#simple calculator in c

[anghraine]

I know it's well-understood at this point that Kirk/Spock is much more of a nerd4nerd ship than a nerd/jock thing, but it's just been kind of percolating around my mind that both of them aren't just space nerds but space nerds who were personally bullied.

Like, 18-year-old Kirk was targeted by an older bully who combines "total asshole" with "the most grating man in existence":

MCCOY: Well, yeah, I'm beginning to feel a little bit picked-on, if that's what you mean. KIRK: I know the feeling very well. I had it at the Academy. An upperclassman there. One practical joke after another, and always on me. My own personal devil. A guy by the name of Finnegan. MCCOY: And you being the very serious young— KIRK: Serious? I'll make a confession, Bones. I was absolutely grim, which delighted Finnegan no end.

This was five years after Kirk survived a genocide, btw, and likely well before his stint as an Academy instructor known to be strict and demanding (which is the period the "stack of books with legs" description of him comes from). By the time he's 33, fifteen years after all this, it turns out one of his deepest fantasies is just beating the shit out of his bully, but only if he can do it According To The Rules (the replica of Finnegan sneers, "Always fight fair, don't you? True officer and gentleman, you").

Spock, meanwhile, is viciously targeted by his Vulcan peers for being biracial from at least age 5; he's described as being tormented by other boys by that age, and "at home nowhere except Starfleet." I think he'd have been 18 or 19 when he left for Starfleet and it's... the least bad of his options, but he seems to have spent his entire career among humans and being persistently subjected to raw racism and profound disrespect for his culture at every turn.

Like, their histories of being metaphorically shoved into lockers are not identical or anything, but I think it's interesting that they both have them.

[the-halloween-jack]

DC ✢ When he admitted he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark. This is a companion piece to another headcanon called 'When he realised he loved you' linked here. Though, you can still read it independently.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

Bruce did not say it in a quiet moment — for such moments were rare. Though, when they did find him, he spent them with you in silence. Not with words but simply by being near, by existing in your presence.

No. It came during an argument. One of those arguments that shakes the very foundations of a relationship — not because of what was said, but because of what had never been, what was expected.

You had asked him — raw, wounded — what you meant to him. What all this was. Why he kept forming barriers between you, when all you had ever wanted to do was break through.

His answer had been frigid. Precise. Calculated and sharpened. A blade forged from old habits, Bruce wielded it with an unconscious mastery, a last-ditch defence mechanism perfected over decades.

You left. Not in fury, but in heartbreak, disappointment — the kind that does not cry, does not scream, but simply broods into silence. Your absence rang louder than a slammed door, louder than any yell you could have mustered.

Alfred did not speak. Just passed Bruce in the hallway with the kind of look that had once made him sit straighter as a boy. And now, it made him feel small once more, as though he were still a child.

Time passed and still, silence.

He found you in the garden, beneath a sky now thick with stars, the sun had still been gleaming when you had hurried away. You had not been crying. You were still. And in that stillness, he saw the damage he had inflicted upon you.

‘I can’t seem to protect what I love,’ he said, words fractured, conflicted. ‘Not my parents. Not Jason… Not you —’ 

You turned. Not startled by the confession, but by the break in his voice. You had never seen him like this before, never so fragile. 

‘But I do. I love you. I want… I need you to know that.’

It was not cinematic. No kiss. No arms thrown around shoulders. Just him, standing before you, hollowed by an atypical honesty, praying you would believe him — even if he was undeserving of that trust.

And you did. You believed him. Bruce could see it in the ease of your countenance, in the smile that now warmed your face. But even so, he apologised as though he had committed a most heinous crime.

You pulled yourself to your feet, still wordless. And enveloped him in your arms.

‘I love you too, Bruce.’

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

Dick meant to say it casually — with that charming nonchalance that usually came so naturally to him. He had rehearsed it, even. Smiled in the mirror once or twice. But it never felt right, never felt adequate. It was too simple a word to describe what he felt for you. 

But love, he discovered, should not wait for perfect timing.

It came unexpectedly late one evening, while a movie played in the background — some low-budget film neither of you had been truly watching. Your head was on his shoulder. His thumb was tracing invisible shapes into your side.

And then — suddenly breathless, it had grown too large to contain, he could not hold it any longer,

‘You know I love you, right?’

You blinked like someone newly roused from a dream, and looked at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language. Dick was not confident he had not. 

When you remained quiet, he chuckled, uneasy. And brought his hand to the back of his neck, in a nervous, boyish manner. 

‘I mean — I have. For a while. I just didn’t want to ruin it by...’ He trailed off, not quite sure what he was saying. 

You remained quiet for a few moments more, contemplating. The juncture of silence stretched taut, he held his breath. And then you smiled. 

As soft as the moonlight now shining through the curtains, you whispered, ‘I love you, too.’

He kissed you gently, as though he were trying to make up for all the times he had not said it sooner. In that moment, he was not Dick Grayson, he was not Nightwing or the Boy Wonder — he was simply someone lucky enough to be loved by you.

To this day, he cannot for the life of him remember the movie that had been playing. All he could remember was that smile — the way it had already lit up your eyes by the time it reached your mouth and the enthralling, glowing warmth that had flooded his system.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

You were stitching him up again — hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, skin cold under your touch. You sat cross-legged before him. 

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ you murmured, not for the first time and certainly not the last. 

He did not answer. Because what would he tell you? Not the truth, you would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that you cared; he could not resist the temptation. He did not believe you could love a man like him, but when he felt your gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn. 

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned your face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’

And then — something unspooled. A thread that had been pulled too tight for too long. Jason sighed.

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you —’ He looked into your eyes, gaze piercing, willing you to see the truth of it. 

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. ‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere you did not grace, the very notion made him ill. 

You stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work.

He was not looking for a response — only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But you gave him one anyway.

‘I love you, too.’ You had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching your lips, he may have missed it. His breath caught — not in fear, but in awe — as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.

Your words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin — like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.

He spoke up again, softer this time,  ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave you one of his rare smiles, and your heart jolted.

You silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing your head against his shoulder. After a short while you shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment, he felt that same electricity once more. 

Your hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message you were trying to convey, what you were trying to have him understand.

Jason did not sleep that night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

T I M⠀D R A K E

You both had been working late, each focused on your own tasks, yet relishing in the silent company of one another; the peace of it. Tim sat at his desk, while you lay across his bed, legs swinging behind you with a pen in hand.

Tim had asked you to stay at the manor for the night, but you had gently refused, reminding him you had work in the morning. You got up and walked over, placing both hands on either shoulder. You then pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear.

‘I better head off now.’ He leaned his head back into you, and his eyes met yours, smiling.

And then — too casually, too instinctively — he said, ‘Okay, love you.’

The words had flowed out like a torrent. A sudden, unexpected failure in his system.

Then a silence dropped like a stone in deep water — sudden, heavy, and irreversible; absolute.

He froze. His eyes were wide, as though the phrase had been spoken by an imposter, by someone else within his skin. He had known this fact for a long time, it had only been a matter of time.

‘I didn’t — I mean — that wasn’t—well, it was, but —’ He stopped. His words crashed over each other, panicked and sputtered.

You tilted your head. Shock the dominant expression on your face.

‘You love me?’

He nodded, slowly, it would be silly to deny it; to lie. Shame crept into the corners of his expression. What if he had said it too soon? What if the word drew you away?  Then suddenly you smiled, as though you had been waiting for this exact failure, this exact slip-up.

‘Well… that’s good,’ your whisper was tender. ‘Because I love you too.’

And just like that, his spiralling mind halted. His thoughts — so often a storm of what-ifs and whys — were suddenly still.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased and melted away. He let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding — shaky, but smiling. It was not his usual tight-lipped smirk, nor the polite upward curve he would give strangers — this one was real. Quiet, disbelieving and full.

You leaned downward and rested your forehead against his, your hand moving to cradle his cheek. Tim leaned into it like he had been starved of its softness. You spoke through a grin.

‘Maybe I should stick around. Was that your plan all along?’

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E⠀(Aged up as Batman)

Damian did not like the word love. Not at first. The word felt paltry. Trite. A flippant syllable never built to hold the sheer weight of what he carried for you.

You had just bested him in sparring. You always did, but only because he allowed it — Damian would sooner impale himself on his training blade than admit it, but it was not as though you were unaware. You had thought it cute, an adjective you would never dare utter to his face. 

Damian had no shortage of self-pride. The fact he was willing to sacrifice it, simply to please you, always left you breathless. 

You extended your hand to guide him up, but he simply stared at it from his place on the mat, his gaze shifting upward. You were standing over him, a barely contained smirk donning your features. 

‘You do not understand what you mean to me,’ he said, voice low and filled with a thousand ulterior meanings, though they bled through, his tone turning earnest.

You did not speak. You simply waited.

‘This feeling,’ he tried again, ‘it disrupts everything. My training. My thoughts. My plans. Everything. It… it…’ He trailed off, not sure how to finish what he was saying, not confident that the words capable of conveying these feelings were extant across any vernacular, it seemed too implausible. 

You smiled, faintly. ‘You mean love?’

He flinched like you had cursed. But then — after a moment — he nodded.

‘Yes. That.’ It was not enough, but he figured he would concede. ‘I feel it. Unwillingly. But truthfully.’

You laughed, it was warm and bell-like. It struck something tender in him, something still learning to hope.

‘I love you too, Damian.’

How was it, that word he had held with such contempt, such scrutiny and scepticism, was suddenly so weighted, so gorgeous uttered from your lips? How was it so impactful now it was directed towards him? 

He looked away, not from shame, but from overwhelm. He had fought assassins, atrocious criminals, and the weight of his father’s legacy — but never had he felt something as all-consuming as being wanted, as overwhelming as the thought of your love.

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He had told you on a rooftop. Not because it was histrionic, but because it was distant — far above the world’s inescapable noise, yet still beneath its stars. 

You were talking about something entirely ordinary. Rent, perhaps. The cost of your water bill.

But he was not listening, not truly. He watched as your lips moved and thought only of how he yearned to kiss them, to wake up to them each and every morning. 

And then he looked at you. Really looked. And the words came like wind through the ether — soft, inevitable.

‘I love you.’ He had cut you off, but it needed to be said. He could not have lived another moment without these words held suspended between you. 

You smiled, easy. ‘I know.’

But he shook his head. Shifting closer. There was an ache in his voice, a gravity to it.

‘No. I love you. Not in the way people say when they’re hanging up the phone. Or when they leave for work in the morning. I love you like… like…’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words —’ He places his hands on either side of your cheeks. 

You stopped breathing.

‘You’ve given me something no one else has,’ he said, his voice near breaking. ‘Not because you wanted a hero. But because you saw me — as nothing more than a man. The farmboy. The one who still forgets to fold his laundry, after you’ve already asked him five times…’

You let out a sudden laugh, but it was not for his joke, your joy at his admission could not be contained; it surged out. You kissed him.

‘I love you, too.’ You murmured, Clark could hear the smile within your voice. Then he thought of the stars glimmering upon them, they shone bright, yet still somehow paled in your comparison. 

I was thinking of expanding upon the Jason Todd section and turning it into its own one-shot, would anyone be interested in that? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[redcherrykook]

────꒷꒦ 𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 [ s & c ]

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

part of ɳσƈƚιʋαɠαɳƚ

↳ ❝ [ vampire!Jungkook universe] ❞

✎ summary: he´s observant, watches his prey like an experienced predator, but in 125 years of age, Jungkook had never craved someone as much as you. he had to have you.

note from cherry: warning!! Stalking., obsessive jungkook, crazy PATHETICALLY DOWN BAD jungkook. part one of our sexy obssessed stalker vampire. We love him here. Mini slow burn? Idk.

︶♱︶︶♱︶ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺︶♱︶︶♱︶︶

In the habitual sunday walk through the lush emerald park, the birds accompany your rhythmic heartbeat with their singing. Sunday matchas always taste better once the sun reverts to glow dimly at the horizon, dissappearing goodbye in a tortuously slow departure.

You were never fond of the sunsets as you were sunrises, steadily feeling a clench in your heart at something as radiant as the sun taking it's might to part from the world, vowing to greet you in the early hours of life's next morning. But in the unleashing dark, sometimes the return of the sun felt uncertain.

Almost ashamed to admit it- on rare, eerie occasion, you still feared the ominous that roams empty streets at dead hours way past midnight. Unlike a fairytale or a badly written horror novel- these creatures found themselves in every nook and cranny. Every slither of space, you were brought up to fear them. Never walk alone after sunset. Never look behind the treeline if you felt the presence of their piercingly colorful eyes stalking you every little step.

The world has become much less judgmental nowadays.

"Matcha latte to go?"

The fair skinned man calls out from behind the counter. His purple eyes dull of boredom in typical barista fashion, the smile he shoots you no less polite, although small, pointy fangs flash from it's corners.

"Thank you -" your eyes flicker to his nametag, "Nathaniel. Here's your tip, have a nice day" you reply, automated in that slightly raised frequency you twinge when talking to a stranger.

Your steps take you back through the way you walked initially, crunching on the freshly breeze grass beneath your soles, tracing the familiar route back to your apartment.

It had become utterly familiar to him too. The route was the same- sunday after sunday. On occasion during the week- mostly during exam season, when your body called for an added fuel.

He may have gotten used to the steps he took, synchronizing them alongside your own. However, he'd never get used to your pink lips cupping the straw in their little hold. How you sip the drink with the innocents of a little dove, unaware of the shudders that go through his body, stirr in his abdominal region.

It had captured him wholly. Unexpectedly but calculated nonetheless.

It must have been planned. Seeing your precious little blush, the shirt that snuck up your torso as you put back a book into the raking shelve of the bookstore he works at. It must have been no less than fate, the blood red string of fate that is tugging his nervoussystem in your direction. Letting something awaken inside of him- something of his roots. Akin to his nature- to taunt him of his designation, the realization that he was not merely a simple man.

And his madness grew with each breath of air that filled your lungs. Even when he wasn't around to watch you take them, as long as you inhale the same oxgyen- he craved to breathe you in as though you were his source of essentials.

Chance encounters don't exist- not in 125 years has it happend to him, not a singular interaction devoid of purpose or contrary, filled to the brink with the naked, uncanny urge to engulf this very thing into his chest. That's how he knew you were his calling.

"Hey, sorry, you dropped this"

He taps on your shoulder, unguarded, you spin around, glancing at his face, down his large, faintly colorless hand that held something dear to you.

In the midst of beautifully ordinary walk, you hadn't noticed the drop of your keys.

"Oh god- thank you. That could have ended badly" you offer a small giggle, airy, light. He tries to not let his eyes roll back at the melody, handing you your keys with an aching heart. Soon enough- he told himself- soon enough he will get to enter your space.

"Yeah. Cute guy you got on there. Has he got a name?"

The little, blue bow adorned monchichi keychain catches your eye for a second before they naturally wander up to his deep red eyes. They glint slightly, taking notice of his pointed fangs that he charmingly flashes through a grin.

"Mocha" your answer is polite, small. He knew better than to pry too deep, settles to hum,

"Mocha" he recites, tilts his head the slightest bit, "I think ive seen you at my bookshop before. But i never got to know your name, pretty?"

The instant he asked, he wanted to answer this question for you in place of his theatrically put on questioning expression. Replace it with genuine lust in his voice as he lets the syllables of your name roll over his tongue, just like he's been chanting them in the dark- when no one's watching - when there's no eyes to graze the beautiful sinner he's become once his stiff cock stands proudly in his hand.

You tell him your name regardless. How could you have known that the shadow who seems to follow you around, internalized it like a favourite poem all along.

You were oblivious to his ways, clueless even. He failed to hold back a miniscule slip of tongue, wetting the metal ring in the corner of his pale rose lips.

"Thats a beautiful name. I'm Jungkook"

You bless him with your little giggle for another time, remarking in your head about how easy it was to talk to the handsome creature. The one who's face had been burned into your imagination for quite some time now, tucked away into some box, beneath the litters of faces you've seen at the morisaki bookshop.

"Suits you"

"Is that good?" he asks, showing of his signature grin to which you nod,

"Its elegant"

"Vampires tend to be" he says, vaguely gesturing to your cup, "You like matcha? I could treat you to one, if you like?"

Satisfaction courses through his bloodstream at the airbrushed pink that dusts your cheeks, taking note of the way your pointy gel nails fiddle slightly with your jeanpocket,

Alongside the pleasure, relief floods him in it's soothing tide- he had finally uttered the sentence he meticulously practiced to say over and over again- watch his micro expressions in his reflection to tweak each subtle give away, enhance every unique feature he held within those constructed words.

"I'd like that" you reply, choosing a demure answer that attempts to hide your attraction to Jungkook, your girlish excitement at meeting him again.

"Same time next week?"

Succumbing to his natural charm was inevitable. Nothing could have prepared you for the lull in his voice, how every word he pronounced sounded like those of an ancient spell. The strike in his unusually colored eyes differed so drastically from the fairness of his flawless skin. It was drowning you in its hues.

Jungkook walked home with a use of his speed inflicted upon the pace of a human step. The sight of your lips trembling slightly as you gave him your number, the one he had memorized weeks ago, still playing in his mind's eye like a movie. It would become his favourite memory until he created more explicited ones- though he grew acustom to cumming at the simple sound of your name in his head- spoken by his own voice, now blissfully interchanged with the way you offered it to him earlier.

Patience is a virtue he had mastered inescapably, it grew into his life through vicious blessings, beautiful curses. 24 hours that multiply and blend into unexciting memories.

All strings had gotten loose upon your arrival. How would he be able to await another seven days without seeing you, without hearing you pronounce mundane words or viewing your camera app being opened over a little flower on the pavement.

He couldn't wait, no matter how much patience he had.

His shadow casts itself behind the many cars parking up your street, he zones in on your surroundings- the little shoulder look you give in the dark, as if to spot anything that could endanger you. It made his heart wrench,

"I'd never let you get hurt" he whispers to himself, watching the cold air manifest into transparent smoke as he speaks.

You rattle your keys, unlock the shabby apartment door with stiff fingers, suffering the low temperatures. From your peripheral, it almost looked like a blow- a gust of wind running by your side.

But when you turn around with hitched breath, its empty.

Jungkook exhaled once your figure disappeared into the building. Carelessy, he swung by, wanting to get just an inch closer, an inch away from having his highly receptive senses flooded with your gentle scent. For his yearning heart to get a fraction of gratification.

The closer he is, the more he needs to have. It clouds him like the smoke of a stormy night, rips him into the unknown, the unexplored and hidden desires of digging his teeth into the graceful skin of your neck.

Sunday finally comes around, the end of the week igniting him with a new flame. He'd been painfully dragging himself around in those remaining hours, holding himself back from standing in front of your bedroom window to watch you pick out your outifit, pace around nervously like you did before meeting with your friends on Wednesday nights. A tradition of getting cocktails at least twice a month, you appeared lovely, casual even. But jungkook saw it all behind the curtain of effortlessness, the pile of discarded outfits, your hairbrush thrown on your bed in frustration. The sweet, winged eyeliner that took three songs and four retries to draw on. He'd seen it all, every inch of your skin as you try on dress after skirt, shirt after blouse, no matter how much he restrained himself to avert his gaze.

Now, he's seeing you approach from afar, walking tentatively in the beautifully dim sunlight.

He skips a few steps to be in your vicinity quicker- you blink confused, before breaking out into a small laughter.

"Right, you can do that"

He returns your smile, his heart races at the sight of you so close to him, so attainable.

"Its pretty efficient"

You hum, tracking your gaze from the top of his pierces eyebrow, down his plump lips, taking your line of sight down the contours of his sharp jaw before your focus shifts on the unbuttoned top part of his silky black shirt. His prominent collarbones peak out just enough to make you elicit a barely audible sigh,

In his mind, he's been drifting to your bedroom, to his hands that let the pretty grey fabric graciously fall down the dips of your figure.

"You look really pretty, grey suits you"

Jungkook's smoothe voice guides you through the rest of the joint night.

Along his gentle nature, there is some sort of belonging. A shiver of closeness that runs down your back, even when it's just his knuckles that gingerly bump yours while you walk around the blooming trail. You catch him from time to time, in the midst of your conversation, how he lets himself wander off in thought a bit, yet, he's attentive, responsive, dancing the line of being completely entranced by the string of words leaving your lips.

"Youre easy to talk to" you tell him truthfully while throwing away the empty cup. He chuckles a little,

"Yeah? Well, you make me feel comfortable, i think thats why"

"I do? I feel like i'm so awkward" you chuckle- honestly, maybe you were a bit awkward. Trying your hardest not to let him pay and telling bad jokes about his vampire qualities that he'd probably been told multiple times before. Nothing shy from enticing in his eyes.

"I think youre adorable"

"You're way too honest. Is that a vampire thing?"

His hand brushes a little strand away from your face, stalled in front of the acquainted doorstep of your apartment. The soft hair glides through his slender fingers like liquid gold. From the back of his throat, a small groan of approval sounds,

"No, but I'm bad at lying anyways"

Your lips curve into a grin, mirroring his expression. The thumping in your chest rings so loudly, you're almost sure he's able to pick up the frequency with his immaculate hearing. Its a pounding you haven't yet felt before. It may be the deep night around you- adding to his sexy mystique, the way his eyelids seemed to drop the least bit, following the lure of the moon.

"When can I see you again?" He asks with a quiet, breathy tone. Goosebumps threathen to plaque his dull skin as you bite into the corner of your lip,

"Whenever you want. Just.. text me"

He nods, "Okay pretty"

With that, you smile and disappear into the walls of your home.

Jungkook exhales a long, deep breath. His eyes fall closed, body slumping against a nearby tree. Utter delight crashes his head, grounds him into the world that he is slowly, meticulously creating for you to be part of. For you to be the sun of.

Similarly, you collapse right against the closed door. Smiling stupidly like a giddy teenage girl, running your hand through your hair, you break into a fit of giggles. Immediately pulling your phone out to text your best friend about what had just happend in the last long, dreamy hours.

But before you get the chance to click on her chat log, a message lights up your screen,

Jungkook >.< : cant wait to see you again

He bites back a smile, the reflection of you getting excited over his text dances in his pupils as he stands off to the side of your slightly parted curtains,

"good night sweetheart" he mumbles, gradually turning back to resort back into his own home.

Messages like these had crept their way into your normal days.

Good morning texts, little things that reminded you of each other- mentions of movies to watch together or selfies with meaningless captions like "hard work day :( " decorated your chat in extensive loads. Despite not much time having past since the first date, time has acquired another meaning in its entirety. So much so that you find yourself aimlessly wandering inside a grocery store after suggesting Jungkook should come over for dinner.

He slipped into your life with ease, fitting into a space that seemed to be cut out just for him, and how much you adored him was almost embarrassing to admit.

You had never invited him to your home before, but he didn't mention it. Instead, he typed back that he'd be there at 7 pm, until he remembered that he isnt supposed to know your exact address- quickly adding the question onto his last message.

His breath quickens the instant he's greeted with you facing him, the tulips in his hand feel heavy all of a sudden, wanting nothing more but to drop them and engulf you into his selfish hands instead.

"Come in kook", while wrapping your arms around his taller frame, you can sense the way he tenses, his busy hand clenches the boquet with restrained power, the other one makes it to your back, carefully pulling you into his chest. He inhales your scent in pure ecstasy, button nose nudging the top of your freshly shampooed head.

Once inside- he's looking around the confined space with curious eyes. As many times as he had seen glimpses, being on the other side of your windows felt like a perverted secret. After hours of studying your schedule, analyzing common places, people, interests that are woven into your life, he would finally solidify himself as the most important.

Lucky was an understatement. Jungkook felt blessed- divinely touched to be able to move around the four walls of his angel- his very own godsend gift. His, only his.

The sigh he lets out almost serves as a way to release his overflowing happiness into the atmosphere, let go of his orchestrated hours that took him to his destination- you.

"Pretty place" he compliments, watching you pick out a vase for your favourite type of flowers, "hm, thank you. I love tulips, crazy how you picked them" you say, sparkling innocently as your fingers adjust the petals,

"Good guess right?"

The air thickens with his approaching steps, his aura carries itself over you, there's an undeniable chemistry brewing between you. Presents itself in the quickening of your heartbeat, the tension in his beautifully otherwordly features.

"No garlic i hope?" he jokes, pointing to the ingredients spread on the counter. The thin fabric of your tanktop collides with his cotton tshirt, his muscular arm holding onto the cupboard in front of you. The yearning inside of you leads you to turn around, facing him and essentially, trapping yourself between the kitchen island and his steady body.

Perfect, he thinks.

"Very funny" you giggle, looking up into the deep red you would never get used to. Its mesmerizing to see the color intensify from time to time.

Jungkook reaches his hand out to take your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up into his direction. His face is relaxed but the slight quiver of his lips, as if holding back from letting his canine teeth dart out, doesn't get past your observing eyes.

It doesn't get past him either, how you seemed to nibble on your lip a little, taking deeper inhales with the duration of his gentle touch.

"You're so pretty" he mumbles, growing an inch closer to your face with patience. The proximity makes his blood heat up, he barely has the chance to touch you before every single thought of raw and uncontrollable desire overtakes him,

Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips, the lip ring shines with a slight coat of saliva and you wish for nothing more than a deep collision, just as jungkook craves the taste of you all over his tongue.

As much as he has his instincts under control, he cannot deprive himself any longer.

Rationality vanishes from his thoughts- as his lips press gently against yours, he begins moaning in pure satisfaction. A slight taste of you was all he ever dreamed of having- but he should have known better than that. There was no way of not needing more- he had to have you, taste you, kiss and claim everything you had to give him.

The deep moan makes you whimper into the now passionate kiss- hands having found their way into his tousled hair, tugging at the roots with care. His lips clash to yours over and over, nipping at your bottom lip, licking over it to ask for premission.

You grant it to him immediately, the need to get as close as possible is indescribable, it is more than desire, more than a feeling or a simple word, you pull him in deeper and he whines at your desperation, seeing himself mirrored in you.

"Taste so fucking good. I need you, i need you so goddamn much" he groans against your lips- tongue pushing and tangling with your own, his hands wander up and down your sides as if to soothe himself, holding on to his control for all he's worth.

He steadies himself by breaking the kiss for a breath of air with his forehead meeting yours in a moment of isolation. It was hasty, messy and nonetheless perfect. He craved more, longed for another taste.

You're the first to break the silence, barely letting the words run past your lips in the midst of hightend breathing,

"I like you so much"

He doesn't recall when he last felt this intense amount of pleasure, he doesn't waste another breath on words, kissing you with newfound but always present lust, exploring the softness of your skin hidden beneath the tanktop- his shaky fingers itch at the brief shiver that passes through you- wanting to make you shiver again and again,

"You have no idea how crazy i am about you" he mutters while shifting his attention to kiss along your jaw, his mouth remains open and wet against your skin- running his tongue down your neck so, so gently.

The validity behind those words are something he cannot bear open to you in this moment- but he swore to himself he would eventually.

It takes all his willpower not to sink his pointy teeth into the delicate skin, feeling the pulse running wild like it was begging him to bite.

