#this has been buried in my WIPs for a while

[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

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

fun fact: I actually have not 1, not 2, but 3 dedicated playlists of OST-style music for my various Guild Wars 2 AUs, and... that, of all ways, is the closest I get to "outlining" my stories. every sequence has a dedicated track that I picked out according to what I'd imagine playing in-game if it was an actual playable story arc in Guild Wars 2.

Regrowth's playlist has 59 songs and Flourish has 28.

then the Tideturners have one too, with a grand total of 22.

......... I don't have a problem,

[nanamiscocksleeve]

Reading While Cockwarming Them

Warnings: MDNI, PIV, general sex, teasing, some name calling and sadism in Geto's part. A/n: Found an old WIP that I half wrote then gave up on because I couldn't find the inspiration. I'm glad I got back into it because I almost feel like my JJK writing has become rusty nowadays, and I'm thrilled to find some ideas that might still feel new.

The book is open on the bed, right under your pretty, flushed face as you kneel on all fours, Satoru’s cock nestled comfortably in your slick pussy. 

Your mouth is moving, and you see the little black characters on the page, but your speech is slurred and syrupy as you try to form intelligible sounds. 

“The…he-he-ro…isn…ways…to…”

“What’s that baby?” Satoru taunts as he slides out of your drooling cunt, all patience and sweet smiles. He feels how your walls clench in protest as you try to keep him in, his tip almost out of your tight, wet, hole.

“Toru please…” you whine, knowing his enticing length was right there, but he was getting off on seeing you swallow your words. Determination that had been ample in hand at the beginning of this session had now gone flying out the window. You just had to insist that Satoru couldn’t fuck you dumb with his cock, denying his claims, and now you’re forced to swallow your pride as you realize you can’t focus on a damn thing. The letters all look like squiggles to you and your tongue refuses to cooperate, only allowing you to pant and babble nonsense.

“You’re the one that said you would read me a bedtime story.” He arches his hips away from you as he feels you lift your ass, hoping to slip him back in. “And so far I can’t understand a word you’re saying. I’m hoping this helps.”

You moan in frustration and try to focus your hazed mind on the print. “The hero isn’t always right. As told in the story we’re about to embark on-” Your breath hitches as Satoru glides back into your warmth as you started to read. The hot length of his cock spreads you apart so invitingly messing with your head.

“Oh don’t feel like you have to stop on my account sweetheart. Keep going. Just testing how deep I need to go before you start going dumb again.” Not very deep based on his observations. He’s barely halfway sheathed and your speech had already become halting and incorrigible. He slips out slightly and you clear your throat trying to not to sob and admit defeat. 

“Our story takes place in a time of old and ooohhh…” The sensual groan leaves you unrestrained as he pushes further in.

“Hmm so about three fourths of the way,” Satoru muses, looking at how much of him was buried inside you. “Keep reading. Trying to fine tune this pussy. I was promised a bedtime story.”

He starts to thrust slowly, letting you feel each inch of him as he withdraws before sliding back in, never bottoming out and leaving you aching with the knowledge that you're only half full. You're not even trying to focus on the words now, just moaning and knowing you'll likely have to let him win if you wanted anything tonight. 

“Satoru please…” You whine as he starts to drag his fingers along your moist slit, finding your bud and circling it expertly. 

“Aw. No bedtime story for me tonight?” he asks mockingly as he draws out a moan from you. You shake your head and he grins triumphantly. “Next time then. We'll train your pussy to not disconnect from your brain.”

Kento can’t stand the thought of not having physical intimacy. Cockwarming was his way of reconnecting, of being able to touch you, feel your soft skin and the warmth of your body, even if he was too tired for sex. 

The bed is so inviting, and your back rests against his chest as his cock pulses with life inside you. Warm sheets are wrapped around your bodies as you sit on his thighs with a book on your lap. Kento's chin rests on your shoulder as you read, his eyes tracking the words as the story flows from your lips, his breath tickling your neck. The atmosphere in the room is almost balmy as his hands massage yours, fingers molding to the spaces in between. Your pussy occasionally clenches around his velvety cock, enjoying the way he filled and stretched the space inside. 

“Are you paying attention?” You tease and pat his cheek to draw his attention back to the story. His large hands had started to wander from yours and were flirting with your ribcage, cradling your breasts in his palms and squeezing enticingly. After a long day, the massage felt more relaxing than arousing and you indulge him for a moment before asking again. “Kento…the story.”

“I am paying attention darling. It looks like our protagonist accidentally discovered something he wasn’t supposed to.” He thumbs your nipples, which had already pebbled from the squeezing, through the sheets and you throw your head back onto his shoulder, biting your lip and letting out a hushed sigh. Your juices had steadily dripped from your core and were pooling at the base of his cock, leaving a ring of wetness on his hard shaft.

“Are you sleepy?” Kento’s lips ghost the shell of your ear and you mumble a tired yes. His chuckle resonates in your ear, deep and rich, and he takes the book away and places it on the nightstand. “It’s all right,” he reassures you as he starts to lay you both down on the bed. “We can find out what happens tomorrow.” He rearranges the sheets while you settle your head down comfortably on the pillow. Sleep overtakes you quickly but you can feel Kento pressing little kisses down your neck.

“Do you mind…?” He whispers, and your half-awake brain manages to slur a yes. You knew what he was asking, and you honestly didn’t mind. His snug cock thrusts ever so sweetly inside you as he tries not to rouse you too much from sleep, breathing steadily into your hair as he tries to orgasm.

The slick heat from being inside you for so long helps in his efforts, lazily stroking your inner walls at an unhurried pace. Your languid body barely stirs as he sets up a deliciously slow pace, quiet squelches issuing from your pussy as he rocks his hips against your ass. He bites his lip as he nears his climax, letting out a muffled groan as his hot cum is released into your warm canal. 

“Darling…focus…” His clever fingers which were playing with your pulsing clit halt, and his cock, snug in your pussy, remains there, barely providing any friction. You whine and look at him pleadingly but he tuts at you, waving the little study booklet in front of your face. “Can you repeat what I was saying?”

Why had you agreed to let him help you study for the bar? Your lawyer boyfriend, so sinfully handsome and smart, was obviously worried about your progress. He accused you of getting too distracted, and the solution was to force you to study with nothing but distractions, hoping to improve your recall abilities. 

What he hadn’t specified was that it would involve sitting on your bed with his cock stuffed in your pussy  while you straddled him, repeating little vocabulary definitions and basic terms of law. Your poor, sloppy, pussy couldn’t stop dribbling, spilling all over him, as you tried to recall the words.

He smirks at your hazy expression, seeing your mind trying to gather itself back into a cohesive state. “Well?” he prompts you again. “Can you explain the concept of intent for this?”

“Ah…” your mind is fuzzy as your walls clench around his cock, still hard inside you. How long had he been doing this? “Mmm…intent…matters because…” Because why? Why did it matter? All that mattered was fucking. Fucking him, riding him, getting filled to the brim with his seed. 

“Tsk. Oh honey. You're never going to pass the bar at this rate.” His hands firmly hook themselves underneath your fleshy thighs. “Now repeat after me.”

He begins to pick up your frame, easing you off his cock before loosening his hands and letting you fall back into his throbbing erection with force, your ass cheeks slapping his thighs as you slide down all the way to his base. 

"It. matters. because. The. Mental. state. Of. a. client. Affects. Our. Ability. To. Prove their. Innocence.”

Each word is punctuated with his hands picking you up and letting you slide, the sound of your ass pounding back into his lap echoing through the room. Each time, the bulbous, mushroom head of his cock kisses your cervix and you swear you're seeing stars each time. You sob each time, your cunt squelching as it takes him all the way in, desperate for an orgasm that wasn't likely to happen. 

“Hiro… Please… Need to cum… study later…”

“You'll never improve if you can't study through the distractions.” His eyes are hooded and dark, barely able to restrain himself from wanting to fuck your brains out until you're spilling all over his thighs. Oh the sight of you, struggling to remember basic words, thoughts too occupied with his cock to remember even the most basic concepts relating to your job. 

“Tell ya what. I'll give you a scenario. If you can explain intent based on that I'll give you an orgasm. How's that?”

You look at him hopefully, still shivering from the intensity of his last movements, and nod. 

“Explain the intent behind a young woman who invites her boyfriend over to help her study for the bar but decides to answer the door in just her underwear.”

Oh the bastard. Feeling your patience snap you admit your motive.

“Clearly she wanted to get fucked nice and good but her boyfriend is a naive moron who really thought she wanted to go over flashcards.” 

“You’ve got the flash part down spectacularly darling.” Hiromi fondles your nipples and you whine, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. 

“Hiro please…”

“I suppose I could count that as an acceptable answer. Nice work.” He spanks your ass in appreciation. “Admission of guilt always helps. Now show me how you plan to alleviate it.”

Your boyfriend was mean. You hadn’t really noticed it until just now. He was more of the type to tease you than anything else. Until you had suggested reading to him while sitting on his cock. 

For some reason, you had assumed he was going to be sweet about it. You hadn’t anticipated how hard he would make this for you. Your lips tremble and you’re a quivering mess as you hold up the book with shaky hands. Tears streak your cheeks as you try again, feeling Suguru’s thumb relentlessly playing with your clit, depriving you of just enough stimulation to keep you focused. 

“T-t-t-the for-forest i-is the…” You wet your lips trying to concentrate. “The fas-test way to the…hi-hi-hidden-”

“Too slow.” You squeal as Geto spanks your already swollen clit, the sting bringing back clarity to your senses. “I thought you were better than this. Are you so fucked out on my cock that you’re taking an hour to read a sentence?” The harsh slap of his hand on your wet folds makes them pulse and you squirm, and you close your legs to avoid the reprimand.

“Tsk. You really are a dumb whore right now.” A cry leaves your lips as he harshly pinches your nipple, twisting it cruelly. “Who told you to close your legs? You seemed pretty confident when spreading them open for me earlier.” Sniffing, you reluctantly part your legs and then let out a noise of discomfort as he slaps the little bud again. 

“Suguru…” you whimper pathetically only to have him roughly rub your clit again.

“Suguru.” He mimics in a high-pitched mocking tone. “What, you thought I would sit here all night while you take your sweet time? You haven’t even finished a page yet. Your cunt is going to be as empty as your brain if you don’t get it together.”

You whine and try again. “The solder…wanted to raid the amry… to get a sard- OUCH!” Suguru gave you a truly hard whack that sent you reeling, a confusing haze of pain and pleasure running through your body like an electric shock.

“What was that? Are you sure that’s even a word?” Slap. “Solder?” Slap. “Amry?” Slap. “Sard?” Slap. “The words are soldier, armory, and sword you stupid slut.” Each spank to your clit is punctuated with a yelp of pain from you. 

“Suguru! I’m sorry please-!” 

He pulls the book from your grip and tosses it aside. “This is why little whores shouldn’t try to brag about talents they don’t possess. Now why don’t you showcase the only real skill you have and cum on my cock like the desperate little cocksleeve you know you are?”

© nanamiscocksleeve original work | no copying, plagiarizing or translating

@aether-seawolf @makingtimemine @snwvie @facelessfionna

@theimmortalbuns @sweets-kozume @supernaturalbaesduh

@marusatonanhin @pwd54gr54 @brekkersgf

[cuttlekiss-mlp]

thought i might attempt to start off strong with my mlp infection au

this is still a pretty big WIP, especially with all of the characters. i've been very thorough with how i want things to go, so i've been taking my time with it.

stuck with a sketchier style bc it fit the vibe of what i wanted so well

MY LITTLE CATASTROPHE : SPIKE AND TWI

!!!TW: DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE!!! "Dear Princess Celestia, I have made a grave mistake, and my judgement is no longer sound. I have ruined everything. I am in search of a cure for what I have created. It cannot be destroyed. Normal magic cannot undo what I have done. He is gone, but maybe I can save the others. I am sorry that this letter has not been sent to you in a timely fashion. He is gone. I had to send this letter via pony mail. Please forgive me for all I have done. Friendship is not strong enough to save us. My friends have abandoned me. They know what I have done. Your faithful student, your failure, Twilight Sparkle."

