#and im in thick ish tights….. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiszjuli · 4 months ago

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𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 ──── [𝐋.𝐃𝐇] 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

( 이동혁 ) ; 𝐟𝐞𝗺!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐝𝗼𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐜𝐤

──in which your parents had always told you to stay away from boys like haechan. boys with cocky smirks, black eye liner, bruised knuckles, and a reputation that came with warning labels. you never had a reason to listen until you were assigned to tutor him after school. it should have been simple. help him pass, get it over with. but there’s something about him that drew you in, and you didn’t want to pull away.

✦ drama, fluff/angst, slow burn(ish). forbidden love? ; tags. goodgirl!reader x badboy!haechan, suggestive, your parents are literal jerks, swearing, mentions of fighting, kissing !!, protective!haechan, corruption? but not really , lmk if i missed any !

𓂃 w.c [ 7.4k / 22.7k ]

!! not proofread !!

▸ j.note ; woahh i didn’t expect you guys to like this gif so much but im glad you did! i hope this lives up to the rest of the strontium happy reading !! also pls pls give feedback i want to improve my writings in the best way possible and i know my writing needs a lot of work, so constructive criticism is encouraged.

▸ this is part two and part one can be found here .ᐟ (please read it first)

your heart in your throat, your breath shallow as your mom stands in front of the both of you in the living room. ironically, the first time haechan was on there. she was watching you and haechan like she's just discovered the most unforgivable thing. the two of you are frozen, your lips still tingling from the kiss that was abruptly interrupted.

"what the hell was going on here?" your mom's voice cuts through the stillness, and you can see the flicker of shock and anger in her eyes. her gaze darts between you and haechan, her lips pressed into a thin line. the tension in the air is suffocating.

haechan steps back, but his eyes don't leave you. he looks like he's about to speak but holds back, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

your mom's gaze flicks from him to you. "this is what i've been worried about," she says, her voice sharp. "you're not a child anymore, but you're making reckless decisions. boys like him-they don't care about you."

your chest tightens. "you don't even know him," you reply, though your voice trembles slightly.

she shakes her head, disbelief written across her face. "i know enough." she takes a step into the room, her eyes narrowing. "you can't see it now, but you will. he's trouble, and if you keep going down this path-"

"mom, stop," you cut in, your voice rising before you can stop it. "this is my choice."

the room is thick with tension. haechan stands silently off to the side, still processing what's happening, his hands balled into fists at his sides. he's been silent, waiting for your mom to finish, but you can see the frustration on his face as she continues.

"you need to leave," your mom commands, her voice icy, cutting through the air like a knife.

haechan takes a breath, his chest rising and falling sharply. he's about to turn away, about to leave, when you step forward.

"wait," you whisper, a sharp sting of regret flooding through you. you didn't want this. you didn't want him to leave-not like this.

haechan stops, turning slowly back toward you, confusion written across his face. he doesn't speak, but the look in his eyes is soft, almost too soft for a situation like this. you take a step closer to him, your heart racing, and in a moment of vulnerability, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug.

"i'm sorry," you whisper, your voice barely audible, feeling the heat of his skin against your cheek. the words feel heavier than you expected, like a weight you didn't know you'd been carrying.

for a moment, neither of you moves, just standing there in the fragile silence of your embrace. then, he leans in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, "i'm not going anywhere, you know."

his voice is quiet, but there's a certain determination in it that makes your heart skip a beat. you want to say something, anything, but before you can, your mom interrupts.

"you need to go," she insists, her voice breaking through the moment.

reluctantly, you pull away from haechan, your hands lingering on his shoulders for just a second longer than necessary. you glance at your mom, who's watching you with a look of disappointment, and then back at haechan.

he takes a deep breath, eyes meeting yours one last time. "i’m sorry too," he says softly, his lips curving into a small, wistful smile that only you see.

without another word, he turns toward the door. you watch him leave, the weight of your mom's disapproval heavy in the air. but just before he steps out, he pauses and looks back at you once more, his gaze full of quiet determination. it's a look that says, i'm not giving up on us, even if everything else feels like it's falling apart.

the door clicks softly behind him, and you're left standing there, your heart racing, the silence in the room almost deafening. your mom's disappointment lingers, but you can't shake the feeling that whatever this is with haechan is far from over. "what did i tell you?" your mom's voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and furious. "how did he even get in here? you are grounded for... until i say so! now go to bed. your father and i will deal with you in the morning."

well, fuck.

—

after your mother’s furious words, the weight of reality settles over you. your heart is still racing, your skin still tingling from the way haechan had touched you, but now it’s mixed with something colder. hame, fear, the undeniable knowledge that you’ve been caught.

without another word, you turn on your heel and head to your room, shutting the door a little too forcefully behind you. you lean against it, exhaling shakily, trying to process everything. grounded indefinitely. your parents furious. and yet, all you can think about is the look in haechan’s eyes before he left—the quiet promise, the way he lingered just a second longer, like he didn’t want to leave you behind.

you pace the room, hands running through your hair, restless. you’re supposed to feel regret, supposed to feel ashamed, but instead, something else burns in your chest. defiance. yearning. maybe even something close to a thrill. because for the first time in your life, you aren’t just following the rules. you’re chasing something you actually want.

climbing into bed, you grab your phone from under your pillow, half-expecting a message from haechan. nothing. you sigh, staring at the dark ceiling, but just as you’re about to put your phone away, it vibrates in your palm.

[1:42 am] haechan: you still awake sunshine?

despite everything, a small smile tugs at your lips. you hesitate, but only for a second before replying.

[1:43 am] you: i hate you.

[1:43 am] haechan: no, you don’t.

[1:44 am] you: i’m grounded until further notice.

[1:44 am] haechan: damn. worth it though, right?

[1:45 am] you: go to sleep.

[1:45 am] haechan: not until you do.

you roll your eyes, but there’s no stopping the way your lips curve up, no denying the warmth spreading through your chest. you sigh, setting your phone on your chest, staring at the ceiling. you should be panicking about what’s to come, but instead, all you feel is him.

and maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all.

—

you wake to the sound of voices just outside your door—your parents, low but firm, clearly waiting for you to come out and face them. sunlight spills through the blinds, too bright, making your room feel smaller than usual. for a moment, you consider staying in bed, pretending to still be asleep, but you know that won’t work. you’re trapped, and you might as well get it over with.

dragging yourself out of bed, you pull on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and take a deep breath before opening the door. your parents are already at the kitchen table, your mom with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, your dad with a weary look, like he’s already disappointed before you’ve even said a word.

“sit.” your mom’s voice is clipped, no room for argument.

you sit.

the silence is heavy, thick with tension. then she takes a deep breath

“what were you thinking?” your mom demands, shaking her head. “letting that boy into your room, sneaking around behind our backs—do you have any idea how reckless that is?”

you bite the inside of your cheek, gripping the hem of your hoodie. “nothing happened.”

your dad exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “nothing happened this time, because i walked in. but what about next time? do you even know what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into?”

trouble. the word lingers in the air like smoke. you’ve heard it before, always in the same breath as haechan’s name. boys like him were nothing but trouble. you know that’s what they think. maybe it should be what you think too.

“we’ve warned you about him,” your mom continues, voice softer now, but no less serious. “he’s not—he’s not the kind of boy you should be involved with.”

you flinch, something defensive curling in your chest. “you don’t even know him.”

“we don’t need to know him,” your dad says, exasperated. “his reputation speaks for itself.”

you shake your head, frustration bubbling up. they don’t understand. they never have. if they knew the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel alive in a way nothing else ever had, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to judge.

but they won’t listen. they never do.

your mom’s words settle like a weight on your chest. “you’re grounded. no phone, no going out. and we don’t want to hear another word about him.”

you stare at the table, jaw tight. the sessions were already over, but that wasn’t really the point. they wanted him out of your life completely. like he was some kind of bad habit you just needed to quit. like he wasn’t already tangled up in your thoughts, in your pulse, in the way your skin still burned from where he touched you.

“do you understand?” your dad asks, voice even but firm.

you swallow hard and nod, because it’s easier than fighting. because you know they won’t listen.

but as you sit there, hands clenched in your lap, you realize something.

they can take away your phone. they can take away your freedom. they can make rules and set curfews and keep a close eye on you.

but they can’t change what’s already happened.

they can’t change you.

—

monday feels different.

the hallways are the same, the usual chaos of students dragging themselves through the first day back after break, but you feel off. like you’re walking through a version of your life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

it’s the lack of your phone, mostly. no morning texts, no unread messages waiting for you, no way to check if he even tried to reach out again. your parents had taken it first thing saturday morning, and the silence had settled in fast.

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that a few missed texts aren’t the end of the world. but as you step into the building, scanning the crowd without meaning to, you already know who you’re looking for.

and then—there he is.

leaning against the lockers like he always does, dressed in a black hoodie and ripped jeans, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he listens to something one of his friends is saying. but his eyes aren’t on them.

they’re on you.

your breath catches, your steps faltering just slightly before you force yourself to keep moving. to act like everything is fine, like your parents didn’t just rip away the one thing tethering you to him over break.

but then he pushes off the lockers, shoving his hands into his pockets as he starts toward you, gaze dark and unreadable.

you barely make it to your locker before he’s there, sliding in beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“so,” he drawls, leaning in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “thought you were dead for a second.”

you sigh, spinning your lock with unnecessary force. “my parents took my phone.”

he hums, like that explains everything.

“figured they’d do something like that,” he says, and when you glance at him, there’s something knowing in his expression, something frustrated. “so what, they think ignoring me is gonna make me disappear?”

you exhale sharply, finally yanking your locker open. “i don’t know what they think.”

he watches you for a second, then suddenly reaches out, fingers brushing against your wrist before you can move away. it’s quick, barely even a touch, but it’s enough to make you freeze.

“meet me after school,” he murmurs. it’s not a question.

you hesitate. it’s stupid, reckless. risky. and you should probably say no.

but you don’t.

you just nod.

—

the rest of the day crawls by, every second stretching longer than it should. you go through the motions—taking notes, nodding at the right times, pretending to listen—but your mind is elsewhere. stuck on him. on what you agreed to. on the way his fingers skimmed your wrist like he knew you wouldn’t pull away.

when the final bell rings, your heart stutters.

you could go home. act like today was normal, like nothing is pulling you in the opposite direction. but your feet have already made the choice for you, carrying you through the crowded halls, out the side doors where the air is crisp with early spring.

he’s there, waiting. leaning against the brick wall, one foot propped up behind him, hoodie pulled over his head. but the second you step outside, he straightens, dark eyes locking onto yours.

“thought you might chicken out,” he muses, lips curling at the corners.

you cross your arms, tilting your head. “thought you might get bored and leave.”

he grins, slow and lazy, but there’s something sharper beneath it. “not a chance.”

you exhale, glancing around. “so? where are we going?”

he nods toward the parking lot. “just walk with me.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t want to—because you do, more than you should. but this is dangerous, walking this line when you know exactly where it leads.

then his fingers brush yours again, like earlier, but this time he doesn’t pull away. just hooks his pinky around yours, barely holding on, like he’s leaving the choice up to you.

“come on, sunshine,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, rough at the edges. “just for a little.”

and that’s all it takes.

you don’t say anything, just step forward, closing that last bit of space between you. letting him lead you somewhere you probably shouldn’t go.

—

he leads you deeper into the park, past the usual paths and toward a hidden trail. the air shifts around you, growing quieter as the city noises fade into the distance. soon, you find yourself surrounded by towering trees, their branches swaying gently, the leaves rustling softly as though the earth itself is breathing with you.

you stop at the edge of a small pond, its still surface reflecting the warm, amber glow of the early afternoon sun. everything around it seems to settle into a peaceful hush, as if the world outside this moment has no place here.

he turns to you, and for a second, you’re not sure whether he’s showing you the pond for your sake or his. “this is where i come when i need to clear my head,” he says, his voice lower now, almost reverent. he gestures toward the water, his gaze lingering on the surface. “it’s quiet. no one bothers me here. i can just think.”

you take a deep breath, inhaling the earthy, fresh air. it’s hard to reconcile this calm, serene version of him with the boy who’s been impulsive, reckless, and unpredictable. yet, somehow, it feels right. this side of him, this peace.

“i didn’t think you’d have a place like this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

he glances at you, a small, almost sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “no one ever does,” he says, a glint of something dark flickering behind his eyes. “that’s kinda the point.”

the way he says it makes your stomach flip, and you can’t quite put your finger on why. maybe it’s the vulnerability that tugs at the edges of his words or the way he’s letting you see a part of him no one else does.

for a moment, you think he might say something more, but he simply steps a little closer, his hand brushing yours. the touch is casual, but it sends a spark of warmth shooting through you, a connection that seems to hum between you both.

“do you wanna see something else?” he asks, his voice dropping even lower, and there’s a soft challenge in his tone that makes you want to lean in, to see more, to feel more.

you nod, unable to resist. you find yourself drawn to him in ways you can’t explain, your breath catching when he doesn’t pull back. instead, he closes the gap between you, moving closer until the air between you thickens, charged with something unspoken.

his eyes lock with yours, and there’s something about the way he looks at you that sends your heart into a wild, erratic beat. he tilts his head slightly, and before you can think twice, his lips are on yours.

the kiss is soft at first, like he’s hesitant. but it doesn’t stay that way for long. as his hands find your waist, pulling you closer, the kiss deepens, the heat between you both growing with every brush of lips, every soft gasp that escapes. his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you nearer, and your hands instinctively clutch at his hoodie, feeling the warmth of his chest against yours.

your heart races, the world around you nothing but the press of his lips, the warmth of his touch. you break away for a moment, gasping for air, but his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in uneven bursts.

and then, he speaks, his voice low and rough. “i shouldn’t want this,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours as he speaks. “but i do. i want you.”

his words make your stomach flip, the intensity of them washing over you in waves. something about the rawness in his voice, the honesty, catches you off guard.

you swallow, trying to steady yourself. “i want this too,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the moment will shatter if you speak too loudly.

there’s a quiet beat, just the two of you, caught in this fragile space between wanting and hesitation. but then, he presses another kiss to your lips, and you forget everything except the feel of him, the way his touch makes everything else fall away.

when you finally pull apart, breathless, he smiles—a small, almost wistful thing. “i think this place is special for more than one reason now,” he says, voice laced with an emotion you can’t quite place.

you smile back, though your heart is still racing. “yeah,” you whisper. “it is.”

—

that night, when the house is dark and quiet, you barely hear the sound of him climbing up the tree until there’s a soft thud against your window. your heart stutters in your chest as you rush over, pushing it open just in time to see him balance himself on the ledge.

the moment haechan lands in your room with a quiet thump, you glare at him, arms crossed. “you’re unbelievable,” you whisper harshly. “do you have any idea how much trouble i’d be in if we got caught?”

he grins, completely unfazed. “but we did get caught.”

you smack his arm, making him flinch. “not the point.”

he raises his hands in surrender, but the smirk stays. “yes, ma’am.”

you roll your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach flips at his teasing tone. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, you still let me in.”

you don’t have a response to that, so you just sigh, motioning toward your bed. “sit down before you break something.”

he flops onto the mattress with a little too much enthusiasm, making you shake your head as you sit beside him. the room is quiet except for the hum of the night outside, the occasional rustle of leaves from the tree he just climbed. neither of you say anything for a moment, but you can feel the shift in his energy—less playful, more… tired.

“so,” you say softly, “what are you really doing here?”

he exhales, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. “couldn’t sleep.”

you glance at him, catching the way his jaw tightens before he looks away. “bad night?”

“something like that.”

his voice is quieter now, stripped of its usual bravado, and it makes your chest ache. you hesitate for a second before shifting slightly closer, your fingers barely grazing his on the comforter.

he notices. you feel it in the way his hand twitches, in the way he inhales just a little sharper. but he doesn’t pull away. instead, his pinky moves just the slightest bit, brushing against yours again.

“you ever feel like you’re running full speed toward a cliff,” he murmurs, “and you can’t stop?”

you swallow. “yeah.”

he huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“there’s nothing wrong with you.”

he lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “you’re the only person who thinks that.”

you turn to look at him, really look at him, and for once, he doesn’t hide. his guard is down, his eyes raw with something you can’t quite name. and in that moment, he’s not the reckless boy who teases you endlessly, who smirks like he owns the world. he’s just a boy who’s trying to keep himself together.

you shift your pinky again, letting it hook around his for the briefest second before pulling away. his fingers twitch, like he wants to chase the touch, but he stays still.

“you’re not running off that cliff alone,” you murmur.

his throat bobs as he swallows, eyes flickering to your face. “you make it really hard to stay away, sunshine.”

you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all. you just sit there in the dim glow of your room, fingers barely brushing, hearts quietly syncing to the same rhythm.

—

the next school morning felt different.

it’s been just a few nights since you let haechan in through your window, since he talked to you so deeply; revealing himself to you in a way you never thought he would. you felt something deeper than just adrenaline when you whispered that you wanted him there. and now, stepping into school, that night feels fragile, like something you shouldn’t have touched, something that shouldn’t have followed you into the daylight.

because now the whispers have grown louder.

“did you hear? they were together again over the weekend.”

“she sneaks out with him. she’s not as innocent as she acts.”

“it’s cute how she thinks she’s different.”

you keep your head down, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your bag, trying to push past it. but it’s everywhere. in the halls, in the classroom, even when you sit down with your friends at lunch—where, for the first time, the usual chatter dies down when you approach.

“so,” giselle starts carefully, “is it true?”

“what?” your voice comes out sharper than intended.

“you and haechan.”

your stomach twists. you already know there’s no right answer. deny it, and you sound guilty. confirm it, and they’ll pick it apart.

“we just study together, karina, you know that,” you say evenly. “that’s it.”

a look is exchanged, one that makes your skin prickle.

“you don’t have to lie,” winter says. “we’re just… looking out for you.”

“looking out for me?” you let out a sharp laugh. “for what?”

“we’re just saying,” giselle chimes back in, quieter, hesitant. “he has a… reputation. you know that.”

“i know him,” you counter.

“do you?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the air shifts awkwardly, and lunch carries on, but the words stick.

by the time the final bell rings, you feel raw, rubbed down by a day of passing glances and quiet judgments. you don’t know what’s worse—the people who whisper like you can’t hear them, or the ones who make sure you do.

you’re halfway to the front doors when someone else’s words catch your ear.

“he’s just playing with her. like he does with everyone.”

your breath stumbles.

“he gets bored fast. wonder how long she’ll last.”

yourchest tightens. you know you shouldn’t care. you know it’s just talk. but it digs in anyway, settling like lead in your stomach.

then a voice pulls you out of it.

“sunshine.”

you turn. haechan’s waiting near the steps, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking over you like he can tell something’s off.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. “you good?”

“fine.” it’s automatic, too quick. his brows pinch slightly, but he doesn’t push.

“come with me,” he says instead, nudging his head toward the doors. “let’s get out of here for a bit.”

you hesitate. for the first time, you aren’t sure if you want to go. because you can still hear their words. and worse—you can’t shake the fear that maybe they’re right.

but then you meet his eyes, warm and steady despite everything, and that fear doesn’t seem so loud anymore.

“okay,” you say.

and just like that, you follow him out.

—

he takes you somewhere quiet. away from the school, away from the weight of a thousand glances and whispers pressing down on you.

it’s a small clearing just past the neighborhood, tucked behind a line of trees, where the ground slopes gently toward a creek. the sky is wide here, open, stretching endless above you in soft hues of late afternoon.

“is this where you spend some of your time too?” you ask, looking around.

“one of the places.” haechan drops down onto the grass, leaning back on his palms. “not a bad spot, huh?”

“no,” you admit, sitting beside him. “it’s pretty.”

he grins. “figured you’d like it. you have that whole… poetic, pretty-things type of vibe.”

“oh, do i?” you glance at him.

“mhm.” he shifts closer, voice dropping slightly. “that’s why you like me, right?”

your stomach flips. you don’t answer, but the way you go quiet gives you away. his grin widens.

“i knew it.”

“shut up,” you mutter, shoving his shoulder lightly.

he laughs, but the teasing fades after a moment, leaving something quieter in its place.

“you don’t have to listen to them, you know.”

you tense. you don’t ask who he means—you both know.

“they don’t know me,” he says, eyes still on the sky. “not really. but you do.”

“do i?” the words slip out before you can stop them, laced with something you don’t quite recognize.

it makes him pause.

“do you think they’re right?” he asks after a moment, voice unreadable. “that i’m just messing around?”

you turn toward him. his expression is calm, but there’s something underneath it, something waiting.

you should say no. you should tell him that you trust him, that you don’t care what anyone else says.

but the doubt is still there, tangled up in everything else you feel for him.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

his jaw tightens. he looks away.

the silence stretches, thick and heavy. your heart pounds.

and then, before you can stop yourself, the question leaves your lips.

“what are we, haechan?”

he stills.

for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s searching for something.

then, slowly, he exhales.

“we’re whatever you want us to be.”

you blink. “what?”

he shifts closer, so close that you feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. “if you want this to be nothing, i’ll leave it alone. if you want me to be just some guy you tutored, i’ll deal with it.”

his fingers reach for yours, tentative, brushing against your knuckles.

“but if you want more…” he trails off, voice low, gaze flickering down to your lips before meeting your eyes again.

your heart is a drum against your ribs.

“what if i don’t know what i want?” you whisper.

he lets out a quiet laugh, almost breathless. “then tell me what you do know.”

you swallow, pulse thrumming as you feel his fingers slowly interlace with yours.

“i know i don’t want you to be just some guy i tutored.”

his grip on your hand tightens.

“then you’ve already answered your own question, sunshine.”

the nickname is soft, almost reverent. and before you can second-guess it, before you can let the fear creep in, you squeeze his hand back.

he smiles—one of those small, secret ones, like you’ve just given him something he thought he’d never have.

and for now, that’s enough.

—

the evening was calm, the sun dipping lower in the sky as you walk with haechan beside you. the two of you had just finished the day at school, chatting and laughing, not realizing how close you were to your house until you were almost at the front steps. everything felt normal, easy, the way it had been recently, and you couldn’t have imagined what was about to happen.

you notice them—your mom and dad—standing in the doorway, watching. your stomach drops and you instinctively grip haechan’s hand tighter. his smile fades when he feels the change in you, his attention shifting to what you’re looking at.

“shit,” you mutter, but keep walking, praying they won’t notice you until you get inside. but just as you reach the steps, your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet air. “what did i tell you?” it’s sharp and furious, each word heavy with the threat of anger. “what is he doing here?”

you freeze. your dad steps into view beside her, arms crossed. his posture alone is enough to make your heart race.

“mom, i…” you start, but you’re immediately cut off.

“no excuses,” she snaps, voice dripping with disdain. “you think i don’t know what you’ve been doing? sneaking around with him? what do you think you’re doing?”

“mom, i—” you try again, but her dad’s icy glare silences you.

“you’re still grounded,” he says in a low, dangerous tone. “go inside. now.”

you glance at haechan. he’s standing beside you, quiet, his hands shoved into his pockets. he doesn’t know what to do. he probably doesn’t even know if he’s allowed to say anything.

your mom turns to him, her face contorting with barely-contained fury. “you. what are you doing here? you have no business with my daughter.”

“i’m not causing any trouble,” he says quietly, but his words hang in the air, useless against the tension.

“no,” your mother snaps, “you’re not just causing trouble, you’re ruining everything. you don’t belong here.”

you can feel the heat rising inside you, the pressure of everything that’s been building in the last few days, and you can’t hold it in anymore. “stop,” you say, your voice trembling but strong. “i—”

and then, before you can stop it, the words slip out, raw and unfiltered. “i love him.”

the air around you freezes. your mom’s eyes widen, her mouth parting slightly in shock. she takes a step back, clearly not understanding what she’s hearing. it was the first time you ever said it, hell even thought it. but it felt right.

“what did you just say?” her voice is cold now, sharp as a knife.

“i said it,” you repeat, but your voice is barely above a whisper. “i love him.”

her mother stares at you, disbelief and disgust flashing across her face. “you don’t know what you’re talking about. you’re just a kid, and you think you love him?” she sneers, voice full of derision. “you don’t know anything about love. this… this is just a phase. and he—he is not good for you.”

your dad doesn’t speak. he just stands there, arms crossed, his silence just as loud as your mom’s words. you feel yourself shrinking under their gaze, as if everything inside you is getting smaller, more insignificant.

“you will not see him again. do you understand me?” your mother’s voice rises now, almost breaking with fury. “you are grounded, and this… whatever you think this is, it ends now.”

“i love him,” you whisper again, more firmly this time, trying to hold onto something—anything—before everything falls apart. “i love him.”

“no,” your mother spits, “you don’t. and you will forget him. you will go to your room. and you will stay there. i won’t have this in my house.”

haechan looks at you, his face unreadable. the words you shared earlier seem to echo in his eyes, but something changes in him. he takes a small step back, like he’s retreating from something, unsure how to fix this.

“i think it’s better if i go,” he mutters, his voice tight, as he begins to pull away. “i don’t want to make things worse for you.”

before you can stop him, he’s turning, walking away. you reach out, your hand grasping for his wrist, but he pulls away gently, avoiding your gaze. “no..haechan,” you say, your voice shaking. “please. don’t leave.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, just looks at you for a long, agonizing moment. then he lets out a shaky sigh and turns to leave, his footsteps growing fainter as he walks away from you.

you stand frozen on the front steps, your heart racing. your mom’s voice cuts through the silence again. “you’ll go to your room. and you’ll stay there. you will not see him again. do you understand me?”

you can’t even answer, your throat tight, your mind spiraling. without saying another word, you walk silently into the house, up to your room, and shut the door behind you. hard

you sit there, the weight of your mother’s words crushing you. her disapproval and disappointment are suffocating, and you can feel the space between you and haechan growing larger with every passing second.

but the hardest part? the hardest part is knowing that you love him, and yet, here you are, too afraid to reach for him because of everything that’s standing in the way.

