#Craig Colorado | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hunnysnoops · 5 months ago

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₊˚｡⋆❆ 𝔹𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖 ❆⋆｡˚₊

Chapter One: Wolves Without Teeth

Kenny McCormick x fem reader

You hover like a hummingbird, haunt me in my sleep. You're sailing from another world, sinking in my sea. You're feeding on my energy. I'm letting go of it, he wants it.

Also available on Ao3 and Wattpad!

Premise: A collision at the ice rink leaves you with a gnarly bruise and a hockey player who is quick to be infatuated. Kenny McCormick takes it upon himself to be the first to break you out of your shell.

Warnings: brief mention of injury / crude language

MASTERLIST

Moving to the middle of the rink, you and Craig get ready to begin your routine. As the familiar song begins to play, you inhale deeply and pay attention to the beat. Craig looks up at you and nods reassuringly. Everything about this has been overdone to the point it doesn’t make you nervous: the rise and fall of your chest, cold air stinging your skin, the only warmth in the arena rests between you and Craig. With a series of elegant moves, you start off by cutting smooth lines into the ice with your blades. Every motion is intentional, a precise dexterity you attain from day after day trying to reach something close to perfection.

As you glide into the first lift, you feel Craig's hands firmly grasp your waist. With a practiced ease, he lifts you high, and you stretch your arms and legs, creating a perfect line. You savour the feeling of weightlessness so you might taste it later. He lowers you gently, and you land seamlessly, continuing into a series of synchronized spins.

"Nice," Katya calls from the side of the rink where she watched the two of you with her arms crossed, picking apart each and every movement. She was an ex-champion from Sweden, and now she coached figure skating in Colorado "Craig, get your knee deeper."

Barely even thinking, Craig does as he's told and lunges further. You had been skating with Craig for the past nine years though you didn't talk much he was what you considered to be your only friend who was your age. He had been the sole human to show up to your barren birthday parties since fourth grade. All of your trust poured into him, with every leap and scratch of your blade slicing across the ice.

Each step of the routine builds on the one before it with ease. You perform a sequence of deft footwork, your blades clicking quickly and rhythmically on the ice. Craig perfectly mimics your movements and stands by you, steadying you with his hands. You two loop around the rink, hitting every mark of the choreography with ease.

As the music swells, you prepare for the jump sequence. You've practiced this countless times far too many times to hold any nerves over it. "Don't rush it, hold your edge longer," Katya shouts, accent thick. You approach the takeoff point, feeling Craig's presence close beside you. With a powerful push, you launch into the air, twisting and turning with grace. The landing is smooth, and you immediately transition into a spin, feeling the centrifugal force pulling at you.

Craig moves into position for the final lift. You gather your strength and leap, offering your faith to him completely. His hands are strong and steady as he lifts you high above his head. The audience, though imaginary today, would be breathless. You extend your arms, holding the pose for a beat before he brings you back down.

The routine ends with a dramatic flourish. You and Craig strike the final pose where his hands are secured on the small of your back as you lull backwards until your head is inches away from the ice, breathing hard but exhilarated. The music fades, and the rink is silent again. You catch your breath, face red, Craig skates in a little circle, one hand gripping his black hair.

"Good job," You smile holding your hand up for a high five. Craig eyes you for a second before caving and gliding over to land his hand over yours.

"Beautiful work," Katya smiles brightly at the winded pair of you. She looks down at her watch biting her lip "I wanted to do some strength work but we went a little over time so just do your cooldowns and head out, we'll pick this up tomorrow."

"Craig's strong enough," You tease though Katya doesn't seem to take it that way.

She shakes her head "There is always work to be done. The day you stop pushing yourself is the day you fail."

"Oh," You glance at Craig "Um, okay." You probably spoke more at practice than you did anywhere else which wasn't saying much as you preferred to keep your thoughts to yourself on most days.

You move into a series of gentle stretches, reaching down to touch your toes, and feeling the pull along your hamstrings. The cool air of the rink mingles with the heat of your exertion. You extend one leg behind you, leaning forward to stretch your back and shoulders, thinking back to the routine you performed only minutes ago you think of all the things you could improve on and make a mental list that you will soon put onto paper.

You had butchered your cool down, trying to leave as soon as possible. Right after your nightly sessions a group of rowdy hockey players would swarm the rink careless of whether you were still in there or not and it wasn't particularly something you were fond of.

