#I know about the Temple of Time thing for sure

[billysgirllol]

“i sure did, babydoll.” a chipper sound in her country accent, smiling after that because she remembers how much it irritated her when he got grumpy about her calling him babydoll out of habit last time. hopefully it serves to annoy him again. “why not? you might as well, since you went ignorin’ my—” kiss, “affection back there and went swimmin’ off, ignorin’ ME.” she reminds, irritation making her temples hurt. “for being an ass.” for doing the things she just mentioned. “you said don’t, i say do.” smearing some chocolate off her leg onto his, pushing the boat to go faster, steering it around to purposely make the drunks roll on their backs. “what? i’m a bedrest now? get off, you’re makin’ me sweaty.” shimmying her shoulders, since he didn’t want to accept her affection. “you know i’m better too by the way, don’t gotta act like you don’t know that.”

glares shooting around at each drunken individual, she wonders how drunk billy has gotten too if the rest of these irresponsible goons ARE. the pull of the boat slowing forward and sending gravity to send HER almost rolling forward again has more frustration tensing her bones, hand clutching his seat even tighter. “HAY is for horses!” lucy gray barks back, mocking him when warm eyes meet sharp pale ones. she thinks his icy hues could actually be scary to some when he looks mad, but to her she’s not scared of a thing. stopping her jabbing when she realizes she’s poking him too hard but still throwing her finger in the air at him, “me?! me… ha, ha. funny. you’re a real prankster, huh? no it’s just you! i promise you that one. just YOU. mr. goes ignorin’ me for the past hour or WHATEVER, lost track of time of your bullshit.” since he claims she’s been purposely hanging with pat!? “he talks at least, unlike you.” finger keeps pointing, anger welling all up in her chest furiously and suffocatingly, “slingin’ me all over the place! that’s not careful— or either you’re just a horrible driver, maybe you should let ole patty try.” since he’s so weirdly OBSESSED with this guy, why not provoke him some more about him then since it makes her livid.

[jesuistrestriste]

https://www.tumblr.com/jesuistrestriste/785761202958680064/i-sent-in-the-thing-about-interchangeable-dicks

what about scissoring with the ken doll mound hmmmmmmm

cw (18+) : switch (sub-leaning) android!art, switch (dom-leaning) afab!reader, skin-to-skin humping, art has ken doll anatomy down there, “scissoring” with robo art

“like this?” he shudders, shaking on the elbows that keep his upper half propped up opposite you, “is this right?”

you tip your head back when he shifts, his left leg on top of your right one and his right one under your left one—slotting your bodies together perfectly so that your naked arousals finally meet and press, a moan spilling from your wet lips.

“god, y-yeah.. that’s good, just hold that for a second.. let me try to—“

you grip one of his calves, nails digging into his artificial flesh as you attempt to get even closer. for a moment, you almost worry about breaking the skin there and causing his cobalt blood to seep out from the crescent-shaped marks that would surely be left behind, but you’re far too blissed-out to remain concerned with that for long.. and anyway, he can’t feel pain.

he does feel your grip tighten, though. he sucks in a quick breath of air at the pressure before his hips jump and cause his mound to smush further against your own. the warmth of his skin is crushing, all-consuming, and you feel his silicone-like anatomy become slick with your wetness. the vacant port that can be used to attach optional appendages at the very top of his pubic region bumps your swollen clit repeatedly. it stings pleasantly, like the throb of a fever, and sends a burning ache through you that you’ve never quite felt before; it’s like you’re being kissed all over from the inside-out.

“ohh—!” he whines involuntarily, his eyes fluttering. his hands curl in the sheets as he begins to realize what he’s supposed to do. each roll of his pelvis against yours elicits lewd, squelching noises from where you two connect, the friction beginning to quickly build a tidal wave of pleasure in your gut. you tense up. your back arches. you let him service you.

he can handle it, you’re sure of that. it’s what he was made for.

“is this how it works? i’m—haah—supposed to move like this, right? i—“ art swallows around a whimper when his body reflexively curls inward and then relaxes with the mounting heat in his systems. the words die on his lolling tongue. he’s ‘orgasmed’ before, many times now that he’s figured out how to work his accidentally (and intentionally) engineered erogenous zones with you, but this one feels.. different. there’s something primal about the sudden instinct he has to rut against your cunt like he’s nothing more than a depraved animal—when in reality, he’s anything but. he knows he shouldn’t be able to perform this sort of intimate act with you and get anything from it, it’s not really a part of his programming to receive, but oh wow.. he’s never felt so happy about the prospect of his imminent deviation..

the LED ring on his temple flicks from blue to red.

you nod, releasing your grasp on his limb to mimic his actions and tug at the bedding underneath your sticky body. in the midst of your panting, you get a good look at the android in front of you. his eyes squeezed shut, and his lips parted deliriously, and his muscly abdomen convulsing, and his thighs beginning to quake against yours. how could a being made from metal and plastic and polymer look so human in the throes of ecstasy? it makes your toes curl while you watch him frantically chase his climax. you wonder if he even knows how amazing he is.

“fuck,” you gasp, the coil in your stomach pulling taut like a stretched rubber band, about to snap and spill over, “fuck, fuck, fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop, i’m going to come..!”

your head is spinning like you’re tipsy. you see art’s face crumple with what you can only assume is mutual agony. he rubs himself against you quicker, sloppier, losing his rhythm in record-time as he feels the metal ring of his empty port, and the sensitive hill housing it, swirl with sensation.

more, more, more, almost, almost, almost..!

something about those warning words coming from your mouth always send art into a spiral. he mewls at first, like he’s in pain, and then he’s crying out desperately; it trails off into something staticky and unlike him near the end—no longer indicative of the reserved, calm, kind robot you got to know, him now dissolving into something borderline pornographic and crude. you want to stick your fingers in his mouth and play with his false spit. you want to watch the way his eyes roll back as you fiddle with the back of his throat, the absence of a gag reflex making it easy to feel it tighten around your digits. he’d love that. maybe next time. right now, you’re about to tip into something dangerously close to death.

“i’m so close,” he beats you to the punch with a sharp and urgent whine, pulling out a phrase he learned from you, a signal to declare his descent into the welcoming bath of release, “i’m close, can i come yet?”

it’s easy to say yes, easy to nod and groan and whimper along with him. you’re certain that you will not be a mere second behind him.

“yes—come with me, come for me, i don’t care, i just want to feel you let go,” you seize up, teetering, your frame locking and nearly seizing, “i’m right here with you—“

his right hand flies up; he groans gutturally as he searches blindly for something that takes a moment to articulate. his cognitive systems are short-circuiting. they usually do when he’s a hair’s breadth away from it all.

“hold my hand? please? hold my—m-my—ha-hand, please—“

your fingers are interlocking with his instantly, and he squeezes like he’s being pulled apart. he humps you like a rabbit. it’s incapacitating.

“shit!” you squeal.

“aaagh!” he keens, “put your finger in my—“

he doesn’t even have to finish the sentence before your free index finger is plunging into the port and pressing into an exposed bit of wiring hidden inside. the metal is scorching, it almost sizzles against your skin, but you hardly perceive it.

and that’s all it takes, truly.

he breaks.

his entire lower body bears down against your own as his electronic insides fire overwhelmingly with an orgasm that is almost powerful enough to forcefully shut him down. he lets out a long, wet, jagged wail that morphs into a sob and a yelp when he feels your fluids squirt over him, and it only fuels his rapture.

your own finish syncs with his, tethered by his aggressive movements, your bundle of nerves being viciously rubbed up and down. you feel yourself pulse and contract with every thrum of it. the synthetic skin of the hand of his that’s holding yours begins to deactivate from how tightly he clutches you there, and you watch through your low lashes as pretty, white chassis is revealed. you love when that happens because it really just means he’s feeling too good to stop it.

“i’m coming!”

“me too—“

“don’t fucking stop..!”

“everything’s happening, i feel so—i can’t, i can’t, i can’t—“

you both writhe against one another until the nice feelings border on painful from overstimulation. your digit slides out of his opening and lazily drags over his spent mound, which makes him twitch and whimper. the sound of your bodies collapsing back down into the mattress, accompanied by the dual, greedy intake of oxygen, signifies that the satisfaction is shared. your hands slip apart, but it’s okay because you’re both still intensely aware of the others’ presence. you need each other right now, that’s how it always is after sex.

his white fingertips—synth-skin still deactivated—play absentmindedly with yours. he seeks out your comfort; a shiver runs down your spine.

“i think i came really hard,” he breaks the verbal silence, his voice barely above an exhausted whisper, “did it look like i did?”

art always wants some confirmation after you two get physical that you liked what you saw. he prides himself on being nice for you to look at, and loves that his appearance helps you get off.

how could it not when he always looks so gorgeously indecent?

you laugh breathlessly.

“yeah.. looked like you did. did it look like i did?”

a contemplative hum leaves his heaving chest. a blonde ringlet of hair clings to his flushed face.

“i.. i’m sorry, i think i was too—.. i think my eyes were closed too tight.. i wanted to see you, but everything just went dark and..” he bites at his bottom lip.

the sound of his internal fans going makes you laugh again. you brush your nails against his wrist.

“i’m just teasing, it’s okay.”

“.. okay.”

a long beat of quiet passes, but there’s not even an ounce of unease between you.

“how do you feel?” you murmur.

“good, yeah. really good.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

another beat. he gently squeezes your fingers in his, sucking in a soft gasp.