Between all of the commotion of Sombra's defeat and Twilight's ascension as an alicorn, no one was quick to notice a very important missing person. As soon as Twilight realized her favorite baby dragon was not there to greet her and celebrate, she felt sick to her stomach. Where was he? Spike was found by Cadence. He was delivered to Twilight wrapped in her large pink wings, wounded beyond what could be saved. He was already dead when he was found. Her baby dragon was gone.

No amount of friendship or comfort could console the new princess. She laid with her body curled around Spike, and her cries filled the courtyard for hours. It took two days for her to move from that spot and head home towards Ponyville, where Spike would be buried in front of her home. But she could not bare the thought. Spike could not be gone, not forever.

When she returned home, she holed up in her tree house. The doors locked, the curtains covered the windows, and there was nothing but silence. Twilight worked tirelessly for hours, using magic to preserve her baby dragon's body long enough to find a spell that would erase what happened. Spike would not be dead for much longer. The power of friendship and love would bring him back to life. It had to.

She explained to her friends that if they used the Elements of Harmony, theoretically, he could be revived. They had their reservations. No one thought it was a good idea...but Rainbow Dash talked them into trying. Twilight was hurting, she needed her friends to be there for her. However, their attempts were in vein. Spike was not revived.

Despite their failed attempts, Twilight remained stubborn and persistent. She could not let this happen. Spike could not be gone. Everyone was starting to worry about her, but no amount of convincing could change her mind. They refused to continue trying. They did not believe in her and that made her very angry.

Returning into hiding, Twilight's determination became concrete. She did not sleep, she barely ate. Dash visited frequently, while the others had resolved that Twilight needed time and space. She was the only reason the princess ate anything at all. Twilight soon caught reference to a spell in one of her books. This spell was in a particular book in Canterlot's library...and that is where she would go. She packed up and she made her way swiftly to Canterlot. Unfortunately, the book was locked away, for it's magic was forbidden and dangerous. But this did not matter to her. Twilight broke into the library, stole the book, and rushed off to Ponyville. She would not allow anything to stand in her way. Spike could not be gone.

The spell required an intense amount of magic. Twilight would need help to cast the spell, to bring Spike back. But, none of the other elements would help her. They insisted she lay Spike to rest. She refused. How could they ever say such a thing? How could they give up on Spike? How could they not believe in her?

Twilight took it upon herself to cast the spell. She took the Elements of Harmony and she wielded them herself. Bright beams of pink light flooded out of her curtains...

!!!TW BEGINS!!!

"Twilight. . ." A soft, exhausted voice called from the explosion that was her living room. Twilight could barely hear it's faintness, but his voice was unmistakable. She blindly stumbled towards the voice, to find Spike. When she found him, she was first overjoyed. Spike was getting up! Spike was alive!! Bright pink and sparkling ooze spilled from his chest as he rose from his bed. "Twilight?" His voice was louder and sounded panicked? "What is happening-" his voice cut off with a sickening gurgle. Pink bursted from his mouth, and he coughed and wheezed, trying desperately to regain his breath. His eyes were bleeding, or were they rotting? Twilight couldn't tell. She rushed to his side and she held him. Spike choked and convulsed, pink ooze spilling all over his bed and onto the floor and onto her. And then...he stopped. Unsure of what happened, of what to do, Twilight stared in disbelief, in heartbreak. Had she revived him only to suffer yet another painful death? Tears welled in her eyes and she cried out with unbearable pain.

Between her cries and uncontrollable sobbing, she didn't hear Dash break through one of her windows. She held Spike and cried and cried. The house was a mess and Twilight was a mess and covered in pink ooze and Spike was a mess and pink ooze was still coming out of him. Despite her best efforts, Twilight would not let go of Spike. She snapped at Dash to leave her alone, and that is what Dash did. She didn't want to, but what was there to do?

Twilight fell asleep in the midst of her crying, holding her baby dragon close and covering him with her wings.

She woke to a gurgling growl and a terrifying creature standing above her, with pink, sparkling drool dripping from it's mouth. It's eyes were dark and lifeless but little pink glowing orbs betrayed it's gaze. It stared and growled and breathed raspy, shallow breaths. Twilight pushed it away in fear, scrambling up from Spike's bed. That is when she realized what the creature was. It was Spike...but it wasn't truly. He twitched and groaned and dripped pink ooze.

Before she knew it, a knock came at her door. Spike's head snapped towards the sound.

The door opened.

Spike lunged.

Screams and Spike's growls erupted.

What had she done?

[gildui]

wip — ustulation; oneshot , knight/squire 18+ bros kinda mean!

"knock. knock."

you blink upwards, bleary-eyed, as two massive fingers tap at your bottom lip.

it distorts your vision to have a hand thrown in your face. what you'd been doing rendered to no importance, diminished to the petulant child you once were. instinct rears its ugly head and irritation licks at your insides. you had always bit first. asked later.

but a simple command wrapped in a familiar inflexion—guttural, deep, a dichotomy of smoke and scratch; cocksure buried beneath layers of sleep deprivation and a penchant for one too many smokes—has taught you to stand down.

he's apathetic towards you, at most. at least, he despises your very being. wishes he'd said no when they'd tossed you to him—a clot of blood in shark-infested waters—for tutelage.

treats you like a runt from the litter of hunting dogs he breeds. picking you apart to find the smallest, most antagonizing details—the most personal of barbs—then, flays you apart again and again until you are raw, bleeding out on your threadbare mattress. unable to allow yourself the luxury of thinking about a dreamless sleep whilst you polish clean armour and hone sharp knives.

still, you comply, malleable in his unforgiving hands. saccharine; sweet enough for a toothache, never lets you live it down—'might 'ave to pluck y'r teeth out, runt. givin' mine a cavity. eye for an eye n' oll that'—

his fingers push at the seam of your lips, slow but forceful; impatience at an all-time high if you're involved. your jaw protests, lockjaw,—'need ta learn how to relax', he says as the next swing of his sword against yours is jarring enough that your teeth rattle and your ears ring, while knowing he's the source of all of your stress—you're forced to blink back a whimper of pain when your knight's digits bully into your mouth.

they're unwashed. pungent acridity, brine burns on your tasebuds as he pets your tongue with rough fingerpads. he huffs in laughter, mean, when you inevitably choke on his taste.

"good, pet," he purrs. nothing like a compliment and all too antagonising, an austere reminder of the hellion he'd broken in, "open wide. let me see my next set o' pearly whites."

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Female Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x FReader.

CW: P in V sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(See male reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me.

(Fem Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - an exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to her knees by the Radio Demon himself. She's got a mouthwatering pair of tits, a luscious ass, and a swollen little clit that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is her tight little cunt."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"She's soaked, practically drowning in her own juices. And the sounds she makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling cunt spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you! You're a mess. Your makeup's smeared, your hair's a tangled mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking beautiful, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Princess. I'm going to flood your cunt with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those tits... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, cunt clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinners surrender. Her body convulsing, her voice screaming out in ecstasy as I claim her yet again. And now, I'm now painting her insides with my seed, branding her as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Darling. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Sweetheart. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his semen trickling from your sated cunt as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.

and the smell of camphor dancing in the wind.

✦ info: he didn't know he'd lose you so soon. (come back, please. even if it is just for five more minutes.)

✦ featuring: alhaitham.

✦ warnings: angst, character death (reader), heartache, 1.2k words, somewhat proof-read.

✦ notes: i cried so goddamn hard writing this. why is my first work after hiatus pain. why did i pick up the angst wip. but!! i'm writing again, so that's good. (more notes at the end.)

he didn’t know that it was your last day together. 

he didn’t know that the smile you gave him that afternoon, your eyes sparkling like sunlight upon the serene waves of the ocean, would be the last he’d ever see. that the playful light in your gaze would fade so very soon, slipping through his fingers like sand.

he didn’t know that last night would be the last time he held you close while you drifted off to sleep. he didn’t know that today would be the last time he’d wake up with you.

he didn’t think he’d lose you like this. 

he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to save you from that blow. 

“please, please,”  he begs, both to you and to whatever force that is just barely holding you together. “just stay with me for five more minutes, please. until i can get you somewhere.” 

the rain soaks him to the bone, clothes and hair sticking to his skin. your lips stay motionless, eyes shut.

“wake up, please,”  he bargains. “you can have all the five minutes of extra sleep you want later, i promise. just—”  his vision blurs, and something shines on the ground before it is gone, swallowed by damp earth, lost amidst drops of falling rain. 

desperately, he tears off parts of his traveling cloak to staunch the bleeding. deep inside, he knows it is futile. he knows your wound is too great. he knows what lies ahead. but he cannot help but press the cloths to your wound and pray. 

please, please tell me it’ll be okay. 

please stay with me, beloved. i’ll read you all the books in the world. i’ll sleep in with you everyday, even if we end up whiling away our time. 

please. stay. stay with me. i can’t lose you yet.  

“— just wake up, beloved.” 

by some miracle, your eye flutters. just a bit. just enough to set hope ablaze, just enough for the grip on his heart to loosen a tiny bit. he buries his face in your shoulder, resting his head against your neck, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes. your blood. on his clothes. his hands. everywhere. 

no. no. this can’t be happening.

he feels you strain beneath him, your unwounded arm gently, weakly brushing his back. he jolts upright, eyes trained on your face. you send a frail smile his way. he clasps your face softly as you nuzzle into his palm.

“alhaitham—” 

his full name. archons, how long has it been since you called him that?  

“— take good care of yourself, okay?” you tell him, chest heaving, your fingertips touching a tear on his cheeks. “i love you. so much.” 

those are the last words he hears fall from your lips. he presses a kiss to your forehead, to your eyelids, and to your cheeks and to your lips, over and over and over until he feels your breath slow, hoping they’ll say what he knows he cannot manage to choke out.

i love you. 

he stays there next to you for who knows how long, holding you until the rain slows and a faint rainbow smiles in the sky.

until he can’t smell camphor anymore.

—

every person has their curiosities. 

they’re just the little traits that set them apart from others, the things that make them tick just a little bit differently, the things that make them, them.

for instance, someone may be obsessed with collecting tiny furniture, while another eats the crusts off their sandwich before actually consuming it. someone may have an affinity for the most niche aspects of linguistics, while another can accurately predict the next raindrop that slides down a window pane.

after all, no two people are exactly alike, are they?

alhaitham knows he’s got his fair share of these curiosities himself. his aversion to soup and all things that resemble it, to name one. and with you, he’d noticed two things. 

number one: the scent of camphor that seems to linger on every inch of your person. 

he’d caught whiff of it almost immediately the first time you met. you were but one of his juniors in the akademiya, filled with bright-eyed curiosity and anxiety to match. you had tripped over a stair and bumped into his table in the library, bringing the mountain of books in your arms crashing down.

and with subsequent coincidental meetings, he learnt that the subtle scent of camphor dancing in the air meant you weren’t far away. 

you were, unfortunately, one of the poor souls who seemed to be cursed with constantly recurring minor illnesses, and almost always walked about with a stuffy nose. and so, you always carried a small disc of camphor in a handkerchief, as well as in your pocket.

you swore up and down, left, right and center that sniffing the vapors helped make breathing easier.

‘it’s my grandmother’s remedy, alhaitham! camphor always works wonders. well, that and eucalyptus oil.”

alhaitham may not know the validity of your claim or the legitimacy of the cure, but he knew to never, ever question a grandmother’s remedy. that, and he’d much rather refrain from starting a back-and-forth about something so small.

and number two: your neverending pleas of different variations of ‘just five more minutes!’ 

