#sorry this ask was so late i had a hard time thinking

[psychoticbipolarbear]

Unprofessional innuendos

pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: You keep teasing Hotch jokingly, a habit that stems from your feelings for him, but when you want to make a move he doesn't approve of, he thinks it's time to tell you he secretly likes it.

tags: daddy kink implied, age gap, pre-season 1, fem!bau!reader, Haley isn't with Hotch

word count: 0.9k

“Boys, we all know that Daddy loves me best,” you say with a laugh as you lean back in the chair with a smug smile on your face. 

Derek laughs with you as he shakes his head, knowing full well you are right, while Spencer looks like you just shot his dog. “What about me?” he asks hesitantly, pointing at himself. 

“You’re Gideon’s favorite, I won’t give you Hotch too.” 

“And I’m the oldest child both parents forget about,” Derek notes as he stands up and stretches his arms above his head. You throw a pen at him, but he catches it with ease and walks over to put it on your desk. “Come on, I’m paying for the drinks tonight. You’re coming too, Reid,” he adds, giving a pointed look to the youngest member of your team. 

You don’t move, instead you turn to the hallway where Hotch and Gideon’s offices are, wondering if you should at least offer them the chance to join you. Gideon barely came with you, but Hotch agreed every so often, and when you could convince him to drink more than two glasses, things always got interesting. He could be fun when he let his walls down, when he joined the playful banters, or when he played along with you when you were back on your usual bullshit after one too many drinks. 

So, despite the others’ protests, you jump up and run into Hotch’s office to convince him to join you. He’s playing hard to get, but you know you could easily get under his skin with a few sweet words, and sure enough, he rolls his eyes and closes the folder he was working with. “Fine,” he says, then stands up to follow you. 

Fast forward to one in the morning, when he’s standing at your door, holding you up while you try to open your front door. Derek offered to take you home, but he wasn’t that sober either, so Hotch took it upon himself to get you home in one piece. Despite being aware of your intoxicated state, he gives you a lecture in the car about how you should try to behave, toning down the innuendos that are usually flowing out of you more often than not. And it only happened around him, which made him wonder if there are real feelings behind them. 

One day is enough to put the pieces together, and when the team goes to their respective rooms after a long day of traveling and getting up to speed with a new case, you can’t help but linger around your boss’ room, debating whether or not you should talk to him. You know he was right that night, that you were taking things too far, that you were overstepping boundaries that existed for a reason. But you didn’t know what to do, your crush on him made it impossible to be around him and act normal. 

And tonight you had a moment of enlightenment and figured out what route you can take to solve this. So, you knock, impatiently waiting for him to open the door for you. When it creaks open, you see that he’s already dressed for bed, wearing a white shirt and black track pants, and his hair is a mess already. “Did something happen?” he asks.

“I know it’s late, I’m sorry. There’s something I want to tell you, but I don’t want to wait until the morning,” you admit, glancing past him into the room as a sign that maybe you shouldn’t discuss it there. He gets the message and steps aside to let you in. “I’m leaving the team,” you announce when he leans against the wall. 

Hotch freezes, but his brown eyes tell you that his brain is in overdrive. “What?” You nod, not feeling like responding with words. “No.”

“That’s not up to you.”

“It should be. Is it because of what we talked about in the car?” he asks as he steps closer, slowly closing the distance between you. You nod again. “Okay, listen to me very, very carefully. I said what I said because I don’t want a scandal. I swear to God, one day the way our team members communicate will trigger a sexual harassment training. Garcia and Morgan? You and me? That’s completely unprofessional, no matter how natural it feels to us,” he says. 

You think about what he said, then you note, “But you never join in when I say those things. It’s not mutual.”

To your surprise, he lets out a laugh, then reaches out to cup your face. “Don’t think I don’t want to,” he admits, leaning so close you can feel his hot breath on your skin. “I love the way you’re teasing me, surprisingly, I even find your stupid daddy and sir kinks endearing, but I need to draw the line at work. I’m your boss, there are rules against relationships like that.” He thinks about this, then lets his hands slide down from your cheek, moving along your neck, down over your collarbone, exploring your sides as he leans in to kiss you. “Stay here tonight. Let me show you how badly I want you,” he breaths against your lips.

Your brain doesn’t work properly anymore, you can’t think of a reason why you should say no to him. So, you stay, giving in to the sexual tension that’s been building up ever since you joined the team. From that night on, you don’t even think about leaving the team again. You just tone down the comments to play by his rules.

[witherby]

hello! great work so far :-) im getting into batfam myself and been loving the platonic/familial works you do w littlest wayne! was wondering if you'd ever do an teen y/n or just an older one? I'd love to see you tackle the idea of a robin y/n or jaybe just some angsty kid stuff,,,,,, hope you had a good new years!

-- :33Anon

I love angst with my whole heart and soul, and I'm happy to write it with a slightly older Reader. Hope you don't mind I've commandeered your prompt to showcase the ability you guys voted on.

This one's a long read so I'm splitting it up. This part is roughly 2400+ words.

The Littlest Wayne: Uncertain Home

(Part 1/2)

Masterlist is Here!

Uncle J'onn is looking at you curiously.

He's been doing that a lot, lately. When Daddy brings you to the Watchtower to be babysat so he can go save the world, one of his co-workers that they can afford to spare gets put in charge of keeping an eye on you. Usually it's Uncle Hal, but this time it's J'onn and he's in his natural form, which you don't mind. Green is your favorite color, and his whole body is green! He's nice and calm, and tells you lots of stories and plays any game you want, even if it's hard for him not to cheat and read your mind. He says it's instinct. You don't hold it against him because you still have fun.

Lately, though, when he talks to you, he tilts his head a bit. He usually does that when he can't understand something.

You wipe your face, checking for cookie crumbs. All clean. You search your shirt for any weird marks or stains. All clean. You scrunch your nose and puff out your cheeks, pouting.

"What's wrong, uncle J'onny?" You ask him. Daddy says the way to get honest answers from someone is just to be forthcoming (Dicky told you what forthcoming meant when you asked him later), so you are. "Did I do something wrong?"

That seems to snap his train of thought. J'onn shakes his head and goes back to sorting out the jigsaw puzzle pieces for you. You're good enough at this to do 100-piece puzzles, now, and when you get really stuck you don't even cry anymore!

"Nothing is wrong, Flittermouse," he says, watching you start putting the edges together first like Dami taught you. "You are simply...changing. Differences are not inherently wrong."

"What's inherably mean?"

"Inherently. It means instinctively, or something that is "set in stone." A rule that does not change. I am stating that change is not something that is always wrong. It's not a firm rule."

You pout and try to process all of that in your brain. It was a partial answer. Daddy says that means people might want to hide something from you.

"What's changing?" You ask him. "I got older a week ago. Is that what you mean? I'm four, now. Grandpappy says I'm getting so big and growed up. He says to not do that so fast. I dunno how, though. He's silly."

J'onn hums. His eyes look away from you as he considers what to say. You put one whole edge together before he speaks again.

"You know that I am not a human, correct?"

"Yeah, I know," you say. "I don't care. I love you. And auntie Diana. And uncle Clark. And uncle Barry. And —"

"Thank you," J'onn gently interrupts. "Do you also know that, sometimes, humans are born not entirely human? That sometimes they get special abilities?"

"Yeah, I know that," you repeat.

"I suspect that —" he cuts himself off, hesitates, then starts again. "Little one. You are showing signs of being one of those humans with special abilities."

"I am?" You ask. You perk up. "Can I fly?!"

You immediately abandon the puzzle and climb onto your chair, about to jump off of it to try and fly around, but J'onn catches you by the back of your shirt before you can hit the ground.

"You cannot."

"Aww...then I don't wanna be a megahuman," you complain, stomping your foot.

"Metahuman."

"Whatever."

"I am sorry," J'onn says, "I did not mean to upset you. I do think you are developing powers, however."

"Not fly powers?" You frown.

"No, not flight powers."

"Boring," you say, blowing raspberries. J'onn cracks a smile at your antics and you giggle. "Help me do the puzzle, please!"

"Alright," he relents, sorting more pieces for you. You're both quiet for a while, and you get the whole frame done before he speaks again.

"Little one. Do you know your father's rule about metahumans?"

"Yeah," you say, grinning, because you're a great listener. You pitch your voice down and make it scratchy. It's adorable in your four-year-old tone. "No metas in Gotham. I am Nighttime. Raaahhh."

J'onn huffs in amusement. "Right. He usually means what he says, does he not?"

"Yeah," you agree, "daddy is a bad liar. He lied and said he didn't eated the last cookie once, but he did eated it. Alfie was mad, 'cause it was for Dami, but Dami didn't care. He likes brownies more than cookies. I like brownies, too."

"I figured," J'onn says. He's not looking at you again. This time he's frowning.

"Do you want brownies?" You ask, figuring that was the issue. "I don't have any. I can ask for some when Daddy comes back. I'm good at sharing, 'cause I'm a good noodle, like Jay says."

"No, but thank you for offering to share. Jason is right, you are a good noodle."

You preen. "I know!"

J'onn drops the subject again and helps you complete the puzzle. You squint at every piece in concentration and politely ask him if he can dim the lights so you can work better. He complies, and after another hour and a half, you have a completed image on the table.

"Yay! We did it!"

The sounds of chatter and footsteps appear down the hall moments later, and you spring to your feet in delight.

"Hello!!!" You shout.

A chorus of "hello!" greets you in return from multiple heroes, and the rest of the Justice League files into the room one by one. They don't look too roughed up, so the mission wasn't very dangerous. That's good. You stand by the door and offer them hugs. Everyone complies, to your endless delight.

"Daddy!" You cheer when you see him, running and hugging Batman's legs. He scoops you into his arms and you grin and point at the table. "Uncle J'onny and I dided a whole puzzle! I didn't give up!"

"Good job, Mouse," Bruce says, reaching out to adjust the light. "You did it in the dark?"

"Yeah," you grin, kicking your feet. "Did you punch bad guys?"

"I did."

"Did you win?"

"Yes."

"Can we have ice cream?"

"Maybe after dinner." He carries you down the hall and towards his temporary quarters, the place he'll stay after a particularly tough mission when he can't make it home right away, and deposits you gently on the bed. "I have to debrief with everyone, and then we can pack up and go home."

"Okay, daddy," you say, already digging through the nightstand for a toy to play with. "I stay right here!"

"Good job," he says again, kissing the top of your head, and leaves you alone with a small wave.

--

The next time you need to be at the Watchtower, it's with Uncle Clark and Auntie Diana. The mission wasn't a super dangerous one, so they both got to stay behind and entertain you.

Today, you're a cashier at your world-famous grocery store. You have the best ingredients all over the world.

"Welcome to the groshy store, what do you want stranger?" You demand, getting into character. Clark looks mildly offended.

"Whoa, hello. That's a lot of 'tude for a paying customer," he says.

"You didn't buy nothing yet! Whataya want!"

