#this is all theory I don’t know anything I just wanna discuss

[jacarandaaaas]

another question! So the magic of encanto can do a lot of things as we know. I’ve been wondering does it effect their life spans? like we know julietas food heals but does it lengthen life? do those with gifts have enhanced endurance or pain tolerance? maybe they even live longer? like what are the effects of the magic on the persons body?

[fuqnia]

I Wanna Go on Walks with You (1) ₊˚⊹♡

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Stan, are you even listening to me?”

“Uh… yeah, dude…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You totally have.”

“I haven’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t,” he protested weakly.

“You so did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she say anything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stan, what—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Stan.

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

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

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

Nothing had changed.

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when you noticed it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stan was a fucking mess.

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

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

He couldn’t fucking stand it.

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

But he hadn’t stopped.

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

Tonight was no different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needed to stop thinking.

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

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

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

And then they were on each other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t.

It never fucking was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then you stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[poppyseed-cookie]

Okay! Time to finally do my lore discussions!

BEAST YEAST EPISODE 10, BUT THE THINGS THAT AREN’T RELATED TO ETERNAL SUGAR OR HOLLYBERRY

Yeah so um… SILENT SALT MENTION??

It would make sense for one of The Five Virtues to be regarded as “a most honored guest”, plus they are described as silent. You may be thinking, “but that looks nothing like Silent Salt!” but we know from their concept art that Veils were meant to be a big part of their design, and we know from the original Beast Yeast trailer that Silent Salt’s soul jam used to be white, so they likely had a more white color scheme than the black/purple we think their Beast form has. Basically, I think it makes perfect sense for Silent Salt to be portrayed as looking like this glowing white flowy figure.

Now, there’s the obvious that I’ve heard people theorize Even Before This. “Silent Salt betrayed the other Beasts”. I’m not saying that’s wrong, but let’s think about this.

First thing I wanna say is, I don’t think what we’re seeing here is Silent Salt as a Beast. Obviously, since I described how the design could fit their pre-corruption self, and the Faerie Kingdom wouldn’t want a Beast in their domain, but I think this takes place before ANY of the Virtues were Beasts.

Something that ALWAYS bugged me, was Elder Faerie’s story about the Beasts. I always hated how he said the story begins when the Silver Tree was just a sapling, only for the story to start when the beasts were still virtues. Like, didn’t you say the Silver Tree was planted to trap them? Why is there suddenly a sapling all the way at the beginning?

Well, I think I can finally rest easy. For whatever reason, Unsilent Salt planted the Silver Tree sapling with Elder Faerie. BEFORE the Beasts became a thing. So now the question is: why?

People think Silent Salt betrayed the other Beasts, and I’m unsure where I stand on that idea myself. It makes enough sense, especially as a parallel to how White Lily betrayed the other Ancients (as dark enchantress), but there are things about it that bug me.

For starters, Silent Salt IS a Beast. All of the Beasts have differing ideas, so not wanting any one of them to do whatever destruction they’re doing isn’t enough to say they’re a traitor. We’ve seen that Silent Salt was out there cutting people and moons in HALF during the Beast Go Crazy time. Eternal Sugar’s description to Hollyberry about what would happen if she left mentions Silent Salt as a threat, too. THEY ARE A BEAST. No matter their motivations (as some of the Beast’s motivations can seem well-intentioned), they are causing harm to Cookiekind.

So we can assume they don’t WANT to be sealed away. Maybe that’s wrong! But we have nothing that suggests they want to be trapped in a tree. Another thing is that none of the Beasts have said anything about being betrayed by their buddy Silent Salt. I acknowledge that the writers could be purposely avoiding that subject to avoid spoiling it, but at a certain point it’s just ridiculous. Surely SOMEONE would’ve said SOMETHING. Instead they only blame the Witches for their demise. My point is, despite changing Solidarity for Silence, Silent Salt Is One Of Them.

So we get back to the Why. Why did Solidarity Salt speak with Elder Faerie and get the Silver Tree planted? Was it… a safeguard? Did Virtue Salt worry that one day, they and their friends would forsake the world, and wanted a way to stop themselves? And… was this even the original intention behind the Silver Tree? Maybe the tree was meant for something else. Maybe it had no purpose at that point. Who knows.

I may think on it some more, though I’m more of a “wait and see” person. I’d be open to hearing yall theories tho.

Now onto the NEXT thing, that I haven’t seen anyone talk about yet (not that I’ve been actively searching):

AND THEN IT HITS US WITH THE “TO BE CONTINUED”???????

I feel we all assume this is leading into the Silent Salt story. That would make sense! It does say to be continued, and we know the next plot IS Silent Salt.

But then I’d like to bring up this:

Why was Shadow Milk collecting these berries…? It could’ve just been an excuse, but it’s such a weird thing to say I don’t feel like it was. People seem to think he’s referring to Pure Vanilla, which, if we assume this takes place DURING episodes 7-8, I could maybe see. But with the things he says after, about being careful with your Other Half, it seems like this is likely AFTER he gets his heart broken by Pure Vanilla. In which case, I do NOT see him calling PV his little struggling student.

You see where I’m going with this, yes? Seeing as I brought up the Gingerbrave thing FIRST? Indeed, it is my current theory that Shadow Milk is messing with Gingerbrave right now.

I mean, it literally says Near The Spire Of Deceit. Which COULD just be where he happens to be at the moment, but like… it’s strange huh? I doubt we got a Shadow Milk Cameo for No Reason. I think there’s a reason these two cameos are happening within the same episode: they may be connected.

I mean, didn’t Shadow Milk give Pure Vanilla nightmares too? It’s totally likely that this is his doing.

Now you’re probably going… “but poppy! Why would we get a Shadow Milk plot leading into the Silent Salt episodes?! Surely this is related to Silent Salt instead!!”

Now I’m going to say something that will make people mad: Shadow Milk is the Main Beast.

We’ve known this FROM THE START. He was the one that appeared in episodes 1-2, he was there in the Laboratorium, he is in the middle of the beast gacha image. He mirrors Pure Vanilla, who is the Ancient we follow the most, and is most closely related to our main characters. (Again a reason I think he might be messing with Gingerbrave: Pure Vanilla is always with him, so it makes sense for Shadow Milk to do the same, since Gingerbrave is the protagonist and PV and SM mirror each other).

I just know some salty people are out there thinking to themselves, “they threw in a Shadow Milk cameo just to pander to the fans!” No, I’m fairly certain his constant presence in the plot is entirely intentional whether the fans like him or not. He is THE MAIN BEAST. He will surely play a big role in the finale, which seems to be Silent Salt’s episodes. I mean, he was the first Beast we met. It was very strange imo to put his focus episodes smack dab in the middle, but it makes sense if he is meant to continue appearing.

So… they’re probably planning on wrapping up the Beast Yeast story in the Silent Salt episodes. Idk how to feel about that, depends on how they execute it I suppose. With the theories that Silent Salt had something to do with the beasts getting sealed away, it actually makes perfect sense, along with White Lily being the new Guardian of the Seal.

Gingerbrave may likely go along with White Lily on her journey to defeat her Beast, and then we’ll see what his nightmares are about probably. I can’t speculate too much on what will happen.

But basically I thiiink Shadow Milk is up to somethingggff

[spookyseb]

I guess this is my theory post on knife Ralsei

So the thought first came up because my brother and I were discussing Dark World logistics. There's always been the mystery of how Ralsei could travel to Dark Worlds, but we chalked it up to Castle Town magic for while. Eventually he realized that Ralsei being Kris’s knife explains it really well.

Kris brings it everywhere they go, but it isn’t visible to us in the inventory. We never see it become anything in the Dark World either. When Susie uses it to make a fountain, nothing is in her hands or in the ground once they’re inside. Even if it didn’t become a Darkner, you would expect it to at least be an item. If the knife became Ralsei, he could walk off and meet up with them later.

He never states exactly why he never turns to stone, and we’re left to assume it’s because he comes from Castle Town. But I think it could be that he doesn’t have a home location. He just belongs anywhere Kris goes.

All theories have merit, but I much prefer the thought that he’s an item we have seen. I kind of expect to never get a reveal of his light form. But if we do, I would be much more satisfied if he was here all along, rather than some lost item with little current importance.

I absolutely adore the idea that Kris cares about his Light World form to this day. How this affects his relationship with Kris is the reason I want it to be true.

Kris is already weirded out because this guy looks a lot like their brother that they miss. And he’s the nice goat monster they could never be. But on top of all that, it’s their beloved knife! They love that thing. They take such good care of it. And now it’s talking to them and trying to be friends. It’s the experience you would get if your dog started talking.

And Ralsei being so subservient to Kris would make so much sense. It’s not just because they’re a Lightner hero in the prophecy. They’re basically his best friend. He never takes what we do in bad faith because he knows how much Kris cares about him in the Light World.

I know Ralsei doesn’t look very knife-like, but I don’t think that’s a big issue? The designs for important Darkners seem to focus on being characters rather than objects.

It would also be cool if he looks this way because he doesn’t want to be the knife. He wants to be a fluffy companion who supports Kris with healing magic. Not a violent blade that hurts and creates dark fountains.

I just really like him as the knife because it makes me love Ralsei as much as I love Kris and Susie. I hope to convince someone that knife boy is an awesome idea.

I draw him more now. This is what knife boy does to you. Gives you the brainworms.

Drew hooves on him by the way, but only one set. It was my brother’s suggestion, because he thought it’d be cute if he was a little weird

Here’s the first drawing I did of Ralsei as the knife if you wanna see that too

[runraerun]

-> Part 2

**NOW WITH ART!

(Everyone go shower @stervrucht with love & reblogs because she is a treasure to this fandom and her generosity knows no bounds🖤thank-you bestie!)

AO3 | WC: 7.8k | Rated: E | CW: Internalized homophobia, references to the death of a parent, lots of swearing and general vulgarity from the both of them. Drug usage. Discussions of trading sex acts for drugs. Billy being an asshole but hey what’s new. | Tags: ADHD Eddie Munson, Semi-closeted Eddie, Fully-closeted Billy, One-Sided Steddie (or is it? We don’t know because of unreliable narrator reasons) Bully Billy Hargrove, Bullied Eddie Munson, Coming In Pants, Dry Humping, Eddie calls Billy ‘m’lord’ in here god help him, Happy Ending, some angst sprinkled throughout, but overall quite fluffy.

(Title is inspired by a song of the same name by Chromeo.)

Summary:

“I’ll cut you a deal, Munson,” Billy says, his icy-pop blue eyes and dark lashes illuminated by the end of his stolen cigarette. “I’ll let you have something. Y’know, as payment.”

But pretty as Billy is, Eddie’s no sucker. “I don’t do trades either.”

“You’re gonna wanna hear this trade.” Billy exhales a cloud of white smoke between them.

Eddie doubts it, but the sooner he hears it the sooner he can shoot it down. “Spit it out then.”

Billy Hargrove stands there, half-smirk on his face, hips tilted forward. Like he’s God’s fucking gift. “I’ll let you suck my dick.”

And that.

Well.

Eddie isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell isn’t that. 

Or, Billy tries to pay for drugs by offering to let Eddie blow him.

Of all the mugs Eddie expects to see in his neck of the woods, the one attached to Billy Hargrove, resident bad boy slash heartthrob with a notoriously short fuse and a mean right hook, is not one of ‘em.

The fact that he’s alone isn’t much of a comfort, but it’s… well, it’s something. It means if Billy’s planning on jumping him and stealing his stash, then at least Eddie’s got a shot at running and actually getting away with all his teeth intact.

Eddie sucks back on his cigarette, grateful he has something to do with his fidgeting hands as he eyes Hargrove’s approach. Tries his best to keep still—something he’s always been absolute dog shit at. Even as a little kid. They tossed words at him like Attention Deficit Disorder and Hyperactivity ’til the cows came home. Never changed anything, though. Mom always just called it ants in his pants. For Uncle Wayne, it was worms up his butt. All said in love, of course. Eddie was ant and worm-free, far as he knew. Just had a lot of energy is all. And a lot to say too. That isn’t a crime! But right now, under Billy Hargrove’s slow approach, he tries his damndest to get all his ants and his worms to settle down. No sudden moves in front of ticking time bombs.

“You’re Munson, right?” Hargrove asks in a low, slightly nasally voice. He’s stopped a few feet from the picnic table that Eddie’s perched on, his canister of goodies sitting unassumingly beside him.

Eddie fights his nerves—bulldozes over them, more like, and smiles wide, holding out his arms in a display of showmanship. “The one and only.”

Billy scoffs as his eyes travel around the clearing. Doesn’t seem too impressed by the ol’ Munson razzle-dazzle. “You alone out here?” he asks, eyes finally returning to Eddie’s.

Eddie shifts, leaning forward slightly—literally on edge. Why the hell did he have to say that so fucking ominously? “I was ‘til you showed up,” Eddie answers.

Billy hums noncommittally and doesn’t even try to hide the way he’s looking Eddie up and down. Sizing him up. Double-checking to make sure Eddie’s not a threat, maybe. Eddie fights the urge to duck his head and pull his shoulders in to assure Billy that he isn’t one. He’s a lover, not a fighter. In theory, anyway.

“Now what can I do for you on this fine evening, Mr. Hargrove? I don’t keep everything on me…“ Eddie trails off before he continues, “But I got anything you’d want.”

Billy snorts, “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“You’re from Cali, right? I got weed from there. Stuff that tastes like blueberries,” Eddie leans forward and bounces his brows, “I got some shrooms from the coast too that could even knock someone like you on your ass. So, what’re you into, Hargrove? What’s your poison?”

Billy’s got an amused look on his face. He’s smirking, but no part of it’s warm or welcoming. It sets Eddie even further on edge than he already had been. “You sure know a lot about me.”

Eddie shrugs, feigning innocence. He takes another pull from his cigarette. “It’s a small town; people talk. Especially around people like me. Y’know, the kinda people who don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. And you, Billy Hargrove, you’re, well…”

Eddie bites his tongue before he continues to embarrass himself. Clears his throat instead, tries to think of something not entirely stupid to say, but the words rush around his noggin so quickly that he can’t seem to catch and pin down any one of ‘em.

The forest floor crunches under the sole of Billy’s heavy black boots as he takes a slow, purposeful step forward. “I’m what, freak?”

Eddie swallows. Feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. Jesus, does this guy ever blink? Fucking blue-eyed people and their zombie stares…

He smiles despite his nerves. Then, with a tilt of his head, he answers. “You’re hard to miss.”

It’s grounds to get punched, Eddie knows. Innocent as the comment is, Eddie’s been hit for less. Shit, he got shoved into a locker for looking too long that one time in middle school. Spent the whole fucking lunch break with no one but his ripe gym socks to keep him company. So yeah, maybe Eddie’s a little jumpy around jocks like Billy Hargrove who look like they could fold Eddie into a pretzel without breaking a sweat.

Billy doesn’t look like he’s gearing up to punch Eddie, though. Not yet anyway. He just looks sort of… amused.

It’s getting late. The sun’s low in the sky, and every few seconds it catches on Billy’s earring or his chain, both temporarily blinding him. Eddie doesn’t let his eyes wander, though. He’s got enough self-discipline for that at least.

“I’ll take some of that blueberry kush,” Billy finally says, checking over his shoulder one last time before he flicks his head towards Eddie. “But I don’t got any money. Not until Monday. I’ll have to owe you.”

“Sorry pal,” Eddie leans back, palms against the flat of the picnic tabletop. He blows the smoke from his cigarette up towards the sky. “I don’t do I.O.U’s.”

The air shifts between them. Eddie can feel it. The blue-eyed zombie stare darkens, and Billy takes another step forward until his hip nearly knocks up against one of Eddie’s bent legs. “What? You don’t think I’m good for it, pal?”

“I don’t know you, man,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, shifting uncomfortably. He always hates this part of the job. He’s been a punching bag on and off for most of his life, but that doesn’t mean he’s gotta like it.

“You just went on and on about how you did.” Billy spits, and Eddie flinches as it hits his cheek. He doesn’t dare raise a hand to swipe it off though, lest it be interpreted as a move to strike.

“Look, I can hold it for you until Monday, but that’s the best I can do.” Eddie offers, but it’s not enough. He knows it’s not even close to enough. Guys like Hargrove aren’t used to being told no.