"Wanna make you feel so good"

Moans of his name fall from your lips, he recriporates each one with needy whimpers of his own, working to touch and worship whatever he has beneath his hands at the moment- already tugging at the bottom of your shirt, before you register it, its lying on the tile floor,

"Hold tight sweetheart"

The nickname adds to the heat pooling in your underwear- supported by simply one of his hands, a reminder of his inhumane strength. You´re lifted to the kitchen island, sitting with your thighs open for him to stand between. The thick bulge that's been present from the moment his lips met yours presses against you every so slightly- providing both of you with tiny amounts of pressure.

His lips run down invisible paths to your bra covered chest, submitting to his urges like a man devoid of free will- of any power.

"Wanna bite you s'bad" he rasps, unfastening your bra and attaching his plump lips to your stiffend bud, rolling the oppsite one in his skilled fingertips,

Institutiavely, your thighs clench around his hips, seeking more friction at the thought of his pretty fangs snaking into your skin. Jungkook completely surrounded you with his scent, his words, his presence.

Serving justice to all the mysteries and tales about his kind- his passion, his groans, his possessive hands are far to good to be the ones of a weak human man- his teeth ghost over you and in that instant, he becomes everything.

"You can- just not - mhmm- too hard"

Interrupted by your own noises of satisfaction, the words come out without any fear. Replaced by the sheer pleasure he lays upon your body, the look of desire in his features as he keeps grabbing, kissing, moaning for you.

He looks at you through his lashes, mouth leaving your chest wet and glistening, his lips are swollen as they breathe out his next words,

"You're a dream, my beautiful angel"

His lips return to your neck, suctioning harsher than previously, grazing the sharpness with every sloppy suck of your skin- and when he finally, ever so slightly indulges in sinking his teeth in- you make the most wonderful noise to him.

The moans of your name fall from his lips naturally, like a continuous prayer to your body, letting his fingers toy with your breasts- allowing his teeth to leave little lovebites in pretty shades of red spread across your neck.

"Youre so pretty, the prettiest angel" he whispers lovingly, gliding his fingers down your arm while admiring his work of art.

His skin burned- burned with the helpless devotion he cannot restrict.

"You´re mine, you´re mine angel all mine, do you understand?"

Posession creeps into the kisses to your stomach- he is touching you, his hands are the ones wandering your body, his lips are the ones marking up near every inch that falls victim to him, but it hardly registers in his head because you scratch along his muscular back- nodding without a doubt in mind,

"Feels so good- oh fuck jungkook please"

You whine- you whine for him and it gets him to nuzzles his nose into your slick lace panties, inhaling deeply to submerge himself in your femininity,

"Anything you want, im gonna fucking worship you baby. Gonna make you come until you beg me to stop"

Jungkook hooks his large hands on the underside of your thighs, kneeling in front of you as though he was actually praying to you- letting your legs dangle over his broad shoulders.

The sight of your wet folds, red and swollen clit all due to him- all in front of his very own diluted eyes made him salivate, he marked your entire thighs with deep red and purple bruises that you met with loud moans, trembling throughout your body- wandering until it´s coming out in your whiney tone of voice that kept asking for him- asking as if he wouldn't burn down the world for you.

"My pretty little pussy, look at that, look at how wet you are for me"

It was so overstimulating to him, hightend all his feelings, blurred his extensive vision at the first drop of your slick on his greedy, relentless tongue.

"Fucking angelic- taste so good" he whines into your pussy- laps and laps at the stickyness with vigour and precision when licking a long strip up to circle your clit.

In between closing your eyes, your droopy sight caught vision of jungkook sitting there, hugged by your thighs, his eyes framed with disshevld strands, glazed and cloudy- mouth wet with messy pleasure smeared along his skin.

"Mhh- kook- you look so hot like this"

The praise thrills him- diving into your need with the large overcast of his own, his cock twitching and aching so badly beneath the blue jeans but somehow- being on his knees for you, listening to your beautiful voice call out for him- it was better than any contact he ever dreamed to experience before.

His eyes roll back into his head upon the arrival of your first orgasm- overcoming you with a loud cry, your thighs clamp around his head, trap him there like you dreaded the separation as much as he did.

"Kook- fuck- ohhh fuck"

You shook, plead for more and his tongue obeyed, thrusting the wet muscle into you fast, his thumb rubbing tight circles on the throbbing pearl of your crying cunt,

"Good girl, good, good girl, come for me- let this pussy know who's it is"

He heard the second high before he saw it- the broken sob, the sniffling that send shocks into his constricted cock, made it beg for attention. It worsened as he glanced up,

"god baby- so fucking cute" he groans so loudly, smashing his lips to your cunt - sucking harshly on your oversensitive clit that endured so much of his suckling and gnawing.

Your moans continue to flow, changing into meek cries of his name, the pearly tears roll down your reddend cheeks ending on your quivering lips that are now covered in the salty liquid.

And at the thought of tasting them, oh so pathetically, Jungkook's cock pulses angrily - leaks with cum all over himself, coating his length in warm, milky pleasure, meeting the sensation of your tangy sweetness blessing his mouth.

"ahh.. mhh.." you stumble out, slowly dropping the slight grinding on his numb and swollen lips, just as jungkook pants and whimpers, having finished untouched- because pleasing you was his priority, his greatest achievement- and he hasn´t even gotten to feeding you every inch of his cock, hasn´t even seen it disappear into your tight, pulsing pussy,

"oh angel, you´re so beautiful, so good, did so so good baby" his lips run his trails back and forth on your thighs, calming their shaking with the addition of his big hands stroking your hips,

You tug at his shoulder and he recieves the silent question, bringing his body up to stand upward, dazed and bathing in your afterglow

It doesn´t take long for your eyes to find the wet patch,

"See that? All because of you. All yours" he says, pulling you into him by the small of your back, like a puzzlepiece, your hands wrap around his shoulders- both of you relish in the company of one another,

How right it truly felt to be held by his magical hands,

To meet his lips in another soft kiss, tasting the remains of yourself on him.

It was right,

He had done absolutely everything in and beyond his power to secure that, now that he had it in his grasp, black and white,

He would always make sure it stays that way, even if it meant digging his teeth into your neck until you bled.

[mageofmadness]

CALEB + MC X ONLYFANS PT. 1

(1.2k)‧.ᵎᵎ 📷 ༘ ⋆｡ nsfw [18+] includes: fem!reader. jealous!caleb. sex work, dildos, and explicit sexual content. jerking off caleb will get pervier trust continuation of my other post ! i'd suggest reading that first c:

caleb, of course, says yes.

he could be six feet under the ground, and anything you ask of him, he’ll find a way to make it happen, let alone something like this. what is he meant to do…say no? is he supposed to let you go find someone else to help you? you had given him plenty of outs, saying it might be awkward (to which he vehemently assured you it would not be) or it might be too much or uncomfortable because you’re still a virgin (to which caleb had thought: what the fuck, oh my god).

absolutely not. the thought of someone else having you made his blood boil hot for a whole different reason. you came to him, and him alone, so after you lose a bit of steam, probably taking in caleb’s wide eyes and lack of response as horror or something equally wrong, he very quickly, very loudly, very nonchalantly, says, “of course, pips. anything you need help with, i’m your guy.”

“i’m glad you came to me. we’ll figure it out together.”

later that night, caleb sighs as he sits down at his computer. he stares at the black screen before booting it up, listening to it whirr in the early morning hours. you’re fast asleep in the other room, and his bedroom door is locked. lights off. he’s an expert in all things you, but it still takes him a minute to hunt you down online. scrubbing at his eyes as he reminds himself that this is strictly work. something like that. he wants to help in the best way possible, so he needs to know what they’re working with. caleb’s a hot blooded male, he’s seen a lot of porn in his life.

he crowds closer to the screen as he makes an account, eyes scanning over sex being sold by the dozen. for how often he catches your eye and thinks about fucking you, he’s going into this blind. he’s never crossed that line and has kept it very close to his chest. the front page and what he sees before him is all just bodies. it doesn't do it for him, never really has. it’s legs and cheek and ass but the moment he finds your account amongst lists of others, all beginners luck, caleb closes his eyes.

“appledumpling324.” he curses. “well, that’s fucking cute.”

how you got away with all of this under his nose is an entirely different conversation that needs to be had.

your page finally loads, and he immediately minimizes the the browser. he almost knocks over his pen holder, cursing as he lowers his screen. caleb sits back in his desk chair, closes his computer completely, and actually, doesn’t say a thing. he scrubs two firm hands over his eyes.

by god. 

he’s doing this to help. it means nothing more. it’s him or someone else. you don’t need him to shoot a load off the first time he sees the back of your thighs and what your ass looks like in whatever they’re calling underwear nowadays. a very modest black, they’re simple but hug your hips perfectly and that’s where caleb would grab first.

“fuck this.”

it shows you were online not four hours ago. caleb reads the amount of followers you have, quickly calculating, and his eye twitches. you’re popular. he’s going to have a fucking stroke. he’s a fucking idiot. what the fuck is going on and what is he doing?

it takes a strong man, of which caleb is, to look at what is before him objectively.

yes, he can see it’s all solo content. yes, he can see where others would really like something more. caleb also sees about nine million other guys very politely, he notes, begging for the chance to fuck you. showering you in vain compliments and he wants to laugh because what about your heart? and all that nonsense. these people don’t know you, they could never know you an ounce of the way caleb does, but jealousy is still simmering at he punches at his keyboard. scrolling. getting a beautiful view of your lace covered cunt one second and then you on your knees, camera pointed chin down as you deep throat a baby pink dildo, the next.

the first video he clicks on seems innocent enough, yet caleb’s made the rookie mistake of venturing onto a porn site without checking his volume first.

to his horror, your voice comes through first. the camera work a bit shaky, your face is never shown, he notes with something like approval and pride, but by the time he gets his headphones on and steadies his beating heart, he can only hear the sweetest whimpers. soft, pleasurable moans he’s be able to recognize anywhere. caleb might as well be drooling on his shirt, unable to believe what he’s seeing by the way of you spread out in your bed, the one he shares with you all of the time, face hidden but legs open and that underwear.

caleb’s folded that particular pair of underwear a thousand times and now he’s watching you slip them off as you position yourself over that same baby blue dildo of which he has never seen in this home. 

caleb’s favorite color is blue. his cock twitches in his sweatpants. he’s not an idiot, he’s just madly in love with you and has never found a convenient time to let you know.

a sharp intake of breath makes his eyes focus again, and he clicks out of the video right before your cunt swallows the fake cock whole.

caleb scrolls to the next video and then the next. they’re all amateur, very low quality in the sense that they’re personal. they’ve got an air of innocence to them that belies the you that caleb sees every day and he cannot even deny that while his hand is still outside of his sweats, he’s been palming his cock this entire time. 

in the end, caleb doesn’t even remember why he’s been scrolling through video after video. he’s lost the original plot, the reason he’s found himself in this situation in the first place, and he’s telling himself this is fine because he’s helping and hasn’t busted all over his fist yet. he’s resisted the urge to go wake you up and ask for answers, to figure out why he feels such a sense of…deceit. betrayal. he doesn’t know but caleb gives up. he finally slips a hand into his sweatpants and hisses as he pulls his cock free. gasping at his own touch, his fist is quick. fast. he’s not going to last because the same video has been playing on repeat for god knows how long.

you in the shower. the shower caleb had been in not hours ago. 

with caleb’s body wash in the background, the video is his favorite, he already knows. the way your hands run under the water, caleb knows he could make you feel so much better. he could just do so much, if only you’d let him and this must be cruel punishment. recompense for a past life.

he’s not sure, but caleb comes over his fist with jerky hips. “f–fucking…ah, hah. fuck. sweetheart.” his voice is strained, and he bites down on his sleeve too late, whimpering as his mind drifts to you asleep only a room away.

@ mageofmadness 2025. ִֶָ 110.79.140 166.63.63

[clandestinegardenias]

The C(r)ozier Cowl (with pattern!)

I FINALLY DID IT, and I'm so incredibly pleased with how it turned out (it's also maybe the warmest scarf I've ever knit, the Terror costume design people knew what they were doing)

Details and pattern below the cut, along with more pics!

Details:

This infinite loop cowl is a knit recreation of the scarf/cowl worn by Captain Francis Crozier in the first season of the tv show The Terror (2018).

The choice of yarn is, in my opinion, very important to the accuracy of the result. The pattern is quite simple, so getting the right yarn makes a big impact. My suggested yarn is below.

This is knitted in seed stitch at a very tight gauge, using a worsted weight yarn on size 4 needles. This produces a gauge consistent with the scarf from the show (did I measure Jared Harris’ eye and use it to calculate gauge from a photo of Crozier wearing the scarf? MAYBE SO). It makes the knitting a little hard on the hands, but the resulting fabric is DELIGHTFUL—super dense, and since the cowl is knit as a tube it's double thick and, in my experience, nearly entirely windproof. THIS IS A VERY WARM COWL!

After looking at too many screenshots, I ultimately determined that the article in the show is in fact a scarf (you can see the edge VERY briefly in one shot). However, I have designed my version as a tube cowl, as it more easily reproduces the look of the article as worn in the show (doubled over and in a continuous loop around the neck with no edges visible). You could produce a scarf instead by knitting this flat instead of in the round—cast on the same number of stitches with a long tail cast on, and then only knit/repeat row 1 (consider adding a seldvege edge).

If you have questions or want tips, or just want to show me what you made, hit me up!! I’d love to chat.

Materials:

3 skeins (approx. 660 yards) Cascade 220 Heathers in color 2445 Shire (google it to find purchasing options, or ask your local yarn store to order it!)

Size 4 needles; either 16 inch circulars or double-pointed

Stitch marker

Yarn needle

Instructions:

Provisional CO 72 stitches on size 4 16-inch circular (or double pointed) needles to work in the round. Place marker.

Row 1: k1 p1

Row 2: p1 k1

Repeat until cowl measures approximately 54 inches (4.5 feet; 137 cm) or desired length.

Unpick provisional cast-on, placing live stitches on any spare circular needles or dpns. Kitchener stitch ends together (tutorial for doing so in pattern here).

Wear as a single or double loop.

Now go have some glorious homoerotic tension with your second in command!

[rrrrinmaru]

calculated risk (but boy am i bad at math) (sylus x mc) (nsfw)

wc: 4.3k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, dirty talk, blowjobs, skull fucking, orgasm denial, slight spanking (ass and pussy) brief: you lose a bet to sylus and you have to do whatever he wants for 24 hours // part 2 here

It starts, as most things do with Sylus, an incredibly poor decision on your part. 

It can’t be helped—when Sylus smirks at you, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a challenging look, you know it’s only going to end in either one of both ways. You taking him up on the bet, or the both of you in a training room with you trying your damned best to figure out how many bones of his you can break.

This time, he hadn’t even disclosed what the prize would be. “Patience, dollface,” he murmured when you told him to lay the terms out upfront. “Isn’t it fun when you don’t know everything?”

“And I suppose it’s fun for you to keep me in the dark?” Control freak, you thought to yourself, but the bet was simple and there was no way you would lose. 

Sylus had shrugged, spreading his hands in a helpless pretense. 

It didn’t matter. You were confident. You were going to win.

==

“I gotta go with A,” Luke says slowly, smacking his lips as he speaks. “I like the spices. No clue what’s in it though—pepper, and er, I’m going to go with cinnamon? Or something similar?”

You could strangle him. Who the fuck puts cinnamon in tomato and eggs? You didn’t even see Sylus go near that section of the spice cabinet. 

“Do you even know what cinnamon tastes like?” You can’t help but ask. 

Luke licks his lips again. “Yeah, I ate a whole spoonful of cinnamon once because Kieran dared me to, and I was out of it for days. Boss got really mad, haha, remember that?”

Sylus sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He choked,” he says unhelpfully when you look to him for more information. 

“He exhaled cinnamon for what felt like hours after that,” Kieran notes from the side. “I wanted to get a scan of his lungs to see how tainted from cinnamon they were, but Boss grounded us.”

“Anyways, it may not be cinnamon, but it’s definitely a c-something,” Luke declares confidently. “I like it. A is the winner for me.”

“Cilantro,” Kieran tells him. You can’t read his expression through the fox mask, but you like to think he’s rolling his eyes. There’s exasperation in his voice that reeks of an older brother forced to reckon with the stupidity of a younger sibling, an unstoppable force crashing headfirst into an immovable object. 

Luke snaps his fingers, leaning forward to spoon another mouth of scrambled egg into his mouth. “It’s good. Who made this one?”

“I have to vote first,” Kieran reminds him. “But I’ll go with A too. It’s saltier. I prefer things with a stronger taste.”

“Hm.” Sylus turns to look at you, cocking his head. “It appears we have a unanimous decision. Our fear of needing a tie-breaker game didn’t even materialise.”

You stay silent. Your arms are folded across your chest, and you get the errant thought of whether you could stamp on his shoe hard enough to break his big toe. Probably not, but giving up without even trying is a defeatist attitude. 

“Woah,” Luke says, looking furiously between the both of you. “Boss made this?”

Kieran suddenly goes very silent. He brings a fist up to his mouth and starts coughing lightly, but he also resembles a cat attempting to cough up a hairball.

“I did,” Sylus replies, looking quite pleased. “Surprised?”

“Er,” Luke says simply. “Er, congrats. Kieran, do you know how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre?”

Kieran coughs again. “I’ll do it on you if you do it on me first.”

“Deal.” Luke hurries to stand, his chair screeching against the floorboards from the strength of his push. “Can we excuse ourselves? Our role here is done, right?”

Sylus jerks his head at the exit, and the both of them scramble to the door. As they leave, you think you can hear Luke mutter something that sounds like “I didn’t know I would like soapy eggs, but there’s a first for everything, right?”

Kieran shoves him in the shoulder in response as they both leave. And Kieran goes to great pains to ensure the door is closed, firmly, behind him. 

“Let me try that,” you demand, reaching for Luke’s chopsticks left on the edge of the plate. 

A strand of twisting red energy wraps around your wrist, yanking it to a stop.

“There are clean chopsticks,” Sylus chides. From across the kitchen, a covered bowl and a pair of chopsticks are brought over by tendrils of red and black energy. 

He leans back, hips pressed against the counter as he collects the bowl and chopsticks. The lid lifts of its own accord and floats over to rest on the nearby countertop. 

Sylus picks up a piece of egg and holds it out to you.

“… You made a separate serving for me?” 

“I had my suspicions. If I won, you would have demanded a taste test to ensure I didn’t rig the competition.” Sylus tilts his head, as if daring you to disagree. “Was I right?”

Instead of answering, you lean forward to take the piece of egg into your mouth. Your lips close around the end of the chopsticks, and you stay like that for a moment, looking up at Sylus from under your eyelashes. 

Sylus’ gaze deepens. 

You pull off, leaving the chopsticks wet with your saliva as you chew on the food in your mouth. It’s good. Pretty good. Salty, but in a good way. It would go excellently with a fresh bowl of rice.

You’re actually kind of irritated. Why is Sylus good at making scrambled eggs and tomato? Did he pencil that into his busy schedule—illicit trading activities at 10 am, cooking lessons at 12 pm, a shoot out in a back alleyway at 3 pm, and prowling the streets of the N109 Zone from 11 pm to 4 am like some kind of avenger?

“It’s not bad,” you admit mulishly. “But it’s not better than my cooking. I’d say it’s at the same level.”

“Crowd opinion begs to differ. There’s no shame in losing to someone better, sweetie.”

Oh, you’ve just about had it with him. But a bet is a bet, and Sylus won without any obvious cheats. Luke enjoying the soapy taste of cilantro is something you could never have predicted; if Sylus used this fact to his advantage, you can’t even hold a grudge against him. You would have done the same.

“Give me that,” you say, holding a hand out for the bowl and chopsticks. “So, what’s the prize?”

Sylus doesn’t hand you the bowl immediately. He puts the chopsticks into his mouth, licking them clean before dipping them into the bowl again and picking out another piece of egg. He holds it out.

You lean forward, of course, lips parted as you expect him to feed it to you.

Instead, he turns the chopsticks around and places the egg into his mouth. He hums as he chews on it, nodding like he’s pleased at the taste. 

You snap your jaw shut. You give him a dirty look, pressing forward to brace your palms against the countertop, on either side of his hips. Like this, he’s trapped. 

Your chest is pressed up against him. Your hips align with his. You go on the balls of your feet, forcing him to lift the bowl and chopsticks higher so he doesn’t hit you in the face.

“You think you’re so funny,” you grumble, staring him down. “Bet, reward, now. Tell me what it is so I can be mentally prepared.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. He glances down at you, amusement written all over his face, and lets go of the bowl. Strands of energy catch it, bringing it to rest on the counter behind him. The chopsticks are brought along as well, leaving him empty handed.

“You’re standing in a dangerous position.” He puts the knuckle of his index finger under your chin to tilt your head up. “If you offer yourself up like this, I’ll take advantage.”

He tilts his hips forward, rolling intently against your abdomen. The prominent bulge presses into your lower stomach, right above where your womb is, and you flush scarlet.

You move to pull back, but Sylus moves one hand lightning fast, reaching behind to cup the curve of your ass and pressing you even tighter against the hard line of his arousal through his slacks.

He even squeezes, eyebrows rising in a challenging fashion as he waits to see how you’ll respond. 

You know he just wants to get a rise out of you. Unfortunately, it’s working. Your insides clench uncontrollably, wanting to cling tightly to something. 

Somehow, Sylus always succeeds at making you feel empty.

“As if you don’t take advantage on the daily.” You shift your stance until your thighs are spread around Sylus’s leg. He watches you adjust yourself, that mildly interested look affixed on his face as you straddle his thigh. 

Once you’re satisfied, you roll your hips forward, grinding down on the thick thigh to put pressure against your core. It’s a syrupy heat, starting from your tailbone and crawling up your spine. You press further into Sylus’s growing hardness, and he lets out a pleasant hum, tilting his head back to soak in the weight against his cock.

His fingers tighten against your ass. His grip is heavy, holding you tightly enough that you wonder if they’ll leave bruises against your skin. Five pretty bruises, black and blue on your ass. 

“Harder,” he coaxes hoarsely. “You can do better than that. What are they teaching Hunters these days?”

Your thighs squeeze threateningly around him. But that puts pressure on your clit, making pleasure surge deliciously inside you and you do it again—Sylus seems to catch on and he pulls you along the length of his thigh with the hand on your ass.

“Definitely not how to ride the unspoken ruler of the N109 Zone,” you shoot back breathlessly.

He lets out a startled laugh. “You flatter me, sweetie.”

“Stop evading the question,” you remind him, even as you steadily roll your hips against his thigh. Slow, regular grinds as you rub your cunt against his pants. You wonder if your pussy is wet enough to leak through your panties. You wonder if your panties are drenched, sticking to your thighs. You wonder if you’re making his pants damp, and whether he can feel it leaking through to his skin.

Judging from the way he suddenly grips your ass with more force at a particularly smooth slide, you think he might. 

“Remind me, what question were we speaking of?”

“Bet. Reward.” You slide one hand across his abdomen, stopping right over his belt buckle. The nail of your index finger catches against the metal—this isn’t the first time you’ve wished you had some kind of Evol that involved the manipulation of metal. “Want me to go on my knees?”

The pad of his thumb smooths over your lower lip. 

“Should I put this cute mouth to good use? I think I should,” Sylus murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you. “But let’s talk about the bet first. The reward is simple.”

His other hand skates lightly along your outer thigh. Light as a feather, his fingers skimming along your skin so gently that it makes you itch. You almost want him to press hard, the same way he’s gripping your ass, instead of this light, itchy sensation spreading across your body. 

His fingers creep up, running under the hem of your dress. They trace the edge of your panties, nails scratching faintly against the cotton. 

“I get to do whatever I want with you for the next twenty-four hours,” he says, voice curling with satisfaction. His eyes are creased slightly, the smile sinking through his gaze. As if to drive his point home, he pointedly looks you up and down, dragging his gaze over every inch of your body. 

He’s lucky. If you were still clear-headed, you would have scoffed and told him to change the bet. Sylus might have convinced you after a while, but it would have taken time. At least half an hour of convincing, you reckon, with lips on your neck and fingers down your panties to get you worked up enough to say yes to a bet as insane as that.

Twenty-four hours? To do whatever he wants? 

Now, with your drenched pussy and your throbbing clit, both just begging for attention from him—this plan sounds pretty good. With the way his fingers playfully run across your panties, the tip of his thumb glancing off your swollen clit then darting away, as if it was an accident, as if he didn’t intend to do that, when you both know damn well he’s very acquainted with your clit—

“Go on,” you gasp, chasing after his sly fingers. Pressure, you need more pressure. If he squeezes your clit between his fingers, even through the wet cotton of your panties, it might be enough. “What do you want me to do?”

“Choices, choices. That mouth looks hungry for something, doesn’t it?” He presses his thumb into your clit harshly, making your body jerk at the sudden burst of electricity that surges through you. Sylus rubs it languidly, watching you shiver on his thigh, then he draws that hand away and brings it to his face. 

You watch, pupils dilated and mouth open as he lifts his thumb to his nose and inhales deeply. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting as he rubs the pad of his thumb on his tongue. Behind you, his other hand flexes, tightening his hold on your ass. 

“Mm,” he hums, slowly opening his eyes to look at you. “Delicious as always, sweetie. You’ve completely wet your panties.”

“Sylus,” you whine, pulling insistently at his belt. “Tell me what you want, or I’ll just do whatever I want to do.”

“How naughty. Thinking of breaking the rules of the bet this early?” His hand leaves your ass and you almost move to slide off, but there’s a sudden sharp sound and a stinging pain—your cheeks turn red at how that spank made your insides tighten up. “On your knees, dollface. Show me what that talented mouth of yours can do.” 

You go, the tips of your ears blushing when you see the blatant wet spot on his slacks your greedy pussy left on him.

==

Sylus uses your mouth like a fleshlight. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty, mouth open and wet, teeth hidden behind your lips as he holds your head in place and fucks into your mouth. Saliva pools in your mouth, your tongue numb from how loose you’re trying to keep your muscles. You just need to be there, fingers locked around Sylus’ ankles, knees spread on the ground and your arousal dripping on the floorboards—

“Good girl,” Sylus croons, head tilting back to expose the long line of his neck as his hips snap forward. “So fucking obedient for me, aren’t you? Tongue out, sweetie, let my cock slide right in—mmhmm, that’s right, you know what I like, don’t you?”

His fingers are tangled in your hair. There’s no gentleness in the way he holds you there—his grip on your hair is tight, your strands circling his fingers at least twice. He’d stroked your hair right at the beginning, when you were sliding to your knees and dragging the zipper of his pants down with your teeth. Then he’d wound your hair around four of his fingers once, twice, twisting his wrist, pulling sharply so you’d feel the strain at your scalp as you licked up the length of his cock. 

He’d told you to clean it up, so you did. You flattened your tongue along the thick line of his cock and you dragged it up, eyelashes fluttering as you traced the fat protruding vein under the head of his cock. You got his cock nice and slick, shiny from spit and precum. 