"Uh. Some carrots please."

"All out."

Clark narrows his eyes at you. "Can you check in the back?"

You turn around. You turn back.

"All out. Whataya want!"

"You barely looked!" He insists.

"FRESH OUTTA CARROTS, BUB. WHATAYA WANT."

"Oh my goodness, now there's yelling. I think I need to speak to a manager."

"Okay!" You shuffle across the room and grab Diana's hand, leading her back to Clark. "This is the manager. Auntie, tell him all the carrots are gone. He can't have any."

Diana covers her mouth to stifle her laughter. "You heard them, stranger. There are no carrots here."

"Well, aside from the blatant nepotism, auntie, I think you're hiding the carrots from me," Clark huffs, crossing his arms. "I need them for my soup. Guess I'll go to the grocery store across town. I hear they're nicer."

"No," you gasp, "wait. Okay maybe I have one secret carrot. I go get it."

You leave their giggling forms and run over to the toy box that was set up for you on the watch tower, thrusting your hands inside to dig around. You squint your eyes, but all the bright colors are hard to distinguish properly. In the dark spaces, deeper into the box, is where you cast your focus. Instinctively, you follow the trail and close your hand around a plastic carrot. You lift your hand triumphantly.

"Okay, got it!" You cry, only to startle when you find both Clark and Diana kneeling beside your toy chest. Diana picks you up around the waist and takes several steps back, and Clark's eyes turn that funny shade of blue they do when he's using x-ray vision. "Umm, I gotted the carrot already. It's in my hand."

"Are you injured?" Diana asks you, expression deadly serious. You frown and shake your head. "You're certain? I could sense something in that box with you."

"No, I'm fine," you promise. Clark stands up and his eyes go back to normal. He shrugs, brows furrowed.

"There's nothing in there but toys."

"Yeah," you nod, "toys and dark spots."

Both heroes look at you. You squirm in Diana's hold shyly.

"Um, want to pay for the carrot?" You ask, holding it up. "It's only ten dollars. Orrr one lollipop." You whisper conspiratorially. "I can be bribed."

Diana and Clark exchange glances. Clark gingerly takes the carrot from you and puts it back in the toy box.

"Sold. Let's go to the kitchen and pick out which flavor you want."

You grin, forgetting about the game, and Diana puts you on the ground so you can follow excitedly after them. With a couple "pretty please's" and your lethal puppy dog eyes, you even manage to get two lollipops. You ask to be hoisted onto the counter so you can swing your feet as you enjoy the candy, and both heroes perch on either side of you.

It's quiet for a while. It feels like that weird, anticipatory quiet you felt with Uncle J'onny, but you don't know what for, so you wait for one of them to speak. You finish off one whole sucker and open the second one when it happens.

"Mouse?" Clark eventually asks, "can you explain what you meant about your toys? That there are dark spots in there?"

"Yeah," you say, "shadows. Dark spots. Light not touching."

"And you can...feel shadows?"

You hum, thinking it over. "Um...yes. Kind of."

Clark and Diana look at each other again. They're frowning. You frown.

"Can you tell us what you mean by that?" She asks.

"Um. I wanted the carrot, for uncle Clark," you say, "so he can buy it at my groshy store. And the dark spots showed me where it was, and I grabbed it."

"Did they also help you complete the jigsaw puzzle, when you were with J'onn?" Diana asks. "It was quite dark when we got back." You nod.

"Yeah. Easier to do in the dark. It's not cheating!" You blurt. "I didn't cheated!"

"Okay, ya' didn't cheat," Clark agrees, gently patting your back. There's a slight drawl in his words which usually shows up when he's stressed out. "We're just curious, is all, darlin'. Seems you've got a... A special talent, we can call it."

"It's a power. They're a metahuman, Kal," Diana says simply, "and you know Bruce's rule."

The rule? Which one? Always brushing your teeth before bedtime? Or maybe no sweets until you finish your dinner? Hmm, but you haven't had dinner yet. That doesn't make sense.

"No metas in Gotham. I'm very aware, Diana."

"Then you see the problem."

Oh. Now you think you know why uncle J'onny was upset that day.

"Now wait a minute," Clark says. He looks genuinely angry, which confuses you. Did they not like that you could ask the dark for help? They had superpowers, too. You figured they would be happy. "They're his kid."

You are. You're Daddy's little Flittermouse, scampering around and bringing joy. That's what everyone tells you. They love you.

"You've seen how hard he works to keep us out of Gotham," Diana says. "We can be trusted to babysit, but we can't enter the city? What does that tell you?"

"That's different. He's territorial, we all know that. He's not a monster, Diana. He would never hurt them —"

"I'm not saying he is. I'm not saying he would. But I am saying that he doesn't bend his own rules. He does not make exceptions."

Oh.

You sit almost numbly on the counter and watch Clark and Diana start to argue over your place in Gotham. Over your place at home.

You think about Daddy's rule about no metas in Gotham. You think about your new ability to interact with shadows.

Oh.

The lollipop tastes like ash on your tongue and the tips of your fingers feel like tv static. When you blink, your eyes sting as they well up with tears. You've been so good about not throwing fits, about not being a crybaby, about being as strong as your super cool daddy and brothers and grandpa.

But you can't call them that anymore, can you? They don't want metas in Gotham, and that's what you are, now. You can't live with your family anymore.

Large, fat tears roll down your cheeks and your bottom lip wobbles. You whimper and both Diana and Clark whip their heads around to look at you in shock.

"No, oh no, don't cry," Diana coos, "you don't need to worry. Your father isn't —"

You bat her hands away when she reaches for you and jump off the counter, running underneath Clark's cape. They don't catch on to what you're doing in time.

Clark practically rips it off and fans it on the floor, floating above it with wide eyes. Diana kneels next to the fabric and frantically pats it, searching for you.

But there's nothing. You've fled into the shadow Clark's body cast and allowed the darkness to swallow you.

[elryuse]

Caught In The Act

Vivi X Male Reader

Tags : Childhood Friend Vivi, Caught Masturbating, Kissing, Handjob, Romance, A Bit Of Comedy, And Lots of Sex, Creampies

Words : 3,375 words

This is a Commission Work for My Friend @starconstruction Hoped you Like it Bruv.

The sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting lazy stripes across Y/n’s bedroom. His heart raced, not from the heat of the day but from the thoughts that had consumed him for hours—thoughts of her. Vivi. The girl who had been his best friend since they were kids, the one who always knew how to make him laugh, the one who had grown into a woman so breathtakingly beautiful it hurt to look at her sometimes.

Her smile, her laugh, the way her curves seemed to defy gravity… God, she was all he could think about lately. And today, alone in his room, that thinking had taken a very specific turn.

Y/n lay on his bed, hand moving rhythmically under the covers. His breath hitched as he imagined Vivi standing there, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, lips parted just enough to make his pulse spike. He thought about her hands, soft and delicate, trailing down his chest, reaching lower… fuck. He bit his lip, stifling a moan as his grip tightened. He was close, so close, and the fantasy was vivid—Vivi leaning in, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered his name—

“Y/n? Are you home?”

His eyes snapped open, his hand freezing mid-stroke. No. No no no. That voice. It wasn’t in his head. It was real. Panic surged through him as his door creaked open, revealing the very person he had been fantasizing about.

Vivi stood in the doorway, her wide eyes taking in the scene before her. Y/n scrambled to cover himself with the blanket, but it was too late. She had seen everything—the guilty flush on his face, the desperate attempt to hide his arousal, the unmistakable bulge beneath the sheets.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Vivi broke it with a surprised laugh. “Well… this is… unexpected.”

Y/n groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—I thought I was alone—”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind her. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in her gaze—something curious, almost teasing. “You know, most people lock their doors when they’re… busy.”

“I—” He couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. His mind was racing, his body still thrumming with the tension he hadn’t released. “Vivi, I swear, this isn’t—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Relax, Y/n. I’m not mad.” She took a step closer, then another, until she was standing right beside his bed. Her eyes flicked downward, to where the blanket barely concealed his erection.

Y/n’s breath caught. “Vivi, what are you—”

Before he could finish, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the edge of the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted it away, exposing him completely. His face burned, but he couldn’t look away from her. Her expression was intent, focused, as if she were studying him.

“You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?” she asked softly, her voice low and sultry in a way he had never heard before.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “Vivi, I—”

She knelt on the bed, her movements graceful and unhurried. Her hand settled on his thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through him. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “I don’t mind.”

His heart pounded in his chest. This couldn’t be real. It had to be some twisted extension of his fantasy. But the warmth of her touch, the scent of her perfume—it was all too vivid to be anything but real.

“Vivi,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “What are you doing?”

She met his gaze, her eyes dark with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. “Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, without warning, her hand closed around him, firm and sure.

A strangled gasp escaped his lips as pleasure shot through him. Her touch was electric, igniting every nerve in his body. He reached for her wrist, half-heartedly trying to stop her, but she swatted his hand away.

“Don’t,” she said firmly, her grip tightening ever so slightly. “Let me take care of you.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine. He tried to protest, to tell her this was wrong, but the sensation of her hand moving up and down his length stole the breath from his lungs. His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into her grasp.

“That’s it,” she purred, leaning closer. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, “Just let go, Y/n. You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

Her pace quickened, her strokes becoming more deliberate. He could feel the pressure building, coiling tight in his core. His fingers dug into the sheets, his entire body tensing as he fought to keep control.

But it was useless. Every touch, every movement, pushed him closer to the edge. He opened his mouth to warn her, but all that came out was a broken moan. His release hit him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and all-consuming.

Vivi didn’t flinch as he came, her hand working him through it until he was spent and trembling. When he finally collapsed back onto the bed, his chest heaving, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear.

“See?” she teased, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Y/n stared at her, his mind reeling. This was Vivi—his best friend, the girl he had known his whole life. And yet, in this moment, she felt like a stranger. A beautiful, dangerous stranger who had just turned his world upside down.

She climbed off the bed, wiping her hand on the hem of her shirt. Her smirk was positively wicked. “You know,” she said casually, as if they were discussing the weather, “this doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.”

His eyes widened. “Vivi, what are you saying?”

She shrugged, heading for the door. But before she left, she glanced back over her shoulder, her grin making his stomach flip. “Think about it, Y/n. I’ll be waiting.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving him lying there, dazed and utterly speechless. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed in his ears, a stark reminder of what had just happened—and the promise of what might come next.

The days that followed were a blur for Y/n. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel Vivi’s hand on him, her touch burning into his memory like a brand. Her words lingered in his mind, echoing over and over: “This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.” He wasn’t sure if she was serious or just teasing him—he couldn’t tell with her anymore. But the thought of it consumed him, leaving him restless and unable to focus on anything else.

Then came the knock on his door.

It was late, the house quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Y/n froze, his heart pounding as he stared at the door. Was it her? Had she really come back? Before he could decide what to do, the door creaked open, and there she was.

