re up to meet afterward. There’s…uh…something I’m hoping to talk to you about, so…let me know. I love you. Te veo.” 

She sat in silence once the message finished. Her stomach turned as the words played over and over in her head. Something I want to talk to you about. What the hell did that mean? If she had been uneasy before it now felt like her world had spun upside down. She could feel the bile in her stomach working its way up again. She threw her phone on the bed and ran to the bathroom, only to repeat the spewing of the day before. 

Now empty, she sank to lay on the bathroom floor as the words continued to echo in her mind. What was she supposed to do with that? How was she supposed to take that as anything other than ominous? How was she just supposed to go about her life until then? She pulled herself from the floor, peeled off her tank top and underwear, and crawled into the shower. She turned the water on cold, hoping the shock would bring her some clarity. 

Ten minutes later, cold, shivering, and half numb she emerged from the shower in a haze. She couldn’t think about it, she had to block it out, otherwise it would consume her. She just had to make it to Thursday, somehow. She shoved herself into a pantsuit, threw her half-damp hair into a loose bun and headed out the door to work.

—---------------------------------------------------

As Rio finished her morning run she sat down on the steps of her apartment building and checked her phone. 10:00 and nothing from Agatha. She had sent a hazy voice message to her on the way out of the hospital at one in the morning, hoping to reassure her, let her know she missed her and was looking forward to Thursday, but had yet to get a reply. With everything else now in place she needed to make sure her plans with Agatha were secured. She still had a few hours before she had to be in, and after hearing from Jen how distraught she was, thought it might be best to swallow her nerves and surprise her in person.

She ran upstairs and hopped in the shower and quickly got ready. By the time she was done it was nearing lunch so she decided to stop by their favorite sandwich shop and grab them both lunch. She swung by a local flower shop and picked her out a nice bouquet then headed into Music Hall. As she entered the building her stomach was awash with butterflies. Having not seen Agatha since dropping her off on Saturday she wasn’t sure what she was walking in to. She pushed open the doors to the administrative part of the building and headed down the hall to her office. As she approached the closed door she took a breath and raised her hand to knock. Just as she was about to make contact Sharon popped out from behind her desk nearby. 

“Oh! Sweetheart I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” she warned

Rio swung around, startled by the small woman’s presence. “Why? What’s going on, is everything ok?” she asked, concerned

“Ya know, today’s just one of those days where I wouldn’t bother her. She’s been in a mood all morning. Now she’s in her second meeting with Freddy and he’s already running over by 20 minutes. Something tells me she wouldn’t receive it very well right now.” 

“Oh, ok.” Rio muttered in disappointment. 

“I’d be happy to give her the flowers and whatever else you brought when she gets out. Just trust me, you don’t want to run into her today if you don’t have to! A-ha-ha-ha” Sharon laughed anxiously.

“Any chance you have some paper, I could write her a note?”

“Sure thing!”

—------------------------------------------------------

Agatha glanced at the clock again, 1:20. This meeting was supposed to have finished nearly an hour ago but Freddy couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut. They had prepped for Thursday and he insisted they do a runthrough with Mr. Kaplan. They solidified plans for Saturday, ensuring the guest list was up to date and he demanded they review the seating arrangements. Now he was babbling on and on about the same market strategies and her patience was running thin. More funding, they always needed more funding, and that was her responsibility, but somehow Freddy always seemed to make it his priority. 

“I know we are already ahead of our goal for this year, but if we could get 7% more from our donors before the spring season we would have the funding needed to hire a social media team.”

“What, is the intern you’re sleeping with not cutting it?” Agatha scoffed, completely over his groveling. 

“That was completely uncalled for.” He spat.

“Was it wrong?” She looked him over, eyebrows raised, daring him to deny it. “That’s what I thought. I don’t know what you expect from me. We have to have something to offer these people and Martha refuses to fund any of your suggestions. You’re going to need to take this sales pitch over to her and Herb if you want anything to move forward.” 

“But would you support me in going to Martha?” He begged

“I’m not going to hold your hand! You’re a big boy, go do it yourself. I have enough on my plate, and frankly, I’m done having this conversation.” She stood from her desk and began ushering him out. 

“But will you talk to them too? Let them know how close we are and the impact it could have? I really think your opinion could sway them!” He squeezed in just as she started to close the door. 

“I’ll think about it.” With that she slammed the door in his face and turned to collapse onto her office couch. Not two seconds later there was a knock at her door. 

“What?!” She shouted as the door creaked open. 

“Just me dear, there’s lunch out here for you, if you’re hungry.” Sharon asked sweetly. 

“What is it?” Agatha groaned, not sitting up to acknowledge her. 

“A turkey club from that place you like. Your friend brought it for you.” 

At that her head popped up, “What?! What friend?”

“Oh, she’s about your height, dark hair, she had on the cutest denim dress. I’ve seen her here once or twice before.”

“Rio?!” She gasped sitting bolt upright. 

“Ope, I forgot to get her name! Oh but she left a note with the flowers.”

“Flowers?” Agatha stood to follow Sharon to her desk. 

“Oh yes dear! Aren’t they lovely?!” She handed over the carefully arranged bouquet along with a sticky note. 

Mi Amor,

Sorry to have missed you! Hope to catch you tomorrow. Let me know! 

🖤

Rio

After the message this morning this was the last thing she had expected. She wasn’t sure how to feel. She would have thought this would have brought her some relief but it made her more confused and apprehensive about whatever Rio wanted to talk about. Was this an attempt to soften whatever blow was in store? It felt like Rio was toying with her. Not really speaking to her all week, sending that cryptic message, and now she randomly showed up for lunch? Something was definitely up. 

“When…?” She uttered as she stared at the note? 

“Sorry dear, didn’t quite catch that.” 

“When was she here, when did she drop this off?” She snapped at Sharon

“Oh, must have been just after noon. You were still in your meeting with Freddy so I told her not to disturb you.” Sharon explained tentatively. Agatha groaned loudly and stormed back into her office. “Do you want me to put these in a vase for you?” She called after her. 

Agatha slammed the door behind her, ignoring Sharon’s question, and began to pace back and forth in her office. She could feel her body pulsing with a mix of rage, panic, and fear. She had been right there! Had it not been for fucking Freddy she could have gotten to the bottom of everything! She was frustrated with Sharon, Rio would have been the perfect excuse to end the meeting. And then what could Rio want? Maybe she had just been busy this week. Had she blown things completely out of proportion? Possibly, but that wouldn’t explain the odd behavior leaving Boston. Had she been thinking about what Agatha said at dinner? Is that what she was hoping to talk about? Or was it something else entirely? Was she trying to break up with her? You wouldn’t really get flowers for someone you were trying to break up with, would you? 

There were so many signals going off in her brain that she couldn’t sort through them. Having cycled through each one several times, still coming up with nothing obvious, she fell back into her office chair resigning herself to a sense of powerlessness at the whole situation. She felt blinded and confused and needed to find a way of gaining her control back. The only thing to do was agree to meet Rio, but on her own terms. She grabbed her phone and quickly typed out a message. 

Heard you stopped by. Yes, we need to talk. I’ll let you know when I’m home tomorrow. 

Short, simple, to the point and hopefully left Rio with just as many questions as Agatha had. Until then she wouldn’t engage, she didn’t want to give Rio any more power over her than she already had. For now, she would prepare herself as best she could for any possible outcome. Especially if she could sense things were going south, she couldn’t be afraid to call the whole thing off. 

—————————————————-

Rio sat in her afternoon staff meeting regretting leaving her phone in her office. She thought if that distraction were out of sight she would be able to concentrate. She was wrong, if anything she couldn’t focus no matter how hard she tried. Her mind was stuck on Agatha. Had she gotten the note? Had she replied? Tomorrow was drawing nearer and with it a storm of uncertainty. She was caught up in a twister of potential scenarios when she heard someone calling her name. 

“Vidal! This is you!” Shouted Dr. Jones, getting her attention. 

“Yes, me. For what?”

“We have you assisting with tomorrow’s surgery. Bright and early.” 

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t want to see you here past 10. We need you on your game tomorrow.” 

“Yes sir!” 

“Alright that about covers it. Off you go!”

As the meeting ended Rio rushed to gather her things and immediately headed for her office. She had about 10 minutes before her last appointment of the day and she wouldn’t be able to focus if she didn’t indulge her curiosity before then. 

She swung the door open and threw her things on an empty chair as she rushed to dig through her purse until she found her phone. She awoke the device and there it was, the message from Agatha. As she scanned it quickly her body was struck with a crushing numbness. Yes, we need to talk. Did…did she know? A million thoughts raced through her head, none of which she had the time to contemplate. She threw her phone down and rushed off to her appointment, all the while realizing it had been a bigger mistake to check before her day was done. 

4:00 am Thursday morning, Rio was on her way to work doing all she could to push the thoughts that had haunted her all night out of her mind. She blasted the first playlist she clicked on as loud as she could tolerate in an attempt to drown out the noise still buzzing inside her. She had to focus, enough to get through this surgery, then she could redirect her energy to the event that had been consuming her for nearly two weeks. 

After getting Agatha’s message she had spiraled, debating on whether or not to still even meet with everyone. If Agatha finally knew it kind of took the pressure off of her. That still left a deluge of unanswered questions that she had kept in the corner of her mind. She also figured if she canceled now it could create more questions and she didn’t want anything getting back to Agatha before they talked. By the time she finally rolled into the parking lot she had settled herself enough to accept whatever outcome was in store. She was just glad it would all be over soon. 

—————————————————

As Agatha readied herself for the day she could feel her whole body reacting to the anticipatory anxiety that had been building to this moment. Her head and joints ached, her feet were swollen and stiff, her heartburn was flaring for the fourth day in a row, and that annoying spasm was acting up again. She knew she wouldn’t have much of a break before the seminar so after she slid into a roomy pantsuit and pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, she headed out to the kitchen to try and force herself to eat some sort of breakfast. As she was trying not to burn her last piece of toast Ralph stumbled into the room shirtless with his hair sticking up in every direction. 

“Oh good, you’re still here.” He grumbled groggily. 

“Unfortunately. You just caught me, I’m out the door as soon as this toaster forks over my breakfast.” 

“Hey, any chance I could steal your key for today?” He asked gently. 

“Didn’t I give you a key before I left for Boston?” She asked raising an eyebrow. 

“Yes, and I’m not saying I lost it. I’ve just misplaced it.” He reasoned. 

Agatha groaned, “Fine! Just make sure to leave it under the mat when you leave. I’m coming straight home after the seminar to meet with Rio. I’m sure you’ll still be elbow deep in $3 margaritas at that point.” She said as she dug around in her bag for her key.

“Good! So you finally relaxed enough to agree to see her!” He chuckled. 

She gave him a pointed look as she handed over her key. “We’re talking when I get home.” 

Ralph perked up at that “Oh, interesting about what?” 

“I wish I knew! She sent me that weird voice message i forwarded to you  yesterday saying there was something she was hoping to talk to me about. Which of course doesn’t sound suspicious at all! Then she randomly showed up at my office with lunch and flowers!” 

“Oh so you saw her yesterday?”

“No! I was stuck in a bullshit meeting and missed her.” 

“Well, whatever it is can’t be that bad if she’s still bringing you gifts.” 

“We’ll see. I can tell you, I’m at my limit with whatever game she thinks she’s playing so it better be something good or she should be prepared to lose.” 

“Not everything is a game, Agatha.” 

“Oh really? Because it certainly feels like she’s been playing with my emotional sanity all fucking week.” She sighed as the toaster popped out a half burnt piece of toast. “Fuck! If this is any indication as to how the rest of this day is going to go I’m already over it.” She quickly grabbed the toast and her bag and headed for the door. “Remember, key under the mat! Or I will find you!!” She yelled out to Ralph before slamming the door behind her. 

————————————————

It was nearly 3:00 by the time Rio left surgery. Despite the pressure of the day ahead she was able to push through and help perform a successful surgery. Now she had just enough time to shower and change before meeting with everyone. As soon as the luke-warm water hit her all the thoughts and emotions she had held at bay came flooding back. Now was the time. She would dance around the topic to see if she could get one of them to spill and if nothing came of it she would lay all her cards on the table and have them help her sort through everything. It left a gnawing pit in her chest. Was she doing the right thing? Would Agatha understand? She truly loved and cared for Agatha and just wanted everything to be ok despite whatever came of today. Even if that meant Agatha was better off without her, thought she couldn’t see herself being alright without her. 

After swirling about every possibility in the shower she dried her hair and threw on some jeans, a tank top, and her favorite blazer. When she checked the clock it was practically 4:30. She ran upstairs, grabbed her things and headed out to happy hour. 

————————————————

When Jen and Alice walked into the restaurant they quickly spotted Ralph in a far booth, drink in hand. 

“I see you’ve already gotten started!” Jen teased as they slid into the booth across from him. 

“Listen, something tells me this is going to be a doozy, whatever it is.” 

“Ugh, why do you say that?” Jen groaned. 

“She’s meeting up with Agatha after this! To talk about something.” Ralph replied 

“Great. Well, in that case…” She waved down a waiter “Yeah, I’m going to need whatever he’s drinking as soon as possible.” 

“You got it. Anything I can get for you?” The girl asked Alice. 

“I’m good with just water, I’ll be driving whoever I can pour into my car later.” The woman nodded and rushed off to get their drinks. 

“I take it Rio isn’t here yet?” Jen asked

“I haven’t seen her yet. You think she’s still coming?” 

“She better! I wasn’t planning on paying for shit today.” Jen scoffed. 

“I think she just parked.” Alice said as she glanced out the window. Their eyes followed Rio as she made her way into the restaurant and to their table. 

“Hey! Looks like someone’s already got the party started!” She smiled as she scooched into the booth beside Ralph. As soon as she settled the waitress came back with Jen and Alice’s drinks. 

“And what can I get you?” Asked the girl

“One of whatever you just brought her and a water please!” Rio requested

“Can do!” She headed off to fill the order. 

“So!” Jen prompted as she took a long sip of her drink. 

“So…” Rio echoed with a nervous smile, “how have you guys been? It’s been a minute! ” 

Jen and Ralph exchanged looks. “Fine.” Jen responded through a breathy laugh “You gonna tell us why we’re here?” 

“Oh, you know, just had some questions for you. We can get into it once we’ve ordered. How was your week?” She asked, hoping to delay. She wasn’t ready to jump right into it though it was clearly at the top of everyone’s mind. 

“Rough, Agatha is on one this week, no thanks to you!” Ralph grumbled, clearly annoyed. 

“Oh, shit sorry about that! What’s…uh…what’s been going on?” She asked innocently, hoping it would lead to more. 