And now he’s fucking into your mouth, salty precum dripping down your throat as your cunt clenches around nothing. He grunts, a low punched-out sound that makes your clit throb. You’re the reason he looks so disheveled, sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows, slacks pulled open just enough for you to slip his cock out and suck on it—

The worst thing about Sylus, you think in a haze, the heavy weight of a fat cock in your mouth so all-encompassing that you don’t have many brain cells left for clear thought, is that he loves to talk. He can’t keep his fucking mouth shut, especially during sex. 

“Look at you,” he pants, voice gravelly from arousal. His thrusts are becoming more haphazard, losing the regularity from seconds ago. There’s a familiar stutter and his cock pulses on your tongue, the fat head going so far down your throat you almost seize up, but you hold it back. You can take it. You want to take it. “Do you want it in your throat or on your face?”

You make a noise, the sound muffled from Sylus’ cock. He laughs, a breathless sound, and the ache in your scalp intensifies. Oh, he’s close. 

“You’ll have to speak up, dollface.”

The whine that leaves your lips is louder this time, your fingers tightening around Sylus’ ankles. If your nails dig into the skin, leaving trails of scratch marks, all it does is make Sylus groan, hips jerking as he slams into your throat. 

“Hm, I can’t hear you,” he notes, eyes glinting as he looks down at you. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You have to take whatever I give you, sweetie. Open that throat up for me, nice and pretty—ngh, fuck—”

You bare your teeth just enough to scrape the underside of Sylus’ cock. He’s not afraid to mix his pain with his pleasure, and the sting of teeth biting at his sensitive length while he fucks into your face is something he’s told you is addictive. You know he likes it. You know it makes him tremble, and you see it in his crimson eye when he hunches over, abdomen tightening as his cock twitches. 

“Close,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Suck on it, sweetie. You have to work for the reward you want. I don’t—haaah, fuck, I don’t give handouts.”

You obey, eyes closing instinctively as you suck on his cock. His cock is leaking badly, precum sliding down your throat. You swear you can feel the head of his cock all the way down, right to the base of your throat, right at your clavicle. It truly feels like he’s hitting it that deep, bruising the insides of your mouth and throat until you won’t be able to eat right or breathe right for days. 

You swallow desperately, throat working furiously around the head of his cock, that tight wet heat that drives him crazy, and he bites out a curse as his hips jerk forward, cock throbbing as come spills into your mouth. 

He doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking into your mouth, hips pumping as he slides his cock back and forth on your tongue. You suck at his cock, swallowing mouthful and mouthful of come down your throat. Your entire world narrows to a pinpoint, to the grounding weight of his pulsing cock on your tongue, the ache in your mouth, the sting of your scalp—there might be tears in your eyes, or sweat from overexertion, but your vision is blurry when you look up and watch Sylus watch you. 

Sylus watches you with hooded eyes, mouth open as he pants for air. His lips curve up when he sees you open your eyes, looking down at you with a pleased expression while he rides out the aftershocks in your wet mouth. 

“How obedient,” he says, breathing heavily as he lets one hand go and moves to stroke the side of your mouth with his thumb. He cups your jaw, wiping away a trail of spit from your lips, then reaches down to follow the outline of his cock in your throat. “Swallow.”

You swallow, and his eyes darken as your throat bobs around his cock. He must be able to feel it on both ends—his cock, trapped in that endless wet heat; his fingers, feeling the movement of your muscles under your skin, feeling his heartbeat in his cock through your throat. 

He continues fucking your mouth until the spurts of come finally taper off. Even then, he seems content to let his cock stay in your mouth, rubbing along the textured roof of your mouth and against the scrape of your teeth. 

Eventually, he pulls back. Sylus’ cock leaves your lips, inch by inch, until his back is against the counter again and only the tip of his cock is left in your mouth.

You can’t help it. Now that there’s more space, you move your tongue instinctively, curving it along the over-sensitive head of his cock and licking into the slit. 

Your eyes are trained carefully on Sylus’ face as you do this. He shudders, lips spreading in a smile even as his grip tightens in your hair. 

He gives you this look, half-lidded eyes and a lazy, satisfied smile as you mouth at his cock. 

“Good girl,” he says hoarsely, pulling your hair until your mouth slides off his cock. It bobs in front of you, still half-hard, and you risk your luck with lapping at the fat cockhead. 

Sylus stops you by yanking your head back even further. He pulls up, forcing you to your feet, then he unwinds his fingers and smooths your hair down. 

You pant lightly, trying to get your breathing under control. Your mouth feels like one big bruise, and you clear your throat before even attempting to speak. Your voice is going to sound completely fucked, you know, and some part of you revels in it. That you’ll walk around sounding like someone just brutalised your throat, because someone did. 

Sylus doesn’t do anything. He just stands there, the long line of his body stretching out before you as he drops one hand to cup your waist. You eye him, then eye the slowly growing stiffness of his cock—when you look back up, he has that familiar, smug challenging look on his face, like he wants to see what you’ll do next. 

Oh, you know what you want. You take his free hand and bring it under the rucked up hem of your dress. Your panties are sticky with arousal, and you’re certain you leaked enough fluid for his cock to slide in without any stretching, but you like fingers in your cunt. You like Sylus’ fingers in your cunt, specifically. 

Thick and callused fingers, broad enough that two of them feel like four of yours. You like the way they can hunt down that sensitive spot inside you with deadly precision, and you like the way he taps insistently at it like he’s pulling a trigger on a target. You like it when he crooks his fingers inside you and finger you stupid while his thumb flicks insistently at your clit. 

You even pull your drenched panties to the side so Sylus can slip his fingers in. You’re being so accommodating, so sweet and nice and obedient, all hopped up on endorphins from having a cock in your mouth and watching Sylus come—

He runs his index and middle finger through the seam of your pussy, gathering up your sticky wetness. He reaches up to pinch your clit, finding it with shocking accuracy even though his hand is hidden beneath your skirt, and you let out a surprised moan, your knees shaking from the pleasure that bursts inside you. You are going over the edge the moment he sinks those clever fingers inside you, you just know it.

But he draws his hand away. You’re so shocked that you let him do it, let him pull his hand away and bring it to his face again, almost an exact copy of what happened earlier. You watch, pussy clenching around nothing as he presses those two fingers together and pulls them apart, letting thin silvery strands of your arousal stretch in between the fingertips. 

Sylus rubs them together again, then puts those fingers in his mouth. He looks at you, holding your gaze as he sucks on them, throat visibly moving as he swallows. 

“Sweet,” he notes, nodding in approval. “A sample before the main course.”

You stare blankly at him. Your clit is throbbing, desperate for attention. “Sylus,” you demand, reaching for his hand again. “I want—”

“I know what you want.” His hand cups your exposed pussy. His palm is hot, heat radiating off his skin as he rubs slowly along your slick cunt. “But for the next twenty-four hours, you’re at my mercy.”

He slaps your pussy, so suddenly that it makes you yelp, both hands reaching out to grip his bicep in a bid to stabilise yourself. It stings, so pleasantly that it makes your clit tingle—you want more of it, more of everything and anything, as long as he makes you come. You’re so close it’s not even funny. One more slap could push you over the edge, as long as he does it hard enough and right across your twitching, swollen clit—

“Go take a shower,” Sylus suggests, eyes dark as he stares you down. “I’ll find you when I want to, dollface.”

“You—!” 

His smirk just makes the heat in your gut flare up. You want nothing more than to push him on his back and straddle that face, wipe that smile off with your cunt and force him to eat you out until you’re shaking from overstimulation and crying over his tongue. 

But a bet is a bet. And you respect the sanctity of a reward, even if it frustrates you to no end. 

“You are infuriating,” you hiss, and stalk off to find a change of clothes.

==

© rrrrinmaru 2024 | no unauthorised publication or reproduction allowed

[sunflowersandsapphires]

In His Element

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: After watching Matt cross examine a witness, your patience is worn thin, leaving you to plead with the devil.

warnings: SMUT. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. fingering, brief masturbation, descriptions of fem genitalia, dom!Matt's filthy mind, and also him being so attractive

a/n: THIS IS MY FIRST EVER SMUT THAT WASN'T GHOST WRITTEN SO IT MIGHT NOT BE GREAT. I am going to keep practicing for y'all though! As always, please comment/reblog and leave me feedback if you desire :)

w/c: 3.5k

With clammy fingers, you smoothed your wrinkled skirt until it lay flat over your knees, crossing your ankles under the pew you were seated in. In your haste to find a seat before the trial resumed, you’d landed directly below an A/C vent, which was blowing a harsh current over you. The hair along your limbs stood on end, your heart pumping your blood in smaller loops, leaving your extremities to slowly wither. It should’ve been uncomfortable, but you were far too focused on the heat churning in your gut as your eyes followed your partner’s pacing form.

Hands stacked loosely over the handle of his cane, Matt’s head tilted slightly as he prepared to ask the prosecution’s witness a question. He was facing away from you, but you could imagine the exact emotionless-yet-somehow-haughty expression that graced his face. It was one of the attributes of your boyfriend’s stoic appearance that emerged behind the courtroom doors that you found mind-numbingly attractive.

“Officer Bauer,” Matt’s voice sent a shudder down your spine. Though the man wore a literal mask most nights, he had a variety of metaphorical personality-masks that suited various environments—his everyday polite demeanor, the protective and concerned boyfriend that always surfaced whenever you were threatened or hurt, and, notably, the serious, calculating attorney persona he adopted during his trials.

Biting your tongue to freeze your body in place, you inhaled slowly, trying not to draw attention to yourself. A quick glance to the jury confirmed that you were not the only one entranced by the dark-haired man as he strode back and forth, a few feet in front of the witness stand. He had you all captivated.

Shifting his weight to his heels, Matt was angled enough that you could see the innocent smile he directed at the man sweating on the stand. “Can you tell me what you were doing at the corner of 52nd and 8th on the afternoon of Thursday, March 6th?”

A simple question, innocuous enough that the callous man he was questioning let out an indignant scoff as he answered. ”Patrolling.“

You rolled your eyes at his single word response, his disdain for the judicial process evident in his slouched posture and bored tone. He was practically falling asleep in the worn leather chair, his half-lidded eyes trained on Matt like a dazed serpent. The man looked foul and, from the little that Matt had told you, his personality matched.

Despite the apathetic participant he was dealing with, Matt remained calm and composed. His smile widened marginally, revealing a flash of his pristine teeth as he huffed in amusement.

"Of course. And when you were on patrol you noticed the defendant amongst a group of young adults. Is that correct?"

Your chest was convulsing as your heart pounded from your rib cage. Matt was exceptionally intelligent and had explained his tactic for cross-examining this inattentive cop, but that didn't make it any less suspenseful as you watched his game of cat and mouse play out before your very eyes.

The officer's slitted eyes wandered to the ceiling as he sighed. "Yeah."

"Can you describe the group to me?" Matt lifted his shoulders as he posed the question, not quite shrugging, but definitely indicating that, while he believed the leathery-skinned witness had not yet satisfied his curiosity.

“Buncha kids. Messin around.” Four words rather than one. That was progress, right? Akin to the marble rolling down a track at the beginning of a complex Rube Goldberg machine. The task was far from accomplished, but there was motion somewhere within the structure.

“And, as your partner stated earlier, most of the kids were white, is that correct?” The first hint of something substantial. You pressed your lips together, holding in a smile as your mind started to piece together the rocky, cobblestone path your boyfriend was laying for his uncooperative witness.

“Yes.”

“What encouraged you and your partner to approach the defendant and other students in the park?” Tone laced with what sounded like genuine curiosity, Matt raised a brow at the arresting officer. His ability to color his voice in a way that would appeal to the jury never ceased to amaze you.

“We got news of a nearby break in, and they were actin' suspicious.”

At this point, you were pretty much tuning the lazy cop out—waiting for Matt to open his mouth again, to speak in the beautifully deep, almost hoarse way he always did when defending his clients. His words were direct, controlled in the same manner his general conduct was, his anger and need for justice hidden behind an expressionless facade.

It was intoxicating, his ability to hold back. Almost as divine as his ability to let go.

“Can you describe these suspicious activities for the court?”

Fidgeting with a loose thread on the hem of your skirt, you let Matt's voice drape over you like a wool blanket on a winter night. Comforting, warm, and a tad prickly. Only ears as finely tuned to the man's peculiarities could pick up the barbed edge of his questioning—thousands of serrated teeth waiting to ensnare the animal as soon as it was within their grasp. Knowing how talented your partner was in his field, that moment wasn't far away.

The chair creaked as the cop shifted with a hefty shrug. “Ya know, talkin' all low to each other, shovin' things in their bags while lookin' over their shoulder...” He trailed off, mashing a fist against his nose with an awful throat clearing sound.

“And, while on your patrol, you noticed the group acting this way.” More of a statement than a question. Matt was closing in.

“Yea, that’s what I just said.” The cop snorted, completely unaware of the brutal fate that awaited him.

“So you and your partner decided to intervene?” Matt reasoned aloud. He was pacing again. Your attention had been solely on his voice, not his footsteps.

“Course that’s our job.” The ignorant man to the right of the judge shifted again in his seat, his frustration visibly growing as Matt continued to hurl benign and repetitive questions at him.

“And when you exited your vehicle, what happened?” Matt asked.

“They took off.” Bauer answered, irritated.

“On foot?” Matt clarified.

“Yes.” The witness rubbed forcefully at the bridge of his nose again.

“And it’s true that my client left with them?” Gesturing softly to the young woman seated at the defense's table to indicate to the room who his client was, in case they needed a reminder.

 “Yes.” Bauer confirmed.

“So the entire group dispersed on foot?” Matt asked with an air of confusion. His rumbling baritone lifting on the tail end to indicate his dismay.

“Yep.” Bauer grit his teeth, tiring quickly as Matt persisted.

“At the same time?” Matt asked with the same bewildered look on his face.

“Yes.” His witness growled.

“The same group that was acting in a suspicious manner?” Matt questioned.

“Yes. I just said that.” Voice raising, you could see Bauer's face getting redder by the second.

“Then can you tell me, Officer Bauer, why you and your partner BOTH decided to pursue my client?”

Bauer's eyes flashed with something similar to understanding, his mouth remaining clamped shut as Matt stepped closer, closing in on his prey.

“You’ve previously reported and just now confirmed that the entire group left when they noticed you approaching. Yet you and your partner both were solely focused on my client rather than any of the other members of the group. Tell me, officer, is that because of her race?” Matt's words flew out of his mouth rapidly, a string of poorly concealed accusations within them.

You barely had time to appreciate Matt's ingenuity before the lead prosecutor bolted out of her seat. "Objection, Your Honor, that is clearly leading."

"Sustained. Counselor?" The judge glanced at Matt for his next move.

Holding up a hand, Matt didn't miss a beat. “I’ll rephrase. Officer, what reason did you have for pursuing my client rather than any of the other students?”

"Well, she was acting weird," Bauer stammered, his eyes bulging with fear. He'd spotted the threat then.

“In the same manner as the rest of the group, as you previously stated, all of whom you approached with your partner. Yet both of you ran after my client.”

“Yes.” Nodding cautiously, Bauer's voice was suddenly small.

“And, besides her race, can you give any other reason she stood out to you as more suspicious than the rest of the group?”

“Objection, leading.” The prosecution called out, her voice a bit shrill with desperation.

"Overruled. Mr. Murdock, please continue with your line of questioning." The judge's gaze flitted between the prosecutor and the witness who was now sweating profusely on the stand.

“Thank you, your honor. Officer Bauer, can you explain to the court exactly how my client was acting differently?” Changing the question slightly, Matt's lips twitched with the hint of a smirk.

“I don’t know, she, she just was!” Bauer cried, flustered.

“Is there any other difference between her and the rest of the group that you can explicitly state other than her appearance or her race?” Matt asked, cheeks twitching as he gleefully listened to the snare clasp around its victim.

“No.” Bauer answered. "But, but it wasn't like that!"

Turning to the judge, Matt's spine was straight with satisfaction as he announced his intentions. “Your honor, the defense would like to file a motion to dismiss this case on the grounds of selective enforcement. The combined testimony of Officers Bauer and Burke demonstrates an intent to frisk my client because she was black, not solely because of her actions, negating the principle of reasonable suspicion.”

The courtroom exploded, the witness and prosecution both howling in protest as the defendant and Matt both smirked. Grinning ecstatically, you stifled a laugh as the uproar continued, until the judge finally granted the dismissal. You couldn’t lessen your smile if you tried. 

Flooding out of the courtroom amidst the sea of spectators and journalists, you stepped out of the current as quickly as you could. Craning your neck over the waves of bobbing heads, you broke into a wide grin when you saw Matt trailing after the masses, cane sweeping inches from their ankles like he was chasing them out. As soon as he was within reach, you called his name, eagerly grasping his outstretched hand and tugging him out of the doorway.

“God, Matty, that was incredible.” You exclaimed breathlessly, wrapping him in a tight hug. His forehead landed against your hair, his nose skimming the shell of your ear as he shook with a resonant chuckle.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He pressed a kiss against your neck, a guttural noise slipping out as he did. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

His words were barely audible, a secret to only be shared with you. They sent another wave of need straight to your core. “Matthew,” You mumbled, his name breaking off into a whine.

Another huff of laughter sounded in your ear. Planting another kiss against your neck, Matt's broad hands squeezed your hips. “My place. Now.”

“What about you?” You murmured, mouth watering as every touch from your boyfriend left a lingering patch of heat along your skin.

“I have a few things to finish up here, but I'll be there when I can. I promise.” You didn't need to hear his heartbeat to feel the honesty in his vow.

The idea of waiting for him made your knees tremble, the joints threatening to buckle as Matt swiped a calloused thumb over the bare skin of your waist, his hand beneath your shirt. “Matty, please.”

Matt shushed you sweetly. “Not here, angel. Be a patient girl for me and I'll make all your pain worth it, I promise.”

With one final squish of your hips, Matt separated from you.

The walk to Matt’s apartment was excruciating. With each step, the throbbing between your legs grew more intense. By the time you’d made it up the stairs and flopped onto his couch, you were practically panting with want. 

Now, you were desperately trying to focus on your book, but the words on the page might as well have been gibberish given how little you'd retained since you started. How were you supposed to manage when the image of Matt's parted lips was branded on the back of your eyelids.

“Be a patient girl for me and I'll make all your pain worth it, I promise.”

Patience was never your strongsuit.

Digging your front teeth into your lip, you dropped your head to the arm of Matt's couch with a thunk, whimpering as your discomfort crested. Blowing out a breath, you clenched the paperback book with vigor, fingernails stabbing the parchment inside, scarring it with tiny crescents. If only this book was Matt's broad back.

He loved when you got a little rough with him. You couldn't help it. As soon as his mouth was on you, your eyes shut, vision blanketed with stars. Your hands would grapple for whatever surface they could find to anchor you as Matt rocked the two of you in tandem, your nails carving scratches into Matt's beautiful, sporadically-freckled skin in the process.

The first time it happened, you'd been horrified. Stammering out an apology and offering to apply antibiotic gel to the red marks, but your boyfriend had just smiled, assuring you that he didn't mind.

“Each of those marks is a reminder that I'm yours, sweetheart.”

Arching your back as Matt's dulcet tone echoed in your ears, the book toppled to the ground with a flutter of pages. Hands wandering over your body, you reminded yourself to be patient.

Matt will be here soon. He will.

But not soon enough. A voice buried somewhere in your subconscious warned, encouraging your primal desires and urging your hands to free the hem of your blouse from where it was tucked beneath the waistband of your skirt. Fingertips trailing over the now-exposed skin of your lower belly, you hummed softly as a ripple of pleasure circled out from your fingertips.

Unbuttoning your skirt, you slowly loosened the fabric enough for your hand to dip under it. Dragging a finger over your panties towards your core, you hissed as it finally reached your delicate clit. The bundle of nerves was overly sensitive after being ignored for so long. Pulling the cotton aside, you pushed your finger between your folds, smiling as it danced over your clit. Circling it carefully with a single finger, you shuddered as your body began to buzz with a familiar thrill.

Rocking your hips into your hand slowly, you could barely hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears—which meant that the slam of a closing door caught you off guard.

Yanking your hand out of your underwear with a yelp, you sat up, frantically jerking your head towards the door.

“I thought I told you to wait for me, sweetheart.” Matt's face was shrouded by an array of shadows, the glint of his malicious smirk tinted red in the light of his living room window.

“I—I was!” You mumbled, arousal seeping into your panties as Matt stalked towards you with a laugh.

“You know I can tell when you're lying, sweets. Want to try that again?”

“Depends,” You retorted, adrenaline reigniting the confidence Matt always brought out in you. “Are you planning on apologizing for being so late?”

Chuckling sinfully, Matt cornered you against the back of the couch, fingers deftly unlooping the fabric of your skirt from the remaining buttons. Leaning down until your lips were practically touching, his mouth glanced against yours as he spoke, ignoring your question. "Do you know how difficult it is to remain coherent when you've clouded the entire courthouse in your scent?"

"W-what?" You stammered, gasping shallowly when Matt's teeth grazed the underside of your jaw, his lips kissing languidly along your neck.

"Did you miss me that much, sweetheart? Wanted me to take you right there on the floor before the jury?" Matt purred, making your cheeks thrum with bashful heat.

"I'm not the only one who wanted that, it seems." You grinned, cupping your hand over the noticeable bulge in his pants. “I can't help it, Matt. Watching you in your element...you're intoxicating. I can't listen to two words out of your mouth without wanting to drag you to the nearest bathroom.”

Palming his cock through the layers he wore, Matt growled into the skin of your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Static ricocheted from the impact, freezing you in place as your thighs flexed.

Shedding you of your skirt, Matt gently caressed the cotton covering your drenched pussy. “Can I—”

“Please,” You begged, choking in a breath before Matt's mouth crashed against yours. His stubble bristled against your skin, the small pinpricks a pleasant contrast to his plush lips. Tearing the remaining clothes from your legs, Matt threw his leg over your torso, encouraging you to fully recline against the leather. One hand cupping the back of your head, the other was splayed across your mound, a single dextrous finger parting your glistening lips.

He tasted like salt, like want. His tongue lapping at you like he needed to swallow you whole, like he couldn't get enough.

His cheeks ruffled as a strangled moan escaped him. “You're this wet for me, sweetheart?”

“All for you.” You panted, the air between you growing thick with feverish heat. “Always for you.”

With a beautiful grin, Matt's finger swiped over your entrance. “You ready?”

Nodding sloppily, you brought your hands up to cup his cheeks, tugging him back to your lips. Mouth colliding with yours, the force became bruising when your body rutted upwards, a jolt of satisfaction striking your every cell as Matt's finger entered you.

You hissed as the familiar pleasant pain washed over you. Arching your back as Matt pumped his digit upwards, you moaned, clapping a hand over your mouth as the sound escaped you. 

Matt chuckled. “No need to be quiet, sweetheart. Tell me how it feels.”

“So g-good, Matty.” You whimpered, every nerve within your folds quivering as Matt dragged his finger out of you, pushing it in again as he scraped his teeth over your neck. You cried out, vision going black as your body strained to find release. Your fingers dug into the silk beneath you, yanking at the sheets.

As your desperation grew, the rest of your limbs faded into numbness, your brain solely focused on the sensations of Matt’s callouses scraping against your walls—as if he was scratching an itch that had been niggling at you for hours. 

Matt hummed against your throat, pressing the pad of his thumb against your clit, making you yelp. The fire within you was out of control, your body drawn taught like the string of a bow. 

Wriggling slightly beneath his touch, your breaths became shallow, your stamina worn thin after watching him in court. You whined, twisting slightly to avoid launching yourself over the alluring edge into heavenly oblivion. 

“So close already, sweets?” He teased, repeatedly strumming the bundle of nerves. 

You moaned in assent, fisting the blankets in your clammy hands. His thick fingers tangled in your hair, giving your locks a tug and drawing a pleased yelp from your mouth. 

“Go on. Come for me.” Matt rasped, his breath fanning over your face. 

The command shoved you over the cliff, your lungs clenching as you stifled a scream. Your tailbone rutted up, your back arching off the mattress. Everything went white, your ears ringing as sheer pleasure coursed through your veins.

Matt was murmuring to you, his words muddled by the blood rushing in your ears. “–at’s my girl. Always such a good girl.” 

Rounding the peak, you collapsed to the mattress, your body trembling viciously. Each beat of your heart shook your rib cage, the motions rippling throughout your limbs. Hands flexing, you hissed as the muscles stretched out of mashed fists. Cupping Matt’s cheeks, you smiled as he eagerly dipped to kiss you. 

“Good?” He asked, the question punctuated by the noise of your lips pulling apart. 

“Fuck, Matty,” You whispered, head still swimming from the influx of oxytocin. “Yes. Yes, it was good. S-so good.” 

Withdrawing his hand from between your legs, Matt cradled you against his chest, brushing a thumb over your nape as your soul re-tethered. Lifting one wobbly leg, you shifted, attempting to throw the leaden weight over him, but Matt gently caught you by the thigh, encouraging you to relax. 

“What about you, love?” You asked, drawing in a harsh breath when Matt’s teeth nipped under your ear, his fingers already spreading your legs again.

“Later.” He huffed, his stiff length falling against your plush hip. “I’m not done with you quite yet.”

Taglist: @marytheweefrenchie @cheshirecat484 @siampie @xxdrixx @gracethyomen @ignore-mp3 @silas-aeiou @screechingphantommaker @spiderstyles04 @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002 @blue-devil-of-the-lord @pigeonmama @daisy-arien0 @yarrystyleeza

[ennn]

Let's appreciate how complex Agatha's relationship with Billy is

GIF credit to @isagrimorie

The genuine emotion brimming from Agatha in this moment is very interesting and I really want to break down all the layers of how Agatha is relating to Billy—because it is truly not as simple as Agatha feeling sentimental or motherly to Billy.

There are a few layers at work here (and I also want to give a shout-out to @trickofthelights for her excellent recap points):

Billy reminds Agatha (enough) of herself

There are two driving forces at the core of Agatha as a character. We know this because her characterisation has been incredibly consistent throughout the show and Schaeffer has talked about them, which is: (a) Agatha is self-serving and (b) Agatha loves powerful witchcraft.

Billy is a powerful witch who did a horrifying thing in order to survive. He's been lying to these wonderful parents. He also just tried murdering three people in a fit of rage, provoked by Agatha no less.

Would Agatha care if he was less powerful? Would Agatha care if he didn't have a dark side? If he hadn't shown to be duplicitous and dangerous and subject to his darker impulses?

If he wasn't alone and without a coven, a possible outcast even among witches because of his unusual origins and power?

I'm pretty sure the answer is no, she would not. She would have dismissed him the same way she did his "Teen" persona. Agatha doesn't care about witches, Agatha cares about powerful witches –because that's who Agatha is and what drives her.

And we also got hints of this with Agatha and Wanda (hello consistent characterisation). In Schaeffer's words:

There is respect and almost affection inherent in [Agatha's interest in enormously powerful witchcraft], as indicated by how she felt about Wanda. She was mean to Wanda, but really she was fascinated by Wanda and admired her and wanted to hang out with her. 

And if this wasn't clear enough, what Agatha tells Billy shortly later about breaking the rules and being a true witch just screams projection (more on that in my next point).

I was delighted that Agatha really did bounce back from the attempted murder – but it's not because she's forgiving. Oh no, I think, Agatha was testing her theory by poking the bear (calculated move, bad at math) and she's glad she was proven right.