“i think i might need to reboot.”

a third, affectionate burst of laughter is all that he hears before his eyes close peacefully, letting him melt into the afterglow. you know he’ll be back online the moment you try to slip out of bed.

that’s just how he is.

and he’s perfect.

tags : @voidsuites @asheepinfrance @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @andyrambles @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet @lacelottie

[super-ion]

@shiftertech ! I did a horse thing!

~~~

I stared out at the magestorm… at least I thought it was a magestorm. Whatever it was wasn't normal and it had Layla on edge long before we reached this mountain pass.

I still don't even know how I can describe it. The entire mountain pass was choked with shifting boulders as big as houses. Occasionally a rush of water would leak out with a burst of light.

We were supposed to be surveying, measuring the strength of the lay lines, but clearly nobody knew they had gotten this tangled.

“This is bad,” Layla gasped, finally breaking our combined shocked silence.

“How bad?” I asked cautiously.

“Really bad,” she said. “Like there's an entire ocean on the other side of that and it's ready to flood the entire valley if the storm breaks.”

I thought about all of the towns and villages we passed on the way here. Hell, even the capital sat on this river.

“We have to warn someone,” Layla said. “And quickly. Like right now before it gets any worse.”

“So… use the scry stone.”

“I can't,” she replied, “there's too much interference this close to the magestorm. I tried it last night.”

I hefted the heavy pack on my shoulders. Fat lot of good all this thaumaturgic equipment was doing us out here.

“Yeah, well, I'm fresh out of horses,” I grumbled. “And I don't think the old nag at the village down the valley would be up to the task either.”

Something in the distance creaked ominously and a fresh gout of water spurted out, swelling the banks of the streambed.

If we walked, could we even make it to the nearest town in time?

“Layla…” I began.

“Shut up! I'm trying to think!” she snipped back as she rubbed her temples.

“Well, think faster.”

Her eyes shot open and she scowled at me. But her glare turned to something curious and she cocked her head.

I knew that expression. I'd seen her wear it many times when examining a particularly interesting puzzle. I usually found it endearing… but right at this moment, when it was directed at me, I found it more than a little alarming.

“We need a horse,” she announced.

“Um… where are we… going to…”

I suddenly had a bad feeling about this.

“Maye,” she said. “I need to transform you into a horse.”

“What!? No! Why me?”

She put on a sympathetic expression and put her hands on my shoulders.

“Because you're not a wizard, and I am,” she said. “Maye, you know I wouldn't ask if there was a better option.”

Boulders creaked again in the valley, but all of my attention was on the hands on my shoulders and her imploring expression.

This close, I could clearly make out every freckle in the spray across her nose, the tiny little scar on her eyebrow, those deep brown eyes begging me to do this.

Wasn't this what I wanted? To impress her, to show her my devotion to her and being her sword and shield?

(I would be lying if I said I wasn't also thinking about the idea of her riding me, though the context of this was a bit different from what I imagined)

I gave a nod and her face lit up in a way that melted my heart.

“You'll do it?” she asked.

“Yeah…”

She gave a delighted squeal and clapped her hands.

I was deeply conflicted by the juxtaposition of her delight and the creeping dread in my gut.

She unslung her pack and pulled out a notebook and a stylus along with a pocket sized reference text.

“Have you actually ever done a transmutation before?” I asked as she began sketching out runes on the page.

“I gave that jackrabbit antlers that one time,” she mused absently.

“You… but it never got changed back!” I protested.

The animal in question still roamed the grounds of the academy, attacking anyone who tried to capture it.

“Yeah, but theoretically, I know what I'm doing.”

I let out a sigh.

"Hey," she said, "don't worry. I won't rest until you're turned back, okay?"

Sure… let's do this. Fuck me up.

I give her a nod.

“Do you want to be a mare or a gelding?” she asked as she continued to sketch out the spell.

“Um… what's the difference?”

“One's a girl and one's…”

She paused and grimaced, trying to find the words.

“Well, it's…” she held up her hand, mining a snipping gesture. “Like you, I guess.”

I stared at her with my mouth open.

“You know what?” she said. “Let's do the gelding. That's one less thing to worry about changing.”

She casts another glance at me, her cheeks coloring more than they already were.

“You… um… might want to strip,” she said bashfully. “Don't want to… um… ruin your clothes or anything.”

Now my face was burning.

She was my wizard. Young and inexperienced as we both were, I had to trust her.

I turned my back and started removing my boots and tried really hard not to think about how I was really about to be totally naked in front of her.

We each worked our respective tasks in tense silence… at least my silence was tense. I hoped hers was calm and intense focus.

I neatly folded everything and packed it as best I could in my pack.

The mountain air was cold against my skin and I found myself shivering and willing her to finish soon. My hands instinctively moved to cover my breasts and the space between my legs. With each scratch of her pen, I found myself becoming somehow more and more self aware.

“There!” she announced finally. “Ready!”

I tried to keep my backside to her as I glanced over my shoulder to see her jump to her feet. She brandished the page that was now covered with equations and diagrams.

Then she froze, suddenly faced with the reality of her previous directive.

“I… um��� are you… pretty? I mean ready? You're pretty, I'm ready. Wait no… shit.”

Gods above and below, why did this have to happen like this?

“Do it,” I mumbled.

She nodded bashfully and did… whatever it is that she does to make the magic work. I admit that I have no idea-

The power of it hits me in the gut.

My body tries to resist at first, but she must have taken this into account because a creeping calm seeps into me even as the distant horrible wrongness of it builds inside me.

The next odd thing I notice are the colors of the world washing away. Reds fade to gray

Then a pop.

Layla makes a face that I try to ignore, but my attention is soon drawn to my lengething… snout? Do horses have snouts? Whatever it's called, it is strange on the deepest most visceral level.

My face lengthens before my eyes until it just… disappears from my sight. Then the world seems to spread apart as my eyes shift. Until this exact moment, I had taken for granted how narrow the human field of view was.

Another pop and suddenly I become aware that my ears can move independently.

My human mind fades slowly and I barely register as my body forces me onto my forelegs.

I should be surprised by the fact that my fingers have fused together. The single solid mass of my hooves thump loudly on the hard earth.

Why should it be strange to have hooves?

I toss my head and snort to shake out the strange question.

Power creeps into me.

Muscles strengthen.

Lungs expand.

I am ready to run.

I need to run.

A noise.

My ear flicks.

A human.

My human.

She says something.

I turn my head to face her.

Her body language is tense, but she remains still.

I know her.

I step towards her and nose at her outstretched hand.

She makes a noise.

It is a good noise.

Her hand wanders over my face and into my mane.

I lean into that touch.

I want to be close to her.

There is nothing I want more.

I watch her as she collects gear and stacks rocks atop them.

A glint of metal joins the pile.

A sword.

That sword is important.

I wicker in protest.

She makes a soothing noise and pats my neck.

We must travel light to make the best speed.

I trust her.

She trusts me.

She places no bridle or saddle on me. She simply clambors onto my back as I obediently stand still.

She is so close to me now.

Her body against mine.

I want this. I want to be what she needs me to be.

Right now she needs me to be fast.

I surrender to the instinct that she planted in my head.

We fly through the grasses in the wide valley.

My hooves thunder on the earth.

Each breath in rhythm with my stride.

My human grips my mane as wind whips past us.

She too falls into rhythm.

The passage of time outside of the rhythm becomes meaningless.

Only the freedom of motion and the feel of her on my back matter in this moment.

I gotta transform something, send me prompt ideas

[pandapetals]

Sunlight & Sawdust

A Collection of Drabbles

Summary: A collection of drabbles that take place after the series. All of them are sweet and fluffy, mostly with Ellie. Check out the series here.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

Content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, AU setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

Fix-It Joel

“Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes,” Joel grumbled confidently, glancing up at you from where he was half under the kitchen sink, flashlight clenched between his teeth and a wrench in hand.

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Mm-hmm. That’s what you said about fixing that door hinge last week. Pretty sure that took two hours and a trip to the hardware store.”

Joel shot you a look, pulling the flashlight out of his mouth. “That wasn’t my fault. Your door was crooked.”

You grinned, stepping a little closer. “Or maybe you just like finding excuses to hang around my house.”

He smirked, shaking his head as he tightened a bolt. “I don’t need excuses, sweetheart. I could just show up and you wouldn’t kick me out.”

“No, but I might put you to work,” you teased, leaning down and brushing a kiss to the top of his head.

Joel stilled for half a second, grumbling under his breath, “See, this is why it’s takin’ longer. Can’t concentrate with you hoverin’, distractin’ me.”

You straightened, grinning wider. “I barely did anything.”

“You kissed me.”

“A distraction that good deserves a break.” You reached for the coffee pot, pouring him a fresh cup and setting it by the edge of the sink.

Joel sighed, sitting back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said sweetly, taking a sip of your own coffee.

He reached out, snagging your wrist and tugging you down into his lap, your laughter filling the kitchen as he kissed you, slow and teasing.

“Faucet can wait,” he murmured against your lips.

“Told you it’d take longer than twenty minutes,” you whispered back, your smile pressed against his.

Joel just chuckled, tightening his arms around you. “Worth it.”

After a long stretch of kissing, Joel finally pulled back, his breath warm against your lips. His hands stayed on your face, rough thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

You opened your eyes to find him already watching you, that soft, quiet look in his gaze that he rarely let anyone else see.

He gave a small, lopsided smile, one corner of his mouth ticking up like he was half-afraid of what he was about to say.

“Y’know…” he started, his voice low, a little rough, “you could just move in with me.”

The words hung there, not rushed, not said like some casual afterthought, but honestly.

You blinked, your lips parting in surprise. “Joel…”

His fingers slid down, cupping your jaw, his gaze steady on yours. “I mean it, darlin’. I’m always here. Ellie’s got her space, you got yours. Hell, it already feels like you’re half livin’ at my place anyway.”

You smiled, the kind that made your eyes sting a little, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You sure about that, Miller? I’m a lot of woman to deal with.”