Craig, on the other side of the rink, begins his own routine. He skates slowly, his strides long and deliberate, a stark contrast to the intense moves from earlier. He stops and bends down, touching the ice with his fingers, and stretching his long legs and back.

You notice Craig moving into some balance exercises, lifting one leg behind him and holding his arms out for stability. It's a simple move, but one that requires focus and control, skills he's perfected over years of practice. You can see the concentration on his face, and the way he fine-tunes his posture and alignment like the world would end if he stumbled.

You slink off the ice and slip guards on over your blades, not wanting to risk any damage from the rubber or accidentally set your blade on something one of the hockey players left behind. The walls are adorned with colourful banners celebrating local hockey teams, figure skaters, and upcoming events. Scuffed benches line the corridor, providing a spot for spectators and players to rest or lace up their skates. As you peer down the corridor, your fears are proven to be true.

Sitting down long rows of benches or standing up and blocking the halls is the hockey team that you were so careful to avoid. Quickly you begin to unlace your skates, hurriedly grabbing your duffle bag from your locker and tucking the skates inside.

Of course, they line themselves up perfectly to block the entrance. It wasn't the people themselves that you were irritated by but how loud they were when they were all together. Even when your headphones were in and the volume turned to the max you could still hear them yelling and cackling no matter where you were in the building.

The best part of winter was how the snow acted like soundproofing for the whole world and made everything really quiet though the hockey team was quick to cancel that out with their crude jokes. Aside from Craig's boyfriend, you hadn't spoken to anyone on the team as far as you knew.

Their bulky gear makes the narrow passage even tighter. You adjust your bag on your shoulder and take a deep breath, weaving your way through the crowd.

"Excuse me," you say politely, trying to slip past them. The boys are engrossed in their conversation, their roughhousing spilling over into your path. One of the boys pushes his friend onto you and has you stumbling away, trying to keep your balance.

Just as you think you've made it through, one of them swings his hockey stick at the punchline of a joke, not noticing you. The butt end of the stick catches you squarely in the stomach, the impact knocking the wind out of you. The pain is immediate and intense. It's not just a surface-level ache but a deep, visceral throb that spreads outward from the point of impact. Your breath catches in your throat, and a gasp escapes your lips as you double over instinctively, clutching your stomach.

The laughter stops immediately, and the boy who hit you looks horrified. His blue eyes are filled with instant regret as they draw wide. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” he exclaims, rushing to your side. His friends gather around, awkwardly glancing around at each other.

"It's fine," You say through laboured breaths. It definitely was not fine.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine worry. You nod, still trying to catch your breath. He gently helps you up, his hands finally finding a firm grip on your arm and shoulder. As you stand, you notice the way he's looking at you, his eyes studying the features of your face.

For a moment, he's stunned, his gaze locked on your face. In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway, he takes in the delicate curve of your jaw, the light glinting off your eyes, and the way your hair frames your face, slightly disheveled but pretty nonetheless. He seems momentarily lost, his apology stuck in his throat as he's struck by you up close.

He recognized you as Craig's partner and the girl he passed in the hallway who wouldn't spare him a glance, he tried to approach you on several occasions but your headphones were always in and you didn't even notice him trying to talk to you through the music blasting in your ears, leaving him humbled. He had his eyes on you for a while, you were what his little sister referred to as a hallway crush- someone he thought was attractive when he saw you in passing but had never properly spoken to.

The pain and shock have left you somewhat dazed, and his sudden proximity only intensifies that feeling. You pull your arm away from his grip "Please don't touch me."

"Do you want-

"No," You dismiss him before he even starts "It's fine." Despite the pain gnawing at your stomach, you manage to shoulder your duffle bag and hurridly stagger out of the exit

Kenny blinks, snapping out of his daze and running a hand through his blonde shaggy hair. "I'm so sorry," he calls after you, his voice more earnest now though his eyes travel down your body and take in the way your leggings cling to your legs.

Stan abruptly smacks him on the arm, it is still felt through the padding "You are such a dick, Kenny."

"What?" He swerves his head to look at Stan "I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to stare at her ass?"

"Um, yes?" He had spent months trying to talk to you when you didn't have headphones in, and now that moment finally happened he had fumbled so badly that it was over before it even started.