I mean, she not happy about the attempted murder but her curiosity wins out. You see her poking at Billy and trying to figure him out in the rest of this scene.

Agatha also hates self-righteous moralising and searches out for the darkness in people – delights in it even – because she knows people and she knows her own darkness.

Billy is different but also not so different from Agatha, as much as Billy or his mom would hate to admit.

Agatha is dealing with her childhood trauma

Yes, Agatha is projecting on Billy, but she makes a choice about it. We hear her telling him what she would have wanted someone to tell her: that they shouldn't be afraid or ashamed of who they are or what they did to survive, that they are part of a community.

Don't you dare feel guilty about your talent. ... That's what kept you alive. That's what makes you special. That's what makes you a witch.

She's trying to be the person she needed when she was a child, because she simply doesn't want someone else – particularly a younger witch – going through what she did.

She doesn't want anyone to go through what her mother put her through. And that's a choice.

Because there are a number of ways a character can deal with trauma: they can lash out and bring others down, wanting others to experience to the pain they went through, or they can realise that what happened to them shouldn't happen to anyone else in their position.

There's something beautifully self-serving but also selfless in that, because this is a way for Agatha to heal from her trauma. She can tell Billy things she may not be able to tell herself.

And it's interesting because as a self-serving villain, Agatha could just be jealous of Billy's power. But in this moment at least, Agatha's empathy and compassion – as buried as they usually are – prevail.

And yes, Agatha was fond of kid Billy

This is what Schaeffer touched on in her interview answer and it makes sense, with the insight that Agatha – like any good actor – does invest a bit of herself in every role she plays.

Agatha does have feelings (as much as they might make her vomit) and I do believe she has a soft spot when it comes to kids, given her experience with her son and her own childhood trauma. And that kids don't have the level of hypocrisy and darkness that adults do.

It makes sense that Agatha would have some level of care about the Scarlet Witch's magical kid Billy. And that is a fondness that has carried onto teenage Billy – who is powerful and a survivor and has a potential for darkness in a way she can relate to.

There are layers and they intersect and it all ties back to how Agatha is incredibly complex and yet consistent as a character.

[aventurineswife]

Can I request Aventurine sleeping in with an equally sleepy Reader on a weekend morning? 😊

Chance and Comfort

Summary: Aventurine, known for his calculated strategies and high-stakes gambles, finds himself in an unusual moment of peace on a weekend morning. As you lie together, sharing a rare moment of calm, Aventurine is stripped of his usual guarded persona. The two of you embrace the quiet, with Aventurine allowing himself to relax and enjoy the simple comfort of being with someone he trusts, away from the constant pressure of his world.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Quiet Moments, Soft Aventurine, Emotional Vulnerability, Slow Burn, Relaxation.

The soft, golden rays of the sun crept through the blinds, casting a gentle glow on the room. The weekend had arrived, and with it, a rare moment of stillness. Aventurine, usually a whirlwind of activity and high-stakes maneuvers, was unusually calm, tucked beneath the thick covers of the bed.

You, too, lay beside him, the quiet warmth of the morning settling over both of you. The sheets were tangled between your legs, and the soft hum of the world outside barely penetrated the quiet sanctuary of the room.

His arm was draped lazily over your waist, fingers brushing against your side with an almost absent affection. His breathing, steady and slow, matched the rhythm of your own. His usual sharp, calculating eyes were closed, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. Gone were the layers of charm and theatrics, replaced by a rare vulnerability he never allowed to show in the world outside.

Aventurine's usual guard was down, and as you lay there, your heart swelled with a sense of peace you rarely felt around him.

The stillness between you was comfortable, a quiet contrast to the fast-paced life you both led. As you nuzzled closer into his side, feeling the heat of his body against yours, you heard a soft murmur.

“...Do we have to get up today?” Aventurine’s voice was low, heavy with sleep, the usual sharpness replaced by a tenderness that felt almost out of place for someone like him.

You chuckled softly, your fingers tracing the faint lines on his hand. “It’s Saturday. I think we can afford to stay in for a little while.”

His lips quirked into that familiar enigmatic smile, though it was softer, almost playful. “Hmph. I never imagined I'd find myself in this situation, lying around, doing nothing."

You looked up at him, your gaze soft. "I think it suits you."

Aventurine chuckled softly, the sound quiet but genuine. His thumb absentmindedly brushed over your shoulder as if trying to memorize the feel of the moment.

"You’re the one that has me hooked," he teased lightly, his voice laced with a hint of mischief despite his sleepy tone. "I never expected someone like you to be so... comforting. And quiet."

You smiled, feeling his warmth seep into your bones as you drifted a little further into sleep, both of you cocooned in the soft tranquility of the moment. The weight of his arm around your waist, the rhythmic sound of his breathing, and the quietude of the world outside were all that mattered.

For once, you weren't worried about the next gamble, the next betrayal, or the looming crises that always seemed to hover over him. There was just the soft, peaceful hum of two souls taking refuge in one another.

Aventurine shifted slightly, pulling you closer, as though reluctant to let the serenity slip away. "Maybe... just a few more minutes," he murmured, the words barely audible as sleep tugged at his eyelids once more.

"Mm-hmm," you hummed in agreement, your body curling into his, sharing a quiet comfort that, for once, didn’t involve risk or strategy—just a simple weekend morning.

His hand rested over yours, fingers gently entwining, his body language as relaxed as you'd ever seen it. His usual guarded, calculating nature was gone, replaced by someone who allowed himself to just be.

The two of you remained there, lulled by the quiet stillness and the softness of the moment, caught between the past and the present, letting the day slip away without any need to rush or play games.

And for the first time in what felt like a long time, Aventurine allowed himself to feel something more than the thrill of a gamble.

He allowed himself to feel... content.

[onmyyan]

Romantic DC yan, my time to shine (platonic is cute but I can't find any romantic ones this days T_T)

I bring to you a cliche, a new villain who uses her riches and ruthlesness in her quest to get a magical artifact in order to make her dream come true.

The bats have to stop her! But what is this! SHE’S TOO CHARMING?! (in a villain mean way, like comenting on Nightwing's as while they fight, or kissing Red Hood over the cowl before pushing him off a building)

Dangerous Woman

A/n: fem reader, yandere themes, canon typical violence, ft Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim

You're new to the villainous scene in Gotham but already kicking up quite the storm, you follow your own rules, killing corrupt men across the city, setting human trafficking rings on fire after freeing the victims, your crimes caught the gaze of Bruce and in turn the rest of the batfamily.

He saw a certain mercy in your actions, a quality of compassion he was certain he could pull out of you if he just got his hands on you.

But you're a slippery one, your teleportation abilities made you incredibly difficult to catch, and you seemed to relish in his growing frustration.

"You ever get tired of losing?" You ask sitting on a bank counter, money both burnt and unburnt scattered the floor around you, he hated to admit it but he was undeniably attracted to you, the way your suit hugged your form like a second skin, those long legs splayed out like a feast, heeled feet swinging as you toyed with a stack of bills.

"(Y/n) (L/n)." He states gruffly, his imposing form blending into the shadows. Of course he knows your name, you laugh to yourself before hopping off the counter and sauntering over, "ooh so scary." You snicker, "Your crimes warrant a trip to Arkham..but I'm willing to offer you something else. Rehabilitation."

Your smirk doesn't falter, "You can't save me." This only fuels his burning desire to do just that, those simple words seal your fate, he would have you under his care wether you liked it or not.

Tim is the second to become aware of your tantalizing presence, Bruce asked him to pull up anything and everything he could find on you, he couldn't help but become intrigued by your mysterious nature, any time you were caught on camera you had this knowing, mischievous grin on your lips, it was addicting, he found himself tracing the outline of your lips as he compiles a file on you.

Jason comes across you on his own, running into you after you successfully rob a museum.

Red Hood stared at you a gun pointed in your direction, "Stand down gorgeous." His voice was altered by the mask he wore, he was the latest of the bats to try and get in your way, to try and stop you from your goals, but he'd fall, just like the rest of them.

"You're not gonna shoot me Red." You speak coyly, hands up in surrender, your black domino mask hiding your pretty (e/c) eyes, your lips, painted red curl into a smirk at the sight of his hand wavering.

"Shooting you in the leg won't kill you." He chimes not lowering the weapon, "Yeah but I get the feeling you're not too trigger happy tonight."

"You've no idea what I'm capable of." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

You take a calculated step forward your red bottom heels clicking against the concrete rooftop, "C'mon big boy, you know there are actual bad guys who require your attention out there?" Your voice was like melted butter flowing into his ears and setting a warmth in his belly. "Robbing Gotham museum seems pretty criminal to me." He lowered his gun, holstering the weapon, "Can't you just slap a girl on the wrists?" You ask with a tilt of your head, the stolen goods in a satchel on your hip, "You know I can't just let you walk away." He responds, you close the distance making him take a step back, he wanted to reach out and touch you, claim you, and the closer he got to you the harder it was to resist.

You managed to back him on the edge of the roof, your hands trailing up his toned chest, landing on his shoulders, your claws digging into the leather of his jacket, "Just..stay outta my way." You whisper letting the tension build, pressing your plump lips to his mask you feel him shudder, without wasting another second you push him off the building. He falls for you harder than the garbage can he hit.

Dick is the next to come across you and the next to fall, and fuck does he fall hard.

He's got you corned in a dusty warehouse but damn if you aren't quick, darting around in him in blinks, teasingly touching him as you dance around, teasing him with every brush of your clawed fingers.

He's brought out of his inappropriate thoughts by a whistle from your pretty lips, "You're in that spandex boy!- nice ass." He feels himself flush, freezing on the spot as he sputtered for a response. You use his distracted moment to send a roundhouse kick to his head, one he just barely managed to block, "Don't lose focus now pretty." You chide smacking your teeth. Of course you manage to escape, which only fuels his budding obsession.

The trouble starts for you when they start working together, it's after a meeting Bruce calls one night, your file pulled up on the screen, they all have various reactions but one common thread is shared between the four men, burning desire.

Once they start coordinating it's only a matter of time before you come home, where they can tame you.

[monopersona]

Kiss it Better

When Sylus discovers the scar running down her back, it’s more than just a mark—it’s a reminder of the pain she’s endured without him. The one where Sylus sees her scar for the first time.

Sylus x MC. Fluff and light angst, h/c. 775 words.

You can read on ao3 here

Series master list here

A/N: Hey guys, so this is my first post in around [checks note] six years. I've been really invested in Love and Deepspace for the past month and have found myself to be a sucker for Sylus and the Main Character's (I've named her Lili) story to the point where I've decided to publish it, so here we are. Anyways, enjoy!

Sylus loves it when Lili stays over.  

Their relationship is still new, fragile in the way that something precious often is, and every moment with her feels like a revelation. He’s always been a man of control, of calculated moves and measured emotions. But with Lili, it’s different. The desire to be close to her isn’t a wildfire—it’s a slow, steady burn that has crept into every corner of his being. It’s in the way his chest tightens when she laughs, the way his fingers itch to trace the curve of her jaw, the way he finds himself holding his breath when she’s near, as if even the air between them is sacred.  

He wants her in ways he’s never wanted anyone before, but it’s not just physical. It’s deeper than that. It’s the way she makes him feel seen, even in his darkest corners. And so he holds himself back, careful not to push her, not to rush her. He wants to be her safe place. Her sanctuary.  

That’s why when he walks into his bedroom one evening and finds her standing there, her back exposed as she changes into her pajamas, he freezes.  

She’s only in her bottoms, her damp hair clinging to her shoulders as she reaches for a towel. She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t flinch or try to cover herself. She knows he’s there, and the trust in that simple act makes his chest ache.  

But then he sees it.  

A scar.  

It runs diagonally across her back, from just below her left shoulder blade down to her waist—a jagged, raised line that speaks of pain and survival. Sylus is no stranger to scars. He’s worn them, inflicted them, tended to them. But this one—hers—feels different. It’s a mark of something he wasn’t there to protect her from, and the thought of her in pain—of her enduring whatever caused this—ignites a quiet fury in him.  

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Not yet. Instead, he steps closer, his movements slow and deliberate. His hand finds her hip, his touch feather-light, and he feels her shiver under his fingertips.  

“I was thinking of ordering some pizza tonight,” Lili says, her voice casual, though there’s a slight tremor in it. He hopes she’s not afraid of this newfound closeness. He trusts that she will voice it if it were true. “I’ve been craving cheese and—”  

Her words cut off as he lowers himself behind her, his lips brushing against the top of the scar. He kisses it gently, his mouth tracing the length of it. Each press a silent promise: I’m here. You’re safe. You’re loved.

She doesn’t doesn’t pull away, but he can feel her breath hitch, can sense the confusion in the way her shoulders stiffen.  

“Sylus,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing?”  

He doesn’t stop. Not until he’s kissed every inch of the scar, until his lips have memorized its shape. Then he stands, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. She fits perfectly against him, and he feels her warmth seeping into his skin. He rests his chin on her shoulder, his breath stirring the damp strands of her hair.  

“I’m inclined to believe,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, “that no one has ever kissed your scar better before. So I’m doing it now.”  

Lili turns in his arms, her eyes searching his. For a moment, he thinks she might pull away. But then she smiles—a small, tender smile that makes his heart ache—and rests her head against his chest as her arms fully embrace him.  

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but there’s no bite in her words. Only warmth.  

“Maybe,” he admits as his hands slid up her back, his fingers brushing against the scar once more. “But I meant it. Every kiss.”  

She looks at him, her gaze soft but piercing as if she can see straight through him. And maybe she can. Maybe she always has.  

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking just enough to make his chest tighten.  

He doesn’t say anything. He pulls her closer instead, his lips finding hers in a kiss that’s equal parts tenderness and yearning. It’s not enough—it will never be enough—but for now, it’s everything.  

And as they stand there, wrapped in each other, Sylus knows one thing for certain: he will spend the rest of his life kissing her scars, both seen and unseen, until she believes she is whole. Until she believes she is loved.  

Because she is.  

She always will be.

A/N: Since this is my first published work in a really long time, I'd love some feedback! What did you think of it? Do let me know.

If you are a reader on ao3, please consider giving this a kudos and leaving me your thoughts! They're very much appreciated as I want to get better at writing.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a pleasant day /night <33

[ruewritesoccasionally]

A Symphony of Sin | Terry Richmond

Pairing: Dark!Professor Terry Richmond x Dark! Black Reader

Warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), stalking, obsessions, manipulation, teasing, jealousy, possessiveness, power dynamics, oral (m receiving), rough sex, choking, spitting, light slapping, hair pulling, degradation kink, praise kink, use of names (princess, slut, sweetheart) } everything is consensual but read at your own risk !

Summary: The final movement between her and Terry reveals who is really playing by the rules and who runs the game. The next moves are darker, more psychological, and with an even bigger power shift. By the end of it, she’ll know—this isn’t just her obsession anymore.

Word Count: 3.6K

a/n: this is a part 2 to 'Lessons in Obsession', one in which I initially had no intentions of writing because tbh sequels aren't my strength but @barnesnnobles comment inspired me to delve deeper so thank you bby. when i first started writing this, i didn't think it was going to be this dark but i think it's depraved in the best way 🤭...

The game had changed. She knew that. He had made sure of it.

Ever since that night—the night where her carefully constructed fantasy collided with his very real intentions—things had been different. She no longer watched from the shadows, no longer merely observed him like a scholar collecting data. No, now she felt him. Everywhere.

But the most dangerous thing?

She thought she had a handle on it.

Terry still carried himself with that same unbothered confidence, that slow, deliberate way he moved, as if every step, every glance, was calculated three moves ahead. In class, he was the same strict, enigmatic professor he had always been—sharp-minded, sharp-tongued, and completely unreadable.

And yet.

When she sat in his lecture hall, knees pressed together beneath the desk, hands folded as if she weren’t replaying the way those same hands had gripped her thighs, there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—where she swore she saw something in his eyes. A flicker of amusement when she adjusted in her seat, when she bit her lip without realising, when she lingered a second too long after class.

She was under no illusions now. He was watching. He had always been watching.

And God, she loved it.

It started small.

Little things—things that no one else would think twice about, but she caught them.

“Some of you seem to be distracted today,” Terry remarked one afternoon, his voice even but laced with something dangerous. His gaze swept the lecture hall, pausing for a half-second too long when it landed on her. “If you’ve got something occupying your mind, I suggest you clear it before it gets in the way of your work.”

Her breath caught.

A warning.

He didn’t need to elaborate. She knew exactly what he meant.

The previous night was still seared into her skin—his mouth, his hands, the way he made her admit to everything. How she’d clung to him when he finally let her have what she’d been chasing for so long.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together, pulse thrumming.

And Terry? He just continued lecturing, unbothered, as if he hadn’t just sent a shockwave straight to her core with a single sentence.

Then, he started testing her.

“Read the passage out loud,” he ordered one day, flipping through the textbook. “Slowly. Every word. Let’s see if you can follow simple instructions.”

Her stomach flipped.

She swallowed, gripping the page tighter, pulse pounding as she realised exactly what he was doing.

When she hesitated, Terry arched an eyebrow. “Having trouble, sweetheart?”

The term of endearment was so casual, so devoid of its usual weight, that no one else thought twice about it.

She knew better.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she parted her lips, voice coming out steady—too steady. She would not let him shake her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

She read. Slowly.

And he watched.

The entire time.

She liked the game. The push and pull. So she pushed back.

One day, she lingered after class—not out of necessity, but out of something else.

“You’re staying late,” he remarked, not looking up from his notes.

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just needed some clarification on the assignment.”

Terry hummed, unconvinced, flipping the page in front of him. “You’re a smart girl. I find it hard to believe you don’t already know the answer.”

Her stomach clenched. The way he said smart girl—like he was reminding her exactly who had the upper hand.

She exhaled through her nose, willing herself to keep her composure. “Can’t a student just want a little extra guidance?”

That made him look up.

Slowly.

She swore she saw it then—the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the knowing glint in his eyes.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said, his voice silky-smooth, as if they both didn’t know he was lying.

But then, she made a mistake.

She got too comfortable.

Too bold.

And she pushed too far.

It started as harmless flirting. A casual, easy smile to another professor in the hallway. A lingering laugh with a classmate in the library. Nothing that would have mattered before.

But now?

Now, everything mattered.

She should’ve noticed the way Terry’s eyes darkened when he caught the exchange. She should’ve registered the subtle shift in his body language when she walked into class the next day.

But she didn’t.

Not until he called on her, voice calm, smooth as glass.

“You. Come here.”

A command, not a request.

The air in the room changed. She felt it, like the drop in temperature before a storm.

She stood, swallowing hard as she walked to the front of the class, acutely aware of every pair of eyes watching her.

Terry gestured to the board. “Demonstrate the method we discussed last class.”

It wasn’t a difficult request. She knew the answer. But when she reached for the marker, her fingers trembled slightly.

She felt him behind her. Not close enough to be inappropriate, not close enough for anyone else to notice—

But she noticed.

Her heart pounded as she wrote, forcing herself to focus, to pretend she didn’t feel his presence like a second skin.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Your hands are shaking.”

She froze.

His voice was even, calm. But when she turned her head slightly—just enough to catch the edge of his expression—she saw it.

The warning.

The punishment brewing just beneath the surface.

She’d underestimated him.

She’d thought she had control.

But one look at Terry told her exactly what was about to happen:

She was about to learn—again—who really held the leash.

She expected him to crack. To seethe, to glower, to grip the desk and try to control himself in that careful, calculated way he always did. She wanted him to react, to burn hot, to show her that she wasn’t the only one consumed.

But when she risked a glance at Terry?

He looked... calm.

Unbothered.

Like he didn’t just watch her bat her lashes at another man. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

And that unsettled her more than if he had reacted.

A coil of unease settled in her stomach. She didn’t like this. The game was theirs and theirs alone, a perfectly balanced scale of control. But now?

Now it felt like she had miscalculated. Like she had poked something she shouldn’t have.

That evening, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

No name. No explanation. Just a location, a time.

Nothing else.

Her stomach flipped, fingers tightening around her phone.

She shouldn’t go. She knew that. Knew it the way she knew that staring into the sun would burn, that running her tongue along the blade of a knife would slice.

But of course, she went.

Because no matter how much she wanted to believe she was the one obsessed—Terry had been keeping tabs on her too.

She just hadn’t noticed.

Not until now.

The address led her to a secluded townhouse. Upscale. Cold. The kind of place that felt too pristine to be truly lived in.

Her stomach tightened as she stepped inside. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and something else, something undeniably him.

And there he was.

Sitting back in a leather chair, legs spread in that lazy yet controlled way of his. A glass of amber liquid in his hand.

Waiting.

Her throat went dry.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate.

Terry’s gaze dragged over her, slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch of her. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched. Let her squirm under the weight of his silence.

Then, finally—

“Sit.”

Her breath hitched.

“Don’t speak.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move.

The moment she lowered herself into the chair across from him, he hummed, swirling the glass in his hand. “This rhetoric has become a habit, you know? Thinking that you’re clever, smarter than me, even.”

She opened her mouth—

He raised a hand. Don’t speak.

She clenched her fists in her lap.

He sighed, shaking his head. “You really thought that would work?” A small chuckle, rich and amused. “Thought you’d get a rise out of me? That I’d lose control?”

A pause. Then—

“Tell me, sweetheart—was it worth it?”

Her pulse pounded in her throat.

“I—”

He cut her off with a sharp look. “Don’t lie.”

She exhaled slowly. “I wanted your attention.”

“Mm. And now you have it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the moment drag out. “The real question is... do you deserve it?”

A fresh wave of heat rolled through her, pooling low in her stomach.

She clenched her thighs together.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Terry tilted his head, studying her. “You wanted to play, huh?” He set the glass down, leaning forward just enough to make the space between them feel smaller. “You wanted to make me jealous?”

Her breath caught.

He smirked. “Tell me, then. When you batted those pretty lashes at that boy, did it make you wet?”

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Terry’s eyes darkened.

He leaned back, stretching lazily. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair, contemplative. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

She swallowed hard.

“You’re going to sit there and do nothing.”

Her brows knit together.

His smirk widened. “No touching. No begging. No moving.” He let the words settle, watched the way her breath quickened. “You’re just going to sit there and take it.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Terry reached for his drink, taking another slow sip.

Then, as if it was a passing thought, he murmured, “If you’re good, I might even let you come.”

Heat licked up her spine.

She clenched her hands in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

Terry smirked.

God, she wanted to wipe it off his face.

Or maybe she wanted him to ruin her.

Either way, she was fucked.

Terry’s eyes never left her as he rose from his seat, his movements slow, deliberate. It was almost like he was savouring the moment. He didn’t need to speak, not yet—his presence alone was suffocating. His hands undid the buttons of his shirt with a purpose, the sound of fabric pulling apart thickening the already heavy air between them. Each movement, each pull, every inch of skin exposed to her gaze was calculated, meant to drive her mad with want and frustration.

His chest was broad, his abs defined and tight. He was the perfect picture of control, yet there was something in the way his eyes darkened that spoke to an ache—a hunger that matched her own, though he’d never admit it. Not yet. He kept stripping, undressing with that same cold composure, his gaze trained on hers with intensity. Every inch of him being revealed, the heat radiating from his body, only made the ache in her chest worse. She clenched her thighs together, desperate to release the tension, but he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Terry tilted his head, watching her squirm, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Look at you, all worked up. You thought you could control this, didn’t you?" His voice was smooth, mocking, but there was a bite under the words. "You thought you had it all figured out. Cute."

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but he raised a finger, stilling her. "Ah, ah, ah, princess. No talking. I didn’t tell you to speak. Remember your place." His voice was low, a command now, one she was afraid to disobey.

Her body trembled under his gaze, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as the realisation hit: She wasn’t in control. She’d never been. Every part of her wanted to push back, wanted to break free, but there was something in him—something dark—that made her feel small, insignificant. His dominance was suffocating, and she couldn’t escape it.

Terry leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. Briefly, it almost felt like he was comforting her, his hand cupping her cheek in a tender gesture. But then he whispered, low enough that only she could hear, “It’s okay, princess. Let me show you how it’s done.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. They weren’t soft. They weren’t comforting. It was a promise. One she was scared to face.

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise, and something primal stirred within her. Before she could brace herself, Terry’s hands were in her hair, yanking her face up to meet his gaze. His kiss was brutal—demanding, possessive, a clash of teeth and tongues, each second a battle for control. He pulled away just enough for her to gasp for air, before descending on her neck with vicious intent, his lips and teeth leaving marks as though he was claiming her.

"Come on now, Princess. You’re better than this" he murmured against her skin. "You thought you could push me. Make me jealous? Make me lose control? You really didn’t know how to play this game, did you?"

She gasped again as he pulled her forward, his hands on her throat now, his fingers light but unyielding. "I’ll show you what happens when you make me mad, sweetheart."

He didn’t wait for permission. He was already on her, his dick shoved into her mouth before she could even process the movement. She choked, the thick length stretching her jaw, her mouth forced open in a way that hurt. But it was a good hurt. A reminder of her place, of his control.

He groaned as he thrust deep, his hand holding the back of her head, guiding her to take more of him. She couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe without his length hitting the back of her throat. He lost control in his own way—moans, growls, and guttural sounds poured freely from his parted lips, his knees bent ever so slightly, sweat trailing down every part of him that she’d been forbidden to touch. He reached down to feel the bulge in her throat, his length lodged perfectly there. The sensation nearly made him cum on the spot.

“It’s hard to talk back with your mouth full, isn’t it?” he growled. “Ugh, I wish you could see what I see right now. A fallen, over-ambitious slut too dumb to know when she’s been done.”

Her breath was shallow, her body trembling as he fucked her mouth with brutal force. She gagged, struggling to keep her composure as he forced his dick deeper, the back of her throat tightening with every thrust. She could feel him press against her, the sensation of him hitting her throat sending shocks of unwanted pleasure coursing through her.

“Such a good little toy,” he mocked, his voice dripping with both praise and contempt. “You wanted this, didn’t you? All you had to say is that you wanted me to yourself.”

She couldn’t answer. Not with her mouth full. She just moaned in response, her hands gripping the chair, nails digging into the armrests as he continued to ravage her with his thrusts.

His movements grew harder, faster, each thrust forcing her to take more of him. The ache in her jaw was almost unbearable, but the pain was secondary now. She was losing herself in the brutal rhythm of it all, in the way he made her feel so small, so insignificant, her body betraying her with each muffled moan that escaped her.

Terry pulled away from her mouth suddenly, making her gasp for air, but the moment she exhaled, he was on her again. His hands were everywhere—gripping her, tearing her clothes off, exposing her skin to his hungry touch. He worshipped her body, trailing his fingers over every curve, every stretch mark, every dip and rise of her form like it was a work of art he couldn’t get enough of. Her lingerie, the way it hugged her body, the way her skin glowed beneath it—he wanted to consume it all.

The sex itself was equally as pleasureful as it was torturous, a reminder that the moment she pushed him, she hadn’t broken his resolve—she had played into his hands once more. His actions juxtaposed his words, his touch both cruel and reverent. Her body was a canvas to him, a fragile porcelain doll not to be broken—unlike her mind. He admired every detail she put into her looks, how her lingerie complemented her dark, rich skin tone, the swell of her breasts, the stretch marks that looked almost hand-painted as they adorned the curves he had claimed. He trailed down her body, inhaling her sweet, natural scent like it was something sacred. He would kill for even just a vial of it.