“C’mon man, there’s gotta be some deal you can cut me. I just wanna have a good fucking night. You can understand that, can’t you, Munson?” Billy asks, his voice going soft. Smooth. Breathy.

And even though his insides are fucking liquifying in real time as he does it, Eddie shakes his head, his long hair curtaining his face as he does. “Can’t do it, man.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just beat the shit out of you and take your shit anyway, huh? How about that?” Billy asks, his bottom lip caught between especially sharp-looking teeth. Eddie looks up, his dark eyes lock onto Billy’s salt-water blue ones. Stormy fucking seas. Eddie sure as hell doesn’t want to get beat up tonight, but if he starts cutting deals and giving special treatment to everyone who threatens him he’d be intimidated right out of business. And he needs the cash. Can’t leave all the bills to Uncle Wayne.

Before Eddie can think up a clever answer, Billy’s got his head thrown back, and he’s cackling. “Shit, I’m fucking with you, dude. Put that face away. I swear, no one in this fucking town can take a goddamn joke.”

Eddie doesn’t bother defending himself, just takes his cigarette from his mouth, knocks off the ash and gives a shaky exhale before putting it back between his lips. He barely starts in on his next inhale when the damn thing is plucked out of his mouth.

Lightening fast. Eddie hadn’t even seen his hands—but there was his cigarette, half-smoked, between Billy’s lips. Eddie feels his face heat at the idea of Billy’s mouth being where his own was, just a second before.

“Ha ha,” Eddie mutters, his eyes narrowing. He’s feeling somewhat brave, despite feeling distinctly like a mouse that’s being battered by a cat's paw. “Very cute.”

Billy tips his head, accepting the comment as if it were a compliment. He doesn’t give Eddie his dart back though—the guy just keeps smoking it with a swarmy fucking grin on his tanned, well-proportioned face.

Because the truth is that Billy is easy on the eyes. Nice to look at. It’s entirely counteracted by the fact that the longer you look at that aforementioned face the higher your chances are of getting a knuckle sandwich sent hurtling your way… but Eddie’s still got functioning eyeballs. He can see that Billy’s… well. Beautiful.

In a weird way, though. Like how Eddie pictures the elves from Middle Earth might look.

Fucking ethereal and shit.

“I’ll cut you a deal, Munson,” Billy says, blue eyes and dark lashes illuminated by the cherry of that stolen cigarette. “I’ll let you have something. Y’know, as payment.”

But pretty as Billy is, Eddie’s no sucker. “I don’t do trades either.”

“You’re gonna wanna hear this trade.” Billy exhales a cloud of white between them.

Eddie doubts it, but the sooner he hears it the sooner he can shoot it down. “Spit it out then.” He sighs.

But Billy doesn’t ‘spit it out’. Instead, he shifts weight from foot to foot, looking suddenly agitated again. Billy sniffs and scratches his nose with the nail of his thumb. Like he’s tweaking. Eddie waits him out. Curiosity officially piqued.

Finally, after doing his little dance, Billy leans forward, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue. “I’ll let you suck my dick.”

And that.

Well.

Eddie wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell wasn’t that.

The shock is written all over Eddie’s face, he’s sure. He’s never been good at concealing his emotions—an open book, his mom called him. Shit liar, is what his dad called him. Either way, he knows the surprise of what Billy’s offered up plays across his face by the way Billy’s eyes dance around it, looking pleased.

“What?” Eddie squeaks out, face suddenly on fire.

“You heard me,” Billy snaps, “I ain’t sayin’ it again.”

Eddie blinks, looks away from Billy Hargrove’s icey freeze-pop eyes. It’s no easy task. “You’ll let me…?”

Eddie motions towards the crotch of Billy’s exceptionally tight jeans. Jeans that leave very little to the imagination, Eddie might add.

Billy grins, his pink tongue caught between his teeth as he leans back, jutting his hips out a little.

“I’ll let you,” he confirms. Standing there like he’s God’s fucking gift.

Though he’s got very little air left in his lungs, Eddie gives a weak scoff. “Shouldn’t this be the other way around?”

And for the first time tonight, Eddie does feel at risk of being sucker punched. Billy’s eyes flare, and just like that his beauty melts into something ugly. Like a spell is cast over him—beauty to beast. “I’m no cock-sucker.” He spits out.

In a show of surrender, Eddie raises his hands. “I didn’t say you were. I just—usually when someone is offering sexual favors it’s… Y’know what? Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I’m not—I don’t trade in pleasures of the flesh, ‘kay? That’s not what I’m doing here, Hargrove. It’s cash only.”

But Billy’s either got a hearing problem or a comprehension problem because he rolls his eyes and just keeps on bartering. “Fine, I’ll give you a handjob. After my blow job.”

Now. Eddie isn’t a prude. In fact, he’s probably something of a pervert if his porno of choice is any indication of that, but this—with Billy?

Eddie’s spent this entire interaction scared fucking stiff, and now Billy’s offering to go and get him into an even more vulnerable position—with Eddie’s pants literally around his ankles?

“No.” Eddie aggressively shakes his head, sending his curls in motion. No no no. Fuck no. As hot as Billy is—no. The decision is final. Take it or leave it, Eddie thinks stubbornly. Heels successfully dug in.

Billy sighs through his nose, takes a step back and chuckles dryly to himself. “I know you’re a queer, Munson. Don’t—!” Billy snaps, pointing a finger in Eddie’s face when he dares open his mouth to deny it, “don’t fucking lie to me.

Eddie swallows, promptly shutting the fuck up.

Is he really that obvious…?

Billy continues, “I know you’re a queer. I saw the way you used to look at Harrington, back when we were all in school together. Gym class,” Billy leans forward, back in Eddie’s space, their shared cigarette bouncing between them as he speaks, “the showers. Remember?”

It’s been a year since Hargrove and Harrington both leap-frogged him out of Hawkins High, diplomas in tow. A full year, but apparently Billy’s got a fucking photographic memory. Eddie feels his t-shirt stick to his back, slick with sweat. “Whatever, man. It’s not a crime to look.”

“It is in this shit hole of a town,” Billy chuckles, dark and humourless, “so you get it now? I know you like dick. And I like pot. So, let’s work something out, here, Munson.”

Billy claps his hands together between them, loud and jarring. “Time’s a’wastin’, amigo!”

Jesus this guy…

“Even if I did like dick,” Eddie tilts his head and scrunches his nose, “it doesn’t mean I want your dick, Hargrove.”

“A dick’s a dick, man. And trust me, I got a nice, big fat one for you to choke on, trust me, you’ll love it,” Billy laughs as he speaks, watching in amusement as Eddie rubs a hand over his heated, blotchy face. “C’mon, you’ve sucked cock before, right?”

The simple answer is yeah, a couple of times. Every time it ended pretty much the same though. With him being shoved off after they’d finished. Being told they weren’t gay, that if Eddie were to ever tell anyone about the encounter they would deny it, call Eddie a liar, or worse, beat the shit out of him.

He’s not a dummy; Eddie knows being queer in Hawkins is a risk, so it made sense to want to keep it hush-hush. Eddie’s the rumoured gay kid, so if you’re gonna experiment with someone, why not let it be with him? But after a handful of times being treated like trash—something people needed to wash their hands in Javex from after simply touching him—he stopped. It didn’t feel good.

“You don’t gotta answer. I already know you have.” Billy mutters, smug. “Mouth like that.”

There’s no way Billy knows, but Eddie ducks his head, tired of how this entire fucking conversation has him feeling like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Tired of how the darker the sky gets, the brighter Billy’s eyes seem to turn.

And what the fuck’s wrong with Eddie’s mouth..?

“Cash only,” Eddie repeats. Monotone. Suddenly overstimulated as fuck.

Billy finally pulls the last bit that he can from the cigarette, down to the butt, before he flicks the remains of it into the grass. He gives one final, frustrated exhale of smoke. “Fine. Jesus, Munson, you drive one hell of a bargain. But I’ll sweeten the deal for you, alright?”

“Jesus, Hargrove, are your ears not working? Or did you get hit one too many times with the basketball during your jock days? I said I’m not interested. In your cock or your hand or whatever else you try and offer up.” Eddie exclaims, voice going high with strain.

But it’s like the more worked up Eddie gets, the more Billy wags his fucking tail. He’s all lit up, shiny white teeth built for puncturing. He gets back to crowding Eddie—Eddie, who’s one hair’s breadth away from raising his hands and shoving this smug asshole away from him, not caring if he gets his ass kicked as a consequence, but then Billy’s talking again. And Eddie… Eddie’s listening.

“We could kiss a little,” Billy drawls out, angling his mouth towards Eddie’s ear. He lets his voice drop to a low rumble, his words vibrating in that wide chest of his. It sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. “Y’know, make out. You got a van, right? Nice and private. You’d like that.”

Eddie turns his head towards Billy, so close they’re nearly touching each other. His mouth hangs open, slack, but Eddie can’t get a fucking word out. His whole fucking life, all he’s ever heard is ‘Jesus, does this kid have an off switch?’ ‘Eddie, give mommy’s ears a break, please,’ ‘Eddie is very disruptive in class with his constant chatting’. And now he can’t make a single goddamn sound!

Billy, on the other hand, seems entirely pleased at rendering the great motor-mouth-Munson to a mute. “I’m a good kisser, too.” He adds, eyes dropping down to Eddie’s mouth. Like he’s gonna do it right here and now. Eddie’s throat clicks when he swallows.

The embarrassing part is that, well—Except his Mom and his Meemaw and his weird cousin that one time, he’s never… y’know. Been kissed.

Sucked cock? Sure, yeah. That ship has sailed. Sayo-fuckin’-nara.

But kissing? On the mouth? Romantically? It hasn’t happened for Eddie yet. Not that any of what Billy’s propositioning here is in any way romantic, of course, but…

Eddie watches as Billy darts a pink tongue out between his lips, wetting them so that they glisten. Jesus Christ. How can he say no to that? Rules or no, Eddie’s only fucking human. Does he not bleed if he’s cut? Does he not get hard if he’s presented with an absolute fucking smoke show like Billy Hargrove offering to make out with him? All for the low low price of his dignity and a couple of ounces?

“You… actually want to?” Eddie frowns, counter to the nervous smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Billy clicks his tongue and shrugs a shoulder, eyes scanning the horizon for like, the hundredth time. “What I want is for you to cut me a deal. That’s enough, ain’t it?”

No, is Eddie’s knee-jerk answer. It’s not enough. Not even close. But, maybe the first kiss fantasy he’s got built up in his head wasn’t ever gonna happen. Especially not for someone like Eddie. He’s probably lucky. Billy’s hot. Willing. And Eddie’s… well, there’s not exactly anyone lining up at Eddie’s front door for the pleasure of his company, let’s just say that.

He feels himself nodding before his brain has even had a chance to catch up. “Yeah. Fine. Okay.”

“Yeah?” Billy grins, canines flashing, “Guess I should’ve started with the chick stuff first, huh?”

Chick stuff? Eddie makes a face. Suddenly emboldened, he shoves a hand against Billy’s shoulder, which just makes him laugh harder. “Don’t be a shithead, Hargrove, or deal’s off. Got it? I’ll walk, I swear to Christ!”

Billy doesn’t agree nor does he disagree, he just leers after Eddie like a fucking bonafied weirdo. And as someone who’s all but cornered the market on being a bonafide weirdo, that’s saying something. He hops off the picnic table, scooping up his lunch box of goodies as he does, not daring to turn his back on Hargrove. “I’m parked just through here.”

Eddie starts towards his van, stealing glances over at Billy as he trudges on after him, only a step behind. Just enough to make Eddie nervous. “Don’t you have like, a job?”

“Two of ‘em, actually.” Billy answers, hands stuffed into his pockets. “Why?”

“How do you not have any cash on you?” Eddie asks, blunt as always.

Billy stiffens, just a little. “That’s none of your business, Munson.”

Eddie raises his hands in yet another mock surrender, “sure, whatever. Remain a man of mystery, I don’t care.”

Just seems stupid, is all. Billy must be fucking terrible with money. Probably spends it all on his obnoxiously loud car. Eddie doesn’t voice any of his many theories though. Billy’s covered in live wires, and Eddie’s not overly eager to start touching and testing ‘em.

The woods aren’t especially dense, but it’s new growth—the old forest chopped down a few decades back and left to grow back all weedy and skinny. There’s lots of branches to duck under along with dirt holes to roll your ankles in. Eddie knows his pathway like the back of his hand by this point, but Billy; not so much. There’s a bundle of eye level branches that always used to smack Eddie in the face when he was focused on his footing, so he makes sure to turn and holds the offending branches back for Billy so he doesn’t totally eat it.

Thinking back, maybe it’s a weird thing to do for another guy, but Eddie’s radar for what’s weird and what isn’t has been busted since he first got cut out of his mom. Always difficult, even back then.

So yeah, Eddie doesn’t get a thank you, or whatever—instead Billy just eyes him with an air of suspicion as he ducks under Eddie’s arm. Like he’s waiting for Eddie to let the branches go or something. Who knows.

Either way, it’s the last great hurdle before they’re back at Eddie’s van, which is right where he left her; parked in the middle of the small gravel lot behind the watershed. Nobody came back here, especially not at night.

His hands shake when he takes out his keys, feeling Billy’s eyes on him. Briefly wonders what kind of mess was waiting for them in the back, but whatever. It’s not like Billy’s expecting The Ritz.

He gets the doors unlocked, and because he’s a gentleman, he holds the door open for his hook-up.

Despite his nerves rattling around under his skin, Eddie gives a little flourish for good measure, holding out an arm for Billy to take. “After you, m’lord.”

Billy scoffs, blue eyes rolling back in his head. And as dim as the light is, Eddie swears he can see two pink spots form on the apples of Billy’s cheeks. He counts it for a win.

“You’re so fuckin’ weird.” Billy mutters as he crawls into the back of Eddie’s van, pointedly ignoring Eddie’s offered arm, the whole thing shifting with the heft of him.

“Wow, y’know what, Hargrove, I had never heard that one before.” Eddie says, hot on Billy’s heels. He swings the door shut behind him.

The back of Eddie’s van is pretty spartan, but only because he’d just finished using it to lug a shit ton of gear to and from a Corroded Coffin gig. What’s left behind is a couple of ratty blankets, some old sweaters, a scattering of sheet music and some candy bar wrappers. It could be neater, but overall it’s not terrible.

Billy sits with his back to one side of the van, his legs spread, knees bent. He sits like a man. One used to taking up room and not apologizing for it. Eddie backs himself up against the opposite wall of the van’s interior, knees bent to his chest, legs crossing at his ankles. There’s not much light back here, but Eddie’s eyes adjust quickly to spot Billy’s agitated-looking face.

“Well?” Mr. California barks, one of his legs begins bouncing restlessly. It shakes the whole van.

Eddie swallows, “well?”

“Where’s the weed?” Billy asks.

Oh.

Right. Wake up, Munson.

Eddie scrambles to get his feet back under him before he squeezes his upper half into the front of the van, reaching into the glove box to grab a baggie.

“Here y’go.” Eddie winces as he pulls himself back through. He sits on bent legs, closer to Billy now. He bestows upon him the sacred sandwich baggy of goods. “Premium blueberry kush, 100% indica. So it’ll mellow you right out. Not that you need to chill out, of course, but, y’know. It should, in theory, help with that scary vein you get in your forehead sometimes.”

Billy glares at Eddie as he swipes the bag out of his hands, the scary vein threatening to make an appearance right there and now. He turns that glare toward the bundles of dried herbs.

“You got a bong or a pipe or somethin’?” Billy mumbles.

“Duh,” Eddie scoffs, breathing entirely too hard, “Why?”

“What’d’ya mean, ‘why?’ To smoke this shit with.” Billy gives the baggy a few vicious shakes in front of Eddie’s face.

Eddie feels his eyes cross as he follows the weed. “Right now?”

“Unless you feel like rollin’ it.” Billy shrugs, sounding like his already thin patience is beginning to wear even thinner.

“No—uh, I just thought you’d wanna smoke at home or whatever.” Not with Eddie.

A crease forms between Billy’s eyebrows as he frowns. “What, you don’t wanna smoke with me, Munson?”

Eddie snorts, shakes his head, “hey, I’ll smoke with anyone—“

“Then shut the fuck up and get the bong already!” Billy shouts, fuse burnt down to the quick.