"Kenny, that is not what happened," Stan calls out his friend's incredibly incorrect account of the night before. The school hallways were far from barren, students rushed back and forth, slamming their lockers shut and hunting down their friends.

"So what actually happened?" Kyle asked, digging through his locker, back turned to his friends.

"Kenny hit her," Stan says.

"Why would you hit her?"

"I didn't mean to," Kenny retorts, "I was making a joke and I accidentally hit her with my stick."

"He was making a joke and fucking winded her," Stan corrects.

"She was not winded-

"She was keeling over, clutching her stomach, and coughing." He remembered getting sucker punched by Shelly right beneath his ribs and imagined that you were feeling something similar when you were hit. "Oh and then she asked him not to touch her."

"I wouldn't want this freak touching me either if I were her," Kyle shoves a textbook into his backpack and zips it up.

"What do you mean by that?" Kenny furrows his eyebrows though is question goes unanswered.

"Hey Slumlord, Jewrat, Stan," Cartman disrupts the conversation, joining their little circle in the hallway "What's going on?"

"Kenny hit a girl," Stan says.

"Nice man," Cartman gives Kenny a firm pat on the back, leaving Kyle to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

"Dude, stop, I actually feel bad about it," Kenny says, chewing the inside of his mouth, thoughts focused on the little glimpses he caught of you.

"No, you don't," Kyle slings his backpack on after grabbing his phone from a pocket "You just want to get laid."

"Why can't it be both?" He was almost wistful.

"Who's this chick you're in love with?" Cartman asked. Lately, he wasn't as up-to-date on his friend's matters as he'd like to be, being left out of an inside joke to him was a fate worse than death.

"This girl who skates with Craig," Kenny shoves his hands into the pockets of his old warn jeans. Part of him was regretting leaving his jacket in his locker, winter in Colorado was cold no matter if you were inside or not "And I'm not in love with her, I just like looking at her."

"Maybe talk about this with someone as gross as you," Kyle doesn't bother to look up from his game of Candy Crush, he had an addiction though he would never admit to it. He would act oblivious whenever someone asked him if he was playing it.

Something catches Kenny's eye, you brush past the group without even casting them a glance. Kenny excuses himself and trails behind you, trying to catch your attention.

As you stand at your locker, the music blaring in your ears serves as a shield from the outside world. The thrashing guitar drowns out the noise of the bustling hallway, wrapping you in your own private bubble of sound. You were preparing yourself to spend your lunch period studying and trying to ignore the ache in your stomach from the night prior.

Unbeknownst to you, Kenny approaches, his footsteps barely registering over the music. He hesitates for a moment, watching you carefully as you focus on organizing your books and belongings. His lips move, forming words he hopes will reach you through the barrier of your headphones.

"Hey," he says, his voice gentle but unheard amidst the din in your ears.

You continue to rummage in your locker, oblivious to his presence. Kenny clears his throat softly, trying again to get your attention. He gestures towards you, a small smile on his face, but you don't notice.

He takes a step closer, his hand hovering near your shoulder as he tries to catch your eye though he retracts it after recalling the way you shook him off previously. "Hey," he repeats, a little louder this time.

Finally, you glance up, startled to see Kenny standing there, a grin playing on his face. You quickly pull out your headphones, and the music is abruptly silenced. You stare at him, silently waiting for him to continue.

It takes him a beat to realize and then he picks up where he left off, "Just wanted to say I'm sorry about last night."

"You already did."

"Uh, yeah," he chuckles, rubbing the nape of his neck. You were now getting a good look at his face. He had a nice smile, dimples, most notably a faint little scar over the bridge of his nose and a silver piercing through his right eyebrow "I just felt really bad, let me make it up to you and buy you lunch?"

"I packed my own," You said flatly.

"Do you like coffee?"

You didn't even think about entertaining this idea, you swiftly shook your head. "I'm not good company," Before giving him another chance to speak, you put your headphones back in, moving past him.

Kenny had been rejected a handful of times, namely in middle school, but yours hit him the worst.

You weren't one to recklessly date or recklessly do anything really. All that mattered was achieving a top ranking in your country and eventually making your way to the Olympics, everything else was an afterthought or a stepping stone to get there.

There were some days when you would eat lunch with Craig, though with Tweak being so jumpy, you spent most days you did as you are doing now. Eating lunch alone in your English class. As you push the door open, you see Mrs. Miller typing on her laptop, she looks towards the door and gives you a little smile as you enter.