His fingers slid down, finding the slickness between her legs. A low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as he pushed into her, slow at first, drawing out her moans, savouring the way her body clenched around him. Then faster. Harder. He swallowed each gasp, each cry, consuming her whole. She was on the edge of something—something dangerous, something that would burn her alive. But she couldn’t stop it.

Terry’s hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her pulse throbbed beneath his fingers, her body trapped between the firm press of his palm and the unrelenting pace he set. “Open your mouth,” he murmured, his eyes dark with something almost sinister—daring her to disobey. When her lips parted, his grip tightened just slightly before he let a slow stream of spit drip onto her waiting tongue.

“Swallow,” he ordered, watching intently as she obeyed, the heat in his gaze burning straight through her.

His fingers weaved into her hair again, the motion almost tender—until he yanked, sharp and sudden, pulling her back into the moment with a quick slap across her cheek. It wasn’t meant to hurt, not really. It was a reminder. A warning. A claim. The sting barely registered against the flood of pleasure overtaking her, her body betraying her, arching into him, silently pleading for more.

The kisses were a battle, all tongue and teeth, his dominance bleeding into every movement. He took everything she had, demanded more, never relenting—never letting her forget exactly who was in control.

He practically imprinted himself onto her, searing his every being into her flesh so he could never be mistaken for anyone else, and certainly not the lesser in this dynamic. They were equals in their obsession, but one always had the upper hand—to remind the other not to get too comfortable. Someone had to know what was lurking around the corner.

He held her down, fucking her hard, relentless, until she couldn’t think anymore. Until her moans became cries, until her body was trembling beneath his weight, her mind untethered from reality. His words blurred into a haze of pleasure and pain. She was floating in it, drowning in it, lost in the brutal rhythm he set. But it felt like freedom.

He was still in control. She was still his.

And as he came, shuddering against her, his body trembling with the force of it, he pulled her close, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, breathless whisper—

"You’ll never be the one in charge, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever."

Terry had barely left the room when her eyes landed on his briefcase, tucked neatly in the corner, the edge of a notebook peeking out. The sight of it sent a strange thrill through her, curiosity slithering up her spine. He had always been meticulous—calculated—but something about the way that notebook sat, slightly exposed, made it feel like an invitation.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, lightly stepping across the room, she reached for it.

The moment she flipped it open, her breath caught in her throat.

Pages and pages. Notes scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting. Her name repeated over and over. Every move she had made, every place she had been. Polaroids tucked between the pages—some she recognised, old photos she thought were buried in her past. Others… others she had never seen before. Shots of her walking home. Eating with friends. Sleeping.

Her hands trembled as she turned another page. More details. Names of her past lovers, their habits, their schedules. Addresses—previous and current. The make and model of her car, the exact date and time of her last oil change. A level of detail that made her own obsessive notes on him seem amateur, laughable.

She should have been horrified. And maybe, deep down, she was. But mostly? Mostly, she was impressed.

All this time, she thought she was the one keeping tabs, the one pulling strings, feeding her obsession in secret. But compared to this? Her work was nothing but a failed imitation of his masterpiece.

She was so enthralled, so absorbed in his twisted devotion, that she didn’t hear him return.

A quiet throat clearing made her snap the book shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned, and there he was—standing in the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression. But there was no panic, no urgency. No fear.

Because why would he be afraid? He had intended for her to see this one day. He had wanted her to know.

Terry stepped forward, slow, deliberate. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his voice a low murmur, thick with satisfaction.

“As you can see, sweetheart,” he said, his fingers trailing along the cover of the notebook, “you were mine from the moment you stepped into my class.”

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @notapradagurl7 @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @wildcardmelaninfreak

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[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (2) ₊˚⊹♡

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

♡ A/N | sorry if this part is kinda fucked up, but i really did enjoy writing the smut LOL. i love u stan <3 thank u guys again for all the support!!! kyle is also based af in this... also this will probably be my last fic for awhile, uni and work is starting back up for me so im rlly sorry!!

♡ C/W | nsfw (18+), all characters are aged up! drinking, smoking, hookups, vomiting, physical fighting, inexperienced reader, p in v, bj's, fingering, reader is kinda manipulative/asshole-ish and depressed, stan is depressed, bi stan

♡ Synopsis | stan thought he could outrun the weight of his feelings, but when the past and present collide at a party, the cracks he's been trying to hide threaten to shatter completely. amid the chaos, one truth becomes impossible to ignore—sometimes, the mess you make is the one you can't escape.

event masterlist | part one

Stan’s breath hitched as he fumbled with his keys, the cold metal slipping in his trembling fingers. He cursed under his breath, his voice cracking as he shoved the key toward the lock again. His vision blurred—not from tears, not yet—but from the suffocating weight pressing down on his chest.

Why couldn’t he get the damn key in? His hands were shaking so violently that he couldn’t even do this one simple thing. The door wobbled slightly under his palm as he slammed his other hand against it, his frustration boiling over into a muttered, “Fucking useless.”

Finally, the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside, letting it shut behind him with a loud, hollow thud. The sound reverberated through his skull like the echo of every mistake he’d ever made.

Stan wasn’t expecting to see Kyle sitting at his desk, surrounded by open textbooks and scribbled notes. His best friend’s head snapped up at the noise, his expression immediately shifting from tired concentration to alarm as he took in Stan’s disheveled state.

“Stan?” Kyle’s voice was cautious, his brow furrowing. “What the hell happened? Are you—”

Stan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words jammed in his throat, choking him as he dragged himself to his bed. His legs felt like they might give out, and the second he hit the mattress, he folded in on himself. His elbows dug into his thighs, his head dropping into his hands as his shoulders slumped forward. His hoodie felt too tight, like it was strangling him, and he tugged at the neckline with shaky fingers, desperate for air.

Kyle didn’t move at first. Stan could feel his gaze, sharp and calculating, like he was trying to piece together the puzzle of what had just walked through the door. The silence between them was thick, suffocating, broken only by the sound of Stan’s uneven breathing.

“What the hell is going on, Stan?” Kyle tried again, his voice quieter but no less insistent. “You look like you just—” He stopped himself, his words trailing off when it became clear that Stan wasn’t going to respond.

Stan’s mind was racing, but none of his thoughts made sense. They jumbled together, incoherent and overwhelming: the heat of your skin, the weight of your words, the way you looked at him when you wiped your  mouth and told him you wanted to. The memories hit him like a series of sharp, jarring flashes, each one leaving a heavier weight in his chest.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he stopped it sooner? He’d let it happen—hell, he’d encouraged it. He could still feel your touch, your breath, your voice as you asked if it was okay, and all he could do was nod like some pathetic, desperate idiot.

His stomach churned violently, and he swallowed hard, willing himself to keep it together.

Kyle finally stood, the sound of the chair scraping against the floor grating on Stan’s frayed nerves. His footsteps were slow, cautious, as he approached the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under Kyle’s weight as he sat down beside him, leaving just enough space to avoid crowding him.

“Stan,” Kyle said softly, his voice devoid of the usual judgment or irritation. He waited, but Stan didn’t lift his head.

Then Kyle’s hand landed on his shoulder, firm and steady. The contact jolted something loose in Stan, and he let out a sharp, broken gasp. The tears came before he could stop them, spilling hot and fast as his shoulders began to shake.

“I can’t—I can’t fucking do this,” Stan choked out, his voice cracking with every word. He dug his fingers into his hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might ground him. “I’m so fucked up, Kyle. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing anymore.”

Kyle’s hand tightened slightly, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t tell Stan it was going to be okay, didn’t try to fix it, and for some reason, that only made Stan’s chest ache more. He wasn’t sure what he wanted Kyle to say—maybe nothing, maybe everything. Nothing felt like it would be enough.

“I keep screwing everything up,” Stan muttered, his voice muffled by his hands. “I’m such a fucking mess. She deserves better than this—better than me. And all I’m doing is—” He cut himself off, a sharp sob tearing its way out of his throat.

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, bright and vivid and so goddamn innocent compared to the mess he’d made of himself. He hated it—hated himself for letting you get caught up in his shit. You deserve someone who wasn’t drowning, someone who wasn’t going to drag you down with him.

Kyle shifted beside him, his presence solid and unmoving. “You’re not a lost cause, Stan,” he said finally, his tone even but firm. “But you can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this. Whatever’s going on, you need to face it. You can’t keep burying it under all this… whatever this is.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, though it came out more like a strangled sob. “Yeah? And what if there’s nothing left to face? What if I’m just broken, Kyle? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

Kyle didn’t answer right away, and Stan could feel the weight of his silence like a lead ball in his chest. Finally, Kyle let out a quiet sigh, his hand still firm on Stan’s shoulder. “You figure it out. One step at a time. But you can’t keep doing this alone.”

Stan shook his head, his hands dropping from his face to rest limply in his lap. His chest ached, his throat raw from the effort of holding back more tears. He stared at the floor, his vision blurred, and muttered, “I don’t know if I can.”

The words felt hollow, heavy, like they’d been pulled from the deepest part of him. For a moment, he thought Kyle might try to argue, to push back against his hopelessness. But instead, Kyle just sat there, his presence a quiet reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

Stan’s voice was hoarse as he spoke again, barely above a whisper. “I’m ruining everything. And I don’t know how to stop.”

Stan leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, his eyes unfocused as the city lights blurred past. The hum of Kyle’s car engine and the chaotic noise from the backseat felt distant, like it was happening to someone else entirely. Kenny and Cartman were mid-argument—something about who ate the last slice of pizza before they left—but their voices were muffled, almost drowned out by the weight pressing on his chest.

Kyle was muttering under his breath, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel as he navigated through traffic. Stan wasn’t sure if Kyle was complaining about the frat party, the noise in the car, or the fact that he had to drag Stan out at all. Probably all three. But Stan didn’t care. None of it mattered.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket. He didn’t need to check to know it was you.

You’d been texting him all day, calling him, leaving voicemails he hadn’t dared to listen to. The notification counter on his lock screen was absurd—double digits at least. It was like you were desperately trying to reach out, to fix something that Stan had already smashed into pieces.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing harder against the window like he could will himself to disappear. Every buzz of his phone was a knife in his chest, sharp and relentless. He didn’t have to read the texts to know what they said. He could hear your voice in his head, asking him why he’d been avoiding you, why he hadn’t answered, why he’d left so suddenly that night. And what could he say? That he’d felt so disgusted with himself, so ashamed, that he couldn’t even face you? That every time he thought about you—about your hands, your voice, your touch—he felt like he was going to fucking unravel?

Stan’s stomach churned as he imagined you sitting in your room, staring at your phone, waiting for a reply that would never come. He could picture it so vividly: the way your eyebrows furrowed when you were frustrated, the way your leg bounced when you were nervous. You probably thought you’d done something wrong. Maybe you even blamed yourself.

He hated himself for that the most.

“Yo, Stan,” Kenny’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and teasing. “You gonna sulk all night, or are you actually gonna have fun for once?”

Stan didn’t move, his forehead still pressed against the window. “Not in the mood, Kenny,” he muttered, his voice flat.

“Shocker,” Cartman chimed in from the backseat, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Stan Marsh, king of depression, strikes again. Someone get this guy a participation trophy for most miserable bastard alive.”

“Cartman,” Kyle snapped, his voice sharp and tired. “Shut the hell up.”

Stan didn’t even flinch. The jab rolled off him like water on glass. He’d heard worse—from Cartman, from himself. His own thoughts were infinitely crueler than anything Cartman could come up with.

His phone buzzed again, and this time, the vibration felt like it echoed through his entire body. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the cool metal of the device, but he didn’t pull it out. He couldn’t bring himself to look at your name on the screen again. Couldn’t bring himself to see the timestamp on the last text he’d ignored.

God, why won’t you stop?

The thought hit him like a slap, bitter and sharp. He clenched his teeth, his jaw aching from the tension. He knew why you wouldn’t stop. You cared. You’d always cared, even when he didn’t deserve it. And that was the worst part. Because no matter how many times you reached out, no matter how hard you tried to pull him back, he’d only end up dragging you down with him.

Stan let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling into fists in his lap. The party wasn’t going to help. It was just another excuse to drown himself in alcohol and noise, to bury the weight of his guilt under layers of bad decisions. But Kyle had insisted. Said he needed to get out, to “snap out of whatever funk” he was in.

Funk. Like it was something he could just shake off. Like he hadn’t been carrying this hollow, gnawing emptiness for years, long before you’d gotten tangled up in it.

Another buzz. Another text. Another reminder that he was too much of a coward to face you.

He closed his eyes, the cool glass against his skin the only thing grounding him. His mind replayed that night in your room on an endless loop—the way you’d looked at him, the way your voice had wavered when you asked if it was okay, the way he’d broken down the moment he’d left.

He deserved every ounce of this misery.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a two-story house, its windows glowing with multicolored lights. The muffled bass of music thudded against the walls, vibrating through the air. People crowded the porch, cups in hand, laughter and shouts spilling out into the street like the party couldn’t be contained.

Stan dragged himself out of the car, his feet heavy against the pavement as he followed Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman up the steps. The scene was chaotic, but Stan barely registered it. All he could think about was how desperately he needed to shut his brain off, to drown out the endless loop of shame and guilt that had been gnawing at him since he’d bolted from your room.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the stench of sweat, alcohol, and something vaguely herbal hit him like a wall. The house was packed, bodies pressed together in a chaotic rhythm that matched the deafening music. Stan scanned the room, his eyes narrowing as they landed on the makeshift bar set up in the kitchen. Without a word, he started toward it.

Kyle grabbed his arm, his expression tight. “Stan, come on. Maybe you should chill for a second.”

“Get off me, Kyle,” Stan muttered, yanking his arm free. He didn’t stop walking.

“Dude, just let him,” Kenny said from behind, his tone light but laced with a resigned edge. “If he wants to drink himself stupid, it’s not like we can stop him.”

Kyle shot Kenny a sharp look, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he trailed behind, his concern palpable as they followed Stan into the kitchen.

The bar was a mess of half-empty bottles and sticky counters, but Stan didn’t hesitate. He reached for the nearest bottle of clear liquid—vodka, maybe—and unscrewed the cap with shaky hands. A few people around the bar turned to watch as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long, burning swig.

“Jesus, Stan,” Kyle hissed, his voice barely audible over the music.

Stan ignored him, the vodka scorching its way down his throat and settling in his stomach like fire. He took another swig, longer this time, the burn making his eyes water. Someone nearby let out a low whistle, and a few others laughed, their voices mingling with the pounding bass.

“Damn, dude. Save some for the rest of us,” a guy called out, his tone half-amused, half-impressed.

Stan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his grip tightening on the bottle. He didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. The vodka was already doing its job, the edges of his thoughts starting to blur, the weight in his chest loosening just enough to breathe.

Kyle reached for the bottle, his expression tense. “Stan, stop. This isn’t—”

“Leave it,” Stan snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. He pulled the bottle out of Kyle’s reach and tipped it back again, the alcohol rushing through him like a lifeline.

Kenny leaned against the counter, his eyes tracking Stan’s movements with a mix of curiosity and unease. “Guess we’re doing this, huh?” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Stan didn’t care about the stares or the murmurs around him. He didn’t care about Kyle’s disapproval or Kenny’s detached amusement. All he cared about was the bottle in his hand and the numbness creeping over him, muting the thoughts that had been eating him alive for days.

But as he took another swig, he couldn’t help but think about how temporary it all was. How the numbness would fade, leaving him raw and exposed again. How he’d have to face your texts, your calls, your voice in his head asking why.

He pushed the thought away, his grip tightening on the bottle as he took another drink, his focus narrowing to the burn in his throat and the faint, fleeting relief it brought.

Stan barely registered the presence next to him until a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, his body tense, but then the unmistakable voice of Cartman broke through the haze.

“Alright, dude,” Cartman said, his tone surprisingly even for once. “Let’s take this outside and chill, huh?”

Stan turned his head, blinking blearily at him. Cartman had a half-empty bag of chips in one hand, crumbs dusting his hoodie. The contrast between Cartman’s casual demeanor and Stan’s unraveling was almost laughable, if not for the fact that Stan couldn’t summon the energy to care.

“What?” Stan muttered, his voice hoarse, the word dragging out like it took effort just to speak.

Cartman gestured loosely toward the back door with the bag of chips. “You heard me. Outside. You’re, like, two seconds away from face-planting into the counter, and I’d rather not have to haul your drunk ass to a hospital. Plus, it’s too loud in here.”

Stan stared at him for a moment, his grip still tight on the bottle. The idea of going outside, away from the noise and the crowd, wasn’t entirely unappealing, but he couldn’t shake the nagging voice in his head that told him to just keep drinking. To keep burying it all.

“I’m fine,” Stan mumbled, raising the bottle again.

Cartman’s hand tightened on his shoulder, uncharacteristically firm. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice lower, almost serious. “And I’m not asking. Let’s go.”

Stan hesitated, his jaw tightening as he glanced down at the bottle in his hand. The burn of the vodka had dulled, replaced by a creeping nausea he couldn’t quite shake. The room felt too hot, too claustrophobic, the thrum of the music pounding in his skull like a second heartbeat.

Without another word, Cartman started guiding him toward the back door, his grip firm but not rough. Stan didn’t resist, his legs moving on autopilot as they weaved through the crowd. Kenny and Kyle were still in the kitchen, their voices blending into the cacophony around them, but Stan didn’t look back.

The cool night air hit him like a slap to the face as they stepped onto the porch. It was quieter out here, the muffled bass from inside fading into the background. A few people lingered around the edges of the yard, smoking or chatting in low voices, but it felt a world away from the chaos inside.

Cartman let go of his shoulder and leaned against the porch railing, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched Stan with an unreadable expression.

Stan sank down onto the steps, the bottle still clutched in his hand. He rested his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low as he stared at the ground. The vodka churned uncomfortably in his stomach, mixing with the weight in his chest until he felt like he might collapse under it.

“You’re a mess, dude,” Cartman said finally, his tone blunt but not unkind. “And that’s coming from me.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “No shit, Cartman.”

Cartman shrugged, his hand rattling the bag of chips as he reached for another handful. “I’m just saying, whatever’s got you spiraling this hard? Might wanna deal with it before you end up, I don’t know, dead in a ditch or some shit.”

Stan looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “Thanks for the pep talk,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Cartman smirked, leaning back against the railing. “Anytime, Marsh.” For a moment, he was silent, his gaze shifting to the bottle in Stan’s hand. “Seriously, though. You gonna talk about it, or are we just gonna sit here while you drink yourself into oblivion?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white as he stared at the ground. The thought of talking about it, of saying any of it out loud, made his throat close up. But the silence felt heavier than the words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Finally, he sighed, the sound shaky and hollow. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said quietly, though even he didn’t believe the words.

Cartman didn’t push. He just stood there, eating his chips. Stan’s chest tightened as the silence between him and Cartman stretched on, his own words hanging heavy in the cool night air. He could feel Cartman’s gaze on him, assessing, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t have it in him.

“So,” Cartman said, his voice casual but pointed as he crunched on another chip. “This spiral of yours—it’s about [Y/N], isn’t it?”

Stan’s stomach dropped. He didn’t move, didn’t react, didn’t give Cartman the satisfaction of an answer. His hands clenched into fists on his knees, his nails digging into his palms as he focused on the ground in front of him.

When Stan didn’t respond, Cartman just shrugged, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth. “Figures,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Chicks, man. They’ll fuck you up every time.”

Stan finally looked up, his glare sharp, but Cartman wasn’t even looking at him. He was leaning against the porch railing, staring out at the yard like this was just another Saturday night. For all his bluntness, Cartman didn’t press the issue, and Stan was oddly grateful for it.

He let out a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, when movement caught his eye. Out in the yard, among the small clusters of people, was someone who looked exactly like you. The way they moved, the curve of their shoulders, even the shine of their hair—it all screamed you. His heart stopped, his chest tightening painfully as a wave of nausea rolled through him.

Oh, God. No. Not here. Not now.

Stan felt his stomach twist violently, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he tried to ground himself. His grip on the bottle tightened until his knuckles turned white, but his hands were trembling too much for it to feel steady.

“Dude, are you gonna puke again?” Cartman asked, his tone half-concerned, half-mocking as he finally glanced over at him.

Stan shook his head sharply, his eyes locked on the figure in the yard. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice sounded far from convincing.

It wasn’t until the person turned slightly, giving him a better look at their face, that he realized it wasn’t you. The relief that hit him was immediate but fleeting, replaced by a hollow ache in his chest that left him breathless.

Get a grip, he told himself. You’re losing it.

Without looking at Cartman, Stan pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the alcohol in his system made his movements clumsy. “I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice low and strained.

Cartman raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop him. “Yeah, sure. Don’t die or anything.”

Stan ignored him, his focus zeroing in on the person who looked like you. He didn’t know why he was doing this—why he was chasing a ghost in the middle of a party—but his legs moved before his brain could stop them.

His steps faltered slightly when they turned, their profile confirming what he already knew: it wasn’t you. The sharp pang of disappointment hit him, but he pushed it down, plastering on a crooked grin as he closed the distance between them.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, though it wavered slightly. “I couldn’t help but notice you from across the yard.”

The person turned fully, their eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “Uh, hi?” they said, their tone cautious but polite.

Stan shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, trying to steady himself as he leaned slightly closer. “I know this is kind of random, but… you look familiar. Do we know each other?”

They tilted their head, studying him for a moment. “I don’t think so,” they said finally. “But… thanks, I guess?”

“Sorry if I’m coming off weird,” Stan added quickly, the words tumbling out before he could think them through. “It’s just—you have this vibe. Like someone I used to know.”

His stomach churned at the words, the lie leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he was doing anymore—flirting, coping, or just flailing in the dark. Maybe all three.

The person gave him a small smile, their posture relaxing slightly. “Well, I hope they were cool,” they said lightly, their voice carrying a faint edge of humor. “Because that’s a lot of pressure.”

Stan laughed softly, though it felt hollow. “They were… one of a kind,” he muttered, his throat tightening as he glanced down at the bottle in his hand.

The person shifted their weight, their gaze flicking to the bottle before meeting his eyes again. “So… are you okay?” they asked, their tone genuine but hesitant.

The question hit him like a slap, the concern in their voice cutting through the haze of alcohol and self-loathing. He forced another grin, though it felt like it might crack under the weight of everything he was trying to hold back.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Just… blowing off some steam, you know?”

The person nodded slowly, their expression softening. “Well, don’t go too hard on yourself,” they said, their smile faint but kind. “It’s not worth it.”

Stan’s chest tightened, the words hitting far too close to home. He hesitated, the idea forming in his mind before he could stop it. Maybe if he just leaned into this—into them—he could bury the mess he was drowning in. Just for a night.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat, his grin turning slightly sharper, more deliberate. “Do you want to maybe get out of here? Just hang out, away from all… this?” He gestured vaguely toward the party, his pulse racing as he waited for their response.

The person blinked, their surprise evident. They hesitated, glancing around before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t know,” they said, their tone cautious. “I’m not really looking for anything serious.”

Stan’s grin faltered for a split second before he forced it back into place. “Neither am I,” he said smoothly, though the words felt like sandpaper in his throat. “Just… looking for some company.”

They looked at him for a long moment, their expression unreadable. Stan’s chest tightened further, the silence stretching as his grip on the bottle grew tighter. Finally, they nodded, their smile faint but genuine.

“Alright,” they said, their voice light. “Lead the way.”

Stan exhaled, the relief crashing over him like a wave as he gestured for them to follow him. But as they walked toward the edge of the yard, the hollow ache in his chest twisted deeper, darker. He could feel it gnawing at him, an insidious reminder that this wasn’t about connection or distraction—it was about punishment.

Because that’s what he deserved, wasn’t it? To scrape the bottom of the barrel, to throw himself into fleeting moments that meant nothing and left him emptier than before. To chase ghosts and bury himself in mistakes just to forget the weight of your voice, your touch, your trust. He clenched his jaw, his steps heavy, each one dragging him further into the abyss he’d created for himself.

It didn’t matter who they were or how kind their smile was. They weren’t you. And no amount of cheap liquor or borrowed warmth would change the fact that he’d ruined the one thing that might’ve saved him. He wasn’t just falling apart—he was clawing himself to pieces, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

As he led them into the dark, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. Maybe he was beyond saving. Maybe this was all he’d ever be—a mess of regrets and bad decisions, staggering forward just to avoid looking back.

The phone felt heavy in your trembling hands, its screen glowing with the draft of a message you couldn’t bring yourself to send. Your mascara streaked down your cheeks, smudged by the steady flow of tears you hadn’t managed to stop for hours. The lump in your throat ached, a constant reminder of the sobs that wracked your chest. You sniffled, trying and failing to take a steadying breath, as your thumb hovered over the send button.

“Hey… I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.”

The words on the screen blurred through your tears, and your hands shook so violently you could barely hold the phone still. Damien didn’t deserve this—he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been patient and kind, the perfect blend of calm and confident, someone who made you feel like you mattered. And yet, none of it had been enough to drown out the relentless weight of Stan in your mind.

Your chest tightened as you stared at the message, the silence of your room only amplifying the storm of your thoughts. A week had passed since you’d last seen Stan, but his absence had carved itself into every part of your life. You couldn’t escape it—not in the dead of night when you stared at your phone waiting for a message that never came, and not during the day when everything reminded you of him.

Every laugh, every smile you’d shared, every clumsy touch from that night—it all played on an endless loop in your mind, growing louder with every moment he ignored you. And now you were here, mascara running down your face and heartbreak threatening to choke you, about to push away the one person who had actually wanted you.

You felt your stomach twist with guilt as you thought about Damien. He’d been so excited when he’d texted you last night, asking about your weekend plans. The idea of crushing that enthusiasm, of turning his warmth into confusion and hurt, made your fingers falter.

But you couldn’t keep lying to yourself, or to him. Your heart wasn’t in this—how could it be when it was still chained to someone else? To someone who hadn’t even spared you a text in a week? Someone who was probably out there living his life without a second thought for the mess he’d left you in?

Your tears fell harder at the thought, your thumb finally pressing the button as the message sent with a soft ping. The room seemed impossibly still as you stared at the screen, watching the text sit there, delivered but unanswered.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to no one, your voice hoarse and broken.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your body trembled with every sob, your chest heaving as the weight of guilt crushed you. It was unbearable, like a physical ache gnawing at your ribs and spreading through every inch of you. You let your head fall into your hands, your fingers tangling in your hair as shame and regret clawed at your heart.

How could you have been so selfish? So stupid?

You replayed that night in your mind, every detail vivid and suffocating. The way Stan’s hands had hesitated before gripping your hips. The way his voice had trembled when he asked if it was okay. The way he’d broken apart in your room after you’d pushed too far.

You’d told yourself it was for practice, for Damien. That lie sat bitter in your chest now, hollow and meaningless. You hadn’t cared about Damien in that moment, not really. You’d cared about Stan, about distracting him, about being the one to pull him out of the darkness that had been swallowing him whole. But instead of helping him, you’d only dragged him down further.