Joel chuckled softly, leaning in to brush his lips against your forehead. “Sweetheart, I’ve been dealin’ with you since the first time you smiled at me in that damn diner. Can’t imagine not havin’ you around now.”

You bit your lip, heart twisting. “I’ll think about it.”

He grinned, brushing another kiss to your temple. “Good.

Stealing His Flannel

You’d dropped Ellie off at school, locked up the flower shop for your lunch break, and on a whim, decided to surprise Joel at work. It wasn’t something you got to do often—the man was notorious for skipping lunch, claiming he was too busy or almost done with this one thing, which somehow always turned into three more hours.

So, when you made your way through the dusty construction site, dodging piles of lumber and stacks of drywall, you weren’t at all surprised to find Joel and Tommy bent over a makeshift desk outside, frowning at a blueprint like it had personally offended them.

You grinned, raising your hand in a playful wave. “Hey, handsome!”

Both men looked up at the same time.

Tommy smirked immediately, elbowing Joel as his brother’s eyes went wide.

Because you were wearing one of Joel’s old flannel shirts—the soft, worn one in that faded forest green he loved, sleeves rolled up and the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs.

Joel’s jaw flexed, his gaze dragging over you like he wasn’t sure whether to be flustered or march over and haul you behind the nearest stack of lumber.

“Well, shit,” Tommy laughed. “Ain’t she somethin’, big brother? You let her steal your clothes now?”

You shot Tommy a grin. “Borrowed is the word you’re looking for.”

“Borrowed, my ass,” Joel muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face like he was trying not to smile. “You dig that outta my drawer without askin’, didn’t you?”

You stepped closer, leaning your hip against the table and arching a brow. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it, Miller?”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “I am beggin’ you to keep this up, ‘cause this is the most fun I’ve had at work all week.”

Joel just shook his head, finally letting a crooked grin tug at the corner of his mouth. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, reaching out to tug you close by the belt loop of your jeans.

You leaned up, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “And you love it.”

He chuckled, squeezing your hip. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I do.”

Poppies & Proposals

“This movie is so boring, Joel,” you teased, your voice soft as you leaned against his shoulder, grinning up at him.

Joel let out a low chuckle and gave your thigh a playful swat. “Watch your mouth, darlin’,” he muttered, eyes never leaving the screen.

Before you could retort, Ellie whipped her head around from where she was curled up at the other end of the couch, shooting you a fierce little glare. “Mom, this movie isn’t boring! It’s so cool.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden defense of Joel’s pick, and couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

Joel looked over at you with a smug grin, his chest puffing up just a little. “See that? Kid’s got taste,” he said, throwing an arm over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder.

“Oh, sure,” you teased, nudging him. “Like an eight-year-old should be watching some cheesy, over-the-top, 80s action flick with terrible one-liners and way too many explosions.”

Ellie rolled her eyes dramatically, snuggling deeper into the blanket she’d swiped from your bed earlier. “It’s awesome,” she mumbled, her eyelids drooping even as she stubbornly tried to keep them open.

Joel smirked, his gaze softening as he watched her fight sleep. “She’s tryin’ so hard not to miss the big ending,” he murmured, voice low.

You shifted closer, your thigh pressed against his, warmth seeping between you. “She won’t make it,” you said quietly, and right on cue, Ellie let out a little sigh, her head tipping to the side as sleep finally claimed her.

Joel chuckled under his breath. “Told ya.”

You smiled, watching the peaceful rise and fall of Ellie’s chest. “She loves this,” you murmured, glancing up at him. “You. Nights like this.”

His jaw worked for a second, and then his hand found yours where it rested on the couch cushion. “Yeah,” he said softly, squeezing your hand. “Me too.”

You moved to stand, ready to scoop Ellie up and carry her to bed like you always did, but Joel was already ahead of you. His hand landed gently on your thigh, giving it a reassuring pat.

“I got her,” he murmured, his voice soft and steady.

You smiled, something tender curling in your chest as you watched him carefully lift Ellie into his arms. She curled against his shoulder without a sound, her little hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joel carried her upstairs, and you followed a few steps behind, lingering quietly in the doorway as he gently laid her down on her bed. He tucked the blanket up to her chin and placed her stuffed giraffe in the crook of her arm, brushing a stray curl off her cheek.

Just as he started to straighten, Ellie stirred. Her lashes fluttered, her voice thick with sleep as she mumbled, “Are you gonna marry my mom?”

Joel froze like a man caught in a trap. His hand hovered midair, his breath visibly catching in his throat.

You stiffened, feeling your heart lodge itself somewhere between your ribs.

Joel glanced back at you, eyes wide and startled in the dim glow of Ellie’s nightlight. For a long second, neither of you spoke. Then Ellie let out a tiny sigh and turned over, already lost again to sleep.

Joel ran a hand over his face, chuckling under his breath, though it sounded a little shaken. “Well… kid’s got timing,” he muttered.

You let out a quiet, nervous laugh, the tension breaking just a little as you stepped into the room and smoothed Ellie’s blanket.

“She loves you, you know,” you murmured. “More than she lets on.”

Joel’s gaze softened, the hard lines in his face easing. “Yeah,” he said quietly, voice thick. “I love her too.”

You both slipped out of Ellie’s room, the soft click of the door behind you swallowed by the quiet of the hallway. You lingered there for a moment, heart thudding too fast in your chest, hands twisting together as you searched for the right words.

“She… she didn’t mean—”

Joel was in front of you before you could finish, his hands gently cupping your face, his rough thumbs brushing over your cheeks in a way that made your breath catch. His eyes were so steady, so open in a way they hadn’t always been.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” he murmured. “Ain’t like I haven’t thought about it.”

Your breath hitched, lips parting in surprise. “Oh,” you whispered, a shy, nervous smile tugging at your mouth. “Joel… we just moved in together.”

“I know,” he chuckled, leaning his forehead against yours. “I ain’t rushin’ nothin’. Not gonna spook you.” He smiled, so soft and fond it made your chest ache. “Just… figured you should know that it’s crossed my mind. More than once.”

A warm, fluttering laugh bubbled up from your throat, and you reached up, resting your hands over his. “You’re terrible at being subtle, you know that?”

Joel grinned, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Good thing you like me anyway.”

You smiled widely, heart feeling a little too full as you tilted your head to kiss him right there in the hallway. “Yeah,” you whispered against his lips. “I really, really do.”

Rainy Day

You let out a quiet, contented sigh, burrowing a little deeper into Joel’s chest. The soft patter of rain against the window filled the room, steady and soothing, mixing with the gentle hum of some show neither of you were paying attention to.

Joel’s fingers moved lazily over your arm, tracing shapes and idle patterns against your skin. You could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, and it calmed something restless inside you.

“This is nice,” he murmured against the crown of your head.

You smiled softly. “Yeah,” you whispered, eyes slipping closed. “It is.”

“I used to do this with Sarah,” he said quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure he should.

Your heart clenched, but you didn’t move. You stayed right where you were, your hand resting over his chest, waiting.

“When she was little, she’d crawl up onto my lap on stormy nights,” he continued, his thumb brushing gently over your shoulder. “Always claimed she wasn’t scared of the thunder, but she wouldn’t leave my side ‘til the storm passed.”

You smiled faintly, a lump forming in your throat. “Sounds like she was smart.”

Joel let out a soft, fond chuckle. “Yeah… smarter than me, that’s for damn sure.” He was quiet for a beat. “She loved the rain. Used to say it made everything smell clean. Fresh. Like the whole world got a do-over.”

You tipped your head back to look at him, catching the soft, faraway look in his eyes.

“I never told anyone that before,” he admitted, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess I… just needed to say it out loud.”

Your fingers laced with his, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for telling me.”

Joel leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, and held you a little tighter.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, sweetheart,” he murmured.

You swallowed, heart aching and whole all at once. “You’ll never have to find out.”

Grocery Store Shenanigans

“Why is it so damn busy in here?” Joel grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he navigated the overly crowded produce section. Ellie pushed the shopping cart ahead of him, the cart far too big for her small frame, but she was determined, practically standing on her tiptoes to steer it.

You chuckled, nudging Joel with your elbow. “Honey, it’s a Saturday afternoon. This is prime grocery shopping hour. It’s always like this.”

“That’s why Mom says we should wake up early and go before they open,” Ellie called back, giving Joel a pointed look over her shoulder like she was delivering ancient wisdom.

Joel snorted. “Not everyone’s a mornin’ person, kiddo. Some of us like to sleep in.”

“Old man,” Ellie muttered under her breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You covered a laugh with your hand, while Joel narrowed his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, that’s it,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Think you’re faster than me, do ya?”

Ellie’s eyes lit up instantly, sensing a challenge. “At everything.”

Joel leaned down conspiratorially, gesturing to the nearly empty cereal aisle. “First one to the end and back wins.”

“You’re on,” Ellie grinned, already climbing onto the front of the cart like a pro racer.

You raised a brow. “You’re gonna get kicked out of here.”

“Worth it,” Joel shot back, and without waiting, he took off after Ellie, one hand on the cart’s handle as he jogged down the aisle.

Ellie shrieked with laughter, nearly tipping the cart as she raced him, and you followed at a safer, slower pace, shaking your head fondly.

An older woman in the bread aisle gave you a disapproving look, but you just shrugged, your heart warm at the sight of Joel letting loose like this, chasing a giggling eight-year-old down a grocery aisle without a care in the world.

“Old Man”

“Ellie’s in bed?” Joel called, his voice echoing from the kitchen as you sprawled across the couch, a trashy reality show buzzing in the background.

You nodded, not looking away from the screen. “Yeah, she wasn’t feeling great. Said her stomach hurt. She’s out cold.”

Joel appeared in the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck with a low, tired grunt as he made his way to the couch. The sound earned a quick smirk from you.