She was a middle-aged Filipino woman with the most beautiful black hair you had ever seen. It fell down to the small of her back and shined like silk under the harsh lights in the school. You first had her as your teacher in the ninth grade, after writing a paper about skating she told you that she was once a skater. Mrs. Miller quickly became your favourite teacher. You were now in your senior year and still you spent lunch wallowing in her classroom.

Pausing at her desk, you unzip your bag and pull out a little package wrapped in parchment and secured in a bow of twine. She looks up from her papers, her warm smile inviting you to continue. "It's a cream cheese pound cake. I made it last night."

Her eyes light up with genuine appreciation. "Thank you, this is my favourite part of the day." She takes the pound cake from you, her smile growing even wider. Being as avid of a baker as you were, there was far too much excess to leave to go bad, you didn't really have friends to give them to so you let your step-dad bring it to work though you always brought a little bit for Mrs. Miller as a little thanks for letting you stay in her classroom.

You sit in the corner of the classroom, no one dares enter during lunch, you always thought that the students must have feared the written word. The usual hum of voices and clatter of footsteps is replaced by the soft rustle of pages as you study. Your lunch, a simple sandwich and an apple, rests on the desk beside your notebook, untouched for now. The sun filters through the windows, casting a warm glow on the bookshelves lined with classics and contemporary novels.

As you take a bite of your sandwich, somewhat disappointed in the combination you had chosen. Your eyes flittered to your phone rather than to your work, in mere moments you had abandoned studying in favour of looking at baking recipes on Pinterest, saving the ones that caught your eye and humming quietly to your music.

Which recipe would you make that night to settle after skating? Your mom loved lemons but your step-dad was a die-hard chocolate guy though he would really eat whatever you baked and brag about it to his friends at work.

"Mrs. Miller?" You take your headphones out and look at her.

"Yes?" She looks up from her papers, her warm smile inviting you to continue.

"Would you rather have lemon loaf or black forest brownies?" Some might think it sad that you only had two friends and one of them was your English teacher but you didn't find an ounce of loneliness in it.

"Hm," She leans back in her chair, thinking long and hard over it before coming to her conclusion "Oh, both sound great, but I think I gotta say black forest brownies, never had them before."

You answer her with a little thumbs up and scribble it down in your notes. Sifting through the internet for a recipe, you find one and start tweaking it to your liking, After crossing out measurements and ingredients and then filling them back in, you snap a picture and send it to your step-dad.

New Message- FIFA man

You: Thoughts?

FIFA man: Looks awesome kiddo 😎❤️😘

FIFA man: I'll pick you up from skating ⛸ tonight 🌃

You: Is mom working tonight?

FIFA man: Yes 👍

FIFA man: Do you need a ride 🚗 there?

You: No, Craig's driving me

FIFA man: Cool 😎 tell him I say hi 👋

FIFA man: Do you want takeout 🥡 or chicken 🐓 and veg 🌽🥕🥦🥬???

You: Chickens good

FIFA man: Awesome 😎🤠🥰😇

FIFA man: I need to grocery 🍎🥐🥩🥬🥑 shop 🛍 tomorrow

FIFA man: Send me a list pls 📝

You: Okay

FIFA man: Love you 🤬

You: ?

You: Are you mad?

FIFA man: No 🥶

You: Why did you use the cursing emoji?

FIFA man: I thought it was kissing 🤔 LOL IJBOL 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Todd overused emojis to the point his texts were hard to read, but you always caught yourself giggling at them. You turn up the volume on your phone, letting your favourite music fill your ears as you take another bite of your sandwich. The melody shifts your thoughts back to the ice rink. You can almost feel the cold air and hear the sound of blades cutting through ice. Figure skating has always been your escape, a separate world where a blade stood between you and the ice. You remember the exhilaration of landing a perfect jump, and the applause from the audience, it was like a drug, little hits of dopamine each time you heard that familiar cheering from strangers in the crowd, it was the only loud sound you wanted to hear.

As the song plays, you imagine yourself skating to it. Each note guides your movements, from the elegant arcs of your arms to the powerful sweeps of your legs. You visualize the choreography in your mind, picturing how you would translate the music into a captivating routine. The swells of the hymn dictate your jumps and spins, while the softer passages call for graceful glides and delicate footwork.