“She knows you’re up to something. Her leading theories are, dealing with Evanora scared you away, she fucked up when she asked you if you wanted kids, or you're just gonna break up with her.” Ralph stated matter of factly. 

“Woah, what?” Rio gasped, a little taken aback. “I told Jen I wasn’t breaking up with her.”  

“Well that would have been nice to know! Jennifer! Would have saved me from having to talk her down off a ledge all week!” Ralph groaned

“Sorry! I didn’t realize it was my job to keep everyone up to speed! Plus you know she would have had a million questions if you came to her with that. You didn’t tell her we were meeting right?” Jen questioned

“No! I just told her I was going out for drinks. I didn’t say who it was with. Which by the way, that’s shady as fuck!” He exclaimed, turning to Rio. “Don’t tell Agatha? Between that and the voice message you sent her the other day I can’t really blame her for being suspicious.” 

“What? How so?” Rio asked earnestly “I just told her I was thinking about her, asked if she wanted to meet up after this.” She explained 

“Girl, you told her there was something you were hoping to talk with her about. She’s been hyperventilating about what the fuck it could be since you sent it!” 

“No! I didn’t say that!” Rio exclaimed shocked

“Do you realize how many times I had to listen to that message, yes you fucking said it!” 

“Alright, do we all know what we want to eat?” Asked the waitress, clearly unaware of the tension at the table. They each quickly placed an order then jumped back in as soon as she left. 

“Oh, fuck! I did not mean to do that!” Rio sighed as she collapsed her face into her hands. “I knew I should have waited until the next morning, I was so tired, but Jen said she was stressed so I was trying to help. I’ve been so busy and have been dreading this all week, it’s been hard to think clearly.” 

“Dreading what?” Alice chimed in, seeing the concern on Rio’s face. 

Rio popped her head up and looked around the table nervously as everyone waited for her to elaborate. “Well…it’s about Agatha.” 

“No shit!” Jen sassed “What about Agatha?” 

“Well…I’m…um…I guess I’m a little worried about her.” She started tentatively 

“Oh really? Could have fooled me!” Ralph scoffed as he finished his drink. 

“Did she…um…does she…” she struggled to find the right phrasing, before landing on, “Is there anything going on with her that I should know about?” 

“Outside of she’s batshit crazy and you shouldn’t piss her off, there’s nothing I can think of.” Jen offered. 

“She’s only crazy right now because she’s obsessed with you and thinks you don’t like her. If you can fix that you’re probably fine.” Ralph added

“Ok, glad to hear that. Is there anything else you’re aware of? Anything else major happening in her life? Anything she’s brought up recently?”

Ralph and Jen looked at each other confused. “Outside of the weird gut thing, no.” Ralph assured

“Weird gut thing?” Rio’s interest piqued. 

“Are you talking about her blowing chunks that one time?” Jen asked

“Oh, it’s been more than once. It happened again this week. She seemed to think it was the wine from the night before but I don’t know. She’s been complaining about stomach stuff for a while.”

Rio felt a flush of panic run through her at the mention of wine. “When… uh… when was that, earlier this week?” She asked cautiously.

“Yeah, Monday or Tuesday I think. She was stressing about you not texting and your weird trip back from Boston so I sat her down in front of Real HouseWives Salt Lake and we had a wine night.” 

“Is that what you’re concerned about?” Alice asked, “Her drinking?” 

“Not really. I mean yes, but not like that.” Rio stuttered. 

“OH MY GOD! Just spit it out!” Jen groaned. 

Rio felt her chest tighten as she tried to breathe and think of what her next words should be. 

—-----------------------------------------------------

After struggling to focus through the tedious hour long seminar Agatha was finally on her way home. The whole day had been a blur as if she was just going through the motions. She had met with Herb and Freddy for an hour too long before rushing downstairs to collect the musicians for that afternoon. Mr. Kaplan had somehow been told the wrong time so she ended up missing lunch and a donor call to track him down and get him there for a final runthrough. All the while her mind was circling the conversation she was soon to have with Rio, which gave the day an extra layer of unease. As she turned onto her street she could feel her body prick with anticipation, each foot drawing her closer to what felt like an inevitable end. 

She turned off her car and sat in her driveway, giving herself a moment to settle before she had to pull the trigger. She let out a deep sigh and pushed her way out of the car. She drug herself up the walkway and onto her porch as she began to search for her keys. It wasn’t until she reached the door did she remember she had given it to Ralph. She dropped her bag onto the floor and picked up the welcome mat. 

No key. 

She slammed it back down and took a breath. Surely, that fucking idiot, did not forget to leave the key. She lifted up the mat again. 

Still no key. 

Near her breaking point, she let out a hysterical burst of laughter. She stood up and took a couple paces back. Maybe he put it in the mailbox? It wouldn’t be the first time he didn’t follow directions. She wandered out to the end of her drive and peered in. 

A few pieces of junk mail. No key.

She screeched in rage, she was ready to castrate him. She stormed back onto the porch and dumped the contents of her purse onto the ground in search of her phone. She immediately unlocked her phone and called Ralph. The call went straight to voicemail. She rang again. Straight to voicemail. She started pacing as her face radiated with the heat of her anger. She rushed to type out a message.

Where’s the key!!!?

She waited a few moments. Nothing. She called him again, straight to voicemail. She was going to kill him.

Answer your fucking phone! Where is my key!!!?

As she waited for a reply that didn’t seem like it was coming she remembered. Chili’s. If he wasn’t going to answer she’d go pick it up herself. She didn’t care if it ruined his date, at this point she was ready to cause a scene regardless.

—---------------------------------------------------

“So I’m still trying to figure out the details. I was hoping you could help me, but…I think Agatha might be pregnant.” 

Jen burst out laughing, practically choking on a french fry. Alice raised her eyebrows in surprise. Ralph dropped his chicken crisper in his lap, mouth agape. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Jen cackled “There’s no way! You can’t be serious!” 

“Actually, I’m pretty confident about it.” She stared back at Jen worriedly

“Agatha? Agatha Harkness? No! She would have said something, right Ralph!” 

Ralph’s eyes jumped between them panicstricken. “I well…yeah! I mean maybe not. I don’t really know.” He babbled, as his face grew paler and paler. 

“Ralph,” Jen leaned in, eyebrows arched in cautious curiosity. “Did something happen?” 

“Ok, I mean I thought maybe, at first, but then the test came back negative.” He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. 

“What, the fuck, are you talking about.” Jen questioned aggressively. 

“So…” he laughed nervously “at one point, a few years back, Agatha and I were talking and she mentioned she might still want kids.”

“Oh my god!” Jen exclaimed 

“And I said, hey, technically you don’t have to be in a relationship to have a kid, right?” He gestured around the table hoping they would agree with him. They all stared back dumbfounded. “Right, so I offered to help make that dream a reality, being the generous friend that I am.” 

“I can’t believe this!” Jen sighed as she shook her head. 

“We tried a few times over the years but nothing stuck.” He admitted 

“YOU WERE FUCKING, FOR YEARS!!!?” Jen shouted 

“Ew god no! We turkey bastered that shit! And after the last time she said she was done trying so we stopped.” 

“Last time? When was the last time?” Rio asked. 

“Ooo, let’s see, I think it was around her birthday. So like 5-6 months ago. But like I said the test came back negative.” 

“Please tell me you’re talking about a blood test and not a piece of shit out of a fucking box.” Jen growled 

“Huh, so, about that…” he started

“Oh my god!” Jen breathed as she got up from the table to pace in front of it. “And she never went to the doctor like I told her, did she?!” She barked at Ralph 

“She says she has an appointment next month for her stomach problems. But now that I think about it, this is making more sense.” Ralph explained

“Stomach problems. STOMACH PROBLEMS?” Jen huffed as the weight of what was happening hit her. 

“Everything alright over here?” The waitress asked, seeing the commotion at the table. 

Jen laughed a bit deliriously. “Oooo, far from alright. We’re going to need another round stat!” Jen continued her pacing as the woman went to get them more drinks. “How did you know?!” She spun her attention to Rio. 

“I…uh…actually Lilia figured it out. She told me right before Boston. Once I got down there and saw everything for myself it seemed pretty obvious.” Rio explained. “But I didn’t know how or why and it seemed like Agatha didn’t know. Based on what you’re saying I still don’t think she knows.” She looked at them pleadingly. “This is where I was hoping you might be able to help.” 

“To break up with her? Because I would be out the fucking door at this point!” Jen griped. 

“No! I don’t want to break up with her!” She emphasized, “I love her! I just don’t know how to tell her she’s pregnant. Like, I tried when we were down there but I didn’t know any of the details so I didn’t know how to even bring it up without sounding like an ass. Now that I have some context it’ll be easier, but still, not an easy conversation.” 

“Oh this is what you were planning to talk to her about tonight?!” Ralph asked, only now realizing. 

“Well, yeah. The more time that passes with her not knowing, the greater the risk for complications.” Rio explained

“And based on your sketchy timeline that puts her well into her second trimester!” Jen emphasized. “Fuck! And why didn’t either of you tell me what the hell was going on?!” 

“It wasn’t my choice! She said she didn’t want to worry you when it didn’t work out.” Ralph explained 

“Great, well look how that turned out!” Jen whined. 

“Sweetheart!” Alice cooed “Take a breath and have a seat.” She reached her hand out to welcome Jen back into their booth. “If this is what’s happening then we need to stay calm and figure out best how to support Agatha, she’s going to need it.” 

“I’m this close to supporting her with my foot up her ass for being such a fucking moron!” Jen groaned. 

“Trust me, I get it, but you’re her best friend, especially with your expertise, she’s going to need you.” Alice explained. 

“Ugh, if you weren’t so hot I’d be mad at you for being right.” Jen sighed. 

“So what’s the plan?” Ralph asked

Rio shrugged her shoulders looking between them. “I just have to talk to her, I can’t keep putting it off. She said she’d let me know when she got home.” Rio moved to check her phone. There was nothing from Agatha but there were missed calls from work. “Shit! Sorry, I’ll be right back. Just have to make a call.” She wandered off to a quieter part of the restaurant near the bathrooms. 

In her absence the others took a chance to decompress and pulled out their phones. 

“FUCK!” Ralph shrieked

“What?” Alice and Jen asked in unison

“Agatha! She called like 5 times. Shit! I forgot to put her key under the mat!” He hurried to call her back. 

“Is that why she’s walking in now?” Alice asked as they all glanced out the window to see Agatha furiously storming in. 

[oceannote]

Practice Room 4B - Part 1

Note from author: Hello, my babessssss. New day, new fic 👀. Now it is with our lovely Mr Park. This one is a bit extra special for me because I took my sweeettttt time with the slow burn, but I promise it will pick up in the second part. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do. XoXo YK

Summary: Being a dancer was all you did for most of your twenties, however, it was never a safe path that you took, as everyone else you have your insecurities and most of the time, they get the best of you. But what happens when you have to be part of the dancing crew that Jimin will take along for his first-ever world tour, and you guys start sharing more than just a dance duet?

Warnings: Characters are fake and are a result of fiction, mentions of poor health, lack of confidence and swear words. Do not copy, translate or remake the story.

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

“You’re actually insane,” I say, laughing as I swat Luther’s hand away. My cheeks already hurt from how much I’ve been smiling. “Seriously, how are you even alive right now?”

“I’m not convinced I am,” Luther says, running her fingers through her thick, overly bleached blonde hair, now pulled into a messy ponytail. “I thought I was going to pass out on that dance floor. There were so many people, I couldn’t even breathe. Some guy spilt his drink on me and then offered me a napkin like that was going to fix anything.”

I blink. “That’s… honestly horrifying.”

“Yeah, well. I learned my lesson. I’m never going to a club with strobe lights, no ventilation, and a suspicious smell again. Ever.”

“I’m very happy I stayed home,” I say, stretching my arms above my head until I feel a satisfying pop in my shoulder. “If I had gone, I’d probably still be in recovery.”

The practice room is already starting to fill up, the low hum of conversation and the occasional beat from someone’s phone mixing into a comfortable buzz. A few dancers are warming up along the mirrored walls, while others are sitting on the floor in clusters, chatting and waiting.

Luther sits down beside me, crossing her legs. “I still can’t believe we’re really doing this,” she says quietly, looking around the room. “First practice for the world tour.”

“I know,” I say, picking up my water bottle and taking a long sip. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“I’m excited,” So-ra chimes in, dropping down to the floor next to us with a little bounce. Her long black hair is tied in a neat braid, and she’s already in full stretch mode. “Nervous, yeah. But excited.”

“Same,” I say, nodding. “I’ve been running through the choreo every day just to make sure I don’t completely blank when Jimin walks in.”

“Oh, don’t jinx it,” Luther groans. “I had a dream last night that I fell during a turn and took three backup dancers down with me.”

“Please don’t manifest that,” So-ra says with a grin, adjusting her foot into a deeper stretch. “We haven’t even started yet.”

Just then, the door swings open, and the sound of shoes hitting the hardwood floor immediately draws everyone’s attention.

Three staff members walk in first, two stylists and a manager, followed by Jimin, dressed simply in black sweats, a white tank, and a baseball cap pulled low. His hair is slightly damp, like he just got out of the shower, and he’s already smiling as he steps into the centre of the room.

“Good morning,” he says, bowing slightly. “Thanks for being here on time. I know it’s early.”

We all respond with a chorus of quiet greetings and small bows. The room shifts into a more focused energy almost instantly, like someone just flipped a switch.

Jimin claps his hands together. “Alright, I won’t keep you long with introductions, you all know why we’re here. First rehearsal for the world tour. Let’s do our best today. Don’t push yourselves too hard right away, but let’s try to get a feel for the full set.”

He gestures toward the mirrored wall. “Start warming up if you haven’t already. We’ll go over the opening set first, and then break it down piece by piece.”

As people start moving, I glance over at Luther and So-ra.

“Here we go,” I say under my breath.

Luther gives me a small smile. “We’ve got this.”

So-ra nods, determination already setting into her expression. “Let’s make it count.”

And just like that, the room shifts from casual chatter to focused movement. It begins.

The first day of tour practice.

“Should we start with the chorus for Who?” the head choreographer asks, clapping his hands once as he steps to the front of the room. His voice is calm, but there’s a sharpness in his tone that pulls everyone’s attention instantly. “We want to see how you guys handle the main section first, then we’ll go over detailed formations and individual positions.”

There’s a brief murmur of agreement among the dancers, shoes squeaking softly on the floor as everyone shifts into gear.

I glance at Luther and So-ra, giving them a subtle nod.

“Let’s go,” I say under my breath.

Luther stretches her neck side to side, shaking out her arms. “Here we go…”

So-ra exhales slowly, then takes her place on my left. “No pressure or anything.”