—

it’s been a few days since the argument with your parents. the silence between you and haechan feels heavy, almost suffocating. you can’t stop thinking about him, but you haven’t been able to reach him either. you’re grounded, no phone, and it’s like a piece of you is missing.

you’re sitting in your room, staring at the wall in front of your bed, when you hear a light tap. your heart races. you hurry over, parting the curtains to find haechan standing there, looking just as conflicted as you feel. he looks tired—like he hasn’t been able to sleep—but his eyes light up when they meet yours.

you open the window quickly, and without a word, he climbs inside. it’s the same familiar move, but there’s something different now. there’s an unspoken tension between you both, a hesitation in the way he moves toward you.

he steps closer but stops when he sees you retreat a little, like you’re unsure whether to welcome him or pull away. there’s a beat of silence before he speaks, his voice softer than usual.

“i couldn’t stay away,” he admits, running a hand through his messy hair. “but i didn’t want to make things worse. i thought… maybe i was doing the right thing.”

you meet his gaze, and for a moment, you both just look at each other. there’s no need for more words. you can tell he’s been thinking about this as much as you have. but there’s still the weight of your parents’ words, their expectations, hanging in the air. and you know they would never approve. you’re supposed to stay away from him.

“i don’t know why i’m even here,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down for a moment. “i knew things were gonna get messy.”

you step forward then, frustration and confusion bubbling inside you. “you left me hanging, haechan. i didn’t hear from you, i didn’t—”

“i know,” he interrupts, his voice laced with guilt. “but i thought maybe you’d be better off without me. i didn’t want to drag you into my mess.”

you don’t know how to respond to that. you want to be angry, but the truth is, you feel the same confusion. you wanted to hear from him. you missed him. but it’s hard to ignore the fact that your parents would never understand this. would never approve.

he takes a deep breath and steps closer again, almost as if he’s bracing himself. his fingers twitch at his sides, unsure of whether to reach out or not. you know the pull between you is undeniable, but there’s still a wall between you, the one built by fear and responsibility.

“i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “i thought i could, but i can’t.”

you swallow hard, your chest tightening. “i can’t ignore everything, haechan. my parents—they won’t let this happen.”

he looks down, disappointment flickering in his eyes. then, slowly, he lifts his gaze to yours again. “i didn’t want to make things harder for you. i didn’t want to be the one who messed up your life.”

you feel a knot in your stomach. his words sting, but it’s clear that he’s not giving up. and neither are you.

“then why are you here?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

his answer isn’t one you expect. he steps forward and brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent. “because even if i shouldn’t, i can’t stay away. i don’t know how to.”

the words hang between you, unsaid but understood. your heart beats faster in your chest, and for the first time since the argument, you feel something other than confusion or anger.

“i can’t either,” you admit, your voice low.

before you can say anything else, haechan closes the distance, pressing his lips gently to yours. it’s tentative, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away at any moment. but you don’t. you kiss him back, softly at first, savoring the moment, the closeness. and for a brief moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

when you pull away, you both stand there, breaths mingling. he looks at you, searching your face, as if trying to make sure he hasn’t crossed a line.

“i’ll make things right,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resolve. “somehow. i don’t want to lose you.”

you take a deep breath, the weight of the situation sinking in. your parents’ disapproval, the complications, the risks—it’s all still there, but in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

“i don’t know what’s going to happen,” you murmur, your hand brushing lightly against his. “but i can’t stop wanting this. wanting you.”

he gives a small, bittersweet smile. “then we’ll figure it out together. i promise.”

and just like that, you feel the tension between you ease, even if only for a moment. the future is uncertain, but right now, all that matters is the warmth of his touch, the closeness you feel, and the quiet promise of something more between you two.

—

the tension in the living room is suffocating. it’s been a week since the small talk with haechan in your room. you two had been interacting a lot less at school, yet here you both were. your parents sit stiffly on the couch, their eyes locked onto haechan as if he’s something they need to purge from your life. he stands in front of them, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides, but he doesn’t lash out. doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes like they expect him to.

his usual confidence is still there, but tonight, there’s something else underneath it. something raw, something desperate. because this isn’t just about proving himself to your parents. it’s about proving himself to you, too. proving that he’s worth fighting for.

“this needs to stop,” your father says, his voice firm. “you sneaking around with him. whatever this is. it’s done.”

your mother shakes her head, exhaling sharply. “you don’t see it now, but this isn’t love. boys like him don’t stick around.”

boys like him.

haechan’s jaw clenches. he’s heard those words before, from teachers, from people in town, from kids at school who assumed they knew everything about him. reckless. dangerous. a mistake waiting to happen. but it’s different coming from your parents, because this time, it actually matters.

“you don’t know me,” he says, voice steady but edged with frustration. “you only see what you want to see.”

your mom crosses her arms. “oh, so tell us, then. tell us why we should believe you’re any different.” you eye her as she speaks so sharply to him.

please just give him a chance.

haechan hesitates for just a second, and your heart clenches. because you know he hates doing this. hates explaining himself to people who have already made up their minds. but he does it anyway. for you.

“i know i don’t look like the kind of guy you want your daughter with,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “i know i don’t come from some perfect family, and i know i’ve made mistakes. but i swear to you, i—i’m trying.” he swallows hard, his gaze flicking to you before going back to them. “i’m trying to be better. for her.”

your mother’s lips press into a thin line. “people don’t change overnight.”

“i’m not asking you to believe me overnight,” haechan says, his voice stronger now. “i’m just asking you to see me the way she does. not as some lost cause, but as someone who cares about her more than you could ever understand.”

silence stretches between all of you. your father looks away, exhaling through his nose. your mother’s expression is unreadable. you know they don’t fully accept him—not yet. maybe they never will. but there’s something in their faces that wasn’t there before. doubt. hesitation. a crack in the walls they’ve built around the idea of who he is.

your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “this… this is a lot. i don’t know what to do with this right now.”

your father doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t push the conversation further either.

it’s not approval. not even close. but it’s not outright rejection either.

haechan shifts beside you, his fingers brushing against yours—not holding, just there. grounding.

“can i…talk to her alone?” he asks.

your parents exchange a glance, and for a moment, you think they’ll say no. but then your mom sighs again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “five minutes.”

you don’t wait for them to change their minds, grabbing haechan’s wrist and tugging him down the hall to the guest bedroom. the moment the door clicks shut, you turn to him, taking him in—his disheveled hair, the way his rings catch the dim light, the way his shoulders are still tense.

—

the tension lingers even after your parents leave the room, their quiet murmurs fading down the hall. you stand there with haechan, his fingers still loosely tangled with yours, the weight of everything pressing down on you both.

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting out a soft chuckle. “well… that went great, huh?”

you give him a look, half-exasperated, half-affectionate. “you really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

he grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “nah, guess not.”

you squeeze his hand, grounding him. “thank you. for standing up for yourself. for… for me.”

his expression shifts, something softer taking over. his thumb brushes over the back of your hand. “i meant everything i said,” he murmurs. “every damn word.”

there’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken things. then, without thinking, you step forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders , pressing your face into his neck. he hesitates for half a second before melting into you, his arms coming up to hold you like he’s afraid to let go.

“i don’t know how this is gonna end,” you whisper.

haechan swallows hard, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns on your back. “me neither,” he admits. “but i know one thing.”

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “what?”

“that i love you,” his lips quirk into a small, lopsided smile—one that still holds a trace of mischief, but there’s something deeper beneath it. something real. “and i’m not letting you go that easily.”

your heart stumbles over itself, and before you can second-guess it, you surge forward, kissing him with every ounce of feeling you can’t put into words.

he responds instantly, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. the kiss is slow, lingering, like a promise neither of you are willing to break.

when you finally pull away, your forehead resting against his, you whisper, “we’re kind of doomed, aren’t we?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “probably. but at least we’re doomed together.”

and somehow, despite everything, that feels like enough.

—

▸ taggies ; @ikykyuno @ashopatata @tynivr @ilujkm @maiyhw @413cl @flaminghotyourmom @yunjinsart @theandypark @nae-vm @czennilove @yutaswh0re — i hope this was everyone <3

▸ big thank you to everyone who left feedback on the first part ily guys :(

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prettyboykatsuki-moved · 1 year ago

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✮ tags ; pwp, fem + afab!reader, dubcon (reader is drunk af), dirty talk, rough-ish sex, the liiiightest yan undertone. 18+

✮ a/n ; im not a kiri fucker but i . had a thought in the shower

Kirishima fucks like he has something to prove.

That part of him hasn't changed, you think. It's a bad time to be reminiscing about such a thing, especially since your brain can't think of anything other than how good it feels to have such a thick cock buried in your sore, weeping cunt.

Kirishima has stopped briefly, just to bottom out and press his navel to your sex - so your brain has a little space to think. You don't know exactly how you've ended up here after thinking about it for a long time. The alcohol is making your head feel fuzzy and your lower half is weak, might melt into Kirishima's nice king size bed if you're not careful.

An hour ago, you had come off of work and joined some friends in an izakaya. Kirishima was there too, seemingly with his own friends. You hadn't seen him since middle school, when he shorter and more negative. You had a crush on him then, back before all the hero stuff.

It was refreshing to see a boy your age obsesses over something like being a perfectly chivalrous man. You were friend though not closely, and had a dopey school girl love affair that never came of fruition. You didn't speak to him after that, weren't close enough to ask - and watched him grow into a hero through televised events and news.

He's a pro now. He was much bigger than you thought he'd be. You didn't think men could get that big, unless they played basketball or something. He was shorter than you in middle school but when you saw him again in person, he was double your height. You had to crane your neck up just to get a good look at his face. Defined jaw and rugged, boyish charm that made your cheeks warm like you hadn't grown out of being a girl.

You thought he wouldn't recognize you since he's basically famous now, but he did. Flagged you down and whisked you away for drinks and catch up time. Your friends pushed you to go, so you did. You drank and spoke about nothing in particular and Kirishima seemed so enraptured with you - you thought the alcohol had fried your brain. Thoroughly tipsy and giggly, you admitted to having a crush on him in long and unnecessary detail. That you liked him, and seem to still if this feeling is anything to go by.

You hadn't expected anything of it. But he kissed you in the corner of the bar and asked if you had anywhere to be, hauled you into a taxi when you said no and made out with you on the way home. Put his hand underneath you shirt and squeezed your waist, said something about how cute you are. Always have been.

No one seemed to think anything of it when you left. Pro-Hero's escort drunk girls all the time, but you wonder if it's normal to fuck them? You wonder if Kirishima has practice in bring home drunk girls who are too big for their boots and too needy to be anything but sincere.

He's so good at fucking you, you aren't sure you'd mind that being true. Not like this.

He didn't give you any time to adjust to what was going on, every breath had him chasing more of you like he'd run out of time if he didn't rush. He carried you inside, licked your pussy while you laid against his kitchen counter and finger fucked you until you could take all eight inches of him. Was he always this relentless? You know he was never kind, no matter how much he seems it. He was always critical and cunning, but you didn't expect him to be so ruthless.

He doesn't let you off of his cock after he gets you on it. Makes you wrap your arms around his shoulders even though you barely can because he's so big. Makes you wrap your legs around his waist and tells you to hold tight as he walks you up the stairs with his cock still twitching. The whole thing makes your eyelids burn with pleasure, your body yearning to keep him inside of you for as long as you can stay conscious which is barely when you're this wasted.

He dropped you in his bed and fucked you in missionary. You think in the span of a few hours, you've spent more of it feeling his cock throb inside of you longer than you've spent without. He's too big, and fucks mean. There's no chivalry in it, just pure primal desire behind weight and heavy thrusts that make you gasp involuntarily.

You haven't stopped cumming. You've never done that so much in a row. Your body feels nearly numb as you think on it. He's been keep you like this for so long and the alcohol is making you lightheaded. You can barely understand what he's saying except that he's loved you for so long. You wonder if that's true. Your pussy likes it though, clenches every time he groans into your neck after the headboard hits the wall with his thrusts.

He fucks you like he wants to prove something to you. You don't know what exactly. You're drunk and floaty and you can't stop cumming and you can't think of anything other than how much you want him to fuck your brains out. How much you want him to cum, so deep in your pussy you'd have to push it out to get rid of it. How much you want to cum around his cock until you get so fuckdrunk you pass out on it.

A little pleasant catching up and now you can't unfurl your spine from the way it's raised, and your toes hurt from how tight they've curled. You feel ditzy with it. Didn't know cock could make you cum so much you turn stupid and babbling. It's all you've been doing and Kirishima doesn't seem to mind it all. Just laughs at your nonsense words and kisses you with sharp teeth and fucks you.

And fucks you and fucks you and fucks you, with your knees to your ears and your eyes blurry and hazed.

"Kirisihima-kun," You gasp at him, breathless and hot.

"Eijirou," He corrects with a nip to your mouth. "We won't leave each other now. Not anymore."

He punctuates with the promise with a thrust so deep you can't do anything but agree. You wonder if all this is trying to prove his love for you, but how you could that be true? It's been years.

Another thrust makes your lower belly clench, and something squirts out of you mid thrust. You're too hazy to feel self-conscious of it and Kirishima only laughs.

You close your eyes and let him have you. Again and again and again.

#kirishima smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #writing tag #dubcon cw #aha nooo kirishima dont take advantage of me while im drunk and out of it haha nooo #<- SORRY LAMSDOFJKD

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sourbites · 1 month ago

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Ouroboros (Ride)

Pairing: Jason Todd (The Red Hood) / Female Reader Word count: 3,315 Contents: Violence, bullet wound, medical shit, hurt/comfort-ish, slight blood/gore, mentions of death, oral sex/cunnilingus, face sitting/riding, penetrative sex, creampie, hair pulling, cowgirl, dirty talk Summary: Like the serpent facing its tail, Jason's needle of hunger always points in your direction. Notes: If the medical jargon isn't accurate SORRY? im not a doctor lol

He still stinks of the city's grime - the dirty smog ripens the atmosphere - copper and iron cling to him. On his clothes, in thick lines where his body creases from thick, moist heat: arms, neck.

"Is it hurting?”

The corner of Jason's mouth lifted— the practised flat expression swallowed for a second. "No, I'm feeling jus' peachy, baby."

In hindsight, it was a dumb question to ask a guy with a hole in his arm. He'd gotten shot. He'd bitten off more than he could chew, figuratively speaking. It was chaos tonight, Jason had said. You didn't know the details— didn't want to know. It's as if, as soon as things look a little less bleak, twelve bombs of bad situations get set off. It's as if Gotham wants to be eaten whole. The silver lining is that there's no exit wound. Plus, it gave Jason an excuse to see you. Like a stray cat - dilated eyes and a flash of canine - he wound up on your welcome mat, soiling it with blood. It now reads 'Weloome', the letter c filled in with deep red.

"I don't know what I'm doing," You eye him wearily. Berry-red coats his flesh in a thin wash, oozing from the gaping hole in his arm. Jason did tell you the nerve the fragments are dangerously close to, but it's long forgotten. Musculo-something. In layman's terms: important and scary as fuck if it's damaged. The cold, silver tweezers you're holding play off the light— strategically placed directly above his bullet wound.

Jason grunts, "You're doing fine, keep at it." There's sweat beading at his forehead - his hairline - and a mean, knotted pinch in his eyebrows. You can smell it: blood-iron, rich and heavy at the back of your throat. Gunsmoke or gunpowder, barely sinking into his heavy clothes. The startlingly bright light of the billboard across the road seeps into your apartment through the kitchen window.

You untuck your cheek from your teeth. Your eyes are beginning to burn, all the straining and unblinking. Harsh lights. "Now what?"

Jason and you had developed something. An understanding - trust - perhaps. He's got enough faith in you to let him dig around in his arm, and you have enough faith in him to let yourself be guided. Eventually, he was slipping into your place so often that everything that made Jason himself - pain, guilt, and quiet-sounding hope - smoothed out into warmth. It just fit, seeing him around. He was familiar. He acted as a sort of background for you— always there, his fixtures in place and his colours un-dulled.

"Wrap it with gauze. Tightly." He answers; voice a stiffer lilt than usual. Even though he's built like a tank and could easily take much more than an entry bullet wound, he's not invincible. Or numb, as much as he may wish he were. No, Jason is made of the same things that every other person is. Flesh, veins, skin. Bone. Human and fragile. Noticing your pause, he adds, "You're doing good."

He grimaces— quickly coughing to mask the sound. "Fuck, not that tight. Don't ever go for med school." The warmth of him bleeds into your chest. The chaos of Gotham is still broiling outside. It finds its place like static on an old TV. Weirdly charming and the typical shrug of thoughtless shoulders with: 'that's just how it is'.

"Fuck you, you said to do it tight." You argue back. Your whole body pauses as you observe. Not at all heeding his gripes of complaint, you resume dressing his arm.

"Attagirl." Heat bubbles at your insides with that stupid throwaway comment.

With more coaxing and low coos, you continue taking care of Jason. You don't like playing nurse very much— plenty could go wrong. He speaks as if he's attempting to gentle the miserable sea; challenged to tame something he doesn't quite understand. The repetitive motion of winding the soft gauze around and around his taut bicep is soothing.

He's worrying the edge of the bandages with his left hand. Your palm sinks over his hand. Jason is heavy-handed, knuckles knocking around— big bear-looking paws, because that's what they essentially are. Both his hands grasp you, hand and wrist engulfed. The trance he'd been wading into all night had brought him right back to you; conscious and all.

"Let me make it up to you." He whispers - breathy and smoky - both hands gliding up your sides. He tips himself closer, his head at your fluttering stomach. You're disarmed in seconds, your open palms finding their place at his wide set of shoulders. His nose sinks into the pliant flesh of your belly, taking in a deep inhale, soaking up the smell of detergent. You're already feeling your bristled edges soften.

You raise a doubtful brow. Just as he'd predicted, you bite. "How?"

Jason's smile is brimming with dirtiness. He rolls his shoulders - muscles taut and broken in tonight - nailing you with this impish light in his eyes that you've never seen before. He's just scalding muscle all over. He places a hand, voracious, on your thigh. "Come put that pussy on my face."

He's already got his fingers hooked into your hips, steering you toward him. He wants to breathe I love you against your abdomen. He wants to feel you melt onto him as he licks your sex. He wants to pay you back for all the late nights— all the pairs of latex gloves that harsh bleach has eaten through. Your shirt is rucked up enough to bare your midriff. He presses his lips to your one pretty wing of your ribcage - wet and insistent - his teeth nicking at your skin. Jason knows you. He knows you'll say yes.

The starved, watching eyes of Jason felt sticky on your skin. Your hips twisted, stirred, working on reflex. You could die at the intimacy of this. You're straddling his face, legs bent and knees braced on both sides of him. There are burning hot, red welts on your thighs from how his fingers sink into the meat of your flesh, ionising you, all compact and splayed open against his mouth. His warmth climbs up your spine, forcing squiggly, neon whorls around in your vision. You're trying not to yank at his pretty raven hair, but it's hard to be considerate when Jason is mouthing at your leaking cunt.

He could eat you whole. All you can hear - besides your own heaving breaths - is noisy sucks and happy rumbles as he gorges on your pussy. You're grinding down on him, fisting at his hair that rasps against the tender skin of your inner thighs. You might break his nose— please break his nose. That way, when someone asks why it's wine-purple and crooked, he can grin and gloat about how phenomenally he devoured your juicy cunt. How amazing his girl is, that you rode his face until his nose broke. You shudder on him with shivery heat, incapacitated by the obscene, encouraging groans that Jason smushes into your wetness.

Venomous is the only word that could possibly do Jason's beautifully evil tongue any justice. It thrusts inside you - you're going to fucking pass out - the tip of his nose knocking against your clit. He's lapped his way down your sex, his lips glossy with your slick. He purrs contentedly into your pussy and your eyes roll so far back, head lolling and splaying your neck. His mouth must be heaven— it's the only logical explanation.

Your insides feel like they're fizzing. Jason lazily sways his head from side to side, smearing that sticky wetness across your skin. Cool air singes onto it until your goosebumps have goosebumps and— oh my god he's not stopping—

—Your swollen pussy blooms around two thick, bruised knuckles of his. Pressure is coiling ferociously within you, and the smoke from your ignited insides clouds the thinking parts of your brain. Jason’s stubble scrapes against your aching, too-tender cunt, devastatingly intense. You press yourself into him with a life-or-death urgency. Jason's mouth (his wonderfully vicious mouth) suctions around your sex, dragging his boiling tongue against the channel of your cunt. He sucks a fold into his mouth, clawing at the back of your thighs— fusing you to his hungering mouth.

"Y' gonna cum, baby?" His voice - baritone from the way he's muffled by your body - and infuriatingly smug. He knows what he's doing to you— the effect he has on you. He knows he's a certified pussy-eating weapon in your book. He's great at it. And he knows he's using his powers for good right now. You squeeze around his fingers, slick seeping down his thick wrist.

All you manage are desperate nods paired with breathy gasps. He likes hearing you. It really stokes him off. He presses his lips to the top of your cunt, flattening his tongue and dragging it ruthlessly, letting it catch on your puffy clit repeatedly. His mouth, hands, and tongue are never-ending - determined to get you melting over him like putty - on a self-appointed mission to get you tasting other dimensions when you cum.

One of Jason's hands sneaks beneath you, thumbing at one of your folds to spread you open. He curls his fingers within you, reminding you that even his fucking hands are huge. He soaks you with heavy doses of kissing, putting tremors in your thighs. He hums, pleased. His hand is soaked - the light close by catching on his skin makes it shimmer like glitter - from a mixture of your arousal and his drool.

He can't keep himself from running his mouth. "M' I stretching you open? Getting you ready for my cock?" He's buried between your thighs, and he's still got no plans of shutting up. Though he is enjoying this. Especially tasting you. Your sex tastes good— getting sweeter with each lick.

Jason's hips buck up into nothingness. He's hard as a rock - probably close to blowing in his tactical pants - his nose smushing into where your hip meets your thigh. His mouth is tilted, using an arm to pin you open. Your abdomen clenches. Muscles burn too hotly, and it's only intensified by his mouth pouring deadly warm heat all over your pussy, taking a semi-handful of your ass while his fingers twist and he mashes his thumb into your swollen clit.

It rushes down his chin - your orgasm whizzing through you in one ignited spark - you fist his hair and yank, wailing. He pours a groan into your pussy. Your bodies ache of sex. Your knees are hurting, scraped against the material of your couch. There's an air of pride around him. He pets your slit, feeling your insides spasming around his fingers (yes, they're still stuffing you), kissing at the hollow of your inner thigh.

Taking one last, good suck, Jason's mouth releases you with a dirty lap at your glistening pussy. He pats your hip, and it feels an awful lot like he's saying good job. "Alright, gorgeous, lemme get my pants off."

The head of his cock kisses the apex of your cunt. Your hand slides down to trace it— the velvety hot skin that's about to split you in half. You know it because he's done it before. He eats pussy like he's got something to prove - like he wants to get you squealing within an inch of your life - but he fucks like it's his last hour on Earth. Your palms are open, gliding over his arms like you're trying to ease a skittish horse. It's nice seeing him like this. Shirtless, skin taut and bruise-purple. Your hair is probably mussed from how haphazardly Jason yanked your shirt off.

Behind his head, the fingernail moon looms from the window. Tears spring at your waterline and no matter how much you prepare or how wet you are, the truth is Jason's simply big. He stretches you open beautifully, his fingers splaying over your hips and waist while you ease around him. The first instant where he pushes into you always makes him seem unfathomably bigger, thick and heavy with lust. You see the knot between his eyebrows. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up and pound into you so ferociously that your muscles melt away. It's taking a real, conscious effort to just let you sit on his cock and feel your body throb around him.

You lean in, laying your forehead on his broad shoulder, resting on him like he's built from support beams. One of Jason's hands reaches up to cup the back of your head, grasping at your hair, holding you to him. It's rare for him to get pockets of slowness like this. Ever since his death, he's been rushing— as if this is all a dream, and for as long as he's doing something, he'll stay asleep. Awake. He is a corpse born from an infant. But in moments like these - that give that corporeal ghost of him pause - he feels normal. Alive. Human.

"Can I?" He rasps into your temple, breathing across your skin. Despite how good soaking up the glistening, steamy, twitchy feeling of stagnant bodies feels, you nod. You're reaching a point of being too turned on to be romantic.

He's wedged between your legs. He uses his fingers to split apart your folds, staring down at your cunt - stuffed full of his dick - thumbing your slick, tacky skin. Jason noses into your jaw, your cheek, letting out a long, rumbling hum before he guides you up and down, repeatedly bullying himself into the molten ache of your sex. Grappling onto him, you leave your marks on his shoulders. His whole torso and arms are pockmarked with lighter-skinned scars, all healed over from shrapnel wounds and bullet-shaped craters. You imagine cavemen used to feel the same way when they saw the shape of their palms pressed into musky cave walls. Possessive and wonderfully alive. They had their hand, little dots where their fingers couldn't get flush against stone, and you have Jason's skin lined red from your nails scraping over his muscle. In a strangely perverse manner, Jason enjoys the scars and the welts and the bruises. What good is pain if it's not angry and demanding to be seen? Scars show strength; imply badassery. What good comes from internal pain?

When your ass - the backs of your thighs - slaps against Jason's legs, the impact bites and ripples up the shell of your body. His fingers slip down to grip the back of your neck. You're held so flush to him. All you can smell is the heat of him; salt in his sweat, iron in his bloodied bandages. It would be repulsive if it weren't from him. Gunpowder still manages to cling to him somehow, and it chokes down your throat. His fingers tangle their way into your hair in the same manner he knots himself around your heartstirings.