Vivi stood in the doorway, wearing a loose tank top that clung to her curves in all the right places and a pair of shorts so short they barely covered her thighs. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders like silk, and her lips curved into that same devilish smirk he’d come to associate with trouble.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “Did you miss me?”

Y/n swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “Uh… yeah. I mean, no. I mean—” He stopped himself, realizing how ridiculous he sounded. “What are you doing here, Vivi?”

She tilted her head, her smirk widening. “I told you I’d be waiting. And now I’m here.” She took a step closer, her hips swaying slightly as she moved. “Unless… you don’t want me here?”

His breath hitched. Of course he wanted her there. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. But his brain was screaming at him to think, to consider the consequences, to remember that this was Vivi, his best friend since childhood. The girl who had always been there for him, who knew him better than anyone else.

But then she was standing in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something sweet and floral that made his head spin. Her eyes locked onto his, dark and full of promise.

“Do you trust me?” she whispered, her voice low and husky.

He nodded before he could stop himself. “Always.”

Her smile softened, just for a moment, before she reached up and placed her hands on his chest. His heart raced beneath her touch, and he felt himself growing hard already, the reaction instantaneous.

Without another word, she began to unbutton his shirt, her fingers deft and deliberate. Each brush of her skin against his sent a shiver through him, the anticipation building with every passing second. When the last button came undone, she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

“You’re nervous,” she observed, her voice teasing but gentle. “Don’t be. This is me, Y/n. It’s still just me.”

He swallowed again, his hands trembling at his sides. “I know. It’s just… this is…”

“Different?” she finished for him, her lips curving into that familiar smirk. “Good different, though. Right?”

He couldn’t help but nod. Good different didn’t even begin to cover it.

Her hands slid down his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles, and he sucked in a sharp breath. When her fingers reached the waistband of his jeans, she paused, looking up at him through her lashes.

“Can I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

All he could do was nod again, his mind going blank as she undid his belt and zipper with agonizing slowness. When she finally tugged his jeans down, letting them pool around his ankles, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he never had before.

But then she knelt before him, and all thoughts of vulnerability vanished.

Her hands slid up his thighs, sending sparks of electricity through his body, and when she wrapped her fingers around him, he groaned, the sound escaping before he could stop it. She smiled up at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Still think about me?” she teased, her thumb brushing over the tip of him.

“All the time,” he admitted, his voice shaking.

“Good.” Her grip tightened, and she began to stroke him slowly, each movement deliberate and calculated. He clenched his fists at his sides, trying to hold himself together, but it was impossible. The sensations were too much, too intense.

When she leaned forward and took him into her mouth, he nearly lost it.

Her lips were warm and soft, her tongue swirling around him in ways that made his knees buckle. He gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily, but she kept him steady, her hands gripping his thighs as she worked her magic.

“Vivi…” he moaned, his voice thick with desire. “You’re… you’re gonna kill me.”

She pulled back just long enough to smirk up at him. “Not yet,” she murmured before diving back in, her movements becoming faster, more urgent.

His breathing grew ragged, his body tensing as he fought to hold on, but it was no use. With a strangled cry, he came, his release crashing over him like a tidal wave. Vivi stayed with him, swallowing every drop until he was completely spent.

When she finally released him, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “That was just the beginning,” she said, standing up and pulling her tank top over her head in one fluid motion.

Y/n’s eyes widened as her breasts spilled free, perfect and perky and everything he’d ever dreamed of. She reached behind her back, unfastening her bra and letting it fall to the floor, leaving her completely bare from the waist up.

“Your turn,” she whispered, stepping closer and pressing herself against him.

His hands trembled as they settled on her hips, his thumbs brushing against the soft skin just above her waistband. She sighed, her head falling back as he leaned down to kiss her neck, his lips trailing along the delicate curve.

“Are you sure?” he asked between kisses, his voice rough with need.

She nodded, her hands tangling in his hair. “More than sure.”

With that, she pushed him back onto the bed, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips. Her shorts came next, discarded carelessly onto the floor, and then she was naked, her body glowing in the dim light of the room.

Y/n’s breath caught as he looked at her, taking in every inch of her perfect form. She was breathtaking, more beautiful than he’d ever imagined, and she was his—at least for tonight.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” she whispered, reaching down to guide him inside her.

The moment he entered her, their shared gasp filled the room, a symphony of pleasure and relief. Her walls clenched around him, hot and tight, and he groaned, his hands gripping her hips as she began to move.

Her pace was slow at first, deliberate, giving him time to adjust, but soon she picked up speed, her body rocking against his with increasing urgency. Her nails dug into his chest, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps as she rode him.

“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice shaky but firm.

He obeyed, his eyes meeting hers, and in that moment, everything else faded away. There was no past, no future, only this—the two of them, tangled together in a way that felt both new and familiar.

Her movements grew more erratic, her moans louder, until finally, with a cry of his name, she came, her body shuddering as waves of pleasure washed over her. He followed moments later, his own release crashing over him as he buried himself deep inside her.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, panting and trembling, their bodies still connected. Then, with a sigh, she collapsed onto his chest, her ear pressed against his racing heart.

“I meant what I said,” she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin. “This doesn’t have to be a one-time thing.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, she kissed him, her lips silencing his doubts and fears. And in that moment, he knew—he was completely, utterly hers.

Vivi’s lips lingered on his, the kiss deepening with an urgency that made Y/n’s head spin. Her hands slid down his chest, nails lightly scratching his skin as they moved lower, teasing him in a way that sent shivers through his body. His breath hitched, and he felt her smirk against his mouth before she pulled away just enough to whisper, “You’re so easy to read, Y/n. I can see how much you want me.”

His face flushed, but there was no denying it. Every inch of him screamed for her, the memory of their previous encounter still fresh in his mind. He reached out, tangling his fingers in her dark hair, pulling her back into another searing kiss. This time, he took control, nipping at her bottom lip until she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly.

“You’re mine,” she whispered between kisses, her voice low and possessive. The words sent a thrill through him, igniting something primal deep within. He didn’t argue—couldn’t argue. Not when she was looking at him like that, her eyes dark with desire and something else he couldn’t quite place.

Her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, pushing it up and over his head before tossing it aside. She trailed her fingers down his chest, tracing the outline of his muscles before stopping just above the waistband of his boxers. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “How many nights I’ve thought about you… touched myself thinking about you?”

The admission made his heart race, his cock twitching in response. Before he could process her words, she was stripping off her own clothes, revealing the curves he’d fantasized about for years. Her breasts spilled free from her bra, and he couldn’t help but groan at the sight, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her.

She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as his thumbs brushed over her peaked nipples. “Y/n…” she breathed, her hands sliding down to grip his wrists, guiding them lower. “Touch me everywhere.”

He obeyed without hesitation, exploring every inch of her that he’d only ever dreamed of. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm beneath his palms as he cupped her breasts, massaging them gently before moving lower. His fingers traced the curve of her hips, dipping into the sensitive dip of her waist, and finally settling between her thighs.

She let out a shaky breath when his fingers found her already slick folds, her hips bucking slightly as he began to stroke her. “Fuck…” she whimpered, her head falling back as pleasure coursed through her. “You have no idea how good that feels.”

But he did. Or at least, he thought he did. The way she trembled under his touch, the way her breath came in short, erratic gasps—it was intoxicating. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Not for either of them.

Without warning, she pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips with a predatory grin. “My turn,” she purred, her hands trailing down his chest until they reached his still-hard cock. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking him slowly at first, then faster, more urgently. He groaned, his hips lifting off the bed as he thrust into her hand, desperate for more.

But she had other plans. Leaning down, she captured his lips in another fierce kiss, her tongue tangling with his as she positioned herself above him. “I want you inside me,” she whispered against his mouth, her voice trembling with need. “All of you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Gripping her hips, he guided her down onto him, both of them letting out muffled cries as he slid into her wet heat. She rocked against him, her movements slow and deliberate, drawing out every sensation until he thought he might combust.

“God, Vivi…” he choked out, his hands tightening on her hips as she began to move faster. Her inner walls clenched around him, milking him with every thrust, and he could feel himself losing control. But he held on, determined to make this last, to savor every second of being connected to her like this.

She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest as she rode him harder, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. “You feel so good,” she moaned, her nails digging into his skin. “So fucking good…”

Her words spurred him on, and he gripped her hips tighter, thrusting up into her with increasing force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their frantic moans and the creak of the bedsprings. It was raw, unbridled passion, the kind that left no room for thought or restraint.

When she came, it was with a cry of his name, her body shuddering as pleasure ripped through her. He followed moments later, his release crashing over him as he buried himself deep inside her, filling her completely.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, panting and trembling, their bodies still connected. Then, with a sigh, she collapsed onto his chest, her ear pressed against his racing heart.

“I love you,” he blurted out, the words slipping past his lips before he could stop them. For a moment, he panicked, fearing he’d ruined everything. But then she looked up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips.

“About time,” she teased, brushing a strand of hair from his face before leaning in to kiss him. It was gentle, tender, and full of promise.

[writingwisterias]

Hey hey!!

You can ignore this if you aren't comfortable but I was wondering if you have any ideas for how different eras Leon would react or handle drunk gf? Smth like been out with the girlies or asking him for a ride home? Go crazy!

Low key started thinking about it after a minor drunken injury weeks ago (all good!)

Hi Anon!

I'm sorry this late, I hope you are okay lmao! We have all been there at some point 👀...I've never fallen down some stairs or whatever

Hope you enjoy!!

Warnings: Fluff, Drunk!Reader,

Fem!Reader

RE2:

You went to a house party, Leon didn't feel like going though so he stayed behind

He trusted you not to do anything stupid and find your own way back.

That was until he got a call from you that you had been left by your friends and needed him to come and pick you up

He left immediately, pulling up to the location in his jeep with a smile at your state

Had to catch you as he helped you into the car as you tripped on the pavement

The entire ride you are chatting to him about all the gossip. He doesn't care who kissed who that night. Your smile and adorable giggles made his night

Caved when you asked for fast food - with the idea it will sober you up a little bit at least.

RE4R:

I feel like he would like a quieter life but when he meets you and you drag him around everywhere.

He doesn't complain he just goes with the flow, he'll have a few drinks etc to make the time more bearable but never as much as you.

It's cute though, how you'll go out onto the dance floor with a bunch of your friends all stumbling about together

Then you will stumble back over to him, placing a kiss that tasted like whatever you were drinking. A hug that was more you leaning on him than an actual hug

He never prompted you to come back, he was content observing you from the bar, his ass going numb from the bar stool.