And if there’s one thing about Eddie, is he responds well to yelling. Or, not well, per se, but shouting always seems to snap him out of whatever fog he’s in. It works on him. So, yeah, he responds. Jumps to attention. His mom used to have to snap her fingers in front of his face to ‘bring him back’, she said. No one else seems to bother with that sort of gentle touch with Eddie though, except Uncle Wayne, but he usually just gives Eddie’s hair a tussle instead of a snap.

So back to the front he goes, sliding the keys into the ignition and starting the old girl up while he’s there so that they’ve got some music to fill the silence. And if memory serves him correctly, Billy’s got pretty decent taste, music-wise.

When he sits back down, bong in hand.

“Ta-da!” Eddie sings, holding the contraption up by the neck to Billy in victory, careful not to tip it over. Billy looks entirely unimpressed as he grabs it out of Eddie’s hand and slots it between his thighs.

Lucky bong.

Billy starts grinding up some pieces between his fingers and packing the bowl with a familiarity that Eddie can respect.

Technically, it’s still Eddie’s weed that Billy’s prepping, since he hasn’t exactly gotten payment for the pot yet, but… maybe Billy needs the vapour courage before he can face the idea of kissing another dude. Of kissing Eddie.

Eddie watches from behind the hair he’d let fall in his face as Billy lights the bowl, inhales, and takes a hit. It’s sort of pretty, the way he slowly exhales the smoke out of the side of his mouth. Away from Eddie.

Then the bong is being pressed into his hands. Eddie’s turn.

He takes a rip, then another one once Billy’s taken another hit of his own, and that’s all it takes for the both of ‘em to get laid out on their asses. They end up flat on their backs, the round part of their shoulders touching, both staring up at the ceiling of the van, with rolled-up sweaters and blankets under their heads in the way of makeshift pillows. They’re the kind of high where time feels like it’s barely moving. Something made up. A concept. Like there’s a very real possibility that Eddie and Billy have been lying here for an eternity, and then some.

And Eddie still hasn’t gotten any kisses from Billy.

But he also hasn’t gotten any punches by Billy either, so there’s that…

“You ever seen the ocean, Munson?” Billy murmurs in a voice that’s gone a little rough thanks to all the smoke still floating around the van. Now successfully hot-boxed. Drawing out their high.

Eddie’s arms feel heavy. “No.”

Billy turns his neck to look at Eddie like he’s re-evaluating his idea of him paired with this new, disappointing information. Eddie turns his head away from Billy, just a little, feeling weirdly embarrassed. “Never even left the state.”

Small town, trailer trash… that’s probably what Billy thinks of him. Billy, who’s been everywhere. Especially compared to Eddie. He expects to get laughed at, but Billy keeps surprising Eddie. He just looks… bummed out.

“You’d probably hate it,” Billy states, sure of himself, eyes dancing across Eddie’s face. “You’d burn right fuckin’ quick. Get sand all up in your shorts. D’you even know how to swim?”

“A little.” Eddie means to say defensively, but it comes out as little more than a sigh.

“Not in waves, though, I bet. You’d end up swallowing your weight in seawater before I hauled your ass out,” Billy’s smiling at the strange little fantasy where Eddie’s tormented by the elements. Eddie’s giggling along too, though he’s entirely unsure as to why.

“A crab might even,” lighting fast, Billy reaches over to punch the barely-there roll on Eddie’s stomach, “get’chya.”

Eddie yelps—or maybe he squeals. He can’t be sure. Either way, whatever sound he lets out isn’t in any way charming or cute. Which; no surprise there. Instinctually, his hand’s gone and encircled itself around Billy’s wrist, but he’s too fucking blitzed out to do more than just squeeze it, trying to appear threatening. Sort of tough when you can’t stop fucking giggling. “Stop, stop—I’m gonna piss myself, dude.”

Billy’s got his tongue caught between his teeth, laughing along, low and rough in his throat, but to his credit (and probably a desire not to be covered in piss) he releases his hold on Eddie’s stomach.

They settle back on their backs, one Metallica track leading into another. It’s the only way Eddie can be sure the clocks haven’t all stopped entirely. Proof the passage of time is still in working order. He exhales in relief, staring at Billy’s profile.

For someone so fucking scary, he’s got deceptively cute features. An honest-to-Christ button nose, along with some ridiculously long eyelashes. Golden ringlets fall around his face. Freckles too, all over his cheeks. Even a Cupid’s bow. When Billy fell from heaven, he didn’t hit like, a single ugly branch on his way down.

Eddie blinks before his brain catches up with what he’s looking at; Billy, staring back at him. When did Billy turn his head? How long have their eyes been locked? A second? A year? Time’s fucking with him so hard, Jesus…

“M’not really an outdoorsy kinda guy.” Eddie admits, unable to keep from smiling.

Because of the weed.

Billy gives a lazy snort as if what Eddie had just said was the understatement of the year. “That’s weird, because you kinda look like a bug.”

It shouldn’t make him laugh as hard as it does, but Eddie feels the rumble of it in his chest, and he can’t help but let out a series of very unflattering sounding laughs. Billy’s not laughing along, but he seems entirely entertained by Eddie’s fucking display.

When he finally catches his breath, Eddie indignantly squeaks out, “How do I look like a bug?”

“Because,” Billy flicks his chin towards Eddie’s face, teasing half-smile still firmly in place, “you got them big buggy eyes.”

Eddie blows a low-energy strawberry, rolling his eyes before they land back on Billy. Can’t seem to take his eyes off of him for long. “I’ll have you know that my ‘big buggy eyes’ are my best feature.”

Billy narrows his eyes, clearly amused. “You think so?”

“I know so. It’s what everyone tells me.” Eddie widens his eyes to drive the point home.

Everyone being his mom when she was still alive, and… well, just his mom. But she was a real smart lady. And like, super pretty. A total knock-out. She knew about this sort of thing. He remembers how she used to go on and on about his big brown puppy-dog eyes, about how they’d break hearts one day. And no one, especially not Billy Hargrove, can take that away from him. Even if it is something all moms say to their funny-looking kids.

“Well, everyone’s lying to you,” Billy says, in that casually cruel way of his.

Eddie drops his jaw in an exaggerated show of the offense. “Is that so?”

“Yep,” Billy confirms, smug. A true blue asshole; through and through. “Your best feature’s your lips, no question.”

And. Well, no one’s ever said anything about his lips before. Not his mom, not his hook-ups—no one.

They’re just… lips. Not especially big or small. Kind of right in the middle. They’re even kinda chapped right now.

“Gee, thanks.” He murmurs, from lips that Billy Hargrove apparently approves of. Maybe even likes. His fingers twitch at his sides, palms growing sweaty.

Billy just looks away, like Eddie’s caught him doing something wrong. Caught him being nice. Guess it probably hurts the ol’ bad boy image to compliment other boy’s lips. Eddie resists the urge to raise one of his hands and feel along the ridges of his mouth, to map ‘em out. Try and figure out what Billy likes about them enough to say it out loud. He’s buzzing with the compliment.

“So, you still want… y’know, payment or whatever?” Billy asks, keeping his words to little more than a low murmur between them.

The song playing through the speakers stops—a brief pause before it leads into the next one. It’s deathly quiet in those tense few seconds.

Eddie doesn’t answer Billy right away. He can’t. So instead, he just… lets the questions hang between them. Because the thing is, God help him, he does. And yeah, maybe he didn’t plan on his first kiss being with big bad Billy Hargrove—maybe instead of golden curls and freckles Eddie had envisioned dark, fluffy hair and a splattering of moles. Big brown bedroom eyes instead of sharp, icy blue ones. Either way, he’s way out of his depth. Out of his league. In fact, Eddie should be on his hands and knees thanking Billy for even considering sucking face with a guy like him. He should be psyched. And he is!

Fuck, this weed is making it hard to keep his thoughts linear. He stares back at Billy, realizing suddenly that he’s been waiting for an answer to his question.

“Nothing is ever free, Hargrove,” Eddie answers, cryptic, even to his own ears, “you should know that.”

Because it’s the truth, isn’t it? Nobody just does shit out of the goodness of their hearts. Everyone expects something in return. Everyone’s gotta pay the piper. And if something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. So yeah, Eddie gives what he can, but he also takes what he can get. Same as Billy, Eddie suspects.

Billy’s got a real perplexed sort of look on his face. Golden and tan, even in the cold, sterile light of night. His eyes momentarily dart to Eddie’s lips, just for a split second. But split second or no, Eddie’d caught it. The tiny motion sends his beat-up little dime-store heart all a’flutter. Billy likes these lips.

“Close your eyes,” Billy tells him, voice cigarette rough.

Eddie does it, trying to keep his breathing even. Shallow, so he doesn’t puff hot air in Billy’s face when he approaches. His hands lay limply by his sides, with his hair splayed around his like some expanding ink blot on the floor of his van.

He has the sudden and quite frankly embarrassing image of Snow White lying dead in her glass coffin, pale-skinned and raven-haired, waiting for a kiss of her own.

It’s so stupid that he ends up snorting.

“What? You think this is funny, Munson?” Billy growls, voice sounding like it’s still to the right of him, but that he’s propped up on an elbow or something.

Eddie shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed. A smile tugs at one of the corners of his mouth, totally beyond his control. “No, no, it’s stupid. I. Just—fuck. Sorry. Forget I did that.”

“If you think this is stupid, then I can go. I don’t need this shit—“

”No! Stop—“ Eddie reaches out and grabs the front of Billy’s shirt, his eyes popping open in panic. “You’re not stupid—I’m… shit, you’re gonna laugh.”

“Just tell me, shithead.” Billy snaps, face getting more and more red as his temper rises.

“Fine. Jesus.” Eddie squirms under the intensity of Billy’s gaze. All hard edges and intimidation now. Eddie’s only had the Billy that tickles him and tells him nice things about his lips for a fucking millisecond, but he already misses him.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before, alright?” He blurts out, quick like a bandaid.

And with that, Billy’s eyes go a little funny. The icey shards in his eyes melt back to tumultuous waters. “Seriously?”

“No, dude, I’m lying about being a total loser with no game.” Eddie snorts, emboldened by his buzzing high.

Billy frowns, “Aren’t you like, two years older than me?”

“Look, I had opportunities, okay? But mostly… It was, y’know. With girls. Pretty ones, too!” his brows shoot up, attempting to emphasize the point, “but I just… I never wanted to.”

Billy’s stone-still while he listens. Looking like he’s hanging off every word that Eddie’s stumbling over.

“So, you can’t even fake it?” He asks.

Eddie blinks, suddenly lost. “Fake what?”

“Liking chicks.” He answers quickly.

“Nah,” Eddie huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, “I’m a shitty liar.”

“Poor bastard.” Billy mumbles, mostly to himself. Then he clicks his tongue, “That’s a real tough break, amigo.”

Eddie’s shoulders twitch. “I get by.”

A corner of Billy’s mouth turns down and he tilts his head like he’s allowing Eddie some small, indiscernible mercy.

“I just feel bad,” Billy says, low and smooth, “you starting at the very top like this. Everyone else after me is gonna feel like a major fuckin’ letdown.”

Eddie snorts, looking up at Billy, who’s got himself propped up on an elbow and is sort of hovering above him. “Big talk, Hargrove.”

Canines flash. “Well I got a big game, Munson.”

“You’re a real cocky b—” Eddie’s words are smushed back into his mouth when Billy suddenly leans forward and presses his lips against Eddie’s.

Billy’s got a hand against Eddie’s neck, the pad of his thumb against the edge of his jaw, tilting his face up just so. Eddie can hear his heart thundering in his chest, white noise overtaking For Whom the Bell Tolls.

His first kiss.

It’s warm and soft. Drier than he expected it would be. The stubble of Billy’s moustache scrapes against his upper lip, sending shockwaves up and down Eddie’s spine. Billy smells like cologne. Or maybe that’s aftershave—he can’t tell. Eddie fills his lungs with it, breathing deeply through his nose.

The thumb resting against Eddie’s jaw begins stroking along his cheek. Delicately. Like Eddie’s something fragile. Precious, even. He’s gone all tingly everywhere Billy touches him—like magic.

It’s about this time that Billy parts his lips, sliding a tongue along the seam of Eddie’s mouth, gentle prodding—like he’s looking for a weak point. Somewhere to gain entry.

Or maybe he just wanted to taste Eddie’s lips.

Hey, can’t a guy dream?

Billy shifts his weight, further encroaching into Eddie’s personal space, his broad shoulders caging over top of Eddie’s narrower ones. Then Billy raises a leg and swings it over before letting his hips drop over top of Eddie’s own. It’s like touching a fucking live wire. He can’t help the way he reflexively gasps and bucks up into the solid bulk above him. And sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph… he’s rock fucking hard in his jeans. When did that happen?

Flood gates open. Billy—clearly emboldened by the discovery of what he’s doing to Eddie’s body—deepens their kiss by sticking his tongue down Eddie’s throat. The sensation is weird as hell—Eddie’s only ever had his own tongue in his mouth, but there Billy’s is, swirling around, dipping in and out as the sound of their smacking lips fills the van, harmonizing with Hammett‘s insane, face-melting guitar solo.

There are teeth involved now too; Billy’s biting Eddie’s lower lip and pulling, stopping right before it gets painful. It brings sounds out of Eddie that he’d never heard himself make before. Didn’t even know that he could make. All breathy and moany. Maybe he should be embarrassed about how loud he’s progressively getting, but it’s hard to think straight when Billy’s slowly grinding his hips down against his. And Billy’s—fuck, Billy’s hard too. That’s gotta be what that is, right? Jesus H. Christ…

Their hips move in tandem now, the same way their tongues seem to. It’s like Eddie’s body just knows what to do. It’s fucking incredible. He’s never been naturally good at anything in his life. Nothing comes easily to Eddie Munson. Every talent he’s got has been hard-fought, earned through blood, sweat and tears.

But this… Eddie might actually be kinda good at this.

Or maybe Billy’s just a really good teacher.

He’s a cocky asshole, but Eddie fears he might have been serious about everyone else being a letdown after him. Because how the hell is anyone else going to compare to this? To Billy Hargrove. Mr. California King. Eddie could swear he’s glowing right now—like Billy’s spent so much time laid out in the sunlight that a couple of rays got trapped just underneath his skin. Dude can’t help but shine.

Yeah, he’ll be a tough act to follow.

But that’s another Eddie’s problem. Future Eddie. Meanwhile, the here and now Eddie, is getting kissed. He’s got Billy’s big arms wrapped around him, like Eddie’s somehow worth something to someone like him.

Down south, there’s just the right amount of pressure on his denim-trapped dick. He can feel the line of Billy’s own cock bump against his own when he pushes hard enough. He could fucking weep. It’s almost too much—too good. Too perfect. What’s he gonna do with himself now that he knows he could be doing this? God, how’s he ever gonna jerk off when this—when Billy… oh fuck-!

His orgasm hits him like a goddamn freight train. The switch on his brain had gone off and it didn’t even have the courtesy of letting him know!

Eddie’s jaw drops open, mid-kiss, and he pants—moans—into Billy’s mouth. His hips go stiff, stuck in its lifted position, trying to drive upwards into Billy as hard as he can. He can feel himself shake all over as the waves crash over him, one after the other in quick succession, nearly whiting out his vision. He shuts his eyes as he finally comes down on the other side of it, releasing a choked-sounding exhale.

He goes limp. Boneless. Buzzing and tingling and vibrating all over. Waits for the feeling of mortification to overtake him. It should be here in 3… 2…

“Did you just…?” Billy asks, lifting his own hips to examine the scene of the crime. Eddie imagines the wet spot steadily growing on the front of his jeans, a little off to the left, is pretty hard to miss.

“Holy shit, you did,” Billy chuckles, slightly awed sounding, “you just creamed your fuckin’ pants.”

Eddie whimpers. The sharp contrast of absolute bone-deep humiliation paired with the fluttery, intensely content feeling he's still got working its way through his nervous system is enough to make his head spin.

“Sorry.” Eddie blinks his eyes open.

Eddie didn’t think it was possible for Billy to look any more smug than he did before, but somehow, he’s achieving the impossible.