“five more minutes, ‘haitham. please.” you’d whine grumpily when he woke you up to start your day. “let me sleep in for five more minutes.” 

“five more minutes, habibi,” you’d ask when he put down the story you’d requested he read out to you before bedtime. “read me the part where she finds the music box?”

“five more minutes, baby,” is what you’d tell him when he asks how much longer you’d take getting ready. “you can’t rush perfection!”

those five more minutes were never five minutes long. 

but he’d always, always indulged you and those pleading eyes of yours. as stoic as he appeared to be, you lived in his heart. of course he could never deny you anything under the sun.

—

alhaitham remembers that silly little song you sang over and over, the one you’d learnt from a kid in the bazaar. he’d taken you to see one of nilou’s performances, and, friendly soul that you were, you’d struck up a conversation with some of the eager audience members before the play. 

“oh, how i wish i was a bird flying free,

i’d see the world, every mountain and every sea!

oh, how i wish i was a cloud in the sky,

wouldn’t you like to wave to me as i pass by?”

you’d hum that rhyme on every idle afternoon.

loss is inevitable. he knows that, with how logical and rational and straightforward he is. he’d lost his parents, but he was far too young to remember. he’d lost his grandmother, but she passed in her sleep of old age, serene and wise.

but you? he didn’t think you’d leave him this soon. a singular wish sits in his soul, making its home in his bones. 

a wish that you’d come back, somehow. 

he wishes you gave him five more minutes, just as he always did.  but he knows that you could’ve given him five more hours, five more days, five more years and five more decades and it would still not be enough time spent with you. 

a blue feathered bird comes to perch on his shoulder, interrupting his musings just as he raises his face to the sky. he sees the heart shaped cloud that floats idly above sumeru city.

 he thinks of the rhyme again, and something in him tells him to wave. and so he does. a scent so familiar lingers, faintly brushing his nose in the wind that picks up.

“alhaitham, it's time to go.”  kaveh calls his name softly.

 alhaitham doesn't move. “five more minutes,”  he says, echoing your favorite phrase. “i smell camphor in the breeze.” 

✦ extra notes: my alhaitham characterization for this fic stems from how i believe that when alhaitham is attached, he's attached. so i focused more on that, and less of all that rationality and whatnot. this one loves deeply, yk?

that camphor thing is a real grandma remedy in our household (my mom would tie some in a hanky and put some under my pillow and still to this day reminds me to do it when i'm sick) which is what originally sparked the idea for this

when i'd initially started this wip, i didn't expect it go this way. usually i write with my brain, but i think i wrote this one with my fingers working faster than i can think hsjhsj so sorry if it's kinda out of place lmao but yk what? i'm happy with it still even though i feel like it doesn't have my usual quality.

thanks for reading.

[thesassypadawan]

Sweet Treat (Clay x FemReader)

Summary: It’s all you’ve wanted, all you craved. That one certain sweet treat, that goes so well with…

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there’s sooo much of the smut. Oral (male receiving), wonderful use of ice cream, manipulative/possessive Clay, and… his thick, long dick.

Notes: A continuation of Too Sweet! 🧡🖤

- “So, this is what you’re craving?” Clay taunts, lips curled up in a smirk. The object of your current obsession held tightly in his hand. “This is what my little wifey wants?”

- You gaze up at him. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. Desperate, hungry look on your face. While you wait obediently on your knees, rubbing your ample bump in anticipation. “Yes, baby’s been kicking me the whole day for it.”

- Raising an eyebrow, he lays back against the lavish pillows. Shaking his head, chuckling softly. “Has he? Naughty boy.”

- Ever so slightly, he tilts the melting cone. “Beating up his poor mama.” A few fat, creamy drops plopping onto his bare chest. “Just because of a bit of ice cream.”

- Whimpering, you shift in his lap. Watching them slowly trickle southwards. Fighting the urge to lap, lick them off. Even as they come to settle at the base of his hard cock. “Please…can I have some?”

- Further he tips it, more begin to freckle his skin. Until finally the entire scoop falls and lands squarely…

- “Of course,” he mutters. Spreading, smearing the sugary confection all over his torso…his length. “Better get every last drop though. Can’t have any going to waste.”

- “Thank you, hubby.” Timidly, you lean forward. Stomach pressing into his, small hiss escaping you from the sudden cool touch. Mouth hovering barely an inch above his left pec. “I promise.”

- Running your tongue across his skin, you squeak happily. Savoring the sweetness, his salty sweat. Lips brushing his nipple; sucking gently, cleaning it thoroughly. Before giving the same attention to the other. Eliciting a soft growl from him.

- Slowly you slide down, dipping between the cracks of his abs. Following the lines of his body, along the path of his happy trail. Taking your time, enjoying each delicious inch…the way your flesh sticks to his.

- Hard muscles quiver beneath you. A low groan escapes Clay when he glides through your soaked folds. When you taste your way upwards; tracing the veins, circling the tip. Before wrapping your lips around, the flavor of yourself and him mixed perfectly with the dessert. “Good girl…”

- Big hand comes to rest on the nape of your neck. Fingers tangle in your hair, gripping it firmly. “Such a good, good girl…” Tugging on it just harsh enough that your head jerks back, eyes lock. “Loving her treat…”

- Pressing, he forces you to descend. Watching as he disappears into the warmth of your mouth, your throat…while you gag and sputter. Saliva dribbling out of the corners of your mouth, making a mess of your chin and neck. “Gobbling it all up…” Until your nose was finally flush with his abdomen, buried into the gooey remnants you left behind.

- Now fully lodged, you will yourself to relax. Tears pricking at your waterlines, your breaths coming out in small puffs. His nails digging gently into your scalp. “ Always asking…”

- His hold tightens and you brace your hands against the woven rug. He starts to guide you, moving your head up and down. Bucking his hips; setting a quick, merciless pace. “Begging for more…”

- He was close. You can tell by the way he twitches, throbs. The guttural sounds that fall from his mouth, whenever he hits the back of your throat. How his hips stutter; drives grow irregular, erratic. “Like the greedy thing she is…”

- Pushing, thrusting hard one last time. Streams of hot cum shot into your mouth, coating your tongue. Overwhelming your senses completely. And you can’t help but moan, squeal uncontrollably. As you swallow down his entire load…at the feeling of being so full of him.

- Gingerly, he pulls you off. Cupping your cheek, rubbing his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. Wiping away a stray glob, offering it to you. “There. Did that satisfy your craving?”

- Panting softly, you nod. Cleaning off his digit, humming in appreciation. “Yes, baby and I are happy.”

- “That’s what I like to hear, that you enjoyed your ‘sweet treat’,” he coos. Hand finding its way to your stomach, caressing it lovingly. Massaging your taunt, sticky skin. “Now why don’t you lay on your back…and let daddy have his?”

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @wifeofasith, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @anakinstwinklebunny, @decaffeinatedunicorn, @beresfordsgirl, @kenmaiica, @sythethecarrot, @xx-ttamaraa, @everydaydreamer, @rafeswifeyy2, @laoif, @xhunnybeeex

[elvensorceress]

very late wip wednesday that is not wednesday at all I'm sorry but have snickerdoodles of longing?

@daisyssousa @spotsandsocks @eddiebabygirldiaz @tizniz @hippolotamus @chaosandwolves @smilingbuckley @rainbow-nerdss @singitforthegirls @bekkachaos @sunflower-eddiediaz @hotshotsxyz @epicbuddieficrecs @daffi-990 @blutterlie @exhuastedpigeon @thelikesofus @livinginsunnyhell 💕 On your left you will see ridiculous pining idiots sharing a bed and being oblivious 👍 and Eddie being Completely Normal about Buck having Feelings(tm) for someone…

Buck lies down and turns onto his side toward Eddie. “Just in my head.”

Eddie reaches out and runs his fingertips along Buck’s forehead. “You still thinking about the breakup? Because he wasn’t good enough for you. No one is. You deserve someone who gets how special you are. You’re a catch.”

Buck huffs but the hint of a smile touches him. “I wasn’t thinking about that. Haven’t thought about him in a while actually.”

That’s something at least. “Good. He didn’t know how lucky he was.”

Eddie doesn’t know why other than his constant urge to be affectionate especially when someone needs cheering up, but as soon as he thinks about how he should withdraw and stop touching Buck, his hand has other ideas. And he has to dip his fingers into Buck’s curls and rub his head.

They’re so soft and so perfect at this length. They could even be longer and Eddie could bury his hand in more of them. 

The look Buck gives him is too piercing. For a second, it strikes through Eddie like lightning. But it’s gone in the next instant. 

Buck noticeably swallows hard. “I don’t know. Maybe he was unlucky.”

“If you’re going to insult my best friend,” Eddie warns and contemplates making a fist in Buck’s hair for emphasis on the warning. He doesn’t. But he does think about it. 

“No, I didn’t mean like that.” Buck leans into Eddie’s hand and smiles, just a little. “Not, ‘he’s so unlucky being with me’ but like, what if— what if he was right? When he said he knew he wasn’t my last. What if he saw something? Or noticed something?”

Eddie’s thumb wanders and brushes over Buck’s cheekbone, all absentminded instinct. “What kind of something?” 

Buck’s eyes flutter and close for a moment before he takes Eddie’s hand and holds it still against his own chest. “S-so-something like, something I didn’t know. Or didn’t realize. I didn’t know I liked him at first. I had no idea that’s what I was feeling. And— a-and what if that happened again? What if he knew I wanted someone else? Or that I have feelings for someone who isn’t him? And that’s how he knew he wasn’t my last.” 

Someone else? 

There’s someone else? 

Eddie doesn’t know why. But he can’t breathe. Or move. He looks at his own hand, happily, eagerly pressed to Buck’s chest over his heart. “You—” he says but loses the rest of the words. All he can do is echo. “Someone else? There’s someone? A new someone? Another someone?”

Buck shrugs, waves it off, doesn’t meet Eddie’s eyes. “N-no. No, but. I don’t know. Hypothetically. I guess. What if that were the case? What if that’s what he thought? And that’s why he ended it.”

What if his ex thought Buck wanted someone else and that’s why he got dumped? It’s plausible? The more concerning thing about this however is, “You’re not thinking about calling him again. Are you? You’re not going to try and get back with him? Please tell me that’s not what this is. You’ve been working so hard. We’ve baked so many things.”

Buck turns pink and shakes his head. “No, that’s not— it’s not what I mean. That’s not the point. He’s not the point. I was just wondering, you know? Since he realized I was crushing on him but totally unaware of it. Maybe it happened again. Maybe he knew before I did. What I feel. In theory, I mean. He knew I have feelings for someone else, so he had to break it off. So— s-so? That would make the whole situation unlucky. For him. Or both of us. If we were both having unrequited feelings for different people.”

That’s— sensible? Also so much to think about. How can Eddie think about any of it. How can there be another person already? That’s three in less than a year. Eddie’s had three relationships in his whole life. How does anyone manage feeling like that? Feeling and then not feeling or feeling something else while still stuck in the first feeling or trying so hard to feel something when there were no feelings whatsoever and you were already thinking that feelings were horrible— it’s too much. Way too complicated. “I guess. That would be unlucky.”

“Right? Unlucky.” Buck nods. Somehow with the energy of a nervous, twitchy squirrel. 

“Is there someone else? Another someone?” Eddie asks again. Because he can’t stop thinking he’s also missed something. Or everything. When did Buck meet someone new? Why wouldn’t he have mentioned? Why, again, are they back to crushes and this person I just met five seconds ago really sees me and unrequited— wait. “There is someone. How would you know it’s unrequited unless you have someone specific in mind?”

Buck lets go of Eddie’s hand. In fact, he moves Eddie’s hand back to his side of the bed and then deliberately lets go of it. “I was just wondering. It’s hypothetical. There isn’t anyone. I’m tired, aren’t you tired? We should sleep, yeah? Goodnight, Eds.” He turns away and switches off the lights and stays on his side with his back to Eddie.