We all move toward the centre of the studio and line up in the rough shape of the formation we practised. The mirrors stretch from wall to wall, catching every movement, every breath, every hesitation. It’s the kind of pressure that either cracks you, or sharpens you.

And I know where I stand.

It’s only day one, and technically, this should just be a warm-up, ease into the choreo, feel things out, let them see potential. But there’s no way I’m treating this like a casual practice. This tour is the kind of opportunity people dream about.

So yeah, maybe I should be pacing myself, saving some of the flash and finesse for later down the line.

But no. Not today.

Jimin’s not the first idol I’ve worked with, and if I have any say in it, he won’t be the last. I’ve been in the game for a while. I danced for PSY during his Daddy era, hit the stage with G-Dragon during that chaotic fashion-heavy world tour, and even filled in for Rain’s team a few times. I’ve done the late nights, the last-minute call times, the makeup touch-ups in gas station bathrooms before hopping on a van to the next venue.

But none of them felt like this.

None of them were so close to my age… and yet so far ahead.

Jimin, with his platinum career, his name known in countries I’ve only seen on maps, it’s different. This tour feels different.

“Music!” the choreographer calls, and someone near the speaker taps the screen.

The first notes of the chorus hit, heavy bass, a fast snap, the kind of beat that grabs your body before your brain catches up.

No more thinking.

My head clears as instinct takes over. My arms shoot out on beat. One-two, my body moves in sync with the others. I feel Luther match my energy on the right, So-ra holding her lines sharp to my left.

The choreography isn’t simple. It’s layered, with quick isolations, sharp footwork, and smooth transitions. Jimin’s style. Technical, but fluid. Clean, but emotional. We practiced this in smaller groups last week, but this is the first time doing it full-out in front of him.

I catch his reflection in the mirror as he watches from behind the choreographers, arms crossed, focused. His gaze isn’t critical, but it isn’t soft either. He’s watching like someone who knows exactly what good looks like, and expects nothing less.

The chorus ends. I hold my last pose, chest rising and falling, sweat already starting to gather at my temples.

“Okay, stop there,” the choreographer says. “Good energy. Let’s break down the positioning now. Starting from the center, Jimin, you’ll take front and slightly left. Then we’ll place our triangle formation around you.”

Jimin steps forward with a small nod and a polite smile. “That was great, by the way,” he says, his eyes flicking across the room. “Everyone looked strong.”

A quiet ripple of pride spreads through the group.

“Thanks,” I manage to say, trying not to sound out of breath. I glance at Luther, who gives me a discreet thumbs up, and So-ra, who looks like she’s already replaying the routine in her head.

We shift slightly to make room for Jimin in the center, and I catch his eye just for a second in the mirror.

Just a second.

But it’s enough to remind me, this isn’t just practice.

This is the start of something bigger.

And I’m not here to blend in.

I’m here to do the job, my job, as well as I possibly can. No cutting corners. No second-guessing. Not this time.

Jimin gives a quick thumbs-up to the sound technician near the door, and the music kicks in again, echoing through the practice room like a pulse. We all snap into position instinctively, muscle memory taking over despite how sore everything already feels.

There’s a certain tension in the room. Not bad tension, more like electricity. Like we’re all aware that one of the biggest K-pop stars in the world is standing a few feet away, casually moving with us, observing every detail, every movement. It’s hard not to notice him when he’s right there in the middle of us, radiating calm control.

We dance with just a hint of stiffness, like we’re trying too hard not to try too hard. Every switch, every formation shift, we all do our best to stay clean, stay synced. The lyrics race by, the choreography demanding, but our pace holds.

As the song ends and the final beat fades out, there’s a brief, beautiful moment of silence where we’re all frozen in place, catching our breath.

Then Jimin bows slightly, clapping his hands once. “Nice work,” he says with a nod, and we all clap too, some of us out of relief, others because that first full run-through actually went better than expected.

“I swear I just left my body,” So-ra pants, dramatically fanning herself with both hands. “I almost stepped on his foot during the first line switch. I would’ve died. Just dropped dead on the floor.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Luther says, wiping sweat from her brow. “At one point, I was so close to him, I forgot what year it was. He is just… unfairly gorgeous up close.”

I glance over toward the side of the room where Jimin is speaking quietly with the main choreographer. His expression is focused, serious, one hand gesturing as they go over something on a clipboard.

“They’re probably deciding who gets the duet section,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, but I can hear the edge in it. I’m too tired to mask it well.

So-ra perks up. “Do you think they’ll announce it today?”

“Maybe,” Luther says, following my gaze. “I mean, we’ve all been practicing both sides of the duet. They have to narrow it down at some point.”

I don’t respond right away. My eyes are locked on the way the choreographer occasionally points toward different names on the sheet, then gestures toward the room, toward us. Jimin’s brow furrows slightly, and then he nods.

I exhale slowly.

It’s not just about wanting the duet role.

Yes, Jimin is… well, Jimin. Talented, graceful, effortlessly magnetic. Anyone would be lucky to perform alongside him. But this isn’t about sharing the stage with someone famous. Not for me.

It’s something else entirely.

I’ve never been the first pick. Not once.

Even with the incredible artists I’ve danced for over the years, I was always the one added in at the last minute. The replacement. The understudy. The safe choice, not the star. The girl you called when someone else got injured or sick or pulled out the night before.

But this, this tour, is different. For the first time in my career, I wasn’t an afterthought. I was chosen. Wanted. My name was on the first draft of the roster. No backup, no maybe.

And if there’s even a chance I can get that duet role, I’m going to fight for it.

Because I’ve earned it. Because I know I can hold that stage.

Because I’m not here to fade into the background.

“I just hope they give it to someone who can really match him,” Luther says, softer now. “Not just technically. But like… the vibe, you know? Someone who can actually make it feel like something.”

My heart beats faster.

That someone could be me.

If they see it.

If I let them see it.

I stand up and start stretching again, quietly rolling out my neck and shoulders as the others chat. I catch So-ra glancing at me with a small smile.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Just… getting my head in the right place.”

She nods like she understands. Maybe she does.

Because there’s still a long way to go today—and if I want that duet, I’ll have to prove I belong there. Not just with words. Not just with ambition.

With movement. With presence.

With every single breath I take on that dance floor.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Should we take a thirty-minute break? Grab some coffee? Maybe a snack?” Jimin asks, glancing over at the clock mounted above the mirrors. His voice is calm, but even he sounds a little worn out.

It’s nearly 3 p.m.

Way past our scheduled lunch break.

We’ve been dancing nonstop since morning, the air in the practice room thick with heat and the scent of sweat and determination. The choreography has gotten more intense with every run-through, this was already our sixth full run of the set. My shirt is damp and sticking to my back, and my thighs feel like they’re moments away from collapsing. But no one dares complain. Not out loud.

We all know what’s on the line.

They still haven’t picked the solo girl for the duet break with Jimin, and the pressure’s getting heavier with every eight-count.

“Break sounds good,” Luther mumbles from the floor, lying flat like a corpse, arms flopped out. “Or a medically induced nap. Whichever comes first.”

“I could eat an entire buffet,” So-ra adds, fanning herself with a folded towel. “And then maybe cry a little.”

“I’m just going to grab some fruit from downstairs,” I say to the group as I towel the sweat off my face. “Be right back.”

I slip out of the practice room, the cool hallway air a welcome contrast to the sauna behind me. As I round the corner, I catch a glimpse of Jimin stepping into the elevator. His back is to me, one hand already reaching for the panel.

“Hey! Hold the door!” I call, picking up my pace with a little jog.

Without hesitation, Jimin sticks his arm out to stop the elevator from closing. It halts with a quiet chime, and he steps slightly to the side to make room. I hurry in and offer a small breathless smile.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No worries,” he replies, his voice low and polite. He gives me a brief, practiced smile. The kind you use when you're being polite, but not necessarily present.

We both face forward, the silence in the elevator stretching awkwardly. I glance sideways at him, trying to decide if now is a good time for basic human interaction. What do I have to lose?

“I’m Y/N,” I say, extending my hand.

He pauses. Just for a second, but it feels longer than it should.

His gaze flickers down to my hand, then back up to my face. There's something unreadable in his expression, surprise, maybe. Or doubt. I can’t quite tell. It’s not unkind… just distant. Guarded.

“Nice to meet you,” he says finally, shaking my hand briefly. “I’m Jimin.”

He drops my hand quickly, giving me a small, automatic bow that feels more like muscle memory than genuine courtesy.

Right. Of course he knows who I am. We’ve been in the same room all day. But the fact that I introduced myself anyway, and the fact that he acted like I’d just walked in off the street, somehow makes the air between us feel heavier.

I turn my attention to the elevator panel, watching the numbers blink slowly. My reflection in the shiny door stares back at me, flushed and slightly breathless.

He doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I.

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I step out quickly, glad for the distraction of movement. The cafeteria is packed, noisy with chatter and clinking dishes. People are gathered at tables, grabbing drinks, checking their phones, catching their breath from whatever exhausting thing they were doing before.

I head straight for the fruit bar, trying to shake off the weird tension still lingering from the elevator ride. But just as I’m about to grab a small container of pineapple, I feel someone step up beside me.

Jimin.

Of course.

Out of all the places he could’ve gone, water, coffee, protein shake—he follows me to the fruit section like fate is having a field day.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands next to me, reaching for a bowl of cut watermelon like this is a completely normal and not-at-all-awkward moment.

“Do you always eat fruit after practice?” he asks suddenly, without looking at me.

I blink, surprised he’s speaking again. “Yeah,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “It’s easy. Light. Doesn’t make me feel like I’m going to throw up when I go back into a spin.”

He nods, lips twitching slightly like he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Smart.”

There’s a pause. Not exactly comfortable, but not unbearable.

“You danced well today,” he adds, eyes still on the food in front of us. “I noticed.”

That catches me off guard.

“Thanks,” I say, the word coming out a little quieter than I intend. “I’ve been working hard.”

He finally turns to look at me. This time his expression is softer. Less distant. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s seeing me a little differently now.

“I can tell.”

I respond with a small, polite smile as he walks past me, headed toward the coffee station in the corner of the hall. There’s something about the quiet confidence in the way he moves, calm, precise, unbothered. I watch him until he disappears out of view behind the wall, then quickly shake myself out of it and head back to the practice room.

The moment I push the door open, the thick air of sweat and muscle fatigue greets me like a slap. The room is still half-empty, dancers taking their time stretching or sprawled on the floor. Most are clearly milking every second of the break we were just granted, probably the only real one we’ll get all day.

So-ra looks up from her place near the mirror, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail. She tosses something toward me. “Luther went across the street to grab some sandwiches,” she says casually as the bottle arcs through the air.

I catch it just before it hits the floor. “You trying to knock me out before the second half even starts?”

“Hey, you caught it, didn’t you?” she smirks.

I unscrew the cap and take a few gulps before collapsing beside her on the ground. My legs are burning, and I swear my calves feel like they've been twisted into knots.

“I already can’t feel my quads,” I groan. “Or my calves. Or my soul.”

So-ra chuckles. “Yeah, welcome to day one of hell week.”

“I wonder how many run-throughs we still have left,” I mutter, leaning back on my hands. “They said 'light rehearsal,' but my legs are telling a very different story.”

“Honestly, if it gets any more intense, I might need Luther to bring back painkillers with those sandwiches.”

“Add chocolate to the list. Or ice cream. Or both.”

Before So-ra can respond, I hear my name being called from across the room.

“Y/N, can I have a word with you?” one of the choreographers says, standing by the tech desk near the corner. They’re huddled with a second choreographer, both focused on something on the laptop screen.

I freeze for half a second.

So-ra’s head snaps toward them, then back to me. “Oh no,” she whispers under her breath. “You’re not in trouble, right?”

I give her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, trying to suppress the unease growing in my chest. “Probably just notes,” I say, though the tension in my spine says otherwise.

I get to my feet and make my way over to them, my footsteps quiet against the hardwood floor. The two choreographers barely glance up as I approach, still watching a video loop playing on the screen, someone dancing. It takes me a second to realize it’s me.

“Hello,” I say softly, giving them a small bow.

They finally turn toward me, both looking unusually serious, but not in a bad way. Just… focused.

“Hey, Y/N,” the older choreographer says, gesturing for me to come a bit closer. “We just finished reviewing all the submissions for the solo duet section.”

My heart skips a beat. I don’t respond right away. I hadn’t thought I’d even be considered seriously. I submitted the clip more out of curiosity than expectation.

“We’ve gone through everyone’s tapes multiple times,” the second choreographer adds, leaning back slightly. “And yours stood out.”

I blink. “Oh?”

“The delivery was clean,” he continues. “But more than that, it was grounded, expressive, and you carried the movement with confidence. You understood the musicality and the emotion behind the choreography.”

My breath catches for a second. I just stare, unsure whether to thank them or ask if they have the right person.

“We want to give you the duet solo spot,” the first choreographer says. “For the first six shows of the tour. After that, we’ll rotate another dancer in, just to give others the chance to perform too.”

“I—” I start, then stop. “Wow. Thank you. I didn’t expect that.”

“You earned it,” the second one says with a small nod. “But make no mistake, this means extra hours. You’ll be rehearsing separately with Jimin and the stage crew to fine-tune everything before the first concert.”

I nod quickly. “Of course. I’m ready.”

They both smile faintly, already turning back to the screen. “We’ll give you more details after this block. Go ahead and rejoin the group for now.”

I walk back slowly, head spinning.

So-ra sees me coming and immediately raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“They’re giving me the duet solo,” I say, still processing.

Her eyes widen. “Wait, what?!”

“For the first six shows. Then they’ll rotate.”

She stares at me, then suddenly breaks into a grin and pulls me into a hug. “That’s huge! I mean, holy crap, that’s huge! You’re going to be dancing a duet with Jimin. Like, the Jimin!”

“I know,” I whisper, heart racing.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a thousand thoughts start to swirl. The responsibility. The pressure. The extra hours. The proximity. The risk of messing up in front of him, and in front of thousands.

But above all that, one thing stands out most clearly: this is my moment. And ready or not, I’m going to step into it.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s well past 9 p.m., and the studio’s energy has finally dipped into something close to exhaustion. After twelve gruelling hours of rehearsal, full of repetition, minor injuries, corrections, and sweat-soaked frustration, the crew begins packing up in silence, the unspoken relief heavy in the air.

Luther and So-ra are already by the door, half-asleep on their feet, bags slung over their shoulders. I’m still gathering my stuff when Jimin steps into the center of the room one last time, his expression calm but focused, like he never really stops being in performance mode.

“Tomorrow, let’s take a break from practicing here,” he says, his voice carrying just enough to cut through the murmurs and rustling zippers. “You’re welcome to run things at your crew’s studio if you want, but I’ve got a pretty packed schedule, so we’ll resume here on Wednesday.”