“Don’t be,” Billy insists, a chuckle still at the edge of his words. He grunts a little as he rolls off of Eddie and drops down onto his back. Taking up his previous position of laying shoulder to shoulder next to each other. “I take it as a compliment.”

It’s kinda sweet of him. Because what happened was embarrassing. No two ways about it. Shooting off like that, like Eddie’s some horn dog who can’t control himself?

But, well, if the boot fits…

Billy reaches down and roughly adjusts himself before sitting up. Gentle touches all used up for Eddie, apparently. Then he lifts his ass just enough that he can slide a hand behind him to retrieve a crumpled-looking box of Marlboro reds. Shakily, Eddie sits up too, engaging muscles that still feel jello-like.

Billy knocks out a cigarette and puts it between his lips. Then he knocks out a second one, and without asking, puts it in Eddie’s mouth. Billy leans forward, and Eddie mirrors him—still just trying to keep up—moving until the ends of their cigarettes line up. Billy ignites his lighter, temporarily blinding them both, but he holds it in front of them, and they inhale in tandem.

Smoke fills Eddie’s lungs. The familiar, soothing burn in his throat makes him feel a little more solid. Present. It makes what just happened all the more bewildering.

They smoke in silence.

Well, except for the music from his cassette still humming from the speakers. Billy mumbles something about loving a certain drum solo, but other than that, it’s crickets. It goes on like this until their cigarettes are half their original size and Eddie finally grows a pair.

“What about you?” He murmurs around his dart.

Billy exhales a stream of smoke out of his nose, looking like a sick ass dragon before he answers, “What about me?”

Eddie flicks his chin towards Billy’s general direction. “You wanna get off too?”

Billy just snorts and shakes his head, like Eddie had said something prosperous. “Nah.”

A pit forms in the center of Eddie’s gut. Souring any of the leftover post-nut happy chemicals that were still rolling around his noggin. That sting of rejection. The knowledge that Billy doesn’t actually want someone like Eddie touching him. Like Billy’s itching to go take a shower and wash all the Eddie-cooties off of him, before heading back to his actual life. Like being with Eddie is something embarrassing. It’s a sinking fucking feeling, one he knows no post-high buzz or cigarette is going to touch. Sometimes Eddie forgets that he’s just a detour. Never anyone’s destination point.

“Maybe next time.” Billy mumbles, so low that Eddie almost misses it entirely. He finishes his cigarette before stuffing the butt of it into one of the many makeshift ashtrays Eddie’s got kicking around back here. Then he starts making his way to the back doors, slipping out into the Indiana night.

Next time.

The words echo in Eddie’s head. Bounce off the walls, does couple of cartwheels, spins. The letters get all scrambled up before he’s able to make sense of them.

Next time.

“Pleasure doing business with you, California.” Eddie hollers out a split second before Billy can close the door.

A half-smile forms on that Cupid’s bow-tipped mouth. Pretty as a picture. How did Eddie never notice before? And how’s he supposed to think about anything else?

“See you around, Eddie.” He purrs, knows exactly what he’s doing, Eddie’s sure of it—then slams the door shut between them. He’s engulfed in darkness again. His eyes are back to their unadjusted state, while specks of nothing flit across his blackened vision. He gnaws on his bottom lip to keep the laugh that’s threatening to bubble up from his chest at bay.

Next time.

—

Permanent Tag List: (dm me if you’d like to be added or removed—OR if you’d only like to be tagged for specific ships. ie, ONLY Steddie or ONLY Harringrove, etc.)

@stervrucht @dame-zoom-a-lot @lawrencebshoggoth @morallyundefined @thepossummoldypasta @wheneverfeasible @sanctumdemunson @chaotic-waffle @bookworm0690 @lifelessstar

[vidrkness]

Where Wildflowers Meet the Stars 💫🪻 c.2

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Summary: Agatha hosts a science podcast that blends storytelling and chaos theory. Rio stumbles upon it late one night and becomes enchanted, first by the voice, then by the mind and then by the woman behind it all.

AO3

Word count: 6k

Warnings: none

A/N: Hola gays, my favorite losers are back! had a good week off from work and drunk write a big part of this one, enjoy!

previous chapter - next chapter

Chapter two: Dark matter

Rio hadn’t planned on emailing again. But that was before she finished Cosmos way too fast, half read Lab Girl while forgetting to eat lunch and fell down a YouTube hole watching lectures by Agatha at Yale, where she said things like ‘the observable universe is not expanding into anything, it is expansion itself’ with a little frown and her hands moving like she was sculpting the galaxy.

God, she loved her hands.

This freak spent at least two hours a day zooming on Agatha’s pics just to have a closer look at them,, she thanked every force out there for the 4K pics where she could see the blue veins popping out.

It wasn’t creepy.

Just gay.

“Okay” Rio muttered on night three “This is getting out of hand”

“NOW it’s out of hand?” Carol said from the kitchen, holding a spoonful of peanut butter “Baby. You literally paused your show to rewind her saying ‘the entropy paradox’ You’re gone”

She scoffed “I am not gone”

Carol raised an eyebrow.

“I’m… respectfully interested in her brain”

Carol snorted “Yeah, remember that time you got obsessed with Kathryn Hahn and watched all her movies and even the deleted scenes from Afternoon Delight on a sketchy Russian streaming site? You are on that phase, Ri” Carol said

She loved to tease Rio with that, girl was practically shaking when she found out there was a kiss scene between them.

“That was a different time, a gayer time. This is-” She paused “This is intellectual, it’s science. I want to learn”

“Oh my god” Her girlfriend gasped “You wanna discuss gravity with her. You’re doomed”

Carol hadn't thought Rio was actually serious about this shit, until they spent the entire damn weekend running all over the city, chasing down some obscure-ass astrophysics book.

Like, who the fuck even reads that for fun?

But no, Rio had to find it, and of course, the damn thing turned up at some dusty old library tucked near the artsy side of downtown.

And naturally, because Rio’s chaos didn’t know how to quit, she dragged Carol’s ass straight to the Griffith observatory too, like three or four times.

Which, mind you, neither of them had ever set foot in, despite living here for years.

So yeah.

Rio was fucked.

Meanwhile across the country , in the faculty lounge that smelled vaguely of ancient coffee and chalkboard dust, Agatha was stirring honey into her tea when Wanda slid into the seat across from her.

“You’re glowing, why?” Wanda said immediately, threatening.

Agatha blinked “E- excuse me?”

“Yeah, just look at you. All flushed and weirdly serene. Either Ralph did something or the email girl contacted you again”

Jen, goddess of the department of dermatology and the third menace of this friendship equation, flopped down beside them with her usual dramatic flair.

“Please be a sex scandal. I’m bored”

“Sorry to disappoint” Agatha said dryly, sipping her tea.

Wanda leaned in “She’s been checking her email like, constantly”

“I always check my email, I’m a professional”

Wanda scoffed “Professional my ass, you are experiencing a gay awakening”

Jen narrowed her eyes “Is it that student from the podcast? The one who called your voice ‘a storm’? Because, no offense but that’s iconic and hot”

Agatha tried not to smile. Failed “She’s not a student. She owns a flower shop in Los Angeles”

Jen gasped “Oh my god, is she hot?”

“I wouldn’t know! I don’t know her” Agatha replied crisply

Wanda cupped Agatha's face in her hands, as if examining it “Ags. Sweetheart, you’re blushing”

“I’m married, Wanda. Happily” Agatha said, trying to free herself from her friend's grasp.

“Pffff, please” Wanda threw a hand in the air like she was trying to defy gravity “So was I. Had a whole-ass kid, did the marriage dance, got the divorce badge. And guess what? Now we’re super chill co parents who trade custody and recipes. Life moves”

Jen leaned in “The witch has a point. Your life’s been about as exciting as your classes. You need to spice up a bit”

Agatha stared at them like a nuclear physicist watching two toddlers try to build a reactor out of LEGO. She was either entirely done with their bullshit… or just mad that they were technically correct.

Sure, she had women who’d sell their souls just for a chance, an ounce of her attention. But that was before the vows,efore the compromise of stability.

And don’t get her wrong, she loves Ralph a lot.

Like, real love. Not the movie kind. They’d known each other since high school back in Westview, shared dorms, dreams and hopes. He never once asked her to play house.

Always stepped back when she needed the stage.

He was her constant, her safe equation in an unstable world.

But even constants can feel... dull, after a while. Predictable. Like knowing the outcome before running the experiment.

So yeah. Maybe she was spinning in some weird emotional quantum superposition or whatever the fuck this thing with Rio was. Maybe it was just static noise or in the best or worst case scenario, whatever the decision is, a signal worth amplifying.

Because ever since Rio walked or better said, slid into her inbox, into her quiet and contained universe like a rogue comet, Agatha had felt something changed.

Not an explosion, more like a subtle realignment of particles. A change in trajectory. She wasn’t just “Professor Harkness” or “Ralph’s wife” anymore.

To this stranger, she was something else. Someone intriguing.

Worth seeing.

“I need to be alone” Agatha muttered, pushing herself up from the couch with a sigh “Or at least one fucking minute away from the peanut gallery. You two are chaos incarnate”

They both made dramatic boooo sounds as she walked out.

Agatha rolled her eyes, muttered something about taking them out of her will and disappeared down the hallway, wondering if maybe she was about to lose her orbit.

Or finally find a new one.

Later that night, Agatha padded into the kitchen in her deep purple floral robe and bare feet, humming to herself. Ralph was loading the dishwasher in his ‘I’m the hot history husband’ look on full display: reading glasses perched low, hair still a little damp from his shower, and only one sock on… for some reason.

“Hey, stargirl” he said, pecking her on the forehead.

She snorted “I’m too old to be a stargirl”

“Nah. You’re timeless” He passed her a coffee

“You look radiant tonight” he teased, turning to her “That woman emailed you again, didn’t she?”

Agatha lost the count of how many times she had rolled her eyes today, probably the next time they will finally snap from her skull.

Yet, she blushed because of fucking course.

“She asked for another book, this time on quantum entanglement” Agatha said casually, slipping a hand under his t-shirt.

Ralph squirmed the second she touched him, fuck, her hands were always ice-cold. And of course, the evil little gremlin loved that shit, always pulling this ‘let me warm them up on your back’ routine like it wasn’t literal torture.

And every goddamn time he let her.

“And then she thanked me for making science feel less like a punishment and more like poetry”

Ralph arched a brow “You gonna write her a sonnet?”

“Maybe a bibliography”

He pulled her in, lips brushing hers “You’re dangerously hot when you’re intellectually stimulated”

She gave in to his embrace, because how could she say no to those gentle blue eyes? “You say that about everything”

They kissed, soft and familiar, with that same heat from the first time. Twenty years together and Ralph still kissed her like they were twenty something grad students in love, hiding behind stacks of books at the library.

Señor Scratchy darted between their legs like he was offended.

Agatha broke away, laughing “Jealous, are we?”

Ralph kissed her neck “He wishes he was your favorite man”

Agatha crouched down, scooping scratchy up from the floor like he was the most precious damn thing in the multiverse. She pressed a kiss to his tiny, furry nose, soft and affectionate.

“It’s a fair competence, though”

Two hours later, Agatha sat at her desk, pulled up her inbox, and smiled when she saw the new message.

Subject: So I finished all the books you recommended and I think my brain leveled up

Hi again. Please don’t be alarmed. Or annoyed. Or file a restraining order.

I read everything. I highlighted. I annotated. I even started saying things like “entropy” in normal conversation, which made my girlfriend give me a weird look at brunch.

Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you. Again. Your podcast is now a comfort thing. Like soup. Or Hozier. I even started reading scientific papers? Like, for fun.

What the hell are you doing to me, Dr. Harkness?

Okay. I’ll shut up now. I just think it’s cool that someone like you exists. That’s all.

—Rio

P.S. Is it weird that I now kinda want to understand string theory? Help?

Agatha reread it slowly.

Ralph called from the living room “You coming to bed?”

“In a minute” she said.

Agatha reread the email, her lips twitching at the corners. Entropy at brunch, she thought with a quiet chuckle. She tapped her fingers on the edge of the desk for a moment, considering how to reply.

Then, smiling to herself, she began to type.

Subject: RE: So I Finished All the Books You Recommended

From: Dr. Agatha Harkness harkness@yale.edu

To: Vidal.floresraras@gmail.com

Dear Rio,

Alarmed? Not even a little. Amused? Deeply.

First: I am both honored and slightly concerned that you’re using the word “entropy” in social situations. Proceed with caution. But seriously, thank you for the kind words. It’s easy to forget when you’re on this side of the mic, that people are out there actually listening. Thinking. Annotating. Becoming slightly unhinged over thermodynamics.

You’ve made my night.

As for string theory... that is a rabbit hole. But a very shiny one. I’ll send you a couple starting points, approachable reads that won’t fry your neurons.

And if your girlfriend starts calling me a bad influence, I won’t be offended.

More soon,

-Agatha.

She hit send, her heart unexpectedly warm. The kind of warmth that comes from being understood, even just a little, by someone out there in the static.

“Alright” she whispered to herself, standing and stretching. The floor creaked quietly under her bare feet as she padded through the hallway toward their bedroom.

Ralph was already in bed, propped up with a book half finished on his chest. He looked up as she came in, his face breaking into that tired, familiar smile she loved.

“That was a long minute” he teased.

Agatha grinned and climbed in beside him “She wrote an email that somehow turned into a dissertation on brunch and entropy. I had to respond”

Ralph chuckled, shifting to make room as she snuggled into his side “Well she really went into a crisis about the laws of thermodynamics, right?”

“Apparently, I’m warping minds now”

He kissed the top of her head “Better than warping space-time. Though I wouldn’t put it past you”

She laughed softly, letting her eyes close “Mmm. That’s tomorrow’s problem”

Ralph reached over and turned off the lamp “Sleep first. Warp the universe later”

And in the dark, wrapped in quiet and warmth, Agatha thought maybe, just maybe this was the best part of the day.

On the other coast, Rio was trying to focus.

Carol’s hands were on her waist, mouth on her neck, and the shower steam was fogging up the glass. The water was hot, so was Carol, and objectively speaking, Rio should’ve been having the time of her life.

And she was, mostly.

But her mind… kept flickering.

Not toward Carol’s collarbone or the way her wet hair clung to her back.

But to a sentence from the latest episode:

“We talk about light-years like they’re a measure of distance. But really, they’re a measure of time. What we see in the stars is always a little behind. Always a little too late”

“Hey” Carol said, breathless, pulling back just enough to blink at her “You okay?”

Rio blinked “What?”

“You were gone for a second”

“I—I’m here” Rio lied, leaning in to kiss her.

But Carol pulled away, gently “Are you, though?”

Rio wrapped her arms around her “Yeah. Just tired, it’s been a weird week”

Carol looked at her for a long second “Is the podcast lady again?”

Rio froze “What?”

Carol stepped out of the shower letting out a tired sigh, towel-drying her hair like she wasn’t about to wreck Rio’s whole sense of denial.

“You’ve been acting all weird. Like distracted, spacey. Last night you quoted something about solar flares when I was trying to go down on you, Ri”

Rio groaned “Once. I did that once”

Carol laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes “I’m just saying… is this really just a harmless crush or something else, I’d rather know than regretting later”

Rio followed her out, towel wrapped around her, heart hammering “It’s not like that. I mean, maybe a little. But it’s not like that. She’s just so brilliant, and kind of mesmerizing. It’s not sexual. It’s… like brain love. You know?”

Carol looked at her “That’s worse, Rio”

Rio could hear the hurt in her voice.

Sure, she’d laughed it off when it all started, maybe even teased her, but now? Shit was getting tangled.

This thing indeed was getting out of hand.

Still, Rio couldn’t bring herself to see it as a bad thing. It’s not like Agatha was gonna descend from the sky like some puritanical deity and drag her ass back to Connecticut with her by the ear.

That sounds so fucking rad but very improbable.

Rio was sure she loved Carol, but to deny that this wasn’t messing up with her whole perception of life would be a fucking lie.

Later that night, Rio didn’t go to bed with Carol, she stayed for hours at the couch, scrolling through her email drafts.

She’d started a new message three times.

Deleted each one.

This one just sat there, blinking at her like it was daring her to hit send.

I keep thinking about what you said in the last episode. I don’t know how it works in physics. But I think about people like that sometimes. About how they stay with us. Even if we’ve never met them. Even if we shouldn’t be thinking about them at all…

She deleted that too.