Eddie pokes him in the back where he’s sensitive and ticklish. “You’re a fucking terrible liar.”

Buck bats his hand away and yawns. “Aaahhhmmmm not. So sleepy. Not lying. Sleeping.” 

Are they the fourteen year olds now? Eddie tugs the blankets around himself and wriggles on his back to get comfortable. “Whatever. You brought it up.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Fall From You Drop by Drop

Warnings: this fic will include dark content and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your new fling has a bigger effect on your life than expected.

Characters: Thor

Note: I hope you all enjoy this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me❤️

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Warmth shrouds you in an unbreakable cocoon. His rough hand brushes up your back, thick fingertips curling, crawling up to your shoulder, grasping as you’re smothered from above. His large body covers you, deep breaths flow in and out of you, your own and his.

You arch your chest up, your arm hooked around his neck as you welcome him in. The heat is intoxicating. No doubt, no hesitation, you can feel it. This is the moment. 

Thor draws back, lips parting sloppily as he puffs and peers down at you. He pets your cheek as his eyes drink you in. You’ve never ever had anyone marvel at you. That’s what he’s doing. He looks at you like some sacred being. 

You put your hand on his chest as he stares, “you okay?” 

He nods and inhales deeply. “I’m perfect,” he caresses your temple, “you’re perfect.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, “are you... sure?” He asks. 

That’s something else new. They rarely ask. They’re rarely patient. The only want what they want. They wouldn’t come back for weeks just to spend time together. They wouldn’t hear ‘no’ or they’d pout at ‘I’m just not ready’. Not him. Not Thor. 

Maybe it isn’t just a careless idiom. Maybe older men are better. More mature at the very least. 

“I’m sure,” you say. 

His eyes rove down as his hand slowly trails around your side. You look down as he touches the fabric of your shirt. He drags his touch to the hem and hooks his thumb beneath. He pulls the fabric up your stomach and you shudder out a breath. 

“Sure?” He prompts again as his eyes flick up. 

You pause to admire him. He’s older but handsomely so. Square jaw, hair so golden that the silver weaves in subtly, lines etched into his flesh to add definition to his eyes and lips, broad shoulders, thick torso, tall and powerful. His age is hardly a detriment, it only makes everything so much more enticing. 

You nod and hum. Your heart is fluttering. It’s been a while but more so, it’s rarely been good. You’re nervous, afraid even, but you are ready. That’s what’s different about time is that you are sure. 

He pushes your shirt up over your bra. You shiver. Your nipples poke pertly through the thin cups. You squirm, not uncomfortable, but eager. There’s an itch inside of you. 

You watch him. He’s hypnotised by you as he fondles you through your bra. He traces the curve of your tits before he tugs the cups above your chest. He rolls his thumb around your nipple and slowly bows to take it between his teeth. He sucks and purrs, flicking his tongue until you twitch. 

You clutch the back of his head and moan. You push your chest up higher and he gropes your other tit as he tends to the first. He toys with you tenderly. He switches and you bury your fingers in his thick hair. One hand wanders down his back, between his shoulder blades, to urge him on. 

His hand moves lower. He keeps his attention on your tits. You grab your shirt, lifting your head and shoulders awkwardly to shed it completely. He nips along your ribs as he dips his hand down the front of your leggings. You sigh as he feels along the trimmed vee of hair along your pelvis. 

He bends his fingers and rubs along your clit. You gasp and arch deeper. He sucks on your flesh, leaving hot spots down your stomach. He drags his finger up and down your folds then circles around your bud. He presses down as second and continues to swirl. 

You whine as sparks ping from your core and scatter across your body. You writhe as he weaves back up to your chest, his other hand creeping under your back. He pinches until the hooks of your bra release. 

Once more he nuzzles and nips at your tits. You claw at the top of his shirt. You want more. You need more. 

He sits up and frees his hand from your leggings. You drone and continue to tug at his shirt. He chuckles, a sultry rumble, and pulls it over his head. You gape up at his large chest and the soft lines of his stomach. There’s a layer of flesh over the muscle, a scar along his left side, another at the top of his right pec.

He wears the years effortlessly. His thick arms bulge and the veins of his hands throb. His age is his strength.  

He falls on you again. His swallows up your moans as his hands rove over your body. He is desperate, feeling every inch of you. He rolls his body against yours, cradled between your legs. His snarls and growls as he burrows his nose against your throat. 

You push your head down into cushion, the couch springy back beneath his movements. His hand traces down to your pelvis again, this time over the thin fabric of your leggings. He runs his nail along the seam and surprises you as he prods you through it. 

He splits through the stitches. You can’t care for the torn fabric as he stretches the hole wider. His mouth latches onto your neck as he tortures your flesh with teeth and tongue. He slides his fingers around your cotton panties and pulls them to the side. There’s something so raw about him, how he bulls through the layers to get to you. 

He flicks his fingers up and down your folds, pressing them along your entrance. He pushes into you, inch by inch, wiggling as he gets deeper and deeper. As he reaches his knuckles, he lays his thumb on your clit and rocks his hand. 

You turn your head and bite your lip, his name trapped in your throat. You move your hips as you wordlessly beg for more. He tilts his hand into you, tangling you around his touch. He sinks as deep as he can and lifts his head. 

“Ready for me, pet?” He growls. 

You nod and moan. You spread wider for him as you grasp at the side of the cushion. He pushes his knees to the edges and drags his hand from your cunt. He holds himself up on one elbow, laying kisses over your forehead and cheek. He tickles you with his nose as his zipper whispers beneath his fingertips. 

He angles closer and brings his tip again you. He slickens his throbbing head against your lips, spreading your juices down his shaft as he pumps himself. He lines up with your entrance, the sides of his knuckles against you, and he leans into you. 

Your lips form an O as your breath rushes from you. He impales you in a single thrust and you whimper at the overwhelming fullness. You tilt your hips and bend your spine as you take all of him. He hooks his arm beneath you and pulls you off the couch into his lap. You slide even further onto him. 

He wraps you up in his arms, rocking you atop him as he nibbles at your lower lip. Your eyes roll back as the friction of his pelvis against your clit burns hotter and hotter. Your bodies meld into a cloud of desire and delight. The room around you slakes away to a haze of colours and shadows. 

You clasp a hank of his hair in your hand, your other gripping his thick arm as you work against him. He growls and ruts up into you, holding your hip in place as he pumps from below. Harder and harder, until you feel you might break in two. 

“Mmmm,” he purrs along your collar bone, “so good, so soft, so supple...” 

His words flicker in you, yet you can’t focus on how strange they seem. You roll your head on your neck and grasp his shoulders as you bounce yourself in your lap. Desperation mounts inside of you as he thrusts in tandem. 

Your eyes close on their own as you sink into the lust of the moment. In surrounds you, tying you up in ribbons, as pleasure swells over from your chest, erupting in wild whines and wails. You’ve never known anything like this. You never want it to end. 

⏳

You yawn as you enter the coffee shop. The smell of grinding beans is usually enlivening but that day, nothing has done the trick. Caffeine, protein, sugar. You’re dead on your feet. You blame the night of glorious sex and you don’t regret it. 

Lorelai is waiting already. You check your watch. It’s time already. You thought you were early. You should be, you left an hour early. The day is just passing you by. 

You wave at her as she spots you. You go to the counter to put your order in and wait. You take your double americano and join her at the table. 

“Hey, Lor,” you swallow another yawn. “How’s it going?” 

You take a sip to clear the frog from your throat, then try to dislodge it with a cough. Your voice feels as if it’s pooling in your mouth like molasses. Thick and sticky. 

“Woah, you look rough. Long night?” She asks. 

You smirk and look at the ceiling. 

“Do tell. How’d date night go?” She trills. 

You giggle but only a little before it fizzles. Even that, feels like too much. You look at her, “wonderful. Immaculate. Paradise.” 

“Seems like. You must’ve been up all night,” she teases. 

“Close to,” you admit, almost giddy. “He’s...” 

“How old, again?” She winks. 

“Lor,” you roll your eyes. 

“Told you. Experience,” she chirps. “I’m jealous but, honey, you need sleep. You look like you’ve been run over. Twice.” 

“Oh, you’re definitely jealous,” you sneer. “I’m fine.” 

“Well,” she sniffs, “I guess you are closer to thirty than me.” 

“Please, by one week. I’ve got time.” 

“Five years and counting,” she says. 

“Whatever,” you check your phone. “Might as well enjoy it while it lasts, right?” 

“Oh, you enjoy that old man,” she snorts. 

⏳

Thor comes over again. With how fast the day went by, it feels like he never left. Just as quickly, you’re naked and all that fades away. Time, doubt, anxiety. All of it gone but for the ecstasy of the moment. 

The rose-tinted cloud fades and you float back up to reality. You stare at the ceiling as he snores next to you. You feel flat. Hollow. You groan as your bladder squeezes uncomfortably. You barely have the strength to get up. 

You wobble into the bathroom and shut the door. You flip the light on and sit on the toilet. You stay their longer than it takes to relieve the pressure. 

You have to use the counter to get to your feet. Is the sex that good? Your hips are killing you. Every inch of you is achy. 

You turn to look at your reflection. You wince. You lean in to see yourself clearer. Is that a gray hair. A wrinkle in your forehead? You don’t get a clear glimpse as your vision blurs in and out of focus. You shake it off and push yourself away. 

You turn the light off as you stagger into the bedroom. You stumble and hit the side of the bed. Thor grunts and you sense him sit up in the dark. He helps you sit on the bed. 

“You alright, pet?” He rubs your back. 

“Fine, just... tripped,” you lie. 

“Mm, come here,” he drags you up over him and rolls over you. “You need sleep. Let me put you to bed.” 

You don’t need much coaxing. Ever since that first time, you can’t resist. It’s like an addiction. When he isn’t inside of you, you’re wishing he was. It’s all you can think about. It’s scary. This is supposed to be casual. Short-term. 

It can be. You just need to relax. Have fun. Enjoy it while it lasts. 

⌛

“I got us coffee,” Thor booms, jarring you from sleep. 

The world tilts as you open your eyes. You’re dizzy. Weak. He’s anything but as he marches up the side of the bed and plants a cup next to you. 

“Went down to the cafe on Redmond. They had a new special,” he proclaims. 

You blink and fall onto your back. You stare up at him. You squint as you try to see him clearer. His hair seems to shine, golder than ever, and his complexion is rosy and vibrant. You wear, he’s missing some wrinkles. Maybe he’s into botox? 

You try to sit up. You collapse and he helps you. You rub your forehead in embarrassment. 

“Sorry, thanks, I think... I haven’t been sleeping enough,” you croak. 

He grabs the cup and hands it to you. He sits on the edge of the bed. 

“Well, I might be to blame, keeping you up all night,” he winks. 

You laugh and it trickle into a yawn. You sip the coffee. It makes your chest burn. You put it back on the night table. You can’t drink that. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say. 

“Not at all. I was up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” he beams at you. 

You stare at him. Did he get his hair dyed? He must have done something. You shake your head at the thought. You shouldn’t worry about all that. 

You look at your hands. The veins protrude a bit more than before and you have a dark spot right under your knuckle. Hm. 

“Excuse me,” you bend your legs and put all your strength into turn them over the edge of the bed. 

You stand and Thor taps your ass. You squeak but shuffle away. Your feet are heavy and your legs stiff. You retreat into the bathroom and hide behind the door. 

You reach to feel where he slapped you. It’s still hot. You let your fingers stretch across the skin. It feels loose. 

You turn on the light and face the mirror. You nearly shriek. Your roots. You bring your hands up to frame your face as you stare at the silver all around your hairline. And your face. Your complexion is off and your cheeks seems to sag. How can that be? You’re twenty-five. 