I used him. The thought hit you like a slap, fresh tears streaming down your face as the realization sank in. You’d taken advantage of his vulnerability, of his trust in you, and for what? To play pretend for a few fleeting moments? To feel wanted?

You pressed your hands against your face, your fingers digging into your skin as if you could scrub the guilt away. “I’m a terrible person,” you whispered, the words shaking as they fell from your lips. “I’m so fucking terrible.”

The silence of your room felt deafening, wrapping around you like a noose. You hoped, desperately, that Stan was feeling better now that he didn’t have to deal with you. That cutting you out of his life had given him some peace, even if it left you feeling hollow and alone.

The thought of him—his face, his voice, his touch—was like a knife twisting in your chest. You wanted to forget, to drown out the ache that wouldn’t let up no matter how much you cried. You wanted the numbness that had always felt so far out of reach. And then, unbidden, your mind drifted to the one thing that might offer it.

Alcohol.

You thought about the parties Stan and the guys dragged you to, the cheap liquor that burned your throat but left your mind blissfully hazy. You thought about how easy it would be to lose yourself in that fog, to forget the guilt, the shame, the sound of your phone buzzing with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

Your breathing hitched as the thought took hold, the temptation curling around you like a siren’s song. You pushed yourself off the bed, your legs unsteady as you stood. Your heart pounded in your chest, your movements shaky and uncertain as you made your way to the closet.

Throwing the door open, you rifled through the clothes hanging limply on their hangers, your fingers trembling as you searched for something—anything—that screamed distraction. Your hand paused on a short black dress, the one you’d worn to a party months ago, the night you’d laughed too loud and let Kenny drag you onto the dance floor. You grabbed it without thinking, pulling it off the hanger and clutching it to your chest like it was a lifeline.

You needed out. Out of this room, out of your head, out of the suffocating guilt that threatened to consume you whole. And if a few drinks and a crowded room were the only way to get there, then so be it.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the makeup wipes on your desk, dabbing at the streaked mascara that had smudged across your cheeks. The image of your tear-streaked face in the mirror only deepened the knot of guilt and shame in your stomach, but you pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand. If you were going to do this—if you were going to escape your thoughts tonight—you couldn’t look like the emotional wreck you felt.

As you applied fresh eyeliner with trembling hands, you heard the familiar jingle of keys outside the door. The knob twisted, and Red stepped inside, her phone in hand and earbuds dangling from her neck. She stopped mid-step when she saw you at your desk, makeup wipes and half-finished cosmetics strewn across the surface.

“Whoa. What happened in here?” she asked, her voice lighter than the concerned look on her face.

You didn’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on lining your lips with the bold red lipstick that matched the armor you were trying to piece together. “Nothing,” you said quickly, your voice tight and unconvincing.

Red closed the door behind her, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took you in. She set her bag down on her bed and crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the frame. “You don’t look like nothing.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to keep your composure. “I’m fine,” you insisted, though your shaking hands betrayed you as you applied a final swipe of mascara.

Red didn’t budge. “Fine,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. “Fine enough to be getting all dressed up for something. Where are you going?”

You capped the mascara with trembling fingers and turned to face her, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “I was going to ask if you’re going to any parties tonight,” you said, deflecting the question. “I thought I’d tag along.”

Red’s brows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t push the obvious lie. “Uh, yeah, I was gonna head to that Pi Kappa party. I heard it’s gonna be huge. Why, though? You haven’t wanted to go out in weeks.”

“I need to get out of here,” you said quickly, your voice too sharp and too quick. You softened it with a weak laugh. “Clear my head, you know? Blow off some steam.”

Her playful grin faltered, her expression softening with something you hated to see—pity. But, thankfully, Red wasn’t the type to prod too much. “Okay, babe. If you’re in, you’re in. Let me throw something on real quick, and we’ll Uber together.”

You nodded, relief mixing uneasily with the lingering ache in your chest as she turned to her closet. While Red rummaged for an outfit, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection in the tiny mirror propped on your desk. The person staring back at you looked composed, ready for a party. But beneath the fresh makeup and tight dress, you were anything but.

“Okay, done!” Red chirped, snapping you out of your thoughts. She stood there in a sequined mini-dress that shimmered under the fluorescent dorm lights, her lips curling into an excited grin. “You ready, or are you still doing that thing where you stare at yourself like you’re in a bad movie montage?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

She grabbed her bag and slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you out of the room with her usual bright energy. Her chatter filled the silence as the two of you walked toward the dorm exit, her voice animated as she hyped up the party and gossiped about who might be there. You nodded along, grateful for the noise to drown out the storm in your head.

But no matter how loud Red’s voice was, or how bright the city lights were as the Uber carried you both toward the party, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen. You hoped the drinks would help. You hoped the crowd would distract you. You hoped you could forget, even if only for one night.

You hated alcohol—the taste, the burn, the way it made your stomach twist and churn. But tonight, you didn’t care. You didn’t want to care. All you wanted was to drown out the heavy, suffocating weight in your chest and replace it with something, anything, that felt lighter. Even if it came at the expense of your body.

The frat house was alive with music, laughter, and the faint haze of cigarette smoke wafting in from the backyard. Red tugged you inside, her arm looped tightly around yours as she greeted nearly everyone who crossed her path. Her energy was infectious, her voice rising over the thrum of the crowd as she exchanged hugs, jokes, and smiles with familiar faces.

You tried to mirror her enthusiasm, but it felt hollow. When she greeted Craig and Tweek, who were standing near the corner with Clyde and Tolkien, you forced a weak smile and waved. Their replies were friendly enough—Clyde even cracked a joke about your absence at previous parties—but their voices blended into the background noise.

Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces you knew: Jimmy and Butters at the beer pong table, Cartman and Kenny arguing over something near the kitchen, Wendy and Bebe chatting animatedly with Heidi and Nichole by the staircase. But there was no sign of Stan. Relief and disappointment mingled in your chest, twisting together in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.

“Be right back,” you mumbled to Red, slipping your arm free from hers before she could protest. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

She nodded, already turning back to her conversation with Bebe, her laughter ringing out as you retreated toward the counter. Your hands trembled slightly as you scanned the selection—plastic cups, kegs, an assortment of bottles in varying states of emptiness. Your eyes landed on a bottle of vodka, the label peeling at the edges, and you grabbed it without hesitation.

No one was looking. No one cared.

You twisted the cap off and pressed the bottle to your lips, the sharp smell making your nose wrinkle. The first sip burned, and you nearly coughed, but you swallowed it down and took another. And another. The fire in your throat spread to your chest, and your stomach twisted in protest, but you ignored it. You kept drinking, the edges of the room blurring slightly as the alcohol began to take hold.

Your thoughts swirled, chaotic and relentless, as you clutched the bottle tighter. You hated how desperate you felt, how pathetic it was to stand in the corner of a party, drinking like your life depended on it. But you hated the silence in your head more—the voice that whispered that this was all your fault, that you’d ruined everything, that you deserved to feel this way.

You deserved it.

The vodka burned, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as everything else. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, setting the empty bottle back on the counter with a hollow clink. The world felt hazy now, the room swaying slightly as the alcohol settled into your system. You grabbed a red Solo cup and filled it halfway with whatever was closest—some dark, amber liquid that you didn’t bother to identify. You just needed to keep going, to stay numb.

You turned back toward the crowd, the cup clutched tightly in your hand. Your eyes scanned the room for Red, but instead, they landed on something that made your breath hitch.

Kyle was at the edge of the crowd, his hand wrapped firmly around Stan’s arm as he pulled him through the throng of people. Stan looked disheveled, his hoodie rumpled and his hair a mess. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place, and he moved sluggishly, like he was trying to resist Kyle’s pull. Kyle leaned in, whispering something urgently into Stan’s ear, his expression tense.

Kyle’s eyes flicked up and met yours, and the world seemed to still for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly as he held your gaze. The knot in your stomach twisted tighter, and your breath felt caught in your throat.

Stan, noticing the shift in Kyle’s attention, turned his head to follow his gaze. When his eyes landed on you, his entire body seemed to lock up. His expression shifted in an instant—his jaw tightening, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing into something unreadable. He froze, his arm still in Kyle’s grip, and for a moment, it felt like the entire party had gone silent.

Then, as if jolted into action, Stan yanked his arm free from Kyle’s grasp and turned sharply, heading in the opposite direction. He didn’t even glance back as he pushed through the crowd, his movements stiff and hurried.

Your chest tightened painfully as you watched him retreat, the cup in your hand trembling slightly. Kyle turned back to you, his gaze softer now, almost apologetic. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but the distance between you made it impossible to hear.

You shook your head, breaking the stare, and looked down into your drink. The liquid swirled lazily in the cup, the faint smell of alcohol wafting up to meet you. You downed it in one go, ignoring the bitter taste, and wiped your mouth again.

Red appeared beside you then, her voice bright and oblivious. “There you are! Come on, they’re playing flip cup in the kitchen!”

You forced a smile, the edges of it wobbling. “Yeah,” you said, your voice hollow. “Let’s go.”

Red dragged you into the kitchen, her arm hooked around yours as she babbled on about the flip cup teams already forming. The room was buzzing with energy, laughter bouncing off the walls as drinks were poured and rules were loudly debated. You scanned the crowd and saw a mix of familiar faces—Clyde, Tweek, Craig, and even Bebe, who was already half-draped over a laughing Jimmy.

“You’re on my team,” Red declared, her grip on your arm tightening as she pulled you to her side. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and you managed a small smile despite the heavy knot still twisting in your stomach.

The game started, the air thick with playful shouts and competitive taunts. Red went first, downing her drink and flipping the cup expertly in one smooth motion. “Boom!” she cheered, throwing her hands in the air.

When it was your turn, you hesitated, the Solo cup trembling slightly in your hand. The alcohol buzzing through your veins dulled the sharp edges of your thoughts, and for the first time all night, you didn’t feel the crushing weight of everything on your chest. You took a deep breath, downed the drink in one gulp, and flipped the cup on your first try.

“Hell yeah!” Red whooped, clapping you on the back. “You’re a natural!”

The cheers and laughter from your team were louder now, and you couldn’t help but laugh along. The alcohol coursing through your system made everything feel lighter, fuzzier, and the tension in your chest loosened just a little more with every round. By the time you’d flipped three more cups flawlessly, you were grinning, your cheeks flushed with both alcohol and the heat of the crowded room.

“You’ve been holding out on us!” Clyde called, pointing at you with an exaggerated look of mock betrayal.

“Where’s this pro-level flip cup energy been hiding?” Red teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You shrugged, laughing as you reached for another drink. “Beginner’s luck,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

As the game went on, you found yourself laughing more, the warmth of the alcohol and the camaraderie of the group easing the heaviness in your chest. The laughter around you started to blur as you spotted him out of the corner of your eye—Stan, standing in the crowd, leaning against the wall with a girl you didn’t recognize. She was all legs and confidence, her hand lightly touching his arm as she giggled at something he said. You couldn’t hear them over the music and chatter, but whatever it was, it made Stan smirk. That smirk twisted something deep in your chest, something sharp and unexpected.

Jealousy.

You didn’t get jealous when Stan flirted with people. You’d seen it before, a million times, and it had always been just Stan being Stan. But this? The way he was looking at her? The way she was looking back? It made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t explain.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter as you watched him. He must have felt your stare because his eyes flicked up, meeting yours across the room. For a split second, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression—hesitation, guilt, maybe even regret. But then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and kissed the girl.

Your breath hitched, disbelief freezing you in place. His lips moved against hers with purpose, his hands resting low on her waist as if he wanted to make sure you didn’t miss a single second of it. The girl looped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and your stomach dropped.

They were full-on making out now, right there in the middle of the party, and all you could do was stand there, your mouth hanging open as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman watching too. Kyle looked horrified, his brows furrowed in a deep, disapproving frown. Kenny had a smirk on his face, though his eyes flicked between you and Stan like he was watching a train wreck unfold. Cartman, of course, was laughing, the sound obnoxious and grating as he elbowed Kenny in the ribs.

Your blood boiled. The knot of anger and hurt in your chest exploded into a white-hot fury that you couldn’t contain. “Be right back,” you muttered to Red, your voice tight as you shoved your way through the crowd.

“Wait, where are you going?” Red called after you, but you didn’t answer. Your sights were locked on Stan, your pulse pounding in your ears as you marched toward him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” The words flew out of your mouth before you could even process them, your voice cutting through the party like a thunderclap. You weren’t even sure who you were directing them at—Stan, the girl, the situation itself—but as you stormed across the room, the alcohol buzzing hot and angry in your veins, your focus locked on her.

She turned to you, her perfectly manicured brows raising in surprise before they knit together in irritation. She didn’t flinch under your glare, instead tilting her head and looking you up and down like you were an inconvenience rather than a threat. That expression alone made your blood boil hotter.

Stan stood frozen, his face slack with shock, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when the girl—the one he had just been making out with—was standing there, calm and collected, like she hadn’t just done something unforgivable.

“You,” you spat, pointing a shaky finger at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think it’s cute throwing yourself at someone like him?”

The room seemed to hush slightly around you, but the alcohol made you too numb to care. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head swimming from the vodka and the rage coursing through you.

The girl arched an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a smirk. “Excuse me? Who even are you?” Her voice was sharp, disdain dripping from every word. “His fucking mom or something?”

Her tone was like a match to gasoline. Your vision blurred, your fists curling at your sides as you took another step toward her. “I’m the person who actually knows him,” you slurred, your words tumbling out unsteady but vicious. “Not some random nobody trying to get her claws into him.”

The girl’s face darkened, her smirk replaced by a scowl. “Oh, please,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “If you knew him so well, maybe you’d have done a better job keeping him.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and humiliating, and they cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, tears threatening to prick at the corners of your eyes. But the vodka burned hotter, stronger, drowning out the shame with unrelenting anger.

“Desperate,” you sneered, your voice shaking as you leaned closer to her. “That’s what you are. Desperate enough to kiss a guy who’s clearly not even into you.”

She barked a laugh, the sound cold and mocking. “Desperate?” she repeated, her eyes flashing with disdain. “You’re the one making a scene over a guy who doesn’t give a shit about you.”

The room seemed to tilt, her words cutting through the haze of alcohol and hitting you square in the chest. Without thinking, without even registering the consequences, your hand swung out, the sound of the slap ringing through the air like a gunshot.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as her head snapped to the side, her hand flying up to her cheek. She stared at you, wide-eyed, for a single frozen moment before lunging forward.

“You psycho bitch!” she screamed, her voice shrill as her hands flew toward you. You barely registered the sharp pull at your hair as she grabbed at you, her nails scratching at your arm. You swung back instinctively, your movements clumsy and fueled by adrenaline, landing a hit on her shoulder.

Everything was chaos. People were shouting around you, their voices blending into an incoherent roar. You couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your own heart, the way the room spun around you as the two of you clawed and yanked at each other.

“Hey! Stop it!” Kyle’s voice cut through the chaos, and suddenly, strong hands were gripping your waist, yanking you back. You struggled against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to shrug him off.

“Let me go, Kyle!” you shouted, your voice cracking as tears burned hot in your eyes. The fight, the alcohol, the shame—it was all too much.

“Not a fucking chance, perfect for each other, my ass,” Kyle snapped, his grip tightening as he pulled you farther away from the girl. Across the room, her friend was doing the same, holding her back as she glared daggers at you.

Stan hadn’t moved. He stood rooted to the spot, his face pale and his eyes wide with disbelief. The sight of him just standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing, made your chest ache with something raw and unbearable.

“You’re insane!” the girl yelled as her friend dragged her farther away, her voice echoing in your ears like a siren. “Fucking crazy!”

Kyle finally let go of you when he was sure the girl was out of reach, spinning you around to face him. His face was tight with frustration and concern, his brows furrowed deeply. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice low but filled with anger. “What were you thinking?”

You shoved past Kyle, your breath hitching in uneven gasps as you pushed through the crowd. The hallway blurred around you, voices and music melding into an unbearable hum. You found the bathroom door, yanked it open, and stumbled inside. Before you could slam it shut, Kyle’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist.

“Get off me,” you snapped, your voice breaking.

“Not a chance,” he shot back, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “You’ve already caused enough of a scene.”

Twisting your arm free, you stumbled toward the toilet, dropping to your knees as your stomach twisted violently. Before you could even think, you were retching, the sour burn of alcohol and bile scorching your throat. Shame burned hotter than the vomit, tears spilling down your face as you gagged.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t leave. Instead, he crouched behind you, gathering your hair in one hand and holding it back as you emptied your stomach. “Jesus, you’re a wreck,” he muttered, his voice laced with equal parts exasperation and concern.

You gasped for breath, your body trembling. “Leave me alone,” you croaked, but the words carried no conviction.

“Not happening,” Kyle snapped. “I’m not going to let you self-destruct because you’re too stubborn to deal with your shit.”

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m fine,” you mumbled weakly.

Kyle scoffed, the sound harsh in the small bathroom. “Fine? You’re puking your guts out in a frat house bathroom after starting a fight with some random girl. Yeah, you’re real fine.”

You clenched your fists, anger flaring up alongside the shame. “Why do you even care?”

“Because someone has to!” he shot back, his voice rising. He loosened his grip on your hair but didn’t let go completely, his other hand gesturing wildly. “You’re acting just like Stan, you know that? All this drinking, picking fights, spiraling out like you’re trying to hit rock bottom as fast as you can.”

You flinched at the comparison, your stomach twisting for an entirely different reason now. “Don’t,” you whispered, but Kyle wasn’t done.

“Oh, no, I’m saying it,” he continued, his eyes blazing. “No? So what, you just ‘accidentally’ used Stan, picked a fight with some random girl, and drank yourself into oblivion? Grow up. Take some responsibility for once.”

Your head snapped up, and you stared at him, wide-eyed, your breath catching in your throat. “What did you just say?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Stan… he told you?”

Kyle’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, his gaze hardened. “Of course he didn’t tell me,” he said sharply, crossing his arms. “He didn’t have to. We’ve known Stan since we were kids—I can see the signs. He’s been a fucking wreck since that night you got with Damien. Do you think I wouldn’t put it together?”

Your heart sank, a pit forming in your stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. You hadn’t realized it was so obvious, hadn’t considered that Kyle—or anyone—would notice the cracks in Stan’s carefully constructed façade.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I—”

Kyle cut you off with a bitter laugh. “You didn’t mean to?” he repeated, his voice biting. “Then what the hell were you doing? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been on a one-way trip to self-destruction and decided to drag Stan down with you.”

“I hate myself,” you choked out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t—”

Kyle’s hand tightened on your shoulder, not unkindly, but firmly enough to ground you. His voice softened just a fraction, though the frustration still lingered. “Then fix it,” he said, his tone quieter but still firm. “Before there’s nothing left of either of you to fix.”

You buried your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you sobbed. Kyle stayed for a moment longer, then finally stood, reaching for the toilet paper. He handed them to you without a word, his expression unreadable.

“Clean yourself up,” he said as he turned to leave. “And figure out what the hell you want, because this? This isn’t it.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the sound of your ragged breathing and the reflection of a stranger in the mirror. Smudged makeup, tear-streaked cheeks, and hollow eyes stared back at you, and for the first time, you wondered if Kyle was right.

Maybe it wasn’t Stan or anyone else you were hurting the most.

Maybe it was yourself.

You sat on the cold bathroom floor, the sobs wracking your body so violently that it felt like your chest might cave in. Your cries echoed off the tiled walls, raw and unrelenting. There was no point in trying to quiet yourself—no one left to pretend for. You buried your face in your knees, the damp fabric of your clothes soaking up your tears.

The sound of the door creaking open barely registered through your haze, but the quiet shuffle of footsteps did. A moment later, you felt someone kneel in front of you. You lifted your head slightly, your blurry vision focusing on Kenny’s face. His usual smirk and mischief were nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was soft, his brow creased in concern.

At the sight of him, the sobs came harder, spilling out of you like a dam breaking. Your hands flew up to cover your face, shielding yourself from his gaze, from his pity.

Kenny didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He reached over to the crumpled sheets of toilet paper Kyle gave you, forgotten on the bathroom counter. Slowly and carefully, he began wiping at the streaks of mascara and tears staining your cheeks. His touch was steady, almost too kind, and it made the guilt inside you churn like acid.

“Stop,” you choked out, your voice cracking, though you didn’t mean it. “Why are you… why are you doing this?”

Kenny paused briefly, his gaze flicking to yours before he continued wiping at your face. “Because someone needs to,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “And because you obviously can’t right now.”

His words broke something inside you, and your hands dropped limply to your lap, letting him finish his task. He worked in silence, each swipe of the tissue a quiet reminder of just how far you’d unraveled.

When he finally tossed the crumpled tissue aside, you whispered, “I screwed up, Kenny. I messed everything up so bad, I—I don’t even know how to fix it.”

He sat back on his heels, watching you for a moment. “Yeah, you did,” he said bluntly, his honesty cutting through you like a knife. “But sitting here crying isn’t going to fix it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded faintly. “I just… she didn’t deserve that,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “The girl, the one I fought with. She didn’t do anything wrong. I just—I don’t even know why I went after her like that.”

Kenny leaned back against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest as he studied you. “You know why,” he said, his tone quiet but pointed.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Because I’m a mess? Because I can’t deal with my own shit, so I decided to take it out on some innocent girl? She was just… there, and I hated her for it.”

He shrugged, his gaze unwavering. “At least you’re owning up to it now. That’s a start.”

“I’m a terrible person,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands again. “Stan… he’s better off without me. Everyone is.”

Kenny didn’t respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more measured. “Maybe you are a mess. And maybe you’ve screwed up a lot. But you’re not beyond fixing. You just have to stop running from everything. From Stan, from yourself.”

You sniffled, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late?”

“It’s only too late if you keep doing this,” he said, gesturing to the bathroom, the remnants of your breakdown still visible. “Start being honest. Own your shit. That’s the only way you’re gonna move forward.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sinking into you in a way that left you feeling raw but strangely steady. For the first time, you felt a flicker of resolve, faint but real.

Kenny sighed and pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand to you. “Come on,” he said, offering a small, tired smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up before Red comes in and loses her mind.”

You hesitated before taking his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Kenny said with a faint smirk. “I’m still debating if I should charge you for this therapy session babe.”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh that barely felt real and let him lead you out of the bathroom. Your hand clung tightly to his, like letting go would drop you into some void you weren’t sure you could climb out of. Kenny glanced back, catching the death grip you had on his hand, and chuckled under his breath.

“Relax, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, though the softness in his voice was a sharp contrast to his usual teasing tone.

The music and the noise of the party hit you like a wave as the two of you stepped back into the crowd. People danced, shouted, and laughed in every corner, the chaotic energy of the house thrumming against your skin. Kenny navigated the sea of bodies with ease, tugging you along as if it was second nature.

Then you saw her. The girl from earlier. She stood with her friends across the room, and their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they spotted you. Her glare was sharp, and you could feel the animosity radiating off her group as they stared. A lump rose in your throat, but you refused to shrink under their gaze.

Before you could stop yourself, you stuck your tongue out at her—a childish, stupid gesture that you regretted immediately but couldn’t take back. Her expression darkened, her friends whispering among themselves before one of them dramatically rolled her eyes and turned away.

Cartman’s raucous laugh broke through the tension, loud enough to make your head snap toward him. He was a few feet away, holding a red solo cup and grinning like a hyena.

“You’re a goddamn disaster,” Cartman wheezed, swaggering over to you and Kenny with a look of absolute delight. “Holy shit, this is better than reality TV.”

“Fuck off, fatass,” Kenny muttered, clearly unimpressed.

But Cartman wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, he leaned down toward you, his breath reeking of beer, and whispered something that made your stomach plummet.

“Stan’s watching you. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Your body went rigid, and your grip on Kenny’s hand tightened instinctively. You hated how Cartman’s words set off a flurry of nerves in your chest, but you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing across the room. And there he was.

Stan was leaning against the far wall, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes weren’t on you. They were on Wendy, who was standing beside him, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. He wasn’t looking at her, though. His gaze was distant, unfocused—until it suddenly snapped to you.

The weight of his stare knocked the air out of your lungs. Your stomach twisted as his expression hardened, his jaw tightening slightly. Wendy noticed, following his line of sight, and when her eyes landed on you, her brows furrowed.

Cartman’s grin widened. “Oof, triangle vibes. Messy as hell,” he muttered, stepping back with a laugh.

“Dude seriously, shut the hell up,” Kenny said sharply, tugging you forward before you could spiral further.

“Let’s just… move,” you mumbled, voice trembling as you ripped your gaze away from Stan and Wendy. Kenny gave you a knowing look but didn’t press, instead tugging you toward the other side of the room.

You spotted Kyle near the drinks table, engaged in what looked like a heated debate with Tolkien, his hands gesturing wildly as he made his point. Kenny let go of your hand and went to interrupt, leaning casually into the conversation like he hadn’t just been babysitting your emotional meltdown moments earlier.

Red appeared seemingly out of nowhere, slipping up beside you with a grin. “Well, well, look who’s causing chaos and stealing the show,” she teased, nudging you with her elbow. “That fight back there? Iconic. The stuff of legends.”

You gave her a weak smile, but the lightness in her tone made your stomach churn. “It wasn’t… I shouldn’t have—”

“Relax,” she interrupted, brushing off your guilt like it was nothing. “She had it coming, I’m sure. Besides, you looked badass.”

“I don’t think that’s the takeaway here,” Kyle interjected sharply, stepping away from Tolkien and Kenny to join you. His gaze was serious as he folded his arms over his chest. “What’s the plan here, huh? Keep ignoring each other until the tension finally explodes and ruins everyone else’s good time?”

Your stomach dropped. “Kyle, I—”

“No, don’t even try,” he cut you off, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “You and Stan need to figure your shit out. It’s making everything worse—for you, for him, for everyone.”

You glanced at Kenny, hoping for some kind of backup, but he just shrugged like he agreed with Kyle. “He’s got a point,” Kenny said, sipping casually from his solo cup. “This whole cold war thing? It’s exhausting.”

Kyle stepped closer, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. “If you two don’t talk by the end of the week, I swear to God, I’ll step in myself. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What do you mean you’ll step in?”

“I’ll lock you two in a room, throw away the key, and let you sort it out like adults,” Kyle said flatly, but there was an edge of humor in his voice that didn’t quite soften the weight of his words. “Or maybe just yell at both of you until one of you finally cracks. Either way, this has to end.”

You didn’t know what to say. The idea of talking to Stan, of facing everything head-on, felt insurmountable. But Kyle’s stare didn’t waver, and the weight of his words settled heavy on your chest.

“Fine,” you muttered, barely audible. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Good,” Kyle said, satisfied. He turned back to Kenny, who was smirking into his drink like this was all some kind of sitcom. Red just gave you a sly grin and a thumbs up, clearly amused by the whole exchange.

But you didn’t feel amused. You felt like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and the thought of confronting Stan made your stomach twist into knots. Still, you knew Kyle was right.