You have nothing left to give Jason but the broken, unintelligible moans of praise. You're thrust up into lightning-quick bucks of his hips, his cock punching at the bottom of your sex. You don't even get the chance to bounce back down properly before you're thrown up again— that's how quick in succession they are. One-two-three, vulgar squelches and grunts fill the sliver of pauses.

Slack-jawed, Jason watches with boyish fascination as his cock disappears inside you, relentlessly. "Jesus Christ. Baby." He marvels - practically gushing with pride - absolutely getting off on it. On how nicely you look, crammed full of his outlaw dick. He grinds up as your hips stir down, trying to help him out and meet him halfway. He is hurt, after all. But your efforts are a mere drop in the ocean— a very hungry ocean. It's so, so fucking much effort that you feel your hips aching after being poured open for so long. The constant pistonning of Jason's eager pelvis and the bobbing on his cock makes your head loll around, neck tipping back.

You're like a ball of thread that Jason keeps pulling and pulling at. He's all wrapped up in you. When your head arches back, his head moves closer, the tips of your noses rubbing together. He smells good. Warm. Your chests mash together, his heartbeat vibrating through his skin, knitting over the rhythm of yours. You're special. You're not just a quickie on a night out. Jason couldn't stomach one-night stands. The bulb of his cockhead kisses your cervix. You swallow him in like he's honey.

"Hear that?" He grunts. There's no colour in his eyes. All of it swaddled in darkness. Sweet and angry - like liquorice, hard to love - half-lidded to soak up more pleasure. You have no idea what he's talking about. You rarely do. Your core booms, bones feeling like they're rattling inside you. Your breaths are like wisps, spiderwebs when the light catches them just right. Jason pulls your mind back to him with one tug of your hair, kissing you with enough appetite for your breath that it just swathes the lining of his lungs.

"Hear that pretty pussy? Dripping for me. Gotta feel good, yeah?" You're throttled by how filthy he gets when he's turned on. Your hands brace on his shoulders - his chest - steeling yourself for the home stretch. Your pussy drools around him, pulses for him, while he barrels in without restraint or caution. The soft sawing of his dick against your slippery insides shows you a kinder way to appreciate how intimate sex can be.

The way you're stretching around his vicious girth puts drool in your mouth. Those gigantic hands of his cling to your hips in the sexiest way possible - putting searing, red hand-prints into your skin that glow with warmth - forcing you in the perfect position for his cock to whack into you like gunfire. He's hitting something spongey and tender, and all you can do is wail, gnawing into the hard slabs of muscle on his shoulders with your fingernails. Loud. Obnoxious.

"You take me so good," Jason shudders, pressing his molten lips against your pulse. He melts you down into glass. Transparent. He leaves a satisfied kiss to your trembling throat, "Gorgeous."

You want his hands spreading your thoughts. You think you can see his soul pouring out in his quick breaths against the hollow of your collarbones. He survived another day. He's got a fucking bullet wound to go home to his empty bed with. This is victory sex - and by nature, it's mean and loud - and Jason has never been considerate enough to plaster his hand to your mouth. He's babbling the nastiest words, too smug to shush your wails. Your neighbours are probably going to file a group complaint (unless Jason scares them in his Red Hood getup into silence).

With nuclear levels of lust, your belly tightens, taut and bruised from the inside. A not-so-surprise orgasm claws through you, until you curl inwards, resting against his chest. With his cock squeezed inside you, pussy swollen and raw, inner walls volcanically hot, he can't fight his climax back. All up his abdomen - between your inner thighs - you're both painted with a milk-film, a thin wash of pearlescent, glittering cum. You only realise you're mewling because your voice is hoarse. Sex hangs in the humid air, sticking to sweat-soaked skin and sizzling.

Jason scoops your face up in one searing-hot hand to make you look at him. With his head foggy, he lays an organic, sob-worthy kiss on your forehead. His murderous pace has halted completely. He murmurs, "Get offa me," and it sounds like, "Thank you."

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captainpriceslilwife · 1 month ago

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uuuhhhhhh ruminating on nikolai again and im hormonal and I stalked @quarterlifekitty 's nikolai tag about a hundred times so uhhhhhhh...gross daddy kink with nik 🤗 yay! (18+ nsfw below the cut)

CW: daddy kink (nik brings it out of me....like nasty, so im so sorry), overstimulation, could be perceived as non-con ish but it isn't I promise (he loves you, you love this behavior, everyone is happy) aannnd no aftercare written (only bc i didn't feel like writing it :) but he did take care of you afterwards, i promise) also first time writing smut so bad writing TW

Curled up at Nik's side, your cheek squished up against the dense hair that coats his chest as his fingers work their way into your tight, clenching heat. The little whimpers and mewls that escape from your mouth only serve to spur him on, but when your hips begin to wriggle, he brings his large paw to grip your ass and hold you in place on his fingers.

He chuckles softly at the quiet keen you let out, and he presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head to soothe you as he scissors his fingers inside of you. "Shhh, kotenok...you need to sit still for your papochka, hm? So tight...I wouldn't want to hurt my sweet girl just because she can't be patient."

"I am being patient..." You murmur breathlessly, your tone turning slightly petulant as you tilt your head up to press tiny, pleading kisses to his jaw. "I want more, please, daddy. I can take it, I promise."

You feel his voice rather than hear it - his deep, rumbling voice reverberating through his chest and straight to your core as he coos quietly at you. "I know you think you can handle it, but papochka knows what you need, baby. Just be a good little girl for me and take what I give you."

But you just can't listen. You're always so good for him, but you had a really hard day :(, so after a couple more minutes (thirty seconds) you can't help it when you start to grind down on his fingers, groaning softly as you finally get him to punch against that spongey spot inside of you that has you sighing in relief.

He tuts quietly at your disobedience, but he can't help but huff in amusement at the way you bounce yourself on his thick fingers, barely even giving him a thought as you pant against his neck. He's always loved that you felt comfortable enough to push against him and his rules, especially since you were a jumpy little thing when he first got his hands on you - always asking him for directions and doing everything he said to a T. He's finally gotten you to relax enough to take what you need from him, even if it means you end up acting like a brat sometimes. But he's never been the type of man to punish bratty behavior...no, no, no. He loves spoiling his sweet malyshka! So if you want more? He'll give it to you.

No matter what.

And now that you've got your knees pressed next to your ears, feet dangling over his shoulders as he rams his cock into you, your little fists are weakly pushing against his chest as you whine about it being 'too much'.

"Oh, but isn't this what you wanted, malyshka? I thought you could take it, big girl. You promised me." He croons in a condescending tone, pulling one of your hands away from his chest to press a gentle kiss to it as you continue to whimper pathetically. When a tear begins to slip down your cheek, he swoops in and licks it right up, causing you to let out a little whine of discontent and a soft little 'gross' - but he can feel how tightly you clench around him at the action. "Mmh...so sweet, milaya."

And when he's made you cum more times than you can count - battering your poor, squelching cunt to its limit - you try to wriggle away from him. He just lets out a deep, rumbling laugh at your weak attempt to get away, eying you like you're an unruly kitten who doesn't know any better.

"Ah, ah, ah..." He tuts gently at you, tugging your hips back to slam you down on the bed so he can work his cock back inside of you. "No running, kotenok. You don't go anywhere until I say so. Come on, listen to your daddy."

You're nearly blacked out by the time he finally stops. Your trembling hands reach down between your legs to guard your throbbing pussy even though you know he's done - he's already rolled over to reach for his cigarettes and lighter, pulling you tight to his side as he flicks his thumb until the end of his stick glows orange.

He tosses the lighter off to the side before taking a deep drag and tilting your chin up to look at him. He blows his smoke out of the corner of his mouth to 'not ruin your pretty lungs', as he always says - but you're not sure how much good it does when he uses the same hand that holds the cigarette to trace his thumb over your cheek, catching the tears that still slip from your eyes.

"Say 'thank you, papochka' " He grunts in that sweet, patronizing voice that always turns you on more than you care to admit. When you stay silent, too fucked-out to even bring yourself to think, he brings one of his hands up to squeeze the fat of your cheeks, forcing your lips into a pout and pulling a soft gasp out of you. "Go on. Say it, little girl."

You choke out something between a moan and a sob, and it takes you a second to form the words "th-thank you, papochka" before your resigned back to a panting, sweaty mess as he pats your cheek affectionately.

"Ah, good. So you can listen."

nsfw (p!link) visual for the first position he's got you in (full cred to @codnasties for the vid even though its for price)

#releasing my drafts into the wild #sorry you guys are my victims #of course my first smut is with nikolai #cod x reader #nikolai cod x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai cod #nikolai smut #captainpriceslilwife #cod imagine #nikolai cod smut #cod smut #guys why is this scary #guys im scared #smut is scary :/#can you tell im a virgin #call of duty x reader #call of duty smut

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fuqnia · 6 months ago

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I Wanna Go on Walks with You (2) ₊˚⊹♡

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part one

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hated himself for that the most.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, why won’t you stop?

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

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

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

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

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

He deserved every ounce of this misery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright,” they said, their voice light. “Lead the way.”

Stan exhaled, the relief crashing over him like a wave as he gestured for them to follow him. But as they walked toward the edge of the yard, the hollow ache in his chest twisted deeper, darker. He could feel it gnawing at him, an insidious reminder that this wasn’t about connection or distraction—it was about punishment.

Because that’s what he deserved, wasn’t it? To scrape the bottom of the barrel, to throw himself into fleeting moments that meant nothing and left him emptier than before. To chase ghosts and bury himself in mistakes just to forget the weight of your voice, your touch, your trust. He clenched his jaw, his steps heavy, each one dragging him further into the abyss he’d created for himself.

It didn’t matter who they were or how kind their smile was. They weren’t you. And no amount of cheap liquor or borrowed warmth would change the fact that he’d ruined the one thing that might’ve saved him. He wasn’t just falling apart—he was clawing himself to pieces, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

As he led them into the dark, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. Maybe he was beyond saving. Maybe this was all he’d ever be—a mess of regrets and bad decisions, staggering forward just to avoid looking back.

The phone felt heavy in your trembling hands, its screen glowing with the draft of a message you couldn’t bring yourself to send. Your mascara streaked down your cheeks, smudged by the steady flow of tears you hadn’t managed to stop for hours. The lump in your throat ached, a constant reminder of the sobs that wracked your chest. You sniffled, trying and failing to take a steadying breath, as your thumb hovered over the send button.

“Hey… I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.”

The words on the screen blurred through your tears, and your hands shook so violently you could barely hold the phone still. Damien didn’t deserve this—he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been patient and kind, the perfect blend of calm and confident, someone who made you feel like you mattered. And yet, none of it had been enough to drown out the relentless weight of Stan in your mind.

Your chest tightened as you stared at the message, the silence of your room only amplifying the storm of your thoughts. A week had passed since you’d last seen Stan, but his absence had carved itself into every part of your life. You couldn’t escape it—not in the dead of night when you stared at your phone waiting for a message that never came, and not during the day when everything reminded you of him.

Every laugh, every smile you’d shared, every clumsy touch from that night—it all played on an endless loop in your mind, growing louder with every moment he ignored you. And now you were here, mascara running down your face and heartbreak threatening to choke you, about to push away the one person who had actually wanted you.

You felt your stomach twist with guilt as you thought about Damien. He’d been so excited when he’d texted you last night, asking about your weekend plans. The idea of crushing that enthusiasm, of turning his warmth into confusion and hurt, made your fingers falter.

But you couldn’t keep lying to yourself, or to him. Your heart wasn’t in this—how could it be when it was still chained to someone else? To someone who hadn’t even spared you a text in a week? Someone who was probably out there living his life without a second thought for the mess he’d left you in?

Your tears fell harder at the thought, your thumb finally pressing the button as the message sent with a soft ping. The room seemed impossibly still as you stared at the screen, watching the text sit there, delivered but unanswered.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to no one, your voice hoarse and broken.

You dropped the phone onto the bed, your body trembled with every sob, your chest heaving as the weight of guilt crushed you. It was unbearable, like a physical ache gnawing at your ribs and spreading through every inch of you. You let your head fall into your hands, your fingers tangling in your hair as shame and regret clawed at your heart.

How could you have been so selfish? So stupid?

You replayed that night in your mind, every detail vivid and suffocating. The way Stan’s hands had hesitated before gripping your hips. The way his voice had trembled when he asked if it was okay. The way he’d broken apart in your room after you’d pushed too far.

You’d told yourself it was for practice, for Damien. That lie sat bitter in your chest now, hollow and meaningless. You hadn’t cared about Damien in that moment, not really. You’d cared about Stan, about distracting him, about being the one to pull him out of the darkness that had been swallowing him whole. But instead of helping him, you’d only dragged him down further.

I used him. The thought hit you like a slap, fresh tears streaming down your face as the realization sank in. You’d taken advantage of his vulnerability, of his trust in you, and for what? To play pretend for a few fleeting moments? To feel wanted?

You pressed your hands against your face, your fingers digging into your skin as if you could scrub the guilt away. “I’m a terrible person,” you whispered, the words shaking as they fell from your lips. “I’m so fucking terrible.”

The silence of your room felt deafening, wrapping around you like a noose. You hoped, desperately, that Stan was feeling better now that he didn’t have to deal with you. That cutting you out of his life had given him some peace, even if it left you feeling hollow and alone.

The thought of him—his face, his voice, his touch—was like a knife twisting in your chest. You wanted to forget, to drown out the ache that wouldn’t let up no matter how much you cried. You wanted the numbness that had always felt so far out of reach. And then, unbidden, your mind drifted to the one thing that might offer it.

Alcohol.

You thought about the parties Stan and the guys dragged you to, the cheap liquor that burned your throat but left your mind blissfully hazy. You thought about how easy it would be to lose yourself in that fog, to forget the guilt, the shame, the sound of your phone buzzing with messages you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

Your breathing hitched as the thought took hold, the temptation curling around you like a siren’s song. You pushed yourself off the bed, your legs unsteady as you stood. Your heart pounded in your chest, your movements shaky and uncertain as you made your way to the closet.

Throwing the door open, you rifled through the clothes hanging limply on their hangers, your fingers trembling as you searched for something—anything—that screamed distraction. Your hand paused on a short black dress, the one you’d worn to a party months ago, the night you’d laughed too loud and let Kenny drag you onto the dance floor. You grabbed it without thinking, pulling it off the hanger and clutching it to your chest like it was a lifeline.

You needed out. Out of this room, out of your head, out of the suffocating guilt that threatened to consume you whole. And if a few drinks and a crowded room were the only way to get there, then so be it.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the makeup wipes on your desk, dabbing at the streaked mascara that had smudged across your cheeks. The image of your tear-streaked face in the mirror only deepened the knot of guilt and shame in your stomach, but you pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand. If you were going to do this—if you were going to escape your thoughts tonight—you couldn’t look like the emotional wreck you felt.

As you applied fresh eyeliner with trembling hands, you heard the familiar jingle of keys outside the door. The knob twisted, and Red stepped inside, her phone in hand and earbuds dangling from her neck. She stopped mid-step when she saw you at your desk, makeup wipes and half-finished cosmetics strewn across the surface.

“Whoa. What happened in here?” she asked, her voice lighter than the concerned look on her face.

You didn’t meet her gaze, focusing instead on lining your lips with the bold red lipstick that matched the armor you were trying to piece together. “Nothing,” you said quickly, your voice tight and unconvincing.

Red closed the door behind her, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took you in. She set her bag down on her bed and crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the frame. “You don’t look like nothing.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to keep your composure. “I’m fine,” you insisted, though your shaking hands betrayed you as you applied a final swipe of mascara.

Red didn’t budge. “Fine,” she said slowly, drawing the word out. “Fine enough to be getting all dressed up for something. Where are you going?”

You capped the mascara with trembling fingers and turned to face her, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “I was going to ask if you’re going to any parties tonight,” you said, deflecting the question. “I thought I’d tag along.”

Red’s brows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t push the obvious lie. “Uh, yeah, I was gonna head to that Pi Kappa party. I heard it’s gonna be huge. Why, though? You haven’t wanted to go out in weeks.”

“I need to get out of here,” you said quickly, your voice too sharp and too quick. You softened it with a weak laugh. “Clear my head, you know? Blow off some steam.”

Her playful grin faltered, her expression softening with something you hated to see—pity. But, thankfully, Red wasn’t the type to prod too much. “Okay, babe. If you’re in, you’re in. Let me throw something on real quick, and we’ll Uber together.”

You nodded, relief mixing uneasily with the lingering ache in your chest as she turned to her closet. While Red rummaged for an outfit, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection in the tiny mirror propped on your desk. The person staring back at you looked composed, ready for a party. But beneath the fresh makeup and tight dress, you were anything but.

“Okay, done!” Red chirped, snapping you out of your thoughts. She stood there in a sequined mini-dress that shimmered under the fluorescent dorm lights, her lips curling into an excited grin. “You ready, or are you still doing that thing where you stare at yourself like you’re in a bad movie montage?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

She grabbed her bag and slung an arm around your shoulders, leading you out of the room with her usual bright energy. Her chatter filled the silence as the two of you walked toward the dorm exit, her voice animated as she hyped up the party and gossiped about who might be there. You nodded along, grateful for the noise to drown out the storm in your head.

But no matter how loud Red’s voice was, or how bright the city lights were as the Uber carried you both toward the party, the knot in your stomach refused to loosen. You hoped the drinks would help. You hoped the crowd would distract you. You hoped you could forget, even if only for one night.

You hated alcohol—the taste, the burn, the way it made your stomach twist and churn. But tonight, you didn’t care. You didn’t want to care. All you wanted was to drown out the heavy, suffocating weight in your chest and replace it with something, anything, that felt lighter. Even if it came at the expense of your body.

The frat house was alive with music, laughter, and the faint haze of cigarette smoke wafting in from the backyard. Red tugged you inside, her arm looped tightly around yours as she greeted nearly everyone who crossed her path. Her energy was infectious, her voice rising over the thrum of the crowd as she exchanged hugs, jokes, and smiles with familiar faces.

You tried to mirror her enthusiasm, but it felt hollow. When she greeted Craig and Tweek, who were standing near the corner with Clyde and Tolkien, you forced a weak smile and waved. Their replies were friendly enough—Clyde even cracked a joke about your absence at previous parties—but their voices blended into the background noise.

Your eyes scanned the room, taking in the faces you knew: Jimmy and Butters at the beer pong table, Cartman and Kenny arguing over something near the kitchen, Wendy and Bebe chatting animatedly with Heidi and Nichole by the staircase. But there was no sign of Stan. Relief and disappointment mingled in your chest, twisting together in a way that made you feel like you couldn’t breathe.

“Be right back,” you mumbled to Red, slipping your arm free from hers before she could protest. “I’m gonna grab a drink.”

She nodded, already turning back to her conversation with Bebe, her laughter ringing out as you retreated toward the counter. Your hands trembled slightly as you scanned the selection—plastic cups, kegs, an assortment of bottles in varying states of emptiness. Your eyes landed on a bottle of vodka, the label peeling at the edges, and you grabbed it without hesitation.

No one was looking. No one cared.

You twisted the cap off and pressed the bottle to your lips, the sharp smell making your nose wrinkle. The first sip burned, and you nearly coughed, but you swallowed it down and took another. And another. The fire in your throat spread to your chest, and your stomach twisted in protest, but you ignored it. You kept drinking, the edges of the room blurring slightly as the alcohol began to take hold.

Your thoughts swirled, chaotic and relentless, as you clutched the bottle tighter. You hated how desperate you felt, how pathetic it was to stand in the corner of a party, drinking like your life depended on it. But you hated the silence in your head more—the voice that whispered that this was all your fault, that you’d ruined everything, that you deserved to feel this way.

You deserved it.

The vodka burned, but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as everything else. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, setting the empty bottle back on the counter with a hollow clink. The world felt hazy now, the room swaying slightly as the alcohol settled into your system. You grabbed a red Solo cup and filled it halfway with whatever was closest—some dark, amber liquid that you didn’t bother to identify. You just needed to keep going, to stay numb.

You turned back toward the crowd, the cup clutched tightly in your hand. Your eyes scanned the room for Red, but instead, they landed on something that made your breath hitch.

Kyle was at the edge of the crowd, his hand wrapped firmly around Stan’s arm as he pulled him through the throng of people. Stan looked disheveled, his hoodie rumpled and his hair a mess. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place, and he moved sluggishly, like he was trying to resist Kyle’s pull. Kyle leaned in, whispering something urgently into Stan’s ear, his expression tense.

Kyle’s eyes flicked up and met yours, and the world seemed to still for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowing slightly as he held your gaze. The knot in your stomach twisted tighter, and your breath felt caught in your throat.

Stan, noticing the shift in Kyle’s attention, turned his head to follow his gaze. When his eyes landed on you, his entire body seemed to lock up. His expression shifted in an instant—his jaw tightening, his eyes widening briefly before narrowing into something unreadable. He froze, his arm still in Kyle’s grip, and for a moment, it felt like the entire party had gone silent.

Then, as if jolted into action, Stan yanked his arm free from Kyle’s grasp and turned sharply, heading in the opposite direction. He didn’t even glance back as he pushed through the crowd, his movements stiff and hurried.

Your chest tightened painfully as you watched him retreat, the cup in your hand trembling slightly. Kyle turned back to you, his gaze softer now, almost apologetic. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but the distance between you made it impossible to hear.

You shook your head, breaking the stare, and looked down into your drink. The liquid swirled lazily in the cup, the faint smell of alcohol wafting up to meet you. You downed it in one go, ignoring the bitter taste, and wiped your mouth again.

Red appeared beside you then, her voice bright and oblivious. “There you are! Come on, they’re playing flip cup in the kitchen!”

You forced a smile, the edges of it wobbling. “Yeah,” you said, your voice hollow. “Let’s go.”

Red dragged you into the kitchen, her arm hooked around yours as she babbled on about the flip cup teams already forming. The room was buzzing with energy, laughter bouncing off the walls as drinks were poured and rules were loudly debated. You scanned the crowd and saw a mix of familiar faces—Clyde, Tweek, Craig, and even Bebe, who was already half-draped over a laughing Jimmy.

“You’re on my team,” Red declared, her grip on your arm tightening as she pulled you to her side. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and you managed a small smile despite the heavy knot still twisting in your stomach.

The game started, the air thick with playful shouts and competitive taunts. Red went first, downing her drink and flipping the cup expertly in one smooth motion. “Boom!” she cheered, throwing her hands in the air.

When it was your turn, you hesitated, the Solo cup trembling slightly in your hand. The alcohol buzzing through your veins dulled the sharp edges of your thoughts, and for the first time all night, you didn’t feel the crushing weight of everything on your chest. You took a deep breath, downed the drink in one gulp, and flipped the cup on your first try.

“Hell yeah!” Red whooped, clapping you on the back. “You’re a natural!”

The cheers and laughter from your team were louder now, and you couldn’t help but laugh along. The alcohol coursing through your system made everything feel lighter, fuzzier, and the tension in your chest loosened just a little more with every round. By the time you’d flipped three more cups flawlessly, you were grinning, your cheeks flushed with both alcohol and the heat of the crowded room.

“You’ve been holding out on us!” Clyde called, pointing at you with an exaggerated look of mock betrayal.

“Where’s this pro-level flip cup energy been hiding?” Red teased, nudging you with her elbow.

You shrugged, laughing as you reached for another drink. “Beginner’s luck,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost unrecognizable to yourself.

As the game went on, you found yourself laughing more, the warmth of the alcohol and the camaraderie of the group easing the heaviness in your chest. The laughter around you started to blur as you spotted him out of the corner of your eye—Stan, standing in the crowd, leaning against the wall with a girl you didn’t recognize. She was all legs and confidence, her hand lightly touching his arm as she giggled at something he said. You couldn’t hear them over the music and chatter, but whatever it was, it made Stan smirk. That smirk twisted something deep in your chest, something sharp and unexpected.

Jealousy.

You didn’t get jealous when Stan flirted with people. You’d seen it before, a million times, and it had always been just Stan being Stan. But this? The way he was looking at her? The way she was looking back? It made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t explain.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter as you watched him. He must have felt your stare because his eyes flicked up, meeting yours across the room. For a split second, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression—hesitation, guilt, maybe even regret. But then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned down and kissed the girl.

Your breath hitched, disbelief freezing you in place. His lips moved against hers with purpose, his hands resting low on her waist as if he wanted to make sure you didn’t miss a single second of it. The girl looped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and your stomach dropped.

They were full-on making out now, right there in the middle of the party, and all you could do was stand there, your mouth hanging open as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman watching too. Kyle looked horrified, his brows furrowed in a deep, disapproving frown. Kenny had a smirk on his face, though his eyes flicked between you and Stan like he was watching a train wreck unfold. Cartman, of course, was laughing, the sound obnoxious and grating as he elbowed Kenny in the ribs.

Your blood boiled. The knot of anger and hurt in your chest exploded into a white-hot fury that you couldn’t contain. “Be right back,” you muttered to Red, your voice tight as you shoved your way through the crowd.

“Wait, where are you going?” Red called after you, but you didn’t answer. Your sights were locked on Stan, your pulse pounding in your ears as you marched toward him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” The words flew out of your mouth before you could even process them, your voice cutting through the party like a thunderclap. You weren’t even sure who you were directing them at—Stan, the girl, the situation itself—but as you stormed across the room, the alcohol buzzing hot and angry in your veins, your focus locked on her.

She turned to you, her perfectly manicured brows raising in surprise before they knit together in irritation. She didn’t flinch under your glare, instead tilting her head and looking you up and down like you were an inconvenience rather than a threat. That expression alone made your blood boil hotter.

Stan stood frozen, his face slack with shock, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when the girl—the one he had just been making out with—was standing there, calm and collected, like she hadn’t just done something unforgivable.