You lean in to look at your left eye. The pupil is cloudy. What’s happening to you?

The door opens, frightening you as the hinges creak. You look over at Thor. He stands naked and shameless in the doorway. Your mouth falls open. 

His stomach is tight and deeply lined. His muscles are corded where before they were hidden beneath a bit of dough. And his arms look thick, his chest even broader, his shoulders rounder. He looks... younger. 

“Mm, ready to start the day,” he reaches for you. 

You eye twitches as his touch scalds you. You feel the thrill ripples through you and wipes away the horror of that moment. He turns you away from your reflection and lifts you onto the porcelain of the sink. You catch the edge as you bend your legs around him.  

In an instant, there is only him and your need for him. You forget why you were so worried a moment ago. Something... oh well. It’s just another little thing that’s slipped your mind. It happens so often these days. 

[binniesbooks]

hi fayebae, imma send these before i go for my hiatus again(im not sure if you alr have smth planned for tyun n hyuka! cos i know u have a yj fic thats coming soon, so ill send these in for them)

was thinking of tyun x reader for this

uk the series “academy reincarnation”!! There was a salsa dance ep! I was thinking that reader decided to sign up to the salsa academy where tyun is one of the instructors?/student! reader wanted to learn salsa for the longest time but has always been afraid to as one would usually need to dance in pairs. afraid of having any physical contact with any stranger(due to a trauma she formed from a relationship), even tho it was difficult, reader eventually let down her walls with tyun as the many practice sessions go by, she finds herself now looking forward to salsa practices as thats the only time she can see tyun! And she craves his touch. During one of the practices, they got so lost in the dance that their faces ended up really close to each other! Tension arises(she wants him, he wants her, dare i say more 🤭smut of course!) [didnt wanna write too much to allow ur creative freedom!!]

i hope this is good gah(just thought i should send smth in for the other members too hehe, pls dont put aside ur wip again!! Do this after ure done w ur yj one gah) love u my soobie fav boobie💗

TENDER TOUCH

TH 002 .F22 2024

wc 5.3k

pairings gentle!Taehyun x abused!reader

warnings physical and sexual abuse, traumatic experience, traumatized reader, protected sex, abusive ex-boyfriend (idk what else did I miss)

faye's note *insert: Taehyun's 어디 있지 (where am I) in boba😳* as promised, here's my second fic for the day! this is my first Taehyun fic and I'm fucking obsessed that it got up to 5.3k words, wth. Anyways, @inkigayocamman I know you requested a Tae fic, but here's another one for u to enjoy I guess while I'm still working on it. 🙂‍↕️ I hope you like this too! And ofc, to my one and only Beomgyu's kitten, I love your brain, it's so sexy omfg. I'm totally sat. Plus yeah, the yj fic is still on the line. 🤣 Anyway, I did a few research(again) for this fic, so I hope it turned out good, fingers crossed!

Edit: Thanks for proofreading the whole ass fic @babymochibeargyu I'm dead now. 😭😂 luv uuuu 😖💓

"Learn how to dance Salsa, we offer multiple dance forms for beginners to professionals. Come join us..." You mumbled reading the flyer your friend handed you.

"Jia, you know I can't do anything like this anymore." You sighed as you handed her back the flyer.

"I know, I know, it's because of your trauma, right? But maybe this is the way that can only help you overcome that trauma," She started, "I'm worried about you taking this class but I'm more worried about you carrying that trauma all throughout your life." Jia gently holds your hand, still careful not to scare you with the skin contact.

You're lost in your thought for a while thinking if you can really let go of your trauma after all this time. It's been so long since you haven't engaged in any relationship after your last one.

"I-I'll think about it." You sighed, you really wanted to be free but you just didn't know how to start. "Please do, I really wanted to help you." Jia's eyes are full of worry, sadness and guilt. Because it's been so long yet she can't do anything to help.

You've always been wanting to learn how to dance Salsa. It's like your little dream ever since, however, your boyfriend from your last relationship did not even want you to be touched nor be grazed by any man's skin. You insisted you could just pair with a girl but he threatened you to hurt anyone who will be around you if you kept on insisting to register for the dance class. You ended up not registering for the class and burying your little dance dream into the depths of your heart.

The following week, you found yourself standing in front of the dance academy building. Breathing slowly, thinking deeply whether you really want to do it or not. You were clutching on the flyer tightly. Your knees fell weak as you stumbled down, retreating all the way to the confinement of your apartment to hide from the world.

It took so much courage for you to do this. Especially when you ended up trying once again a week later. You're standing in the front of the building, staring at the swaying banner of the academy with a "SALSA DANCE ACADEMY" written on it.

You softly knocked on the door before opening it. "Hi! Come in! How may I help you?" You were greeted with s young lady, clad in a salsa dance costume. She looks bright and bubbly.

"I.. Uhm.. wanted to register for the class." You meekly answered as you slid down on the chair. "May I know your name?" The lady picked up the pen on the table and grabbed a file.

"Y/n...y/n s/n." You silently answered.

"What class would you like to be included in?" The lady's smile never faltered. Her bright aura makes you feel comfortable for a bit. "What do you offer?" You asked back.

"Well, we have group sessions and we also have one-on-one lessons," you nodded at her, signaling her to keep going. "In group sessions, there will be 15 pairs -- 30 individuals in a class, plus the 2 dance instructors," you felt pressured with just the thought of being included in the group. "In the one-on-one class, we will find you a pair if you still have none, or you can bring one, and then also a pair of instructors," she explained.

"I'll take the latter."

"Please sign here and we'll wait for another one to sign up." She smiled again at you. You were thinking of bringing your friend to the class.

"By any chance, can I bring a girl for the one-on-one class?" Her expression suddenly turned sad, "I'm afraid we are only taking a man and a woman as a pair for the one-on-one class. Usually, the pairs who sign up for the one-on-one class end up acquiring advanced skills than those who are in the group."

You thought of backing out once again but you shook your head to clear your mind. You're already here, you're already a step closer to the most awaited time of your life: to let go of your trauma.

"We'll call you once we receive another sign-up for a one-on-one class. Thank you for dropping by." The lady waved her hand as you stepped outside.

You shrunk to the corner of the door, people are looking at you but you're too occupied to even give a damn.

It's been a week. You didn't know how to explain how you felt. Half of you felt happy that you hadn't received a call yet, because that would only means you didn't have to do it anymore and there wouldn't be anymore skin contact for you to trigger your trauma. However, the other half of you felt disappointed. You would have been lying if you said that you didn't get your hopes up, thinking that this would be the way to be finally free from your trauma.

"Still haven't received a call?" Your friend placed the pizza she brought on your coffee table. Today was the day she would usually pay you a visit to your apartment. She started doing this from 2 years ago, when you and your ex-boyfriend finally broke up.

You hummed in response as you dug out the box of pizza. Nevertheless, you don't want to bring your thoughts about the dance academy again.

A couple of minutes passed when your phone rang, causing both your heads to look towards your phone

"Hello?"

"Hi! Can I talk to Ms. Y/n s/n?" The voice over the line spoke brightly.

"Y/n speaking." You just answered back, looking at your friend who's anticipating a piece of good news.

"We just want to inform you that someone already signed up for the one-on-one class as your pair. The class will start this Monday, are you fine with it?" Your friend sighed in relief as soon as she heard it.

"O-okay. Sure." You felt a rush of anxiety travel throughout your body, as your fingers trembled hanging up the call.

"Hey, it's okay." Your friend wrapped the thick blanket around your shoulders before hugging you. Afraid that she might trigger your trauma. "You'll be fine." She tries to calm you down by rubbing your back.

2 days passed by quickly. Enough to make you coil up in bed instead of getting up. Your phone vibrates from an incoming message.

Dearest Jia: Take care later, okay? I know you can do it. I won't be able to go because of work, so I hope you understand:< but I'll pick you up when you're done! <3

You: I don't feel like going.

Dearest Jia: Noooo! You've come this far. You should go, I know you can do this!

You: Fine, I'll text you when I'm done with the class.

You tossed your phone on the bed as you grunt into your pillow. You're just glad your dance class starts at 3 in the afternoon. You still had a lot of time to prepare your body and mind.

Quarter to 3, you're already in front of the building, a few people going in at the same time. Probably for the group session. You wanted to go home but the lady called you out.

"Y/n! Please come in. I'll accompany you to the assigned room. I'm Daeun, btw." She extended her hand to you but you froze. You're too afraid. But someone else caught Daeun's hand. "I'm Taehyun, the one who signed up for the pair." A tall guy appeared on your side, shaking her hand. "I-i'm y/n." You meekly introduced yourself without touching any of them. The lady looked confused at first but she shrugged it off.

"Okay, I'll leave you two here, Mr. and Mrs. Hwang are inside already."

Taehyun pushed the door open, you were both greeted with a polished wooden floor and mirror walls in the wide room. Two people were sitting in the corner. They must be your instructors.

"Please come in!" The lady waved at the both of you.

"Do you know each other?" The man asked which the both of you only answered by shaking your head.

"I think we should start our class with an introduction. Don't you think?" The lady nodded.

"I'm Mr. Hwang and this is Mrs. Hwang. She's my wife and we mainly teach one-on-one classes. You are?" They turn their gaze to Taehyun.

"My name is Kang Taehyun. I also dance but not in this genre. So I wanted to learn this." They then looked at you.

"I... I am y/n. I signed up for the class t-to overcome my t-rauma." Your words are slurred, and your reason made your instructors gasp. "I-I used to be in a r-relationship. And t-they're the reason why I can't e-even touch people or let other p- people t-touch me." You bit your lip as you look up at them.

"Honey, but I'm afraid this dance requires a lot of holding and touching, what should we do?" Mrs. Hwang clasped both of her hands on her mouth as she turned a bit emotional.

"By any chance, can you hold someone when there's a barrier between them? Like, there is no direct skin-to-skin contact?" Taehyun spoke up, you nodded lightly at him. "It's been two years so I think I can tolerate it to an extent."

"Then I think we're good Mrs. Hwang. I'm thinking of using a glove or something. If that's what makes her comfortable. I don't mind at all." Taehyun remarked.

Taehyun ended up wearing gloves for your dance class. And as much as possible, he's avoiding any of your exposed body parts. He's also lightly touching you that you feel as though it's just air grazing your body.

So far so good, the 3-hour class ended up okay. Jia picked you up 30 minutes later after you texted her that you were done.

Your dance class went well the next day. And the day after that. And the following days after that. Days became weeks, weeks became months. It's all going well, with Taehyun's careful assistance over you.

Today was the day you decided to step further to your goal.

"Taehyun, I think we can now stop using the gloves. We've been dancing for a month now and I hate it whenever I think about the gloves. It feels like I'm being disgusted by you or something." You stated to Taehyun once the two of you were on a quick break. Within one month, you grew closer to Taehyun. The quick breaks were your time to tell stories to each other.

"Are you sure? You're not making me feel like any of that, by the way. But are you sure you can do it now?" His eyes seek yours. You simply nodded as you removed your jacket leaving you with your t-shirt on.

"Are you two, okay? Shall we continue?" Your dance instructor asked, checking on you, as you and Taehyun stood up. Taehyun discarded the gloves he was using on top of his bag as he folded his long-sleeved t-shirt up to his elbow.

You started off well. Taehyun holding your hand as gently as he could as usual. Letting you turn around with some quick footwork. It was all good actually, until he needed to lean in, holding your waist and your thigh. One more turn, his arms and fingers graze through your arms. His delicate fingers holding your waist once again. A quick turnaround. A step faster. A more closer proximity.

"You fucker! Come back here! I know what you did!"

"S-stop! We're already over Han!" You squealed as you blocked the door with your body.

"You're fucking dead meat when this door opens!"