When it is time to go home, he's dragging you to a cab. Your leaning on him chattering about whatever was on your mind

Thoughts going by so fast he can barely keep up with you. Changing topics like every 5 seconds

Infinite Darkness:

Encourages you to drink more, he's the type that's willing to be the sober one if he needs to be or at least only limiting himself to a few drinks to make sure you get back safely

He has to drag you out the bar towards the end of the night, your goodbye with the girls is dragging on far too long

The walk back is painful, your stumbling everywhere and so slow to the point he just beds his back and braces his knees

You're hard to carry on his back only because you find it so funny but eventually you pass out

When you do you are like dead weight but don't worry he can take it, he's fought things that are heavier than you

Damnation:

He's drunk with you lets be honest, you are both as bad as each other

Prefers to stay at home and drink so you will too

If you host a girls night he'll happily leave the room and sit in your bedroom so you have the space

The girls don't mind him being there they understand you barely see each other so they are fine with him joining in

When he does, he'll suggest things like board games or card games

For Christmas he'll get you loads of drinking games to play either together or with your friends

Finds it funny when you get the couple drinking games

RE6:

You woke him up from sleeping on the sofa when you called him to pick you up

He's fighting you for an answer as to where you are.

Eventually he just drives to the usual bars not hanging up of course

Finds you just aimlessly wandering down the streets. Pulls over and has to gently guide you into the car

Your moaning about how you have your boyfriend on the phone and he's coming to get you until you realize it's him

He'll give you his jacket in the car so you stay warm, after all the outfit your wearing wouldn't have kept you warm

Loves the gossip you collect and will let you ramble about. There's just something distracting about who kissed who compared to his usual thoughts or conversations with his friends

Vendetta:

The guy would be drunk with you, out and about with your friends whatever. He's with you

And considering he's drank a lot in the film before he starts doing anything I would say he's the type of drunk that you can't actually tell he is until you see the drink

So he's more helpful than you in going home

He's dragging you down the street, pulling you into his side so you stay close

If you fall over he's just sighing and laughing at you

It's almost like two toddlers walking down a street together, they don't know where they are going or how to get there but they do eventually

If you ask for his jacket he'll give it to you but he won't just do it on his own will. He's not really thinking straight

Death Island:

He's smart enough to turn on your phone location before you go out so when you do call him, he's there like instantly

He will sit you down on the bathroom counter and force you to tell him what your skin care routine is as he knows you'll be upset you didn't do it

Will eventually get you to write a step by step process and pin it to his bathroom mirror so he knows in advance

Probably just throws on one of his t shirts instead of finding your own clothes

Listens to your drunken talks until eventually you fall asleep cuddles into him

[cc1306]

hopeless romantic! suna, who can’t stop zoning out, while you’re telling him all about the fight the twins got in during second period. he stares at you blankly, thinking about the way your nose crinkles from laughter as you’re talking to him. cute.

hopeless romantic! suna, who asks, “sorry, what were you saying?” in response to you waving your hand in his face and snapping him out of his daze. with a slight blush on his face, he turns his head, mortified that you caught him failing to pay attention.

“seriously…keep up!” you reprimand him with a half-serious frown and a pout, and he forces himself to pay full attention not wanting to subject himself to such embarrassment again.

hopeless romantic! suna, who stays up late that night facetiming osamu, as he rambles on about some argument he and atsumu got into earlier in the day.

“sunarin, pay attention! quit thinking about [name], i’m talking to you,”

“i wasn’t thinking about her,” he defends, knowing full well that he was wondering if you were still awake before osamu interrupted.

“right, and i’m not the better twin. you know, you should just confess to her before it’s too late. someone else might make a move before you do, then you’ll never get to be with her.”

osamu’s statement made suna think hard.

“…yeah well she doesn’t like me like that. we’re just friends ‘samu.”

“you two are insufferable. let me know when you grow a pair and finally ask her out,” osamu groans out, growing tired of suna’s crippling fear of rejection.

“whatever… im tired now, bye,” suna cut off osamu’s rant with a yawn, before he ended the call.

would she really go out with someone else?

today was the day. suna decided that today would be the day he put his fear to the side and told [name] how he felt. he felt his hands tremble every time she was near and his heart pound, as adrenaline surged through his body.

during your lunch break, you sat on the roof together, just the two of you alone. suna saw this moment as his opportunity, the perfect chance to try and confess his feelings to you. you were currently rambling to him again, telling a story he honestly tried to listen to, but it proved difficult considering his heart was beating out of his chest, as he thought of how you’d respond to what he was about to tell you.

“and then aran and kita told me-“

“[name], i-“ he interrupts you mid-sentence, but his voice got caught in his throat. he cursed himself for being so nervous, all he had to do was say the three words but nothing came out.

“yeah, what’s up?” you ask him, as you drink from your strawberry milk carton contentedly.

“i…umm… i have something to tell you,”

okay yes, good start. just tell her.

“okay…should i be worried?” you ask, starting to get concerned about how serious suna suddenly became.

you thought he’d been acting strange the past week, like how he’s been zoning out recently when speaking to you, or just staring strangely. you’re getting the vibe that somethings wrong with him. maybe he’s sick? maybe he doesn’t want to be your friend anymore? you have no clue what to think, so you chose to hear him out.

“no…well, maybe.”

he felt his hands getting clammy and nervously rubbed them on his trousers. his eyes darted everywhere, looking at everything in the room except back at your own expecting pair. he realised he’d been silent for too long - he needed to say something now.

“i have to tell you how much you mean to me. you might not realise it, but i’m obsessed with you. i think of you before i sleep, and you’re the first thing i think of when i wake up. you consume me, and i don’t know what i would do without you,” he blurted out, speaking so quickly you wouldn’t have been able to keep up if you weren’t listening so intently.

you sat there, stunned in silence. of all things he could’ve said to you, you certainly didn’t expect this. he took your silence as a signal to continue his speech.

“i need you in ways that surely can’t be healthy,” he chuckled, releasing a nervous breath.

“i-“

“you don’t have to accept it. i don’t expect you to tell me you feel the same, but i’d wait forever for you. if you want to be just friends then we will. but you have to tell me what to do. i like you so much. you can say you hate me. you can say you don’t feel the same. just tell me the truth.”

he couldn’t muster up the courage to look you in the eyes, so he kept his gaze trained to the ground, staring hard at the laces of his shoes.

“suna..” you started, forcibly sucking in a breath of air since you felt like all of it had been knocked out of your lungs.

“that’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me. thank you. i don’t now what i’d do without you either because i like you too,” you confessed as he rushed to hold you in his arms in a warm hug.

“thank God, i don’t know what i’d do if you rejected me,” he joked, covering up his anxiety with humour.

“i could never reject you,” you beamed at him in return. he felt his heart explode.

hopeless romantic! suna, who returned to last period that day with a smile from ear to ear, as he entered the classroom hand in hand with you by his side.

[the-universal-sun]

Okay first of all I love your first post was bonding to my ask but also I was wondering could I get some head cannons on Ford being the twins caregiver( the baby twins Dipper and Mabel)

@pinkyshy10 i want to make sure I get the notification that's why I'm tacking myself

Thank you for your ask, of course you can get some hc of Ford being Dipper and Mabel’s caregiver! I loved writing this request so much! The babies! ! I did talk about Stanley helping some, but this is all Ford caregiving for the twins! The three of them are such cuties!!! I hope it lives up to your expectations! I’m so sorry it’s so late, I’ve got a back log but I’m working through them! Please stay nice and warm this week!

I’ll tag you here so you can see it too, just in case: @pinkyshy10

As always, I’m always open for helpful comments and critiques!

Sending you all the loce in the world!

-_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-_ -_-

-Ford never expected to be a caregiver to two small children, nonetheless children that regress, but he takes it in stride. He loves his niblings and would do anything for them, so of course he’s more than willing to watch over and care for them, letting the two of them crawl into his bed when they have a nightmare or two

-He’ll ease them back to sleep with the more happy tales from his time dimension hopping, telling them how cute they looked in that baby dimension. He’ll pat their backs and brush their hair-trying to remember how it was his mother and then Stanley consoled him. They snuggle on his chest and pass out near instantaneously once he gets them settled

-He did feel overwhelmed at first, but he has Stanley to support him and calm him down. It helps that the twins don’t always regress together, though it’s more often than not

-Ford would be a less stern caregiver for the twins than Stanley would be. Surprising everyone, but this is the man who gave a 12 year old a crossbow

-He’s stricter with what they eat and when they sleep, but for everything in between Ford has more of a “all long as nobody gets seriously injured” mindset

-They need nap time and semi-nutritious food. Nap time isn’t hard, but it’s not easy. The twins, energetic on the regular, are hyperactive when they regress, if they could bounce off the walls, Ford bets they would. To get them to take a nap, he’ll try to tire them out but chasing them, but when that doesn’t always work, he’ll wrap them up tightly in a big blanket, lay them down with some pillows in the floor, turn down the lights, and either play a really boring black and white that would him to sleep or roughly hum an old lullaby he picked up from someone, scratching their heads to lull them to sleep

-He uses their nap time to get some alone time, decompress and to breathe from all the energy he had been surrounded with, Stanley looking over the twins to give him brother a break

-Food is…another issue. Ford can make a mean sandwich and pour juice and milk, he can put fruits and veggies on a tray with some cheese or dipping sauce, but he cannot cook. Not well and not palatable enough for two regressed tweens, if they want edible Mac and cheese or pancakes, it’s either they don’t get any and Ford’s at the wrong end of sad puppy dog eyes, or he’s asking Stanley to make them

-He won’t let them eat Greasy’s when he’s caring for them, he thinks it’s too unhealthy for such young children (and he had such a bad experience there he never wants to go back)

-It took some getting used to, caring for Dipper and Mabel when they regress, but he does have help in the form of Stanley, who’ll act as a babysitter if Ford needs to have his attention elsewhere for a moment or two. Ford also learned the basics of caring for children from Stan, though he has to modify it to fit in with the twins’ smaller ages

-It surprised him to find out that Little Dipper (so Ford’s nickname for him now) is more talkative than a Little Mabel. She does talk, but she’s quieter, more content to observe, unless you bring up a topic she’s super interested in. Dipper, however will go on and on about anything and everything. He is a “but why” little, which, Ford loves how inquisitive Dipper is, always wanting to know more, but at the same time, when he’s been asked “but why not?” 10 times in a row, he needs to steer the conversation to something else

-He tries to set individual little time with the twins so he can engage with them one-on-one, it’s in these cases that Stan will watch the other twin. He does arts and crafts and tea parties with Mabel, sometimes putting together Lego sets if it’s one she seems interested in. Sometimes they’ll just cuddle and watch a movie if that’s what she wants. He very much likes gossiping with her stuffed animals at the tea parties, spreading the most juicy inter-dimensional rumors.

-With Dipper, they’ll do puzzles, put together legos, and paint. Dipper loves finger painting when he’s feeling small, Ford doesn’t mind that he gets everything messy even with a smock on, his boy doesn’t look anxious or tired, his eyes bright and lacking their usual bags. If he starts asking too many questions, Ford may sometimes turn on a kid friendly documentary to keep him distracted

-Dipper and Mabel both love it when Ford reads to them, he gets so into the characters and get super dramatic, making them laugh and squeal behind their pacifiers

-They both have pacifiers, Dipper because he keeps chewing on his shirts, Mabel because she wanted to be like him, but actually really liked how soothing it is

-Dipper’s nickname is the Little Dipper and Mabel is Ford’s Meteorite. He thinks the names are cute, no matter how much Stanley may tease him about it

-No Mabel Juice when they’re little. Never again.