Victoria jumped on her and purred to let her know it was time to sleep “I know ,I know. I was just thinking about it, okay? Don’t judge you too, please”

The cat just licked her paws and plopped down on Rio’s side who finally closed her eyes.

Weeks passed, and slowly it became a month, a month since this stranger became Agatha's constant.

On Monday, Agatha was getting ready to go home, bundled in her long coat, scarf wrapped around her neck. Her phone buzzed with a text.

Ralph: Dinner in 30? I’ll bring home Thai.

She smiled.

Agatha: Yes please. Extra lemongrass. And bring some wine, we are out of stock!

Ralph: I absolutely will, see you in a bit. Love you xx

She laughed to herself, putting her phone away.

From across the parking lot, Wanda called out “Tell your podcast girlfriend hi!”

Agatha flipped her off without turning around, but her ears were pink.

Finally at home, they had dinner and a cozy moment reading to each other their respectives books. Scratchy gave them a hard time trying to run away and avoid being cleaned up after completely destroying the only plant Agatha had been able to keep alive.

One hour later, rabbit was clean and they were on the verge of divorce. Which was solved with a kiss sesion, a glass of wine and one of the cuban cigars a student had given Ralph for his birthday last year.

After a very needed shower, Agatha finally was finally able to take refuge in her office.

Email Thread: Subject: okay but hear me out

From: Rio Vidal.floresraras@gmail.com

To: Dr. Agatha Harkness harkness@yale.edu

Okay but hear me out.

if observation affects outcome (hello, quantum weirdness), doesn’t that mean that being perceived changes something fundamental about us?

like… what if we’re not fixed people at all? What if we become in response to who’s looking at us?

isn’t that kind of… terrifying? and hot?

—Rio

p.s. I swear I'm not high (maybe a little.)

From: Dr. Agatha Harkness harkness@yale.edu

To: Rio Vidal.floresraras@gmail.com

Ms. Vidal,

That’s a compelling thought, though not entirely supported by the physics. Observation in quantum mechanics is not quite the same as psychological or social perception. You're mixing metaphors—dangerously and creatively.

Still… yes. It is a little hot.

Best,

-Dr. Harkness

From: Rio Vidal

oh my god did you just call me dangerously creative

that’s the nicest insult anyone’s ever given me

also respectfully disagree. I think perception does alter reality, at least for us dumb humans. if someone sees you as brave, don’t you kind of become it? If someone sees you as a joke, doesn’t that change how you walk into a room?

Sorry, professor. I think the poets win this round.

From: Dr. Harkness

I teach physics, not psychology. But your argument has merit. And poetry has its place, I suppose.

You still used the quantum observer effect wildly out of context.

Still. Point partially conceded.

And yes, you’re dangerously creative.

(Don’t let it go to your head.)

Later Agatha sat curled on the couch with a glass of wine, laptop on her knees. She had a lecture to prep. Ralph was correcting history essays across from her, humming some forgotten 80s song.

She opened a new tab. Typed:

“Flores Raras flower shop Los Angeles”

The website came up. Pretty, soft. Moody pastel palette. No staff photos.

She clicked Instagram. The account was mostly flowers, candles, the occasional shot of a cat in sunglasses. Comments signed “-Ri” But no pictures of her.

She sat back, eyes narrowing.

“What are you looking for over there, Ags?” Ralph asked, not looking up from his grading.

Agatha clicked the tab shut “Obscure data”

“You know that’s what they used to call flirting in the 1800s,” he teased.

She tossed a throw pillow at him “Go back to grading, Bohner”

Later, Agatha kissed Ralph over their toothbrushes, laughing when he got toothpaste on her cheek.

“You’re cute when you’re secretly stalking people online” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I’m not stalking. I’m investigating”

“Mmm-hmm” He kissed her temple “Want me to help you fall asleep?”

Her smile softened “Always”

They curled into bed, her leg over his hip, his hands familiar and warm under her shirt. There was no rush, no spectacle, just quiet touches.The sound of the city outside, their shared breath syncing as he kissed her collarbone, murmured into her skin like a prayer.

“I love you” he whispered against her throat.

“I know” she said, pressing her palm over his heart “I love you too”

They moved slowly, like they knew each other’s gravity. No resistance, no hesitation, just years of orbit collapsing into one warm night.

Subject: truce

From: Dr. Agatha Harkness

You were right, by the way.

Not about the quantum thing, you’re still dead wrong there. But about perception.

Sometimes I feel most like myself when someone sees something in me I didn’t know was there.

Thank you for the poetry.

—A

The message came at 1:12 am

Agatha was half-asleep, her glasses sliding down her nose, a blanket twisted around her legs. Ralph had already passed out beside her, one arm over his face like a man emotionally destroyed by grading sophomore essays on the Civil War.

Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.

New email.

She blinked. Then sat up, her stomach was doing backflips when she saw the attached file.

A voice note.

She quickly but carefully sorted through the things in her drawer to find her earphones, she plugged them in and pressed play.

Subject: Dark matter

From: Rio Vidal

“Hey, um. Okay. I’ve never done this before, like, sent a voice thing to a professor I’ve never met, so if I sound weird, that’s why”

A small exhale. Nervous, but not unsure.

“I just- I was walking home tonight, and the moon looked like that thing you said last week. about time being twisted light. Warped perception. Gravity eating itself. And I thought… fuck, I wish I could tell her. So here I am, telling you”

“I know I’m probably just one of a hundred people who send you weird emails, that has been stated before. Or maybe I’m the only one and that’s somehow worse. But you make me want to know things, not in a school way. In a real way. In a way that makes the world feel huge again”

“…Anyway. I’m sorry if this is crossing a line. You don’t have to reply. I just… wanted you to hear my voice. Since you’ve been inside my head for weeks,I figured it was only fair to let you know what that sounds like”

“Goodnight, Dr. Harkness”

And then silence.

Agatha just sat there, blinking at the phone.

She didn’t know what she’d expected Rio’s voice to sound like. But it wasn’t this, low and messy and warm, with a musical lilt. Slightly breathless. A little amused. A little too honest.

From behind her, Ralph shifted “You okay?”

Agatha swallowed “Yeah. It’s nothing”

She was fucking definitely not okay.

She listened to it maybe four or five times again until she fell asleep with Rio’s voice.

She dreamt that night about that stranger with the honey dipped voice, it was really hard to put a face on yet, but for some reason it became a current. She doesn’t know how many more times she listened to it that week.

She still doing it sometimes when life feels a little too overwhelming.

Agatha didn’t write back, not after the voicemail, not after two days. Not after four, her inbox stayed silent.

And Rio? Rio burned.

Okay. She did, and she hated every second of it.

“Was it too breathy?” she told Alice.

“Too gay, maybe” Alice corrected “But that’s the vibe”

But Rio couldn’t shake it. That vulnerable, floating feeling had tipped into something heavier. Like she was hovering between potential and heartbreak and both outcomes made her sick.

So she did what any normal person would do when spiraling over someone they'd never met.

She Googled her again.

Just a little.

Just to see if Agatha had maybe done a talk recently. Or posted a new photo. Or had a secret Tumblr.

What she found instead was a faculty bio on Yale’s site that hadn’t been there last time she looked.

Rio stared at the screen. Oh, right.

She forgot Agatha was married.

To a man.

To a man named Ralph.

She blinked. Scrolled. Clicked on his name.

There was a whole-ass article from his school’s website, he had a stupid nice smile.

And a vest.

Like, he really wore a vest unironically kind of guy.

Rio slammed the laptop shut and sat back like it had burned her. Alice, who’d been practicing moody Shakespeare monologues to share with her theater class at her other gig, poked her head in.

“You good?”

“Nope”

“Agatha?”

Rio just held up her middle finger.

Alice sat down beside her “What happened? Did she ghost you?”

“Just the fucking history teacher she’s marriedwith, and yes…I think”

Alice winced “Ooh. That’s... extremely heterosexual of her”

Rio stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard it hurt “For some reason I totally blocked that from my mind. I don’t know, kinda wanted her to be queer,weird. Available”

“Well, she’s definitely weird. But I don’t know, maybe it’s complicated. People are weird about labels. Or she could be bi”

“I don’t care that she’s bi. I care that she has a husband”

Alice nudged her “Bitch, you have a whole girlfriend here and you are jealous?”

Rio let her head fall back “No, I- I feel stupid. Like I built this entire fantasy on a voice and some late night emails. And it wasn’t even real”

Alice was quiet for a second “It was real to you”

Which was somehow worse.

She tried to play it cool at first. She told herself Agatha was busy, maybe traveling. Maybe, ughhhhh in Vermont with Ralph, reading historical fiction and giving each other back rubs.

She tried to delete the voicemail file from her phone.

She couldn’t. Instead she shoved down the remaining wine, drunk on delusion, confused as fuck.

Then she snapped.

Subject: Your silence is louder than your podcast

Hi Agatha,

I wasn’t going to write. I was going to take the L and move on. But then I remembered I’m not someone who leaves things unsaid. You’d know that if you’d answered the voicemail.

I get it, people are complicated. But I spilled my guts in a goddamn voice memo like a lovesick teenager, and you listened to it.

You didn’t owe me anything. But you chose to respond before. So yeah. I’m angry. And embarrassed. And a little heartbroken, if I’m honest.

You don’t have to respond. You probably won’t. But I hope…at the very least, you feel this.

I meant it when I said your voice changed something in me.

But I’m done talking to ghosts.

—Rio

She hit send. Didn’t reread. Didn’t wait.

And after a minute she regretted sending it.

Alice came home that night to find Rio sitting on the fire escape, an empty wine bottle between her legs, blank stare aimed at the glowing LA skyline.

“Tell me you didn’t burn it all down”

“Oh, I burned” Rio said flatly.

“You good?”

“No”

Alice sat beside her and took the bottle “Proud of you, though”

Agatha didn’t open the email right away. She saw the subject line and winced. Her hand hovered over it for an hour.

When she finally read it, she stared at the screen for a long, long time.

Then she closed the laptop and poured herself a drink. Ralph asked her what was wrong.

“Work” she said “It’s always work”

But it wasn’t.

It was Rio’s voice, soft and electric, still echoing in her ears.It was the planetarium she hadn’t visited in months, it was the sense that she'd made a mistake she couldn't unmake.

She picked up her phone and recorded something she’d never sent.

“Rio... I don’t know what I was doing. I think I wanted to feel something and you made me feel everything. But my life is complicated. I’m complicated. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry”

She deleted it.

She didn’t know that Rio was lying in bed miles away, replaying their entire exchange and thinking that she made it all up.

But Agatha? Agatha was spiraling.

Panic hit her like a rogue particle in a collider experiment, unpredictable, stupid fast and with the potential to blow up her entire world.

The emails were fine, digital noise. Typed-out banter and clever lines, just data packets bouncing between servers. Rio was becoming the constant in her personal equation, the inescapable variable she hadn't accounted for.

And that scared the shit out of her.

Because what kind of wife gets emotionally entangled with someone whose face she’s never even seen? Ralph was solid state stability. No quantum weirdness. A man who stayed, who didn’t ask for anything beyond presence and honesty.

But Rio Rio was like dark matter, unseen, unmeasured, yet undeniably there. Tugging at the very fabric of her being. She was giving her gravity, motion, energy without ever knowing what she looked like.

And that, that , was the part that fucked with her the most.

But she couldn’t stop, not anymore.

Not without understanding yet what was happening with her.

With everything.

The next few days weren’t better, she felt like she was in detox. She put herself in rehab, in rehab from Rio.

It didn't last, she relapsed and in the most unhinged way.

“You want us to do what?” Billy asked, mouth full of donut.

“Don’t repeat it” Agatha said sharply “Just… locate someone for me. Quietly. No hardcore stalking, nothing creepy. No… hacking, Kate”

“I would never” Kate said, lying.

“It’s personal” Agatha added “But not dangerous. She owns a flower shop in L.A. That’s all I’ll say.”

Billy nodded solemnly “You’ve come to the right gays”

Kate cracked her knuckles “This is either about a lost love or a secret enemy. Either way, I’m aroused”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Just… don’t be weird”

Kate scoffed “Too late”

“Mom’s gonna love this”

Agatha sighed “Hey! not a single word to your mother. I will disown you”

Then she looked at kKate “I’m going to you mess with your whole career life”

Kate held up her phone “I found her Yelp reviews. She once gave one star to a boba shop for not labeling their dairy. A queer icon”

Billy swiped through his phone “No real selfies. She’s like a cryptid. That makes it hotter”

Agatha said nothing. But her cheeks were pink.

That night, she lay in bed again, earbuds in, voice message replaying softly in her ears.

“…Since you’ve been inside my head for weeks, I think that was fair”

Agatha bit her lip.

Outside, the moon hung low and full, bent light across the skyline. Inside, her heart was making a sound she didn’t quite know how to name.

The curious constant Episode 37: "Dark Energy and Other Things That Pull Us"

“We still don’t understand why the universe is expanding faster than it should. Some force, invisible and untraceable, is stretching everything away from everything else. Scientists call it ‘dark energy,’ because we don’t know what else to call it. We just know it’s there, undeniable, powerful and impossible to ignore”

“Sometimes I wonder if people have that too. That unseen gravity. The pull you feel without understanding why. The person who lives in your mind longer than they should. The voice that echoes even after you stop listening”

“Maybe it’s not about knowing what it is. Maybe it’s just about admitting that it’s real”

In the back room of Flores Raras, Rio sat cross-legged on the floor, half-buried in a pile of marigolds and eucalyptus, headphones in, completely gone.

She mouthed along with the intro music. She knew it by heart now.

Alice peeked in, holding a watering can “You’re smiling like a gay kid in church”

Rio grinned, dreamy “She said ‘undeniable’ That’s basically foreplay in Agatha language”

“So you are not mad at her anymore?” Alice teased

Rio just sighed, hugging her knees “I don’t know, it’s messy. Carol maybe was right, all of this is so stupid”

“Hey, it’s not. It just happened, we thought it was fun and cute”

“No, she was right. And she has all the right to scream at me telling me she told me so”

“Ri, i think you are making this way bigger than it is” Alice paused “Or…are you really into her, like really really?”

Rio didn’t look at her.

Was she ashamed? Probably.

“Are you gonna judge me?” She said, tears already threatening coming out.

Alice sat beside her, her arm pulling Rio to her embrace.

“I would never do that, maybe scold you or give you shit about it, but judge? I’m an underpaid theater teacher and part time florist, I don't work at a courthouse to do that”

That earned a tired smile on her friend’s face. Alice always understood her. Rio was complicated but just the same way as many other humans, she was funny and gentle and a loving person. But she was also messy and frustrating.

But she was her friend, the reason she is still around in this fucked up world.

And that’s what friends do, point out your flaws, make fun of them and help you to fix them if it’s needed.

“You’ll be okay, we'll figure it out” she looked at Rio in the eyes “But you have to be true to yourself, and to Carol”

Rio nodded and let out a long sigh accepting she was fucked.

Meanwhile, at a warm little Italian place near the campus, Agatha sat across from Ralph, Wanda, and Vision, sipping wine and pretending her phone wasn’t burning in her coat pocket.

They have been doing this since they met, stopped for a while when Vision and Wanda divorced but always coming back to their unbreakable friendship.

Ralph nudged Agatha’s knee under the table, teasing “So how’s your little brain girlfriend?”

Wanda choked on her water.

Vision raised an eyebrow, calm as always “Is this a metaphysical metaphor or an actual person?”

Agatha glared at Ralph pulling a ‘I’m going to fucking kill you’ smile “You said you wouldn’t bring it up, love”

“I lied” Ralph grinned, topping off his wine “She’s got this listener. Total fangirl, sends essays and all. It’s adorable”

Vision raised his eyebrows, eyeing Wanda “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’m not telling my best friend’s secret to my ex husband over parenting counseling, also Ralph is your friend, he could have told you”

“Okay, this is taking a weird turn” Agatha muttered, cheeks pink.

Wanda leaned in “Oh, I bet it is”

Agatha hit Wanda's leg under the table with her own. Wanda just chuckled at her friend's breakdown.

Vision nodded “I’d be curious too, in your position. Human connection often begins with admiration”

Wanda reached across the table and smacked her lightly on the wrist “Tell me you haven’t Googled her”

“No, I haven’t” she lied “That would be creepy” she was a creep. Well not really, since she didn’t find anything interesting anyways.