Your tears wouldn't stop flowing from your cheeks as you kept your body pressed on the banging door. Han has been your boyfriend for 9 months now. At first, he was so good to you, treating you like the princess you deserved to be. But it was too good to be true that you started to feel it was wrong. Just 2 months ago he started hurting you physically and abusing you sexually. He was too obsessed with you too that he sometimes he would start locking you up in your apartment. Even your requests got declined. At first, you let it pass as you thought it was normal. But you started earning bruises and wounds. You barely ate, barely drank, you even barely slept. You would often get fevers too. The slightest noise would make your soul jump out and the slightest movement would make you flinch.

Jia, your friend, was the one who advised you to report him. So you did, that was why he was here banging at your door.

Han's voice can no longer be heard, hence you decided to quickly hide in your closet, as you dug out your spare phone you had hidden to contact your friend.

You quickly called Jia, telling her to call the police or something but you were cut off when the door bursts open. Han was holding a gun and laughing hysterically.

"Fuck you, you bitch! You're really dead!" You quickly covered your mouth.

"Come out, kitten. Come out from wherever the fuck you're hiding!" His voice echoed through the room drowning your quiet sobs.

That's when he forcefully opened the closet you're hiding. "Ohhh, you look so scared kitten, why?" He cooed at you as his lips stretched to form a mocking grin. "Move to the bed!" You shook your head. "Fucking move to the bed!" He fired a warning shot at the mirror, crashing it. You yelped at the noise. With your trembling body, you quickly scrambled your way to the bed covering your bruised-up body.

"Strip." He commanded as he pointed the gun at you. With no choice left, and your life at stake, you did what he ordered.

He crashed his lips on yours harshly. When he noticed you didn't kiss him back, he slapped you. Blood flowed through your lips as you choked on your sobs. With the gun still pointed at your head, he started harassing you again. His hand left a bruised mark on your neck as he tightly squeezes it. You could almost see the white light as your weak body just let him do anything. There was no use thrashing around as if you had accepted your dying fate.

"Freeze!" Was the only thing you heard before everything around you went black.

You opened your eyes inside the hospital, pulled every apparatus attached to your body and started screaming. It made Jia scream out and call for a doctor. They couldn't calm you down so they needed to give you a shot for temporary sleep.

Everything came swirling back to you. Pushing Taehyun away, causing your body to crash on the wooden floor. "Shit!" Taehyun cursed under his breath as he hurriedly pushed back his sleeves and wore the gloves again, picking up your jacket at the same time, before coming back to you. Your instructors let out a shock gasp as they also rushed over to you.

"Please grab a blanket or any thick clothing!" Taehyun shouts as he tries to ease you by covering your shoulder with your jacket.

Mr. Hwang passed Taehyun his padded jacket he always brought with him. Taehyun carefully wrapped the thick jacket around your body. He holds your face as he tries to soothe you.

"Y/n, look at me, please look at me." Sweat started to form on his forehead as tears freely flowed down your cheeks. "Please, look at me, and breathe slowly. Breathe slowly. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale." Taehyun guided your breathing as his glove-cladded hands rubbed your cheeks.

Mrs. Hwang was panicking but Mr. Hwang tried to calm her down before he went out to grab a glass of water.

Your heartbeat slowed down for at least a bit. Taehyun guiding you helped somehow as you slowly calmed down. Taehyun got the water from Mr. Hwang and held it in front of you as he let you sip on the water slowly.

"Are you feeling okay now?" Taehyun tucked your sweaty hair behind your ears. His eyes were full of worry. "Do you wanna go home and rest?" He's still carefully rubbing your shoulder. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have removed the gloves. That was too risky." Taehyun mumbled as he hesitated to hold your hand.

That same afternoon, he called your friend over. He introduced himself and explained the situation. He let your friend take you home as he bid you two goodbye. You're lucky it was Friday at that time so you don't have to worry about waking up the next morning to go to your dance class. For the next two days, you spent it caving in your room. It helped you calm down.

Monday. You opened the door. You laughed at the scene in front of your eyes.

"What's that?" You chuckled as you placed your bag on the corner. Taehyun looks at himself in the mirror. He's totally covered. He's wearing a thicker glove and a padded jacket. His usual dress pants are now sweats. He's even wearing a mask. He scratched the back of his head.

"Pft. That's too much. Don't worry I'm fine now. Thank you by the way." You smiled at him.

"Are you sure? Because that scared me. I don't know what to do." He removed his jacket along with the face mask and the thick gloves.

"Mhm, I'm sure." You assured him.

"Okay then. We'll try again. Slowly this time." His eyes are full of concern as he looks at you. You smiled at him as you accepted his hand.

For another month, Taehyun tried to connect with you. Stopping whenever needed. Wearing the things he needs to wear whenever he can sense your anxiety rising. For once, you realize how he gently holds you. How he's always careful with you, treating you like a fragile glass that would easily break if you weren't handled correctly. One month passed without much problem. If anything, you're actually growing accustomed to it.

For some reason, you learned to feel comfortable with Taehyun's touch. The graze of his skin, his fingers, and his touch never terrified you anymore, and his existence no longer made you panic.

Now, he's solely the reason why you're still attending your dance class. You're slowly putting your trust in him. You're slowly putting your walls down. He can now hold your hand without fear. He can now dance without thinking that you would startled. He slowly introduced you to the steps that requires your body to be closer. Teaching you how the steps are supposed to be done. You're no longer panicking. Even when your face is just only few inches from him, you were actually smiling at each other. You no longer feared his touch. If anything, he's only leaving you all tingly with his warm skin.

You could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Whenever you leaned on his chest, it made your heart flutter. His breath on your shoulder, your neck, any part of your body makes the knot in your stomach twist tighter.

You're slowly craving for his touch. For how he cares for you, for how he tends to you. Whenever you're home, he keeps popping into your head. How his sharky smile appears whenever he's happy. The small noises he made. His cat-like attitude. He's the perfect example of hot, sexy and cute.

Every last week of the month, you would have all the time to yourselves to gather all your skills acquired. Because every once a month, you had to show what you have learnt in class. This now left the two of you alone in the dance studio. Perfecting every step and move you needed to show on evaluation day.

Taehyun's lingering touches left you all tingly. His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine. His breath alone makes your mind go in a twist.

"One step back, two steps to the front... One turn and... Lean you down." He's matching his words on every beat of the step. You thought it only happens in a fantasy world. But it was like the world stopped when his eyes were fixed on yours. His steady breath makes you hold yours. His eyes traveled down to your lips as he gulped. He mumbles a soft "You're pretty," before pulling you back to stand on both your feet.

His hands are both on your face as he slowly backs you to the mirror. His breath is unsteady and warm. The moment he got you pressed on the mirror, he leaned his forehead on yours as he closed his eyes.

"You're really pretty. So pretty I'm afraid I can't control myself." He whispered. Your hands were on his chest, you felt how his heart was thumping so hard.

"S-should we head out early?" You whispered, your hot puffs of breath touching his lips got him reeling as he cursed under his breath.

He quickly pulls away, holds your hand and grabs both of your bags. Both heading outside to his car. "Tell your friend I'm taking you home instead." The air in the car throughout the drive was so thick. His hands were gripping on the wheels, tapping impatiently when the road slowed down.

"Calm down, Tae, I'm not going anywhere." You chuckled as you placed your hand above his when it was resting on the gear shift. He throws a quick glance at you. He bit his lip as a flush crept up on his cheeks.

The drive was short, but Taehyun's action made it look like it was not. He hurriedly got out of his car, running over to your side to open the door for you as he held your hand. His jittery steps were heavy as you both made your way to his humble home.

"Come in." He nervously spoke as he placed his shoe on the rack, switching the light on in the process.

"D-do you want a drink or something?" He was almost running towards the kitchen.

You flop on his couch, making yourself comfortable at some point. "Come here, instead," you chuckled, "You're so anxious for no reason, Taehyun." He sat down beside you, wiping his sweaty palms on his dress pants as he sighed. You scoot over, holding his face, lips just a few inches apart.

"Wait," he pushed you a bit, "a-are you sure about this?" You nodded and smiled at him. "G-give me a minute." He rummaged through his back pocket pulling a handkerchief. You looked at him confused.

He unfolded the handkerchief and gently placed the thin fabric on your lips before crashing his lips on yours. He holds your nape as he climbs up on the couch. He slowly laid you down. Lips unmoving, yet it feels so hot. His lips were just merely pressed on yours with the fabric separating both of your soft skin.

He pulled away, kissing your forehead. "I'm sorry." He whispered as if he was the one who did you wrong. You gently pull the handkerchief away as you tangle your fingers in his hair. Taehyun never failed to take care of you in the most gentle way possible. He's not thinking of his pleasure at this point. He's thinking about you. To the point that he even thought of putting a piece of cloth between your lips just to be able to kiss you.

You wanted to cry at how he's taking care of you. Your eyes welled up with tears as you pulled him back. "I'm good now Tae, thank you for taking care of me. There's no need for the hanky." You whispered before your tears rolled down your cheeks as you kissed him, bare.

He's a gentleman. He's too good to be true. But you let your walls fall down and let him enter. You let him protect you instead. But his hungry kiss spoke thousands of emotions. His kisses travel down to your neck.

"Taehyun..." You whimpered as you gripped his hair.

"A bit more... Just a bit more..." He started sucking and biting your neck and shoulder, leaving splotchy red marks. He pulls away for a while, enough time to tug your shirt off your body.

His fingers slowly traced every scar you have on your body. The marks on your chest from the bottle Han once threw at you. The cigarette burns on your stomach. He also pulled down your skirts only to see stitches from your thighs. You got this when Han pushed you down the stairs. His finger draws back to your lips. The scar from the cut when he slapped you is still visible.

You covered your face out of embarrassment. You no longer look pretty with your all bruised-up body. "We can't do this here." Taehyun got up and carried you all the way to his bedroom. He laid you carefully as ever in his bedroom.

The bed dips down at his weight as he kneels between your legs. His head dips down to kiss every scar you have on your delicate body as if he's kissing your trauma away. He took his precious time. Not wanting to scare or startle you at any point. His actions are being done with all tenderness.

"Do you still want me to continue?" He asks when he hovers above your body, his elbows on both sides of your head. "I want you Taehyun, please do..." You whined biting your lip. "How can I say no when you say it like that, sweetheart." He sighed leaning his forehead on yours again. Your arms crawled under his shirt, feeling his toned body hiding beneath the soft cotton shirt he was wearing. "C-can you take it off? I feel so exposed." You mumbled as you tugged his shirt. "Ah, shit, I'm sorry." He quickly backed up to discard his shirt on the floor.

You stared at him when he was all fours above you. His body is totally toned. You can clearly see the firm muscles on his arms. His buff chest and his perfectly defined abs. "Touch me. I won't stop you. Touch me so you won't feel embarrassed anymore. Touch me so you won't feel as if I'm taking advantage of you. Touch me so you won't feel scared." He grabbed one of your hands and placed it on his chest, slowly dragging it down to his abs.

When he lets go of your hands, you continue to drag them down to the waistband of his dress pants. "C-continue..." His eyes were shut close, his lips trapped between his teeth. You can clearly see his abs tightening as he clenches with the graze of your finger on his waist. He gulps when you hook your finger inside. You unhooked the clip that's binding his pants and pulled the zipper down. His breathing hitched at the lingering touches you're leaving on his lower body.

You gently stroked him as you looked for his eyes. His lips were swollen at how he was biting it. "You won't let it out?" You tried taunting him. "Fuck..." He lets go of his long-held breath, hissing through his teeth. "Y-you're making me crazy, sweetheart... You're totally making me crazy..." He huffed as he tucked your hair behind your ear.

"Condom?" You asked. He reached into the small drawer just beside your head, pulling out a packet of condoms. "D'you wanna p-put it in f'me?" His words were short, and he was catching his breath. You gently rubbed the head of his cock as you rip the packet with your teeth.