-Even when regressed, these two love to chase mysteries and go exploring, getting into as much mischief as possible with Ford’s eyes on them. He does allow them to go on adventures in Gravity Falls with him, but only if they’re kiddie friendly and he has to keep an eye on them at all times (Stanley’s rules). He only goes about 50 feet into the forest, which is plenty fun for them, they love running around and picking up every shiny rock and cool stick they find, sometimes wondering off too far if something catches their eye.

-Ford almost had a heart attack when he couldn’t find Dipper one day, looking everywhere, while holding Mabel in his arms, only to find him further in the trees arguing with a gnome

-The twins now have backpack leashes for when they leave the shack while regressed. It’s safer for them and makes it less liable that their Grunkle’s have a heart attack

-Ford loves his niblings, he doesn’t mind caring for them whatever their headspace may be. They’re both such caring and lovable individuals, it brings a pleasant ache in his chest to know that they care for him, trust him so much, that they allow themselves to be vulnerable like this around him. He loves his little family so much

[notiddygothgf]

17. Not a Date

★ pairings: aki hayakawa x fem reader

★ ❝Is this a date? ❞

★ c.w.: suggestive content. tooth rotting fluff. the hayakawa family being the hayakawa family. denji and power need their own warning.

★ a/n: HIIII EVERYONEEEEE!!! im back from my unofficial hiatus. So let me spill the tea -- as you all may know, I'm a Premedical student, and let me tell you..... finals did my ass INNNNN!! it was a struggle to stay alive but we #survived. I haven't been feeling like myself lately, but I'm taking a winter vacation to my lovely motherland, Puerto Rico, and I am SOOOO at peace rn. It's done wonders for my creative juices.

Thank you all for leaving such wonderful comments on all of the chapters while I was away. Yes, I've been reading them, and, yes, I've been cracking up over them for the past two-ish months. Y'all are fuckin hilarious. Anyway!! To make up for my absence, I've decided to double update and feed the girlies. I'm so sorry! I didn't forget about y'all... but....

Y'all know the drill... the more you comment, the more I update! comment away!! hugs and kisses from PR!!

★ w.c: .4.1k

shameless ; chapter index

As Aki was presently in no shape to cook, the two of you decided to go out for dinner. You tried hard not to think too hard about what it meant – of course, it was hard to ignore the way he tossed a twenty at Denji and Power and told them not to kill the delivery driver (and, subsequently, to not call him unless it was a dire emergency).

It wasn’t a date. He hadn’t asked you on a date, yet, so it wasn’t one.

So why did you feel so nervous?

Picking at the seam of your Public Safety slacks – the only decent outfit you had available, unless you counted your unlimited supply of oversized clothes from your not-quite-boyfriend – you shifted in your seat. Your eyes flitted over the restaurant, its patrons, the red wallpaper; anything but the handsome young officer sitting in front of you.

Aki was sitting directly across from you, long legs spread beneath the table, donning a blue button down shirt and some black slacks. It wasn’t the Public Safety uniform you had been so used to but, still, it was nice. His hair was down, the way you liked it, framing his pretty face beneath the dim lighting in a way that had your heart thrumming anxiously against your ribcage. 

Again, though, it wasn’t a date. He hadn’t said it was a date. 

You were just nervous because it was the first time you and him had gone out to eat together… alone.

Your plate was empty. Aki’s plate still had a few pieces of spaghetti on it. Long, pretty fingers plucked a fork off the table and twirled the noodles around until they were all balled up. He popped the spaghetti into his mouth, chewing with a quiet hum to signify his satisfaction.

Finally, he replied to the question you had asked a minute earlier. “November 11th.”

“You’re a scorpio?” You tilted your head, flashing him a funny little smile despite the horde of butterflies loose in your chest. 

“I guess,” He shrugged. He polished off the remainder of his spaghetti in one bite. “What about you?”

“Cancer,” You answered. “July 12th.”

He only nodded, smiling faintly as he wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. The motion was casual, but there was something disarming about the way his smile lingered—warm and unhurried, like the late afternoon sunlight stretching across the café table. It made you falter, your own words catching in your throat as you searched for some confirmation, some clue in his expression to tell you what this was.

When his response came only in the form of that soft smile, the silence began to press down on you. A beat passed, then another, before you let the intrusive thought escape. “We’re supposed to be compatible.”

“Are we?” His grin deepened, and though it carried his usual dry amusement, there was an edge of curiosity there too—like he was testing the weight of your words.

“That’s what the zodiac says, anyway.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance as you reached for your glass of water. The rim felt cool against your lips, a welcome distraction from the heat creeping up your neck. You told yourself it was ridiculous to put so much stock into something you’d read in a horoscope, and yet, your heart still beat a little faster when he tilted his head, considering you.

When the busboy came to collect the plates, Aki leaned back in his chair, his gaze softening as it settled on you. You caught it in your peripheral vision and turned toward him, only to find his expression unreadable but impossibly fond. That low hum of agreement that followed—“I have to agree”—seemed to reverberate in your chest, grounding you and upending you all at once. 

Your breath hitched, and you felt your composure slipping, the warmth rising from your chest to your face, blooming like a flush of petals that wouldn’t stop spreading. Were you imagining it? Reading too much into a simple response? He had always been measured with his words, careful to say only what he meant—but what did this mean?

The thoughts looped in your mind as you stared down at the now-cleared table, the edges of the placemat a blur. When you finally looked up, his eyes were still on you, patient, as though waiting for you to catch up to some conclusion he’d already reached.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. “Is this a date?”

For a split second, you panicked. Maybe you’d said too much. Maybe you’d made it weird. But then his eyebrows raised, just slightly, and his lips curved into something small but genuine. “Why do you ask?” 

“Well…” You tried to play it cool, but your voice betrayed you, coming out softer than you’d intended. “It feels like one.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, leaning forward just enough for his elbow to rest against the edge of the table. “I would’ve dressed a little nicer if I knew I was taking you out out.” His tone was teasing, but the look in his eyes suggested something more—a hopefulness that mirrored your own.

Your heart swelled at the words, a warmth unfurling in your chest that no amount of teasing could deflate.

“Do you… want it to be a date?” He asked, then.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the directness of the question, and you wondered if he could see how your pulse quickened. 

“I dunno… I mean,” You sighed, “On paper, I’m still married.”

Aki quirked a brow, “I think we’re a little far past that, aren’t we?”

You laughed – a genuine one, one that made your chest feel light. “I mean, it just doesn’t feel right – us dating before the divorce is finalized.”

There it was again. That word – divorce. 

It was hard to believe all of this was really happening.

“Then, it doesn’t have to be a date,” He shrugged, as if divorce and making the relationship official weren’t a big deal. Then, as if he had sensed the way you deflated, he added, “We can go on our first date when everything is finalized – go out ‘n celebrate,” Then, he smiled, “I’d take you somewhere way nicer than this, anyway.”

You could have laughed at the absurdity of it all. In fact, you almost did. “Celebrating a divorce with your mistress. That’s not something you hear every day,” You grinned. 

For a moment, a part of you doubted if this—all of this—was the right thing to do. The thought lingered like a shadow, nudging at the edges of your mind even as you tried to ignore it. Was it too soon? Too messy? Too complicated? The weight of your still-intact marriage loomed large, a tether that made it hard to feel fully present. But even as those doubts surfaced, another part of you felt freer than you had in years—like unshackling yourself from a life that had stopped fitting long ago.

A part of you wondered if – after all was said and done – Aki would leave you hanging. Leave you all alone with nothing but the wreckage of your life. 

But you took one long look into his eyes, and you knew that couldn’t have been further from the truth. Half-lidded and glimmering with affection, his eyes gazed back at you with nothing but pure adoration. He was in love.

I don’t think I have anything to worry about, you thought. As long as I have him, that is.

Before either of you could speak again, the waiter approached, his polite smile breaking the stillness of the moment. “How was everything?” he asked, his voice chipper.

Aki leaned back slightly, his tone relaxed yet earnest. “It was wonderful, thank you.”

The waiter nodded, seeming pleased, and placed the check down on the table. “Whenever you’re ready,” he said before stepping away, leaving you both alone again.

You reached for your purse instinctively, fingers brushing the leather strap as you glanced at the small black folder between you and Aki. But before you could pull it closer, he slapped his card down onto the table.

“Don’t even think about it,” He grumbled, though there was a flirty lilt to his words. 

“Aki, you’ve already done so much for me, letting me crash and–” You sighed, attempting to gently pry the checkbook out from beneath his fingertips. “At least let me pay for this.”

“No,” He answered without saving a beat. 

You furrowed your brows, “Halvsies?”

He made a similar expression, tilting his head at you as if that was the stupidest question he had ever been asked, “Are we… friends, or something?”

“Not really,” You bit your lip, a cheeky little smile threatening to break loose. “We’re not really dating, either, though, are we?”

“Friends don’t say I love you,” Aki slid the checkbook back over to his side of the table. Leaning in, he added, “A friend wouldn’t make you cum the way I do, either.”

Your face was on fire – you were probably red as a fire truck. You hissed, “Aki.”

“It’s the truth,” He replied. It was evident that he couldn’t possibly have cared less about where the two of you were. 

“What, so you’re telling me you don’t go around giving all of your friends head?” You whispered back, barely fighting off a smile.

“You won’t win this game, so don’t start,” He deadpanned. Unfolding the checkbook, he glanced over the bill, quickly slipping his card into the slot at the top. “Or I can show you just how friendly I am when we get home.”

His words made you bristle in an almost feline manner. “Who says I don’t want that?”

The waiter came by the table a second time, swiping up the checkbook as he did so. Aki looked at you with a smirk that implored you to try and pay the bill now.

“You’re a fiend,” He muttered with a shake of his head. “I just got out of the hospital, anyway. Doctor told me to avoid any…” Here, his gaze dipped, running over the length of your shoulders, your trembling hands. “Strenuous activity.”

You leaned forward, perching your chin on your palm. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you teased. “Wouldn’t want you to pull your back.”

He quirked a brow. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you test my patience,” He replied. “Try and make me give you what you want.”

“And what do I want, Captain?” You licked your lips – shamelessly, too. You were truly unhinged.

Aki visibly folded at the nickname, eyes softening. His lips parted, as if he were about to say something, but before he could, the waiter returned with the check, setting it down on the table in front of Aki with a quiet, “Have a lovely evening.” 

“If you wait thirty minutes,” He purred, “I can show you.”

(You had never left a restaurant quicker in your entire life).