“There it is again,” you teased, eyes sparkling as you turned toward him. “God, you groan like an old man.”

Joel shot you a look, lowering himself onto the edge of the couch with another soft grunt as he stretched his back. “I ain’t groanin’. That’s a normal sound a body makes after a long-ass day.”

“Sure it is, Grandpa,” you snickered, reaching for your drink on the coffee table. “Next thing you’ll be yellin’ at the kids to get off our lawn.”

Joel’s brow arched, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Careful, darlin’.”

“What? Just statin’ facts.” You grinned, leaning back with an innocent shrug. “Pretty soon I’m gonna have to help you with your slippers and get you one of those pill organizers.”

Joel huffed, shaking his head like he was letting it go, and then, without warning, he lunged.

You yelped as he grabbed you around the waist, hauling you right off the couch and over his shoulder in one swift, unfairly strong motion.

“Joel Miller, put me down!” you laughed, pounding your fist lightly against his back as he strode toward the bedroom.

“Not a chance,” he chuckled, voice smug and teasing. “If I’m such an old man, guess I better show you how spry I still am.”

“You’re gonna throw your back out.”

“Worth it.”

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt, and when he finally tossed you onto the bed, you caught the way his grin softened, that familiar warmth in his eyes. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“Still think I’m old, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him, heart fluttering. “Yeah. But you’re my old man.”

Joel just chuckled, shaking his head as he climbed in after you.

Old Wounds

Whenever the world felt too heavy, and the weight of the day clung to your shoulders like something you couldn’t shake. You found yourself drawn to Joel’s woodworking room. It wasn’t something you talked about, but the room smelled like him, carried the quiet steadiness of him, and sometimes that was enough to pull you out of your own head.

Today was one of those days.

After Ellie had disappeared into her room with a stack of books and her stuffed dinosaur, you’d wandered in, closing the door softly behind you. The room was scattered with wood shavings and half-finished projects, and the scent of cedar and sawdust was in the air. You sat down in Joel’s chair, letting your fingers trail absently over the worn armrests, feeling the calm settle in your chest.

You didn’t mean to, but your eyes drifted to the small wooden box on the shelf—the one you’d discovered a long time ago. The one filled with memories, Joel rarely spoke about. Photos of Sarah. A few of him and Tommy as kids, grinning and wild-eyed. And nestled between the pages of a worn old journal, the pink tulip you’d worn in your hair.

You opened the box like you had a dozen times before, fingertips brushing over the edges of an old photo of Sarah—her smile so bright, so alive it ached to look at.

“What are you doin’ in here, darlin’?”

You startled, the familiar rasp of Joel’s voice pulling you out of your thoughts. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed, though his eyes were soft.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, guilt rising sharp in your throat. “I—I didn’t mean to… I just… sometimes I come in here when you’re not home. It… feels like you.”

Joel was quiet for a beat, then stepped inside, crouching beside the chair. “I know,” he admitted, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve seen the way you leave that pillow all messed up.”

You let out a watery laugh, your chest tightening. “I wasn’t trying to snoop.”

“I know that, too.” His gaze dropped to the photo in your hand. “She was a good kid. Funny as hell. Brave, too.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “She looks so much like you.”

Joel chuckled. “She was better than me in every way that counted.”

“I think about her a lot,” you admitted. “Even though I never knew her.”

Joel’s hand covered yours. “And I love you for that.”

You blinked fast, fighting the sting in your eyes. “I never wanted to replace anything… or anyone.”

“You didn’t.” Joel’s voice was rough, but certain. “You gave me somethin’ I didn’t think I’d have again. It’s different… but it’s good.”

You nodded, your thumb brushing over the edge of the photo before tucking it carefully back into the box. “Grief’s like that, isn’t it? Never really leaves. You just learn how to carry it.”

Joel exhaled, his fingers squeezing yours. “Yeah. You just find people who’ll help you carry it.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder. There was nothing to fix, nothing to explain. Just the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and the ache of old losses mingling with the warmth of everything you’d found together.

Best Family Ever

“Surprise!” Ellie beamed, practically bouncing on her toes as she held out two messy, glitter-smothered cards made of bright construction paper. There was more glitter on her than on the cards themselves — it clung to her cheeks, her fingers, even the ends of her hair.

You grinned, taking one of the cards while Joel accepted the other, his brows lifting in mild alarm at the sheer amount of sparkles clinging to his calloused hands.

“Open it!” Ellie urged, her grin wide enough to crinkle her nose.

You flipped yours open first, a laugh catching in your throat at the sight of three stick figures drawn in neon marker — one tall with a beard (clearly Joel), one with a floral dress (you), and one small figure in between holding both their hands (Ellie, of course). Beneath it, in big shaky letters, was written: Best Family Ever.

“Aww, Ellie, this is so sweet,” you said, your heart swelling as you pulled her in for a hug. “I love it.”

Joel glanced down at his card, pretending to scowl, though you could see the tug of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “A whole lotta glitter, kiddo. Might have to burn my work jeans after this.”

Ellie giggled. “You love it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, but his voice was too soft to sound like a real complaint. He gave her hair a gentle ruffle. “Thanks, kid.”

Later that evening, while you were putting Ellie to bed, you caught sight of Joel slipping out to his work shed with something tucked under his arm. Curiosity got the better of you.

You cracked the door open just enough to watch as he stood by his workbench, squinting at the card like it might fall apart if he wasn’t careful. He cleared a little spot on the wall between an old license plate and a crooked photo of him and Tommy as kids, then carefully tacked Ellie’s Best Family Ever masterpiece right in the center.

He stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at it for a long moment before a slow, almost shy smile crept across his face.

Your heart squeezed tight in your chest.

You quietly closed the door, leaving him there with his glittery sign and that unguarded softness he never quite showed the world except for you and Ellie.

Ellie’s First Soccer Game

You grinned when you spotted Ellie out on the field, hair pulled back in a crooked ponytail, her little face set with fierce determination as she kicked a ball back and forth during warmups. It was the first time she’d ever joined a team, and you were proud of her for giving it a shot — even if she still scowled every time you tried to snap a photo.

Tommy had suggested it months ago. Ellie had surprised you both by not instantly refusing.

Still, you worried.

You glanced toward the parking lot just as the game was starting, searching for Joel, and there he was — sauntering up alongside Tommy, both of them still in their work clothes, sawdust clinging to their shirts and jeans. Joel’s expression was somewhere between reluctant and resigned, like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he was here for Ellie and you.

“We made it,” Tommy announced, smirking as he gave you a quick one-armed hug and plopped down beside you on the bleachers. Joel gave you a look, like this is your fault, then eased himself down with a grunt.

“It’s packed,” Joel grumbled under his breath, scanning the crowded bleachers.

“It’s a kid’s soccer game, Joel. Not a warzone,” you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

He huffed. “I ain’t good at sittin’ still, that’s all.”

But you saw it. How his gaze found Ellie out on the field immediately, the way his face softened for just a split second before he caught himself.

You knew what this reminded him of. You could see it in the tension in his jaw.

The whistle blew, and the game kicked off. The kids ran after the ball in a chaotic blur of ponytails and too-big jerseys. Ellie was scrappy, elbows out, chasing the ball with that determined glare you’d seen a hundred times before.

And despite his grumbling, Joel got invested fast.

“C’mon, kiddo!” Joel shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Get in there!”

Tommy let out a sharp laugh, nudging him. “Thought you hated this stuff, old man.”

“Shut up.”

When Ellie stole the ball from a kid twice her size and bolted down the field, Joel was already halfway standing, yelling louder than anyone else in the stands.

“Atta girl! Go, Ellie, go!”

She fired the ball toward the goal, and it hit the net with a satisfying thud. The tiny crowd erupted into cheers, parents clapping and whistling. Ellie turned, beaming, searching for you in the stands. Joel was on his feet, grinning like a fool.

“That’s my girl!” he hollered, raising both arms in the air.

You reached for his hand without thinking, your heart damn near bursting.

When he finally sat down, wiping his face on the back of his hand, you caught the suspicious shine in his eyes.

“Dust,” he muttered.

You smiled. “Sure, Miller. Sawdust from all the way out here.”

He shot you a look, but it softened at the edges. “Don’t start with me.”

Dinosaur Drawing Contest

“Draw whatever dinosaur you want, but it has to be made up. Not a real one,” Ellie instructed, standing at the head of the kitchen table like a tiny, glitter-streaked dictator. She jabbed a finger at the pile of crayons in the center. “And it’s gotta be colorful and have an awesome name.”

Joel let out a dramatic, long-suffering grunt as he dropped into a chair, eyeing the crayons like they personally offended him. “I build houses, kid. I don’t do arts and crafts.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re old,” Ellie teased with a grin.

You stifled a laugh, already grabbing a purple crayon and starting on something vaguely resembling a dinosaur. “C’mon, handsome. Don’t be a sore loser.”

Joel shot you a glare, then snatched up a bright orange crayon, grumbling under his breath. “I’ll show you sore loser.”

Twenty minutes later, the table was a mess of crayon shavings, abandoned snack wrappers, and three finished masterpieces. Ellie clapped her hands together, bouncing on her toes as she examined your drawings like a seasoned art critic.

“Okay, okay,” she said, pointing to yours first. “Uh… Mom… what is that?”

You blinked down at your drawing — a pink dinosaur with uneven spikes and a sun wearing sunglasses. “That’s a… uh… Spiky Mamasaurus. She… dances.”

Joel snorted so hard he nearly choked on his sip of beer.

Ellie moved on to Joel’s. He’d drawn something orange and lopsided, with antlers and what might have been a tail coming out of its head.

Joel cleared his throat. “This here’s a Texas Horned Firebeast.”

Ellie stared at it, then burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. “That’s so bad!”

Joel feigned outrage, placing a hand on his chest. “Bad? That’s a work of art, kid.”

“Mine’s better,” Ellie announced smugly, holding up her own picture — a green-and-blue dinosaur with wings, a crown, and what looked like a tiny lightsaber in one hand.

Joel raised a brow. “What the hell’s that called?”