Stan lay motionless on his bed, the faded ceiling tiles above blurring into nothingness as his chest tightened with every passing second. The air in the dorm room felt thick, suffocating, like it was trying to choke him out. His phone buzzed once from the desk where he’d abandoned it—just like he’d abandoned you. He didn’t even need to check to know it wasn’t you this time. You’d stopped trying a few days ago, and the silence was worse than the calls ever had been.

Kyle was at his desk, typing something furiously. Stan didn’t care. He barely registered anything outside his own head these days. His mind kept circling back to that night, the way your voice had cracked, the way you’d called him out in front of everyone, and worst of all, the way you’d gone after that girl.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory still played like some sick, never-ending movie. You screaming, your voice loud and shrill and full of venom. That slap—sharp, unforgiving, echoing through the room. Stan’s stomach churned just thinking about it. She hadn’t done anything to you. Nothing but exist, but smile at him, but… but what? Be the wrong girl at the wrong time?

You don’t even know her name, asshole.

But that didn’t stop him from standing there, frozen, as everything spiraled out of control. He could still hear Wendy’s voice in his head, soft but firm as she pulled him aside after it was all over.

“She’s a mess, Stan,” Wendy had said, her eyes piercing through him like she already knew everything. “And you’re making it worse for her. For yourself.” She’d put a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding in a way that should have helped but didn’t. “You need to figure out what you want. Otherwise, this is just going to destroy both of you.”

He’d nodded like he understood, like any of it made sense, but inside he felt like he was fucking disintegrating. The guilt, the anger, the shame—they were eating him alive. He’d wanted to scream at Wendy, to tell her to fuck off, to say that this wasn’t her problem—but he didn’t. Because she was right. She was always right. And that only made it worse.

“You gonna talk to her?” Kyle’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, snapping Stan out of his thoughts.

He stayed silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he stared at the same goddamn spot on the ceiling he’d been fixated on for hours. “No,” he muttered finally, his voice flat and lifeless.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh, the sound grating against Stan’s nerves. “Seriously? You’re just gonna sit here and do nothing? That’s your plan?”

“Fuck off, Kyle,” Stan said, his tone harsher than he intended. He didn’t care.

The scrape of Kyle’s chair against the floor made Stan flinch. He heard Kyle move closer, felt the weight of his stare like a physical thing pressing down on him.

“You’re unbelievable,” Kyle said, his voice low and bitter. “You can’t keep running from this. From her.”

Stan didn’t respond. What was the point? Kyle didn’t understand. Nobody fucking understood.

The door slammed shut behind Kyle, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts again. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he replayed the scene from the party for the millionth time—the way you’d looked at him, furious and hurt and drunk off your ass. The way you’d lashed out at that girl, the sound of the slap still ringing in his ears.

What the fuck had you been thinking? What the fuck had he been thinking, letting it get this far?

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shove the memories aside, but it was useless. They were always there, lurking in the back of his mind. Wendy’s words echoed louder now, and they felt like a slap to the face. You’re making it worse for her. For yourself.

But how the fuck was he supposed to fix this? He wasn’t good at fixing things. He was good at ruining them. And you—you didn’t deserve to be dragged down with him. You deserved better. Better than him. Better than the wreckage he left in his wake.

His chest felt like it was caving in as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He thought about you crying, about the way you’d looked at him when he kissed that girl, about the way you’d tried so fucking hard to act like what happened between you didn’t mean anything when it meant everything.

Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe he needed to figure out what the hell he wanted. But as he lay there, his body heavy and his mind drowning in guilt and shame, one thing became painfully clear:

He didn’t deserve you. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve forgiveness.

Some time has passed, and Stan hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. The ceiling tiles blurred together as he stared blankly, his thoughts a mess of self-loathing and memories he wished he could erase. The muffled sound of yelling seeped through the door, but he chalked it up to his imagination. He was used to noise in his head.

But then the screaming grew louder, sharper. It wasn’t in his head. It was outside.

Before he could sit up to make sense of it, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a bang. Stan flinched, his head snapping toward the noise as Kyle stepped into the room, dragging you behind him.

You were a whirlwind of rage, your voice raw and cracked as you hurled accusations and protests at Kyle. “Kyle, I swear to God—” But the moment your eyes locked on Stan, everything came to a screeching halt.

The room was thick with silence.

Stan sat frozen, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at you. Your hair was a mess, your cheeks flushed from exertion, and your makeup was smeared—but it was your eyes that hit him the hardest. Red-rimmed, puffy, and filled with something he couldn’t quite name. Anger? Hurt? Desperation? Maybe all of it.

Kyle, panting slightly from wrangling you all the way here, broke the tense silence. “The two of you are gonna talk this out,” he said, his voice firm and unforgiving. “You’re not leaving this room until you do. I’ll be right outside, so don’t even think about trying to get out.”

Before either of you could argue, Kyle shoved you further into the room and stepped back, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed ominously.

Stan stared at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear Kyle’s muffled voice outside, probably telling someone off, but it was distant compared to the deafening silence in the room.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” Your voice broke through, sharp and biting.

Stan looked at you then, really looked at you, and felt the weight of everything between you crash over him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, your voice trembling as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re really just gonna sit there like this is nothing?”

“It’s not nothing,” Stan finally croaked, his voice low and rough. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then say something!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Because I’m standing here, trying, and you’re just… just—” You gestured helplessly, your voice cracking on the last word.

Stan sat up slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as he tried to find the right words. “I didn’t ask Kyle to do this,” he said finally, his tone defensive, but weak.

You let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, because God forbid you actually confront anything.”

Stan flinched, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked down at his hands, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the mattress. “What’s the point of this?” he asked, his voice quiet but edged with something raw. “You didn’t want to be here, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for this either. So why even bother?”

Your anger faltered for a moment, your expression softening before it hardened again. “Because I’m tired of this, Stan. I’m tired of us pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m tired of not knowing what the hell we even are. And I’m tired of you avoiding me.”

Stan’s jaw tightened, and he looked up at you with a mix of guilt and frustration. “You think I’m avoiding you because I don’t care? Because I don’t want to deal with it?” He stood abruptly, the sudden movement making you take a step back. “I’m avoiding you because I can’t fucking handle it. Any of it. You. Us. That night.” His voice cracked, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment before the anger surged back. “So what? You just decided to shut me out instead? To let me sit there and drown in my own guilt while you—what? Pretend I don’t exist?”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his back still to you. “Guilt?” He turned then, his eyes blazing. “You think you’re the only one who feels guilty? I haven’t been able to fucking sleep because every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is how much I’ve screwed everything up.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you.

“Stan…” Your voice was softer now, hesitant.

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

You stepped closer, your own anger fading as you looked at him—really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. “It’s not all on you to fix,” you said quietly. “I messed up too. I—” Your voice faltered, and you looked away. “I’m sorry for how I handled things. For that night. For everything.”

Stan’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he might reach for you. But then he took a step back, his walls going up again. “Sorry doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I know. But it’s a start.”

You hesitated before sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight, and for a moment, you thought he might move away, but he didn’t. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you stared down at them, the lump in your throat growing heavier with each passing second.

“I… I cut things off with Damien,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavier than you expected, like you were exhaling something you’d been holding onto for too long. You hadn’t planned to say it like this, hadn’t planned for your voice to break halfway through, but the weight of everything was too much to hold back.

Stan turned his head slightly toward you, his brows knitting together, but he still didn’t say anything. His silence was unbearable, and you felt like you had to fill the void before it consumed you.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep pretending that it was working,” you continued, the tears spilling before you could stop them. “Not when I—” You bit your lip, cutting yourself off. You couldn’t say it. Not yet.

Stan’s gaze finally lifted to meet yours, his blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Hurt? Anger? Something else entirely? You didn’t know, and the not knowing only made your chest ache more.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. It wasn’t accusatory, but it wasn’t kind either. It was cautious, like he didn’t know what to do with the information you’d just given him.

Your shoulders trembled as you took a shaky breath, swiping at your wet cheeks. “Because you deserve to know,” you said, forcing yourself to look at him even though it hurt. “You deserve to know that I…” You hesitated, your throat tightening around the words. “That I messed everything up. That I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

Stan’s expression flickered, something almost imperceptible crossing his face, but he quickly masked it. He let out a sharp exhale, his hands running through his hair as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Cutting things off with Damien doesn’t change anything,” he muttered, his voice cold and distant. “It doesn’t fix what happened. It doesn’t fix what you did.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you nodded. “I know,” you whispered. “I’m not trying to fix it. I just… I just wanted you to know that it’s over. That he’s not part of this anymore.”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. “It was never about him,” he said, his voice dripping with bitterness. “It was about us. Or whatever the hell this is.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his frustration spilling over. “And I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

You swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting through you like a knife. “I don’t either,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But I miss you, Stan. I miss us. And I’m sorry—God, I’m so sorry.”

Stan’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he stared down at the floor. The room was heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid, the air thick with tension and regret. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence wrapping around you like a shroud.

Finally, Stan lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in weeks. “You don’t get to just say sorry and expect it to fix everything,” he said, his voice trembling. “But… I don’t know. Maybe I needed to hear it anyway.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening as the tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. It was hard to meet Stan’s eyes—those blue eyes that had seen you at your worst, that now held a mixture of exhaustion and guarded curiosity. But you forced yourself to speak, your voice trembling with every word.

“I—” you started, your voice cracking immediately. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I thought… that night in my dorm… I thought if I could make you forget, even just for a little while, that maybe you’d feel better. That whatever you were dealing with, whatever was hurting you, it wouldn’t feel so heavy.”

Stan blinked, his expression hardening slightly, but he stayed quiet. His silence felt like a double-edged sword—an invitation to continue, but also a sharp reminder of how much your actions had hurt him.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you went on, your voice quieter now, each word weighing down on your chest. “I just… I’ve seen you spiral before, Stan. I’ve seen what it does to you, how it eats you alive. And I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Stan let out a sharp exhale, leaning back slightly and running a hand through his hair. “So your solution was to use me?” he asked, his tone bitter but not as sharp as it could’ve been. “You thought making me… what, lose myself in you would somehow fix everything?”

“I wasn’t trying to use you!” you shouted, your voice sharp and raw. “How could you even say that? You think I wanted to hurt you? You think I wanted to make things worse?”

Stan flinched at your outburst but didn’t say anything. His silence only fueled your anger, the dam of your emotions cracking wide open.

“I just wanted to make you feel better!” you screamed, the words tumbling out of you in a messy, desperate rush. “I didn’t know what else to do, Stan! You were falling apart, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t just sit there and watch you drown!”

His head jerked up, his blue eyes blazing with emotion. “So what? You thought kissing me, escalating things—doing all of that would somehow fix me?” His voice cracked, the hurt in it cutting you deeper than you thought possible. “Dude, do you know how fucked up that is?”

“I know it’s fucked up!” you yelled back, your voice shaking as fresh tears spilled down your face. “I know I handled it wrong, okay? I know I made a mess of everything, and I hate myself for it! But I wasn’t using you, Stan. I swear to God, I wasn’t.”

Stan stared at you, his jaw tightening, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white. “Then what the hell were you doing?” he demanded, his voice quieter but no less intense. “What was all of that supposed to be?”

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your emotions threatened to swallow you whole. You looked down at your lap, shaking your head as you sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I was trying to help you,” you stammered. “I just wanted to see you smile again. I wanted to make you feel something good—anything other than what you were feeling.”

Stan’s eyes softened, but his expression remained guarded. “And that’s supposed to make it okay?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

“No, it doesn’t make it okay!” you shot back, your voice cracking as you threw your hands in the air. “Nothing about this is okay! But I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Stan. I just… I just…”

You sucked in a ragged breath, the words bubbling up before you could stop them. “I love you, okay?” you shouted, the confession bursting from you like a wound splitting open. “I love you, and I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember! And I didn’t know what to do when I saw you falling apart, and I panicked, and I made a mistake!”

The room fell deathly silent, your words hanging heavy in the air. Stan’s eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as he stared at you, stunned into silence.

You buried your face in your hands, sobbing harder now, the weight of your confession crashing down on you. “I know I screwed up. I know what I did was wrong. But I swear to you, Stan, I just wanted to help. I just wanted to make it better.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The sound of your crying filled the room, raw and unrelenting, as Stan sat frozen beside you. Finally, he exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as his own emotions threatened to spill over.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before it got so… so fucked up?”

You shook your head, your words muffled behind your hands. “Because I was scared,” you admitted. “Scared that you’d hate me, scared that I’d lose you, scared that I’d mess everything up—and I did anyway.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Yeah, you did,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “But… I’m not blameless either.”

You looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes, your breath catching as you saw the raw vulnerability etched across his face. His hands trembled as they rested on his knees, and his gaze flickered between you and the floor.

“Why do you hate Damien so much?” you asked softly, your voice trembling as you tried to bridge the chasm between you. “And why did you… start to spiral after that night? After we practiced?”

“You want to know why I spiraled?” he asked, his voice low and rough. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Because seeing you happy with Damien—seeing you in a relationship—made me realize something I’d been too scared to admit to myself for years.”

You stayed silent, your breath hitching as you waited for him to continue. His blue eyes, rimmed red from unshed tears, locked onto yours.

“It made me realize I’ve always loved you,” Stan confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words carried a weight that seemed to fill the entire room. “Since we were kids. Through everything. You’ve always been there, and I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe it was just friendship or something, but seeing you with him—watching you look at him the way I’ve always wanted you to look at me—made it impossible to ignore.”

Your heart clenched painfully, and your tears spilled over as his words sank in. “Stan…” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying this to guilt you or make you feel bad. I know I screwed up too, okay? I know I pushed you away when I should’ve just been honest. But watching you be with someone else made me realize how much I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me. And it fucking killed me, because I wanted to be the one who made you happy. I’ve always wanted to be that person.”

You felt like your heart was breaking and mending all at once, the weight of his confession crashing over you. “I didn’t know…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Of course, you didn’t,” Stan said, his tone softer now, tinged with resignation. “I never told you. I didn’t even let myself admit it until it was too late. But it’s the truth. It’s always been you.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you reached out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Stan,” you said, your voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know I was making you feel like that.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and something else—something softer, more fragile. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean to. And I don’t blame you for moving on or trying to be happy. I just… I couldn’t handle it. And that’s on me.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but different this time, as if something had shifted between you. Finally, Stan let out a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know if things can ever go back to the way they were,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way. I’ve loved you my whole damn life, and I don’t know how to stop.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of Stan’s confession pressing against your chest. Your breath caught, your pulse pounding in your ears as you searched his face, taking in every crack in his composure, every flicker of raw emotion in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “But I know I don’t want to lose you, Stan. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

His gaze flickered to yours, hesitant and vulnerable, as if he was bracing himself for whatever came next. “You didn’t lose me,” he said softly. “I don’t think you ever could.”

The knot in your stomach loosened just slightly at his words, but the ache in your chest remained. Slowly, you leaned in closer, your hands trembling as you reached out to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the faintest tremor in his jaw as he looked up at you.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the words left your mouth, the question carrying more weight than you could have ever anticipated.

Stan’s eyes widened for a moment, his breath hitching. He didn’t answer right away, and for a terrifying second, you thought you might have pushed too far, too fast. But then, he nodded, just once, his gaze locked on yours.

You leaned in slowly, your heart in your throat as you closed the gap between you. Your lips brushed his, soft and tentative, like you were both testing the waters, afraid of drowning but too desperate to stay away. His breath hitched again, but then his hands came up, one settling on the curve of your waist, the other tangling gently in your hair.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The guilt, the fear, the pain—it all melted into the background, leaving just the two of you, tangled up in the unspoken truths and years of emotions that had finally come to light.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice shaky but resolute. “I don’t know if I can make up for everything. But I want to try.”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, something fragile but unbreakable. “Me too,” he whispered, his voice rough but sincere. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Stan’s breath hitched as your lips met his again, the sudden intensity catching him off guard. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. He froze for a split second, his heart slamming against his ribcage, before his hands found your waist, steadying you.

What the hell is happening? The thought raced through his mind, tangled with a thousand others—your warmth, the softness of your lips, the way your fingers threaded through his hair like you were trying to memorize every strand. He felt dizzy, like the world had been tilted on its axis and he was still trying to find his balance.

She loves me. The words echoed in his head, impossible and overwhelming. She actually loves me.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. And yet, here you were, holding him like he was something worth holding onto, kissing him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as if to reassure himself this was real.

She’s not pulling away. That realization sent a bolt of something electric through his chest. All the years of pining, of watching you from afar, of convincing himself he could never have this—it all dissolved in the heat of your kiss.

But there was still a tiny voice in the back of his mind, nagging and relentless. What if she regrets this? What if you’re just another distraction, another mistake she’ll hate herself for later? The thought made his stomach twist, but he shoved it down, focusing on the way your lips moved against his, the way your body felt pressed against his.

As you shifted in his lap, pulling yourself impossibly closer, Stan let out a quiet gasp, his hands instinctively gripping your hips. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the world around him. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his as your breaths mingled in the charged space between you.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, his voice cracking. His fingers traced slow, hesitant patterns on your waist, his touch light but grounding. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting this, wanting you.”

You smiled softly, your hands framing his face as you looked at him with an intensity that made his chest ache. “It’s real,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain. “I’m here, Stan. I’m not going anywhere.”

He wanted to believe you. Wanted to believe that he could have this, that he could have you. But the fear still lingered, a shadow he couldn’t quite shake. Still, as you leaned in and kissed him again, Stan let himself forget about the doubts, the guilt, the pain—just for a little while.

Stan blinked, still dazed from the kiss, as he felt you hide your face against his neck. Your breath was warm against his skin, your words spilling out in a nervous tumble.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice muffled and trembling. “I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. I’m not trying to use you, I swear. If you’re not okay with this, just tell me, and I’ll stop. I’ll—”

Stan’s arms instinctively tightened around you, cutting off your rambling. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You pulled back just slightly, your eyes searching his with a mix of uncertainty and vulnerability. Your cheeks were flushed, and your lips were slightly swollen from the kiss, and it hit him all over again just how real this moment was.

“I mean it,” you said, your voice cracking. “I’ll stop if you want me to. I don’t want to mess this up, Stan. I—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip as tears welled in your eyes.

Stan reached up, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His heart clenched at the sight of you so raw and open, and he realized how much he hated seeing you like this—so unsure of yourself, so afraid.

“Stop,” he said gently, his voice carrying a softness he didn’t know he was capable of. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You’re not using me. I promise you’re not.” He let out a shaky breath, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “And if I wasn’t okay with this, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t be here like this with you.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching, and he could see the conflict in your eyes—the doubt, the guilt, the lingering fear that you were somehow doing something wrong. But he wasn’t going to let you spiral. Not now.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Stan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared too, okay? I don’t know if we’re doing this right, or if we’re gonna screw it up, but…” He paused, his thumb still brushing your cheek, grounding both of you. “I don’t care. I just know I want to figure it out with you.”

Your lip quivered as you looked at him. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. ��Thank you,” you whispered against his shoulder, your voice choked with emotion.

Stan let out a small, relieved laugh, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “We’re in this together, okay? No more overthinking. No more guilt. Just… us.”

You pulled back slightly, your heart hammering in your chest as you looked into Stan’s eyes. They were so close, so full of emotion that it made your breath hitch. The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and unfiltered.

“Can I be yours?” you asked, your voice trembling. “I mean… officially? I want to be your girlfriend, Stan.”

Stan froze, his lips parting slightly as the words settled between you. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened their hold ever so slightly. His brows knit together, a mix of hesitation and disbelief crossing his face.

“You really want that?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost unsure. “Even after everything I’ve put you through?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve made mistakes too, and I know I hurt you, but I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you, and I don’t want to keep pretending like I don’t.”

His breath hitched, and he exhaled sharply, his eyes softening as he took in your words. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice thick. He paused, searching your face for any sign of doubt, before letting out a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah. You can be mine. You’ve always been mine, really.”

Your chest felt like it might explode, the sheer weight of the moment leaving you breathless. Before you could stop yourself, you asked, “So… you’ll be mine too?”

Stan blinked at you, his lips twitching into a faint, lopsided smile. “I wanna be your boyfriend,” he said simply. His voice was rough, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his tone. “I wanna do it right this time. Dates, hand-holding, all of it. I wanna go on walks with you—just us.”

Tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. Relief, joy, and overwhelming affection coursed through you. “I want that too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but sure.

Stan’s hands moved to cradle your face. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The kiss deepened, your breath hitching as you pressed closer to him. Every brush of his lips against yours sent sparks through your body, and you felt a quiet desperation in the way you clung to him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, the intensity of the moment making it hard to breathe.

Stan’s lips curved against yours, and you could feel the faintest hint of a smile as he pulled back just slightly. His forehead rested against yours, and his voice was soft but tinged with amusement. “You’re, uh… getting a little carried away there, dude,” he teased, his own breathing uneven.

Your face burned, and you tried to pull back, but his hands stayed firm on your waist, grounding you. “Sorry,” you mumbled, your voice shaky as your eyes darted away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” Stan interrupted gently, tilting your chin so you’d look at him again. His blue eyes were warm, filled with something so soft and unguarded that it made your chest ache. “I didn’t say I minded.”

You bit your lip, a small, nervous laugh escaping you as you tried to steady yourself. “I just… I really want this to work, Stan. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly, his thumbs brushing soft circles on your hips. “We’ve both screwed up enough to know what we don’t want. This… this is what I want.” His voice lowered, his words carrying an almost reverent weight. “You’re what I want.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they didn’t spill. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower, softer, but no less fervent. The way his hands moved, holding you as if you might disappear, made your heart swell.

You shifted slightly in his grasp, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The soft rustle of fabric drew Stan’s attention, and his hands instinctively tightened their grip on your waist as you pulled the shirt over your head, leaving you in just your bra.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice trembling with nervousness, your eyes locked onto his for any sign of hesitation. Your cheeks burned, your vulnerability on full display, but the warmth in his gaze made your pulse race.

Stan swallowed hard, his eyes flickering over you before quickly darting back to your face. “Y-Yeah,” he said, his voice a little shaky but sincere. “But… you don’t have to do this just because you think you need to.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just— I want to be close to you, Stan. I want this to feel… right. With you.”

His breath hitched, and he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It already does,” he murmured, his voice softer now, steadier. “You don’t have to do anything to prove that.”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding as you searched his eyes. The sincerity in his words made your chest ache, but it didn’t quell the need you felt—this overwhelming desire to bridge every gap that had ever existed between you.

Stan’s hands moved slowly, tentatively, as if giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brushed against your sides, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “We don’t have to rush this,” he said, his voice low, his blue eyes filled with something tender, almost reverent. “I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

“I know,” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief, but it held every ounce of emotion you couldn’t put into words. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you let out a shaky breath. “I want to, Stan. I’m sure.”

Stan exhaled sharply, his hands still resting on your bare sides, his thumbs brushing against your skin. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice laced with both hesitation and determination. “But if you ever feel like it’s too much, just tell me. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered, your lips curving into a faint, nervous smile.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken emotions. And then Stan leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deeper, more certain, more consuming than any before. 

Stan’s fingers played at the hemline of your sweatpants, his touch light but deliberate, sending sparks through your skin. He teasingly dipped his fingers just below the waistband, his lips brushing against yours in a way that left you breathless.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, and his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Can I?” he asked, his fingers still toying with the fabric. “Can I take these off?”

Your cheeks burned as his question lingered in the air, your chest tightening with both anticipation and nervousness. You swallowed hard, nodding before you found your voice. “Yeah,” you murmured, so quiet it was almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. “Yeah, you can.”

Stan hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of uncertainty. When he found none, his hands slid to your hips, his touch steady despite the slight tremor in his fingers. Slowly, he tugged your sweatpants down, his movements careful, almost reverent.

The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off him as he leaned back, his gaze flickering over you. His eyes softened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a faint smile.

“You’re… stunning,” he said, his voice thick, the words carrying a weight that made your heart ache in the best way.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively reached for him, pulling him closer as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t have to say that,” you mumbled, your voice muffled and shy.

Stan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you as he rested his hands on your waist. “I’m not saying it because I have to,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Your laugh was soft, a nervous yet genuine sound that made Stan’s smile widen against your temple. His hands, warm and steady, shifted you gently so your back pressed against his chest, the closeness making your heart race. His breath tickled your ear as he leaned forward, resting his head against your shoulder, his lips brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Stan’s fingers found the waistband of your panties, his touch featherlight, teasing, as he traced the elastic edge with slow, deliberate movements. You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, your hands instinctively rising to cover your face in a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

Stan’s hands gripped your waist firmly, keeping you steady as his lips moved against your shoulder, leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His voice, low and rough, sent shivers straight to your core. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, his fingers teasing just under the waistband of your panties. “Can I touch you? Really touch you?”

Your breath hitched, a mix of nerves and anticipation making your voice tremble. “Y-Yeah,” you stammered, nodding as you shifted slightly, giving him permission. “Please.”

His chuckle was warm, vibrating against your skin. “That’s all I needed to hear.” Slowly, deliberately, his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, brushing against the heat of your slick folds. A sharp inhale left your lips as he dragged a finger down your slit, collecting the wetness there before circling your clit with maddening patience.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe. His lips found your neck again, sucking lightly as his fingers slid back down, testing your entrance. “All for me?”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his arms for support. “Yeah,” you whispered, barely audible, your walls clenching around nothing as you felt his finger press into you, slow and careful.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, his tone soothing yet filled with need. “Relax for me. Let me make you feel good.” His finger eased in deeper, and you bit your lip, overwhelmed by the stretch even though it was gentle. “So tight,” he groaned, curling his finger slightly to test your reaction.

Your hips moved instinctively, seeking more, a soft moan escaping you as he found a rhythm, each slow thrust of his finger coaxing more sounds from you. “Stan,” you gasped, his name leaving your lips like a plea.

He kissed your neck again, adding a second finger with care, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you from pulling away. “You’re perfect,” he rasped, his fingers pumping steadily now, scissoring slightly to stretch you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, making him impossibly harder. “Taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

Your breath hitched at the word, a new kind of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with his touch. Baby. You’d never heard him call you that before, and the intimacy of it sent a jolt straight to your chest. “Baby?” you repeated breathlessly, your voice trembling as you looked back at him. Stan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his fingers never slowing. “Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. “You are, aren’t you?” The way he said it—so natural, so sure—made your heart twist in a way that almost hurt.

Your head fell back against his chest, your thighs trembling as his pace quickened. He curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out, your nails digging into his arm. “Right there,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, Stan—”

“I got you,” he interrupted, his voice low and rough as his lips brushed your ear. “Gonna make you cum for me. Just let go.”

Your walls fluttered around his fingers as he pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent pleasure shooting through you. The pressure built quickly, your moans growing louder as you bucked against his hand. “Stan—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he growled, his teeth grazing your neck as his fingers thrust faster, relentless now. “Let me feel it.”

Your body tensed, then shattered as you came, your cries muffled as you bit down on your lip. Your thighs clenched around his hand, and he didn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your orgasm until you slumped back against him, boneless and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with pride as he pressed soft kisses to your temple. Slowly, he eased his fingers out of you, and your breath hitched at the loss. He held them up, glistening with your release, before meeting your gaze with a smirk. “So sweet,” he muttered, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks burned, but the heat in his gaze made you shiver all over again. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice still shaky. You didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. He leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, grounding you as you melted into him.