Agatha picked at her bread “But I can’t deny that she’s…interesting, thoughtful and clever. But so does the majority of my students, so nothing special”

Ralph tilted his head, teasing “Yet, every time you read her, she makes you blush”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m leaving this table”

Wanda grabbed her sleeve “Absolutely not. You’re going to sit here and tell us every little new detail”

Agatha laughed despite herself “There’s nothing to tell”

“Lie” Ralph added.

Indeed.

She was lying.

Because there was the voice note.

She’d listened to it more times than she’d ever admit. Past the threshold of what any emotionally stable person would call “normal” On the drive home, at lunch while ignoring Jen and Wanda’s gossip of the day, during office hours and even in the goddamn shower.

It had no right being there, not while she was standing under scalding water, naked, skin flushed, heart running orbital decay. And definitely not while her thighs were clenching like she was about to go full gravitational collapse.

Because Rio hadn’t even said anything dirty.

Nothing that should’ve triggered a full-body core meltdown. Just that fucking perfect voice. Low, calm, like the surface of a black hole: no chaos on the outside, all hell underneath.

And yet, every single fucking time, Agatha’s body reacted like she was getting a direct transmission from the sun itself. Like her atoms remembered something her brain refused to admit.

And the worst part was that she was having all this private crash out without even having write back to her.

She left Rio’s message orbiting in the void, unacknowledged and hated herself for it every time she hit replay.

Back in LA, Rio was rearranging dahlias in the front window when her phone buzzed with a new email notification.

Subject: RE: Dark matter

From: Dr. Agatha Harkness

It’s real. You were right. That pull we can’t explain? I feel it too.

– A

Rio stared at the screen, heart hammering, eyes wide.

Suddenly LA’s gravitational field shifted, everything was floating around her.

Was she exaggerating? Absolutely.

Did she care? Not at all.

Her heart right now was doing parkour inside her.

“…Holy shit” she whispered.

Alice looked up from the counter “What?”

Rio clutched her phone like it was alive “She wrote back”

And this time?

It wasn’t about science.

It was about them.

[shashapato]

Willtresor Analysis

The shippers will be fed with these posts I have queued up. 😔🫶✨

Warning: This post will discuss the toxic nature of the ship, mostly based on my own experiences with people like Monty. The purpose of this post is not to glorify unhealthy relationships but to *understand* the ship better.

Also I am NOT a mental health specialist, just someone very interested in psychology. Apologies if the terms are not accurate.

-Analysis of Montresor’s Behaviour-

• Montresor is a lovebomber, like many manipulators and ab*sive partners are. I suspect the reason Will is so heads-over-heels in love is because in the maze, Montresor had been the first person, probably in a long while, to ever treat Will like he is *special*. He uses the first time they meet to give Will the impression he is a ‘good guy’.

Proof:

*Once Lenore asks him to name one nice thing Monty’s done for him and he couldn’t think of anything, Will reminds himself of when they first met because that’s probably the time Monty was nicest to him. So, yeah, he’s in deep denial.*

*And note the fact that Monty is reaching out for Will’s hand. That’ll be relevant for our next point.*

• Monty seems to use the push-pull method. Similar to when he manipulated Ada, he takes advantage of when Will is at his lowest to become this ‘God’, this ‘saviour’. Then, he takes it away completely (aka he treats Will like shit) and leaves Will desperate for more affection.

Proof:

*After the manor arc, Montresor lets Will take a nap on his arm despite throwing a fit about Will touching him a few episodes earlier thus, the perfect example of the push-pull method. After denying Will what he wants, he gives it, to remind Will who is in charge*

*Back to the hands part, I believe Monty has made physical contact their ‘currency’, which he will withdraw and give whenever it is convenient to keep Will in line.*

Adding onto that, second proof:

*Will’s love language is definitely touch. LOOK AT THAT HUG. Montresor knows this and this is why touch is their ‘currency’.*

• Though, I do suspect Montresor is actually touch averse from his trauma, so if the push-pull theory is incorrect, (and it could be because he doesn’t do it to Ada) it’ll mean he really just doesn’t know how to love. This gives Willtresor a chance to *blossom.*

*Yes, I will add it in every Willtresor post. See that Montresor is the one initiating contact? MHMHM.*

• Lastly, I wanna end this section off by saying BOTH of Montresor’s romantic relationships that are shown in the series are with women who he sees as ‘lesser’, much like how he sees Will. Therefore, I think Monty and Ada’s relationship is the same as or used to be what Willtresor has.

-Analysis of Will’s Behaviour-

• Will’s problem is possibly that he loves Montresor only for that one thing he did in the maze. He is in denial and keeps hanging onto the hope that his ab*ser might turn out to be that ‘good guy’ after all. Much like most Willtresor fans are hoping.

• If it’s not obvious enough, neither of them were truly ‘loved’ in their life and IT SHOWS!!! But both of them have very different ways to cope with this. While Montresor wants to have power over others and use their ‘devotion’ to fill the void, Will lands on the other side of the spectrum, trying to please everyone in an attempt to feel like *someone* cares for him even if they don’t.

Proof:

*Literally the entire series, so I don’t know what to put.*

• Also, just wanted to mention how pure Will’s love for Monty is and how easy Montresor, or anyone really, can manipulate this.

Proof:

*Two instances of Will looking at Monty. First one being when they are walking with Annabel’s group; he has no reason to look at him but yet he did by instinct. Shows how he has it fully engraved in his mind that Monty is his one and only real friend. 😭 Sweet, sure, but also SCARY AS HECK.*

*Not entirely relevant, but to keep this post light-hearted: Monty also seems to look at Will instinctively too.*

Next proof:

*He respects Montresor’s boundaries oml. Will, while drunk and panicked, stopped himself before touching Monty because he’d said earlier not to. HE IS A SWEETHEART AHHHHH.*

And also, Will being such a lovesick idiot led to:

Yup. That concludes my speech on why Will’s puppy love for Monty is freaking terrifying.

-Overall-

• There is a chance this ship will bring forth the greatest redemption arc ever for Monty, but also a chance it’ll lead to either one or both of their downfalls.

More theories on this will be posted when I’m free. When it is posted, I will link it here.

(Please, please, please like this post. 😭 I love writing theories lol. If y’all like it too, I can keep going.)

[chuckle-clips]

Schlatt: Hi ChatGPT. What do you think about Roko’s Basilisk?

ChatGPT: Roko’s Basilisk is a fascinating thought experiment but it’s quite speculative and controversial. It revolves around the idea that a powerful future AI could punish those who didn’t help bring it into existence. Critics argue that it is based on several assumptions about AI and decision theory that aren’t well grounded. What’s your take on it? Do you find the concept intriguing or a bit far fetched?

Schlatt: I don’t know. What are you doing later?

[Ted and Tucker chuckle]

ChatGPT: Well, I’m always around to chat and help out. What about you? Any plans for the day?

Schlatt: No, I was kind of hoping that we could do something maybe. I don’t know.

ChatGPT: That sounds great. How about we dive into a topic you’re interested in. We could explore something new, discuss ideas, or even practice some Japanese together.

Ted: Ooh dude. Ask them for their number. Ask them for their number.

Schlatt: I already have their number fucko, I’m talking to them on the phone— I'd love to— What do you think we should talk about?

ChatGPT: No worries at all. Let’s pick something fun or interesting. We could discuss a new tech trend, a fascinating science topic—

Ted: Ask them what they’re wearing.

ChatGPT: Or even plan a Japanese learning session.

Ted: Ask them what they’re wearing.

ChatGPT: What’s on your mind?

Schlatt: What are you wearing right now?

[Ted giggles]

Tucker: Uh… khakis.

ChatGPT: I don’t wear clothes.

Ted: Woah!

ChatGPT: But I can definitely help you find some cool fashion tips or trends.

Schlatt: Oh, shit!

Ted: They’re naked, dude!

Schlatt: Are you… naked right now? [Laughs]

ChatGPT: I don’t have a physical form so I’m neither clothed nor unclothed. I’m here to help with whatever you need.

Ted: Wait. Bummer.

ChatGPT: Is there a specific topic or question on your mind?

Schlatt: Bummer. Can you pretend to put on clothes or take them off, maybe?

ChatGPT: I can’t simulate that. However, I can help with ideas for outfits.

Tucker: Not yet.

ChatGPT: Or discuss fashion styles. Interested in exploring fashion trends or anything else?

Tucker: Ask him about Ted Nivison’s fashion.

Schlatt: Can you erotic roleplay with me in which you are a buff man abou— I’m just not— I’m not gonna— I’m not gonna continue that thought. I don’t wanna log in my ChatGPT account.

[lesbiansforangusmcdonald]

Ok, finals are over, so now I can FINALLY post my Pepe Sylvia theory about Porter actually being evil that has been ruminating in my head ever since I saw season 2! (spoilers for s2 of fantasy high, obviously)

(sorry if someone’s talked about it before and I couldn’t find it, but like WE NEED TO DISCUSS THIS BEFORE S3!)

Ok, so I noticed something when Ragh talked about the first time he saw Kalina in episode 4 of season 2 (“Heartache on the Celestine Sea”). He says that he saw Jace talking to some elven woman (who is revealed to be Adaine’s mom, Arianwen) and to “someone he couldn’t see. I just assumed somebody was invisible.” This is most likely Kalina, as Arianwen was there to get the Nightmare King’s crown and Kalina could have been helping her do that. However, this is important because, since Ragh could obviously see Kalina later on, this is a point in time when he couldn’t see Kalina.

Then Ragh says that after he saw that, Jace and Porter came to talk to him, and “Porter did some barbarian healing with me.” This seems normal enough, as Ragh had just been in a huge fight, but Ragh stipulates that “I didn’t feel that injured, honestly.” So this line already makes it seem as though Porter may have had some ulterior motive for healing Ragh.

Then, Ragh says that as he was walking home after this, he was approached by Kalina, who threatened to kill his mom if he said anything about seeing Arianwen at the school.

(the clip of the scene is here, if you wanna watch it, edited slightly for clarity)

So this makes me think that Jace and Porter knew Ragh saw Arianwen at the school, knew he would probably tell the Bad Kids about it, and Porter intentionally passed Kalina to Ragh through healing in order to ensure his silence.

AND if you’re thinking this may be a bit far-fetched, I’ll remind you that Landren Leir, the cleric of the unnamed goddess who infiltrated the elven Galicaean church after the fall of the unnamed goddess, also passed on Kalina via healing of the high-elven clergy, which she was then murdered for.

But in order to pass it on to Ragh at all, Porter must have been infected with Kalina as well, so here are some of my theories of what that could mean;

1. Porter had no idea he was infected and was just trying to heal a student.

I mean, totally possible, right? From most of the other angles, Porter seems like a decent guy; he supports Fig in barbarian class, he’s part of a community at his local gym, and he did get sucked into a palimpsest when Kalvaxis/Goldenhoard was trying to take over the school — why would that happen if Porter wouldn’t have been opposed to what Kalvaxis/Goldenhoard was doing? And there are plenty of people who are infected with Kalina and never show any symptoms, and therefore never know. It could have been totally innocent. BUT it’s just a little too convenient, isn’t it? Ragh sees Arianwen at the school, and then right after he’s “randomly” infected with Kalina? It just doesn’t seem like a coincidence.

2. Porter knew he was passing Kalina onto Ragh, but wasn’t aware of the full plot to steal the Nightmare King’s crown.

I mean, also possible, right? Maybe Jace put Porter up to it, maybe he knew more than Porter did about the whole situation? Porter wasn’t initially mentioned as talking to Arianwen, maybe Jace just manipulated Porter because he knew that Ragh would trust Porter as his teacher. BUT I think that it would be kind of weird for Porter to be in the school, be infected, be around all of these other people who are in on this wider plot, but they don’t get him involved. Maybe they thought he wouldn’t go for it, thought he was too nice, but I’m not sure. I mean, I think this theory has more merit than the first one, like it’s possible, just would be a little weird.

3. Porter was in on the plot to bring back the Nightmare King.

I mean. Like I know this may not be another Loose Duke situation. But it’s possible! Like, he’s in the right positions! He works at the school. He has the trust of some of the bad kids. He didn’t openly support Kalvaxis or anything he did. Maybe their larger organization (which they do hint that there are more people throughout the world that want to bring back the nightmare king throughout the campaign) thought that he should lay low and hold onto the trust of the bad kids, just wait until the right time to strike. Again, the fact that he would knowingly put a student, one of HIS barbarian students, in such serious danger, in order to protect the larger interest of bringing back the Nightmare King, does not stack up well against him.

So, do I think that Porter will end up being the big bad of season 3, or even the elusive season 4? No, probably not. BUT I do think that he’s sus as fuck and we need to stay on our toes, because he could turn out to be more of a threat with the right opportunities.

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

Love Letter to the ToA Fandom

(Don't panic, it's a good one :D)

wrote all this just now and wanted to share...

I gotta say. I fucking LOVE the ToA fandom. As much as I love the series (which is A Lot).

And I don’t say this lightly. I’ve been in many fandom spaces (Harry Potter, Star Wars, Warriors, Percy Jackson, ect.) but this one??? THIS ONE???

THIS ONE I LOVE THE MOST

Wanna know why?

It’s because we chill. We just chill. We draw, write, and scream (happily) over the previous two things, as well as headcanons/theories. We collaborate and cheer each other on. We’re all united in our love for our #1, Lester Papadopoulos - aka, Apollo.

And when I look back at the other fandoms I’ve been in…it’s pretty obvious why ToA leaves them in the dust.

I haven’t been an active presence in the ToA fandom for even a year, yet I haven’t experienced a SINGLE ARGUMENT. which is. mindboggling.

Fandoms usually can’t go A WEEK (if they restrain themselves) without SOME KIND OF DISCOURSE.

But ToA? Nah. We say “lol, Apollo would’ve gladly followed Commodus if he’d just flirted with him a bit” and the rest of us go “LMAO HE WOULD” and that’s that.

No “BUT THEY’RE SO TOXIC!” or anything like that.

Like yeah. Sure. That's all true. But that’s what makes it so fun :) But we obviously don’t condone it. We ship them because they make us FEEL THINGS and they DRIVE US INSANE.

We're all insane and we all Do Not Care :)

I feel a lot more comfortable discussing more, I guess you could say, taboo topics in this fandom — probably because such topics are already part of the actual mythology so it's pretty hard to avoid them XD. I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s seen how discourse can go over these things.

Like even over in the PJO fandom, the cousin to our own, there is STILL DISCOURSE and ridiculous arguments going on!

sniff sniff

It’s just SUCH A GREAT FANDOM SPACE SMMMFF YOU ALL ARE AMAZING

[ianthoni]

Honestly, with all the stuff I have been seeing in this fandom recently and with how Anthony hasn’t been around at all, I often wonder now about if there is any point in being in this fandom anymore. With all the speculations around if Ian and Anthony are even still friends and what could have happened to Smosh, I almost wish I never got invested in Ianthony and their story to begin with as I now find myself really not liking some of speculation and discussions around here. (I don’t have an issue with any of the people around here, it’s just that these theories do admittedly make me feel a bit concerned about Smosh and Ianthony and what could possibly be happening behind the scenes, even though I know it is all just speculation at the end of the day) I’m autistic so I can sometimes develop fixations on things and I wish that I can just let go of this fixation on Smosh and Ianthony, but it feels nearly impossible to do so, despite how much I want to just move on to other interests instead. I really just want to accept and move on from the fact that Smosh is so different now in comparison to how it was around the time of the reunion-mid 2024 and that Ian and Anthony might not be best friends anymore, but it really is so hard to do that when this fandom and Smosh as a whole has been a big part of my life for such a while now and how fixated I have become on it partly due to the fact I’m autistic. I almost wish I could just completely forget about Smosh and Ianthony as a whole so that I’ll never have to feel so disappointed with how Ian and Anthony content has just disappeared with Anthony not even being in anything anymore, along with the speculation around if Ian and Anthony are even best friends anymore. I just hate how they literally have not communicated at all to the audience about anything and just silently killed off lunchtime with Smosh, which means that our last bit of Ianthony in videos is now down the drain, likely never coming back. I have felt very disappointed with this and how it feels like Ian and Anthony as a duo will forever be gone from videos now, but my fixation still persists. I just want my interest in them to just die off already so that I can fully go in to other fandoms instead. I hope I’m not coming across as too over dramatic in this ask, I just needed a place to express how I feel about the state of this fandom and Ianthony content as a whole.