“The Queen of Dinosaurs,” Ellie declared proudly. She grabbed a scrap of construction paper, quickly folding it into a lopsided crown and plopping it on her head. “And I win.”

The Accidental Slip

“Ellie!” you called, standing beside Joel as he finished packing up the back of his truck, hauling the cooler in with a grunt. The little girl was still down by the lake’s edge, throwing tiny rocks into the water, completely ignoring you.

You huffed, hands on your hips, trying not to smile. “Eleanor!”

At the sound of her full name, Ellie’s head snapped up. She caught your expression, her eyes going a little wide as she scrambled up the grassy hill toward the parking lot.

“Sorry, sorry! I was just—”

“It’s alright, kiddo,” Joel cut in, voice gentler than his words as he shot her a look. “But you gotta listen when your mom calls, alright?”

Ellie nodded, sheepish but grinning, as you opened the truck door for her. She clambered up into the passenger seat, flopping dramatically across the bench.

A second later, her head popped back out of the open window. “Wait—where’s my giraffe?”

Joel chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag before reaching into the cab behind the seat. He pulled out the worn, stuffed giraffe. The same one she’d had since she was a baby, with one floppy ear and faded spots.

“Can’t leave without this, huh?” he teased, holding it out to her.

Ellie grabbed it eagerly, hugging it to her chest. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Thanks, Dad.”

The word landed so casually, so easily, that it took a second for anyone to react. Joel froze mid-step, his throat working around a lump he hadn’t expected.

Ellie didn’t seem to notice, already turning, and chattering to the stuffed giraffe about how it missed out on the water.

You stood there, heart catching, watching the way Joel’s face shifted. His jaw clenched, his gaze softened, something aching and grateful flickering there all at once.

Then, quietly, he managed a small, rough smile. “Anytime, kiddo.”

taglist: @hermionelove, @niceforcum, @ashhlsstuff, @doeeyestoji, @12thatsanumber, @cherrygirl19, @thottiewinemom, @ladynightingale, @doodlebob-mp3, @alitaar, @starwarskawaii, @hduuc56, @naniiiii12, @possiblyafangirl, @alienjoel, @leesromanova, @kungfucapslock, @forpunishers, @yallgotkik, @cuteanimalmama, @worhols, @lumpatto, @timeladyrikaofgallifrey, @vickie5446, @its-in-the-woods, @onlythehobi, @ro-nahime-things, @ashleyfilm, @crlsummer @starmurdock

[bluewxrld07]

Been Like This Pt. 4

Lando Norris X F!Reader

Summary: In which Y/N is scared to admit how she feels. Little did she know he felt the same way

Warning(s): smut, liiiight angst, choking if you squint

"I don't know which I'm more ready for. My bed or my shower," Y/N groans. "Or both."

Oscar laughs but nods in agreement as the entire crew got off of the jet, grabbing their things from the flight attendants.

"I can definitely say my bed because nothing is more excruciating than those damn hotel beds," Lando huffs as he silently thanks the employees. He throws his bags over his shoulders. Oscar points at him.

"Yeah no I second that. Those beds feel harder and harder each time I fall back into one. Damn near almost broke my own back crashing back into one after the race." he explains, making Y/N laugh as Lando groans.

"Oh mate I can feel that pain."

"Well you boys get home safely, I'm going to nap my life away until this weekend." Y/N salutes as she sets her bags into the car trunk.

Lando frowns. "What's this weekend?" he asks, making her look at him as if he has two heads.

"Dude you're kidding right?" she chuckles while looking at Oscar for help, who is just as confused as she is.

"It's Alexandra's birthday get together? Charles literally said to not forget it's on Friday." Y/N says in a 'duh' tone, Lando palming his forehead.

"Right right right, it's coming back to me I got it now," he whines. "I'm too tired for this. I'll just see you tomorrow and we will figure it out." he explains while heading to his car.

"We? Sir, I'm doing nothing but bed-rotting. I will not be getting up for any reason unless it is for takeout or to go to the bathroom." Y/N chuckles.

"Yeah I am with her on that," Oscar chuckles before waving to them both. "I'll see you guys Friday."

They bid the other racer goodbyes while Y/N huffs her final bag into the uber.

"Why don't you just let me take you home?" Lando announces, standing in front of his car. Y/N swats him off.

"You need to go home and sleep, I've got it. It's an extra trip for you," she says while thanking the chauffeur. She looks back at Lando. "Besides, you wouldn't be able to keep your hands to yourself on the way back. I don't have anything in me to fight it or receive it." she answers cheekily, watching his smirk widen.

"I would've done all the work," he says lowly with a wink before grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in for a hug.

"Go home and actually sleep, pretty girl. I'll talk to you later, yeah?" he says and she nods with a hum. He pulls back and looks at her as if he was debating on something, deciding to settle for kissing her forehead before walking back to his car.

Once she had gotten into her car as well, she was off and on her way home quickly. She couldn't wait to be in the comfort of her own bed, excited to get under the clean covers she had prepped exactly for this scenario.

The ride home was quiet as she stared out the window, finally letting her thoughts seep her into a deep daze while they drove. Her mind going back to moments with Lando. The moment that night when he told her she was all he wanted.

She had a hard time believing how true it might've been, or how much in the moment he was during that evening. Especially because he didn't seem to talk about it or show any changes in his ways around her the day after.

Almost as if what he said never happened. Which got her overthinking most times when she was able to sit for a minute.

Lando was the first and the only guy she had been as intimate as she had been with him, not sure why or how her body gave into him as much as it did. It was like he knew her body without ever actually taking the time to know it. Or know what she liked.

The way his hands had felt on her hips, her sides, her legs, her breasts. It was as if he wanted to treat her like she was a temple. A man starved of true touch.

His hands alone had been enough most days to make her thighs clench together.

Then again she had to remind herself of all the women he had been with, or he had talked about hooking up with. So he had the experience.

She knows she had appeared so confident in every interaction they had that became more intimate, but truthfully she had never felt so scared in her life. Being so intimate with someone like she was with Lando, was so scary for her.

Her thoughts kept trying to prepare her for the day that she finally admitted she was ready for him to fully take her, preparing for her to hear the words from his lips. Saying he wouldn't do such a thing because she was a virgin. She was pure.

He never got involved with virgins. They were too keen. Too inexperienced in his eyes.

Although she didn't know that he truly couldn't wait for her to ask him to deflower her for his own good. Because in that moment he would make sure she'd never know what it felt like to be fucked by another man.

He wouldn't give any man that chance.

She would never know that unless she asked. So Lando kept the thoughts to himself.

She sighs, knowing that what she had been told by Lewis should become truth. That this needs to stop before she falls too far and can't climb her way back up.

The only problem was that she was already past that point.

So she was screwed.

-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖

Y/N jolted up out of her deep slumber to a loud banging on her door.

She immediately wiped her eyes and scurried out of her bedroom, her TV playing softly in the background. Not exactly remembering what time she passed out at, not that she was complaining.

The banging happened again, making her groan. "Yeah yeah I'm coming, give me a second," she announces while unlocking the door to open it.

Lando stood on the other side with his hoodie up, a pair of grey sweats adorning his legs while he was holding up a bag of food with a tired smile on his face. Her alarmed state turned into a glare before she turned back around to walk back to her bedroom.

"Well someone is just a happy camper this morning," he jokes, his own voice groggy and still filled with sleep as he shuts her door.

"Not when it sounds like the SWAT team is trying to break down my front door, no," she grumbles as the pair made it back into her bedroom, Y/N grabbing her phone to check the time.

She turns around and scowls at the boy. "You woke me up at seven in the morning? Seriously?" she whines, Lando giving her a sheepish look as he sets the bag of breakfast onto her nightstand. "I couldn't fully fall asleep, so now I'm here."

"Oh so now you need extra baggage to help you sleep huh? That baggage being me?" she chuckles lightly while throwing her arms up slowly as she stretched.

Lando chuckles before letting out a groan as he walks towards her. He places himself behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucked his head into the crook of her neck.

"Don't even start," he groans out, squeezing her sides. Her hands place themselves over his own, leaning her head back onto his shoulder and closing her eyes. "I'm so tired, and I can't even sleep in my own bed because you're not there. You know how ridiculous that sounds?" he scoffs, earning a nod and a hum from her.

"Yes yes I do."

He pinches her hips at her response, getting a squeal from her.

"You do that and you're going to be meeting the front door again."

"I know where you hide your extra key."

"I found a new spot."

His head shot up from her neck, his eyes squinting at her as she turned to look at him with amusement in her eyes.

"Liar."

She shook her head. "Nope. I decided you and Max use that privilege too much. So I hid it somewhere new."

"Oh I am going to find it," he whines, wrapping his arms around her tighter and placing a kiss behind her neck. "It doesn't take me long."

She leaves his embrace, causing him to groan at the loss of her touch as she goes to climb into bed. "Sure you will.'

Lando gives her a sideways stare before he crawls in next to her, immediately placing his figure fully over her own body while wrapping his arms around her.

"You're a terrible human being."

She hums while closing her eyes. "But yet you're here and cuddling me like I'm your favorite pillow."

"Okay fine I take it back," he says, sitting his head up to look down at her. She gives him a triumphant grin, her eyes still closed as she is feeling her tiredness creep back in.

"Do you know what you're gonna wear tomorrow night?" he asks, and she hook her head.

"I know she said classy and summery, but I have too many options that could play into that." she chuckles, Lando smiling down at her as she rubs over her face.

"Wear that papaya colored two-piece you got last year" he suggests. She peeks up at him. "Yeah so you can google me the whole night?"

He scoffs playfully. "Okay and? That's not the worst thing." he jokes, earning her sticking her tongue out playfully.

"No but on a serious note, you look beautiful in that color. It is very much something that makes your eyes pop especially." he explains, making her smile.

"I suppose I'll add that to my options then," she hums, closing her eyes once again.

Before Lando can think of his next move, his body reacts first and presses his lips softly onto hers.

At first she's alarmed and unsure of what to do, but the way he moves against her lips makes her kiss him back slowly. Lando groans out as he kisses her, this kiss feeling a bit more domestic than most kisses they've shared.