He pauses, scanning the room as we all look at him.

“You guys did a great job today. I really think we’re on the right track for the tour,” he adds, bowing deeply. “Thank you for your hard work.”

The room fills with claps, not loud or forced, just genuine. Tired, but grateful.

As people begin drifting out, the main choreographer jogs toward me, his sneakers squeaking lightly against the floor.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, slightly out of breath. “Can you come in tomorrow at 7 p.m. for a three-hour solo session?”

My eyes widen just a little, but I nod right away. “Yes, of course.”

“Cool. It’ll probably just be you, the junior choreographer, and Jimin. We want to really polish the solo section before group integration,” he explains, patting my shoulder before heading off to talk to the music tech.

I blink, standing frozen for a second before walking over to Luther and So-ra.

“You did not just get a solo rehearsal with Park Jimin,” Luther whispers, eyes wide. “I am so insanely jealous and proud of you at the same time. I don’t know whether to scream or hug you.”

“Thank you… for both,” I say with a nervous laugh, suddenly feeling the weight of that new information settle onto my shoulders.

“You’ve earned it,” So-ra says between chews of her banana, which she’s been dramatically saving since lunch. “You really killed it today. That last set? Your timing was perfect.”

I glance down at my shoes, a nervous flutter working its way up into my chest. “Thanks. I just… I’m kind of terrified, honestly. He’s really hard to read. It’s like he’s polite but distant, you know? Like his brain is somewhere else.”

So-ra shrugs, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I mean, he is one of the biggest idols in the world. And you’ve known him for what, twenty hours?”

“She’s right,” Luther adds. “Give it time. He’s probably just used to keeping his walls up.”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right,” I say, pressing the elevator button and leaning my head against the cool metal. “I just hope I don’t mess up. This could be a huge deal.”

“You won’t,” So-ra says firmly. “You care too much to let yourself fall apart.”

The next morning, I’m wide awake before my alarm even has a chance to go off.

It’s not even 8 a.m., and I’ve already done the solo routine five times in front of my tiny mirror, narrowly avoiding knocking over a lamp with a dramatic arm sweep. My neighbors probably hate me by now, and honestly, I don’t blame them.

But the anxiety doesn’t stop. Every time I replay the choreo, my mind starts spinning in other directions. What if I freeze up in front of him? What if I miss the beat? What if he thinks I’m not good enough? Or worse, what if he just doesn’t care?

I shove the thoughts aside and try to ground myself with the soothing ritual of making breakfast. One egg, a slice of toast, and, my fourth coffee of the day.

At least it’s decaf. Kind of.

By 6 p.m., I’m dressed in clean workout clothes, headphones in, pacing nervously outside my apartment building. I had planned to take a cab, but I didn’t book one in time, and now I’m sandwiched on the metro with what feels like the entire post-work population of Seoul. People in suits, staring at their phones. The scent of cheap perfume and shoulder-to-shoulder silence.

I mentally curse myself for not planning better, then bolt out the doors at my stop like it’s a race. By 6:45 p.m., I’m inside the Hybe building, heart pounding, dodging through the polished hallways with the grace of a stressed-out raccoon.

When I reach Practice Room 4B, I pause for just a second outside the door, smoothing down my hair and wiping my palms on my sweatpants. Then I push it open.

The room is quiet, almost peaceful. The harsh lights have been dimmed slightly, and the air smells faintly of floor cleaner and pine. To my surprise, Jimin is already there, sitting cross-legged near the laptop station, watching a sped-up version of the routine on screen. His jacket is off, and his gelled hair looks slightly undone, as if he’s been running his hands through it for a while.

“Good evening,” I say, bowing as I step inside.

He looks up and smiles, just a little. “Oh, hey. Good evening.”

He stands and stretches his arms overhead. “The choreographer’s running about thirty minutes late, but feel free to start warming up. No rush.”

“Okay,” I nod, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet the room is. I head to the far corner, drop my bag beside the mirror wall, and start rolling out my mat.

As I sit down and stretch my legs in front of me, I sneak a glance at him. He’s now pacing slowly, glancing back and forth between the screen and the mirror.

We’re alone. For now.

And somehow, this moment feels heavier than anything we rehearsed yesterday.

Ten minutes pass.

Then fifteen.

The room is silent, save for the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the soft sound of my feet sliding across the floor as I ease through stretches. My muscles are warm, ready, but the stillness in the air makes everything feel heavier, like we’re stuck in a holding pattern.

Jimin hasn’t said much. He’s sitting by the laptop, occasionally checking his phone, adjusting the volume, or tweaking something in the music file. His jaw is tight, and his cap is pulled low, shadowing his eyes. He hasn’t looked at me once.

I clear my throat softly, almost hoping he’ll take it as a prompt. He doesn’t.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low and clipped, like he's reading off a checklist. “Let’s just run the first half.”

I nod and stand, shaking out my arms. “Okay. I’ve practiced it a few times today. I’m ready.”

He doesn’t acknowledge it, just presses the spacebar on the laptop and walks to his mark across from me. The music starts, a soft, pulsing rhythm that builds like tension in a conversation you’re too afraid to start.

We move.

The choreography is fluid, deliberate. A duet meant to feel like a story, two people drawn together, resisting, surrendering, twisting around invisible threads between them. But right now, it’s just mechanics.

Jimin’s movements are precise. Sharp. Perfect, in that way that leaves no room for anything else.

But he’s not dancing with me. He’s dancing near me. Around me.

And I feel it in every step, the space he won’t let me into.

When the music fades, we come to the final position, still and breathless. My chest rises and falls, more from frustration than fatigue. The room feels too quiet again.

“I think we’re not really connecting in the lift,” I say carefully, wiping sweat from my temple with the sleeve of my hoodie. “It feels a bit… mechanical.”

He walks over to the laptop, not looking at me. “That’s because you’re anticipating it too early,” he says, replaying the last few seconds of the track. “You’re tensing before I even make contact.”

“I know,” I say, stepping a little closer. “But I’m trying to match your timing. Maybe if you gave a bit more of a cue, like shifted your weight before the lift, it’d be easier to follow.”

He finally turns around, arms crossing over his chest. “It’s not my job to adjust for you every time something feels off.”

The words hit harder than they should. Sharp and cold.

I blink. “I’m not asking you to adjust for me. I’m asking if we can find a rhythm that works together. Isn’t that the whole point of a duet?”

There’s a beat of silence. He doesn’t move.

“This choreography is built around precision,” he says finally, his tone still even, but distant. “If we start improvising or second-guessing it, it’ll fall apart. Just stick to the original.”

My jaw tightens. “I am sticking to it,” I say, my voice quieter now, but firmer. “But this is supposed to be a partnership, not a solo with an extra body in frame.”

That gets his attention. His eyes meet mine fully for the first time today. There’s no anger there, just something unreadable. Guarded.

“You think I’m treating you like a prop?” he asks, voice softer now. But there’s an edge beneath it. A flicker of something more.

“I think you’re not letting this become what it’s meant to be,” I answer. “There’s no connection. You’re in your own world out there.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just breathes in slowly, then looks away, jaw clenching for a second.

The silence stretches too long.

He runs a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the ends like he’s trying to release the tension. “Let’s just take five,” he mutters, grabbing a towel from his bag and walking toward the mirror.

I watch him go. My arms fall to my sides, the adrenaline still buzzing uselessly through me. I didn’t want to push that far, but I also didn’t come here to be invisible in a routine built on intimacy. I’m trying. But how do you create chemistry when the other person won’t even let you into the frame?

I sit down on the mat, letting my legs stretch out in front of me as I reach for my water bottle. The looped version of the song continues to play quietly from the laptop, just instrumental now, no vocals. It sounds empty. Like it’s missing its anchor.

Jimin stands across the room, towel slung around his neck as he stares at his reflection in the mirror. His expression is unreadable, calm on the outside, but there’s a tension in his posture that gives him away.

Our eyes meet for a second in the mirror.

Then he looks away.

And the distance between us, in that quiet room, feels larger than ever.

The next two weeks blur into a cycle of sweat, soreness, and choreography drilled into our bones. Group practices are long, sometimes too long, but having Luther and So-ra by my side makes it easier. Our shared glances during breaks, the whispered jokes about how we’re slowly losing our sanity, and those impromptu snack runs where we stuff our faces with triangle kimbap or strawberry milk, they keep me grounded. They remind me to breathe. To laugh. To not take it all too seriously.

Jimin, during group practices, is…surprisingly easy to work with. He’s focused, professional, and even lighthearted at times. He makes sure everyone stays in the loop, checks in if someone’s struggling, and somehow manages to keep the mood positive even when we’re on our tenth run-through of the same eight-count.

“He’s not as scary as I thought,” So-ra whispers to me during a break, wiping sweat from her brow.

“Yeah,” I reply, watching Jimin laugh at something the choreographer said. “You’d almost think he’s chill.”

But that illusion disappears the second we step into our one-on-one practices.

In those smaller rooms, no distractions, no group energy to dilute the mood, it’s a completely different atmosphere. The second the door closes behind us, something shifts. There’s a tension in the air, thick and unspoken, like we're both waiting for the other to say something that will tip everything over the edge.

“No, you’re coming in too late on the beat,” he says on the fourth day, his voice tight.

“No, you missed the cue. Again,” I snap, crossing my arms.

He exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just do it again.”

We move through the routine, every step perfectly rehearsed and yet somehow…off. There’s no flow between us, no chemistry, just two dancers trying not to trip over their own egos.

Sometimes we argue. Sometimes we don’t speak at all, which is almost worse. The silence buzzes with things we aren’t saying. I can feel it in his energy, the question hanging there between us every time we lock eyes: Why her?

I don’t have an answer for him. I don’t even have one for myself.

After one particularly rough session, I flop onto the floor and let out a groan of frustration. “Honestly, I don’t get it. Why am I even doing this duet? It’s not working. We can’t even talk without wanting to kill each other.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?” Jimin says from across the room, where he’s toweling off. “But we don’t get to decide these things.”

“Well, maybe someone should have thought that through before throwing us into this.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head and turns away. “Just be ready for tomorrow.”

That’s how it goes, day in and day out. We clash, we rehearse, we clash again. And yet, no one pulls me out of the duet. I keep showing up, biting my tongue when he makes snide comments about my footwork, swallowing my irritation when he corrects me for something he messed up first. I keep dancing, pretending I don’t want to launch my water bottle at his head half the time.

And now, suddenly, we’re a week away from the first show in Seoul.

The energy in the rehearsal space has shifted. It’s heavier now, more serious. Everyone’s a little quieter, more focused, more in their heads. There’s a tension, not the kind between me and Jimin, but the kind that comes with knowing that soon, we won’t be practising anymore. Soon, the lights will be on, the audience will be real, and there will be no more do-overs.

“I had a dream I forgot the whole routine mid-show,” Luther says as we stretch before practice. “Like, completely blanked. I just stood there and waved at the crowd.”

“You would wave,” So-ra says, smirking. “Make it look intentional.”

“I’m serious, though,” Luther mutters. “I’m nervous.”

“We all are,” I say, tying my hair up tighter than usual. “But we’ve worked our asses off for this. We’ll be fine.”

I say it out loud, but I don’t fully believe it, not when I know that my duet with Jimin still feels like a fragile thread ready to snap at any moment.

Still, we keep showing up.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s frustrating.

Because the show is coming, and ready or not, we have to face it together.

Of course. Of course this would happen on today of all days.

It’s a beautiful Friday afternoon, the kind that makes you want to quit your job, buy a hammock, and eat fruit under the sun forever. The sky is a perfect shade of soft blue, not a single cloud in sight. I walked past the park on my way here and spotted at least three of my friends stretched out on picnic blankets, sipping iced coffee and laughing like characters in a lifestyle ad.

And where am I?

Entering Practice Room 4B, already sweating and not from the sun.

“Can’t believe we’re doing this,” I mutter under my breath as I push the door open, greeted by the familiar scent of rosin, floor polish, and stress.

Extreme. Last. Minute. Choreography change.

Because apparently, someone, aka the main and assistant choreographer, decided that Jimin and I are “too stiff” together. Their words, not mine. And the solution? “You two just need to get a little more… physically comfortable with each other.”

I’m not sure if they meant emotionally or literally, but judging by the new choreography we’re about to learn, they meant very literally.

Luther is already sitting against the far wall, watching with wide eyes as the choreographers demonstrate a move that makes my soul leave my body.

“Oh. My. God,” she mouths when she sees me walk in.

I drop my bag and shuffle over to her like I’m on my way to a funeral. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” I whisper.

She leans closer. “If you are, I’m hallucinating too. Because I just watched Mr. Shin lift Jae like a ragdoll and then she wrapped herself around him like a scarf.”

I blink. “A scarf?”

“Koala. Scarf. Either way, you’re climbing Jimin like a jungle gym.”

I slowly turn toward the mirror just in time to watch our choreographer demonstrate again: the dancer jumps, wraps her legs around the other’s waist, arms around the neck, chest to chest, and then slides dramatically down the length of his body until her feet touch the ground. All smooth, controlled, sensual.

I freeze. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

Luther is now halfway laughing, halfway horrified. “I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing my arm. “But if it helps, Jimin looked just as uncomfortable as you.”

And there he is now, walking in with a water bottle in hand, his expression carefully neutral. His cap is pulled low, but I can still see the tension in his jaw.

Our eyes meet for a second.

He nods.

I nod back.

Silence.

The awkward energy is tangible.

Jae, one of the assistant dancers, claps her hands. “Alright! So this new section is all about energy and connection, okay? The chemistry has to feel natural. Like you’re two people who can’t keep your hands off each other.”

I immediately want to melt into the floor. “That’s… intense,” I say, forcing a small laugh.

Mr. Shin smiles at me. “It’s nothing you can’t handle. You’re both strong performers. You just need to let go a little.”

Easy for him to say, he’s not the one about to climb onto Park Jimin like a human backpack.

Jimin steps up beside me, not making eye contact but close enough for me to hear his quiet sigh.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks suddenly, voice low.

I glance at him. “Are you okay with this?”

He gives a faint shrug. “It’s part of the job. But if you’re not comfortable, we should say something.”

I pause. The truth is, I don’t want to be uncomfortable. I want this routine to look good. I want us to be believable on stage. And yet… the idea of being that close, of his hands trailing across my waist, my thighs, my back, parts of me I’ve spent years guarding behind layers of performance and professionalism, makes me want to bolt.

“I’ll try,” I say finally. “But I might need a few practice runs before I stop panicking.”

His mouth twitches, almost like a smile. “We can go slow. Just… communicate.”

Mr. Shin claps his hands again. “Positions, please!”

We walk to our marks in the center of the room. My heartbeat is suddenly loud in my ears.