Your fingers moved instinctively, threading into Stan’s hair as you deepened the kiss, your lips parting against his in a rhythm that left your heart pounding. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, grounding yet electric all at once. Slowly, your hands trailed downward, brushing over the hem of his shirt before settling at the button of his jeans. You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking up to meet his as you worked the zipper down with trembling fingers. His sharp intake of breath was audible, his lips parting as though to say something, but the weight of the moment rendered him silent. 

Your fingers grazed the waistband of his boxers. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard sent a thrill through you. Slowly, you tugged at the elastic, watching as his cock sprang free, heavy and already leaking at the tip.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers hesitating for a split second before wrapping around him, the weight of him warm and solid in your hand. His reaction was immediate—his head fell back slightly, his lips parting with a low groan that sent shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," Stan muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the sheets beside him. His hips twitched slightly, as though he was holding himself back. "You don’t… you don’t have to—"

You cut him off with a soft laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his precum. "I want to," you murmured, your voice soft but certain, your hand starting to pump slowly, spreading the slickness along his length. "Let me take care of you, Stan."

His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to move with more confidence. You blew softly against his weeping head, watching as he twitched under your touch. “How are you this pretty everywhere?” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your lips curled into a faint smile as his eyes snapped open, dark and filled with need.

“Pretty?” he huffed, a shaky laugh escaping him as he tried to focus on your face. “You’re killing me here, dude.”

You didn’t respond, instead letting your tongue drag slowly down the length of him before circling back up to the head. His reaction was everything—his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through it as his head fell back. "Shit—" he hissed, the sound rough and desperate.

When your lips finally closed around him, taking him inch by inch, his hips bucked slightly despite his effort to stay still. You moaned softly around him, the vibrations drawing a choked sound from his throat. "Fuck, baby," he groaned, his voice rough. "You feel so—"

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper until his tip brushed the back of your throat. His grip on your hair tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to ground himself. "Slow down," he rasped, though the way his hips shifted betrayed how much he wanted more. "You’re—fuck—so good."

The wet, lewd sounds filled the room as you worked him over, your hand stroking the base while your tongue teased his slit. His thighs trembled under your touch, and the low, broken moans spilling from his lips only spurred you on. “Dude, I’m—” he gasped, his voice catching. “I’m close—”

He tried to tug at your hair, as if to pull you off, but you shook your head slightly, keeping your lips sealed around him. You tightened your grip on his hips, holding him in place as his cum spilled hot down your throat. He moaned your name, the sound raw and unrestrained, his body trembling as you swallowed every drop.

When you finally pulled back, a string of saliva and his release connected your lips to his cock. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, meeting his gaze with a mixture of shyness and satisfaction. "You taste so good," you murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, letting him taste himself.

Stan was still panting, his chest heaving as his hands cupped your face gently. "You’re… incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He kissed you deeply, his lips moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough. "And, dude, I think you might’ve just ruined me."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your lips against his once more. “Do you…” You hesitated, biting your lip as your cheeks flushed. “Do you have a condom?”

Stan blinked at you, his darkened gaze clearing slightly as your words registered. He stared at you for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and a flicker of something softer, almost hesitant. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low but steady, his thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of intent. “If you are.”

Stan’s lips parted as he let out a shaky breath, his hands dropping from your face to rest on your waist. “I, uh…” He glanced toward his nightstand, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I think I do. Hold on.”

You shifted slightly, giving him space as he leaned over to open the drawer. His movements were hurried but not frantic, his fingers rummaging through the clutter until he found what he was looking for. He held up the foil packet with a small, nervous laugh. “Got it.”

Your cheeks burned as you watched him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. “Okay,” you said softly, your hands fidgeting slightly in your lap. “I’ve never… I mean, I don’t really know how this works, so…”

Stan paused, the condom in his hand, and turned back to you. The teasing smile he usually wore softened into something more serious, more earnest. He reached out, taking your hand in his and squeezing it gently. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “We’ll go slow, okay? We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You nodded, his reassurance grounding you as you met his gaze. “I trust you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Stan’s expression softened further, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I promise.”

You watched as he fumbled briefly with the condom, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he rolled it on. The vulnerability in his movements tugged at something deep in your chest. While he was focused, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra with shaky fingers before sliding it off. Your panties followed, leaving you completely bare before him.

When Stan turned back to you, his gaze landed on your form, and he froze. A breathless laugh escaped him, one hand running through his dark hair as he took you in. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The awe in his tone made your cheeks flush, and you instinctively tried to cover yourself with your arms.

“Don’t,” Stan said gently, his hands catching yours and lowering them. “Don’t hide from me. Please.”

Your heart pounded as he leaned forward, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone before trailing lower. His lips found your nipples, sucking lightly at the sensitive buds, and you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair.

“Ah—S-stan,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He didn’t reply, but the warmth of his kisses and the way he held you so delicately spoke volumes. He positioned his hard cock at your entrance, his eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching your face for any hesitation. His tip was dripping from his previous release, and the way he dragged himself across your slit, in an almost teasing manner, made you shudder.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. “I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

Stan exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against yours as he began to push forward slowly. His length parts your walls, inch by inch. The stretch was unfamiliar, and you tensed for a moment, but his hands on your waist were grounding, his voice soft and reassuring.

“Relax dude,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you. Tell me if it’s too much.”

You bit your lip, focusing on the sound of his breathing and the way his hands held you like you were something fragile and precious. Slowly, he eased further inside, his movements careful until he was fully in. Your hips were touching now, and the sensation was maddening.

“You okay?” Stan asked, his voice hoarse as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes—from pain, but also from the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. “I’m okay,” you whispered, your fingers trailing along his jaw. “I’m more than okay.”

Stan’s lips curved into a soft smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips. “You’re everything,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I hope you know that.”

You didn’t respond with words at first, instead pulling him closer and wrapping your arms around his neck, your lips pressing softly to him again. The kiss deepened naturally, slow and deliberate, as though neither of you wanted the moment to slip away. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping the flesh of your ass, and you could feel the faint tremble in his touch.

“God, Stan…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you gazed into his eyes. Your cheeks burned as you added hesitantly, “Please move.”

Stan exhaled shakily, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint as he slowly drew his hips back. He watched your expression closely, searching for any sign of discomfort as he thrusted forward again.

The stretch was still there, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. Instead, a new kind of heat unfurled within you, building with each careful movement. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the sensation of him, the closeness of his body against yours.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His lips brushed against your temple, trailing down to your jawline as he found a steady but punishing rhythm. “So fucking tight—so tight.”

Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as the pleasure began to build. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Y-you’re so deep, I—” You're cut off by his cock twitching against your walls at your words, a shiver coursing through your body.

His strokes become faster and deeper, his hands roaming your body with reverence. The intimacy of it all—the way he kissed you between every thrust, the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred—sent a surge of warmth through you that had nothing to do with the physical connection.

Stan’s lips pressed against your neck, sucking and nibbling on your soft skin. The tightening of your walls stopped his advances, his breath coming out in soft, uneven pants. “I can’t believe this is real,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “You… you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re—ah—you’re so good f’me.”

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks as your eyes met his. “I—fuck, I love you,” you moaned, your voice all over the place due to the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. “This is s-so not real.”

Stan’s lips captured yours again, a quiet groan escaping him as he deepened the kiss. His thrusts grew slightly faster, more confident, and you arched into him, a gasp slipping from your lips as he fucked that spot that made your vision blur.

“Right there,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice trembling as he clung to you like you were his lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. Always.”

The tension built higher and higher, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge. His name fell from your lips in a breathless chant, and when his hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb circling your clit, it was enough to send you spiraling.

“Stan. Stan, oh my G-god,” You choked out, your nails clawing his shoulder blades leaving red, angry marks in their wake. Stan could feel your slick arousal dripping against him, creating audible squelching noises, and he knew you were close.

Your release hit you hard, your cunt fluttering around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Stan followed shortly after, a guttural moan leaving his lips as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering against yours. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom as it expanded. The way he held you so tightly as if afraid to let go, left you feeling safe, cherished.

As the aftershocks faded, Stan eased himself back slightly, his hands cradling your face as he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse but gentle.

The soft, hoarse question lingered in the air, and you managed a shaky, “Yeah,” your voice barely above a whisper. Stan let out a small breath of relief, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as if grounding both of you. His lips pressed against your forehead again, warm and comforting, before he shifted slightly.

The sensation of him pulling out was slow and careful, but it still made you whine softly, the emptiness leaving a dull ache behind. Your cheeks burned as the sound escaped you, and Stan’s gaze immediately snapped to your face, a faint flicker of worry crossing his features.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his hands sliding down to rest lightly on your hips. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shook your head quickly, your arms wrapping instinctively around his neck to pull him closer. “No,” you murmured, your voice still trembling. “I just… I don’t know. I feel… weird without you.”

Stan’s expression softened at your words, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “Weird?” he repeated, the word coming out in a gentle tease as he kissed the tip of your nose. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?”

You hesitated, the vulnerability of the moment making your chest tighten. “Good, I think,” you admitted finally, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I just… I don’t want you to let go.”

Stan’s arms tightened around you at that, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a soft, contented sigh. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

For a while, neither of you moved, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket. The weight of everything—the vulnerability, the connection, the raw emotion—settled into something warm and steady, a feeling that made you fuzzy all over.

Finally, Stan pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as he broke the silence. “Let’s clean up, yeah? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.

A playful grin tugged at your lips despite the lingering warmth in your chest. “Okay, boyfriend,” you teased, your voice still a little shaky but lighter now.

Stan rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a faint smirk. “Love you, girlfriend,” he shot back, his tone carrying just enough sarcasm to make you laugh softly.

“Good,” you replied, still smiling as you brushed your fingers through his hair. “Because I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

His smirk softened into something more genuine, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve got no idea,” he murmured, leaning in to press another kiss to your lips.

After a moment, Stan pulled back, his cheeks slightly flushed as he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, seriously though, let me grab something to clean us up. Be right back.”

Kyle leaned back against the dorm door, his legs stretched out on the hallway floor as he scrolled through his phone. The muffled sounds of your voices arguing inside were barely audible, but every now and then a sharp tone or raised word would cut through. He rolled his eyes, letting out a soft scoff as he aimlessly refreshed his feed. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Minutes passed, and the dorm grew quiet. Too quiet. Kyle glanced at the door, debating whether to knock or just barge in to check if you two had killed each other. Just as he was pushing himself to stand, his ears caught something unmistakable—a faint moan followed by the rhythmic creak of the bed frame.

Kyle froze.

His phone slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as his eyes went wide. For a moment, he stood there in disbelief, his face heating up so quickly it felt like steam might shoot from his ears. "What the actual fuck?" he whispered to himself, his voice tinged with panic.

The creaking continued, and Kyle bolted, muttering curses under his breath as he sprinted down the hall. His thoughts were a jumbled mess—equal parts disbelief, irritation, and a deep desire to bleach his brain.

Reaching Kenny and Cartman’s shared dorm, Kyle didn’t bother to knock. He shoved the door open, startling the two boys who were mid-conversation. Kenny blinked up at him from his seat on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Cartman, lounging in a beanbag chair with a bag of chips in hand, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s your problem, dude?” Cartman asked, crunching obnoxiously loud.

Kyle stood there, chest heaving, his face still flushed a deep red. And then he started laughing. Not the normal kind of laugh either—it was a borderline maniacal, disbelieving cackle that had Kenny and Cartman exchanging wary glances.

Through his hysterics, Kyle waved a hand, doubling over slightly as he tried to catch his breath. “Don’t ask,” he managed to choke out between gasps of air, his laughter tapering into a slightly unhinged giggle.

Kenny leaned back, taking a long drag from his cigarette as he eyed Kyle skeptically. “Did you, like, witness a murder or something?”

“Nope,” Kyle said, his voice cracking as he wiped at his eyes. “Worse.”

Cartman snorted. “Worse than a murder? Doubt it, bro.”

Kyle just shook his head, sinking into the nearest chair and burying his face in his hands. “Just… I’m never going near that dorm again,” he muttered, his voice muffled but filled with exasperation.

poor kyle... | part one

[maisie183]

The silence between us

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: You’ve just started working at Miami Metro as a forensic scientist, and though Dexter Morgan initially seems distant and emotionless, his quiet presence begins to draw you in. As the friendship slowly develops, you find yourself falling for him, even though you’re convinced that he doesn’t share the same feelings. Little do you know, Dexter is battling an internal conflict of his own.

Warnings: Mild language, psychological tension, slow-burn romance, minor violence (typical for a Dexter setting), angst  

Word Count: 1,343 words

Miami heat had a way of sticking to your skin, making every breath feel heavy and damp. The cold blast of the A/C inside Miami Metro Homicide was always a relief, though the sterile environment felt unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

You weren't sure what you expected from your first day as a forensic scientist in the trace evidence department, but the place was already bustling when you walked in. Detectives scurried from one desk to another, phones ringing off the hook, and conversations about cases filled the air.

You were just trying to find your footing, balancing coffee in one hand, a new ID badge in the other, and navigating the maze of desks when you spotted him—Dexter Morgan. Everyone knew his name. He was the mysterious blood-spatter analyst, infamous for being exceptional at his job but with a demeanor that left people guessing. You’d heard whispers about his distant personality, the kind of guy who never really let anyone in.

He was there, sitting quietly at his desk, eyes focused on some blood-pattern analysis, the sharp angles of his face set in concentration. His posture was relaxed, but there was a coldness to him—a silence that felt unnatural. You swallowed and continued on, trying not to stare.

Over the next few weeks, you settled into your role, working on trace evidence analysis alongside Dexter, though you rarely exchanged more than a few words. It wasn’t until the third week, during an unusually gruesome case involving a triple homicide, that you finally had a conversation that wasn’t purely professional.

You were both tasked with examining the scene. Dexter was working on blood spatter while you gathered trace fibers. The quiet tension in the room seemed to thicken as you moved around the scene in silence. It was hard to ignore the way Dexter was so methodical, calculating, and completely detached from the violence.

“Does this stuff ever get to you?” you asked, breaking the silence, your voice slightly muffled by the forensic mask covering your mouth. You weren’t sure why you were talking to him, but the eerie stillness of the crime scene and his distant nature compelled you to reach out.

Dexter didn’t look up from his work. “No.”

One word. Simple. Cold.

You blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Not even a little?”

He paused, turning his head slightly to glance at you, his eyes unreadable beneath the fluorescent lighting. “Should it?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I guess not. It’s just… a lot to process sometimes.”

He nodded, but there was no flicker of emotion in his expression, nothing to suggest that he understood what you were saying on any level. You decided to let the conversation die, returning to your work, though his cold demeanor lingered in your mind long after you left the scene.

----

Despite his distant nature, you found yourself paired with Dexter more often than not. Cases brought you together, and while most of your conversations were minimal, you began to notice small things. The way his eyes would narrow when examining a particularly puzzling pattern, the occasional, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips when something amused him (though that was rare), and the fact that he seemed to enjoy your company—not that he’d ever admit it.

Lunches at the food truck parked outside Miami Metro became routine. You never ate together, per se, but it became normal to run into him, grab your food at the same time, and exchange brief conversations about the cases you were working on. His responses were always short, but he was attentive. The more you spoke, the more you started to see cracks in his cold exterior.

One afternoon, after a particularly long day in the lab, you both found yourselves in the break room. You were rummaging through the fridge, searching for your leftover sandwich, when Dexter walked in, grabbing his own lunch from the fridge. For a few minutes, the two of you ate in silence—something that had strangely become comfortable.

“Why trace evidence?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. You looked up, startled that he had initiated a conversation.

You shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s a puzzle, you know? Small things people don’t notice can tell the whole story.”

Dexter nodded, his gaze sharp. “I know what you mean.”

There was something in his voice, something dark and distant, that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You couldn’t quite place it, but you found yourself wanting to peel back the layers of whatever he was hiding.

“Why blood spatter?” you asked, returning the question.

Dexter’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Patterns are predictable.”

You smirked. “People aren’t.”

His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, there was something there—something unreadable but undeniable. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Dexter looked away, his mask back in place.

----

Over the next few months, you and Dexter settled into an odd but comfortable rhythm. You never defined it as a friendship, after all, Dexter wasn’t exactly the friendship type. But there was a familiarity in your interactions now, a quiet understanding that neither of you acknowledged aloud.

And yet, you couldn’t help but notice the way your chest tightened whenever he was near. The way his voice, calm and detached, made your heart skip in ways it shouldn’t. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing—that you were just overthinking things, and that Dexter, of all people, was probably the least likely person to ever reciprocate those feelings. He didn’t even seem capable of them.

But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering late at night, thinking about him. Thinking about the way his eyes lingered on yours during those rare moments of vulnerability. Wondering if there was something—anything—behind the cold mask he wore.

You were foolish for letting yourself feel this way. Dexter was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a riddle with no answer. And yet, you found yourself getting lost in his silence.

---.

One evening, long after everyone had left the office, you were still there, finishing up some final touches on a report. You were surprised when Dexter’s presence filled the doorway.

“Still here?” he asked, his voice as neutral as ever.

“Yeah, just finishing up,” you said, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your tired eyes. “You?”

“Same.”

There was a pause, a strange heaviness in the air as Dexter walked further into the room. For a moment, you wondered if he was going to say something, but instead, he moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened skyline.

“You don’t have to stay so late, you know,” you said, trying to break the silence. “You could let the rest of us handle things once in a while.”

“I don’t mind,” Dexter replied, his voice soft.

You watched him for a moment, the familiar tightening in your chest making it hard to breathe. There was something about the way he stood there, so completely isolated from the world around him. Something about the way his eyes looked out at the city but never really saw it.

“Do you ever feel… lonely?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted asking.

Dexter turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted. “No,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his gaze—something human.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Dexter turned back to the window, his mask firmly back in place.

You swallowed, the silence between you suddenly too loud. You stood from your chair, gathering your things. “I should go,” you said, your voice tight. “Goodnight, Dexter.”

He didn’t reply, and as you walked out of the office, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were falling for a man who would never be able to love you back.

----

To be continued???

-----------------

Writers Note: I just looked at the poll I did a few days back, and saw that a Dexter story was most appreciated from the voters. So here it is. For this story I again used an AI writing tool to help bring it to life, since as I said before, I am not a writer, I am a reader. I hope that is okay. The last thing I want, is to disrespect the writing community in any way. Btw, if someone has already posted a fic with the same themes/idea, tag them so I can also tag them on the pic here.

[lazysoulwriter]

The Game - Drew Starkey.

850 words kinda smut

It was a quiet night, the kind where you and Drew found yourselves sprawled on the couch, the soft glow of the TV flickering in the background. The two of you had been together for months, knowing each other better than you knew yourselves. And tonight, you decided to play a game. A simple game—well, simple in theory.

“A game of trust,” Drew had called it, his smirk almost too innocent as he set the rules: ask each other questions. If one of you got it wrong, you had to take something off.

At first, it seemed harmless enough. You’d both played silly games before, but there was something about the way his eyes lingered on you that made the room feel different. Charged. Dangerous, even.

“So,” Drew began, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze intense. “First question. What’s my full name?”

You grinned, leaning back on the couch with a thoughtful look. “Easy,” you said, your voice playful. “Drew Starkey.” You laugh.

His eyebrows shot up. “Don't be like this.” He laughs "Wrong."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Well, then I guess I’ve got to take something off,” you teased, standing up and slowly pulling your top over your head. You felt his gaze on you, his eyes darkening, but he didn’t say a word.

“Your turn,” you challenged, tossing your top onto the chair nearby.

He grinned, leaning back on the couch, looking at you with a glint of mischief. “Alright, alright. What’s my favorite movie?”

You narrowed your eyes, biting your lip. He’d mentioned it before, but you couldn’t quite remember. “I don’t know… The Godfather?”

His lips twitched. “Wrong again. It’s Pulp Fiction.”

A low laugh escaped your lips, and you shrugged. “I guess that means I have to take something else off, right?”

“Please,” he murmured, watching intently. “I’m not complaining.”

You slowly unbuttoned your jeans, taking your time, feeling the heat of his stare. The tension between you two was palpable now, and you both knew it wasn’t about the game anymore. It was about the undeniable pull that kept growing with each passing second.

“Alright, alright,” he said, clearly struggling to keep his cool. “Next question. What’s my least favorite food?”

You thought about it for a moment, running your fingers through your hair. “I’m going to guess… broccoli?”

Drew’s face lit up with a satisfied grin. “You got it. Broccoli’s disgusting.”

You playfully groaned, crossing your arms. “Finally, a right answer. Well, lucky for you, I don’t need to take anything else off.”

He chuckled, his eyes sweeping over you, still sitting with an air of quiet confidence. But as the game wore on, it became clear who was winning—and it wasn’t him.

It was your turn again, and you were feeling a bit too smug. Drew had been steadily losing this game, each question pulling him closer to… well, losing more than just a piece of clothing.

“You ready?” you asked, smirking. “What’s my favorite thing to do on a lazy Sunday?”

His eyes searched yours, and for a split second, you saw the calculation in his gaze. He knew you better than anyone else. But the question stumped him.

“Uh, nap?” he guessed, his voice uncertain.

“Nope,” you said with a slow shake of your head. “It’s binge-watching Netflix and eating pizza.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, sitting up straight and pulling off his shirt with exaggerated slowness. His muscles flexed as the fabric slid off his body, and the air between you two became thick with unspoken tension.

You couldn’t help but stare for a moment, admiring the way his body seemed to glow in the dim light of the room.

“Alright,” Drew said, trying to regain his composure. “Your turn.”

By now, the game had lost all pretense of innocence. There was no question you weren’t both aware of the heat building between you, and every piece of clothing lost seemed to make it worse.

As you looked at Drew, a mischievous smile tugged at your lips. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward. “Final question. What’s the one thing that drives me crazy when you do it?”

Drew’s lips curled into a sly grin. “I know this one. It’s when I… tease you. You can’t stand it when I do that.”

You stared at him for a moment before shaking your head. “Wrong. It’s when you… make me wait.”

His grin faltered for a second, and his eyes darkened with understanding. “So, I lose?” he asked softly.

You nodded, enjoying the way the tension seemed to vibrate in the air between you two. “You do.”

Before he could even process the words, you stood up, slowly walking toward him. You placed your hand on his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips.

“Now,” you said, voice low and teasing, “let’s see what happens next.”

He leaned forward, his lips grazing the side of your neck as his hands settled at your hips. “I think I’m going to enjoy this,” he murmured.

The game was over, but the night had just begun.

[stlllle]

Chishiya Shuntaro – NSFW Alphabet

Note:I hate him… but I also love him… ---

A = Aftercare

Cold? Yes.

Caring? Also yes.

This man will grab a warm towel, clean you up without saying a word, throw one of his oversized shirts at you like it’s a charity project, and then pull you to his chest like "ugh… fine… stay here."

Will call you an idiot for overdoing it… while running his fingers through your hair like you’re made of glass.

---

B = Body part

Your mouth.

Your voice. Your smile. Your kisses.

Especially when you argue with him while being out of breath.

He lives for that.

---

C = Cum

Possessive. Disgustingly possessive.

Inside, preferably.

But he also loves seeing you messy…

So don’t be surprised if he finishes on your face or stomach just to admire his “work”.

---

D = Dirty secret

He has jerked off thinking about you crying for him.

Yeah… that one time you fought and got emotional?

He used that memory.

Rotten to the core.

---

E = Experience

Very experienced.

Not a big body count… but when he does it…

He does it RIGHT.

Technical. Calculated. Perfect even in bed. (Ugh… of course.)

---

F = Favourite position

Missionary with your legs over his shoulders.

Because he loves seeing your face, your tears, your struggle to breathe.

If he’s feeling mean?

Bent over, with your face in the pillow while he ruins you.

---

G = Goofy

LOL… no.

Maybe a sarcastic smirk…

And dirty, degrading little comments like:

"I thought you could take more than that…"

---

G = Goal

To make you addicted.

Simple. Clear. Cruel.

He wants you trembling at just the thought of him.

---

H = Hair

Silky. Always smells good. Always perfect… until you ruin it.

Down there? Trimmed.

He’s too much of a clean freak for anything else.

---

I = Intimacy

Pretends he’s not romantic…

But the way he looks at you?

Like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Especially when he’s buried deep inside you, breathing heavy, hands shaking just a little.

---

J = Jack off

Yes. A lot.

Especially after arguments…

Or when you’re ignoring him on purpose.

Lying in bed, shirt pushed up, hand between his legs…

And thinking about the way you moan for him.

---

K = Kink

Degradation kink.

Loves seeing you break.

Teasing you until you cry (from pleasure, of course).

Control kink too…

Pinning you against walls… making you beg…

Yeah.

---

L = Location

Anywhere risky enough to make you bite your fingers to stay quiet.

Hallways. Public bathrooms. His car.

But… his bed is his throne.

Because nothing beats seeing you sprawled out on his sheets.

---

M = Motivation

Your voice.

Your needy eyes.

The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous.

Basically… everything you do that screams you’re his.

---

N = No

Fake drama.

Fake moans.

And above all: you trying to emotionally manipulate him.

He can read you like a damn book… so don’t even try.

---

O = Oral sex

King of oral.

Soft teasing kisses first… then absolutely devouring you until you scream.

Receiving?

He’ll hold your hair, watch you from above, smirk…

And won’t let you stop until he’s fully satisfied.

---

P = Pace

Starts slow… maddeningly slow…

Then goes rough and fast enough to leave bruises.

Switches between worshipping and destroying you.

Mental illness behavior? Yes.

---

Q = Quickie

Loves them.

Especially in risky places.

Corner of a hallway, during an event, bathroom at a party…

The more dangerous… the better.

---

R = Risk

This man thrives on emotional adrenaline.

Public sex? ✔️

Surprise you mid-conversation? ✔️

Playing with the risk of getting caught? ✔️✔️✔️

---

S = Stamina

HE CAN GO FOR HOURS.

At least 3 rounds, no problem.

And even when he’s spent…

He’ll tease you into wanting more.

---

T = Toys

Yup.

Small vibrators, plugs…

Maybe even handcuffs.

But only when you’re in the right mood.

---

U = Unfair

He lives to tease you.

Will start something and then leave you hanging.

Neck kisses, hands wandering down…

Then… stopping.

And smirking.

---

V = Volume

Low… but filthy.

Raspy moans, heavy breathing, and whispered filth like:

"Look at the state you’re in… just for me…"

---

W = Wildcard

He once jerked off in front of the mirror…

Imagining you on your knees behind him.

And if you find out?

He’ll just laugh and say:

"So… what are you gonna do about it?"

---

X = X-ray

Lean but long.

With a noticeable vein running along the shaft.

Slight curve…

Perfect for hitting all the right spots. (Suffering.)

---

Y = Yearning

Acts like he doesn’t want you…

But inside?

Desperate.

If you go missing for a few days?

He’ll crave you like an addict off withdrawal.

---

Z = Zzz

Afterwards?

Pulls you close from behind…

Plays with your hair until you fall asleep…

While he stays awake…

Thinking about how you’re his.