Her hand finds his cheek, caressing it softly before pulling away.

"No," Lando groans out, his forehead going against her own.

"We shouldn't, Lan."

"Why?"

Y/N ignores his question, placing a kiss on his nose before making herself comfy underneath his grasp and sigh in satisfaction. Instead of the boy arguing her, he decides that it can be a conversation for a later date as they were both exhausted.

He decides to lay his head on her chest and his hands stay wrapped around her waist, both of them slowly falling back into a deep slumber.

The food and TV on long forgotten.

-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆-⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖

Lando was absolutely so in love with Y/N.

He was so in love and there was absolutely nothing that could deter his choice. His choice being her.

After their little moment the day before at her apartment, he had come to realize that he couldn't live with the fact of her being with anybody else. Much less looking at another man the way she looks at him.

It only confirmed it for him when his eyes couldn't stop staring at her as she walked outside onto the restaurant patio, wearing the two-piece he had suggested to her the day before.

It didn't help the fact that her body had grown more into its mature form, her curves more prominent in the snug maxi skirt she wore. Her breasts were sitting perfectly under the bandeau top. It was as if she was tempting him without actually tempting him.

Her hair was down in her natural beauty waves he had grown to love, her makeup natural with gold highlighter in the corners to make her eyes pop more than they did.

Oh he was so in love.

He watched as she excitedly wrapped Alexandra into a warm hug, handing a little gift bag as they broke apart and conversed more.

Lando was poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, his knee was bouncing uncontrollably as his legs were manspread. His hands were in his lap as he began picking his nail beds, his eyes now watching over her possessively almost as she went to hug the other racers. They darkened especially when she went to hug Lewis, whose hands grabbed her lower than he would've liked to admit.

"If you stare any harder you might just actually kill the poor man," Charles' voice speaks out next to him, a laugh following when Lando snaps out of his daze.

"What d'you mean?" he asks, trying to play dumb knowing full well it won't work.

Charles chuckles more, patting Lando's shoulder. "You are so infatuated by the girl, you don't even see it."

Lando blows out a breath, his eyes giving it away as he takes a sip of his drink. "I doubt she thinks the same thing. She has been pushing me away."

Charles frowns. "Pushing how?"

He shrugs. "We kissed yesterday. When I went to kiss her again she told me we can't."

Charles rubs his hands over his face. "Mate, that's because she doesn't know how you feel. She's scared." he explains. Lando frowns and looks at Charles.

"What?"

He sits up straighter, turning fully towards Lando. "You said you two have been messing around a bit, yeah?"

He nods.

"There you have it. She's scared because she doesn't think you want more. So she's distancing herself to not get hurt." Charles finishes, making Lando look at him in slight shock.

"How'd you know that?"

He shrugs. "Girls talk, mate," he says taking a sip of his drink as well. "Alexandra spills all the tea to me."

Lando chuckles with him at that.

Before he can ask more, he feels a hand on his shoulder as a kiss is pressed to his cheek. "You keep picking at your nail beds, what's bugging you?" a soft and familiar voice says into his ear.

He relaxes as Y/N takes a seat next to him, his breath hitching seeing her now up close. She just looked so breathtaking.

"Lando?" she says, snapping out of his daze. She smiles at him in amusement.

"Hm?"

"You alright?" she asks slowly, her eyes darting to Charles who is watching Lando in amusement while trying to hold in his own laughter.

"Yeah," Lando hums, then nods slowly after. "Yeah I'm fine. Just got a lot going on in my mind at the moment."

She nods at him, giving him a playful pout. "Well no more picking at your nail beds. You play with my rings on my hand if you need to, yeah?" she assures, making him softly smile at her.

"Thank you," he chuckles, the girl nodding before the waiter comes up and asks what she would like to drink.

Lando's head snaps over to Charles, whom he sees is snickering and trying to hide it, smacking the boy in the chest. Charles puts his hands up in defense as he smiles in amusement.

"Just tell her how you feel mate," he says before nodding over towards Lewis. "Or you might have that one to deal with." he jokes, making Lando groan.

Once the rest of the crew arrives, everyone is sat together conversing, Lando can't help but let his knee begin to bounce again as his mind begins to overthink again. His gaze turned over towards Y/N, whose attention was facing Oscar and his girlfriend as they talked with her.

She had one elbow propped on the table with her fork in hand as she ate, the other one sat on her left thigh.

He thought over her words from earlier as he began to feel the need to pick at his nails, hesitating a little bit at first to grab her hand. He finally gets over his nerves, taking her hand into his own lap and using both of his hands to play with her rings.

His eyes go back over towards George and Charles' direction as they asked him something, his hands staying busy with her rings.

Her gaze turned to him as she felt his hands playing along her own, smiling softly as she watched him twist the metal on each of her fingers while he talked to his friends.

Her eyes leave his face and do a double-take when she sees Alexandra looking at her with a knowing grin, Y/N sheepishly shrugging. The girl just nods knowingly, standing up slowly.

Alexandra makes her way over to Y/N, grabbing both of her shoulders as she bent down to her level. "Come with me to the bathroom," she says, Y/N just nods.

She squeezes Lando's hand firmly as if saying she will be right back, standing up and following the model in front of her.

Once they reach the bathroom, Alexandra turns to her. "Are you going to tell him?" she starts, and Y/N groans.

"I don't know," she sighs. "He's said he doesn't do anything with virgins. What would make him want something? Much less date someone like me?"

Alex tilts her head with a sad look. "Sweetheart," she trails off, seeing the tears gloss over her friend's eyes. "He's so smitten by you. I can assure you that man cares more about loving you than if you've had sex or not."

Y/N runs a hand through her hair. "How do I even know he feels the same?" she asks, Alex nodding at that.

"Because of how he looks at you," she starts, placing her hands on both sides of her arms. "Especially with how he was eyeing you and Lewis earlier."

Her eyebrows furrow. "How do you mean?"

"He was ready to kill Lewis based off of the looks of it."

She rolls her eyes. "That's just Lando being protective because he knows how Lewis is."

"Nope, because as soon as you came to him his eyes were all full of love. He can't keep his attention away from you for more than five seconds."

Y/N huffs. "He could have anyone," she trails off. "He doesn't want a virgin."

Alexandra's eyes fall at her words, feeling pity running through her as she looks at how Y/N's eyes soften. "Y/N,"

"It's okay," she assures with a soft nod. "It's okay."

Alexandra just shakes her head, but before she can fight against it Y/N begins to head back to the door. "Come on, there's a cake that's calling your name." she chuckles, making Alexandra give her another knowing look before giving in and following.

Once they make it back to the table, Lando's eyes follow her until she is back in her seat next to him. She gives him a tightlipped smile as she sits down. "You alright?" he asks. She doesn't look at him, but nods as she tries to busy herself with a conversation with Max's girlfriend.

Lando frowns as he turns to look at Alexandra. She shrugs with a sad look. "I tried," is all she says, Lando sighing as he runs a hand through his hair.

As the night went on, he watched as Y/N tried to busy herself with talking to everyone but him. It was driving him absolutely insane.

They had all wandered their way to the rooftop of the restaurant where there was music, casual dancing and a mini-bar. She was leaning against the railing as she held her wine glass in both hands as she spoke with Alexandra.

"If you don't go make your move, mate, you never will," Lewis speaks up, causing his head to snap over to him. Lando scoffs, looking down at his drink.

"I don't know what you're on about," he says, earning a few tuts from Lewis.

"You do. And to make you feel better," he starts while clasping a hand over his shoulder. "She's just as into you as you are to her."

Lando frowns at him in shock. "How do you-"

"That night you saw her and I talking in the VIP section, she was talking about you."

Lando's heart stopped.

"She was saying how much she wished you would basically get your head out of your ass," he explains, making him almost choke on air. "I know she's been telling Alexandra that she also thinks you don't want her because she's not like all these other girls you've been with."

"Why the fuck would I want her to be like any of them?"

"Not like that," Lewis facepalms and shook his head. "She meant because she's a virgin mate. I didn't want to out her like that, but that's what she means."

Lando shook his head in confusion. "Why would she ever think that I wouldn't want her because she's a virgin?"

"Mate," Lewis trails off. "You've said it many times before that you wouldn't date people who are inexperienced."

He mentally slaps himself for that one. He leans his head back while letting out a groan. "Fuck that's not-" he groans once more.

"Oh I know that, but she doesn't."

Lewis points at the beautiful girl in front of them. Lando's heart beating faster as he watches her laugh at something Alex says.

"Get over yourself, and go tell her."

Lando nods, Lewis patting his back one more time before he begins to walk off. "If you don't I'm stealing her." he sings playfully, watching as Lando flicks him off.

Lando downs the rest of his drink before setting back on the car counter, soon walking over towards the girls.

Their eyes both snap over to him as he gets closer, Alex giving him a smirk knowing what he is here for while Y/N gives him a lightly buzzed kind of smile.

"There's my favorite boy," she says softly, Lando smiling happily back down at her. He wraps one hand around her waist while she lays her head on his chest, humming in satisfaction at the feeling.

He looks at Alex with raised brows. "How much has she had?"

She shrugs. "Not a lot, just a glass and a half. She's just in her lightly buzzed state." He nods.

Alex nods at him. "Don't break her heart, okay?" she asks, and he gives her a sad smile.

"I'd never dream of it."

With that she nods at him before going off to find Charles, Lando facing her figure that had her head on his chest while she peacefully looked out at the ocean view in front of them.

"How you feeling, pretty girl?"

She hums. "Pretty good," she says. "I'm not drunk. Just calm. It's what I needed."

He chuckles lightly, squeezing her into his embrace a bit more which she happily takes up.

"So, sweet boy," she starts off. "What brought you my way on this fine evening?" She chuckles playfully, taking a sip of her wine.

"I love you."

She froze, her head coming off of his chest to turn and look at him.

"What?" she asked softly. Lando wants to mentally slap himself in that moment. That was not his plan at all.

He rubs a hand over his face. "Shit," he chuckles. "I didn't mean to just outright say it. I had a whole thing I was going to start with."

She just stares at him with a confused look. "Lando, what's going on?" she asks softly.