I glance at Jimin. He glances back.

We both take a deep breath.

“Alright,” Jae says, cueing the music. “From the top of the bridge. Let’s try that jump and catch sequence on the beat.”

The track starts, the rhythm creeping into my bones.

And then it happens.

One step. Two steps. Leap.

Jimin’s arms catch me without hesitation, solid and sure.

My arms go around his neck. My legs wrap around his waist.

Time slows.

And for a split second, I forget everything except how close we are. His breath brushes my cheek. My chest is pressed to his. Every nerve in my body is screaming, but not entirely in a bad way.

And then I slide down. Controlled. Graceful. Right on beat.

I land.

We hold the final pose.

Silence.

Then Mr. Shin speaks. “Better. Much better.”

But my brain is still stuck somewhere in that suspended moment, in the air, in his arms, somewhere between panic and something I don’t quite want to name.

And we still have hours to go.

“It wasn’t that bad, to be honest,” Jimin says, offering me a small, almost sheepish thumbs-up, his chest still rising and falling from the last run-through.

I let out a breath, wiping my sweaty palms on my leggings. “Yeah, maybe not for you. I just feel like I’m going to tip you over every time I jump.”

His brows twitch slightly as he straightens his posture. “Wait, are you saying I’m not strong enough to catch you?”

The tone in his voice shifts, subtle but noticeable. There’s a sharpness, a flicker of something defensive. I glance at him, surprised by how fast he went from calm to… irritated.

“I’m saying,” I reply carefully, “that it’s a pretty intense move. I’m literally sprinting full-speed into your arms. It’s not about you, it’s about momentum. Physics. Gravity. You know… science.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his jaw flexes, and his eyes stay locked on mine a second too long. Then he looks away, tongue pressing into the inside of his cheek before he speaks again.

“Let me worry about that, Y/N,” he says simply. His voice is low, clipped. Then, without waiting for a response, he turns toward the choreographer and gives a small nod.

“Let’s go again.”

The music starts up for the fifth time that day, and I barely have a second to reset before we’re in motion again.

The moment comes, the run, the jump, the catch.

Every single time, Jimin catches me like he’s been doing it for years. But with each repetition, his grip gets stronger, more firm. His hands lock onto my thighs as I land, grounding me against him, his arms taut with control. There’s nothing shaky or unsure about the way he holds me.

I slide down slowly, every breath of his against my neck hot and heavy, like he’s not just dancing but fighting to prove something.

“Good,” the choreographer calls out. “Again, one more time. Even cleaner.”

We reset positions. I’m already sweating, heart pounding in my ears, but I can feel Jimin behind me, just a few steps away. Close enough that his presence buzzes under my skin.

I glance back at him before we start. “Are you okay?” I ask under my breath.

He doesn’t look at me, just nods. “Yeah. Just focus.”

I do as I’m told.

We go again. I run. I leap.

He catches me, tighter this time. His fingers dig into my legs for a brief moment longer than they should. There’s no audience here, no stage lights, just the sound of his breathing and mine as I slide down slowly, carefully.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he finally does, our eyes meet.

“You see?” he says, softer now. “I told you I’ve got you.”

I stare at him, unsure what to say. Because yeah, he did catch me. Every time. But something about the way he says it feels heavier than just dance. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes it hard to remember what I was nervous about in the first place.

“Alright, break for ten!” the choreographer calls out.

Jimin steps back first, turning away and grabbing his water bottle like nothing just happened.

I stay where I am for a second longer, trying to steady my breath. Not from the dancing. From him.

The moment our eye contact breaks, I turn away a little too quickly, heart thudding louder than it should, and head toward So-ra and Luther, who are lounging on the floor in the far corner of the room.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s suddenly got chemistry,” Luther says with a knowing smirk, tossing me a cold water bottle without warning. “Miss ‘I’m just here to dance’ is out here locking eyes like it’s a K-drama.”

“Oh my God, stop,” I mutter, catching the bottle mid-air and dropping to the floor next to her with a sigh. “It’s nothing. We’re literally just dance partners.”

“You sure about that?” So-ra says, casually stretching out one leg in front of her, her voice laced with playful curiosity. “Because from over here, it really looked like you two were about to kiss.”

I stare at her, incredulous. “You’re delusional.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, pointing a toe. “It wasn’t just eye contact, it was eye contact. The lingering kind. Like, the stuff slow-motion scenes are made of.”

I take a long gulp of water to hide the sudden heat rushing to my face. “We’re still basically strangers. I barely even know the guy.”

“Yeah, and yet he stares at you like he’s trying to read your mind,” Luther says, grinning as she leans back on her elbows. “I’m just saying… something’s shifted.”

I don’t respond immediately. The girls start chatting again, something about a new idol couple being spotted together and whether or not it’s a PR stunt. I chime in here and there, mostly to add snarky commentary or play devil’s advocate, but I’m barely present. I can feel it. That weird, unmistakable sensation.

Jimin is staring at me.

I don’t have to look to confirm it. It’s like the heat of his gaze is physically pressing against the back of my neck, curling down my spine. I try to ignore it, focus on the conversation, nod along.

But when I shift to crack my back and glance over my shoulder, just a glance, our eyes meet again.

And this time, he doesn’t look away. Not like he used to.

He holds my gaze. Steady. Intentional. Like he’s actually seeing me and not just looking in my general direction.

My throat goes dry.

I quickly turn back to the girls, clearing my throat as casually as I can. “Creep,” I mutter under my breath, though my voice lacks conviction.

So-ra raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… tired.”

Eventually, the day winds down. The playlist fades to soft background noise, people start packing up, stretching, rolling their necks and shoulders as they gather their things. Phones buzz, water bottles clink, and one by one, the dancers begin to trickle out of the studio.

It’s just past 11 p.m. The floor is still sticky from sweat, and my muscles are screaming for rest.

I reach for the door handle, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, already mentally placing my food delivery order and dreaming of a hot bath.

And then I hear it.

“Hey, Y/N?”

I freeze. I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere.

I turn around slowly. Jimin’s standing a few feet away, towel draped casually around his neck, his hair damp, his shirt clinging to his skin in places.

He looks tired but focused. And somehow… hopeful?

“I’ve got two more hours free,” he says, walking toward me with that calm, unreadable expression of his. “Can you stay a little longer? I wanted to run through the new one-on-one routine again. Just us.”

I blink. “Now?”

He nods. “Only if you’re up for it. I just think we need to get more comfortable with the transitions. Especially the lift sequence.”

I hesitate for a moment too long.

What I want is to say no. To go home, crash, and decompress. But I also know he’s right. We do need the extra time. The choreo’s intimate. It requires trust, rhythm, timing, stuff you can’t fake.

So I swallow my exhaustion, plaster on the most neutral expression I can manage, and nod. “Yeah. Sure. Let me drop my stuff.”

“Thanks,” he says, offering me a small smile. “I appreciate it.”

I set my backpack down again and pull off my hoodie, followed by the zip-up jacket underneath. The room is nearly silent now, save for the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.

It’s just us.

Just me and Jimin.

And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little awkward,not in a bad way, not like I was scared or out of place. Just… shy. Aware.

Every movement, every glance feels a bit more weighted when no one else is around.

I glance up to find him already watching me, eyes calm but focused.

“Ready?” he asks softly, walking toward the center of the room.

I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go over it from the top.”

The choreography flows smoother than it ever has.

Every step hits with sharp precision. The timing clicks into place like it’s second nature, and the group is fully locked in. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, part nerves, part muscle memory, part something else I’m trying not to name.

And then it’s time. Our part.

The final beat drops right as I take off into the air, my body moving on instinct, and Jimin catches me effortlessly, like we’ve practised a hundred times before. His hands are firm around my thighs, anchoring me to him as I wrap my legs around his waist with just enough strength to hold the pose.

But then something shifts.

I hear it. A soft sound, barely audible over the music, but it escapes from his lips the second I land against him.

A quiet exhale, almost like a stuttered breath.

My head turns toward him instinctively, curiosity catching me off guard.

Big mistake.

I knew we had to be close for the lift. We’ve done it before. We’ve practiced it in silence, in sweat, in repetition. But this… this close?

The second I face him, my lips brush his.

It’s not a kiss, not yet, but the contact is there. Barely. Just enough to feel the warmth, the softness, the heat of skin on skin. Our eyes are locked at the exact same level. His nose grazes mine. His breath mixes with mine, short and unsteady.

His grip on my thighs tightens, subtle but undeniable. And I, without even thinking, clutch the back of his shirt. My fingers curl into the fabric, desperate for grounding.

The room disappears.

I swear it does.

The music fades, like it’s playing underwater. It’s like the entire world took one breath… and then held it.

We’re still frozen in the choreography, but everything else has fallen apart. My mind is racing. I should let go. I need to let go. But my body won’t move. And neither will his.

“Jimin...” I try to say something, anything, but the words falter.

“I… um… I...” Each syllable is barely a whisper, and each one makes my lips brush against his again, like a tease, like a challenge.

His eyes darken. Something flickers behind them, hesitation, frustration, maybe even desire, and then he says it. Low, sharp, and so unlike the careful Jimin everyone knows.

“Just stop fucking talking.”

And before I can even process what he means, one of his hands slides up the back of my neck, pulling me in.

The other wraps tightly around my lower back, just above my hips, strong, secure, not leaving any room for doubt.

And then he kisses me.

Not gently. Not tentatively. It’s urgent and angry and full of everything we’ve been avoiding for weeks.

It’s not a kiss you give by accident. It’s a kiss you decide.

His lips crash against mine with a hunger that takes the breath right out of me. My hands slip up his back, fingers clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room. His tongue finds mine without hesitation, and there’s a heat that shoots through my whole body like fire spreading fast.

He deepens the kiss, and I can feel him, his breath, his chest, the tension in his muscles. Every inch of me is pressed into every inch of him. His grip on me tightens again, and I swear the world tilts just a little.

But no one speaks. We don’t breathe. We don’t think.

For this one moment, there’s nothing but the feel of his lips on mine and the dizzying, terrifying realization that something has changed—something we can’t undo.

We both pull away at the exact same moment. Like we’ve hit some invisible wall of realization. I stumble back a step, my heart pounding in my chest, and he lets go of me instantly, as if my skin just burned him.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

“I—I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, covering my mouth with my hand like that’ll somehow undo the kiss. Like I can take it back if I just don’t speak it into existence.

His eyes widen for a second, then soften. “No, it’s okay,” he says, voice low and uneven. He reaches up to wipe the corner of his mouth, smearing the remnants of my watermelon lip balm off his skin. “I should be the one apologising.”

The silence creeps back in like fog rolling into a valley. Thick and tense.

I shift awkwardly on my feet, my gaze darting toward the front door. “Um… should I go?” I ask, pointing lamely in its direction. “I can go. I probably should. This is weird now, right? I made it weird.”

His eyes snap up. “What? No. Don’t go.”

He practically jumps forward a little, hands flying up as if trying to physically hold the awkwardness at bay.

“We still have to get the dance routine down, remember?” he says, his words coming out a bit rushed, a little too eager. “We can’t just, stop now. We were actually making progress.”

“Yeah… right. Progress,” I say, though the routine is the last thing on my mind right now. My thoughts are tangled in what just happened, and what it means.

He’s pacing now, running a hand through his hair. “God. I just, okay. Let’s reset. Like… let’s just pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Pretend?” I echo, unsure if I want to agree or argue.

He stops pacing and looks at me, really looks at me, and for a split second, I think he might say something serious, something about what that kiss meant.

Instead, he says, “Are you hungry? I could order food or something. You’ve been here for hours.”

The question catches me off guard. It’s so… normal. So mundane after what just happened. But maybe that’s exactly what we need right now.

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I could eat.”

Relief washes over his face. “Great,” he says, reaching for his phone on the nearby table. “Anything you’re craving? I’m open. As long as it’s not, like, sushi. I don’t trust raw fish unless I’m by the ocean.”

A small laugh escapes my lips. “You live fifteen minutes from the river.”

“Exactly my point.”

He sits cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through apps with the kind of focus you’d expect from someone defusing a bomb. Then he looks up and pats the empty space beside him.

“Come sit. Let’s pick something together.”

I hesitate for a second, then slowly lower myself onto the floor next to him, leaving just enough space between us that I’m not overwhelmed by his presence, but close enough to remind myself that we didn’t imagine what just happened.

We scroll through food options in silence for a moment before he says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

I glance at him, surprised.

“The kiss,” he adds quietly. “We don’t have to. But… I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen either. That feels worse and awkward.”

I look down at my hands, fingers tangled in my lap. “I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t planning on it. It just… happened.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

Another beat of silence. But it’s softer now. Less sharp.

“I don’t want you to feel bad about. It is mostly my fault, I reacted without thinking.” he says suddenly, voice steady. “I just, don’t want to mess up this tour. Dancing with you, training together… we need to keep it professional and get this done. It’s work after all”

I turn to face him, heart thudding. “Yes, I agree.”

We hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer than we probably should. Then he clears his throat and goes back to scrolling.

“So… Thai food?”

“Thai sounds good.”

“Should we run it one more time?” he asks, already rising to his feet, his voice low but steady. “Then we can call it a night after we eat.”

I nod, stretching my legs half-heartedly as I let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Might as well end on a good note.”

He walks over to the sound system, his steps calm but deliberate, like he’s in that space between exhaustion and adrenaline. The room is quiet except for the slight buzz of the speakers warming up.

“You ready?” he asks, turning slightly, one brow raised.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, pushing myself off the floor and heading to my spot across from him.

The opening beat drops, and we both snap into motion.

This time, everything clicks.

The rhythm feels like it’s under our skin, muscle memory taking over, breath syncing, timing sharp. The jump we’d been struggling with? Clean. Landed perfectly, like we’d been doing it for months. Every move feels like a conversation, not just a routine. Controlled, intense, and perfectly in tune.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if the shift has something to do with what happened earlier, the kiss. If that brief moment between us somehow pulled us into the same wavelength.

Whatever it was, it worked.

The song ends, and we both freeze in place, panting, trying to catch our breath. There’s no need to speak, our heavy breathing says enough. We both felt it.

I glance over at him, trying to act casual, but my lungs are on fire and I’m not sure if it’s from the dancing or something else entirely. He looks back at me, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt, and for a second we just… stare.

Then, right on cue, his phone buzzes loudly on the windowsill.

He walks over to it, glancing at the screen before answering with a short, “Yeah?” He listens for a second and then looks over at me, lifting a hand in a quick gesture. “Food’s here. I’ll go grab it.”

I nod, still too winded to say much. “Cool. I’ll wait here.”

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he calls over his shoulder with a half-smile as he grabs his hoodie from the bench near the door.

“No promises,” I mutter, watching the door close behind him.