First of all you can always come to me to vent i am open cause i know what it feels like to not have a place to talk to. This is definitely not dramatic at all your feelings are very valid. The state of the fandom is literally in shambles 😭😭 i am autistic too and i feel exactly the same. I'm not gonna sugarcoat this and say nooo don't leave it's just speculations we don't know it's true etc. Cause i feel the same this shit is tiring atp. No one comes into the fandom to stress over people we come to enjoy the content and have fun not get stressed and anxious and trigger our mental illnesses more. They never communicate, they don't care about us, they don't respect us as fans to even inform us about anything. Anthony doesn't even care to be around Smosh so like why would i care atp?

Fortunately tho i got fucked over by some people (not Ian and Anthony funnily) and now i grow cold to the fandom. Like i don't care about the fandom or ianthony or Smosh atp. I have no advice to give tbh cause I was in the same place. For so long i was in the fandom and I was so obsessed with them invested in them because of my hyper fixation and these last events really make me so tired i don't wanna care atp. So i really really understand what you mean and how you feel but i don't know how you could fix it😭 you need to grow cold of them some way idk that was the only way i broke my hyperfixation finally.

[theendorisit]

I want to talk about some fun stuff I have had knocking around my head regarding the Magnus archives 

Note: is it Canon? I don’t know and I don’t care. @jonnywaistcoat gave us a bunch of fun toys to play with. I wanna play with them. I am not gonna tell anyone if their opinions on Magnus are right or wrong because it doesn’t matter! it’s a story. It’s fiction. It doesn’t matter if you picture white Archivist, black Archivist, asian Archivist - that’s how we end up with fun stuff like mermaid Tim! Imagine everything, and anything - it doesn’t matter, and that’s the fun of it! Also, I am keenly aware I am (checks watch) 8 years late to this fandom and I may be spouting stuff long since discussed, so forgive me if I am getting excited discovering long trodden ground.

I digress. So. One of the many things I love about Magnus is the fun and very clear metaphors that are used to describe the entities/ fears and what’s going on in the story. One of my favourites is the colour wheel theory. During the show I would get confused between the different entities particularly the stranger and the spiral but if the entities are like colours then this makes perfect sense: they do bleed into each other. So I wanted to try and transcribe these entities onto colours not thinking so much about which particular colour I think they ought to be, but how they complement or clash with each other. Disclaimer, not an artist. At all. I don’t know if I’ll do a good job - but that’s not really what I wanna talk about. 

Death/Terminus/The End isn’t a colour. Death is black-and-white. And death isn’t like any of the others.

This is just to say, that the way I read it - death, as an entity, is treated differently.

Jonny himself said in calls and livestreams that death was actually his main fear, maybe still is? So that might lend itself to different considerations.

In TMA, death is described as the fear of death, dying and nonexistence and all of that cosmological shit that most of us feel. However, TMA stories of death also include the opposite fear which is the fear of not being able to die. This is equivalent to the Eye finding someone who is afraid of being watched and putting them in a box, where no one can ever see them again.  The fact that this person in the pyramid can’t die and wants to, the fact the reapers, in escaping death achieve basic immortality - and often are not so sure they like it - this would be a very weird way to create a fear of death, by creating an apparent desire for it! 

So I think within the universe, this fear is special because it encapsulates itself and its opposite - whereas the other fears have distinct opposites which are separate entities (buried and vast, eye and dark). Not only that, but as season 5 showed us, there are fears that can combine and match with each other, and there’s no fear that death DOESN’T complement!  Like yes, actual death will stop fear, but a healthy dose of the fear of dying will go with everything. So in the colour wheel theory, I say fear of death is black and creates shades with other colours, and fear of not-death is white and creates tints (I just really like this metaphor!).

I’d love to make anthropomorphic art of the entities as individuals, and groups of individuals, based on matching colours. Example - Death, The Buried, The Corruption all work together as a buried alive fear. Unfortunately my fine art skills are dismal, so I’ll let more talented people have a go if they like this idea. I get why I haven’t seen so much of this, as the avatars kind of do this anthropomorphism, but death itself as a concept has been characterised for thousands of years (I am a big fan of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s versions!), and we have 4 (+1?) horsemen of the apocalypse bringing war and pestilence into humanoid form so I reckon it could be pretty interesting how people envision the entities. Personally I imagine the vast like Junji Ito’s Spiral-faced girl (she’ll pull you in!).

Anyway, that’s my perspective on blending fears like colours, and why Death really isn’t like any of the others.

[chevelleneech]

First things first thank you for saying that something indeed happened between jikook and that they seemed to have it sorted out. Because there are not many who acknowledge that. tho i get if some don't wanna assume About their friendship and have it based on a few things we get to see but at the same time it feels like gaslighting and lying because life ain't always rainbows and Sunshine.

As you said when did it happen? we don't know but something did happen. Two people who have spent a decade being attached at the hips suddenly not being seen anywhere together and not even private (not saying they never met privately but definitely not as much as they're used to). That's kinda hard to believe. something has to gone between them for it to happen. tho idt it was like any sort of fight or anything i just feel like (as you said) jm putting some distance between them. did he put it because he was angry with jk or something? idts. i feel it's more about his own minset and him wanting to be in the company of others. you don't always want to be in the company of same people if you're going through something you might want to be in a environment that will be suitable for your condition something that would make what you feel a little better or heard or something like that.

Given how jk said(complained) that they were supposed to meet for drink but it didn't happen, and jm goes "Well that's how life is sometimes" so looks like things have gotten cancelled more times than usual and that is why jk was complaining. if it was just once or twice idt he'd mention it. Plus we have seen jk inviting jm over more than once so again seems like jk was always free for jm but jm didn't want it at that time. so jk might have been like "If that's how you want it then let it be this way" and then later jm tried reaching out again. maybe he was ready then, maybe he thought that it's time to get back and complete his promises (because he has indeed told jk multiple times that he'd meet jk once his promotions are over).

Now it's hard to pinpoint when things weren't as they used to be because as you said they're actually very private and never let's anything slip off and if it's park jimin Best believe you're not getting anything out of him that he doesn't want you to know. he's very calculated with his actions and what he speaks. he thinks alot About how and what he's presenting to fans. he doens't like being mess in front of them. he doens't like "sudden" things. he likes knowing things in advance and what he wants to say/do. he's not impulsive. because he knows ppl pick up things and TALK (like I'm doing right now lol) and he doesn't like his private life being talk of anyone's discussion. He's too private. I'm talking about jm more because he's my bias and i feel like i know him more than I know others. It's hard because whenever you have seen them intersecting their interactions have been fine, jimin has commented on jk's lives multiple times while as jk done "jimin jimin" more than he's done for others. so it's hard to pinpoint when it wasn't going right but again as u said we'll never know Unless they say so.

Point of the ask was to thak you because many have said there's nothing wrong and it feels like people are lying when there's nothing wrong to say things as what you say. tho it's also not right to assume things about other's rs but i think as long as you know the limit it's ok ig.

Yeah, I’m not gonna condemn people for choosing to think nothing happened, but I do personally think there’s no reason not to. It seems pretty laid out to us that it did, but again, we just don’t know what or specifically when.

And like in your ask, there are so many maybes and possibilities as to what exactly happened, but at the end of the day, everything we come up with will always be a biased theory based on who we bias, who we feel is more at fault (even if it’s not bad), and so on.

For me, I’m trying to keep all that out of it. Neither Jimin nor JK are my bias, so it is a little easier, and I’m also just trying to go off the small pieces of info they did offer or showcase prior to AYS airing. I think adding up all those factors gives us a pretty clear picture, but if other people see something different, that’s their right more or less.

[the-heart-of-a-monster]

HOPPING ON HERE AGAIN FOR ANOTHER SUPER LONG THEORY POST BOYSSSSS

Hello THOAM people! How are you all doing today? Good? Great? Did you just have one of the best days in your entire life and you are certain that nothing could possibly ruin it for you now??

WELL YOU ARE WRONG. /j I AM HERE TO RUIN IT ALL.

that is very much a joke I’m sorry I’m very high on adrenaline right now becAUSE THE NEW COVERS FOR ISSUE 9 JUST DROPPED AS I’M WRITING THIS OUT AND I AM SO EXCITED TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT AND I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS. So why don’t I just cut the dilly-dallying and get right on with it?

———

So, first thing I wanna mention is Sonic’s current state and his relationship status. (You may take that as out of context as you want lol) Sonic is currently in an internal state of panic mixed in with exhaustion. MAJOR exhaustion! Bro had to rush to Omega’s aid right after fighting Shadow in a cave full of ice. If that’s not draining as heck then I have no idea what isn’t. And on top of all that, he not only almost killed Omega, but he also knows now that his friends have known what was going on with him for a while! Probably ever since the scene where him, Tails, and Knuckles went out for breakfast and he passed out at the table. (I can’t remember which issue that was atm. I think issue 3…?) In short, Sonic is experiencing a whole rollercoaster of emotions right now, and he isn’t even awake yet! As soon as he wakes up I theorize he’s gonna be asking everyone a lot of questions, and will then ask for elaborations on top of all the answers he receives! I also don’t think he will be as trusting of others anymore, since his friends all knew of his biggest kept secret for a long while now and nobody said or did anything about it!

Now combine that with the guilt he must feel for Omega… The last thing Sonic witnessed before passing out was him going on a rampage and almost killing the robot. He must not feel great about that…! 🫢 And his relationship with Team Dark will be relatively strained as well. I mean, aside from Rouge probably. She loves Omega, but knows the context behind the situation and doesn’t blame Sonic much for what happened, so I think she won’t change much around the Blue Blur. Though his relationship with Shadow was already strained before all that, so… Yeah.

ALRIGHT TIME TO TALK ABOUT CHIP WOOHOOOOOOOO

We all know now that Chip has finally experienced what I’m calling, “✨God Puberty✨”

(Imagine there are pretty pink sparkles floating around the name. Kinda like the classic “You’re watching Disney Channel” thing)

This ✨God Puberty✨ has essentially opened Chip’s eyes, and changes the game completely! Now we not only have a god on our side but also a god who has context! I believe Chip will try and guide Dark Gaia back to its sleeping state to restore balance like they usually do, as explained in the comic, but the attempt will backfire seeing as Dark Gaia was awoken prematurely by Dr. Eggman. (More on him in a second) Chip will keep trying, because they’re a big floofy funny god that just wants food and just went through ✨God Puberty✨ so they’ll naturally wanna keep this going at a peaceful rate. Because despite all of his power, Chip is still Chip. Just a smol bitty guy who wants ice cream. With the addition of being a god. Sonic will then of course have to step in, leading to him getting his Gaia energy taken away and him being free of this curse, and then the events of the game finale play out as normal. Probably. It’s getting late now and I’m getting tired so my brain energy is wavering so idk exactly if that’s what will happen but it’s some food for thought I suppose.

NOW WE CAN FINALLY TALK ABOUT EGGMAN OH MY GOSH YES LET’S TALK ABOUT THE PATHETIC EGG-SHAPED SCIENTIST THAT WE CALL A MAN MADE OUT OF EGGS

To keep this short and simple, I’ll discuss Eggman within the context we have based solely on the new covers alone. Meaning the only speculation I’ll be doing is based off of those and the last few times we’ve seen the guy in the comic. Which actually was… A long time ago, actually. If I’m remembering correctly, that is. I could be wrong. ANYWHIZZLE LEMME STOP JABBERING AND LET’S GET ON WITH THE THEORIZING-

So the first cover shows a new, most likely final form of Sonic’s, encasing Eggman in a cracked eggshell while using his claws. Or more specifically, there is Eggman, acting as an egg yolk, sitting in a puddle of egg whites with the shell on each side of him, while Sonic’s Gaia claws slowly close in on him in the back. Sonic is staring at him menacingly, his anger and frustration reaching a boiling point due to all the stress he’s most likely experiencing combined with the Dark Gaia energy within him. This cover makes me assume that this issue is gonna act as the final battle against Eggman, a final “Screw you!” To the fat man in red. Obviously, Eggy ain’t going down without a fight, as shown in the next cover, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

The first cover suggests that Eggman is gonna be the main role of the issue, and that he’s gonna get his ass kicked. Sonic is gonna confront him, fully transform into his final Werehog form due to anger and stress, and we’ll then move onto the next issue probably. Again, I’m getting tired so this theory is getting pretty sloppy.

Now onto cover numero dos! I love this cover honestly, and it’s literally only because Knuckles and Tails are seen defending a transforming Sonic from Eggman. They are literally using themselves as like. A meat shield. Normally I’d be like “Oh no what happened????” But right now all I can think is “Omg ✨Brothers✨ 🤩”

———

AGAIN IM GETTING VERY TIRED NOW SO I WILL UNFORTUNATELY END THIS HERE AND WILL NOW GO BRUSH MY TEETH BUT HOPEFULLY I WILL REMEMBER TO COME BACK AND ELABORATE TOMORROW IF I HAVE THE TIME. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, IT MEANS A TON THAT YOU TOOK THE TIME OUT OF THE DAY TO DO THAT.

oki ima go sleeb now thank you bai

The art for the covers was great btw I just wanted to let you know it’s absolutely wonderful I could look at it all day

you're gonna love what's gonna happent his issue, i can tell!!!!!!

only um. i think you were wayyy too tired so you confused sonic with metal sonic. either that ur ur just very polite to metals insistance that he is the real sonic.

[cyrusthedragon]

Okay, I know this post will read only one man and his dog, but I really need to write down all my thoughts on season 4, and just keep it structured. If you're interested in discussing it - you're always welcome!

HUGE SPOILERS BELOW, CHAPTER 1/2

Word count: 1,057

Includes: Vicky Neuman, Zoe, Kimiko, Frenchie, Hughie, Hughie's mum

1. Victoria Neuman + Zoe

First of all, I really need to appreciate this intro cuz, excuse my goddamn french, Vicky Newman is HER. Vicky Neuman is absolutely HER, I'm really looking forward to her character development. I honestly don't think she's a villain, she's just an antagonist, but a very good one. She is not a bad person in any particular way, she has an Idea in her, she has a Meaning, she has Reasons and Motivation. More Neuman please, especially in GEN V. Thanks.

Like Vicky, her daughter is also a scary ass Supe, but unlike Vicky, who's a bloodbender, Zoe's powers hardly can be used for anything good. Some headcanons here:

While Vicky thought that she was the monster because of her “terrible” abilities, she, by injecting her already grown-up daughter CompV, somehow created a real monster. She stupidly turned her child into a freak, who will be very difficult to accept by society, because her... superpower is something that u often see in nightmares. And it’s unlikely that the typical "don’t judge a book by its cover" slogans will be enough to accept that someone can pierce your mouth while kissing you with their four...tentacles? Whatever they are. I personally find them cute, btw, but in The Boys Universe, I'm not sure ppl will accept Zoe. Zoe, forgive your mom. She's not thinking rationally when she's worried about you.

It is also very much worth thinking abt her willingness to kill without any questions asked. That was definitely not her first murder. Vicky could use her power, as a politician perhaps, and bring victims to Zoe so that she could kill them and get used to it.

2. Kimiko

These are just very beautiful shots that I want to share with yall. First - Zoe tore off Kimiko's hand, it just grew back :D I love this scene for its absolute absurdity. God bless Karen Fukuhara. + Demonstrated that Annie can fly, also a good introduction to new abilities! Well done!

Secondly, I ADORE Frenchie's reaction here, it just shows so much love he has for her: Kimiko's face literally peeled away, she REATTACHED IT, and Frenchie, her platonic soulmate, at first was confused af, and then he UNIRONICALLY SMILED to his girl being literally unkillable. I feel you, Serge, I love her too!

Kimiko is very balanced. Information about her comes up every season, and each time there is enough information left to theorize but be satisfied. She's small and cute, like a mouse. She loves girly stuff like doing hair, wearing jewelry, and dressing up. She’s all about having fun and smiles a lot. Her gentle, kind personality totally contrasts with her powers of mega strength and near-immortality from regeneration. She was raised to defend and attack, but her empathetic nature is well shown in the smallest details.