You were really one to dream away your time. Every program you watched, you imagined what it was like to be them, to feel what they did, to see what they did. It consumed you entirely.

Mrs. Miller had always tried to get you out of your shell, pairing you with the loud kids in class, and assigning public speaking assignments, but you always wound up coming back into her classroom to soak in the quiet soft scribble of her red correction pen.

Kenny was never keen on waking up early. Though he had recently been inclined to pick up more shifts at work, meaning he would be skipping several practices and had to make up the time elsewhere. He dragged his hockey bag behind him as he entered the rink. In the winter, it was dark almost all of the time, by the time he reached the arena, the sun wasn't even out yet.

He checked the time sheet posted upfront to be sure no one had booked the ice time, luckily he was in the clear. Kenny didn't bother to put all of his gear on, he just shed his thick coat, leaving him in a hoodie and sweatpants while he laced up his skates and shook the now-melting snow from his hair. There was no need for all of the padding when he would be the only one in there, boring himself to death doing technique work.

"Kenny?" Coach Trevor pokes his head out of his office. His face splits into a smile when he spots Kenny on the bench "Good seeing you buddy, didn't expect you to be here bright and early."

"Me neither," He shakes his head slightly.

"We missed you last night at practice."

"Uh, yeah, sorry, I've been working more, I'm just trying to juggle everything right now." Kenny stood up and shifted his weight, fiddling with the worn tape on his hockey stick.

Trevor's brow furrowed in concern. "I understand the need to work, Kenny, but your performance on the ice is slipping. You're falling behind on your drills and your conditioning. It's not just about showing up; it's about being present and giving it your all."

"I'll, uh- ask if they can switch my schedule around," He lied through his teeth. Kenny couldn't quit his job to play hockey or cut down his hours, he wouldn't even be able to afford to play hockey if he didn't have a job.

"Okay," Trevor gives him a thin-lipped smile and a firm pat on the shoulder "Let me know how it goes and we can work something out."

"You got it," He returns the smile, giving the coach a little thumbs up. Trevor retreated back into his office as Kenny entered the abnormally quiet rink. His brief conversation with Trevor was enough to make him want to lie down on the ice and wait until the cool air of the rink froze him whole.

That feeling of desolation melted away the second he saw you on the other side of the arena. Across the rink, you are engrossed in your own world, skating solo on a secluded patch of ice. Your headphones are in and you're buried deep in concentration. You execute each move with precision, lost in the rhythm and flow of your routine.

Like a shot of caffeine, he suddenly didn't feel tired, straightening up his posture as he stepped onto the ice. The first few glides were always the most exhilarating, a reminder of why he loved the sport like he was weightless.

If you had noticed him enter, you gave no indication, not even a quick look in his direction. It was just you and your music, shifting gracefully along the sleet. Your arms swayed above your head, controlled and elegant like the wings of a swan.

First was the axel. You skated backward, building up speed before launching into the air with a powerful push from your right leg. Your body rotated mid-air, arms tucked in tightly, and time seemed to slow for a moment. You landed smoothly on your left foot, the blade biting into the ice, a soft scrape marking your descent.

Next, you transitioned seamlessly into a toe loop. You approached the jump with a series of elegant crossovers, each movement precise and calculated. Planting the toe pick of your right skate into the ice, you used it as a pivot to leap into the air, your body spinning in a controlled rotation. The landing was crisp, your knees bending slightly to absorb the impact. With every movement, you thought of each correction Katya had given you.

With barely a pause, you moved into a sequence of spins. Starting with a camel spin, you extend your right leg behind you, your body bending forward in a perfect horizontal line. The spin began slowly, the centrifugal force pulling at your outstretched limbs, then gradually sped up as you pulled your arms and leg in tighter. The world blurred around you, the only constant the center of your spin.

Kenny found himself in awe of your movement. He had never seen you skate and frankly hadn't expected you to be so good. He tightened his grip on his stick, pushing off with purpose and shaking the thoughts from his head. Kenny was here to practice, not to watch you run a routine.

However, as he skated, his eyes kept drifting towards you. You were in your element, gliding effortlessly across the ice, your movements fluid and precise. The sight of you skating with such grace captivated him, drawing his attention away from his own drills.

Without realizing it, Kenny's focus wavered. His skates lost their cadence, and his mind wandered as he watched you execute another flawless turn. He failed to notice the approaching sideboard in that split second of distraction.