“You,” you spat, pointing a shaky finger at her. “What the hell is wrong with you? You think it’s cute throwing yourself at someone like him?”

The room seemed to hush slightly around you, but the alcohol made you too numb to care. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head swimming from the vodka and the rage coursing through you.

The girl arched an eyebrow, her lips twisting into a smirk. “Excuse me? Who even are you?” Her voice was sharp, disdain dripping from every word. “His fucking mom or something?”

Her tone was like a match to gasoline. Your vision blurred, your fists curling at your sides as you took another step toward her. “I’m the person who actually knows him,” you slurred, your words tumbling out unsteady but vicious. “Not some random nobody trying to get her claws into him.”

The girl’s face darkened, her smirk replaced by a scowl. “Oh, please,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “If you knew him so well, maybe you’d have done a better job keeping him.”

The words hit you like a slap, sharp and humiliating, and they cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, tears threatening to prick at the corners of your eyes. But the vodka burned hotter, stronger, drowning out the shame with unrelenting anger.

“Desperate,” you sneered, your voice shaking as you leaned closer to her. “That’s what you are. Desperate enough to kiss a guy who’s clearly not even into you.”

She barked a laugh, the sound cold and mocking. “Desperate?” she repeated, her eyes flashing with disdain. “You’re the one making a scene over a guy who doesn’t give a shit about you.”

The room seemed to tilt, her words cutting through the haze of alcohol and hitting you square in the chest. Without thinking, without even registering the consequences, your hand swung out, the sound of the slap ringing through the air like a gunshot.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as her head snapped to the side, her hand flying up to her cheek. She stared at you, wide-eyed, for a single frozen moment before lunging forward.

“You psycho bitch!” she screamed, her voice shrill as her hands flew toward you. You barely registered the sharp pull at your hair as she grabbed at you, her nails scratching at your arm. You swung back instinctively, your movements clumsy and fueled by adrenaline, landing a hit on her shoulder.

Everything was chaos. People were shouting around you, their voices blending into an incoherent roar. You couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your own heart, the way the room spun around you as the two of you clawed and yanked at each other.

“Hey! Stop it!” Kyle’s voice cut through the chaos, and suddenly, strong hands were gripping your waist, yanking you back. You struggled against him, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you tried to shrug him off.

“Let me go, Kyle!” you shouted, your voice cracking as tears burned hot in your eyes. The fight, the alcohol, the shame—it was all too much.

“Not a fucking chance, perfect for each other, my ass,” Kyle snapped, his grip tightening as he pulled you farther away from the girl. Across the room, her friend was doing the same, holding her back as she glared daggers at you.

Stan hadn’t moved. He stood rooted to the spot, his face pale and his eyes wide with disbelief. The sight of him just standing there, saying nothing, doing nothing, made your chest ache with something raw and unbearable.

“You’re insane!” the girl yelled as her friend dragged her farther away, her voice echoing in your ears like a siren. “Fucking crazy!”

Kyle finally let go of you when he was sure the girl was out of reach, spinning you around to face him. His face was tight with frustration and concern, his brows furrowed deeply. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice low but filled with anger. “What were you thinking?”

You shoved past Kyle, your breath hitching in uneven gasps as you pushed through the crowd. The hallway blurred around you, voices and music melding into an unbearable hum. You found the bathroom door, yanked it open, and stumbled inside. Before you could slam it shut, Kyle’s hand shot out, grabbing your wrist.

“Get off me,” you snapped, your voice breaking.

“Not a chance,” he shot back, his tone sharp and unforgiving. “You’ve already caused enough of a scene.”

Twisting your arm free, you stumbled toward the toilet, dropping to your knees as your stomach twisted violently. Before you could even think, you were retching, the sour burn of alcohol and bile scorching your throat. Shame burned hotter than the vomit, tears spilling down your face as you gagged.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh but didn’t leave. Instead, he crouched behind you, gathering your hair in one hand and holding it back as you emptied your stomach. “Jesus, you’re a wreck,” he muttered, his voice laced with equal parts exasperation and concern.

You gasped for breath, your body trembling. “Leave me alone,” you croaked, but the words carried no conviction.

“Not happening,” Kyle snapped. “I’m not going to let you self-destruct because you’re too stubborn to deal with your shit.”

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m fine,” you mumbled weakly.

Kyle scoffed, the sound harsh in the small bathroom. “Fine? You’re puking your guts out in a frat house bathroom after starting a fight with some random girl. Yeah, you’re real fine.”

You clenched your fists, anger flaring up alongside the shame. “Why do you even care?”

“Because someone has to!” he shot back, his voice rising. He loosened his grip on your hair but didn’t let go completely, his other hand gesturing wildly. “You’re acting just like Stan, you know that? All this drinking, picking fights, spiraling out like you’re trying to hit rock bottom as fast as you can.”

You flinched at the comparison, your stomach twisting for an entirely different reason now. “Don’t,” you whispered, but Kyle wasn’t done.

“Oh, no, I’m saying it,” he continued, his eyes blazing. “No? So what, you just ‘accidentally’ used Stan, picked a fight with some random girl, and drank yourself into oblivion? Grow up. Take some responsibility for once.”

Your head snapped up, and you stared at him, wide-eyed, your breath catching in your throat. “What did you just say?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Stan… he told you?”

Kyle’s expression didn’t waver. If anything, his gaze hardened. “Of course he didn’t tell me,” he said sharply, crossing his arms. “He didn’t have to. We’ve known Stan since we were kids—I can see the signs. He’s been a fucking wreck since that night you got with Damien. Do you think I wouldn’t put it together?”

Your heart sank, a pit forming in your stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol. You hadn’t realized it was so obvious, hadn’t considered that Kyle—or anyone—would notice the cracks in Stan’s carefully constructed façade.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks again. “I—”

Kyle cut you off with a bitter laugh. “You didn’t mean to?” he repeated, his voice biting. “Then what the hell were you doing? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve been on a one-way trip to self-destruction and decided to drag Stan down with you.”

“I hate myself,” you choked out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t—”

Kyle’s hand tightened on your shoulder, not unkindly, but firmly enough to ground you. His voice softened just a fraction, though the frustration still lingered. “Then fix it,” he said, his tone quieter but still firm. “Before there’s nothing left of either of you to fix.”

You buried your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you sobbed. Kyle stayed for a moment longer, then finally stood, reaching for the toilet paper. He handed them to you without a word, his expression unreadable.

“Clean yourself up,” he said as he turned to leave. “And figure out what the hell you want, because this? This isn’t it.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone with the sound of your ragged breathing and the reflection of a stranger in the mirror. Smudged makeup, tear-streaked cheeks, and hollow eyes stared back at you, and for the first time, you wondered if Kyle was right.

Maybe it wasn’t Stan or anyone else you were hurting the most.

Maybe it was yourself.

You sat on the cold bathroom floor, the sobs wracking your body so violently that it felt like your chest might cave in. Your cries echoed off the tiled walls, raw and unrelenting. There was no point in trying to quiet yourself—no one left to pretend for. You buried your face in your knees, the damp fabric of your clothes soaking up your tears.

The sound of the door creaking open barely registered through your haze, but the quiet shuffle of footsteps did. A moment later, you felt someone kneel in front of you. You lifted your head slightly, your blurry vision focusing on Kenny’s face. His usual smirk and mischief were nowhere to be found. Instead, his expression was soft, his brow creased in concern.

At the sight of him, the sobs came harder, spilling out of you like a dam breaking. Your hands flew up to cover your face, shielding yourself from his gaze, from his pity.

Kenny didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He reached over to the crumpled sheets of toilet paper Kyle gave you, forgotten on the bathroom counter. Slowly and carefully, he began wiping at the streaks of mascara and tears staining your cheeks. His touch was steady, almost too kind, and it made the guilt inside you churn like acid.

“Stop,” you choked out, your voice cracking, though you didn’t mean it. “Why are you… why are you doing this?”

Kenny paused briefly, his gaze flicking to yours before he continued wiping at your face. “Because someone needs to,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “And because you obviously can’t right now.”

His words broke something inside you, and your hands dropped limply to your lap, letting him finish his task. He worked in silence, each swipe of the tissue a quiet reminder of just how far you’d unraveled.

When he finally tossed the crumpled tissue aside, you whispered, “I screwed up, Kenny. I messed everything up so bad, I—I don’t even know how to fix it.”

He sat back on his heels, watching you for a moment. “Yeah, you did,” he said bluntly, his honesty cutting through you like a knife. “But sitting here crying isn’t going to fix it.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded faintly. “I just… she didn’t deserve that,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “The girl, the one I fought with. She didn’t do anything wrong. I just—I don’t even know why I went after her like that.”

Kenny leaned back against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest as he studied you. “You know why,” he said, his tone quiet but pointed.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Because I’m a mess? Because I can’t deal with my own shit, so I decided to take it out on some innocent girl? She was just… there, and I hated her for it.”

He shrugged, his gaze unwavering. “At least you’re owning up to it now. That’s a start.”

“I’m a terrible person,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands again. “Stan… he’s better off without me. Everyone is.”

Kenny didn’t respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, more measured. “Maybe you are a mess. And maybe you’ve screwed up a lot. But you’re not beyond fixing. You just have to stop running from everything. From Stan, from yourself.”

You sniffled, lifting your head to meet his gaze. “What if it’s too late?”

“It’s only too late if you keep doing this,” he said, gesturing to the bathroom, the remnants of your breakdown still visible. “Start being honest. Own your shit. That’s the only way you’re gonna move forward.”

His words hung heavy in the air, sinking into you in a way that left you feeling raw but strangely steady. For the first time, you felt a flicker of resolve, faint but real.

Kenny sighed and pushed himself to his feet, holding out a hand to you. “Come on,” he said, offering a small, tired smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up before Red comes in and loses her mind.”

You hesitated before taking his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Kenny said with a faint smirk. “I’m still debating if I should charge you for this therapy session babe.”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh that barely felt real and let him lead you out of the bathroom. Your hand clung tightly to his, like letting go would drop you into some void you weren’t sure you could climb out of. Kenny glanced back, catching the death grip you had on his hand, and chuckled under his breath.

“Relax, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, though the softness in his voice was a sharp contrast to his usual teasing tone.

The music and the noise of the party hit you like a wave as the two of you stepped back into the crowd. People danced, shouted, and laughed in every corner, the chaotic energy of the house thrumming against your skin. Kenny navigated the sea of bodies with ease, tugging you along as if it was second nature.

Then you saw her. The girl from earlier. She stood with her friends across the room, and their conversation came to an abrupt halt when they spotted you. Her glare was sharp, and you could feel the animosity radiating off her group as they stared. A lump rose in your throat, but you refused to shrink under their gaze.

Before you could stop yourself, you stuck your tongue out at her—a childish, stupid gesture that you regretted immediately but couldn’t take back. Her expression darkened, her friends whispering among themselves before one of them dramatically rolled her eyes and turned away.

Cartman’s raucous laugh broke through the tension, loud enough to make your head snap toward him. He was a few feet away, holding a red solo cup and grinning like a hyena.

“You’re a goddamn disaster,” Cartman wheezed, swaggering over to you and Kenny with a look of absolute delight. “Holy shit, this is better than reality TV.”

“Fuck off, fatass,” Kenny muttered, clearly unimpressed.

But Cartman wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, he leaned down toward you, his breath reeking of beer, and whispered something that made your stomach plummet.

“Stan’s watching you. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Your body went rigid, and your grip on Kenny’s hand tightened instinctively. You hated how Cartman’s words set off a flurry of nerves in your chest, but you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing across the room. And there he was.

Stan was leaning against the far wall, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes weren’t on you. They were on Wendy, who was standing beside him, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. He wasn’t looking at her, though. His gaze was distant, unfocused—until it suddenly snapped to you.

The weight of his stare knocked the air out of your lungs. Your stomach twisted as his expression hardened, his jaw tightening slightly. Wendy noticed, following his line of sight, and when her eyes landed on you, her brows furrowed.

Cartman’s grin widened. “Oof, triangle vibes. Messy as hell,” he muttered, stepping back with a laugh.

“Dude seriously, shut the hell up,” Kenny said sharply, tugging you forward before you could spiral further.

“Let’s just… move,” you mumbled, voice trembling as you ripped your gaze away from Stan and Wendy. Kenny gave you a knowing look but didn’t press, instead tugging you toward the other side of the room.

You spotted Kyle near the drinks table, engaged in what looked like a heated debate with Tolkien, his hands gesturing wildly as he made his point. Kenny let go of your hand and went to interrupt, leaning casually into the conversation like he hadn’t just been babysitting your emotional meltdown moments earlier.

Red appeared seemingly out of nowhere, slipping up beside you with a grin. “Well, well, look who’s causing chaos and stealing the show,” she teased, nudging you with her elbow. “That fight back there? Iconic. The stuff of legends.”

You gave her a weak smile, but the lightness in her tone made your stomach churn. “It wasn’t… I shouldn’t have—”

“Relax,” she interrupted, brushing off your guilt like it was nothing. “She had it coming, I’m sure. Besides, you looked badass.”

“I don’t think that’s the takeaway here,” Kyle interjected sharply, stepping away from Tolkien and Kenny to join you. His gaze was serious as he folded his arms over his chest. “What’s the plan here, huh? Keep ignoring each other until the tension finally explodes and ruins everyone else’s good time?”

Your stomach dropped. “Kyle, I—”

“No, don’t even try,” he cut you off, his tone exasperated but not unkind. “You and Stan need to figure your shit out. It’s making everything worse—for you, for him, for everyone.”

You glanced at Kenny, hoping for some kind of backup, but he just shrugged like he agreed with Kyle. “He’s got a point,” Kenny said, sipping casually from his solo cup. “This whole cold war thing? It’s exhausting.”

Kyle stepped closer, lowering his voice but keeping it firm. “If you two don’t talk by the end of the week, I swear to God, I’ll step in myself. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What do you mean you’ll step in?”

“I’ll lock you two in a room, throw away the key, and let you sort it out like adults,” Kyle said flatly, but there was an edge of humor in his voice that didn’t quite soften the weight of his words. “Or maybe just yell at both of you until one of you finally cracks. Either way, this has to end.”

You didn’t know what to say. The idea of talking to Stan, of facing everything head-on, felt insurmountable. But Kyle’s stare didn’t waver, and the weight of his words settled heavy on your chest.

“Fine,” you muttered, barely audible. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

“Good,” Kyle said, satisfied. He turned back to Kenny, who was smirking into his drink like this was all some kind of sitcom. Red just gave you a sly grin and a thumbs up, clearly amused by the whole exchange.

But you didn’t feel amused. You felt like the ground beneath you was crumbling, and the thought of confronting Stan made your stomach twist into knots. Still, you knew Kyle was right.

Stan lay motionless on his bed, the faded ceiling tiles above blurring into nothingness as his chest tightened with every passing second. The air in the dorm room felt thick, suffocating, like it was trying to choke him out. His phone buzzed once from the desk where he’d abandoned it—just like he’d abandoned you. He didn’t even need to check to know it wasn’t you this time. You’d stopped trying a few days ago, and the silence was worse than the calls ever had been.

Kyle was at his desk, typing something furiously. Stan didn’t care. He barely registered anything outside his own head these days. His mind kept circling back to that night, the way your voice had cracked, the way you’d called him out in front of everyone, and worst of all, the way you’d gone after that girl.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory still played like some sick, never-ending movie. You screaming, your voice loud and shrill and full of venom. That slap—sharp, unforgiving, echoing through the room. Stan’s stomach churned just thinking about it. She hadn’t done anything to you. Nothing but exist, but smile at him, but… but what? Be the wrong girl at the wrong time?

You don’t even know her name, asshole.

But that didn’t stop him from standing there, frozen, as everything spiraled out of control. He could still hear Wendy’s voice in his head, soft but firm as she pulled him aside after it was all over.

“She’s a mess, Stan,” Wendy had said, her eyes piercing through him like she already knew everything. “And you’re making it worse for her. For yourself.” She’d put a hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding in a way that should have helped but didn’t. “You need to figure out what you want. Otherwise, this is just going to destroy both of you.”

He’d nodded like he understood, like any of it made sense, but inside he felt like he was fucking disintegrating. The guilt, the anger, the shame—they were eating him alive. He’d wanted to scream at Wendy, to tell her to fuck off, to say that this wasn’t her problem—but he didn’t. Because she was right. She was always right. And that only made it worse.

“You gonna talk to her?” Kyle’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, snapping Stan out of his thoughts.

He stayed silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he stared at the same goddamn spot on the ceiling he’d been fixated on for hours. “No,” he muttered finally, his voice flat and lifeless.

Kyle let out a frustrated sigh, the sound grating against Stan’s nerves. “Seriously? You’re just gonna sit here and do nothing? That’s your plan?”

“Fuck off, Kyle,” Stan said, his tone harsher than he intended. He didn’t care.

The scrape of Kyle’s chair against the floor made Stan flinch. He heard Kyle move closer, felt the weight of his stare like a physical thing pressing down on him.

“You’re unbelievable,” Kyle said, his voice low and bitter. “You can’t keep running from this. From her.”

Stan didn’t respond. What was the point? Kyle didn’t understand. Nobody fucking understood.

The door slammed shut behind Kyle, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts again. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he replayed the scene from the party for the millionth time—the way you’d looked at him, furious and hurt and drunk off your ass. The way you’d lashed out at that girl, the sound of the slap still ringing in his ears.

What the fuck had you been thinking? What the fuck had he been thinking, letting it get this far?

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shove the memories aside, but it was useless. They were always there, lurking in the back of his mind. Wendy’s words echoed louder now, and they felt like a slap to the face. You’re making it worse for her. For yourself.

But how the fuck was he supposed to fix this? He wasn’t good at fixing things. He was good at ruining them. And you—you didn’t deserve to be dragged down with him. You deserved better. Better than him. Better than the wreckage he left in his wake.

His chest felt like it was caving in as the weight of it all pressed down on him. He thought about you crying, about the way you’d looked at him when he kissed that girl, about the way you’d tried so fucking hard to act like what happened between you didn’t mean anything when it meant everything.

Maybe Kyle was right. Maybe he needed to figure out what the hell he wanted. But as he lay there, his body heavy and his mind drowning in guilt and shame, one thing became painfully clear:

He didn’t deserve you. And he sure as hell didn’t deserve forgiveness.

Some time has passed, and Stan hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. The ceiling tiles blurred together as he stared blankly, his thoughts a mess of self-loathing and memories he wished he could erase. The muffled sound of yelling seeped through the door, but he chalked it up to his imagination. He was used to noise in his head.

But then the screaming grew louder, sharper. It wasn’t in his head. It was outside.

Before he could sit up to make sense of it, the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a bang. Stan flinched, his head snapping toward the noise as Kyle stepped into the room, dragging you behind him.

You were a whirlwind of rage, your voice raw and cracked as you hurled accusations and protests at Kyle. “Kyle, I swear to God—” But the moment your eyes locked on Stan, everything came to a screeching halt.

The room was thick with silence.

Stan sat frozen, his breath caught in his throat as he stared at you. Your hair was a mess, your cheeks flushed from exertion, and your makeup was smeared—but it was your eyes that hit him the hardest. Red-rimmed, puffy, and filled with something he couldn’t quite name. Anger? Hurt? Desperation? Maybe all of it.

Kyle, panting slightly from wrangling you all the way here, broke the tense silence. “The two of you are gonna talk this out,” he said, his voice firm and unforgiving. “You’re not leaving this room until you do. I’ll be right outside, so don’t even think about trying to get out.”

Before either of you could argue, Kyle shoved you further into the room and stepped back, slamming the door shut behind him. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed ominously.

Stan stared at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. He could hear Kyle’s muffled voice outside, probably telling someone off, but it was distant compared to the deafening silence in the room.

“You’re just gonna sit there?” Your voice broke through, sharp and biting.

Stan looked at you then, really looked at you, and felt the weight of everything between you crash over him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, your voice trembling as you crossed your arms over your chest. “You’re really just gonna sit there like this is nothing?”

“It’s not nothing,” Stan finally croaked, his voice low and rough. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then say something!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Because I’m standing here, trying, and you’re just… just—” You gestured helplessly, your voice cracking on the last word.

Stan sat up slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as he tried to find the right words. “I didn’t ask Kyle to do this,” he said finally, his tone defensive, but weak.

You let out a bitter laugh, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah, because God forbid you actually confront anything.”

Stan flinched, the words cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked down at his hands, his knuckles white from gripping the edge of the mattress. “What’s the point of this?” he asked, his voice quiet but edged with something raw. “You didn’t want to be here, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for this either. So why even bother?”

Your anger faltered for a moment, your expression softening before it hardened again. “Because I’m tired of this, Stan. I’m tired of us pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m tired of not knowing what the hell we even are. And I’m tired of you avoiding me.”

Stan’s jaw tightened, and he looked up at you with a mix of guilt and frustration. “You think I’m avoiding you because I don’t care? Because I don’t want to deal with it?” He stood abruptly, the sudden movement making you take a step back. “I’m avoiding you because I can’t fucking handle it. Any of it. You. Us. That night.” His voice cracked, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair.

You blinked, stunned into silence for a moment before the anger surged back. “So what? You just decided to shut me out instead? To let me sit there and drown in my own guilt while you—what? Pretend I don’t exist?”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his back still to you. “Guilt?” He turned then, his eyes blazing. “You think you’re the only one who feels guilty? I haven’t been able to fucking sleep because every time I close my eyes, all I can think about is how much I’ve screwed everything up.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging heavy between you.

“Stan…” Your voice was softer now, hesitant.

He shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

You stepped closer, your own anger fading as you looked at him—really looked at him. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were trembling slightly at his sides. “It’s not all on you to fix,” you said quietly. “I messed up too. I—” Your voice faltered, and you looked away. “I’m sorry for how I handled things. For that night. For everything.”

Stan’s gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked like he might reach for you. But then he took a step back, his walls going up again. “Sorry doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “I know. But it’s a start.”

You hesitated before sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight, and for a moment, you thought he might move away, but he didn’t. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you stared down at them, the lump in your throat growing heavier with each passing second.

“I… I cut things off with Damien,” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. The words felt heavier than you expected, like you were exhaling something you’d been holding onto for too long. You hadn’t planned to say it like this, hadn’t planned for your voice to break halfway through, but the weight of everything was too much to hold back.

Stan turned his head slightly toward you, his brows knitting together, but he still didn’t say anything. His silence was unbearable, and you felt like you had to fill the void before it consumed you.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep pretending that it was working,” you continued, the tears spilling before you could stop them. “Not when I—” You bit your lip, cutting yourself off. You couldn’t say it. Not yet.

Stan’s gaze finally lifted to meet yours, his blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Hurt? Anger? Something else entirely? You didn’t know, and the not knowing only made your chest ache more.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. It wasn’t accusatory, but it wasn’t kind either. It was cautious, like he didn’t know what to do with the information you’d just given him.

Your shoulders trembled as you took a shaky breath, swiping at your wet cheeks. “Because you deserve to know,” you said, forcing yourself to look at him even though it hurt. “You deserve to know that I…” You hesitated, your throat tightening around the words. “That I messed everything up. That I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

Stan’s expression flickered, something almost imperceptible crossing his face, but he quickly masked it. He let out a sharp exhale, his hands running through his hair as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Cutting things off with Damien doesn’t change anything,” he muttered, his voice cold and distant. “It doesn’t fix what happened. It doesn’t fix what you did.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you nodded. “I know,” you whispered. “I’m not trying to fix it. I just… I just wanted you to know that it’s over. That he’s not part of this anymore.”

Stan let out a humorless laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. “It was never about him,” he said, his voice dripping with bitterness. “It was about us. Or whatever the hell this is.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his frustration spilling over. “And I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

You swallowed hard, the sting of his words cutting through you like a knife. “I don’t either,” you admitted, your voice breaking. “But I miss you, Stan. I miss us. And I’m sorry—God, I’m so sorry.”

Stan’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he stared down at the floor. The room was heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid, the air thick with tension and regret. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence wrapping around you like a shroud.

Finally, Stan lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in weeks. “You don’t get to just say sorry and expect it to fix everything,” he said, his voice trembling. “But… I don’t know. Maybe I needed to hear it anyway.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening as the tears streamed unchecked down your cheeks. It was hard to meet Stan’s eyes—those blue eyes that had seen you at your worst, that now held a mixture of exhaustion and guarded curiosity. But you forced yourself to speak, your voice trembling with every word.

“I—” you started, your voice cracking immediately. You cleared your throat and tried again. “I thought… that night in my dorm… I thought if I could make you forget, even just for a little while, that maybe you’d feel better. That whatever you were dealing with, whatever was hurting you, it wouldn’t feel so heavy.”

Stan blinked, his expression hardening slightly, but he stayed quiet. His silence felt like a double-edged sword—an invitation to continue, but also a sharp reminder of how much your actions had hurt him.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you went on, your voice quieter now, each word weighing down on your chest. “I just… I’ve seen you spiral before, Stan. I’ve seen what it does to you, how it eats you alive. And I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Stan let out a sharp exhale, leaning back slightly and running a hand through his hair. “So your solution was to use me?” he asked, his tone bitter but not as sharp as it could’ve been. “You thought making me… what, lose myself in you would somehow fix everything?”

“I wasn’t trying to use you!” you shouted, your voice sharp and raw. “How could you even say that? You think I wanted to hurt you? You think I wanted to make things worse?”

Stan flinched at your outburst but didn’t say anything. His silence only fueled your anger, the dam of your emotions cracking wide open.

“I just wanted to make you feel better!” you screamed, the words tumbling out of you in a messy, desperate rush. “I didn’t know what else to do, Stan! You were falling apart, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t just sit there and watch you drown!”