"S-sweetheart, you're... Shit... You're k-killing me." He shuddered when you pressed at his slit, his jaw clenched tightly, his hand grasping the sheets.

You slowly drag your fingers on his cock as you wrapped it with the condom. "T-take your time... I w-won't do anything to hurt you or...ahh... or m-make you s-scared of me." He's struggling to hold back but he's doing his best. As soon as you were done, you tangled your fingers on his again, pulling him for a kiss. A kiss full of care. Gentle. Delicate. Sweet.

He pulls away, caressing your face once more. He pulls your underwear in one swift motion as he lines himself up on you, slowly pushing in. He continuously soothes you by rubbing his thumb on your cheek. "Don't be scared, hm? I'm here. It's just me..." He keeps on mumbling, repeating the same phrase as you nod back at him.

Once he has bottomed out inside you, he stays still as he continues to plant soft kisses on your face. You were tearing up not because of the trauma anymore, but because of the love and care he's showing you.

He unhooked your bra as he gently groped your breast, his fingers flicked on your nipple as he suck on the other. "Mmm..." You whimpered underneath his big body squirming at how his tongue danced on your nipple. He didn't take long, afraid that he might hurt or trigger your trauma.

"C-can I move now? I might end up c-cumming now. You've been clenching f-for some time..." He muttered under his breath. You nodded and covered your face again.

He pulled both of your hands and intertwined your fingers with him above your head. "Please don't cover your face. You're beautiful. You're still pretty even with your scars. You're still gorgeous even with your fear and trauma. Please... Just let me take care of you. I know it'll be hard for you, but I promise. I promise to hold you dearly and cherish you." His eyes were looking for answers.

"Taehyun... Please... Please take care of me from now on. Please hold me when I feel scared... Make me feel loved..." Your silent weeps were drowned as he kissed your nose. "I'll be your peace, sweetheart." He wiped your tears as he slowly thrusts in you.

"I... I promise to hold you as gently as I can... But... I think I might end up g-going hard right n-now." He buried his face in the crook of your neck.

Your arms reached over his back as your nails dug and dragged over his bare back. "T-Taehyun..." You moaned out his name as you writhed in pleasure beneath him. The slow thrust becomes a little bit more sloppy. The skin slapping echoed through the solitude of his room.

"Fuck. Please forgive me if e-end up going t-too hard. But I promise to d-do my best to hold b-back." He grunted as his thrust went harder. You shook your head wanting him to go harder.

"I-i can't hurt you... I w-won't..." He steadies the way he thrusts inside you making the knot on your stomach tighten as you feel your high just around the corner.

You held him as if your life depended on him, "Taehyun... I'm close." "D-do it, sweetheart. I'm g-gonna cum any m-minute." He pressed his lips on you to drown your moans as you both came. He rubbed your waist as he soothed you before pulling out. Tying the condom and disposing it in the bin, zipping up his pants at the same time.

He bends down to kiss your forehead as he grabs a pack of wet wipes cleaning you up. He picked up his shirt and made you wear it. He finally laid beside you as he pulled you on his chest, running his fingers through your hair.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" He checks on you, to which you replied by shaking your head and a smile. "Sorry for going too hard, I did my best to hold back," he mumbled as he kissed the top of your head. "I'm okay Taehyun. Thank you so much." Your eyes finally close as his warmth embraces you. He hums while still hugging you close to him.

"Please rest now, sweetheart. When you wake up, you no longer have to suffer anymore. You're safe with me. You're finally safe with me."

@binniesbooks 2024

[boolger]

A lapdog at a farm - snippet - COD

CHAPTER ONE IS OUT <3 TUMBLR OR AO3

This is a snip of the first chapter for my upcoming wip fic 🫡 yes I have 20+ other projects, no I will not stop myself. This is not really checked for mistakes and stuff will probably change in the actual first chapter of the fic. But here u go, a snack for my sinners.

Word count: 2.5k-ish words

Hybrid!Reader x Price, reader x kinda poly141 later in fic, more to come

Small summary: This is an AU with Price becoming a farmer, hybrid dog!reader as a spoiled pet who doesn’t want to live this country life and hybrid working dogs!Gaz, Simon and Soap, who gets bought by Price. Chaos and smut ensues. Anyways, there won’t be this much in this snip.

Minors do not interact. I will block you if I can’t see any kind of indication of age on your blog.

Cw: There is the whole aspect of holding hybrids as pets, there is violence and punishments in this snippet, being hit with a belt. there is smut at the end (not much). Reader has a pussy, she/her. Reader is chubby but I tried my best to keep other descriptions vague.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the lack of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was hard to describe.

Out here, at the new farm, the noise came from animals that lived in the stables and barn, the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind tickled the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

Here the stress wasn't like in the city. Sure, there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, it was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - he had gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much happier.

It was like the farm had made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure, legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work.

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this!

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked around the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried. You really had.

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road.

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid. The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking Rudy and Ale.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed.

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate.

You fucking hated the crate.

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive.

But the dog crate? You hated that thing.

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left.

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look.

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another.

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything.

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction.

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

[witch-and-her-witcher]

2024 Fic Writer End of Year Roundup

Answer and then tag three or more creators to keep the game going! Thank you to everyone who tagged me and have had me in their inspo sections, I adore each and every one of you!

1. How many words did you publish on AO3 in 2024?

518,691 (hoping to add another 3-4k to this before midnight hehe)

I CANNOT drop that number without thanking the fucking dream team who has read EVERY SINGLE PUBLISHED WORD of mine: @popjunkie42 and @climbthemountain2020. From cheerleading, to pumping the breaks when my run ons be running, I appreciate the ever-loving hell out of both of you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Honorable mention betas who hold up that number: @cauldronblssd, @wilde-knight, @thesistersarcheron, and @rosanna-writer. I truly appreciate every one of you babes and your critical, brilliant eyes on my self indulgent streams of thought.

2. How many fics did you complete this year?

21! 13 of those were one shots.

If I can be real, I have two multi-chapter WIPs sitting in my docs, but it felt too irresponsible to post those once I started getting buried in grad school.

3. How many in progress or ongoing fics did you start this year?

Heading into the new year, I have 2 in progress fics: Ruin Me for the Fourth Wing fandom and Who's Gonna Know You Like Me? for ACOTAR.

4. What was your favorite thing you wrote?

Any of my poly fics! I really have to thank @acourtofladydeath for her beautiful brain child @polyacotarweek for getting me into the poly mind set. Although I only wrote throuples for that week (and since aside from the background Nesta/Eris/Azriel/Cassian in Who's Gonna Know You Like Me?), I am interested in writing more complex poly pairings in 2025.

I also can't leave out @yanny-77, @copperfirebird and @hockeyspiral23 for supporting the violaiden obsession! I adore writing the three of them together so so much and it's so fun to have others to share the brain rot with!

5. What piece was your most experimental or different from your usual style?

I had never done a true canon rewrite before dripping in gold! It was so so fun taking an in text scene and making it queer as hell.

6. Did any fics surprise you - either while writing or their reception?

It's undeniable that A Court of Chaos and Darkness's reception took me by surprise. From the moment I couldn't shake the concept of the fic to the over one hundred kudos it received before I took it off of anon. But even more so, the absolute comfort blanket this fic was as I wrote it was shocking. Something in the healing occurring, in the recognition of the complexity of parenting and the messiness of the parent/child relationship really struck me.

The fic @revenge??? I love you filthy azris lovers. This was an outlet for some of my dating app blunders and shenanigans and you all really said "serve."

And then there's my first omegaverse fic and the first of it's kind in the Fourth Wing ao3 tag (when it was posted, I believe there's several more now!): so what now? The Fourth Wing fandom has been warm as hell and so inviting to me, but you have all really embraced me bringing weird into the tags and I just can't thank you enough as I gape at the stats.

7. Do you have a fic you wrote and loved that went under the radar? (This is your sign to reblog/repost it!)

Either of my sapphic fics: dripping in gold (genderbent feysand) and lunch. (morlain ft the mommy kink tag!)

8. Who is an artist that inspired you?

There are so, so many talented artists that inspire me! @thrumugnyr, @copypastus , @queercontrarian and @lucychanart have been my muses for all things Tamlin. @climbthemountain2020 and @wilde-knight are triple threats and their art brings me such joy! There's also @dustjacketdraws that always has primo Cassian and Nesta vibes!

9. Who is an author that inspired you?

There are SO many. First and foremost, my babe @popjunkie42. I love you, my muse. Something about reading your writing and just chatting with you inspires all of my ideas to flow. @asnowfern is another muse and writer I can always turn to for inspiration, we were just recalling her Turning Darkness Into Light elucien spooktober fic that tickles my imagination so much among her other works!

I'm inspired and impressed endlessly by @climbthemountain2020 ability to flawlessly produce well developed, gorgeously vivid stories.

@highlordofkrypton, @missfckingfortune and @beesays inspire me constantly with their raw talent and skill and for the first two, the hot and steamy smut they can turn out. @jules-writes-stories inspires me with her OC work and beautifully layered plots (Mithras, my toxic love.) @c-e-d-dreamer inspires me with her fun AU worlds, but also with her fearlessness to tackle toxic relationships - @secret-third-thing is in this same boat as well as @iftheshoef1tz, @foundress0fnothing, and of course the OGs @thesistersarcheron, @whisperingmidnights, @separatist-apologist and @the-lonelybarricade.

There are so many more of you. I love this community and the inspiration that flows all around your creative, galaxy brained minds.

10. Who is a new author you discovered?

SO many, but those I haven't mentioned yet who are so so talented (but not limited to this list): @dusk-muse, @chairofchaos, @shadowsandlint, @xxvalkyriesxx, @fourteentrout, and @littedidyouknow.

11. Did you do any collaborations? How did it start?

None this year, but the idea is fun!

12. What accomplishments are you proudest of?

Could You Love Me While I Hate Myself is my proudest accomplishment this year by far. I always told myself I couldn't: write OCs, write a longfic, or write a fic that would ever break the UNBELIEVABLE stats this fic has done. I proved myself wrong on every front.

Thank you so much to @asnowfern, @popjunkie42 and @wilde-knight for seeing me through this capstone fic and for believing in me and helping me see myself in a totally different light.

13. What did you learn about writing or creating this year?

Be as silly and self-indulgent as possible.

If you have a killer idea/dialogue line/etc - WRITE IT DOWN. YOU WILL NOT REMEMBER IT LATER.

14. What is your advice?

Surround yourself with people who make you feel like you can accomplish anything and you will never fail because there they will be, gassing you up flop or not.

I love you, harem. Writing is so fun BECAUSE of you. <3

15. What are your creative goals for 2025?

Continuing to eat, serve and let the haters drown in it.

[buckyshoneybunny]

Birthday Girl

Bucky Barnes + Curvy!Reader 

Summary- It's your birthday and Bucky wants to make it special 

W.C.- 1122 

Warnings- reader has adhd, fluff, metions to smut, 18+ please no minors, cursing. 

A/N- Today is my birthday!!! Sorry I have been inactive; I’ve been busy and sick and just no motivation. I do have a fall fic coming!! I realized a couple of days ago I could have done kinktober but oh well. I have so many ideas and wips but not enough time and motivation. Anyway I do hope you like it and be on the lookout, I’ll try to get more stories out. Until next time my loves! (Thank you for the love!!!)  

Masterlist 

Bucky’s heart fluttered as he watched you sleep, your hair glowing in the early morning sunlight streaming in, though knotted. He brushed some hair behind your ear, peppering your face with kisses and causing you to stir. 

Eyes still closed, you smiled and snuggled further into Bucky’s side, causing him to chuckle softly. 

“Happy birthday, doll,” he whispered into your hair. 

You hum and bury your face in his neck. “Thank you,” you mumble.  