Suddenly, reality snapped back into focus as Kenny collided hard with the sideboard, the impact jolting through his body. He winced in pain, clutching his shoulder where it had taken the brunt of the crash. His collision echoed through the rink, drawing your attention at last.

Maybe it had been karma for hitting you so hard the night but good lord, he was hurting. "Are you okay?" You take out one headphone, sliding into a stop to watch him

"She speaks," He says, somewhat winded but his voice carries a teasing lilt. You just stare at him, waiting for a proper answer, not feeling pressure to push further for one. Kenny uses the sideboard to yank himself up, wiping the shavings from the ice off him and then looking at you "Yes, I'm okay."

You nod in the slightest, moving to put your headphones back in but in the seconds before it connects to your ear, he seized the moment.

"I'm Kenny."

"Yeah, I know."

"You know?" He asks, a lopsided smile on his face "How?"

"You're-" You pause, you didn't exactly know how to phrase it but you had seen him in the halls with his friends, screaming in the locker room, and hitting up girls. If anything, you were an observer, a wallflower as opposed to a Venus fly trap.

"A whore?" He asks. You open your mouth to speak but close it right away, letting the words die in your throat "Oh, jeez, you really think I am?"

"I was going to say, you talk a lot" You say, politely.

"Well, compared to you, yeah." He waits another beat for you to respond but is met with nothing but a blank stare. Kenny let out a breath, a little cloud escaping from his mouth "Nah, I get it, you're shy."

"I'm not shy," You say, feeling yourself cringe at the word. You hated when people called you that, they tended to be the same who treated you like a pet since you couldn’t fit a word in between their constant back and forth "I just like my-" You rack your brain for the right word "Aloneness."

"Then I will leave you to your aloneness," He says, reaching back for his stick and turning away from you. Kenny weaved through invisible cones with the puck like he was actually practising with his team, focusing on control and precision. He kept his eyes up, forcing himself to rely on his peripheral vision to navigate.

You really didn't care what he did, without another thought you unpause your music and go back into your movements. You changed into a sit spin and sank yourself into a low squat without slowing down. Your arms made a graceful arc above your head, and your left leg extended in front of you, toes pointing. The sensation was both thrilling and disorienting as the ice whirled beneath you during the quick and low spin.

You changed into a layback spin as soon as you got out of the sit spin. Your back arched flawlessly, head tipped back, eyes closed, the ceiling of the rink a faraway haze. Your free leg was raised slightly behind you as your arms softly curved around your head.

Finishing your spins, you took a moment to catch your breath, the music in your headphones guiding your next movements. From the corner of your eye, you see Kenny doing the exact opposite of what he said. He's staring at you from the other side.

His eyebrows furrow deep, the way you twist and turn your body replaying in his mind on repeat until he notices you watching him, crossing your arms "How do you do your crossovers like that?"

You stare him dead in the eyes and point at your figure skates, a different type of blade entirely.

"Yeah, figure skates, I know but my crossovers are so clunky and yours are just- clean." He knew how you did yours, probably hours, weeks, and years of practicing longer and relentlessly than he did. Also, the fact you were trained for grace and agility while he was trained for speed and strength. He just wanted to dig for ways to get you to talk to him.

"Show me how you do yours," you say, tone flat. "Forwards and backwards."

Kenny took a deep breath, positioning himself on the ice. He started his crossovers, his movements stiff and deliberate. His knees were slightly bent, but his weight seemed unevenly distributed, causing his skates to scrape awkwardly against the ice semi-purposefully. He plays it up in hopes that you'll correct him.

"First, bend your knees slightly- not too much. Keep your core engaged and your weight centred over your skates."

Kenny bent his knees a bit more and adjusted his posture, arms out at his sides. "Like this?"

You bite your lip, wanting to cringe at his positioning though you were raised too well to do so. "I- Can I show you?"

"Be my guest," There it is, just what he was looking for. You skated to his side, demonstrating the correct posture. Kenny studies your form, attempting to mimic it "Better?"

"No," you said bluntly. "Not like that." With a sigh, you skated closer and placed your hands on his shoulders, adjusting them to be more relaxed. "Relax your shoulders. You're too tense."

Kenny's breath caught slightly at your touch, but he quickly tried to hide it. "This good?"