Aki wound up doing no such thing. In fact, the two of you made a little pit stop at the convenience store to pick up some essential items for you – including skincare and a four animal-print face masks – before going home. Now, Aki sat sandwiched between you and the couch, with you sitting in his lap, laying a face mask onto his skin. His bangs were clipped back with the stupid little butterfly clips you had picked up, and he looked adorable – jammies and all.

He pouted, “This feels ridiculous.”

“Oh, shut up,” You retorted with a roll of your eyes, “They’re supposed to be relaxing, and you could stand to loosen up a little.”

A few feet away, Denji was trying to show Power how to open a face mask packet. It was a fruitless endeavor – one that ended with her biting into the plastic and ripping it off with her teeth. While he argued with her, his own tiger-print mask was sliding off of his face. His hair was clipped in the front the same way Aki’s was.

“God, you’re hopeless,” Denji muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, betraying his amusement.  

Aki sighed. “This is chaos.”  

“And yet,” you teased, running a finger over his mask for the final smoothing touch, “You’re still here, participating.”  

Just as you turned to grab your own face mask, you felt Aki’s fingers wiggle against your sides. A squeal tore from your throat as he tickled you mercilessly, his stoic mask cracking into a rare grin.  

“Aki! Stop!” you yelped, squirming to escape.  

“Not until you admit this is ridiculous,” he teased, his voice light in a way that sent a flutter through your chest.  

“Never!” you cried, twisting in his lap and finally managing to push his hands away.  

The moment you turned back to scold him, Aki caught you off guard. His hands found your waist again, but this time, they steadied you just before he leaned in and kissed you. It was soft and unhurried, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment, and your heart stuttered in response.  

Aki's kiss caught you entirely off guard. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, as if testing the waters, but when you didn’t pull away—when you instead leaned into him—he pressed in just a little more. His hands, still resting at your waist, tightened slightly, grounding you. The faint scent of his cologne, crisp and woodsy, mingled with the faint cucumber aroma of the face mask, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.  

Your hands instinctively found their way to his shoulders, and the tension that always seemed to weigh him down melted under your touch. It wasn’t like Aki to be so open, so unguarded, but in this instant, there was nothing but the quiet exchange of warmth, a wordless confession in the way his lips lingered against yours.  

It wasn’t until Denji’s exaggerated gagging sound shattered the stillness that the spell broke. “Blech! Get a room!”  

Power tilted her head, squinting. “Why would they need a whole room? The couch is big enough.”  

You pulled away, face burning as Aki shot Denji a look that could wither a plant. “Mind your business.”  

“Hard to do when you’re face-smashin’ right in front of me!” he retorted, adjusting his sliding mask with exaggerated annoyance.  

You pulled back first, albeit reluctantly, though it wasn’t much of a retreat—your faces still hovered close, noses nearly brushing. Aki’s eyes flickered open, his usual calm slightly disrupted by the barest hint of embarrassment, though he didn’t let you go. His hands remained firm at your waist, keeping you close as if he wasn’t quite ready for the moment to end either.  

Your breath came out in a soft laugh, the sound barely audible over your thudding heart. “Well,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, “that’s one way to loosen up.”  

Aki’s lips quirked into a small smile, his voice low and teasing. “I think I’m starting to like spa night. Let’s do this more often.”

Denji groaned dramatically, throwing himself back against the couch cushions. “Ugh, you two are the worst.”  

You sighed, your gaze still locked with Aki’s for a beat longer before you finally, begrudgingly, pulled away fully. You missed the way his fingers lingered at your waist, how his eyes followed you even as you turned to address Denji.  

“Alright, fine,” you said, shaking off the lingering butterflies. “We have about 20 minutes with these masks. What do you guys wanna do to blow time?”

Denji perked up at that, glaring at you like he’d just been handed ammunition. Aki, meanwhile, leaned back against the couch, his expression settling back into its usual calm—though the faintest flush on his cheeks betrayed him. You felt it too, a warm buzz that lingered on.

Aki’s arm rested comfortably around your shoulders, his thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles against your upper arm. Despite the teasing and laughter filling the room, you felt grounded by his steady presence.  

“Truth or dare?” Aki asked suddenly, his calm voice cutting through the noise.  

Denji blinked, his brow furrowing. “What’s that?”  

You couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a game, Denji. You pick ‘truth’ or ‘dare.’ If you pick truth, you have to answer any question honestly. If you pick dare, you have to do whatever the other person tells you.”  

Denji’s face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Oh, I’m gonna make you all regret teaching me this. Alright, cool. I dare Power to take a bath.”  

Power’s head snapped up, indignation written all over her face. “I never said dare! I was going to say truth!”  

Denji shrugged. “Truthfully, you smell like shit.”  

Power gasped dramatically, clutching at her chest. “You DARE insult me in my own home?”  

“You DARE stink up my air?” Denji fired back. “Seriously, it’s bad. Like, I’m surprised we’re all still breathing.”  

You turned to Aki, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to say something about this?”  

He gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable but his lips twitching with amusement. “For once, I’m with him.”  

“See? Even stick-in-the-ass agrees with me,” Denji cackled.  

“Fuck you,” Aki hissed. “Twat.”

Power huffed, folding her arms with exaggerated pride. “I’ll only bathe if I lose a dare.”  

The game surged forward in full chaotic force after Power’s dramatic declaration. She leaned back on the couch, crossing her arms smugly, as if daring someone to challenge her resolve. Denji, of course, took that as a personal mission.  

“Alright, alright,” Denji said, cracking his knuckles. “Next round. Power, truth or dare?”  

“Truth,” Power said immediately, grinning. “I’m far too cunning for your ridiculous dares.”  

Denji’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Fine. What’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever done?”  

Power didn’t even hesitate. “I ate a bug I found under the sink last week.”  

“Oh my god,” you shrieked, recoiling in horror.  

Denji looked torn between admiration and nausea. “That’s so gross but… also kinda badass.”  

“Badass?!” you exclaimed, turning to Aki for support.  

“She’s disgusting,” Aki said flatly, though there was a flicker of exasperated amusement in his expression.  

Power preened at the response. “Thank you for noticing my magnificence. My turn again!”

“No way,” Denji interrupted. “You don’t get to go twice in a row. It’s their turn.” He pointed at you and Aki, his grin turning sharp. “Alright, lovebirds. Which one of you is gonna play?”  

Aki sighed, his hand still resting on your shoulder. “I’ll go. Truth.”  

Denji rubbed his hands together like an evil mastermind. “Are you guys in an actual relationship or are you just fuckin’?”  

The room went quiet, the tension crackling like static electricity.  

Aki didn’t flinch, his expression calm as he met Denji’s expectant stare. “That’s not really your business.”  

“Hey, hey, that’s not how the game works!” Denji protested, waving his arms. “You gotta answer!”  

Aki shrugged, completely unbothered. “I just did.”  

You nudged him with your elbow, though your cheeks were burning. “By not answering, you’re only giving him more ammunition.”  

Denji groaned loudly, throwing himself back against the couch. “You two are so boring. Power, do something dramatic!”  

Power snapped to attention. “Truth or dare?” she demanded, pointing at Denji.  

“Dare,” he replied instantly, his bravado returning.  

Power grinned like a cat about to pounce. “I dare you to run outside and yell ‘Power is the queen of the world’ at the top of your lungs!”  

Denji didn’t even hesitate. He leapt to his feet and bolted out the door. A moment later, his voice rang through the night, startling several nearby birds.  

“Power is the queen of the world!”  

When he stomped back inside, his chest heaving, you couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re insane.”  

“Yeah, but I’m fun,” Denji shot back, collapsing onto the couch with a proud grin.  

Denji's triumphant declaration echoed through the room as he plopped back onto the couch, shaking water droplets from his hair after his dramatic outdoor yell. Power cackled, her chest puffed up in exaggerated pride as though his dare somehow validated her self-proclaimed title.  

“Alright, alright,” Denji said, waving a hand as he caught his breath. “Who's next? Let’s keep this going before it gets boring again.”  

You raised your hand. “I’ll go. Power, truth or dare?”  

Power smirked, leaning forward. “Dare, obviously. Give me your best shot, mortal.”  

You grinned, eyes narrowing. “I dare you to drink this entire bottle of water without spilling it, using only your mouth—no hands.”  

Power squawked in outrage. “This is an insult to my dignity! I am no dog!”  

“Well, you don’t smell much better than one,” Denji quipped, earning himself a glare.  

With a dramatic flourish, Power leaned forward, grabbed the edge of her bottle with her teeth, and awkwardly tipped her head back. The water sloshed everywhere, soaking her shirt and the couch cushions. She spat the bottle out onto the coffee table with a proud grin. “Success!”  

“Yeah, sure,” Aki muttered, brushing a hand over his damp pants where some of the water had splashed.  

“Your turn, Aki,” Denji said, rubbing his hands together. “Truth or dare?”  

Aki sighed deeply, as if already regretting his decision. “Dare.”  

Denji’s grin turned predatory. “I dare you to let your hair down for the rest of the night.”  

Aki blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it?”  

“No, wait—” Denji’s face lit up with a devilish thought. “And you have to let Power style it!”  

Power howled with laughter. “Yes! I’ll do it!”  

You watched, half-amused and half-apologetic, as Aki begrudgingly sat still while Power tugged and twisted his hair with zero finesse, producing a lopsided braid that looked like it had barely survived a hurricane.  

“There,” Power declared, clapping her hands together. “Magnificent!”  

Aki reached up to feel the disaster on his head, his expression unamused. “I’m never trusting any of you again.”  

“Okay, okay, my turn!” Denji said eagerly. “Truth or dare, babe?” He pointed dramatically at you.  

At this point, who gave a shit about order, right?

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics. “Dare.”  

His grin widened. “Alright, I dare you to answer this question – am I cute?”  

Your jaw dropped. “That’s not a dare!”  

“Sure it is,” Denji said, shrugging with mock innocence. “You have to answer, or you lose. So, what’s it gonna be? Am I cute, or am I not cute?”  

Power leaned forward, clearly invested. “Answer truthfully, mortal. Denji’s fragile ego depends on this.”  

Aki sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose but unable to hide the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.  

You crossed your arms, glaring at Denji, who looked entirely too smug. “Fine. You’re... adorable.”

The room erupted into laughter.  

“I’m not adorable!” Denji shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “What do you think I am, a dog?”

“Exactly,” you replied, grinning.  

Aki, clearly enjoying himself now, leaned back with an amused hum. “Sounds accurate to me.”  

Power, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, added, “You do smell like a dog most of the time, so it’s fitting.”  

“Traitors, all of you!” Denji grumbled, flopping back against the couch dramatically. “I’m the cutest one here, and you all know it.”  

Aki shook his head, his voice calm but cutting. “Keep telling yourself that.”  

Denji shot him a look. “Fine, Aki, your turn again! Truth or dare?”  

“Truth,” Aki said without hesitation.  

Denji’s mischievous grin returned. “Alright, serious question. Do you think you’re cute?”  