His head jerked up, his blue eyes blazing with emotion. “So what? You thought kissing me, escalating things—doing all of that would somehow fix me?” His voice cracked, the hurt in it cutting you deeper than you thought possible. “Dude, do you know how fucked up that is?”

“I know it’s fucked up!” you yelled back, your voice shaking as fresh tears spilled down your face. “I know I handled it wrong, okay? I know I made a mess of everything, and I hate myself for it! But I wasn’t using you, Stan. I swear to God, I wasn’t.”

Stan stared at you, his jaw tightening, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white. “Then what the hell were you doing?” he demanded, his voice quieter but no less intense. “What was all of that supposed to be?”

You hesitated, your breath hitching as your emotions threatened to swallow you whole. You looked down at your lap, shaking your head as you sobbed uncontrollably. “I—I was trying to help you,” you stammered. “I just wanted to see you smile again. I wanted to make you feel something good—anything other than what you were feeling.”

Stan’s eyes softened, but his expression remained guarded. “And that’s supposed to make it okay?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

“No, it doesn’t make it okay!” you shot back, your voice cracking as you threw your hands in the air. “Nothing about this is okay! But I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Stan. I just… I just…”

You sucked in a ragged breath, the words bubbling up before you could stop them. “I love you, okay?” you shouted, the confession bursting from you like a wound splitting open. “I love you, and I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember! And I didn’t know what to do when I saw you falling apart, and I panicked, and I made a mistake!”

The room fell deathly silent, your words hanging heavy in the air. Stan’s eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as he stared at you, stunned into silence.

You buried your face in your hands, sobbing harder now, the weight of your confession crashing down on you. “I know I screwed up. I know what I did was wrong. But I swear to you, Stan, I just wanted to help. I just wanted to make it better.”

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The sound of your crying filled the room, raw and unrelenting, as Stan sat frozen beside you. Finally, he exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as his own emotions threatened to spill over.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before it got so… so fucked up?”

You shook your head, your words muffled behind your hands. “Because I was scared,” you admitted. “Scared that you’d hate me, scared that I’d lose you, scared that I’d mess everything up—and I did anyway.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded more like a sob. “Yeah, you did,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “But… I’m not blameless either.”

You looked up at him through tear-streaked eyes, your breath catching as you saw the raw vulnerability etched across his face. His hands trembled as they rested on his knees, and his gaze flickered between you and the floor.

“Why do you hate Damien so much?” you asked softly, your voice trembling as you tried to bridge the chasm between you. “And why did you… start to spiral after that night? After we practiced?”

“You want to know why I spiraled?” he asked, his voice low and rough. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Because seeing you happy with Damien—seeing you in a relationship—made me realize something I’d been too scared to admit to myself for years.”

You stayed silent, your breath hitching as you waited for him to continue. His blue eyes, rimmed red from unshed tears, locked onto yours.

“It made me realize I’ve always loved you,” Stan confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, but the words carried a weight that seemed to fill the entire room. “Since we were kids. Through everything. You’ve always been there, and I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe it was just friendship or something, but seeing you with him—watching you look at him the way I’ve always wanted you to look at me—made it impossible to ignore.”

Your heart clenched painfully, and your tears spilled over as his words sank in. “Stan…” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying this to guilt you or make you feel bad. I know I screwed up too, okay? I know I pushed you away when I should’ve just been honest. But watching you be with someone else made me realize how much I want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me. And it fucking killed me, because I wanted to be the one who made you happy. I’ve always wanted to be that person.”

You felt like your heart was breaking and mending all at once, the weight of his confession crashing over you. “I didn’t know…” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Of course, you didn’t,” Stan said, his tone softer now, tinged with resignation. “I never told you. I didn’t even let myself admit it until it was too late. But it’s the truth. It’s always been you.”

Tears blurred your vision, and you reached out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Stan,” you said, your voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t know I was making you feel like that.”

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of pain and something else—something softer, more fragile. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know you didn’t mean to. And I don’t blame you for moving on or trying to be happy. I just… I couldn’t handle it. And that’s on me.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but different this time, as if something had shifted between you. Finally, Stan let out a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t know if things can ever go back to the way they were,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel this way. I’ve loved you my whole damn life, and I don’t know how to stop.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the weight of Stan’s confession pressing against your chest. Your breath caught, your pulse pounding in your ears as you searched his face, taking in every crack in his composure, every flicker of raw emotion in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “But I know I don’t want to lose you, Stan. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

His gaze flickered to yours, hesitant and vulnerable, as if he was bracing himself for whatever came next. “You didn’t lose me,” he said softly. “I don’t think you ever could.”

The knot in your stomach loosened just slightly at his words, but the ache in your chest remained. Slowly, you leaned in closer, your hands trembling as you reached out to cup his face. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, and you could feel the faintest tremor in his jaw as he looked up at you.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the words left your mouth, the question carrying more weight than you could have ever anticipated.

Stan’s eyes widened for a moment, his breath hitching. He didn’t answer right away, and for a terrifying second, you thought you might have pushed too far, too fast. But then, he nodded, just once, his gaze locked on yours.

You leaned in slowly, your heart in your throat as you closed the gap between you. Your lips brushed his, soft and tentative, like you were both testing the waters, afraid of drowning but too desperate to stay away. His breath hitched again, but then his hands came up, one settling on the curve of your waist, the other tangling gently in your hair.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The guilt, the fear, the pain—it all melted into the background, leaving just the two of you, tangled up in the unspoken truths and years of emotions that had finally come to light.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, your breaths mingling in the space between you. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice shaky but resolute. “I don’t know if I can make up for everything. But I want to try.”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting yours with a mixture of disbelief and something softer, something fragile but unbreakable. “Me too,” he whispered, his voice rough but sincere. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Stan’s breath hitched as your lips met his again, the sudden intensity catching him off guard. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. He froze for a split second, his heart slamming against his ribcage, before his hands found your waist, steadying you.

What the hell is happening? The thought raced through his mind, tangled with a thousand others—your warmth, the softness of your lips, the way your fingers threaded through his hair like you were trying to memorize every strand. He felt dizzy, like the world had been tilted on its axis and he was still trying to find his balance.

She loves me. The words echoed in his head, impossible and overwhelming. She actually loves me.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve you. And yet, here you were, holding him like he was something worth holding onto, kissing him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as if to reassure himself this was real.

She’s not pulling away. That realization sent a bolt of something electric through his chest. All the years of pining, of watching you from afar, of convincing himself he could never have this—it all dissolved in the heat of your kiss.

But there was still a tiny voice in the back of his mind, nagging and relentless. What if she regrets this? What if you’re just another distraction, another mistake she’ll hate herself for later? The thought made his stomach twist, but he shoved it down, focusing on the way your lips moved against his, the way your body felt pressed against his.

As you shifted in his lap, pulling yourself impossibly closer, Stan let out a quiet gasp, his hands instinctively gripping your hips. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the world around him. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his as your breaths mingled in the charged space between you.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, his voice cracking. His fingers traced slow, hesitant patterns on your waist, his touch light but grounding. “I’ve spent my whole life wanting this, wanting you.”

You smiled softly, your hands framing his face as you looked at him with an intensity that made his chest ache. “It’s real,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain. “I’m here, Stan. I’m not going anywhere.”

He wanted to believe you. Wanted to believe that he could have this, that he could have you. But the fear still lingered, a shadow he couldn’t quite shake. Still, as you leaned in and kissed him again, Stan let himself forget about the doubts, the guilt, the pain—just for a little while.

Stan blinked, still dazed from the kiss, as he felt you hide your face against his neck. Your breath was warm against his skin, your words spilling out in a nervous tumble.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice muffled and trembling. “I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything. I’m not trying to use you, I swear. If you’re not okay with this, just tell me, and I’ll stop. I’ll—”

Stan’s arms instinctively tightened around you, cutting off your rambling. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You pulled back just slightly, your eyes searching his with a mix of uncertainty and vulnerability. Your cheeks were flushed, and your lips were slightly swollen from the kiss, and it hit him all over again just how real this moment was.

“I mean it,” you said, your voice cracking. “I’ll stop if you want me to. I don’t want to mess this up, Stan. I—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip as tears welled in your eyes.

Stan reached up, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His heart clenched at the sight of you so raw and open, and he realized how much he hated seeing you like this—so unsure of yourself, so afraid.

“Stop,” he said gently, his voice carrying a softness he didn’t know he was capable of. “You don’t need to explain yourself. You’re not using me. I promise you’re not.” He let out a shaky breath, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “And if I wasn’t okay with this, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t be here like this with you.”

You stared at him, your breath hitching, and he could see the conflict in your eyes—the doubt, the guilt, the lingering fear that you were somehow doing something wrong. But he wasn’t going to let you spiral. Not now.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Stan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m scared too, okay? I don’t know if we’re doing this right, or if we’re gonna screw it up, but…” He paused, his thumb still brushing your cheek, grounding both of you. “I don’t care. I just know I want to figure it out with you.”

Your lip quivered as you looked at him. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” you whispered against his shoulder, your voice choked with emotion.

Stan let out a small, relieved laugh, his hands rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said softly. “We’re in this together, okay? No more overthinking. No more guilt. Just… us.”

You pulled back slightly, your heart hammering in your chest as you looked into Stan’s eyes. They were so close, so full of emotion that it made your breath hitch. The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, raw and unfiltered.

“Can I be yours?” you asked, your voice trembling. “I mean… officially? I want to be your girlfriend, Stan.”

Stan froze, his lips parting slightly as the words settled between you. His hands, still resting on your back, tightened their hold ever so slightly. His brows knit together, a mix of hesitation and disbelief crossing his face.

“You really want that?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost unsure. “Even after everything I’ve put you through?”

You nodded without hesitation. “Yes. I’ve made mistakes too, and I know I hurt you, but I’ve never been more sure of anything. I love you, and I don’t want to keep pretending like I don’t.”

His breath hitched, and he exhaled sharply, his eyes softening as he took in your words. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice thick. He paused, searching your face for any sign of doubt, before letting out a small, shaky laugh. “Yeah. You can be mine. You’ve always been mine, really.”

Your chest felt like it might explode, the sheer weight of the moment leaving you breathless. Before you could stop yourself, you asked, “So… you’ll be mine too?”

Stan blinked at you, his lips twitching into a faint, lopsided smile. “I wanna be your boyfriend,” he said simply. His voice was rough, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his tone. “I wanna do it right this time. Dates, hand-holding, all of it. I wanna go on walks with you—just us.”

Tears stung your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. Relief, joy, and overwhelming affection coursed through you. “I want that too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible but sure.

Stan’s hands moved to cradle your face. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The kiss deepened, your breath hitching as you pressed closer to him. Every brush of his lips against yours sent sparks through your body, and you felt a quiet desperation in the way you clung to him, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, the intensity of the moment making it hard to breathe.

Stan’s lips curved against yours, and you could feel the faintest hint of a smile as he pulled back just slightly. His forehead rested against yours, and his voice was soft but tinged with amusement. “You’re, uh… getting a little carried away there, dude,” he teased, his own breathing uneven.

Your face burned, and you tried to pull back, but his hands stayed firm on your waist, grounding you. “Sorry,” you mumbled, your voice shaky as your eyes darted away. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” Stan interrupted gently, tilting your chin so you’d look at him again. His blue eyes were warm, filled with something so soft and unguarded that it made your chest ache. “I didn’t say I minded.”

You bit your lip, a small, nervous laugh escaping you as you tried to steady yourself. “I just… I really want this to work, Stan. I don’t want to mess anything up.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly, his thumbs brushing soft circles on your hips. “We’ve both screwed up enough to know what we don’t want. This… this is what I want.” His voice lowered, his words carrying an almost reverent weight. “You’re what I want.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they didn’t spill. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him again, slower, softer, but no less fervent. The way his hands moved, holding you as if you might disappear, made your heart swell.

You shifted slightly in his grasp, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The soft rustle of fabric drew Stan’s attention, and his hands instinctively tightened their grip on your waist as you pulled the shirt over your head, leaving you in just your bra.

“Is this okay?” you asked, your voice trembling with nervousness, your eyes locked onto his for any sign of hesitation. Your cheeks burned, your vulnerability on full display, but the warmth in his gaze made your pulse race.

Stan swallowed hard, his eyes flickering over you before quickly darting back to your face. “Y-Yeah,” he said, his voice a little shaky but sincere. “But… you don’t have to do this just because you think you need to.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “I just— I want to be close to you, Stan. I want this to feel… right. With you.”

His breath hitched, and he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It already does,” he murmured, his voice softer now, steadier. “You don’t have to do anything to prove that.”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding as you searched his eyes. The sincerity in his words made your chest ache, but it didn’t quell the need you felt—this overwhelming desire to bridge every gap that had ever existed between you.

Stan’s hands moved slowly, tentatively, as if giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brushed against your sides, his touch sending shivers down your spine. “We don’t have to rush this,” he said, his voice low, his blue eyes filled with something tender, almost reverent. “I’ll wait for you. As long as it takes.”

“I know,” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief, but it held every ounce of emotion you couldn’t put into words. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his, and you let out a shaky breath. “I want to, Stan. I’m sure.”

Stan exhaled sharply, his hands still resting on your bare sides, his thumbs brushing against your skin. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice laced with both hesitation and determination. “But if you ever feel like it’s too much, just tell me. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you whispered, your lips curving into a faint, nervous smile.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air thick with unspoken emotions. And then Stan leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was deeper, more certain, more consuming than any before.

Stan’s fingers played at the hemline of your sweatpants, his touch light but deliberate, sending sparks through your skin. He teasingly dipped his fingers just below the waistband, his lips brushing against yours in a way that left you breathless.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, and his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Can I?” he asked, his fingers still toying with the fabric. “Can I take these off?”

Your cheeks burned as his question lingered in the air, your chest tightening with both anticipation and nervousness. You swallowed hard, nodding before you found your voice. “Yeah,” you murmured, so quiet it was almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. “Yeah, you can.”

Stan hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of uncertainty. When he found none, his hands slid to your hips, his touch steady despite the slight tremor in his fingers. Slowly, he tugged your sweatpants down, his movements careful, almost reverent.

The cool air against your skin made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off him as he leaned back, his gaze flickering over you. His eyes softened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a faint smile.

“You’re… stunning,” he said, his voice thick, the words carrying a weight that made your heart ache in the best way.

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively reached for him, pulling him closer as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. “You don’t have to say that,” you mumbled, your voice muffled and shy.

Stan chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you as he rested his hands on your waist. “I’m not saying it because I have to,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

Your laugh was soft, a nervous yet genuine sound that made Stan’s smile widen against your temple. His hands, warm and steady, shifted you gently so your back pressed against his chest, the closeness making your heart race. His breath tickled your ear as he leaned forward, resting his head against your shoulder, his lips brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

Stan’s fingers found the waistband of your panties, his touch featherlight, teasing, as he traced the elastic edge with slow, deliberate movements. You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, your hands instinctively rising to cover your face in a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

Stan’s hands gripped your waist firmly, keeping you steady as his lips moved against your shoulder, leaving a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His voice, low and rough, sent shivers straight to your core. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, his fingers teasing just under the waistband of your panties. “Can I touch you? Really touch you?”

Your breath hitched, a mix of nerves and anticipation making your voice tremble. “Y-Yeah,” you stammered, nodding as you shifted slightly, giving him permission. “Please.”

His chuckle was warm, vibrating against your skin. “That’s all I needed to hear.” Slowly, deliberately, his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, brushing against the heat of your slick folds. A sharp inhale left your lips as he dragged a finger down your slit, collecting the wetness there before circling your clit with maddening patience.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe. His lips found your neck again, sucking lightly as his fingers slid back down, testing your entrance. “All for me?”

You whimpered, your hands gripping his arms for support. “Yeah,” you whispered, barely audible, your walls clenching around nothing as you felt his finger press into you, slow and careful.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, his tone soothing yet filled with need. “Relax for me. Let me make you feel good.” His finger eased in deeper, and you bit your lip, overwhelmed by the stretch even though it was gentle. “So tight,” he groaned, curling his finger slightly to test your reaction.

Your hips moved instinctively, seeking more, a soft moan escaping you as he found a rhythm, each slow thrust of his finger coaxing more sounds from you. “Stan,” you gasped, his name leaving your lips like a plea.

He kissed your neck again, adding a second finger with care, his free hand gripping your hip to keep you from pulling away. “You’re perfect,” he rasped, his fingers pumping steadily now, scissoring slightly to stretch you. The wet sounds of your arousal filled the room, obscene and intoxicating, making him impossibly harder. “Taking me so well, baby. So fucking good.”

Your breath hitched at the word, a new kind of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with his touch. Baby. You’d never heard him call you that before, and the intimacy of it sent a jolt straight to your chest. “Baby?” you repeated breathlessly, your voice trembling as you looked back at him. Stan’s lips twitched into a faint smile, his fingers never slowing. “Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze dark and full of something you couldn’t quite name. “You are, aren’t you?” The way he said it—so natural, so sure—made your heart twist in a way that almost hurt.

Your head fell back against his chest, your thighs trembling as his pace quickened. He curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out, your nails digging into his arm. “Right there,” you begged, your voice breaking. “Please, Stan—”

“I got you,” he interrupted, his voice low and rough as his lips brushed your ear. “Gonna make you cum for me. Just let go.”

Your walls fluttered around his fingers as he pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles that sent pleasure shooting through you. The pressure built quickly, your moans growing louder as you bucked against his hand. “Stan—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he growled, his teeth grazing your neck as his fingers thrust faster, relentless now. “Let me feel it.”

Your body tensed, then shattered as you came, your cries muffled as you bit down on your lip. Your thighs clenched around his hand, and he didn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of your orgasm until you slumped back against him, boneless and breathless.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with pride as he pressed soft kisses to your temple. Slowly, he eased his fingers out of you, and your breath hitched at the loss. He held them up, glistening with your release, before meeting your gaze with a smirk. “So sweet,” he muttered, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks burned, but the heat in his gaze made you shiver all over again. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice still shaky. You didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. He leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to your lips, grounding you as you melted into him.

Your fingers moved instinctively, threading into Stan’s hair as you deepened the kiss, your lips parting against his in a rhythm that left your heart pounding. The warmth of his body against yours was intoxicating, grounding yet electric all at once. Slowly, your hands trailed downward, brushing over the hem of his shirt before settling at the button of his jeans. You hesitated for only a moment, your eyes flicking up to meet his as you worked the zipper down with trembling fingers. His sharp intake of breath was audible, his lips parting as though to say something, but the weight of the moment rendered him silent.

Your fingers grazed the waistband of his boxers. The way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard sent a thrill through you. Slowly, you tugged at the elastic, watching as his cock sprang free, heavy and already leaking at the tip.

You exhaled sharply, your fingers hesitating for a split second before wrapping around him, the weight of him warm and solid in your hand. His reaction was immediate—his head fell back slightly, his lips parting with a low groan that sent shivers down your spine.

"Fuck," Stan muttered under his breath, his fingers gripping the sheets beside him. His hips twitched slightly, as though he was holding himself back. "You don’t… you don’t have to—"

You cut him off with a soft laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his precum. "I want to," you murmured, your voice soft but certain, your hand starting to pump slowly, spreading the slickness along his length. "Let me take care of you, Stan."

His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to move with more confidence. You blew softly against his weeping head, watching as he twitched under your touch. “How are you this pretty everywhere?” you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your lips curled into a faint smile as his eyes snapped open, dark and filled with need.

“Pretty?” he huffed, a shaky laugh escaping him as he tried to focus on your face. “You’re killing me here, dude.”

You didn’t respond, instead letting your tongue drag slowly down the length of him before circling back up to the head. His reaction was everything—his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through it as his head fell back. "Shit—" he hissed, the sound rough and desperate.

When your lips finally closed around him, taking him inch by inch, his hips bucked slightly despite his effort to stay still. You moaned softly around him, the vibrations drawing a choked sound from his throat. "Fuck, baby," he groaned, his voice rough. "You feel so—"

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper until his tip brushed the back of your throat. His grip on your hair tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to ground himself. "Slow down," he rasped, though the way his hips shifted betrayed how much he wanted more. "You’re—fuck—so good."

The wet, lewd sounds filled the room as you worked him over, your hand stroking the base while your tongue teased his slit. His thighs trembled under your touch, and the low, broken moans spilling from his lips only spurred you on. “Dude, I’m—” he gasped, his voice catching. “I’m close—”

He tried to tug at your hair, as if to pull you off, but you shook your head slightly, keeping your lips sealed around him. You tightened your grip on his hips, holding him in place as his cum spilled hot down your throat. He moaned your name, the sound raw and unrestrained, his body trembling as you swallowed every drop.

When you finally pulled back, a string of saliva and his release connected your lips to his cock. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, meeting his gaze with a mixture of shyness and satisfaction. "You taste so good," you murmured, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, letting him taste himself.

Stan was still panting, his chest heaving as his hands cupped your face gently. "You’re… incredible," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He kissed you deeply, his lips moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough. "And, dude, I think you might’ve just ruined me."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, brushing your lips against his once more. “Do you…” You hesitated, biting your lip as your cheeks flushed. “Do you have a condom?”

Stan blinked at you, his darkened gaze clearing slightly as your words registered. He stared at you for a moment, his expression caught between disbelief and a flicker of something softer, almost hesitant. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice low but steady, his thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice trembling but full of intent. “If you are.”

Stan’s lips parted as he let out a shaky breath, his hands dropping from your face to rest on your waist. “I, uh…” He glanced toward his nightstand, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, I think I do. Hold on.”

You shifted slightly, giving him space as he leaned over to open the drawer. His movements were hurried but not frantic, his fingers rummaging through the clutter until he found what he was looking for. He held up the foil packet with a small, nervous laugh. “Got it.”

Your cheeks burned as you watched him, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and nervousness. “Okay,” you said softly, your hands fidgeting slightly in your lap. “I’ve never… I mean, I don’t really know how this works, so…”

Stan paused, the condom in his hand, and turned back to you. The teasing smile he usually wore softened into something more serious, more earnest. He reached out, taking your hand in his and squeezing it gently. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “We’ll go slow, okay? We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You nodded, his reassurance grounding you as you met his gaze. “I trust you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Stan’s expression softened further, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I promise.”

You watched as he fumbled briefly with the condom, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he rolled it on. The vulnerability in his movements tugged at something deep in your chest. While he was focused, you reached behind yourself, unclasping your bra with shaky fingers before sliding it off. Your panties followed, leaving you completely bare before him.

When Stan turned back to you, his gaze landed on your form, and he froze. A breathless laugh escaped him, one hand running through his dark hair as he took you in. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The awe in his tone made your cheeks flush, and you instinctively tried to cover yourself with your arms.

“Don’t,” Stan said gently, his hands catching yours and lowering them. “Don’t hide from me. Please.”

Your heart pounded as he leaned forward, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone before trailing lower. His lips found your nipples, sucking lightly at the sensitive buds, and you gasped, your hands tangling in his hair.

“Ah—S-stan,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

He didn’t reply, but the warmth of his kisses and the way he held you so delicately spoke volumes. He positioned his hard cock at your entrance, his eyes flicked up to meet yours, searching your face for any hesitation. His tip was dripping from his previous release, and the way he dragged himself across your slit, in an almost teasing manner, made you shudder.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with vulnerability.

You nodded, wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. “I’m sure,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you.”

Stan exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead against yours as he began to push forward slowly. His length parts your walls, inch by inch. The stretch was unfamiliar, and you tensed for a moment, but his hands on your waist were grounding, his voice soft and reassuring.

“Relax dude,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you. Tell me if it’s too much.”

You bit your lip, focusing on the sound of his breathing and the way his hands held you like you were something fragile and precious. Slowly, he eased further inside, his movements careful until he was fully in. Your hips were touching now, and the sensation was maddening.

“You okay?” Stan asked, his voice hoarse as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, tears welling in your eyes—from pain, but also from the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. “I’m okay,” you whispered, your fingers trailing along his jaw. “I’m more than okay.”

Stan’s lips curved into a soft smile as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and finally your lips. “You’re everything,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion. “I hope you know that.”

You didn’t respond with words at first, instead pulling him closer and wrapping your arms around his neck, your lips pressing softly to him again. The kiss deepened naturally, slow and deliberate, as though neither of you wanted the moment to slip away. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping the flesh of your ass, and you could feel the faint tremble in his touch.

“God, Stan…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you gazed into his eyes. Your cheeks burned as you added hesitantly, “Please move.”

Stan exhaled shakily, leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint as he slowly drew his hips back. He watched your expression closely, searching for any sign of discomfort as he thrusted forward again.

The stretch was still there, but it wasn’t as overwhelming this time. Instead, a new kind of heat unfurled within you, building with each careful movement. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, grounding yourself in the sensation of him, the closeness of his body against yours.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. His lips brushed against your temple, trailing down to your jawline as he found a steady but punishing rhythm. “So fucking tight—so tight.”

Your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your lips as the pleasure began to build. “Stan,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “Y-you’re so deep, I—” You're cut off by his cock twitching against your walls at your words, a shiver coursing through your body.

His strokes become faster and deeper, his hands roaming your body with reverence. The intimacy of it all—the way he kissed you between every thrust, the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred—sent a surge of warmth through you that had nothing to do with the physical connection.

Stan’s lips pressed against your neck, sucking and nibbling on your soft skin. The tightening of your walls stopped his advances, his breath coming out in soft, uneven pants. “I can’t believe this is real,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “You… you’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re—ah—you’re so good f’me.”

You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks as your eyes met his. “I—fuck, I love you,” you moaned, your voice all over the place due to the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. “This is s-so not real.”

Stan’s lips captured yours again, a quiet groan escaping him as he deepened the kiss. His thrusts grew slightly faster, more confident, and you arched into him, a gasp slipping from your lips as he fucked that spot that made your vision blur.