He looks down at her with all the admiration in the world. "I'm so in love with you, Y/N," he admits. "I can't even begin to tell you how much you mean to me. How much I want to wake up next to you all the time or kiss you in public. Or hold your hand without people asking what we are, and they just know."

Her eyes soften the more he speaks. "I just want you. I want all of you."

She's quiet for a few moments, then looks down at her heels. "Even if I'm not as experienced?" her voice quiet and tiny, making his heart squeeze and his chest tighten at her words.

Lando takes this moment to place his hands on both sides of her jawline, having her look up at him. He sees some tears glossing over her eyes, and that instantly makes him wanna hide her away and show her how much he wanted her. How much he needed her.

"I could not give less of a shit if you were or weren't," he says. "When I said things like that, that was before I actually grew a brain."

That makes her chuckle. "Yeah, you weren't the brightest."

"Ok easy now, tiger," he chuckles.

"It also means I will know I'm the only one who has ever gotten the privilege to touch you. Or be the only guy that knows how you sound when you come apart. How you moan out my name," he says lowly, seeing how her chest rises quicker with every word that leaves his lips.

"Lando," she breathes out, he bites his lip.

"I may sound possessive, but hell I'm glad it's me."

She looks between his eyes, flickering to his lips a couple times.

"I'm truly so in love with you, it hurts my chest to think of you with anyone else, Y/N."

It was quiet for a moment or two, Lando basically feeling his heart beating out of his chest. Until he saw her lips form up into a smile.

"I love you too, Lan."

He breaks out into the biggest smile ever, smashing his lips right onto hers and letting them move in sync. One of her hands comes away from the glass she is holding to hold one of his wrists, caressing the skin with her thumb.

She smiled into their final kiss before he pulled away, Lando leaning his forehead onto hers.

"If it wasn't obvious, I'd really like to call you my girlfriend." he chuckles and she joins in with a nod.

"As long as I get to call you my boyfriend."

"Oh sweet girl I'd love for nothing more, up until the day I ask you to be my wife."

Her eyes look at him with shock, but she just looks at him like he's her whole world. "Take me home, Lando."

His eyes widen. "Yours or mine?"

"Yours."

He nods, looking behind him and then looking back at her.

"We're going to Irish goodbye this thing. I'll apologize to Alexandra later." He says before he sets her glass down, laces his hand with hers and pulls her down the stairs to exit the restaurant.

Once they made it down to the entry of the restaurant, he handed the Valet his ticket. He ignored the calls of people who recognized him outside, turning his attention to the girl at his side.

He smiled down at her as he caught her already smiling up at him.

The car was pulled up to the front quickly, him opening her door and helping her inside before closing it softly and rounding to his side. Once he was in, he thanked the valet drivers and handed them a tip before they were off in lightning speed.

His hand came to rest against her thigh, caressing the skin every so often as he drove and then lacing their hands together.

"I love you," he mutters out, an ear to ear grin on his face. "I just had to say it again."

"I love you." she responds with, making him squeeze her thigh and that makes her skin rise up in goosebumps. "You can say it as much as you want."

He nods with a proud smile on his face.

It wasn't long after that that they had arrived at his place, pulling into the garage and parking next to the other cars in his collection.

Lando immediately rounds the car to help her out, shutting and locking the car behind him as they rush up to his apartment in excitement.

Once they made it to his floor, he darts to his door and unlocks it as quick as he can as he tries to push down his nerves.

They make it inside and shut the door behind them, Lando immediately pushing her up against the door with his lips landing on hers.

She takes no time in responding, kissing him back with just as much passion and need. Her heart was pounding out of her chest.

Her hands ran up from his sides, to his abdomen, to his chest where his button up sat perfectly on his skin. She began to unbutton them slowly, her hands noticeably shaking as she undid them.

Lando broke their kisses, a light smile on his lips as he grabbed her hands softly. "It's okay," he says, looking into her eyes. "You're okay. It's me. Nobody else." he assures her, caressing her hands.

She slowly nods and feels her confidence increase just a tad more. His eyes held nothing but love and admiration as he stared at her. There was no judgment, no embarrassment, just love. She helps shrug his shirt off of his shoulders, letting him bring his lips back to hers as she ran her nails over his skin like he loves.

"Mmmm you keep doing that and we may be up all night," he chuckles lowly against her lips, making her chuckle. "Driving me crazy."

His hands leave her hips and travel to her back, lifting the bandeau top up and off of her body. His eyes never failed to stare in amazement when it came to her.

Before he can pull her back in for another kiss, she takes his hand and leads them to his bedroom. Where she then turns back around to face him, innocent eyes looking up at him. He smiles down at her as his hands began to rub up and down her sides.

"You okay?" he asks, and she nods. He tilts his head with a knowing look. "Words, pretty."

"Yeah. I'm good," she hums, her hands finding his neck to pull him back down to kiss her once more. This time fully taking her in and tongues fighting against one another.

She moaned into his mouth at the feeling, the way he was able to brush away any nerves she was feeling. Make her feel safe, and comfortable around him

"Lando," she sighs as she feels his hands finally dip to grab her ass, planting a light smack on one side as he massaged the other.

His lips left her mouth, trailing down her jaw and down her neck, planting open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. She began to bring her hands down to unbutton his slacks, alongside his briefs, and push them down, Lando steeping out of them as he kept his attack on her neck.

One of his hands traveled beneath the hem of her skirt, instantly groaning at the fact she had no panties on underneath. It made him chuckle darkly. "You're such trouble, aren't you?" he says slyly, missing the smirk that plays on her lips.

Her smirk soon drops as she feels his hands run over her wetness, making them both let out breathless moans at the feeling.

"All for me, yeah?" he pants into her neck.

"Always," she sighs out, earning a moan from him as he circled her clit.

His other hand finally started to push down her skirt, which she had no problem wriggling out of, as his other hand worked on her.

"Always mine," he says as his lips trail back up to her own, just barely letting them brush against hers. He smirks as she tries to kiss him once more, but he pulls back. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. You gonna let me?"

She smirks and nods, trying to push her lips onto his own but he denies once more.

"Gonna give you everything," He sighs as he sticks a finger inside her entrance, watching as her mouth drops with a moan as he begins to pump out of her.

Her lips try to find his again, but he pulls back just slightly. He thinks he's got her where he wants, until she changes it up.

Before he knew it, she had pushed him back onto his bed and sat herself over his lap. She took him into her hands, earning a hiss from him as she did so. "Enough teasing, my love."

He moans at that, head falling back while his hands grip her hips harshly.

"Okay," he moans. "Yeah. Okay, no more teasing."

She presses her lips onto his own, pumping him in her hands as their lips moved and his moans caught by her lips. "Fuck, baby," he pants. "I need you."

"So take me, Lan."

That's all he needs to hear as he takes her by her hips, setting her down up along his pillows. The sight before him was one he swore he would never get used to. It was a sight he couldn't wait to see every single day of his life. Nothing looked better to him in that moment.

"I want to make sure," he says softly. "Are you sure, sweet girl?"

Y/N looks up at him, caressing his cheek. "I'm sure, Lan. I trust and love you."

Lando smiles warmly at her before placing a few kisses on her lips, soon trailing them down her neck, to her chest, to her breasts. He began to suck on each nipple, nibbling on them every so often as he saw the way she would jolt at the feeling.

Her skin was tatted with marks he made with his mouth, her not giving a care in the world in that second.

Her body was on fire. She felt as if every emotion inside of her was haywire, the way the wetness pooled beneath her legs. Especially when his length began to glide between her folds, both of them gasping at the feeling.

She let her fingers grip onto his curls as he attacked her breasts and marked them as his. "Lando fuck," she moans out. "Need you. Need you now."

He leaves her breast with a pop, looking up at her with a hungry look in his eyes.

She watches as he grabs a foil from his nightstand, tearing it with his teeth before he rolls it on. He looks down at her as he grabs his length. "You ready?" he asks, she hums with a nod.

He slowly slides the tip into her entrance, causing her to let out a shocked gasp at the new feeling. Lando using everything in him to not ruin her in that moment, or cum in that second.

He slowly pushes in more and more until his pelvic bone hits her own, letting her take a few seconds to adjust.

"You can move," she says with a sigh. Lando begins to move slowly in and out of her, watching her face contort into different emotions. It was when breathless moans had started to leave her lips that he knew she was good, her nails now dragging down his back. Lando took that moment to reach a neck to grip her neck, the other keeping him steady over her head.

His thrust had gotten faster and faster as her moans became more confident and her hips matched his pace. "Fucking hell love," he moans out. "So fucking tight. So fucking perfect for me."

She sighs out his name, her eyes rolling back as his hand squeezes her neck softly. Her walls clench around him a couple times, making him realize that she was into what he was doing, the boy making a mental note of it.

"Like you were made for me, yeah? Molded for me and nobody else."

"Fuck, Lando." she moans out, head going back. Lando takes both of her hands this time and laces them together with his own above her head as he watches himself thrust in and out of her.

"Gonna let me make you mine forever? Not gonna let anyone else experience you like this?" he groans out, feeling that coil inside him begin to build.

Y/N moans out and nods. "All yours. Was always yours."

He chuckles darkly. "I know, darling. I know," he moans out, his movements stuttering as he begins to feel her walls flutter around him.

"Fuck, Lan I'm gonna-"

"Let go baby. Let it all out for me, I've got you my sweet girl," he praises, watching her face contort as she comes apart, her walls squeezing him tightly as she reaches her high. Lando not too far behind her as his own thrusts become stuttered and sloppy.

Once they've ridden out their highs, Lando slowly and barely pulls out of her. He gives her a passionate kiss as he gets up to toss away his condom, grabbing a damp cloth as well as some pain meds just in case for her.

When he returns he sees her half asleep on her back, taking in the way her bare body glowed over his bedsheets.