The room feels still all of a sudden. Quiet, except for the faint ringing in my ears from the music. I walk over to the nearest chair and collapse into it, letting my body finally relax after all that tension and effort.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my pants as I try to mentally rewind the routine, trying to analyze what made it so seamless this time. But it’s not just about technique. It never is with him. There’s always something else, a kind of energy that passes between us when we’re dancing. Something that feels unspoken but constant.

My eyes drift to the mirror across from me, where a faint sheen of sweat still marks the floor from where we’d moved. And for a second, I let myself wonder what he’s thinking right now. If he noticed the difference too. If he’s replaying that moment the way I am.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a heavy, grey Monday morning, the kind where even the sky looks like it’s debating whether or not to give up completely. The clouds hang low over Seoul, and the air feels thick, as if the whole city is holding its breath.

We are exactly five days away from the concert. Five days. And I swear I can feel the seconds ticking by in my bones. Every minute closer brings a strange, buzzing tension under my skin.

Still, at 9:00 a.m. sharp, I push through the glass doors of the HYBE building, trying to ignore the storm of nerves swirling in my stomach. My heart is already thumping like it’s trying to keep time for a choreography I haven’t learned yet.

Despite the anxiety crawling up my spine, there's a flicker of comfort as I make my way down the now-familiar halls. I’m back in the practice room today, my second home lately, and something about that brings a weird, contradictory sense of peace.

Nothing major happened over the weekend. I kept it low-key on purpose. After that late-night practice on Friday, and everything that happened after, my entire system needed a reset.

And now, two days later, I’m still spiraling about it. Not in a dramatic, diary-writing way (okay, maybe a little), but in that quiet panic where you replay it over and over and over again in your head. Wondering what it meant. Wondering if it meant anything.

I didn’t breathe a word about it to anyone, not even to So-ra and Luther. I downplayed the whole night when they asked, brushing it off with half-truths about how rude and frustrating he still is, then pivoting the conversation to my “relaxing weekend plans.”

In truth, I barely slept. I read, watched two and a half K-dramas, deep-cleaned my apartment, rearranged my bookshelf, and scrubbed my kitchen like it had personally offended me. Anything to avoid thinking too hard about him. About that kiss.

Now, as I push open the door to the practice room, I’m bracing myself. Trying not to look like one of those wide-eyed fans seeing him in person for the first time. Trying not to remember how soft his lips were or the way he looked at me in the quiet practice room 4B.

“Good morning, sunshine!” So-ra’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts just in time. She nearly tackles me in a hug, all warmth and sleepy energy.

Before I can respond, Luther joins in from behind. “Look who decided to rejoin the land of the living!”

I let out a laugh, surprised by how quickly they’re making me feel grounded again. “Wow. Missed me much?”

“You disappeared after Friday,” Luther says, grabbing my cheeks between her palms and squishing them with mock offense. “No texts. No memes. Not even a single photo of your cat.”

“I needed a reset weekend before the chaos officially begins,” I say, gently prying her hands off me. “Silence, tea, and vacuum lines on the carpet. Very zen.”

“I knew you were avoiding us,” So-ra teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Guilty,” I admit, plopping down on the wooden floor with them. “But hey, you both survived the wild club scene, right?”

“Oh, barely,” Luther says dramatically, already launching into a full play-by-play of their night out, which involves someone’s wig falling off during a dance battle and a guy mistaking So-ra for a DJ. We're still laughing when the door creaks open again.

My laughter dies in my throat the second Jimin walks in.

He enters quietly, his manager trailing behind him, murmuring something I can’t quite hear. He's dressed in a grey hoodie and sweatpants, his cap pulled low over his face. Sunglasses hide his eyes. His hair sticks out messily beneath the cap, like he didn’t bother doing anything with it this morning.

He looks… different.

Not just tired. Not the usual kind of tired we all carry in our limbs from back-to-back rehearsals.

He looks drained.

Like someone unplugged him from the world overnight.

There’s a heaviness in his posture, like even walking into the room takes effort. And for the first time since I met him, I don’t see Park Jimin the idol, I see a person who looks like he hasn't had a proper breath in days.

I stay quiet, watching him from across the room. Something twists in my chest, and it’s not just because of Friday night.

He doesn’t say much. Just gives a short nod in our direction and walks over to the speaker setup in the corner, removing his sunglasses and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Luther leans toward me and whispers, “Is it just me, or does he look like he hasn’t slept since Friday?”

“It’s not just you,” I say quietly, eyes still on him.

So-ra hums in agreement. “I wonder if something happened.”

“Maybe it’s just the pressure,” Luther offers. “Tour’s right around the corner. That kind of stress messes with people.”

Maybe. But I have a gut feeling it’s more than that.

He doesn’t meet my eyes once. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, that stings more than it should.

“Should we all start from the top of Act 2?” Jimin asks, pulling off his black cap and running a hand through his damp hair. Strands stick out in all directions, but he doesn’t seem to care. He steps forward, eyes scanning the mirror-lined studio as he makes his way to the center of the room.

Everyone around me exchanges tired but determined glances, nodding almost in unison. Some of us are already breathless, but we reposition ourselves without complaint.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” So-ra says, tightening her ponytail.

“Ready,” I echo, walking back to my mark, my feet already sore inside my sneakers.

Luther adjusts the hem of her top and mutters, “This is gonna hurt,” under her breath.

The music kicks in and we launch into the first of six songs. Each one demanding, each one precise. The choreography for Act 2 is no joke, fast, layered, clean. No one wants to be the one dragging the group down, especially not with Jimin in the room.

By the fourth song, my lungs feel like they’re on fire.

By the fifth, the room feels like it’s tilting.

By the sixth, my legs have turned into something between jelly and cement, uncooperative and far too heavy.

And still, Jimin pushes. Hard. Each movement sharp, calculated. His hoodie is soaked through, but he doesn’t slow down, not even once. He’s in another zone entirely.

The final beat hits and the room stills. Then—

Collapse.

Bodies drop to the floor like dominoes, arms sprawled, chests heaving. I barely make it to a sitting position before flopping back with a loud exhale. The only one still upright is Jimin, who’s wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie like it’s just any other day.

“How?” I whisper to no one in particular.

“Can we, can we take a break?” I ask, sitting up slightly and looking toward the choreographer, who’s leaning against the wall with his hands on his knees.

He gives a slow nod. “Yeah, let’s take thirty.”

Before he can even finish his sentence, Jimin turns around, still breathless but smiling slightly. “Take the full hour,” he says. “Go grab some lunch, my treat.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence before a soft chorus of grateful voices echoes through the room.

“Thank you!”

“You’re the best!”

“I could kiss you, Jimin.”

He laughs, waving off the last comment. “Please don’t. Just eat something.”

People begin to gather their things. Backpacks are slung over shoulders, sweat towels tossed into bags. I stretch my arms overhead, trying to will my body back to life.

“Food. Now,” Luther groans, grabbing her beanie and tugging it on over her messy bun.

“I swear, if they don’t have noodles, I’m flipping a table,” So-ra mutters, already halfway to the door.

After the break, another scorching 6 hours of practice come, and I could tell Jimin is pushing himself more than he should. His feet are beginning to drag on the floor instead of stepping confidently, his turns are flimsy, and his arms mismatch the beats.

“Ok, everyone.” The choreographer says, lowering the music. ”I think this is enough for today.” He says, starting to clap, making us join. “Very good job; now wrap up, and let’s see each tomorrow at the same time.”

“I think I will not be able to walk tomorrow.” So-ra says, picking up her water bottle and chugging it into her bag.

“I am going to take and ice bath.” Luther says, putting her jacket and beanie on.

“I am dead; I hope I won't fall asleep on the bus.” I say, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand.

We all nod in agreement and make our way out of the room. Not even halfway to the elevator, I realized that I left my phone in the charger in the practice room. “You guys go, I left my phone. I’ll go grab it.” I say earning a nod from the girls.

The corridor is quiet now. I nudge open the practice room door, fully expecting to find it empty. But the moment I step inside, I freeze.

He’s still here.

Jimin stands alone in the middle of the studio, backlit by the dim glow of the overhead lights. The same song we rehearsed earlier plays softly from his phone on the floor. He’s repeating a section of the choreography, slow and controlled, correcting something. His foot drags, and he starts again. Then again.

He notices me before I can say anything.

He stops mid-step and turns toward me, visibly startled. “Oh,” he says, brushing the hair out of his face with one hand. “Did you forget something?”

“Yeah,” I nod quickly, pointing toward the corner where my phone is plugged in. “Just my phone. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” he says, reaching for his water bottle. He takes a long sip before lowering it. “You guys did great today.”

I walk over to unplug my phone, trying to act casual, but I can’t help glancing at him again. His posture is relaxed now, but the exhaustion in his shoulders is hard to miss.

“You didn’t have to keep practicing,” I say softly.

Jimin shrugs, sitting down on the floor and resting his elbows on his knees. “I missed a few counts during the last run. Didn’t feel right ending the day like that.”

I hesitate for a second. “You’ve been pushing yourself harder than anyone. You don’t have to be perfect every second.”

He gives a small smile, eyes down on the floor. “That’s kind of the problem,” he says quietly.

There’s a pause, and the silence hangs in the air for a moment.

“You’re not alone in this, you know,” I add, slipping my phone into my bag. “We’re all in it together. Is a tour where we assist you with the dances.”

He nods slowly, then looks up at me. “Thanks.”

I should leave. My whole body is telling me to call it a night, to shower, rest, reset.

But something deep inside me, quiet but stubborn, whispers, stay a little longer.

I glance over at Jimin, who’s still sitting on the floor, leaning back on his hands, staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“Do you want to run through the solo one more time and call it a night?” I ask, already dropping my backpack near the wall with a soft thud.

He looks up, blinks slowly like he’s pulling himself back to earth, and gives a tired nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

There’s a kind of unspoken rhythm between us now. No need for elaborate explanations or small talk. Just movement.

He pushes himself to his feet, dragging his fingers through his damp hair as he walks over to the audio system. I hear him scrolling through the playlist, our playlist, until he finds the song. It starts low, that familiar swell of strings filling the near-empty practice room.

I shrug off my jacket and move to my place in front of the mirror. The cool air kisses my skin, already sticky from earlier rehearsals. Behind me, Jimin quietly steps into his mark. His presence is grounding, even in silence.

We start moving with the music. It's slower now, less about perfection and more about connection. I can tell he’s exhausted. His breath is heavier, his timing just slightly behind, so I adjust, matching his pace without calling it out. It's like dancing in water, heavy and fluid, each motion pulled by something deeper than muscle memory.

Then comes the part I always brace for: the jump and catch.

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

My knees bend, preparing to leap into him, but doubt creeps in, what if he can’t hold me this time? What if we fall?

But I jump anyway. A second too late.

He catches me effortlessly.

His arms wrap around me like muscle memory, like they remember me better than I do. There’s a split second where everything clicks, the weight of me in his hold, the curve of my back molded to his chest, the way his hands fall exactly where they’re supposed to, like they’ve always belonged there.

Then I realize the beat to release has already passed.

“You can let me go,” I say quietly, still in his arms, not moving.

“Oh—sorry,” he says quickly, almost startled. “I was just… catching my breath.”

His voice is low, and when he finally sets me down, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Fatigue, maybe. Or something else I can’t quite name.

“Are you okay?” The words slip out before I even think about them.

He blinks at me. “Yeah. Of course. Why?”

I hesitate. “You look tired.”

There’s a beat. He offers a small laugh, not entirely convincing.

“Well, it is pretty late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Jimin…”

I don’t mean to say his name like that. But it comes out gently, almost like a question, almost like an invitation.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just stands there, looking at me like he’s weighing something.

“You don’t have to keep pushing like this,” I say after a moment, my voice softer. “Not tonight. We already went over the piece five times. It’s okay to stop.”

His shoulders drop slightly, like someone just released the pressure valve.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I just… I want it to be perfect.”

“It will be,” I say, stepping a little closer. “But not if you burn yourself out before we even get to the first show.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The music fades into silence behind us, and the room feels heavier now, quiet in a way that makes every unspoken word louder.

“I’ll shut it off,” I say, gesturing toward the speaker.

He doesn’t stop me, just follows with his eyes as I cross the room. As the last note cuts off, I turn back and find him still standing there, looking at me.

“Thanks,” he says finally.

“For what?”

“For staying.”

I don’t say anything, but I nod. Because somehow, I think we both needed this.

And even if I walked in here thinking I’d be the one to leave first—

Now I’m not so sure I want to.

We don’t move for a while.

The hum of the speaker fades completely, leaving only the sound of our breathing, uneven and slow. The mirrors in front of us reflect two tired dancers who stayed just a bit too long, maybe hoping the silence would give them answers the choreography didn’t.

Jimin sits down on the floor first, legs stretching out in front of him as he leans back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling like he’s searching for something he lost up there. After a second, I follow, settling beside him, our shoulders just far enough not to touch.

He speaks first.

“I haven’t been sleeping much,” he admits quietly. “I keep going over the routines in my head, even when I try not to. It’s like my brain won’t shut off.”

I glance over at him. He’s not looking at me, his gaze is still fixed somewhere far above us, lost in thought.

“Because of the tour?” I ask gently.

He nods, exhaling through his nose. “The solo tour’s different. There’s more pressure. Every detail feels bigger, heavier. And no one’s saying it, but I know people are watching closely. Waiting to see if I can pull it off on my own.”

There’s a weight in his voice I haven’t heard before. It wraps around his words, subtle but real. I see it now, the pressure he’s been carrying, hidden behind smiles and perfectly timed movements. The way he pushes through practice like he’s being chased.

“Everyone thinks I’m fine,” he says, softer now. “And I want to be. I want to give everything. But sometimes it just… it feels like too much.”

I stay quiet for a moment, letting his words settle in the space between us.

Then I speak.

“I get that,” I say, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “I mean… obviously I’m not in your position. But I’ve been dancing for years, and I still wake up some days thinking I’m not good enough to be here.”

He turns to me, really looking now.

“I used to compare myself to everyone in the room. Always thinking someone else moved better, looked stronger, had more control. I’d mess up one eight-count and convince myself I didn’t belong.”

Jimin’s expression softens, like something in him is easing.

“But the thing is,” I continue, “every time I thought about quitting, I remembered how I felt when I danced. Not the performance, not the applause, just the feeling. That quiet moment when everything else fades and it’s just you and the music.”

His eyes drop to the floor, and he smiles faintly. “That’s why I started too.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” I say, bumping his shoulder gently. “You just have to be honest. People don’t come to see flawless routines. They come to feel something. And you make people feel things, Jimin.”