“Right there,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Don’t fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice trembling as he clung to you like you were his lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. Always.”

The tension built higher and higher, each thrust drawing you closer to the edge. His name fell from your lips in a breathless chant, and when his hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb circling your clit, it was enough to send you spiraling.

“Stan. Stan, oh my G-god,” You choked out, your nails clawing his shoulder blades leaving red, angry marks in their wake. Stan could feel your slick arousal dripping against him, creating audible squelching noises, and he knew you were close.

Your release hit you hard, your cunt fluttering around him as waves of pleasure washed over you. Stan followed shortly after, a guttural moan leaving his lips as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering against yours. You felt the warmth of his cum through the condom as it expanded. The way he held you so tightly as if afraid to let go, left you feeling safe, cherished.

As the aftershocks faded, Stan eased himself back slightly, his hands cradling your face as he pressed soft kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. “You okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse but gentle.

The soft, hoarse question lingered in the air, and you managed a shaky, “Yeah,” your voice barely above a whisper. Stan let out a small breath of relief, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks as if grounding both of you. His lips pressed against your forehead again, warm and comforting, before he shifted slightly.

The sensation of him pulling out was slow and careful, but it still made you whine softly, the emptiness leaving a dull ache behind. Your cheeks burned as the sound escaped you, and Stan’s gaze immediately snapped to your face, a faint flicker of worry crossing his features.

“Hey,” he murmured softly, his hands sliding down to rest lightly on your hips. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You shook your head quickly, your arms wrapping instinctively around his neck to pull him closer. “No,” you murmured, your voice still trembling. “I just… I don’t know. I feel… weird without you.”

Stan’s expression softened at your words, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. “Weird?” he repeated, the word coming out in a gentle tease as he kissed the tip of your nose. “Is that a good weird or a bad weird?”

You hesitated, the vulnerability of the moment making your chest tighten. “Good, I think,” you admitted finally, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I just… I don’t want you to let go.”

Stan’s arms tightened around you at that, his forehead resting against yours as he let out a soft, contented sigh. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice steady and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

For a while, neither of you moved, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you like a blanket. The weight of everything—the vulnerability, the connection, the raw emotion—settled into something warm and steady, a feeling that made you fuzzy all over.

Finally, Stan pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice soft as he broke the silence. “Let’s clean up, yeah? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.

A playful grin tugged at your lips despite the lingering warmth in your chest. “Okay, boyfriend,” you teased, your voice still a little shaky but lighter now.

Stan rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward into a faint smirk. “Love you, girlfriend,” he shot back, his tone carrying just enough sarcasm to make you laugh softly.

“Good,” you replied, still smiling as you brushed your fingers through his hair. “Because I’m kind of obsessed with you.”

His smirk softened into something more genuine, his gaze locking onto yours. “You’ve got no idea,” he murmured, leaning in to press another kiss to your lips.

After a moment, Stan pulled back, his cheeks slightly flushed as he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, seriously though, let me grab something to clean us up. Be right back.”

Kyle leaned back against the dorm door, his legs stretched out on the hallway floor as he scrolled through his phone. The muffled sounds of your voices arguing inside were barely audible, but every now and then a sharp tone or raised word would cut through. He rolled his eyes, letting out a soft scoff as he aimlessly refreshed his feed. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Minutes passed, and the dorm grew quiet. Too quiet. Kyle glanced at the door, debating whether to knock or just barge in to check if you two had killed each other. Just as he was pushing himself to stand, his ears caught something unmistakable—a faint moan followed by the rhythmic creak of the bed frame.

Kyle froze.

His phone slipped out of his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as his eyes went wide. For a moment, he stood there in disbelief, his face heating up so quickly it felt like steam might shoot from his ears. "What the actual fuck?" he whispered to himself, his voice tinged with panic.

The creaking continued, and Kyle bolted, muttering curses under his breath as he sprinted down the hall. His thoughts were a jumbled mess—equal parts disbelief, irritation, and a deep desire to bleach his brain.

Reaching Kenny and Cartman’s shared dorm, Kyle didn’t bother to knock. He shoved the door open, startling the two boys who were mid-conversation. Kenny blinked up at him from his seat on the bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Cartman, lounging in a beanbag chair with a bag of chips in hand, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s your problem, dude?” Cartman asked, crunching obnoxiously loud.

Kyle stood there, chest heaving, his face still flushed a deep red. And then he started laughing. Not the normal kind of laugh either—it was a borderline maniacal, disbelieving cackle that had Kenny and Cartman exchanging wary glances.

Through his hysterics, Kyle waved a hand, doubling over slightly as he tried to catch his breath. “Don’t ask,” he managed to choke out between gasps of air, his laughter tapering into a slightly unhinged giggle.

Kenny leaned back, taking a long drag from his cigarette as he eyed Kyle skeptically. “Did you, like, witness a murder or something?”

“Nope,” Kyle said, his voice cracking as he wiped at his eyes. “Worse.”

Cartman snorted. “Worse than a murder? Doubt it, bro.”

Kyle just shook his head, sinking into the nearest chair and burying his face in his hands. “Just… I’m never going near that dorm again,” he muttered, his voice muffled but filled with exasperation.

poor kyle... | part one

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #sp oneshot #stan marsh x reader #south park smut #x reader #i wanna be your boyfriend m!list

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impala-dreamer · 1 year ago

Text

Temptation & Consequences

A Short Story

~Jensen has been busy all weekend at the convention, leaving little time for fun with his girl. Luckily, Y/N knows how to get his attention... and more...~

Jensen Ackles x F!Reader

2,176 Words

Warnings: NSFW, Dom!Jensen, sub!Bratty!Reader, Hair Pulling, Spanking, Kinda rough(ish) sex, Delicious.

A/N: Another block off my @jacklesversebingo board. The prompt was "temptation". Also written for Kym who wanted some hair pulling. Hope you all enjoy!

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

His phone buzzed.

He couldn’t hear it, but he felt it vibrating in the front left pocket of his tight jeans.

Ignoring the alert, Jensen stepped up to the mic stand and reached for it, tipping it up slightly so that it was aimed at his lips. He smiled and the crowd swooned. That was all it took- just a flash of a grin and a sweep of green eyes and the whole room fell to its knees. It was too much power, and inevitably fleeting, but he loved it just the same.

Another alert shook against his thigh and Jensen’s attention was pulled away from the purple-haired teen who was timidly inching closer to asking her actual question. He knew who was texting and it was all he could do not to sneak a peek at his screen.

“...And yeah, so I just wanted to say thank you. My mom and I really love Supernatural.”

Jensen smiled and nodded in thanks. “Your mom?”

The girl blushed. “Yeah. She made me watch.”

The cell buzzed again.

Jensen pursed his lips and narrowed his gaze at the girl. “Your mom,” he said again, making the front row snigger. He raised a brow and acted offended. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

He sighed heavily and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “I am so old…”

The crowd laughed and the girl hid her face.

“I’m sorry!”

Jensen shook his head. “Fourteen,” he echoed. “Sheesh. Who’s your favorite Winchester?”

The girl chewed her lip and bashfully leaned into the microphone.

“Well?” Jensen grew comically annoyed.

She cleared her throat. “Sam.”

With great flare, Jensen tossed his hands up into the air and spun away.

As the audience enjoyed the theatrics, Jensen’s pocket vibrated twice and he gave in, dragging it free from his jeans. While the room was distracted, he checked the messages and his pulse raced.

‘You look so fucking hot today, J.’

‘that shirt is killing me. The buttons… your huge arms…’

Jensen looked up at the crowd, his cheeks beginning to burn.

‘Need your big cock in my mouth’

‘Or right here…’

He scrolled down to the last message and was met with a close up of Y/N’s bare tits. Her nipples were hard, her skin creamy and begging to be touched.

With a thick swallow, Jensen closed the messages and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

“This is why I don’t do panels alone!” he joked, swinging back toward the mic.

Fans came and went, questions flew around his head. There was nothing that he hadn’t been asked before and he was able to phone it in well, all the while thinking about his own phone. Two more texts came through but he refused to look at them, knowing Y/N was just upping the ante by teasing him some more.

“Who would win in a fight, Soldier Boy or Dean?”

Jensen laughed at the question as if he’d never heard it before. He had.

Another buzz.

He scratched a hand down his cheek and grabbed his phone, looking quickly before jamming it into his back pocket.

‘Hurry. Im starting without you’

A photo of her fingers against her thighs, tips poised and ready to dip into the sweet honey between.

He hissed a breath in and then let it out slowly, pretending to ponder the question. Finally:

“Well, obviously Soldier Boy is a supe, so he’s stronger…”

The crowd was divided, half cheering, half booing. Jensen held up his hands and called for patience.

“That being said,” he growled into the mic, “Dean is a genius and he’s always got a plan. I think he could kick a little ass before goin’ down, don’t you?”

Half a smile from his plump lips pulled the audience back together and everyone, no matter which character they favored, cheered and had Jensen’s back.

He always won them over.

The final message came through and he glanced at the screen while the audience carried on. A photo of her wet fingers pulling at her juicy bottom lip greeted him. Her pink tongue was curled and ready to steal a taste and Jensen could all but hear her intoxicating moan.

He clenched his jaw, shoved the phone back in his pocket and slyly adjusted himself.

She was gonna get it.

He’d make sure of it.

Y/N was backstage when he stepped through the curtain. Phone in hand, she leaned against the wall, eyes heavily painted and staring as if he were the only thing she could see. She was dressed up for the convention, skirt short and boots tall.

Green eyes traipsed down her body, making her pulse quicken.

Jensen shook a few hands, chatted quickly with his assigned volunteer handler, and fake-smiled at everyone around him. He kept one eye on Y/N, glaring his disapproval and offering a stern warning.

She could run if she wanted to, but he knew she wouldn’t.

Pleasantries done, he pushed through the crowd and slowly walked towards her. She stood up straight as if pulled by puppet strings and bit her lip, scared but aglow with anticipation.

He dipped his chin and pointed at her with a solo finger, shooting an invisible bullet at the center of her. She shivered and he motioned quickly to the hallway.

Defiant, she stood frozen on the spot until his thick fingers curled around her upper arm and yanked.

Not a word was spoken.

Not until the door slammed behind him.

“You think you’re funny?” he asked, flicking on the light and illuminating the empty conference room. A long, highly polished table sat in the middle of the room, its chairs stacked against the blank back wall.

Jensen took a step toward her and Y/N countered, falling back a pace.

“Well?”

She swallowed hard and smiled. “I mean… I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

He sucked his teeth. “And what, exactly, were you trying to do?”

A tingle of fear soaked arousal ran down her spine and Y/N took another step backwards.

“Um… Just trying to… uh…”

“Get yourself in trouble?” he grit.

She shook her head teasingly slowly. “No…”

He loomed above her. “Get me hard on stage in front of everyone?”

She bit back a grin. “No?”

He lunged forward, grabbing a giant fistful of hair and tugging her around. She spun on the spot, guided by his firm grip, and held in a gasping cry.

“You wanted my blood to boil, didn’t you, little girl?”

She held her breath.

He pulled harder and her back arched.

“You wanted to get me so worked up that I’d have no choice but to take out all my frustrations on you.”

Jensen turned his wrist and wound her hair around his hand. Her neck lengthened and curved backward. He dipped his lips to her ear, growling deeply.

“Was that your plan?” He tugged again and she moaned. “Answer me.”

His breath on her ear sparked goosebumps along her throat. His voice made her tremble. The surge of pain he invoked traveled down to her cunt and she could feel herself drip.

She exhaled her reply. “Yes…”

A tiny smirk played upon his plump lips.

“Did you think you’d get away with it?” he teased, pulling her back to fall against his chest. The hand in her hair dropped to her throat and his fingers curled around the front. He didn’t squeeze, just kept his hand in place, letting her know that he could.

She knew it all too well.

“Did you think I wouldn’t punish you for all that teasing?”

She swallowed against his palm. “I… I knew you would.”

Jensen snaked his left hand around her waist and up to grab her breast. She whimpered, let her head fall back against him.

“Wanted you to,” she confessed.

He pinched her nipple and snapped his teeth by her ear. She shivered.

“You’re a bad girl, Y/N…”

Helplessly, she nodded. “I am.”

His fingers tightened gently around her pulse points and Y/N’s eyes fluttered. Her heart raced, her head became fuzzy.

“Such a fucking brat,” he hissed. His left hand slid down her front, tucked into the warmth between her thighs. He hummed darkly when his fingers slipped against bare flesh. “No panties, either?” He tapped on her slit. “You are asking for it.”

He teased her pussy, dragging his middle finger back and forth over the sensitive outer lips but never pushing inside. Y/N rolled her hips back and felt his cock, hard and trapped in his jeans.

She chewed her lip and wiggled her ass against him. “You gonna give it to me or do I have to go find someone else to help out?”

His voice deepened. His fingers squeezed a bit more. “Excuse me?”

Y/N laughed teasingly. “I don’t know, Rob’s looking pretty hot today… got that sexy beard going-”

With a shove from behind, the table came up to greet her and Y/N found herself face down on the polished top.

“You think so?” Jensen yanked her skirt up, exposing her ass and wet cunt.

“I always think Rob is hot,” she answered, pressing her luck.

Jensen opened his belt, ripped his zipper down.

“Especially with that stupid little hat…”

He’d had enough.

He clenched his teeth, kicked her feet apart, and grabbed her hips.

“Shut up,” he warned.

Y/N smiled into the cold wood. “The things I would let him do to me…”

“I said, shut up.”

Y/N opened her mouth to expand upon her lustful feelings for his friend, but Jensen forced a choked cry out of her instead.

In one unceremonious thrust, he was buried deep in her slick hole. Her pussy gripped him tight and Jensen inhaled hard and loud, his eyes snapping shut as lust and relief washed over him.

“Fuck…”

Y/N’s eyes rolled as he crushed into her from behind; the warm, solid mass of him pinning her to the table. She managed to push her palms up against her chest and lift her head, but his thrusts were quick and powerful, each forcing her back down onto the table.

“God, Jay-” Her voice crackled. Her breath stuttered.

His nails dug into her sides and Y/N moaned.

“Needed this so fucking bad,” she whimpered.

Jensen clawed at her ass and then slapped her left cheek hard.

She gasped but couldn’t move away. Moaned but couldn’t reach for more. She was desperately captive.

Another crack and she melted. Gentle pain spread like warm honey through her system and she relaxed, falling into his rapid rhythm.

His hips jerked faster, cock jabbed in deeper. She clenched around him, her body pulsing with edging pleasure.

“Please-”

Jensen growled wordlessly, lost in the moment. He bent his knees, dipped down and slowly stroked upwards.

Y/N hissed and clawed helplessly at the table. With nothing to hold onto, nothing to scratch, her nails slid across the smooth top and she shuddered. “Fuck! Please!”

Once more, he grabbed her hair; his palm pushing hard at the base of her skull. He twisted his wrist, yanking up a ponytail into his fist.

“Yeah? You want all this?”

He pulled and her back arched, lifting her chest from the table.

Her voice was shaking. “Y-yes!”

The web of pain mixed with his swift thrusts and Y/N came, her body squeezing him hard. Jensen let out a tight-lipped cry and slammed into her again and again, quickly following along.

“Fucking, fuck!”

When his hand relaxed, Y/N fell back down to the table and struggled to slow her breath. She could feel him stuffed inside, hesitant to back away.

“So good, baby,” she cooed.

Gently, he let himself fall over her and lean close to kiss her cheek. “Was, wasn’t it?” He grinned, toothy and punch drunk.

“Remind me to text you more,” she laughed as he moved away, releasing her from captivity.

He shook his head, tucked himself away. “Don’t even think about it.”

Green eyes were stern, but she knew he’d enjoyed himself too.

Spinning around, Y/N pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. She licked into his mouth while sneaking a hand around to dig in his back pocket. Quickly, she withdrew his ever-present bandana. His cum was beginning to drip down her thigh and she needed to wipe it away before heading back out into the real world.

She took a step back with the kerchief and Jensen grabbed her wrist.

“I don’t think so,” he grunted, ripping the bandana from her hand.

Y/N startled and gaped up at him. “But- I gotta clean up-”

His teeth dug into his lip. He shook his head. “No. Leave it.”

Turning away from her, he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket and headed to the door.

She gasped as his hand hit the knob. “Jensen! Someone might notice!”

Looking back over his shoulder, he cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. “Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it? Maybe next time, you’ll consider the consequences.”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!) @alwaystiredandconfused @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lunaroserites @lyarr24 @nancymcl @nix-rose @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @sexyvixen7 @suckitands33 @the-wounded-healer05

#jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles fanfiction #spn #the boys

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drakudoll · 7 months ago

Note

Could I request MK11 (Younger) Johnny with a short, chubby, nerdy reader? Preferably smut please!

okay so litchrally me. me too. i will definitely be able to write this one hehehe

THIS WILL BE LONG AF BCUS I AM SO OBSESSED WITH THE JOHNNYS FR

warnings: tehe chubby chaser cage, SIZE DIFFERENCE ( for reference i am about 5'3 so this will be for my under 5'4 people! ), ... Johnny being a douche lowk bcus duh its johnny lmaoo, praise kink, spanking ( he looovee that fat ass ), probably forgetting something like usual!

fem!reader since not specified otherwise

Young!Cage has a track record of liking skinnier model like women- even women who can kick his ass, he never really looked towards the chubbier side of the ladies

till.. he saw you.. in your pretty glasses.. and your pudgy frame standing at a short stacked height as you yap away with one of Johnny's friends. he's immediately DUMBSTRUCK as he stares at you wide eyed behind his sunglasses- stanced in an awkward position as he stands there with his jaw practically on the floor as you suddenly turn to look at him back- your pretty eyes and confused expression he wiggles his head to get focused and walks over- noticing you nervously perk up at him coming over, his signature douchebag smirk playing on his mouth

"Hey pretty girl... i haven't seen you around here much? you a new friend of his?... or ah.."

You nod and smile- his heart fucking stops, he's so fucking obsessed with you it's almost unbelievable and he's usually not this easy to whip up. Fast forward you guys have raging crushes on eachother and its been a few weeks/month-ish, and you find yourselves to be together and alone at his place- everyone from the gathering having left already as you guys chit chat and clean things up together.

Your outfit was very different from normal...black tights, little boots, a damn short black fitten skirt that makes you hips so much more visible (he nearly came his pants when you walked in) and a cutie little black turtleneck with some jewelry. Someone else definitely made the outfit and convinced you to wear it and by gods whoever did.. he will have to thank them and owe them his life.

You guys chat more and he finally comments on your outfit and when you get flustered and admit your guy's mutual friend had dressed you up and practically forced you out the door- Johnny notices you growing closer in proximity as he joins in on it- eventually both now sitting on the couch, your legs almost swung over his as you guys subconsciously get closer the more you talk before you both collectively freeze and realize how close you two are

Now you find yourself grinding on his lap while his hands slip under your skirt to squeeze your fatty ass and hips- the need and want making the room spin and feel like a sauna.

Whimpers of his name get muffled by your sloppy heated kissing as Johnny lets himself loose- moaning into your mouth like a pathetic slut while he grinds up into you- both of you desperately caving into the sexual tension that had been brewing for weeks.

You whine as Johnny moves his hands from your ass- not knowing what he plans next you feel his big biceps slipped between your thighs as you pull back about to ask what he's doing until-

"J? what're you doi-" RIIIIIIIIP!

He rips the crotch of you fucking tights. like it was nothing.

Minutes later you find yourself humping his thick fingers and frantically whimpering into his neck as he dirty talks you through it and mocks you

"Aww.. jeez.. y'know it feels like your a needy pet purring while i pet you just how y'like it huh?"

"Poor girl... you needed this didn't you?"

"Yeah..yeah..there y'go keep fucking yourself on my fingers... yeaahhh juuuust like that.."

IM GOING FUCKING INSANE JFC

#johnny cage x reader #mortal kombat 11 johnny cage #johnny cage mk11 #johnny cage headcanon #mortal kombat johnny cage #johnny cage smut #johnny cage #GOD BRO #NEED HIM #!Chubby reader #x plus size #x chubby reader #dahli's.thots

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specific-dreamer · 4 months ago

Note

I'm so obsessed with the Curtis Parents. Do you have any hcs: fluffy, angsty, all of it PLSS

absolutely i do !

a hc (but ig technically not bc s.e. said it on her twitter awhile ago but) mrs curtis’ full name is karen josephine curtis

(and as a big fan of transfem darry, she changes her name to karen josephinne. so she’s still a jr and also bc i think it’s hilarious that she has her parents name just with an extra n. I DIGRESS)

karen wanted a girl but she didn’t want a girl ykwim. like she would’ve been over the moon if they had a girl, but she was always scared a daughter would be too much like her (i can’t explain it v well i’ll come back to this in a later post)

darrel (mr curtis; i never call him darry just fyi) is absolutely too easy going on the kids but he’s still the threat. like “you just wait til you’re father hears about this” not because they’d get in serious trouble but because like soda he wears everything on his face and it completely ruins the boys (and the gang) to see his disappointment. his favorite line is fs “im not mad just disappointed because i know this isn’t you”

oh also. soda? wears everything on his face bc he can’t hide anything. darrel wears everything on his face bc he doesn’t feel the need to hide it.

darrel absolutely has a favorite and it’s darry (who he calls junior 80% of the time)

(i’ve mentioned this 100 times before but) karen paid for ace to take ballet bc she was worried ace was becoming “too boy-ish” and it was “unladylike” for ace to wear baggy clothes and shorts all the time (jokes on her ace fell in love with ballet)

(they had to stop paying for the classes like a year b4 canon bc money was too tight)

dally use to have longer hair that he always complained about and once karen offered to give him braids (not to the scalp ofc just like some plaits) and he laughed in her face, left, came back with hair scissors and a razor (stolen) and said “just get to cutting mrs c”

darrel read somewhere that shaving ur baby bald will give them thicker hair down the line bc it gives it the chance to grown even and he wanted to do that with darry, but karen said absolutely not bc she didn’t trust it. though she lets him do it with soda just to see and his hair grows back so thin 😭😭 he’s got a lot of it but it’s defo not thick so they don’t do it to pony. (so you have darry and pony with heads full of hair, no scalp in sight, vs soda with long hair but if you move two strands you see his whole scalp) (it’s ok at least sodas the pretty brother)

now, context for my favorite, when the outsiders musical was still a concept they toyed with the idea of the curtis parents being like ghosts on stage. totally would not have worked, i’m glad they didn’t go thru with it HOWEVER its a banger idea so here are my hcs

they’re ghost obvi

darrel doesn’t ever really leave the cemetery and if he does the closest he’ll get to the house is the lot

karen on the other hand ? is always leaving. she likes to watch over the kids/follow them around

if not following them then she’s at the house. sometimes she forgets she’s just a ghost she hollers at the boys when the door slams or when they go too long without cleaning the house (especially the dusting, it drives her nuts that they don’t dust the house)

darry visits mr curtis all the time and they have (one sided) conversations (i totally did not write a mini fic of one of their convos whattt)

karen was with steve at his house when everything went down at the fountain

OH I FRGT darrell cannot move/touch real things except his headstone bc he hasn’t left ? strengthened?? his ghostly powers get.

karen on the other hand can move a couple things around (like i said it pisses her off that the boys don’t dust or wipe down the table before eating. i am not joking when i say that’s how she discovered her powers had like real affects; she was moving little things around while helping darry clean up and lit a candle when they finished. darry had turned around and was like “🧍🏾‍♀️i did not light that candle wtf”

anyways i digress. i say all this to say) karen was with steve that night making sure he got a good nights sleep and his dad wouldn’t bother him

so you can imagine how upset she was when she found out about the fountain

darrel learned what happened first when he sees this kid roaming around the cemetery clutching his side whilst looking lost and scared

(and yes i said the cemetery; i think paul forced darry to let him help pay for their funeral but that’s neither here nor there)

darrel? terribly angry at bob. which yk fair bob was drowning his son. but darrel’s a father first and foremost so his dad radar was kinda going off the walls watching this kid roam around lost to hell

i have more on this au but i wont bore you

hope you enjoyed anon !