“You’re welcome.”  He rubbed his flesh hand down your thigh, the metal one holding you close. You both laid there in the comfort of your shared bed, basking in the warmth for a little while longer.  

You savored the calm, relaxing mornings with Bucky whenever you could, holding on tightly and never wanting to let go. Being an Avenger, Bucky wasn’t always able to spend these few extra minutes with you in bed. So, when he did get a chance like this, he snatched it up and milked it for all its worth.  

He relished in the feeling of your fingers drawing mindless patterns on his bare chest, your warm breath against his neck, hearing your heartbeat and knowing you weren’t just a figment of his imagination. He felt forever grateful for you, and he was going to make sure you had a great birthday.  

A knock on the front door of your shared apartment popped the bubble of solitude you had going. 

“Who’s that?” You grumble into his neck, voice slightly muffled. 

“That would be breakfast,” he chuckles. 

“When the hell did you order breakfast?” 

“Before you woke up.” You hum and start to get up before he halts your movements. 

“Oh no you don’t,” he huffs with a smile. “I will get that and bring it to you. You keep your gorgeous ass in this bed.” He jumps out of bed before you can protest, but not before getting his legs tangled in the sheets and stumbling, causing you to giggle. He darts out the room, not bothering to put pants on, answering the door in his boxers.  

You quickly get up to pee and take your meds before he gets back. Just as you get settled back in bed, Bucky comes in with a try. On it was a neatly arranged breakfast from your favorite breakfast place down the road. You don’t eat there often, not wanting to spend a fortune for just two people, no matter how good said food was.  

You gasp softly and sit up so he can place the tray over your lap.  

“Oh Bucky,” you sigh. “Thank you.” 

“Anything for my birthday girl,” he sat down next to you on the bed and kissed your forehead. “Dig in, baby.”  

You start shoveling food in your mouth, moaning at the taste. You of course share your special breakfast after learning he hadn’t ordered anything for himself. He denied, of course. But after a few empty threats he agreed and started to eat.  

You were full by the time your ADHD meds kicked in. Bucky took the tray away and you curled back up, ready to go back asleep. 

“Oh no ma’am you don’t,” he said, pulling the blankets off you. “You need to get ready. Nat and Wanda will be here at nine, which is-” he checks the clock. “-In 40 minutes.” 

You huff and pout. “Can’t we just stay in bed?” You bite your lip and run your hands down his chest, the muscles tensing the lower you go. He stops your movements right as your fingers reach the waistband of his boxers.  

“As much fun as that sounds, you have a big day today, so up you go.” He effortlessly lifts you out of the bed. 

You laugh and start to get ready. You dress in the blue jeans that hug your hips and thighs just right and make Bucky’s knees weak. You put a white fluffy sweater and thick heeled black boots on. While you brush your teeth Bucky braids your hair, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he focuses.  

By the time you were ready the girls were out there waiting. With a kiss to your lips and his card in your hands because, it’s your birthday and I wanna treat you. You were off. You went shopping, got your hair and nails done, the works.  

You had an amazing day, the most fun in too long. By the time you were done you were exhausted, wanting nothing more than to take a hot bubble bath with Bucky and have a little fun in bed. But of course, he had other plans.  

As you, Natasha, and Wanda walked into yours and Bucky’s shared apartment, shopping bags in hand. It was abnormally dark, confused you turned on the lights and screamed, Natasha recording the whole thing. 

“SURPRISE!!” Everyone yelled and laughed at your reaction. All the Avengers were there, even Thor. Clint, his wife and kids, Sam and Steve, Tony and Pepper, even T’Challa and Shuri were there, everyone was there. 

But what caught your eye was the big, grinning goofball standing in the middle of it all holding a ‘happy birthday’ sign.  

“Did you do this?” You laugh. He nods and you hug him. He wraps his arm around you, the other holding the sign. “Thank you” 

“You’re welcome, doll,” he smiles, kissing your forehead. 

“Alright,” Tony claps his hands together. “Let's get this party started!” He pulls out two bottles of Whiskey.  

���Tony no-” 

“Tony yes!” He interrupts Steve. 

After a few glasses of Whiskey, many chimichangas, courtesy of Deadpool. A piece of cake, and many, many expensive and one-of-a-kind gifts later. You stood in the corner watching all of your friends family dance and party. You felt very grateful to be a part of this chaotic bunch of people.  

Bucky comes up next to you, wrapping his metal arm around your waist, tipsy from the Asgardian mead Thor and Loki had brought.  

“Hey doll,” he slurs. “Did you have a good birthday?”  

You nod. “I did, yes,” I smile. “Thank you, baby.”  

“The night’s not over yet,” he wiggles his eyebrows, a knowing smirk on his face.  

“James!” You scold playfully. “We have guests over!”  

“They won’t notice, come on.” He was already leading you to the bedroom. “Just 30 minutes.” 

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, not bothering to hide your smile. “But only 30 minutes.”  

“Scouts honor,” he grins.  

45 minutes later... 

“Where is Bucky and Y/N?” Steve asks.  

“Fucking like the rabbits they are,” Tony slurs, absolutely hammered. Steve chokes on his drink, turning red.  

People say that birthdays and holidays get less fun as you get older, but with Bucky, you couldn’t wait to see what he was gonna do next. 

[zialltops]

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

Cowboy!Joel (41) X F!Reader (25) | 42.1k words | wip | explicit | 18+ minors dni | enemies to lovers | slow burn | au: no cordyceps outbreak | oral (f receiving) | (semi) public sex | vaginal fingering

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck.

a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍

Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke

Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.

If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?

It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.

“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”

The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”

The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.

“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.

“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”

Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.

“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.

The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.

“Is that everything, ma’am?”

Click

You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.

She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”

And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”

You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.

“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”

You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.

“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.

“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.

Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.

“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.

His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.

“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”

His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”

You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.

You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?

He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.

You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. A pair of flared jeans, light in color with stitch work on the sides. With a pair of boots, they make your ass look like a dream—just what you are going for, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.

It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.

You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.

You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.

There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.

You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”

We

We

Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.

Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.

Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.

“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”

You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”

The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.

“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”

Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.

And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.

“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”

There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.

“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.

You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”

Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”

He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.

“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”

He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”

You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.

Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”

You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”

“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”

You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—

“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“

He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”

He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.

Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.

Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!

“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.

Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?

She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”

With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.

“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”

You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—

Know you’re fucked.

“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.

The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.

Two days pass in a blur.

You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.

We’ll get through it

You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.

He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.

When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.

“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”

You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.

Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”

The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”

You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.

“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”

By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.

You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.

Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.

On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.

It doesn’t happen for hours.

Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.

“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.

Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.

You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”

You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.

The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.

He’s here.

“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”

She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.

There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.

“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.

“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.

“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”

Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”

The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?

“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.

“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.

He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.

“You want to get out of here?”

Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.

You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.

One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.

Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.

He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.

And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.

You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.

When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.

His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. He’s lucky for the part of his brain that slips off his hat and sets it on the dashboard. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”

His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.

The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.

He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.

He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

You should have known.

[nyx-umbrakinesis]

Male Reader!

Impromptu smut killing my friends led to this so enjoy me ignoring my WIP list and asks... I am not editing this... It's pure rough draft smut again 😂 I'm being tortured rn to post it lmao...

Alastor x MReader

CW: P in A sex, lots of talking from Alastor, radio broadcasting. No editing; no beta; we're going in raw, WE DIE LIKE ADAM!

(see Female Reader version here)

Here's...

Scream For Me

(Masc Reader!)

Alastor's eyes gleam with excitement as he obliges your request, to act like you're in a broadcast as he fucks you on the control panel.

His voice taking on the smooth, seductive cadence of his radio persona, the radio overlay seamless as he continues to fuck you relentlessly.

"Welcome back to the airwaves, my dear listeners. We have a very special guest in the studio tonight - this exquisite Sinner! Who's been brought to his knees by the Radio Demon himself. He's got a mouthwatering pair of pecs, legs utterly divine and a swollen delectable cock that's just begging to be played with."

He reaches up, tweaking your nipples as he continues to describe your body to his imaginary audience, his voice dripping with sarcasm and lust.

"But the real treat here, folks, is his tight little arse."

Alastor grunts as he buries himself inside you, his fingers digging into your hips as he picks up the pace, his voice growing more urgent with each passing second.

"He's soaked, practically drowning in his own precum. And the sounds he makes, oh the sounds... They're like music to my ears, a symphony of lust and desire that has me on the edge of sanity."

He leans in, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

"You're mine. My personal plaything. And I'm going to make you cum harder than you ever have before, right here on the airwaves for everyone to hear."

You moan, body trembling, needy swollen hole spasming, as you cling to him desperately while he takes you without mercy.

"I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't take it anymore."

As Alastor continues to narrate your intimate encounter, his words become more explicit and crude, pushing the boundaries of decency and fueling your mutual desire.

"Look at you, Sweet thing. You're a mess. Your hair's a mess, and you're covered in sweat and cum. But you're still so fucking gorgeous, so incredibly sexy. I can't get enough of you."

His thrusts become more erratic, his movements more aggressive as he approaches his peak, his voice rising in volume and intensity.

"I'm going to fill you up, Darling. I'm going to flood your arse with my seed, marking you as mine for all eternity."

Alastor's words send a surge of pleasure through you, and you moan loudly, your body writhing under his relentless assault. The thought of being 'broadcasted' to an unknown number of listeners adds a thrill to your encounter, pushing you further into the realm of ecstasy.

"Oh god... yes... I'm yours... I'll do anything for you..." You pant, your voice filled with desire and submission.

Alastor's grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he brings you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. The sensations build within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to consume you whole.

"I'm going to cum... Alastor..."

"And those nipples... So perfect for playing with while I'm balls deep inside you... Scream for me."

Alastor's words push you over the edge, and you cry out in pleasure as your body convulses in an intense, shattering orgasm. He doesn't stop, though, continuing to pound into you relentlessly as wave after wave of euphoria crashes over you, arse clenching hard, vision going white with pleasure, ropes of cum coating your chest as you spasm.

His grip on your hips becomes almost painful, his movements rough and uncontrolled as he chases his own release, driven by the sight and sound of you, the feel of you clenching around him making him make his own delicious sounds.

Finally, with a roar of triumph, he releases his seed deep inside you, filling you up, flooding you.

"And there it is, folks! The sweet sound of this sweet sinner's surrender. His body convulsing, his voice crying out in ecstasy as I claim him yet again. And now, I'm painting his insides with my seed, branding him as mine for all eternity."

As Alastor continues to speak into the microphone, his words grow more ragged, more primal, reflecting the intensity of his own climax.

"Feel me, Dearest. Feel my cum filling you up, making you mine."

His thrusts become slower, more measured as he savors the sensation of release, his body still convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, cock and bals twitching.

"That's it, my dear. Take it all. Let every last drop of my seed fill you up, marking you as mine."

As Alastor finally stills, his body spent and satisfied, he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips, his voice softening as he addresses you directly once more.

"You were amazing, Dear. Truly breathtaking. And remember, no matter where this journey takes us, you will always be mine."

He withdraws from you slowly, his cum trickling from your sated body as he moves aside to allow you to rest and recover from your intense encounter. As he does so, he reaches out to gently caress your cheek, his eyes filled with a mixture of lust, affection, and pride.

"Thank you, Alastor," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from moaning and your body trembling with exhaustion and satisfaction. "It was... incredible."

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as you bask in the warmth and love radiating from him. For the first time in your life, you truly feel seen, understood, and accepted for who you are, flaws and all.

"I love you," you murmur, the words slipping past your lips without hesitation or fear.

Alastor's smile widens, his eyes sparkling with joy as he leans in to press another kiss to your lips.

"And I love you, Dearest Heart," he whispers against your mouth. "Now and forever."

(unbeknownst to you, he had actually been broadcasting the whole time, not just pretending.)