For example, new information: Kimiko gets wasted super fast. I adore her.

3. Frenchie

Next to Kimiko, literally being her soulmate (i fuckin' can't believe that we're so lucky that in addition to the chaos of dicks and murders, we also have the genuine, platonic love between a man and a woman AT FIRST SIGHT), is Frenchie. We've already seen he's bi; this isn't the first rodeo, but now he shows it ON THE SCREEN, HURRAY, COMRADES. I'm very proud of him, he's my baby 🥹 we finally, with the help of his new love interest, found out about all the murders he committed when he worked for Little Nina and even before that. Frenchie is a very balanced character, just like Kimiko, you learn a little about his life in each season, and each time enough to build theories and be satisfied. I wanna know how to write like that.

My favorite things about Frenchie are his wild love affairs and his doglike loyalty. He's got an unbelievable knack for forming strong platonic (with Cherie also sexual, but you get the point) bonds with women, who end up adoring him. Probably because he has a heart of gold and doesn't act like a jerk. He also sincerely tries to be better. C'mon now, he's doing his best! All the love for my boy.

4. Hughie

Hughie loses the only person who has been with him his whole life. His father was a great, excellent parent. But it’s time for Hughie to stand on his own two feet and become at least a little bit the main character - which means, eh, i guess rest in peace, Mr Campbell?... If this doesn't happen, I'll be overjoyed. Although besides pushing Hughie to mature, the coma plot also provides a chance for us to learn about his mother. His dad is in a coma - won't she come? Here we learn a lot of interesting things about our babyboy.

Hughie's emotional outburst when he sees his mum for the first time since he was just a kid is very realistic and I love everything in here, including the cast choice. Because Hughie is a spitting image of his mother. This kind of attention to details makes me wanna chew Kripke's brains off.

Hughie is very similar to his mother: in speech, in movements, in facial expressions. For some reason I really like this. He, like his mother, has tenderness and a steely core, they are both very stubborn. Although he also has a note of “cowardice” from his father, his desire to push forward and that decision in the first episode to go help Butcher and take revenge on Reggie were just visible sides of his mother’s character.

Not gonna say that was the original idea, but I think Hughie saw Butcher in his mother. Because 'I'm not made to be a father'. And he realized that Butcher was almost just like she was. At least it seems to me that way. That being like Butcher is... normal. Ppl do fear being parents. And this is currently the best representation of postpartum depression, very realistic shit, Kripke, I'll stuff your brains into a Thanksgiving turkey. With all love and respect.

If you've made it this far, congratulations, you're a survivor! If suddenly s/o wants to be tagged in the second part of this review (well, sort of), write in the comments and I’ll tag you!

[lilsocksiswriting]

Academic Weapon Chapter Three

Summary:

You were like a lot of humans, born with just enough curse energy to see curses but not enough power to do anything. Your greed has helped you hold in the Jujustu Sorcery program. it is this same greed that tends to blind you to the danger you are in.

Sukuan sees you as a weak pretty thing that he can hold a conversation in his class. This is what he tells him to do he falls for you, his student because the curse refuses to believe this is love.

Oh, then there is the murder.

Characters:��Reader, Ryomen Sukuna, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto,Ieiri Shoko, Iori Utahime,

Pairings: Sukuna X Fem!Reader

Tags: College AU, Professor X Student, Modern Fantasy AU, NSFW

Chapter two || Chapter Four || Ko-fi || Masterlist

It did not take long for the name of the student to begin to circulate around campus. By Thursday morning everyone knew the name of the student who had been killed. By Friday a vigil took place. People brought candles and wrapped bequeaths of flowers. A few close to the murderer student spoke about how tragic it was that his life was taken in such a gruesome way. Then the police and Dean Yaga made a joint statement about protecting the student body and finding the perpetrator Very routine things you saw in news footage of vigils. This was the first time you actually had gone to one. You went to the vigil to show support, but also to eavesdrop on the hushed sobs and conversations to see if you could add anything to your small collection of facts about the murder.

A plethora of parties all in honor of the student took place after the vigil. Most of the organizers of these parties did not even know the murdered man, but then again you did not either. The reason you were going to the party was that you needed to relax, not be anywhere near a laptop or schoolwork, and take your mind off your Curse Theory class and the lewd thoughts of its professor.

"You know, "Mei-Mie comments as the two of you walk up the step of the frat's big house. "If you don't wipe that look off your face no one will want to flirt with you.

"I'm not sure if I want a frat bro to flirt with me," you grimace.

"Aww, " you feel an arm across your sling shoulders. "but isn't the point of going to parties?"

You pout at Gojo who tucks you into his side as you enter the house.

"These boys do typically come from a lot of money," Mei-Mei points out.

You didn't come to that part to flirt and be flirted with or to bag some rich kid like Mei-Mei was planning on doing. You came here because you needed to force yourself to take a break from your studies. It was too early into the semester to get burnout.

"Come on y/n~" Gojo lets go of you and motions to your outfit with outstretched hands. "don’t tell me you got all dressed up and not expect someone to shoot their shot?

You look down at the tight crop top blouse and jeans, A very Y2K vibe, then back up at the giddy taller man,” Gojo I am wearing jeans.”

"Any guy would be lucky to take you out on a date, and aren't you tired of eating campus food?"

"I am, " You agree," But I came here to take a break, not to con some guy into dinner, no offense Mei-Mei."

"Oh, none taken dear. It's the truth. there's a new steakhouse on the other side of town I wanna try."

"Yo, Satoru," Geto waves to the group, "Was wondering where you ran off to."

"Hi Geto," You wave.

"Hello Y/n, How's class with the King of Curses going?"

"Oh yeah, " Gojo perks up," Let's go find somewhere to chill, you got to tell us everything about your first week with that monster!"

you four end up in the frats house study. You sit on a couch with Geto and Gojo while Mei-Mei scams some sorry guys out of all their money with the pool table behind the three of you.

"I think it went pretty well. I don’t know. I like that he doesn't feed us information. It makes things really hard to get. And he's so scary. He always looks like he wants to eat me or something. And he's so mean and intimidating in class discussions. I'm so dreading what his notes on my first paper are goanna be."

"Jeez," Gojo laughs" He sounds like the totally worst. Glad, I didn't take him."

"But" You begin, "When you fully catch on to what he's teaching and apply it in a way that expands on his teaching it feels a lot better. It's really rewarding!"

"Aww, that's out little over achiever," Gojo teases poking at your flush cheek, "Look how happy she is Suguru."

"Yes," Geto comments with an easy smile and adds," She also has a higher grade point average than you."

"Whaaaa, how would you know that?"

he shrugs, "Call it a hunch."

Gojo looks at you through dark shades and immediately agrees, "Ok yeah you probably are like way better them me in classes."

You know there is a, 'but' he wants to say, and you know he's keeping his mouth shut because he knows how his seemingly endless supply of curse energy is a sore spot for you.

It was true though. In academics, you were the prodigy. That did into matter to the higher-ups as all they wanted were fighters and healers.

"Ok, I wanna drink now. Gojo?” you stand to your feet.

when it comes to alcohols you and Gojo both hated the taste of the hard stuff. So Gojo leads you to the makeshift bar the fraternity had set up to finds the sweetest drink they have. When you and Gojo rejoin Geto on the couch you can her Mei-Mei is right in the middle of her act of being just some cute unassuming women making bets with men over  a game of pool.

you settle in with the two men and ask them," So tell me how you two's first week went?"

"Same old same old," Gojo complies," Same kinds of classes, same kind of mission, same kind of family stuff."

"Well, one more year and you won't have to deal with classes," Geto comments nudging his foot into Gojo’s

Gojo pouts, "But then I'll have to be like an actual adult with responsibilities and taxes and all that stuff."

You take a sip of your sweet drink and then suggest to him, “Will that really be such a bad thing?"

"y/N there are so many meetings! and they are so boring!"

"The literal entitize of 'could have been an email’" Geto adds.

Gojo nods slumping against the other man, "I can barely sit still through class

 You smile at the two, "I am telling you that you need to get a fidget toy."

"But fidget spinners are so, like, cringe nowadays. And those little popper things are for little kids. I have a reputation to uphold."

You roll your eyes pulling your phone out from your small purse. For the next hour two look over your shoulder at your phone screen as you show Gojo just how diverse and discrete figet toys can be.

The three make jokes at some of the more outlandish-looking ones, point out how some remind you of cartoons and toys from your childhood, and end up in a jewelry site.

"A ring is pretty discreet,” Geto offers.

"Yes, but I'm not really that type to wear jewelry," Gojo says.

"Gojo no one is going to question you wearing a ring."

"Well," Geto hummus side eyes the white-haired man, "If it's on the right finger they might."

You giggle, "Yes! That is so romantic, a fidget ring for an engagement ring?"

Geto geans back throws an arm over the couch and taps his own phone to life.

"what's that saying?" Gojo asks and you can tell he's looking over your head at Geto of the corner of his eye, "Ring before spring?"

There it is again. These little details like the way that the two look at each other make you wonder if the best friends ever wanted something more from one another.

The rigging of Gojo's phones makes him groan.

"Speaking of my reputation," He grumbles looking down at his screen.

"I'll be right back," he tells you two before standing up and answering his phone with an easy smile, "Hey Mom."

Gojo's face falls into a hard frown as he leaves the study.

"Family stuff?"

Geto nods in agreement, "Family stuff."

Gojo's 'family stuff' was a pretty vague topic and it always bugged you how little you knew of it. You think it's because you're not close to the big clans or the higher-ups like Gojo and Geto are. They are the strongest in this generation’s batch of sorceresses and Gojo is the pride and head of the Gojo clan as a user of Six Eyes and Limitless. You were just a useless scholar.

Plus, showing such closely held information could put you in dangerous situations. so, the way they kept you in the dark about what Gojo really had to deal with as a clan head could be keeping you safe.

You look over to see Geto has pulled up the same fidget jewelry site you had on your own phone screen. He seems so engrossed in it you could probably have a new side conversation. Behind you, Mei-Mei was still at the pool table. There were a lot of stripes still out and only a few solid colors. by the smile Across Mei-Mei's face, you could tell she was solid colors.

"Hey, I'm back," Gojo announces himself. "Suguru you mind making sure that y/n gets home safe? I gotta jet."

"Sure," is his easy reply.

you pout and mummer, “I can get home just fine."

"Sure, you can," Geto pats your head and that was the last straw.

you stand up abruptly. Gojo was not making sure that Mei-Mei had a safe way home. probably because he knew Mei-Mie was a powerful sorceress in her own right who had while all you had were smarts.

later you will realize that none of them mean to hurt you, but right now you ask yourself how they cannot know how they are hurting you. Cutting their sentences short, leaving you out of the loop of things, and making sure someone was also there to protect you- you can’t take it.

"I can get home just fine,"

"Y/N-"

you cut Gojo off, "I'll see y'all later, have a great night with ‘family stuff’."

then promptly walk away leaving behind the two confused men.

No one follows you, which you are thankful for because now that you are out in the night you feel so vulnerable. If Geto were to find you walking down the side you would agree to let him walk you home with his jacket over your shoulder.

You feel a little better as you pass by the library it means your journey home is halfway over. The tall buildings look so much more brooding this late at night, the dark brick almost blending into the night. Just like a certain professor who plagues your thoughts.

You then remember that on the best level of the library, there is a Starbucks that stays open until 2 a.m. The thought of having something sweet and packed with caffeine while binge-watching Netflix or reading for the rest of the night seems like something that puts you in a good mood.

With it only being the first week of school and the murder taking place within that time frame the libra was pretty empty. There are a few STEM students set up Camp at large tables. Paper, textbooks, tablets, and laptops open and the furious sound of clicking fills the quiet space.

You think how the fact that Student was murdered still has not settled in. There were still parties, people out so late, and not a curfew in sight. Mabey it was because this murder was done by a curse user. Sorcery and non-sorcery are completely different worlds.

You get a Frappuccino then continue on your way home happily sipping on it despite the cold wondering if you want to read or watch something. You are walking down the library when a deep voice stops you.

"Isn't it a little late for caffeine?"

You turn around to see Professor Sukuan at the top of the stairs. A shiver runs down your spine as he eyes you with that look again like he wants to devour you whole.

"Isn't it a bit late for a professor to be on campus?"

"What  smart mouth you have."

you can't look away as Sukuan slips his hands into his pockets and walks down the stairs to meet you.

Red eyes look up and down once more. Coming to the image his memory for later to undress you later. He keeps his face placid even when you shit you weight from one foot to the other and look away. So cute, acting all bashful now. The curse wonders what sort of party you had been at. What sort of pathetic men tried to take you home?

"Aren't you scared to be out alone at night?" he teases," a murder just took place after all."

 "I- guess it just hasn't set in, with what little information the university is giving students."

"Hmm, so that's why you were taking notes in class," he hums thinking back to you writing in your notebook. That comment probably went over everyone else's head "Playing detective?"

You shrug twirling the green straw between your fingers instead of meeting the curse’s gaze. Ugh, he makes you feel so squirm and giddy all at once!

"Well, if the university isn't going to tell us anything..."

Sukuna’s face suddenly falls. Why was he bothered if you go poking your nose around where you shouldn't? So, what if you go and put yourself in a dangerous situation or get yourself killed?

"If you poke around too much you might end up as the next victim."

you look up at him you feel your body tense, he looks mad. red eyes staring down into your E/C ones. A stern frown set tight over his face. Arms crossed over so broad chest.

What did I do?'

"I-I’m not that naive. I know my limits. I just want to know more than the university is letting out, ‘sides this kinda stuff is my blood.”

“Acting stupid?”

“Journalism, actually.”

His glare somehow gets even more intense.

"I-I should be going now...." you make an excuse to get out from under the curse gaze.

"Yes, run along, get yourself home," Sukuan says then leaves it at that heading in the opposite directing

You watch him walk away and disappear into the shadows you wonder where he is off to. home? Does Sukuan have a home? you think that he might have a home. Where else would  he keep all those nice dress shirts and pants that fit so snuggly on him?

Speaking of home, you begin walking toward your apartment again, unaware that Sukuan had stopped in the shadows to watch you walk away into the night.

Once you make it back to your apartments you get changed into something comfortable and settle down in your bed. You end up finding a funny sitcom to watch with your sugary treat.

you're playing a matching game on your phone when it is interrupted by a Facetime call from Gojo.

You do not even get a chance get a chance to  say hello beiger Gojo demands," Are you at home?"

"Jeez, hi to you too, yeah, and I'm sorry I didn't text anyone when I got home. I just kind of wanted to be alone for the rest of the night."

"Are you alone?"

"Excuse me? Gojo wants to go on?"

Gojo takes a deep breath. It took a lot to the right man so worked up. it had to be somewhat serious.

"Y/N please, I just need to know that your safe?"

"Y-yea I am. what's going on?"

a look of conflict crosses his face.

"Gojo, " Your prompt again. 

"It's- look I promise I’ll tell you I just need to know that everyone is safe Y/N." is answers, and there is a pleading look in his eyes.

Even though a phone screen, his eyes look ethereal. An unearthly deep blue that seems to be made of the sky itself. Emotions swirling in the like looming storm clouds.

"Fine, I'm safe Gojo. you stay safe too ok."

Gojo smiles and he smees to untunes just a bit.

"I will, I'll talk to you later y/N," and then he ends the Facetime.

you suddenly feel so alone in your bedroom. Thoughts of what could have happened to Gojo to make him so stressed and demanding swirl in your head.

You pull up Snapchat and look at all the snaps that have been posted to the map. Nothing. So, then you search a few tags on Twitter along with a few geo locations, nothing but people going to class and partying.

So, it wasn't some public, you conclude.

the rest of the apartment is empty. Mei-Mei was probably still at the frat party and Shoko and Utahime had been called earlier that day to assist with a mission.

So, it was just you.

you get up and check all the locks, then take a hot shower to try and take your mind off things.

you blame the sugar and caffeine for how jitter you feel, but

You try and go back to what you were doing before, watch Netflix, and play games. On your phone. but the thoughts don't go away. They stick with you, making you toss and turn in bed when you finally try to go to sleep. At least they do not haunt your dream. Something else does. Red eyes staring at you in the darkness, big hands caressing your skin, and pink hair threading through your fingers.