"Yup," you replied, moving your hands to his hips, guiding his posture. "Now, shift your weight over your skates, keep your core engaged. Feel the balance." Skating felt like the only thing you could talk about. Usually, you just didn't speak when you had nothing to say but skating gave you purpose.

Your proximity made the air between you feel charged, and for a moment, Kenny forgot he was supposed to be pretending. "Alright, I think I've got it."

You step back slightly but still close enough to correct him if needed. "Now, when you cross one foot over the other, push off with the edges of your skates. It's about finding a fluid motion."

You showed off a couple of crossovers, and you moved with ease and fluidity. With elegance, your left foot crossed over your right, and you leaned slightly into the turn while keeping perfect balance.

Kenny tried again, this time paying more attention to your instructions. His movements were still awkward, but there was a noticeable improvement. He looked at you for validation.

"Better," you said, your tone softening slightly. "But you're still too stiff. Relax your upper body more." You placed your hands on his shoulders again, gently pushing them down. "Let your legs guide you."

Kenny nodded, feeling the warmth of your hands through his hoodie. He took a deep breath and tried again, bending his knees, relaxing his shoulders, and tilting into the turn. This time, his movements felt smoother and more controlled. He could feel the fluidity you had described, he didn't come into this actually intending to learn something but he stood corrected.

"Listen to your skating, if it looks like this," You sweep your leg back, pushing off the ice to demonstrate "And it sounds like that, you're using one leg, it should be two. You should hear the rip on the ice, go again."

Kenny does as told and you see him implementing what you had said "Looks good," you nod, already skating away to continue your routine. Kenny watched you for a moment, admiring your skill, feeling the lingering warmth of your touch.

He skated closer, a playful glint in his eyes. "I think I need a bit more help. You know, hands-on guidance really works for me."

You look back at him, putting your headphones in as you do so "I think you're fine."

Every minute you spent on the ice that morning, you savoured it like you would never have it again. It was easy for you to ignore Kenny's staring, it was just like a miniature audience. Having eyes on you never hindered your performance and maybe that was why you found it so easy to ignore people.

Unfortunately, you had to leave the rink eventually. While you didn't mind school, you weren't thrilled for it- particularly the awkwardness that came about when you had to pick partners. Your grades weren't by any means perfect but you managed to keep your above water just enough to skate as often as you did.

You begin the ritual of unlacing your pristinely kept skates, Kenny sitting on the bench across from you doing the same. You slip your shoes on, tucking your skates away and look up at him "Have you had breakfast yet?"

His head shot up, face lighting up. His lips curved into an easy, charming smile and you could understand how he drew so much attention without trying "No, do you wanna get some?"

"No," you said, curtly.

"Oh," his face dropped but he still kept a staggered smile, watching you reach into your bag.

"Do you want these?" You pulled a box from your tote bag, holding it out to Kenny. "They're brownies, I made too many," That was only half true. You made a lot, figuring your stepdad would take them to work for the staff to munch on but he insisted that you should bring them to school and hand them out like high school students initiated friendships by passing baked goods back and forth.

"Don't you wanna give them to your friends?" Kenny asks and you shake your head. You had already set Mrs. Miller's brownie apart, wrapping it in parchment like you always did and most days you didn't see Craig until you skated at night. "Sweet," He muttered reaching over to take the box from your grip.

"You can share them with your friends," You say slinging your duffle over your shoulder and holding your tote bag in hand. Kenny wasted no time digging into the brownies, he had the box on his lap one brownie in hand as he sunk his teeth into it.

"Hell no, they don't deserve this," he says between bites "I'm keeping this to myself."

There was always that little sense of pride when someone was enjoying what you baked. Usually, you would eavesdrop on your parents while they ate your baking to be sure they genuinely liked it. Kenny's reaction almost had you smiling. Almost.

"Are you leaving already?" Kenny asked as you walked away, headphones back on and deaf to whatever he was saying "Okay, bye.”

A/N: I rewrote this a bajillion times and I’m still not happy with it but I don’t have the strength in me for another rewrite so here she is ✊

#south park #south park x reader #south park x y/n #kenny mccormick #kenny sp #craig tucker #sp kenny #south park kenny #kenny mccormick x reader #kenny mccormick x y/n #kenny mcormick x reader #kenny mcormick headcanons #kenny mccormick headcanons

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