There’s a long pause. Not uncomfortable, just full.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly and leans his head back against the wall behind him. “You know,” he says eventually, “it’s weird. I’ve been surrounded by people my whole career, but it’s rare when I feel like someone really sees me. Like… all of me. Not the performer. Just me.”

I look at him for a second longer than I should. “I see you.”

He glances at me, eyes tired but soft. “Thank you.”

We sit like that for a while, side by side on the floor, saying nothing and everything all at once. The kind of quiet that feels like trust. Like safety.

Outside, the city hums in the distance. Inside, in this little practice room at the end of a long day, something shifts.

Not loudly.

But enough.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I think I rolled my shoulder. I don’t know if I can lift you anymore.”

Those are the first words I hear this Thursday morning. Not hello, not good morning, just that.

And just like that, my brain short-circuits. My body freezes mid-warm-up. Heart? Not beating. Air? No longer in my lungs.

I turn around slowly, dread crawling up my spine like cold water. “What did you just say?”

Jimin stands in front of me, his hoodie slightly damp at the collar, his expression serious, but not panicked. Not the level of panic I feel, anyway. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s searching for the right words. “I’m really sorry. I pushed too hard during solo practice last night, and I felt… I don’t know, something pop. My shoulder just, locked up.”

I blink at him. “So, what are you saying? We’re changing the routine?”

He nods, carefully avoiding my eyes now. “We’re going to have to adjust the duet. I can’t do the lifts. Or the swing. Doctor’s orders.”

I feel like the floor shifts under me.

The concert is tomorrow.

We’ve rehearsed that routine for weeks. Every step, every lift, every breath synced perfectly. I’ve practiced until my legs gave out and my shoulders throbbed. For this moment. For the duet.

“Are you serious right now?” I ask, my voice tighter than I want it to be. “You’re telling me this the day before the show?”

“I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure,” he replies, his tone softening. “I saw the physio first thing this morning.”

I let out a slow breath, trying, really trying, not to lose it in front of the others, who are all quietly stretching or talking among themselves, but I know they’re listening now.

“You couldn’t have pulled back a little?” I ask. “You had a whole team reminding you to take it easy. But no, you had to overdo it.”

Jimin’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, Y/N. I was trying to get it right. For both of us.”

“Yeah? Well now we have no routine,” I snap. “So that worked out great.”

He exhales sharply through his nose and lowers his voice, stepping closer. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why?” I laugh bitterly. “Embarrassed that people might hear you messed up again?”

His eyes flash. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I came here to tell you the truth so we could fix it.”

“Fix it? We can’t just fix it,” I say, backing away. My voice is rising despite my best efforts. “This is the final rehearsal before the world tour, Jimin. We’re opening the concert with this duet!”

“I know!” he says, voice growing louder now too. “You think I don’t get it? You think I’m not mad at myself right now?”

“Clearly not enough, because you still think pushing through injuries is some kind of flex,” I shoot back.

“Do not talk to me like that.”

“I will when you keep making the same mistake over and over again,” I say, my voice shaking. “You don’t set boundaries. You don’t rest. You push until something breaks, and this time it’s not just you. It’s me, too. It’s all of us.”

He stares at me, breathing hard. “You think I don’t care? You think I take this lightly? I’ve been killing myself to make sure this show is perfect, and all you can do is accuse me of not trying hard enough?”

“I’m saying maybe trying isn’t the problem,” I say, louder now, not caring who hears anymore. “Maybe it’s that you don’t know how to stop. And now we’re all paying for it.”

The room falls silent.

Even the dancers who were trying to pretend not to listen are now frozen mid-stretch, mid-sentence. Eyes flick between the two of us, wide and awkward.

Jimin holds my gaze for a long second. Then, without a word, he turns around, walks to the door, and slams it shut behind him so hard the walls shake.

The room stays still.

I look around, suddenly hyper-aware of everyone’s eyes. No one says a word.

Luther clears her throat gently and mutters, “So… should we go over formations, or…?”

I don’t respond. I just drop to the floor, head in my hands, heart pounding.

Twenty-four hours before the show. And everything’s falling apart.

“Hey, hey, let’s not have a full-on crying session in here,” Luther says gently, grabbing my hands and pulling me up from the floor. Her voice is calm but firm, the way someone speaks when they’re trying not to panic while you’re falling apart.

“I wasn’t crying,” I mutter, but my voice cracks halfway through and totally betrays me.

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England,” she replies softly, throwing one of my arms over her shoulder. She guides me toward the corner of the practice room, away from everyone, toward a pair of chairs near the back wall, half-hidden behind a stack of unused mats.

I sit down slowly, the cool metal of the chair biting through my leggings. Luther doesn’t say anything more, and I’m grateful for that. She just sits with me, a quiet presence, while the rest of the room hums in the background with muted footsteps and the occasional laughter from dancers too far away to notice what’s happening over here.

I stay there, completely silent, for what feels like a lifetime.

It’s only thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes of staring at the scuffed floor, of picking at my thumbnail until the skin peels, of trying not to think too hard, because if I do, I’ll start crying again, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop this time.

Then the door opens.

My head lifts instinctively. Jimin walks in, followed closely by So-ra. He looks a little flushed, maybe from rushing back, maybe from something else. His eyes flick across the room quickly before he walks over to the head choreographer and leans in, whispering something low. The choreographer frowns slightly, pulls out his phone, and starts scrolling intently.

So-ra peels off from Jimin’s side and makes her way toward me. I try not to stare at the two of them too long, at how naturally they moved side by side, like it meant something. It probably doesn’t. But still.

“Hey,” she says gently, plopping down into the chair beside mine. “Everything okay now?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Yeah, just needed to sit for a bit.”

She nods and takes a sip from her water bottle, then leans in a little closer. “I ran into Jimin in the hallway,” she says, casually like it’s nothing. “He looked like he was trying to walk off a panic attack.”

“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can manage.

There’s a beat of silence before she leans closer, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “You never told me you guys kissed.”

My heart stops.

I sit bolt upright. “What?”

She glances around to make sure no one’s listening, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “He told me. He said it like he assumed I already knew. He was… pretty surprised you hadn’t told anyone.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was something I needed to announce,” I mumble, eyes fixed on the floor again. My hands are back in my lap, fingers twisting over each other. “It’s not anyone’s business.”

So-ra studies me quietly for a second. “I think he has a crush on you.”

I blink. “What makes you say that?”

She exhales slowly, shifting in her chair so she’s fully facing me. “He was upset earlier. Like, really upset. Not just because of the choreography or the injury or whatever. He said… you’re the only person on the crew he actually feels comfortable around.”

My throat tightens.

“He said when you walked away, it felt like he’d let down the only person who really saw him, not as ‘Jimin,’ but just… him. He said that hurt more than rolling his shoulder.”

I don’t know what to say. The air suddenly feels heavier around me.

“He didn’t say it like he was trying to make you feel guilty,” she adds quickly. “It was more like… he was trying to figure out what went wrong. Like he cared. A lot.”

I glance up without meaning to. Jimin is still talking to the choreographer, gesturing lightly with one hand while the other rests at his side. His shoulders look tenser than usual, like he’s trying to hold something in.

“He should’ve told me all of this himself,” I say quietly.

“Maybe he’s trying to,” So-ra says. “Maybe he’s just scared you won’t listen.”

I exhale, leaning back into the chair, mind racing. There’s too much to untangle, what happened between us, what didn’t happen, how fast everything seemed to change.

I glance up again, scanning the room until my eyes land on Jimin.

And just like that, his gaze locks with mine.

There’s something charged in the way he looks at me, something I can’t quite name. And before I can look away, he lifts his hand and gestures for me to come over.

I blink, caught off guard.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” I say to So-ra, gently touching her arm as I step away.

She glances toward Jimin and lifts an eyebrow. “Oof. Good luck.”

I don’t even respond. My legs are already moving.

Jimin is standing next to the choreographer, both of them looking unusually serious. As I approach, I try to keep my expression neutral, though my pulse is picking up.

“Everything okay?” I ask once I’m standing in front of them.

“Yeah, but we’ve got a small change,” the choreographer says, exhaling like this day’s already been too long. He holds up a slim silver laptop and passes it to me. “They just finalized the new intro choreo for the tour. I need you and Jimin to run it together and get it down today. It’s urgent, they want to film it for staging references by tomorrow.”

I nod, tightening my grip on the laptop. “Alright. Where?”

“There’s another practice room around the corner. Just the two of you for now. You’ve got a couple of hours, make it count.”

Jimin gives me a small nod and tilts his head, motioning for me to follow him. Without another word, he turns and walks toward the hallway, and I fall into step beside him. We don’t speak as we leave the main room. The quiet between us feels too heavy to be casual, but not exactly uncomfortable either.

Just… loaded.

The smaller practice room is almost identical to the main one, clean mirrors, hardwood floors, sleek sound system, but it feels more intimate. The kind of space where secrets get told. Where things happen.

Jimin steps in first and flips the lights on. I close the door behind us.

For a moment, he lingers by the door, one hand still on the knob.

Then, with a quiet breath, he pushes off and walks slowly toward me.

“Are you really gonna pretend I don’t exist?” he asks, his voice low but firm. “Because that’s going to make dancing together pretty damn difficult.”

I don’t turn to face him just yet. I focus on connecting the laptop to the audio system. My fingers are moving, but my mind isn’t really in it.

“I’m not ignoring you,” I say finally.

“Oh no?” I can hear the slight edge in his voice now. “Because the last few minutes sure felt like it.”

I press play to test the audio. The speakers hum to life. Good. I glance over my shoulder, and nearly jump.

He’s standing just behind me. Two centimeters, maybe less. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him without even turning.

Then, without warning, he plants one hand on the table beside me. Then the other. Trapping me. His arms box me in on either side, and I’m not sure if my heart just stopped or doubled its pace.

I finally turn, slowly, until I’m facing him fully.

His expression is unreadable. Frustrated? Hurt? Maybe both.

“What are you doing?” I ask quietly, trying to keep my voice steady. I can’t deny the tension between us, it’s humming in the air like static.

“I said I’m sorry,” he says, taking a small step closer. His eyes are focused, intense. “But it’s like you didn’t even hear me.”

“I heard you the first time,” I reply, standing my ground. My back is still against the table. I haven’t moved an inch.

His voice softens. “Then why won’t you look at me ?”

“Maybe because I do not need to.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and then he says, barely above a whisper, “Can you please forgive me?”

His gaze flickers downward, to my lips.

I take a slow breath. “And if I don’t?”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays calm. “Then I’ll ask again,” he says, lifting a hand to gently touch my cheek. His fingers are soft, careful.

I swallow hard.

“And again,” he murmurs, his other hand sliding behind my back, pulling me just slightly toward him.

My breath hitches.

“And again.”

This time, he leans in, his forehead resting lightly against mine.

Neither of us moves. I could pull away. I could say no.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is, I want this. Maybe I’ve wanted it since the beginning.

So when his lips finally meet mine, it’s not rushed or desperate. It’s soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that feels more like a question than an answer.

Like he’s asking: Are we okay? Are you still here? Do I still have a chance?

And with the way I kiss him back, I think I give him every answer he needs.

[act-nat-ural]

Occupied

Chapter Three: Debriefing

(this is so unserious and im obviously bullshitting certain stuff but oh well it’s fun. Enjoy!)

chapter 2 \\\ chapter 4

The pair of eyes behind that skull bore into your eyes, never leaving for a second.

He has very pretty eyes. Lashes, too.

You nervously swallow, about to explain how you weren’t technically eavesdropping because you hadn’t intended to listen in- when your sweaty hands drop the container of bleach.

THUNK.

The sound echoes through the hallway. This is it. This is how you die. Glared at and humiliated to death by a masked man with pretty eyelashes.

The door in front of you creaks open, their captain sporting an inquiring look. Faster than you’ve ever moved before in your life, you pick up the jug and push it into his hands. You point directly at the man behind you.

“He needs stitches in his thigh.” Just like that, you scurry off to the bathroom to get over the embarrassment of being caught eavesdropping. If you had lingered for just a moment longer, however, you would have noticed the look that the man behind you gave you that screamed ‘snitch.’

——

“What on earth was that?” Kyle asks, head nodding to the girl who just ran off faster than Usain Bolt.

“Simon gave her a bit of a fright, I suppose.” Price chimes in, chuckling a bit and shaking his head. Simon just rolls his eyes and goes to steps around him, before Price catches him by the shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t notice your little injury. Our little hostess ratted you out, as well. Sit.” He orders, guiding him to a chair at the dining table. Simon sits down reluctantly, side-eyeing Johnny as he does. The younger man just grins back at him.

“Take your pants off for us, Ghostie.”

“…What?”

Seeing Simon’s dumbfounded face, Johnny starts laughing so hard he winces and holds his side. “For the wound, ye idiot.” Oh. Of course, Simon knew that. Obviously. He sighs, before unbuckling his belt and shimmying his trousers down. He can feel the blood on his pants forcing them to stick to his thigh and grimaces at the thought. You’ve been through worse. Any other person would probably have been embarrassed at being pants-less in such a scenario, but he knew these men. He trusted them with his life. They trust you with theirs too, and look at what almost happened to Johnny.

Kyle does him the honor of handing over the stitches, knowing Simon prefers doing it himself. Steady hands, you know. He hears Johnny sulking beside him.

“How long do I have to lay on this god-forsaken table? I’m all stitched up, and my back is killing me.” He whines.

Kyle doesn’t feed into his complaints, stating “You can make when we’re sure you aren’t leaking like a bloody hose.”

“Haud yer wheesht.”

While Simon fixes himself up and the other two bicker like children, Price stares contemplating the door that you disappeared into. You looked seriously shaken up when he opened the door on you and Simon, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t.

“Simon?” He gets a glance up in response. “What were you two doing in the hallway? Simon focuses his sights back on his thigh.

“She heard you talking. About what to do.” Ah, so that’s why you looked so guilty. Silly girl, this was your residence, not theirs. You could lurk wherever you pleased.

“Guess we should explain ourselves then. Alright boys, finish up in here. Time to do some debriefing.”

——

You stare loathing at the reflection in the mirror. Why did you run like that? You didn’t even do anything that bad, just lingered outside the door for a little longer than necessary. But there was something about his stare, how it looked straight into you. No one has ever looked at you so closely before.

You turn the faucet on, splashing your face with cold water. You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. I wonder what time it is. When you reach for your back pocket, you pause. You don’t have your phone. You groan at the realization that you are going to have to do a walk of shame to go get it.

Cmon, you can do this. You are just being a little anxious that’s all. Who cares that you’re alone with four insanely attractive strangers? Not you, that’s for sure.

Taking one last deep breath, you give yourself a once-over in the mirror. Deeming yourself presentable, you step outside the bathroom.