You couldn’t stop the laugh that burst out of you. “Oh, this is good.”  

Aki didn’t even flinch. “No.”  

Okay then.

The bluntness of his answer caught Denji off guard. “Wait, seriously?”  

Aki shrugged. “I don’t think about it.”  

“Lame,” Denji groaned. He turned to you. “Do you think he’s cute? Like, boyfriend cute?”  

The room went silent again, and you felt every pair of eyes on you. Your face heated under the scrutiny, but you refused to back down.  

“Yes,” you said firmly, meeting Aki’s gaze. “He is.”  

For a moment, Aki just stared at you, his eyes softening. Then he reached up, brushing his hand lightly against your hair. “Thanks,” he said quietly, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. (Of course, it was hard to take him seriously when his hair was so atrociously braided).

“Don’t start,” Denji groaned, breaking the moment. 

“You asked,” you shot back, laughing.  

a/n: hiiiiiii, i hope you liked the fruits of my labor. (the real holdup was actually next chapter, which proved to be much more difficult to write)... anywho i'm not gonna say too much because I'll see y'all in the next chapter. Let me know your thoughts!! Ta ta!! xx QOTD: do you think denji sneaks into aki's room to try on his clothes when he's not home? bc i do.

credits: UNKOWN ATM. I found the cover pic on pinterest unfortch. If you know the artist, please let me know, so I can credit them properly for their work!!! This is NOT MY BEAUTIFUL DRAWINGGG. I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

taglist: @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505 , @acethebrave , @mitsuyeahhh , @sleepysnk , @enneadec , @noaabean , @em1e , @drakensdarling , @bertholdts--butt , @satanlovesusall666 , @mitsuwuyaa , @noctifule , @scaraphobia , @ask-the-insect-hashira , @lovingranchturkeyweasel , @bontensbabygirl , @slvdsjjk , @novacrystalli , @hanmastattoos , @kodzuksn , @hqtiny , @ohmaiscool15 , @redlittlequeen , @leivane , @goldeneagles-posts , @yeahblahlame , @no-oneelsebutnsu , @cookiesandcreammy , @cawwn , @the-haitani-baton , @littlelovebug98 , @armani78 , @mindurownbussines , @kokos-property , @violetmatcha , @hp-simp505

wanna join the taglist? | shameless ; chapter index

[cakesfunhouse]

HELLO!!! HERES A A VERY VERY LAZY THING I WROTE FOR YOUR BUNKER AU REAL QUICK, A DAYDREAM I HAD LOLLL ITS LATE SORRY

!!!! charades, sun & y/n

mute y/n + language barrier obvs, but y/n understands a little now after being with the boys for some time, they’ve been proud human owners for about five or six months now hehe

the prompt: y/n lately has been trying really hard to communicate with the boys, a recent development <3

currently sun is fixing y/n their lunch, today it’s something simple

he still can’t get over how tiny the portions he has to make for them, so cute

behind him, y/n has been slowly pacing in circles for awhile with a far off look on their face, having trailed in the kitchen after him like a duckling

sun takes notice after a few moments and watches in mild curiosity before asking y/n what they’re doing

it takes y/n a minute to stop and look at him, not realizing they were being spoken to at first and looks up and stares at him like a cutie

“whats wrong, sweet thing?” sun repeats

y/n looks down for a second afterwards, he guesses thinking to themselves based on the way they ever so slightly scrunch up their cute little face before miming sleeping by putting their hands together by their cheek like the way moon does and then pointing at sun, then staring up at sun expectantly again

sun hums thoughtfully, offering a soft smile down at them as he bends his knees and rests his hands on his thighs “are you tired, sunshine?”

they pause before repeating the gestures again, not tired it seems. he watches patiently, then makes a display of thinking to himself. glancing up off to the side and putting a finger to the edge of his faceplate as if he had a chin before returning his attention back to them

“moon?”

they frown and look to the floor, staring at the cracks between the tiles

he gives a small “hm,” before continuing

“you want to know where moon is?”

he’s about to clarify when his sunshine abruptly puts their arms up to form an ‘x’ in front of their chest and and shakes their head before shuffling closer and tugging on the end of his pant leg a few times with both hands in the way that makes them lean back as they try to dig their heels in the ground, but the tiles of the kitchen just make them slide in their little socks, looking over their shoulder while they do so. they let go after the third tug and run off elsewhere in the house out of sight

confused, sun follows after them in the direction they had headed, quickly finding them waiting at the threshold of the living room, peeking around the lip of the wall, upon seeing sun come towards them they run off again, but not out of sight this time. they walk up to the coffee table situated in front of the couch, fingering at the edges of one of its drawers and pulling hard to drag the drawer out, sun reaches out to help them as he walks up to them but they’ve already pulled it out and are now climbing up it and into it

he kneels down by the drawer and watches curiously as they rummage around in there, eventually they try to drag out a notepad and push it up onto the surface of the coffee table with a loose crayon under their arm, visibly struggling to do so though so sun gently takes the notebook from them with one hand and scoops them up in the other and places them onto the coffee table surface

after righting themselves a bit and smoothing out their clothes they untuck the crayon from under their arm, oversized in their hands being as small as they are, they go to the notepad, carefully getting down on to their knees and start drawing something out

they draw out a simple sun first, glancing back at the sun behind them briefly from over their shoulder as they continue, they put down a plus sign and then beside it they doodle out what looks like someone sleeping with a dream cloud bubble above their head

y/n turns to look at sun for a moment, searching for something in his face, before messily drawing an arrow to the dream cloud, then they stand shifting from foot to foot while they hold onto the crayon

“daydreaming?” he guesses

that seems to be the right answer as they beam up at him and they hop in place in a little circle, they seem quite pleased with themselves that they managed to get the message across

if he had a heart he’s quite sure it would be throughly melted, instead his chassis warms slightly as he watches them, his eyes turn to happy white crescents and chuckling to himself

FHEHDHGDGE that’s all for now, thanks for reading!!!!!

IMMM GONNA BITE YOU????? IM GONNA BITE YOU???????????? THIS IS SO CUUUTEE JKDFSKLF;DGGH

[mirensiart]

Did you know, Lynels could do magic? I know you haven't played age of calamity (or at least I think that was you)

But that game has all of botw enemies, except supposedly stronger (it's a simpler fighting game, battle is both harder and easier at the same time) where instead of giving them Gold status in hard mode, they decided to buff the health bar and make them elementals. Like the Lizalfos.

Fire, ice, and lightning silver Lynels. Using both weapons and magic, it's terrifying.

There are also malice corrupted Lynels that are even stronger than the elementals.

This same principle of making stronger enemies also applies to other monsters, like Guardians.

Imagine if you had to fight lightning Guardians with even more health, defence, faster lasers, jumping and spin attacks.

Imagine malice guardians. (Or moblins that throw explosive barrels while flying wearing balloon harnesses, please look for a picture of that it's so funny)

Age of calamity is supposed to just be botw but before the calamity. Like this could have existed in canon.

What I'm saying is, lucky Hyrule mother of 2(or 5) because that could have been a MUCH worse situation

Helloo!!! SORRY FOR REPLYING SOOOO LATE! like this ask is literally from last year oough I'm so sorry

Ok but, YEAH that was me! I haven't played any of the warriors games cause I really don't vibe with the warriors game play style 😭💔

And ooh interesting 🤔 elemental lynels sound AWFUL to be honest, like on one hand in normal botw combat it would suck ass but also the elemental weakness could help out a lot

Like fighting gleeoks for example 🤔 but it means strategizing more, using ice weapons for fire lynels, fire weapons for ice lynels, etc. ELECTRIC LYNELS WOULD SUCK SO BAD OH MY GOD LMAO

To be honest pre-calamity botw link was super OP that one canon memory scene in botw where he killed like a huge horde of monsters and there's like 2 white maned lynels in the monster pile lmao

Like damn no wonder a BUNCH of guardians was required to kill him cause that boy was NOT GOING DOWN!!!!

Anyway YEAH teen mom hyrule and his 2 (now 5) kids had it waaay easier!

[demigodsanswer]

I’m going to thrice you, again, prompt idea: in Princess AU- the conversation on the beach in Greece if the *right* brother had been there.

I am addicted to alt-versions of my own fic universes. Guess we'll call this one "Found You First" They're younger, so they aren't as good at flirting yet.

~

She hadn't seen Percy in a little over a year. The last time they'd crossed paths, he was holding up Yale's Mock Trial National's first place trophy, while Annabeth fumed about Harvard's meager fifth place, even if she had come out with her own attorney award.

It was hard to hold onto that grudge now, though. When they were on opposite sides of a Mock rivalry (mock as in "trial," the rivalry was very real), he really was handsome, tan with dark hair and very pretty green eyes.

Percy bowed his head towards her, and then held out his hand. It was the first time he'd ever bowed to her. "Lovely to see you again, Princess," he said.

Annabeth took his hand, expecting him to shake it, but he simply kissed it. Annabeth's stomach did a little flip flop, and she was glad she'd agreed to this trip after all.

~

"Riley Winter was obviously the worst one!" Annabeth said. It took all of four minutes alone on the beach for them to start arguing about Mock Trial witnesses.

"Mickey Keenan was way more annoying than him! He was an incompetent cop who obviously entrapped someone," Percy said. "I was so happy when they killed him off for nationals."

"Too bad you lost to Miami that year," Annabeth said.

"Too bad you didn't have the chance to win," Percy said back. Annabeth kicked sand at him.

"Are you in law school?" Annabeth asked.

"Oh, absolutely not. Not cut out for the LSAT, let alone the Bar. I'm doing a masters at Yale," he said, as if that was somehow less impressive than law school.

"Oh? In what?" Annabeth asked.

"Classics. I'm thinking about applying for a Ph.D., but I'm not sure. I'm a bit burnt out at the moment," he said, slumping back in his beach chair for dramatic effect.

Annabeth nodded sympathetically. "Classics is cool, though."

"I'm excited to be in Greece and actually see some of the things I write about," Percy said.

"My dad and I are getting a private tour of the Parthenon this week, if you want to join us," Annabeth offered. "Maybe you could teach us something."

Percy was smiling, really smiling, and excited boyish grin. "Really? Would that be okay?"

Annabeth smiled back. "Sure," she said. She needed to get married, and people were starting to worry she had no real interest in men. Taking Percy, a man she was absolutely interested in, on a trip to the Parthenon might help her in a few different ways.

Percy looked like he was about to say something, but then paused. "Your shoulders are pink," he said. "Want me to get them?"

Annabeth nodded. A nice excuse for some contact.

As Percy rubbed the sunscreen onto her shoulders, chest, and back (both politely trying to ignore how incredibly intimate it was), she asked: "Are you single?" Annabeth couldn't remember seeing any women on his Instagram lately, but maybe he kept those things private.

"I am," Percy said. "I did get out of a relationship a few months ago, though. I'm mostly over it."

"Was it mutual?" She asked.