#the outsiders #darry curtis #the outsiders musical #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #dally winston #steve randle #bob sheldon #darrel curtis sr #mr curtis #mrs curtis #karen josephine curtis #the outsiders ace #uhhh what else #spec’s ghost au #why tf not

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tbaluver · 7 months ago

Text

his treasure- sylus x reader

pairing: dragon!sylus x fem!reader cw/tags: MDNI, monster fucking-ish(?), size diference, p in v, sucking breasts genre: smut + drabble a/n: this is just inspo from his new myth that's coming out and omgee im so excited ٩(^ᗜ^)و i hope everyone that wants his memory gets it! enjoy reading! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

no one dared to enter the dragon’s cave. the tales of hidden riches of gold, jewels, and treasures beyond anyone’s dreams laid all out by a fearsome dragon who kept it all to himself.

groups and groups of townspeople have set out on the journey to see if the stories were true but have never returned to tell the horrible tale of what they have witnessed.

as they stepped into the cave, piles of gold in every corner of the room, mixed in with a pile of jewels and treasures they’ve heard from the tales. but as they stepped further in they witnessed the beast itself.

there he was, on top of a girl, marks littered all over her body as she whimpered in ‘pain’. his wings shielded over his and her body and the possible true horrors of what he’s done to her.

they had dug their own graves, foolishly shouting at the beast and raising their weapons as if it were to intimate him. the dragon- sylus, lifts his head from your neck. his growl menacing and filled with annoyance.

the torches that lined along the walls extinguished in an instant, the dragon striking each and every man that had decided to trespass his lair that day.

each time the townspeople refused to learn from the past group, stubbornly believing they would succeed with the dragon slain with hoards of golds and jewels in tow.

as weeks and months passed by, the townspeople's expeditions dwindled until no one dared to try again anymore.

at last, he has you all to himself. no more foolish humans to bother and no distractions. just him and you.

he laid you down onto the plush carpet, better than the rough surface he calls his throne. around you flickered the glow of candles, leaving a warm glow around both of your bodies.

sylus leans forward, placing a kiss on your nipple before looking up at you. his tongue slowly rolls around your bud, sucking it gently after. he found himself groaning, nuzzling against the valley of your breasts.

biting your lip, you watch as sucks the other, his eyes never leaving yours as his tongue continues to tease you. his warm mouth surrounds your nipple as his fangs barely graze your soft skin.

with a quiet pop, he pulls off your breasts, a string of saliva keeping him and your breasts connected. he sits up, his crimson eyes traced the delicate curves of your body.

his tail coiled around you, wrapping you to keep you in place. the scales brushed against your skin, prickling you and leaving small marks. he made sure to lick each and every mark he had left, his tongue gliding across your skin making the lingering sting begin to fade.

sylus was always tender at times like this, treating you like find gold- not counting what he’s like during his heat.

you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as you continue to rock yourself below him.

he was big, almost too big for your liking. it took some time getting used too and no matter how many times you both fucked, your pussy was always so tight around him, the stretch burning you so deliciously.

his hard cock too thick and long to fit inside of you as he ruts between your thighs, shaking your whole entire body. its rough edges massaged your walls good that your drools pooled down to your neck.

your body twitched and trembled as he continued to plow into you and you knew he was getting closer. your walls were squeezing him and had him near the edge, ready to spill his load deep inside of you.

his eyes fluttered shut, tilting his head back. groans escaping his lips as his hips picked up the pace. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt a slight burn on the lower half of your body.

his knot stretched into you wider, his bulge in your lower abdomen growing as hot loads painted your walls creamy white.

he growls, careful not to place his claws on you. you were so tight, so warm, so perfect. his mind was spinning as his heart raced.

even with all this fine gold and jewels in this cave nothing can compare to the treasure he has cradled in his arms.

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thecosmosdefys · 2 years ago

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Nightmares With Simon

Pairings: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley X Gn ! Reader

Warnings: Nightmares, Violence, Cussing, Major Character Death (In the nightmare), Blood, Gore(ish), Puke Mentions, Panic Attack

Synopsis: You have a nightmare about Simon dying in front of you and he wakes you up and comforts you

After about an hour of sitting absolutely still you ended up falling asleep in Simon's arms.. Or so you thought. You were awoken in a different room, and Simon was gone. Almost instantly you threw your hands over your ears as the loud noises of gunshots rang through the small place. In a panic you flew up and all you could think about was to find Simon and escape. As soon as you left the room you saw so much chaos… yet no one reacted to you. Almost as if you weren’t there. Everything seemed to go in slow motion for a bit and it didn’t hit you that you were a part of a dream, nor that you couldn’t be seen or heard. You jumped from one room to the next desperately trying to find Simon but with no luck. Memory of how you got here seemed to have completely been lost to you. You had no idea where you were, where Simon was, or how the fuck you even got here to begin with. Nothing made sense.

All of the sudden as you were hiding in a room you saw what seemed to be a flash of your Husband’s mask. “Simon!! I'm right here!! Simon!!” You screamed until your vocal chords felt like they were going to snap. He… ignored you. Your chest burned and you dashed out of the room like a mad man only to watch in slow motion as several bullets made contact with his body. You screamed his name out and right as the blood and flesh splattered on your body.. You felt a cold splash.

With a scream you flew up out of bed almost knocking a very terrified looking Simon down with you. His hands gripped your shoulders firmly and he was trying to speak to you but all of his words seemed to come out like a blur, you couldn’t hear him. You felt your stomach begin to gurgle and the remains of your dinner began to come up. You threw him off you and ran to the bathroom barely making it in time to vomit into the toilet bowl. Your hearing was ringing, the lights hurt, your stomach hurt, everything hurt.

You nearly jumped out of your skin whenever Simon came up behind you and held your hair back for you. In between vomiting you were full blown sobbing your shoulders shaking violently. Simon seemed to try his best to console you but for the better part of the next thirty minutes you were completely inconsolable. At some point after wiping the vomit off your mouth and spitting the remains into the toilet bowl, you had turned around and were clutching onto a now on the floor Simon as if he was your life line.

Tears fell freely from your eyes as you gripped onto his shirt, shaking violently. Soft little shh's and it’s alright left his mouth as he rubbed your back in a circular soothing pattern. “You… You died” you had managed to borderline mumble out between sobs. Simon did his best to continue to soothe you until you could manage to tell him what happened. He held you tight as the description of your dream tumbled out of your mouth. “It’s alright luv’... I’m alive.. Im right here… Were both right here…” He whispered as he pushed your hair out of your face, still holding onto you tight.

After about thirty more minutes he managed to get your sobbing down to just the tremble of your lip, he slowly picked you up after flushing the toilet and then pulled you into bed. He wrapped a big thick warm blanket around the both of you and pulled you tight to his body as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear and attempted his best to ground you. “I would never leave you like that luv. If you ever screamed my name I'd be right there in an instant, and most importantly I would never put you in harm's way.” He whispered into your ear as he continued to rub your back in the same motion as before.

Slowly enough your breathing managed to slow, the tears beginning to dry up, and the tremble of your lip ceased. He watched as your eyes fluttered shut and you finally managed to succumb to sleep once again. He sighed and then kissed your forehead before saying, “ I love you.. It was all just a dream.. Don’t worry..” After that he slipped off to sleep himself.

#simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x gn!reader #ghost x reader #simon riley fluff #simon riley comfort #hurt/comfort #tw nightmares #fear #sleep deprivation #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod x reader #cod ghost #mw2 #simon ghost riley

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megalony · 2 years ago

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We're Occupied

This is a new Jonah Hauer-King imagine, requested by the lovely @daydreamerwithnohobbies I hope this is okay for you. Thank you for everyone with the kind messages, I'm thrilled so many of you are enjoying my Jonah stories. Any requests are great to keep me inspired.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez-blog @jonesyaddiction @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @hellsdragon @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh @onceuponadetectivedemigod @ceres27 @avyannadawn @noonenuts @sleepylunarwolf @coverupps @justagirlthatlovedtoread

@jonahhauer-kingg @melaninjoys @luna2034

Masterlist

Summary: (Y/n) never thought a new dress would rile up the jealous side in Jonah. But it does. And the party suddenly gets very interesting.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For a few seconds, maybe minutes, (Y/n) leaned in the doorway to the bathroom that was only partially open, allowing her half a glance at her partner hidden away inside.

Even a partial sideways glimpse of him told (Y/n) all she needed to know; he looked good.

The black button up shirt he was wearing was a little too small for him now but he somehow made a tight fit look stylish, desirable even. especially with the first three buttons undone to allow his arms to actually move. (Y/n) thought he would have matched the shirt with a pair of high-waisted trousers, give off the smart but sexy vibe since they were going out to a party. Instead, he'd decided on an old black pair of jeans that were frayed completely around the ankles and almost bare at the knees. They made him look even better.

The cherry on top of the cake was the leather jacket though, that he was currently slipping over his arms. (Y/n) hadn't seen him wear it very often and he was the type of person to get very flustered and hot very easily so he didn't wear jackets. He had them hooked over one shoulder so if (Y/n) got cold, she had something to wear to keep warm.

Looking at him right now, (Y/n) almost felt like drooling. The last bit of effort was pushing his shortened curls further back on his head and he was ready to dazzle.

A whisp of hair in the mirror caught Jonah's attention but when he spun round towards the doorway, the flash disappeared around the corner.

With a crinkling smile that revealed his hidden dimples, he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and left the bathroom, slowly walking back to the bedroom where he knew (Y/n) had scampered back off to. Jonah thought it was cute when she watched him get ready, it was like a calming mechanism or a fascination to her and it always made his heart jump.

"That's new… you sure you're going with that one?" Jonah's voice was careful, no hint of condescending but there was something traced in his voice that made (Y/n) shiver when she turned round.

Feral.

Rabid, dark eyes.

Clenched fists to remain in control.

This reaction was miles better than (Y/n) had hoped for, it was unexpected but very much welcomed.

She'd never worn this dress before and if she was being honest, she wasn't sure about wearing it tonight, but Jonah's reaction boosted her confidence enough to make her smile brightly at him.

It had thin spaghetti straps over her shoulders, connecting down to a very low cut, V-neck dress that just about covered her cleaveage enough to not be classed as exposing. It was covered in silver sequins that glistened in the light and looked like a heart shape covering her chest but it was so low that (Y/n) couldn't wear a bra, not even a strapless one because it would show up. The back of the dress was a lot lower than her shoulders, it started halfway down her back so a bra was definitely out of the question.

There was a thick black ribbon around the waist, tied in an elegant bow at the back and then the lower part of the dress was a few, very thin laced material layers bunched together that twirled outwards when she spun round. It didn't even touch her knees, it stopped halfway down her thighs.

The dress, all in all, wasn't exactly revealing, but it wasn't concealing either. The perfect combination to make Jonah drool and other people stare without being given too much to look at.

(Y/n) had curled her hair and pinned half of it back with a bow clip to match the bow around her waist. She thought she looked lovely and by the look in her boyfriend's eyes, he thought the same.

Jonah subconsciously licked his lips when (Y/n) smiled at him in a way that made his knees go weak.

Her pretty, crimson painted lips looked so devilish and edible and inviting and it was giving him a problem. A big problem.

Something akin to a growl left his lips at the sight of that smile. She smiled in such a sickly sweet way, as if she had no idea what he meant or what kind of reaction she was getting from him. She looked so innocent, stood there in front of him, in front of the mirror, too pure and innocent to understand just what she was doing to him and what she would do to everyone else when they arrived at the party.

But in truth it was the exact opposite, she knew what was going to happen, it was crystal clear and written in stone how this night was going to play out.

Jonah didn't say that he didn't like the dress, he couldn't say he didn't like the dress, which was entirely the point. The loved it on her frame in a way that was enchanting to him but Jonah didn't want anyone else to fall under the spell (Y/n) was casting on him. It was too tempting; she was too tempting to him in that dress.

"I thought you'd like it. We should go or we'll end up being late."

(Y/n) took a lasting look in the mirror but she could still see Jonah in the corner of the mirror, drinking in her image like he'd been dehydrated all his life. She hadn't bothered with much make up, she never really did and the dress was enough all on its own.

She approached Jonah with an added air of caution. It had taken them both long enough to get ready and they didn't have much time to get to the party before people would notice they weren't there. If she flaunted herself too much or said the wrong thing, they wouldn't be leaving the bedroom at all tonight.

She tried to keep a thin wall of space between them but when Jonah's hands easily found her hips, he reeled her in like a fish on a hook and he didn't even have to try. Her hands found his chest that was becoming strained against his already too small shirt that was ready to pop. His breaths were slow, calculated, deep. Cunning.

"I think it's my new favourite, but I'm not sharing with anyone else." There was a daring glimmer in Jonah's eyes that demanded control of a situation he had no grasp on.

He loved every aspect of (Y/n), every scar on her body, every hair on her head and every laugh held within her chest. But he wasn't so good when others started to notice her too. If she gained such a reaction out of him, what would it do to anyone else who saw her tonight? Jonah didn't want to think what would go through their heads once they saw (Y/n) and he didn't want anyone to think the kind of things he did when he looked at her.

He could already feel the little demon sitting on his shoulder, spilling words and taunts into his ear like poison dripping through to his brain.

It was so tempting to pick her up and throw her down on the bed and announce that they weren't going anywhere tonight. Jonah could have hours of fun right here, right now by ripping that dress to the floor and replacing it with the bedsheets.

They didn't have to go out.

“Who says you have to share?” Her voice came out small and sweet. It almost felt like a game.

(Y/n) knew the limits, she knew how far she could taunt, tease and push Jonah until he walked over the edge and everything changed. She knew how to rile him up without trying and it was already starting.

There was a jealous streak woven into Jonah's DNA. He would never admit it was there, he would never let it show around or in front of anyone else, but (Y/n) knew it was there and she knew when it showed in his words and his actions. It wasn't a dark or tormenting trait but it was a powering trait that boarded on sexy when he got riled.

Daring to lift up onto her tiptoes just a little, (Y/n) let her lips hover barely an inch away from his neck right over his throbbing pulse that was beating so fast, so hard just to try and catch her lips. She barely managed to press an open, wet kiss on his skin beneath his ear before a hand suddenly grasped her chin. Fingers pressed firmly into her skin and her head was tilted up to meet his hardening gaze that cut straight down to her stomach.

"I mean it, I don't share. And we could just stay here," His lips grazed the edge of her ear and sent lightning striking down to her knees. "The bed is right there,"

(Y/n) turned her head to the right until their eyes met, not realising she was biting down on her lip until Jonah's thumb hooked over her lower lip and pulled it free. His offer was tempting, it took every ounce of strength she held deep inside of her not to give in and let him back her up on the bed and pin her own for the rest of the night.

A small kiss to his lips only made him growl and (Y/n) realised she was starting to wind him up than calm him down; it wouldn't be a good idea to play this close with fire.

"Come on, don't want to be late, do we?"

This was going to be a long and interesting night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His grip on his glass was tight, so tight in fact that just a little more pressure would have his fingers splintering through the glass and spread shards along with his cocktail all over the floor.

Jonah couldn't keep track nor concentration on the conversation flowing through the room when (Y/n) was stood so close to him like this. She was stood by his side, her hip pushing into his leg where he was sat on the bar stool in the crowded kitchen. If he really wanted to, he could pull her over and perch her on his lap. But he didn't. He couldn't handle any more proximity when they were in public because he wouldn't be able to control himself.

He didn't know who was talking anymore or what they were talking about, the voices were just background static blending in with the music that was pounding through his head.

He wanted to go home.

They had been here nearly two hours already and it was two hours too long.

Never before had a dress had such an effect on him like this one and he didn't like it, not one bit. That dress needed to be on the bedroom floor and they needed to be at home, away from people that were turning his brain to mush and the alcohol that was making him buzz to the point he could barely sit still anymore.

When (Y/n) looped her arm around the back of his neck and shoulders, it brought Jonah out of the trance he had fallen into and a smile flooded his face when he looked over at her. She wasn't really listening either, he could see it in her eyes, this conversation was boring her as well.

Switching his glass to his other hand, Jonah swooped his right arm around her and pulled her closer until she was leaning on his chest to steady herself and stay upright. He could see the sparkle twinkling in her eyes when his fingertips smoothed over the back of her thigh like he was writing a secret message to her that no one else could see.

He let his fingers stay there for a while, staying light as a feather over her skin, not applying any pressure at all so the touch was soothing and comforting. He waited until her attention tried to go back to the conversation to move his fingers under the hem of her dress and hold the top of her thigh, just below her underwear.

That got her attention.

The pads of his fingers pressed firmer into her soft flesh, squeezing and occasionally pinching to gain the right reaction. A hitched breath, a tightening hand on his shoulder, her lips pressing into his hair so she didn't make a sound anyone else would hear.

Even when (Y/n) moved to stand between his legs, his hand stayed where it was, even wandering beneath her underwear when he got a surge of adrenaline from her smile.

Both (Y/n)'s arms looped around the back of his neck loosely and she watched his neck muscles tense when she scratched at the small hairs in the middle of his neck. It made him pinch her bum in response but he didn't say a word, just kept his lips pressed together and narrow eyes that watched her closely.

Her chest pressed up against his and she leaned her weight onto him, letting him hold her up and keep her steady. Even sitting down on a bar stool like this, Jonah still looked tall, (Y/n) was barely higher than him standing between his legs like this. But she took the opportunity to kiss his temple, gasping when her nose buried in his hair when he dipped his head down suddenly. His lips latched onto her skin between the low V neckline of her dress and she knew she could feel his teeth nipping at her skin.

Two could play Jonah's game.

He pulled up for air as if he'd been submerged deep below the ocean but the dazed look in his eyes and the goofy smile on his face made (Y/n)'s knees go weak. It was a look that could get him anything he wanted and he knew it.

"Are you ready to go home?" His words were quiet, (Y/n) had to read his lips to understand what he was asking her and with her hooded lashes, gentle curved smile and breathless chest, she almost agreed. Almost.

Jonah leaned back a little further, tempting fate when (Y/n) leaned too because if he went back any further and lost control, they would both topple to the floor. He straightened his chest and tensed his back to keep them both at a slanted but upright position while he waited for the answer he was hoping would be a yes. In fact, he was certain it would be a yes when he felt her hand move from his neck to rest on his thigh and her nails scratched into his jeans like she wanted to rip them off then and there.

(Y/n) watched him raise his glass to his grinning lips, she saw his teeth graze the rim of the glass like he was about to bite it as he took a large gulp of whatever cocktail he had been given.

Then she moved her hand up to his crotch.

It was unexpected.

With her body leaned into his and one arm around his neck, no one could see the subtle movement that gave Jonah an electric shock. The martini trickled down his lips towards his chin and made him swallow prematurely until he was spluttering into his empty glass that had tipped down his shirt, trying to hide his coughing.

"Just a little longer baby."

As soon as he stopped coughing, he felt a butterfly kiss dropping to his lips before all the touch was gone completely and he was sat watching in awe and anger as (Y/n) turned away. Her hips swayed as she glided from the kitchen, curls bouncing over her shoulders.

She left him. She left him sat there, flustered, his shirt drenched in alcohol, his chest heaving from coughing and a rush of blood and a problem in his crotch.

That wasn't fair.

After two more drinks that managed to get into his system rather than down his shirt, Jonah had had enough of this party.

His eyes had been locked on (Y/n) all night, even after she caused problems and left him hanging on by a single thread about to snap. So when she excused herself from a group near the back doors and made her way towards the hallway, he figured she was going up to the bathroom.

He downed the remnants of whiskey in his glass, ran a hand over his face to shake off the disgruntled feeling and headed towards the stairs. Two could play this game and he was going to make damn sure he won.

There were three people waiting in the hallway outside the bathroom when he reached the top of the stairs which told Jonah (Y/n) was already in the bathroom. An air of confidence surrounded him when he leaned up against the wall beside the bathroom door. He had one foot pressed up against the wall and both arms crossed over his chest with his head tilted back like he was staring up at the ceiling, waiting to see the stars.

Shaking her hands to rid the excess droplets of water, (Y/n) rubbed her hands over her arms quickly before she opened the bathroom door.

Not a moment sooner, before she managed to take one step out of the room, a hand dug into the door like claws scratching into the wood for leverage. Fear rippled down (Y/n)'s spine until a familiar flop of hair came into view and those dark eyes she had been staring into all night appeared before her.

"Hey mate! There's a queue here."

With one hand on the door and the other suddenly on (Y/n)'s hip, she realised Jonah meant business and she wouldn't be leaving the bathroom just yet. The poor man seemingly desperate for relief was going to have to look elsewhere as Jonah stepped into the room, blocking (Y/n)'s view out and anyone's creeping view of her.

"And we're occupied." That was the only explination Jonah was willing to give before he shoved the door closed and fumbled around behind him to find the lock so he didn't have to tear his gaze away from (Y/n).

(Y/n) didn't know what to do with herself now.

She had suceeded in what she wanted to do tonight; she had wound Jonah up well and truly past the point of no return. Something she had never done before and never thought about until recently.

Her hands rubbed over her exposed thighs to dismiss the excess energy rippling through her blood and give her something to do while she waited. She wasn't sure what she was waiting for or what Jonah was waiting for but she wanted him to make the first move, whatever that may be. He had pushed in here for a reason but now they were alone, enclosed in a cramped space together, all he did was stare at her.

His eyes bore into hers, searching for something in the darkness of her pupils while one corner of his lip twitched, desperate to curve into a smile but his face wouldn't allow it. Not yet.

"Do you like winding me up?"

Finally, he spoke. His question was off putting because he spoke so calmly as if he was asking her for a cigarette or for her favourite movie. It contrasted greatly to the fire burning in his eyes.

He reached out carefully, calculated, to brush a curl away from her cheek and back behind her ear where it had been earlier. As he did so, the tip of his fingers grazed over her neck before his hand moved round to cup the back of her neck. His hold wasn't tight or dangerous or threatening but it was empowering and bold. The smooth pad of his thumb grazed down the middle of her throat, rubbing against the lump that was forming as she debated how to answer when he was touching her like this.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The response angered him, she could tell. It infuriated him because she sounded so sincere as if she truly didn’t understand why he was so het up. Confusion feigned on her features as her doe eyes stared up into his own.

“Don’t play with me sweetheart. I asked you a question.”

His words were having a bad effect, but his hands were having an even worse effect. (Y/n) could feel his fingers digging sensationally into the back of her neck while his free hand was delicate and light as he toyed with the strap of her dress. He hooked a finger under the thin strap and with a simple flick of his wrist, the strap fell down her arm and loosened the shape and protection of her dress across her cleavage.

“Yes.”

“Thought so.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than responding to her.

Jonah's eyes weren't boring into her own anymore, he was concentrating on her dress that was slowly sliding down and watching how (Y/n) shifted her weight from one foot to the other in anticipation.

"You know, this would look a lot better on the floor."

A shiver bolted down (Y/n)'s spine and shot down to the tips of her fingers when it registered what he'd said. Was he being serious? There was a queue for the bathroom and if people couldn't get in, they were going to go and complain until someone was banging on the door demanding for them to finish up and get out. They'd get caught, people would find out. People would wonder where they had slipped off to and they couldn't go to another party without people watching them closely, wondering if they were going to find a room to cop off in.

The thought was exhilarating and it seemed to send Jonah into a thrill. They had never done this before, he had never suggested something like this before.

Before he had the chance to mess with her other strap and completely strip her then and there, (Y/n) trailed her fingers down his chest that was sticky and glued to his shirt from the spilled drink. She didn't have to look down to be able to pop all the buttons on his shirt and push it off his shoulders until it was clinging onto his arms by the elbows.

It freed up a lot of skin, a lot of grounds for (Y/n) to cover and as soon as her lips connected to his collar bone, she felt his breathing change. She parted her lips and grazed her teeth against his skin, making a marked trail over the top of his chest and up the side of his neck, sucking a bruise as she went along.

The touch caused him to react, his fingers suddenly dug into her neck and his other hand left her dress to squeeze her hip bruisingly when he felt her biting down on his jaw.

"Oh, I don't think so."

(Y/n) gasped when he pounced.

In less than a second he'd pushed her back into the sink that dug into her lower back just above her hips, but not for long. Both Jonah's hands moved to her thighs and in a swift movement he lifted her up and sat her down on the edge of the sink, stealing her breath away as he did so.

She didn't make a fuss when his hands curled around her knees and slowly parted them so he could fit between her legs and press up against her.

"You made me spill my drink and gave me a bit of a problem out there. I'm not letting you get away with that."

"Never dreamed you would."

(Y/n) hooked her hand around his neck and pulled him close enough so she could reach out and take his lower lip between her teeth. A small tug had him groaning but sucking on his lip had him growling like a beast about to snap.

In retaliation, Jonah grabbed both straps of her dress and wrenched them down to her hips in a flash, exposing her chest to the cold air and his darkening eyes. His brows raised at her gasp and his grin- somewhat morphed by (Y/n)'s teeth- turned crooked and devouring as he punctured his fingers into her hips.

"You know there's a queue outside?" Word were mumbled between kisses, desperate wet lips parting and touching again, devouring and consuming with eagerness that radiated around the room.

His temple pressed down against hers but he couldn't help himself from laughing. (Y/n) was so nervous about people finding out or banging on the door an interrupting them, but it didn't stop her hands from finding the buckle of his belt and undoing it.

"Relax, we've got time."

"But-"

"Shh. You're mine now."

#jonah x reader #jonah imagine #jonah hauer king imagine #jonah hauer king #imagine

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sydneyadamuhusband · 2 years ago

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SYDRICHIE FANFIC (cause im not good at titles, people) part one

note: never worked in a restaurant, I barely even know what I am saying with the slang being tossed around. Let's hope it makes sense.

words: 5k (ish)

rating: gen.

warnings: light mentions of anxiety. (And possible misspellings, im sorry in advanced)

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

It was peak hour and the tickets were coming in hot and fast. Richie was out on the floor, serving food to guests and buttering them up while Sydney was yelling out the rapid orders and taking them down.

They were packed tonight and people’s orders were shooting out the ticket machine faster than Sydney could see.

Clashing sounds of dishes, silverware and cups were all around. Clouds of steam and smoke were in the air followed by sizzling. Plates and plates were being dished out and walked in what felt like milliseconds to Sydney.

Unlike the first night, Sydney was prepared. Her braids were held back into a tight bun and draped over with a sharp white bandana wrapped tight around her head, her eyes darted with each order with proficiency, and her hands were quick to scratch out orders.

She was getting in a zone, a fast and stressful zone and it felt freeing. The zone wasn’t safe nor a fun, not even close. But somehow that made it more exhilarating.

She had control over the life of chaos and it was powerful. Being able to handle it and go with the flow in a world that felt like it had none, now that was a feeling like no other

Everything was under control and even if it wasn’t; Richie, Tina, Marcus, Sweeps and Sugar got her. Hell, even Fak got her. They have each other, they hired an excellent group. Everything was under her control.

Well almost everything.

“That’s not cooked all the way you are supposed to steam. them.” It was Carmy’s voice Sydney heard. Unfortunately she wasn’t surprised.

He was in tonight, disheveled and tired practically screaming down the ear of an employee, Jacob.

“Do you know how to steam vegetables chef!?” Carmy is practically on the guy's ear.

The vegetables are burnt with a tangy smell in the air floating all over the kitchen, Sydney’s nose wrinkles. The station’s stove is too hot obviously with the burst of more and more smoke coming out of the pot’s rim. But Sydney can’t focus on that right now.