Only for them to not be in the dining room. Where the hell did they go? You take a few steps farther into the room, noting the prominent smell of chemicals. A quick glance down tells you that they were true to their word and did clean up after themselves.

Just how long were you in the bathroom? They probably think you were taking a stress shit.

Sighing for about the trillionth time tonight, you take off in search of these mystery military men. You are overdue for an explanation for all this.

——

It’s extremely evident that they plan on staying here, as seen in the way that they have taken over the living room. They all look up at your entrance and the captain gives you a nod. The injured one strewn across the couch gives you a wave over saying, “Aye, there you are lass. I was beginnin’ to think you fell in the toilet. Saved you a spot, special jus’ for you.” He wiggles his toes (he took his shoes off?) at the empty spot on the sofa. Your jaw drops in disgust.

Ew.

“Stop scaring her, you freak.” The one sitting next to him, in the hat, delivers a swift punch to his shoulder. While he squawks back at him, ‘Am not a freak! Just having a bit of wee fun!’ you sit down, as far away as possible. Their captain clears his throat and positions his body facing towards you.

“I’m sure you're feeling a bit overwhelmed, right love?” He asks gently. You nod, unsure when to chime in. “Do you know what sort of occupation your friend Adam Baker is in?”

“Yeah. The creepy fucker makes bombs.” You say nonchalantly. Now, you aren’t sure if you are necessarily supposed to know this, but you and Eliza don’t keep secrets from one another. Including government or nondisclosures.

You can see him bite back a smile and nod in confirmation. The loud one barks out a laugh, ‘I like her,’ and you swear you heard a chuckle come from the masked one.

“Yes, yes he does. For the military. Now, I’m sure you can already tell that we are special forces.” He pauses so you nod in confirmation. “Right. Well, we had a… little mishap last night. More serious than I would prefer but we make do. This brings me to how we knew of this location. Do you have family in the military?” You have to think for a second about it.

“My uncle served, but that’s it. Why?” Where is he headed with this?

“Well, there’s this clause that was put in place a bit of years ago now. To sum it up, if there were ever an accident and personnel needed temporary housing, like us right now, government employees who signed consent forms would allow them to stay in their homes. Seeing as the Bakers are good friends of mine, I gave him a ring before we headed here.”

Okay. A lot to process. The wheels are spinning in your head, making connection after connection. I wonder if this has to do with his sudden trip.

“You still with us?” You are snapped out of your thoughts by his gruff voice.

“Yeah. So… how long do you have to stay here?” It may sound rude, but it was a valid question. You were hoping they didn’t totally monopolize your vacation. He takes a minute or two, making eye contact with the others. Uh oh. This isn’t going to be good. He clears his throat again before responding.

“A few weeks. At the very least.”

Great. All that time and money down the drain. All you wanted was a relaxing vacation and this is what you get. A dangerous situation with strange men imposing on you. What a dream.

“…Why?” He looks at you startled.

“What do you mean?”

“Why a few weeks? Why can’t the military just pick you up now and you be on your way? I don’t mean to be rude, I just don’t understand.” You rush out the last part.

“Leaving isn’t safe.” A baritone voice pipes in. You realize it’s coming from the masked man. You also realize that was the first time you heard him speak. He has the sort of voice that fills the room and suffocates you.

You must be making a horrified face because the man in the hat, (Jesus you need to learn these people's names) slowly turns and gives him a look that says ‘Are you fucking crazy?’

“It’s alright, you’re asking the right questions. It’s just not safe for us right now. We had a mole in our last mission and we weren’t exactly sure who it was. Also, I’m sure you noticed we aren’t in the best of states right now.” You think back to the blood pooling all over the tiles. Yeah, you’ve noticed all right.

“So… just who are you?” He smiles at this question.

“I am Captain John Price. Over there is Lieutenant Simon Riley, Sergeant Kyle Garrick, and Sergeant John Mactavish.”

TAGLIST: @scarletdfox

[americanwh0resstuff]

You look good, open casket good…

Chapter I, from the earth to the morgue…

When Amy’s old uni flat mate, Ravi, offers her a job in the police department morgue, just till she gets on her feet. But how will she react when she finds out about the existence of zombies? Especially when one particular zombie is this charming?

What?? An actual fanfiction with multiple chapters???? Yep I’m gonna try my best here…

Word count: 1,083

From the earth to the morgue…

“Okay… so the new mortician is from England?”

Liv asked, quickly downing her brain smoothie, eyeing up Ravi before their new coworker arrived.

“Well, Scotland but close enough… you Americans and your geography…” he rolled his eyes and chuckled, polishing the currently empty autopsy tables, making sure the entire morgue was spotless.

“Remember our agreement. No brains in the kitchen when she’s around, she’s already stressed enough from the move, I don’t think she needs the pressure of a zombie ME on her back.”

Liv rolled her eyes and came back with “what if I blend them up? Cover them in breadcrumbs? What if-“ she was cut short by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Ravi!!!” The duo turned on their heels to see a short women, covered in tattoos and a few piercings, but that’s not what stood out.

Their eyes studied her, her pale skin, dark sunken eyes, white streaks in her black hair.

Ravi looked shocked.

“Amy, you’re a-“

“Still a goth yeah I know… it never really was a phase.” She laughed at her own joke, giggling oblivious to their concerns.

“Right, yep, still a goth…” Ravi collected himself and shot Liv a look, both slightly relieved that the new mortician was not in fact undead.

Amy felt slightly uncomfortable in the silence, looking between the two and taking a step forward, extending her hand to Liv.

“Hi I’m Amy, Ravi mentioned you! Said you’re an amazing colleague!” She smiled wide as she shook her hand. “Nice hair! I had bleached hair for a while but it’s such a hassle! That’s why I stick with the highlights, less maintenance! How do you get your so white!?”

“Oh I-well I was already a blonde so… you know, less…bleach?” Liv questioned her own answer, unsure of how to respond.

“I’m sorry I’m talking your ear off, so where do I start?”

•••

About a week passed and the famous duo turned to the famous trio, Amy’s dark jokes and bubbly personality contrasting her darker look quickly became a staple in the workplace. Her knowledge of true crime and disturbing facts always amused Clive, her and Liv would have many fun chats about fashion and makeup, and it never phased her when her personality would changed.

As for her and Ravi, they still got along as they did in uni, constantly playing pranks on Liv, joking around and fighting over style choices on the deceased, to which Clive always disapproved. ~”cut that out! Ravi let her do her work, she’s the mortician… and I don’t think anyone should take fashion advice from you… dead or alive.”~

“Okay guys I’m heading out for lunch, anyone want anything?” Amy asked, grabbing her bag and making sure she had her purse.

“We’re all good thanks!”

Ravi smiled at her and watched her turn and head out the bay door, waiting till she was out of site before pulling out his phone.

Liv looked at him puzzled. “What are you up to now?”

“Calling Blaine, he’s upstairs waiting on his weekly checkup, and I’m not letting him near Amy, he doesn’t need to annoy her like he annoys us”

She chuckled at his panicked voice and nodded in agreement, he was right, Blaine can be a huge pain in the ass, and the less people he annoys the better, plus knowing him, he’s never able to meet a woman without hitting on her.

“Hey there doctor! How are you doing on this fine day!” Ravi rolled his eyes upon hearing his voice, taunting him with the smug look on his face.

“Sit here and be quiet.” Blaine cocked his eyebrow at Liv.

“Snappy. Who’s brain did you eat?”

She scoffed and turned back to the kitchen, preparing her lunch while she could.

Since she didn’t have much time, she kept it simple, pure old brains in a cup of ramen.

Blaine sat down on the autopsy table, rolling up his sleeves for the blood pressure cuff, looking up at the ceiling as the inspection went on in silence.

Until…

“I’m such an idiot, got all the way to the bagel shop before I realised it was closed on Wednesdays!”

They all looked up to see their human coworker standing at the door, in a room with two zombies…

Liv looked at Ravi in panic mouthing “say something!”

“Oh-you’re back ear-“

Blaine cut him off.

“And who are you? Looks like you’re new to team Z?” He took a good look at her, taking in her pale skin and blonde streaks. Ravi poked him in the back and tried to cut him off.

“I’m Amy!” She said enthusiastically, always friendly…

“I’m sorry, Team what?”

Blaine’s eyes widened and he sat up straight

“So you’re human… is this a style choice or?” She looked at him slightly confused but laughed it off.

“Oh don’t go making vampire jokes, I heard enough of those in high school.” She smiled and walked towards him on the table.

“Blaine DeBeers, nice to meet you, you have the most beautiful eyes…” he grasped her hand.

He could practically feel Ravi and Livs eyes rolling and burning into his back.

“…well then, looks like you’re all done here! See you next week.”

“Woah doc, you should work on your bedside manner, not very professional!”

Amy blushed lightly and looked down, she had to admit he was attractive, but something felt off, which was accentuated by her coworkers dirty looks towards him.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in here, don’t tell me you’re Ravis girlfriend, cuz I know that’s a lie!”

She laughed at his joke and looked over at Ravi, who she could swear was trying to telepathically murder the man in front of her.

“I’m a mortician, I just moved to Seattle, Ravi helped me get a job, it’s just short term, till I find something more secure… not a lot of people want their loved ones cared for in a police department.”

Blaine’s eyes lit up and he smirked at her before pulling a business card from his jacket.

“Well luckily for you… I run a funeral home, and I’m looking for a mortician, my numbers on the back, give me a call sometime.” He winked at her before turning towards the stairs.

“Well then, looks like I should get going, thanks again doc! See you next week.” He nodded towards Ravi and Liv before peering over his shoulder at Amy.

“And hopefully I’ll see you sooner.”

Chapter II

[vwriter]

Darrel Curtis Imagine - Johnny's Sister

Part 4 - Final Part

That night, after everyone goes to bed, you sit on the couch, unable to fall asleep. You try reading one of the books you brought, when you hear a door open and footsteps coming down the hall. You thought it might be Darry coming to convince you—again—to come to his bed.

You prepare another argument when Ponyboy appears around the corner.

“Hey Pony.” You say and Ponyboy nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Glory!” He exclaims, “I forgot that you were here. I’m used to having people sleep on our couch, but usually they don’t say anything, so I kind of forget they’re here.” Ponyboy says as he makes his way to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” You say. You get up and walk over the counter that divides the kitchen from the living room. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep very well, Soda’s snoring again.” He looked so much younger than he was. One would think that after what he’d been through that he’d look older, but in the moonlight he looked like a kicked puppy with his black eye and bleached hair.

“I couldn’t sleep either.” You say. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.” You don’t know why you confess this to him. Ponyboy was close to Johnny, not you. But, with Johnny gone, you missed having a little brother to confide in.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” You feel embarrassed over admitting that to Ponyboy.

“No, it’s ok.” He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating if he wants to be honest with you too. “I have a lot on my mind too.”

You want to reach out and hug him. You know exactly what he has on his mind: Johnny, Dallas, guilt, plus everything that he and Johnny went through in Windrexville.

“Do you guys have any cocoa? I can make us some.” Ponyboy pulls a cannister of nesquick out of the cupboard. He gets you two mugs and a pan to heat up the milk.

You both sit on the coach as you wait for the milk to get warm.

The house is quiet, the two of you not knowing what to say to each other. Of course you had spent time with Ponyboy and Johnny, but not enough to know what to say to him.

Ponyboy breaks the silence first.

“I miss him.” Is all he says. It’s enough to tear your heart in half.

“Me too.” You whisper, trying to hide the break in your voice. You’re thankful for the dark, but somehow, even after all the crying you did tonight, you feel tears well up in your eyes.

You don’t say anything else, instead you wrap your arm around Ponyboy’s shoulders and put his head on your shoulder. He’s so quiet that you don’t even notice he’s crying until your feel a wet spot on your shirt. You don’t say anything about it though, just run your hand on his far side up and down his arm.

You forget about the milk on the stove and just hold Ponyboy. You try not to cry because you know you’ll wake the whole house if you do. If it’s over Johnny you will. But, right now it’s not about you, it’s about Ponyboy and him missing his friend so fiercely and having to be reminded of him through you, his sister.

“I’m sorry if me being here upsets you Pony.” You choke out, a few tears spilling and your throat tightening. “I don’t want to be a reminder of J-J-“ You can’t even say his name because you know if you do, here with Ponyboy, it’s over. You’ll never be able to recover.

Ponyboy turns and hugs you full on.

“You’re not doing that. I just miss him and I feel so guilty. I feel like he died because of me.” You rub Ponyboy’s back. Oh god, he reminded you so much of Johnny. Always so full of shame and guilt because of your parents.

“We all feel that way, Pony.” You know you sure do, and Darry probably does too, and if Dally was around he would too. Maybe the Socs even felt that way too…

“Grief does strange things to a person.” You say.

Ponyboy doesn’t say anything else and he doesn’t ask you to either. He just cries into your chest until he tires himself out.

Meanwhile, Darry had been watching from the hallway this whole time. His heart ached for his youngest brother, but it also swelled with seeing you take care of him. He knew it must have been hard for you, Ponyboy being so close to Johnny and basically his age. But, he knew that in the end you both shared a grief that no one else could understand. You had both lost a brother.

Darry couldn’t imagine his life without Ponyboy or Sodapop. When Ponyboy had gone missing, he had stayed up all night, worried half to death that he’d never see him again. Guilty over what he had done to cause it…

“Alright kid, lets get you to bed.” Darry hears you say to a groggy Ponyboy. Darry moves quickly back to his room to hide, not wanting to shatter the moment.

You guide Ponyboy back to bed and tuck him in.

“Sorry about the cocoa, we’ll make some more tomorrow.” You say to Ponyboy.

“Thanks, (Y/N).” You hear Ponyboy mumble as he rolls over in bed.

You exited Ponyboy and Sodapop’s room and close the door softly. You head back to the kitchen and turn the stove off, emptying the boiling milk into the sink.

“Hey.” You hear a voice say behind you. You turn to find Darry standing at the counter.

“Hey.” You say back softly. “What are you doing up?”

“I heard you and Ponyboy talking. Wanted to make sure you were ok.” He comes around the counter and grabs your hand. “Thanks for being there for him. Soda and I have been trying, but I don’t think anyone truly gets what he’s feeling like you do.”

Somehow, hearing Darry say that, heals your heart a little.

“I really care about him. He’s a good kid.” You say.

Darry pulls you in for a hug, rubbing your hair.

“Johnny was a good kid too. He was family to us, and you’ll be family to us now too.” Darry says. He tightens his grip as the sobs start to rack your body.

That night Darry sits with you on the couch and holds you while you cry over your brother. In the end you fall asleep with your head in his lap and in the morning when you wake up to a pink and gold sky you feel better than you have in weeks. Somehow, you start to think that while everything from here on out will be different, it will be ok.