Percy shrugged. "Hard to say."

"So you got your heart broken?" She deduced.

Percy almost laughed. "A little bit."

"What was her name?"

"Frank," Percy said without hesitation, before looking up and meeting her eyes, assessing her for fear, confusion, or disgust.

Annabeth just nodded. "I'm sorry to hear about that. It sounds like he meant a lot to you."

Percy nodded, a sad look in his eyes. "Yeah," and then he squirted more sunscreen in the other hand, and started on her other shoulder. "I'm not here to use you as a beard, though. I am bisexual, if you ... believe in that sort of thing."

"Be a bit of a raging hypocrisy if I didn't," Annabeth said. Percy's eyes snapped to her face, and she just shrugged and nodded. "I had my own devastating gay break up our senior year. I thought I was going to have to go to the hospital," Annabeth said with a laugh.

"Can I guess who it was?" Percy said, finishing with the sunscreen and sitting back in the sand in front of her. Annabeth stretched a leg out, and Percy started reapply sunscreen to that as well.

"Sure," Annabeth said.

"Tristan McLean's daughter?" He said.

Annabeth laughed. "God, were we that conspicuous?"

"Probably not to straight people," Percy said, "I'm sure to them, you guys looked like very good friends."

~

Before long, it was clear that Annabeth simply could not be in the sun for long without roasting, so Percy suggested they go to the shaded bar up by the resort itself, but still close to the sand. Annabeth had accepted his offer graciously.

Percy covertly texted his cousin while Annabeth used the restroom.

Percy

from your pov, how soon is too soon to kiss the crown princess of a sovereign country

Thals

Well if it's you kissing me, any time would be too soon. if it's the swedish girl. idk go for it if she seems into it

Percy waited a full fifteen minutes after she came back to up the touchy flirting, and Annabeth leaned into it, touching his thigh under the bar and tossing her hair over her (lightly pink) shoulders. Two glasses of wine each later, and their faces were tantalizingly close together.

Annabeth kissed him first in the end, closing the distance between them with a sure and steady kiss that was sophisticated and contained, but did linger.

"So, I guess our rivalry ends here?" Percy suggested.

Annabeth smiled. "Guess so."

~

Thankfully, when her father found her, she was no longer kissing Percy. They'd gone on from their first kiss to their second to their third in record time, before deciding to go somewhere more private.

But it was on their walk to this more private place that they found her dad.

Percy sobered up and remembered his manners right away. Her father hadn't been there for his and hers initial introduction, but Percy carried out the expected protocol flawlessly. Annabeth could have swooned.

"Nice to meet you son. Ambritt, would you like to get dinner?" Her father asked her.

"Oh, sure," Annabeth said, "Percy and I were about to find something to eat ourselves," she said, hoping that didn't read an innuendo, even though it certainly was.

"Ah, well, Percy, you're welcome to join us," her dad offered.

Percy nodded. "I'd be honored, your majesty."

"Oh, please don't bother with all of that, unless you'd like me to start calling you Don Percy," her dad said.

Percy laughed. "Certainly not. But I should change before we go anywhere."

"Me too," Annabeth said.

"Alright, you two head up. I'll make arrangements with Hugo. Do you eat fish?" Her dad asked Percy.

"Sure do," Percy said, before looking at Annabeth, his glance telling her that was also innuendo.

They stepped into the elevator together.

"I forgot your real name was Ambritt," Percy said.

"Sure is. What's 'Percy' in Spanish?" Annabeth asked.

"Perseo, but that's actually one of my middle names. My first name is Pedro," he told her.

"Oh, you are not a Pedro," Annabeth said, taking his hand as the door opened to her floor.

"I agree," he said as she unlocked her hotel room door. "Should I leave you to get ready?"

"In five," she reached between his legs, and her eyes went a bit wide as she realized the size of it, even soft, "maybe ten minutes."

[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

[waywardstation]

hi! i havent been on tumblr in a Hot minute but i wanted to come here JUST to tell you that hfbe might be my fave pla fic ive read ao far! the worldbuilding and the characterization of everyone just feels so so right i fall in love

i reread it on ao3 and even tho its not completed its still a joy to reread everytime

Hello hello!! Anon you have no idea how much it meant to me to get to read this. Knowing I put something out there that you wanted to back to and reread means A LOT.

I’m glad you like it so much but man I have been editing the first two chapters (fixing errors, making characters say and do things that are more in line with how I write them now, and just adding scenes in between to help things seem more clear or hit harder), and I’m like man this really isn’t that good haha.

It’s fun to see how much I think I’ve improved since I’ve started trying to write fanfics (I wasn’t aware of how obsessed I had been with commas and run-on sentences at the start lol)

So reading this nice message really gives me such a boost of motivation. I’m so glad you like the worldbuilding, and it makes me excited to get more out because later chapters are when I really introduce specifics on a lot of things. Namely the Pearl Clan’s hunting parties, that has been my favorite.

Now I just gotta get more out! Hoping to put more out for you to read soon kind anon, I really appreciate that you find it’s something you like to reread!

For now, here is a snippet below the cut; I am unsure if I have shared this before, but it’s a scene where Ingo is preparing to advocate for the Clan to use pokeballs to store their pokemon in, so that there is less food consumption (as in HFBE, it’s emphasized that pokeballs put pokemon into a stasis where they don’t need to eat, drink, sleep, etc. for as long as they’re in them. Ingo does it with his pokemon, and he wants the clan to do it too, for their own sakes).

Wording is subject to change (VERY MUCH SO), but enjoy!

—————

“Excuse me Miss Irida, but may we talk for a moment?”

The Pearl Clan leader turned back to see Ingo – he was trailing behind the group, purposefully so. He had been waiting for the right moment to approach her.

“Right now?” Irida’s eyes flickered back over the tops of people’s heads, up towards the communal hall at the top of the hill. “I’m sorry, but can it wait until after the meeting?”

“It is actually about the meeting.” Ingo’s grey eyes were unwavering, waiting — he wanted to ask her something. And Ingo was not one to usually ask for things.

“Ok,” She relented, pausing in the snow both so he could catch up, and they could have their conversation with some privacy. “You have until we reach the hall.”

“Thank you, I assure you it will be quick.” Ingo fell into step beside her, shuffling through the snow as they now both trailed behind the group heading towards the warm hall. He kept his head tilted down just like her, using the brim of his hat to protect against the wind and snowfall. “I, well… I am planning to re-propose a proposition at this meeting tonight. I’d like to make another attempt at advocating for the use of pokeballs.”

“Tonight? Are you serious?” Irida lowered her voice for his sake, looking back between him and the group. How could he possibly think about proposing that when this meeting was for them to discuss how to prepare for this famine? “I’m saying this not as your leader but as your friend, Ingo; now is absolutely not a good time for that. Everyone is already going into this meeting angry. And if you try and start this again, they’re going to-”

Irida took a deep breath; she was already getting stressed over it.

“You know how people are going to react to that. You know who it’s going to upset, Ingo. Especially after last time. And you said you’d let it go.”

“I am well aware of what I said and I intended to stick to it, but these circumstances have changed our tracks, and I believe this may save us from derailing!” Ingo whispered back. He kept throwing quick glances at the nearing hall, gauging how much time he had left to persuade her. “Pokeballs can help us much more than the clan realizes – I’m confident that this can bring us closer to a solution, if not at least be a part of one!”

Irritation and confusion were replaced with genuine curiosity, but a fleck of doubt hesitantly followed after. Irida shook her head, not understanding. “How could they possibly help with all of this?”

“I will explain that in the meeting.” Having conquered the snowy hill, the two reached the warm light that spilled through the hall’s windows to project onto the snow. “But to do that, I need to actually present my proposal, and I’m afraid that will be difficult with the elders tonight. I am trying this for the fourth time now, and I’m aware of how this will most likely be received. I expect they’ll call to send me back to my seat before I even start.”

Ingo paused just outside the doors, waiting for Irida to go in first — she could do so and end the conversation right now if she wanted to, but she didn’t. Instead she stood there, staring at their fading shoeprints in the snow.

Irida could see why he approached her about this now, and a part of her felt sorry for him. “So you want me to vouch for you.”

“Not the proposal itself. Just the time to talk.”

[kamabokobun]

Oh my gosh I finally found your blog, just here to say your designs are super beautiful .

Also, you have anymore lore/info dumps to givve of your OCs/characters?

HELLO!! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! Your compliment means a lot to me!

As for Lore… for my undragon’d girlies, Naydra has siblings :) she’s the eldest

Also I like to think her family are the ancestors of rauru and mineru. Mainly because mineru is associated with owls in-game (her mech has a very similar “owl face” to the owl on the zonaite outfit and her temple has statues of owls) which are associated with the triforce of wisdom :)

[turtlespancake]

me when i write a character who is prone to dooming themself and then they run off and doom themself. core traits are stubbornness and a willingness to disregard their own humanity gET BACK HERE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU

[l48yr1nth]

Hi. Just wanted to say I really like your art. The way you use shapes is truly amazing and I love every art piece that comes up on my dash. :).

I AM. GOING. TO CRY.!

thank you and i love you and ur awesome and . i love you. :) :) :3

[stormyoceans]

I like how you headcanon Day as more proactive (like a nice parallel to Vice Versa and PuenTalay where Puen was more proactive). Let baby gay be horny for his poor hot mechanic boyfriend. Btw we know very small amount of information but how do you WANT it to be: do you want Day to be gay? Or bi? And what about Mork? Do you want them/one of them to have dating experience? What should be their view of love be?

im SO HAPPY you like the idea of day being the more proactive one because i think that's really one of the thing i want the most out of this show!!!! i also think it fits what little we saw of them in the mock trailer: mork is flirty, but he's also older and works as day's caretaker, so he's painfully aware of - as he calls them - "the boundaries of his responsibility", which is probably what is going to stop him from pursuing an actual relationship with day. day, on the other hand, doesn't have these qualms, and at the end of the trailer he is the one to go in for a kiss, so i LOVE the idea of day going after what he wants once he realizes his feelings for mork

as for your questions, right now im mostly headcanoning mork as bi and day as gay, similarly to puentalay, though i wouldn’t really be able to explain why ;;;;; i also think mork has definitely dated before, while im not so sure about day: he’s an athlete, so he must have been really popular in school, but it also means that all his energies were probably devoted to training and that he didn’t have time to hang out with friends, much less to actually date

and maybe it’s because of this difference in their experiences, but i would love to see mork being kinda disillusioned when it comes to love and day being the more.. idealistically romantic one. mork is in debt and can’t see a future for himself, and maybe in the past he had some relationships that didn’t end well, so i could easily imagine him thinking that love isn’t really for him because he doesn’t believe he gets to have a happy ending, while day seems to like stories, and love in stories is always passionate and sensational and bigger than yourself, so that’s what he expects for himself too. it would be nice if by being together they could learn that happiness and love are in the small gestures they choose to give and receive from each other every day