“Fire two by two t-bones!” The chefs respond to Sydney quickly. “Thank you chefs!’

Jacob is shaking like a leaf, his blond hair starting to fall out of place as he quickly restarts his process of cooking. His hand’s trembles as he cuts. Carmy is still there though. He hovers over him with cold blue eyes, practically trying to pierce into him with his glare.

Sydney looks down, “Fire bucatini two by two. T-bone to table 15 please!” The chefs responded.

As long as they can get through it without paying too much attention to Carmy, they’ll be good. His yelling got louder though. Sydney can see the poor chef shrink under Carmy.

Carmy kept asking rapid questions leaving strays of spit and vicious anger flying everywhere. His face was getting hotter by the second. At this point, it looked like his goal was to keep yelling until his face turned blue.

Sydney tries to interfere. “Chef!-”

“Not now, Chef” Carmy replies smoothly to Sydney before she’s able to finish. He keeps his eyes on his target the whole time. “Answer the question, Chef.”

“Yes chef, I know how to make veg...vegetables, chef…” The man whimpers quietly.

Oh boy.

The air is thick in the kitchen next to it’s usual smokey delicious air from the various foods they cooked.

His hands were shaky and he was practically vibrating with the vibrato of Carmy’s voice. He was starting to get too loud. The other chefs were staring, distracted by their works which Sydney had to remind and repeat commands to them to get the orders across correctly.

Carmy kept pestering the chef to go faster and faster, cook better. Holy shit he was so red. Sydney looks back down, four more orders past her, fuck.

“We gotta go move faster chefs, fire two fishes, four by four copenhagen, one focaccia to table 11 please, walk bucatini, cannolis two by two!”

“You’re falling behind!” Carmy’s voice comes into view at the wrong time. Even though it wasn’t directed at her, Sydney still flinches with a pang of aching in her stomach.

They really were starting to fall behind right now.

“Fire two t-bones?” One of the chefs asked.

“Sorry, chef.” The man says, “I can’t focus with you this close-” Sydney can’t focus on that right now. She’ll deal with Carmy later. The five more tickets fire.

Sydney looks back at the chef who asked and shakes her head vehemently.

“No-” She glances at the clock, 5 more minutes. “Fire two fishes, four by four copenhagen,” She scratches out the various food items on the list below her.

So many fucking papers everywhere and the tickets won’t stop…

“One. Focaccia. To. table. 11. Please, walk the bucatini. And Marcus,” he raises his head up, “Cannolis two by two.”

Marcus nods, “Yes chef.”

He got her. The chefs are cooking, they got her. It’s fine they got this.

“Fire three t-bones and a welcome broth for table 12 and 8!” A rough jagged sigh drags from Sydney, “two by two focaccia.” And she keeps continuing the list.

“Four by four…” Deal with Carmy later,

“Two by two…” 4 1⁄2 minutes..

“Another four by four…” Why is Carmy so fucking loud?

“..to table 14 please!” Why is the ticket machine so loud??

“...hands for cannolis please, thank you chef!” Why is Sydney’s brain so fucking loud???

The kitchen’s door opens, it’s Richie.

He has a brisk pace, strolling in smoothly and so casually. He’s calm, level headed and relaxed. Sydney needs whatever fuck he’s on make him so easy going and clear headed in times like these.

He’s fixing his suit, pressing any creases and folds out with rough palms. He’s watching them, encouraging them yet pestering them to quiet and settle down so softly and nicely.

Good god it’s so uncanny of him. No more sweats, no more overpowering pine tree cologne, no more yelling and obnoxiously loud talking. He’s just oddly mature and reasonable, mannered and good. He smells good

And with that suit He looks so…

Sydney looks back down the tickets and continues calling out orders. She has no time to address whatever the hell that was because that’s not important. No more looking at Richie of all people like that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees when Richie finally glances over at Carmy who’s lashing out on the chef next to him. He turns to face Sydney and their eyes meet for a brief moment as he fiddles with the cuffs of his suit.

Richie leans over to her, close enough for just her to hear. His breath brushed against her skin. His hand on her shoulder.

“Carmy’s gonna need to step out, Syd.” He says and Sydney knows he’s right, “The customers can hear him.”

Just as she expected. Sydney looks over to him now, he’s close. He stares at her with those bright eyes, they're like ocean waves crashing in the sea on a sunny day.

Unlike any of the other times they have gotten close and personal in each other's spaces, Richie doesn’t smell like cheap cologne and cigarettes. He smells fresh, minty and so good. He’s looking at her soothing concerned eyes.

How are they always getting this close and personal in each other’s spaces?

She nods at him. “I know.” and Richie gets it.

He watches as she sorts out the orders for a brief moment, like he’s assessing what he was gonna do. Camry was still yelling, getting red in the face. It reminds Richie of someone but he quickly lets that thought pass him.

Richie takes a breath and begins to make his way over to Carmy. He slips behind chefs, announcing his presence incase of a run-in. Some are giving Carmy quick glances that dart between him and Richie, asking if they should do something. Richie just nods at them to continue their work and they do.

He squeezes in between Carmy and the chef.

The guy was trembling, nearly knocking into other equipment.Maybe if Carmy could just calm the fuck down, the chef could do what he’s ask him.

Richie clears his throat. "Hey, cousin-"

“Back the fuck off, Richie.” Carmy doesn’t even hesitate to say.

But Richie wasn’t going to back down. This restaurant needs to thrive and Richie isn’t letting one (or a couple of) bad day(s) fuck up this resteraunt. Especially since Carmy himself worked so damn hard for it.

“No.” Richie says plainly, “You gotta step out or calm down Carm, the customers can hear you.” He tries to reason. But Carmy shakes his head softly,

"What? you trynna say I'm fucking up business?"

"Two by two for bucatini." Sydney's voice rings in the kitchen, 2 ½ minutes left.

Richie raises his hands in a soothing gesture, softly shaking his head, "You know I would never say that, cousin."

Carmy doesn't meet Richie's eyes. He paces around, hands on hips. Eyebrows furrowed, Richie tried to meet Carmy's eyes again but he refused to look at him. It doesn't even seem like Carmy was looking at anyone or anything.

Richie grabs a hold of Carmy's arm in the middle of his pacing"Hey hey!" Carmy doesn't respond, his head down.

Richie likes to say he knows Carmy, hell he practically grew up with him and Mikey. He was changing the fucker’s diapers and taking him to school in a beat up honda. He should know Carmy.

He should be able to read him just as well as he could read Natalie or Mikey. But it wasn’t the case at all. Whatever the fuck was happening right now had Richie feeling like he was being thrown to the sharks.

It makes him anxious, and when he gets anxious, he gets shitty thoughts.

Thoughts about Donna, the way she blows up in people’s faces and lashes out so viciously. Thoughts about Mikey and how he was acting months before what happened. How he felt like he was being thrown to the sharks with him too. Got that same pit in his stomach like now…

They just kept coming. They do this really fucked up thing where they fill up in his brain, removing any distractions so his attention is on them. And they like to whisper at him. Tell him shit that he knows everybody would disagree too.

“You’re worthless..”

“You serve no purpose..”

“You’re a loser..”

He tries not to agree with them and let them win. But sometimes they’re just so loud and they remind him of—

Sydney’s chuckling but there’s no humor to it “You wanna talk about fucking ugly, Richie?”

—things he’d rather not think about.

Richie's grip tightens on him, Carmy flinches but doesn't move his head, "Cousin." No response again.

"You're getting too loud and you're holding your staff behind. Go step out for a minute, cousin" Richie whispers

Carmy glares at Richie.

Sydney voice calls from what feels like afar "Hands for Cannolis please."

“Yes Chef!” Fak says. Fak and Sweeps were the only ones out there. Richie can't be here all day, they have job to do. So he straightens up

"I'm serious." Richie gives him a hard stare. "Put on your big boy pants—“

“Don’t fucking tell me-“

“This is your restaurant cousin.” Richie continues, “don't you wanna see it exceed?" He emphasizes by sticking a finger out to Carmy’s chest.

It was ironic to think about. All the other times Richie has brought up this place being Carmy’s, it was usually as a way to talk shit. This time though, he was being sincere.

Reminds Carmy of the times Richie would apologize for yelling too harshly at him when he was nine. Or when he tried encouraging him on his academics in when he was in high school. It's raw, close and loving. Cause Richie cares about him and his little dream of a fancy restaurant.

That what's makes Carmy pause.

He's still staring at Richie but it's no longer a glare. It's just painful and blue. Like how his eyes would get when Mikey and him didn't invite a young Carmy to any of their parties. It sends nostalgic wave down Richie's back.

Finally, Carmy was stepping away, a hand drags down his face. He briefly looked at the chef, finally out of the dream (or nightmare). The poor guy was shaken up, eyes stinging and nose runny.

"Fuck. I'm sorry.." Carmy raises a hand and the guy moves away. "Yeah I'll uh, I'll step out"

The crew watches as Carmy walks from Richie and for the back door, his head low. The restaurant is silent again for a moment. Then Sydney calls out another order and the chefs are back at it.

Like Sydney said, they got her. Richie got her.

The Bear was going great, amazing actually. It honestly felt unreal. The work, frustration, anger, fees oh the fucking fees and construction had paid off so smoothly. The restaurant was upscaled now, beautiful and classy. It was a complete turn around from the beef.

The kitchen was sleek and pristine, no more random stains and ominous (possibly expired) food in the refrigerator. The chefs worked together strategically and were actually taking the job seriously.

Richie cleaned up pretty well and really improved on himself. He was still charismatic and raunchy. But during work he really toned himself down, became more softer and mature, stayed relaxed during peak hours, and Sydney has barely even had an argument with him in the past week.

It was incredibly weird but Sydney was grateful for it.

She does get an aching pit of guilt every time they talk though. Mostly about the day she quit and the things she said (and did) to him.

She should probably talk to him about it and apologize.

“Syd, you good in there?” Speaking of which. Richie taps at his forehead with his hand, the other holding the steering wheel as he drives.

The night had settled and morning came, the blue and purple waves came to paint the sky as the sun began to arise. Chicago's mornings were cold and brisk as the weather changed and Sydney could see her breath visibly each time she spoke.

She shimmies in her jacket, Richies AC’s still busted but hey, he cleaned the car up pretty good. No more Arby's cups (or bags) scattered around the floor.

“Yeah. Just thinking.” She replies absentmindedly. Her body’s slumped in Richie’s passenger seat.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Richie teases.

“I should be saying that to you.”

“Yo you’re gonna be old too like me one day.”

“Oof don’t remind me.” And Richie laughs.

“Cold blooded, Syd, cold blooded.”

For the past few weeks, they’ve practically been carpooling. It started off as a one-off's, or just plan b's incase it was super late and money was tight. In plus Richie offered and Sydney doesn't turn down free rides. She was more than fine with sitting in tense, awkward silence as he takes her home.

But then it kinda became a habit. Richie always offered and Sydney always needed to save up money anyway.

Soon enough he was taking her everyday practically. They were listening to prank calls on the radio with small snickers and snorts by the absurdity. Sometimes quoting iconic lines to each other after work. Or listening in on talk about recent celebrity drama. Or maybe just sitting in silence as the engine rumbled.

The silence tension dimmed with every ride and soon enough, became comfortable and it was kind of calming. Something calm and quiet for once in the hectic world Sydney lived in. It was so so nice. To the point that Sydney was actually looking forward to the rides.

And Richie did that. So. Fucking. Weird.

She reminds herself to apologize. She'll find a way to. Kinda feels like it's a big conversation to have that needs time to be talked about.

But who was she kidding? Sydney chuckles at that thought. She doesn’t even have time for herself, let alone Richie.

“What’s funny?” Richie asks softly. Softly, surprising isn't it?

Funny thing about Richie is that in the morning his voice is so low and soft with a slight rasp. It's like whiplash to Sydney every time she hears that calm and quiet voice.

She wonders what he looks like just waking up in the morning. What his routine is like. Maybe he makes weird old man noises when gets up. Maybe he drinks coffee. He looks like he drinks his coffee straight black.

Then she immediately shoves those questions down into the deep pits of her brain to discuss with herself about later when she finds the time.

Which she probably won't so she's fine with that.

“You saw that video I sent you on instagram?” Richie ask.

“Yes I did and that was not funny at all.” Sydney remembers that dumbass video (and the other thousand videos) he sent her. She regrets ever giving him her instagram account.

She did skim through his though. Just a tiny skim.

He mostly post about sports teams, family, or Taylor swift? Didn’t expect him to be a Swifite but no judgment.

She saw his daughter, he post about her a lot. She’s adorable. Got those same bright blue eyes like her dad.

Richie smacks his lips “Ehh you don’t get it.” He makes a turn, “You’ll get it when you're my age.”

Sydney shakes her head, “Sure Richie, sure.”

The air between them is nice. Sydney liked it. Liked it feeling nice. She didn’t want to ruin that with weird feelings. She’s just gonna let the air be nice and not weird.

No weird air. Weird air can go fuck off. She’s not gonna be weird about this. She got better things to focus on, like the damn restaurant. And Carmy

Speaking of which, The Bear was doing good, stressful but good. A lot of orders means they’re getting a crowd. Means people like the food. Just need a new cook. They're good.

But Carmy. He's not good. Obviously. Sydney still doesn’t know what happened that night in the walk-in, but it was affecting Carmy and as a result, the chef’s workflow.

They’re lucky Jacob didn’t quit after what happened last night, they don’t need to be short of two chefs when they could barely find one as it is.

The new chefs, bless their hearts, have been getting the grunt of Carmy’s wrath. Mixed in with a couple of back and fourths he’s been having with Sydney. Which reminds her of Richie which gives her so much whiplash.

It’s like the two switched personalities on some Freaky Friday shit. Now Carmy is stressing her out more than anything.

Honestly, he's stressing everyone out.

He needs a break. (And he needs a damn hug, guy got a resting face of a depressed orphan puppy).

For the restaurant and for Carmy himself. Dude has just been so out of it it’s seriously scaring Sydney. When she’s talking to him, his gaze just seemed to be somewhere else so distant and far. Like he was in a different reality altogether.

Which Richie pointed out was weird cause he quotes, “always makes weird googly eyes at you Syd, kid’s obviously fucked.”

Which is–

Sydney’s not even going to go into that. No time for whatever the hell he’s going on about.

They pulled up into the parking lot, Natalie seemed to already be there. They come up right when she had gotten of her car, her hair blowing light with cold air.

Richie eyes her coat "She looks like a fucking eggplant.” He’s not entirely wrong.

She was wearing a warm looking purple jacket with a matching beanie, her hands shoved down into her pockets. She looked really snugged, probably warmer than Sydney is in this freezer like car. Dude really got to fix his AC.

But it's not like he has money for that anyway.

“You look like the grim reaper.” Sydney shoots back.

Small little smile grows on Richie’s face. He had on his infamous suit again, looks nice as always. And very professional. And that is all Sydney has to say about that damn suit. Not else. No other thoughts.

Richie murmurs as they pull up. “Better than looking like an eggplant.” And Sydney snorts.

Soon enough they were out of the car and coming to Natalie. She looked very worried…and tired. Her eyes were big and round with just worry all in them and her eyebrows were scrunched upwards.

Sydney, Richie and Natalie were all huddled in a circle at the front of The Bear, mostly for warmth.

Natalie crosses her arms, feet antsy. "You know, I really don't think he's okay..." she kept her voice low and soft like someone who hear besides them two.

Sydney noticed how her lips folding in on one another every breath she takes in-between talking.

"He's been really out of it lately." Natalie adds.

Richie nods in agreement, arms crossed and frame high.

"Was he ever okay?" Sydney says but immediately cringes at her wording. Richie and Natalie grimace at it.

Sydney's green jacket moves awkwardly with her as she tries to explain. "Sorry like- Was he, was he always like this but like-"

"Was he always so distant and estranged? I mean for these past couple of years, yes." Natalie began to answer, nodding along,"Have I ever seen him so..like that?" She takes a deep breath.

Her eyes are drawn down, her fingers begin to play with the fabric of her purple coat.

"No. Never."

Richie rubs a hand across his beard before grabbing his cigarettes. It'd be the first time in a while that Sydney had seen him smoke.

She guessed a new suit, proper manners, and calm mask doesn't fix a nicotine addiction and stress from work. She watches him as he pulls it out of his slick black suit and sticks one in his mouth. His lips aren’t necessarily pursed around the cig, more like dangling from the side of his mouth.

They seemed a little smooth too. Must've some chapstick on them. Maybe she was staring too hard because when she looked away from the, Richie’s eyes were on her's curiously.

She looks away.

‘stop it’, She scolds herself. No time to unpack or understand that.

Sydney turns her focus back to Natalie who hugs herself closer to her body. Her knit eyebrows creased her skin. She's looking at the ground as if the broken pavement and stomped out buds had the answers.

Sydney has bigger things to focus on. Carmy is the priority right now, not however the hell Richie smokes cigarettes or his lips.

"I don't want him working here," Natalie answers truthfully, "I understand it's his dream but, I don't want this to destroy him." Richie and Sydney get it.

It's Sydney who reaches out first, rubbing her arm soothingly. She gives her soft 'it's okay’ even if she doesn't believe it herself.

“I told him that he spent too much time here…I told him.” It's a quiet remark that could barely be heard under the breezy wind.

Richie grasps her shoulder with a sympathetic nod as well. the same way he did to Sydney a previous night.

“The kid’s not doing so great."

Way to state the obvious, Richie. Sydney doesn't say that out loud.

But it didn't take a genius to tell what she’s thinking by the look she gives him. Richie ignores it.

"The Claire thing has got em all screwed up right now." Richie continues. His words work around the cigarette. “He needs some time away from here so let’s give him that. Some time away from here and some support so he can get his shit together. Don't like seeing him like this.” Richie says that last part low.

“Yeah..” Natalie breathes.

It was strange how much he had changed in his week and it made Sydney think. Did he really change all that much?

Or was he always like this?

She thinks back to when he apologizes for the gun. When he asks her if she's okay after somebody shot their glass. Took accountability and felt guilty for the cigarettes being left out on the stove. How he was trying to help her with those damn vegetables when everything went to hell with the pre-order shit. How he was actually trying to help everyone that day.

How he didn't even give her shit for the knife.

‘Apologize to Richie about the knife’, She reminds herself. She should start putting some sticky notes on her mirror, her dad does that.

Sydney clears her throat and nods, "Agreed." She says simply, smoothing out her hair, "I'll text him that I can do interviews on my own."

Again, she thinks. Last time it was because of Claire too. Sydney didn't really know what happened to them, just that it was a pretty rough breakup.

She remembers trying to go back to comfort Carmy in some way that night. But the moment she was back inside, Richie had stopped her.

He had an inordinately soft look on his face, his posture heavy with ache. She doesn’t know what happened back there but from the looks of it, Richie and Carmy must’ve gotten into it. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and shook his head lightly.

It was the second time they had gotten close that night, the same good smell from earlier coming in to fill her senses. He rubs the thick hand on her shoulder as he dragged his palm up and down in a soothing gesture as if she was the one who’s hurt.

“He needs some time” is what Richie said that night, “Just go home, Syd, he’ll be okay.” Sydney remembers it vividly.

She also remembers wanting to give Richie a hug, pat, or something to soothe his troubles away. He looked like he really needed a warm hug. Maybe something even warmer..

She also remembers trying to shove that thought down the moment it reared it’s ugly head nights after. She has no time for that.

"Interviews?" Natalie asks. "For what? I thought all our spots were filled."

Sydney thins her lips. "Yeah well uh, Josh was smoking meth out back so obviously..." She trails off but Natalie understands nods.

Half of Sydney wishes she didn't tell her cause Natalie looks like she was just given a stack of paper work to do.

Natalie sighs, "Fucker..."

Richie softly snort.

“Yeah." Sydney grabs onto her bag at the hip, feeling for her papers through the fabric as a way to remind her of their presence, "The interviews are going to start at 10."

"Shit I'm sorry I can't help." Natalie softly murmurs, "I got an appointment at like 11:30."

Sydney smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes though, "I'll be fine, don't worry."

Natalie still looks worried but she smiles, thankful. It seems like a worried face is the only thing she pulls these days. She really needs a break. Her sleeping schedule was worn around her eyes. Her skin’s been looking sickly for a while and Sydney can’t help but think the stress from here is what’s causing it the most.

“Okay, well" Natalie whispers quietly and then glances at her watch, "I should probably go, just wanted to uh talk to you guys real quick."

She goes in for a hug to Richie. Sydney watches the way Richie hugs her. He seems a bit surprised at first but he accepts no less. She watches the way he engulfs her into his arms. They wrap around her nice and snug with a lil squeeze and give her a soft lil pat on the back at the end.

He really likes giving those tiny little pats. He even does it to pens, markers and papers.

He whispers something low and quiet that gets a weak but genuine chuckle out of Natalie before he lets go. He relaxes at the smallest glimpse of a smile from her. Like it was a make or break moment. It's really sweet to see him care so much.

Once again, Richie was surprising Sydney.

"Bye." Natalie says as she now hugs Sydney. She’s warm and soft. Her hugs are surprisingly really comforting. But for some reason all Sydney can think about is how Richie’s hug must've felt.

To be pressed against his chest of nice black fabric and good cologne. To have his voice dangling above her ear, whispering some shitty joke just to hear her laugh. Would he ever even give Sydney one if she needed it? Would he give her a little pat at the end?

Sydney brushes those thoughts away and returns the hug, squeezing just a bit too tight.

She whispers before letting go. "Take care of yourself." And watches a warm but exhausted and fragile smile slip on Natalie's face before peeling away.

Soon, Natalie and her car were out of sight, leaving only Richie and Sydney. Alone. Together. It felt different from the car rides. Usually there's some type of low music, or just comfortable slience in the air as they drive to their destination. Now it feels weird.

It was quite early. Interviews don't start yet and they weren't exactly scheduled to be open today anyway. Sydney just came a little early to set up. Basically, there was no point for Richie to be here.

But he was anyway, standing around awkwardly. With a cigarette still lit, he takes a couple of drags.

“You don't have to stay, you know?' Sydney says and immediately regrets. "Like not in a mean way just like- if you're staying cause I'm here you don't have to." She fiddles with the restaurant keys as she speaks. “Like I don’t mind and-”

“Yo, I understand.” Richie looks down at her, seemingly amused. It was still so weird for her to see him so patient and relaxed.

Sydney nods with a small smile as she gets the door opened. The sound of the door creaking is met with silence as the two stand in the doorway. Richie stomps out the cigarette.

"I can help." He says finally, his voice echoing in the empty restaurant. "With the interviews." He clarifies, scratching a part of his beard. "If you want me too?" he says softly.

Sydney looks up at him surprised, "Really?" She says, slightly dumbfounded, "You, Richie, wanna help me?" she asks incredulously.

And Richie has to laugh at that. It's a nice gruff one with vibrato in it, the laugh bounces off the walls. He laughs like he gets it, like he knows and understands where Sydney’s coming from.

Surprises, surprises.

“Cut me some slack!” Richie’s got a sly smile dancing all over his face, “I’ve been killing it this past few weeks.” He says humorously, “I’m like your little helper. Sidekick even.”

And now Sydney’s laughing. It’s not a tense one nor a condescending one either. It’s genuine and real. Sydney notes that this was probably the first time she ever laughed with Richie and not at him and it's outside of their little carpooling. She doesn't know why but it makes it feel real.

Sydney, amused, replies. “Sidekick is pushing it.”

"Clyde to your Bonnie?"

“Clyde to my Bonnie?” She repeats.

“Yeah,” And Richie got a little smile on his face. “practically.”

Sydney gives him a look, “Sure, Richie.”

And Richie laughs again. Laughs that loud bright laugh. It makes Sydney’s smile widen and it's so weird because she used to hate it. She would always hear him joking or fucking around at The Beef, ignoring her so he could just kick it like it was a friday night.

And his laugh used to be what really ticked her off.

Made her feel like he was laughing at her and her authority. Like some mean girl was making fun of her from school all over again. Kinda felt weird to compare a grown ass man to a mean middle schooler but Richie wasn't really known for being mature anyway.

Now though, that laugh doesn’t piss her off. Doesn’t frustrate her or make her angry. It doesn’t feel mocking or rude. It makes her feel warm and soft.

Maybe it’s because for once, it’s with her and she’s in the joke with him. He's laughing because of her, for her.

And it feels too fucking weird. Richard dickhead Jerimovich was giving her the most sincere look with crinkled eyes and a huge smile and she felt weird about it.

‘Shut up.’ She chastises herself. Thoughts are for another time. (Time she still doesn't have).

It’s Richie who’s drawing her back to reality, “Hand me some of the resumes,” He nudges her. “I know you would print them out like a smartypants.”

"Yeah, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when interviewing, Richie.”

"That's what a smartypants would say." Richie says so facetiously with such a big smile. It should really irritate Sydney, it used to, but he doesn't.

Sydney shoves some papers in Richies face and his big fat smile. "Just take the resumes, Richard." And she's smiling right back at him.

"Knew it." He says. Their fingers brush one another when Richie grabs the resumes and Sydney’s very normal about it. So normal.

She watches as he goes through the papers, eyes darting from left to right. He looked focused, concentrated and actually invested.

He looks up at her for a moment and winks. "Let's do it sweetheart."

"Richie-"

"Yeah yeah sorry." He mutters playfully but genuine, "Don't call you sweetheart, sorry Syd." He nudges her a little with a playful smile crawling onto his face.

“Fuck off.” Sydney says to Richie.

But also to those stupid weird feelings that came up again.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Here's what I got so far for the starving Sydrichie fans out there. Next part might be more Richie centered idk idk. Let's pray I got the motivation to do a part two. This took about a few weeks but I'm really proud.

#sydrichie #sydney adamu #richie jerimovich #sydney x richie #richie x sydney

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