He couldn't wait to have days like these every day. This would be a normal sight for him now, and he would not have it any other way. She was truly his.

He gets back between her legs, slowly spreading open her shaking thighs. "This is going to sting, my love I'm sorry," he trails off before he softly begins to clean her up. He apologizes as he hears her hiss at the feeling, praising and softly talking her through it.

He finishes up, kissing her knee before going to put it in the dirty bin. Lando returns back into bed, slowly pulling her into his side.

She happily cuddles into his side, Lando softly caressing her arm up and down as she drew circles on his chest. He smiles to himself. "I could get used to this. Used to you," he hums out. "I can't believe I finally have you."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely. I'm never letting you go." he chuckles, making her look up at him.

"Don't."

Lando smiles down at her, kissing her with nothing but passion and love in it. Y/N happily smiling back into the kiss, letting him hold her tighter as the kiss got deeper.

"As much as I'd love to go again," she chuckles in between kisses. "I really don't think I can move."

Lando chuckles. "Oh sweetheart," he sighs. "That's why I'm gonna do all the work."

"Oh are you now?"

"Best believe it. I've got my dream girl, so we're in for a long night pretty girl."

Taglist:

@mayax2o07 , @love-4-rafey-lando , @mimisweetz , @landonorrisgirlie, @majapapaya4 , @mercrussell , @sarx164 , @glow-ish , @sillyfreakfanparty , @skylandori , @imalwayshornyxs , @ooostarwarsfandom501st

[cherrieshalo]

Songs and Shoots ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

drummer!k.bakugo x model!femreader | fluff | 1.2k words

Dating your boyfriend was hard. 

If the press from paparazzi and the fans wasn’t enough, the constant rehearsals and shows he had just seemed to pile on top. And all of your shoots? Even more awful. Flying in and out of the country for magazines, fashion weeks, and who knows what else messed with the time you were able to see your boyfriend. 

It was as if your shared apartment had a one-resident-per-day policy with how little you got to see him. When he was home, you weren’t. When he was home, he wasn’t. You slept alone in your bed more often than not, clinging onto his pillow that smelled like him. 

When you found out Katsuki’s band was playing their final show of the tour just in the city you called home, you begged your manager to cancel the remaining days of an active photoshoot so you could go back home. You wanted to see your boyfriend so bad! You haven’t seen him in ages as he toured Japan with the group, the daily text messages and sporadic video calls were not enough to keep you satiated. 

You needed to bite that man in the biceps like a teething puppy and you needed to bite him now. 

You made sure to arrive at the venue right as his band went on stage, their manager letting you in as you made yourself at home in the dressing room. You set up a station at the vanity, laying out your makeup and hair products. Why not have some fun while you wait? 

You plugged your hot pink curling iron in, the one Katsuki always made fun of, and began your makeup as you waited for it to heat up. The loud cheering of the crowd could be heard even in the tiny dressing room, the sound almost amplified as you half-watched the band perform on the little TV monitor in the corner.

The heartbeat of the drums thumped in your ears, smiling softly as you blended out your smokey eyeshadow. There was no doubt about it, Katsuki was giving 1000% into the performance knowing that you were backstage listening. A romantic little thing, he was. 

  You started to curl your hair as the show came to a close, the encore song receiving loud screams and cheers from the crowd. You could hear several screams of your boyfriend’s name, but you knew you couldn’t feel jealous. The other members were receiving cheers too, so it was nothing to worry about. You didn’t want to seem like some insecure girlfriend…

  The band paraded down the hall towards the dressing room, laughing and congratulating each other on a show well-done. They could probably be heard in all parts of the building with their booming voices and hyper attitude, filling the halls with an energetic liveliness. 

Eijiro ran up to him, excitedly clapping Katsuki on the back. “Yo! Heard your girl was here! Is that why you were beating the shit out of your drums?” 

“Yeah, she is. What’s it to you? She’s taken dipshit,” Katsuki slid his drumsticks into his back pocket. He didn’t like the band ogling his girlfriend but unfortunately, he knew there was no use in stopping them. He lifted the collar collar of his shirt up to his face to wipe up the sweat, seeing the stupid grin on the red-head’s face.

“Chill, chill!” Eijiro laughed as he opened the door to the dressing room. “She’s all yours, I promise.” 

Katsuki walked in behind him, seeing you standing at the vanity and releasing a lock of your hair from the curling iron. You saw him in the reflection and smiled widely, wrapping another lock of hair around the hot metal. 

He walked up behind you, slipping his hand onto your waist. His large palm splayed out against your stomach, his fingers ghosting along the hem of your crop top as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Hi, pretty. I missed you…” 

You set the curling iron down, unplugging it so it could cool. You turned around and cupped his face, littering his skin with soft kisses. “I missed you, too. So much…It’s been too long.” 

"Whatcha dollin’ up for, huh? You're acting as if you're the one who's gonna perform,” Katsuki rolled his eyes as he scoffed softly. "Sorry, baby, but the show's over."

“For the after party, duh…” you hummed as you booped his nose. 

“Ah. My little glitter-for-brains actually wants to go to the afterparty for once? Damn. Thought you fucking hated those things.” 

You nodded, placing your hands on his chest. You heard Denki gag in the background. 

“Nah, maybe later…” he wrapped both his arms around your waist to pull you into a hug. “Want you to myself for a little bit first. You’ll stay here with me, yeah? S’been too damn long…” 

“JESUS CHRIST, YOU GUYS GET A ROOM!” Denki screamed, earning a smack upside the head from Eijiro. Your boyfriend rolled his eyes, tucking his face in the crevice between your neck and shoulder and leaving soft kisses across the skin. 

“Stay with me a bit when they leave, okay sweetheart?” Katsuki whispered, arms tightening around you. “Missed you so much…wanna catch up. Want…want kisses…” 

You smiled softly as you ran your fingers through his sweaty hair. “Of course…” 

It took  a while for the band to pack up their things and leave the dress room. But the second they did? Katsuki was on you in seconds. 

“Can I have a kiss now…?” 

Your boyfriend’s voice was less gruff, soft, desperate…You gently cupped his cheeks, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. 

Soft, but needy. 

Your boyfriend’s hands feverishly roamed your body, grabbing your thighs to lift you up onto the vanity with a soft oof. His lips parted from yours just enough to mumbled praises of affection as his fingers traced the hem of your skirt. 

“I missed you so fucking much-” his teeth clashed with yours, hearts beating as one. “Saw that one ad you did. For that perfume brand or some shit. Had the commercial playing nonstop on the TV in the tour bus. Made the fuckers’ watch it so much there’s no way you’re not burned into their retinas. God you looked so fucking hot-” 

You laughed softly, moving his bangs out of his eyes. “Deep breaths, baby. Don’t pass out on me.” 

“You looked so fucking hot. And so fucking mine. Got the ad printed as a poster and put it in my  bunk. Also got it printed as a flag and was showing it off during shows…” Katsuki littered soft kisses over the length of your jawline. Your perfume drove him crazy, his senses amplifying knowing he was the one who bought it for you. 

“Probably set it as your lockscreen too, huh?” You tilted your head back, giggling, in an attempt to give him more room. 

“Uh-huh. Damn straight I did. Showed it to anyone who would listen.” 

“You’re so silly, Kats…”

“Silly in love with you, yeah.” He nuzzled into you feverishly like a small puppy begging for attention. “What if we skip the afterparty? All those extras don’t know boundaries, anyways. I’ll get us a nice-ass hotel for the night and we can take a nice hot bath together and order room service.” 

“We should still go to the party, baby. Last show of the tour, might as well hang with your bandmates for a little. Then we can go, okay?” you nuzzled your nose against his, tilting his chin up with your hand. 

“Fine. But you’re all mine after.” 

© property of cherrieshalo 2025 - please do not steal or copy my work to post elsewhere

[dallysdolly444]

then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like i love you.

summary: dally was the kind of boyfriend who'd do anything but say those three sweet words you crave so desperately.

warnings: angst ig hehe sooorryyy, established relationship, leaning towards fem!pov (specifically girly/hyper fem as thats what i am, so i usually write what i am), cursing, slight objectifying, lmk if i missed anything <3

dallas didn't love anything. he didn't love joy, he didn't love sunlight, he didn't love puppies or kittens, he didn't even love himself. so he probably didn't love you, not matter how many times he'd press gentler than normal kisses to your neck, or talk a little too much when he's drunk.

but even now, with him in your bed, arms wrapped around you like you'll disappear, you're none the wiser. even when he's got his fingers threading through your hair, rings catching on the strands, you can't quite tell what he's thinking. "so pretty, aren't ya?" he mutters, pressing his lips to your hair.

he always felt out of place in your room, it's so girly, pink and pretty. but what he always felt worse about is how awful he is for you. he can listen to you drone on about how great he is for hours, and the most you'll get back is a 'you've got a great rack'. he just doesn't know how to say it in a way that keeps him tough.

but you always just bury your face closer into his chest, as if your relationship doesn't have 5 weeks max left. "dally can you talk to me? i'm about to sleep." you say softly, nuzzling your face into him as if you want to get into his skin.

"sure i can, baby. you know i love gabbing to you" dallas chuckles, pecking your temple. "fuck, man. yknow... i'm digging the way you're twirling your hair, yknow?" he says, bouncing one of your curls. "y'look like a knockout... look like fucking marilyn monroe or some shit" he says with a grin, knowing you'll like that.

that's his love language, saying what you want to here. the smil on your face is enough for the month to him. "that's so nice dally" you murmur sleepily. "your so nice to me"

dallas paused. he wasn't that nice, was he? shit. well he can't be too rude to his broad, right? you'll just leave him. "shit, doll. i ain't nice enough. i should always be nicer. you're my angel, yeah? and i ain't letting you go."

you stare up at him with those damn doe eyes. even when you're half asleep and tired, those eyes just see right through them, as if they can see how he really feels. how much he really likes you. "i love you" you whisper softly. you've said it once before, and he disappeared for a couple days, coming back with barely anything changed.

dallas stayed silent for a moment, wrapping his arms tighter around you. he can't say he doesn't, because he does. you must know, right? can't you just be secure with knowing? he sighs, just pressing your head closer to him. "yeah" he says softly, and that's all.

you just sigh. you could've expected that. dallas isn't the kind of guy to express feelings, especially not love. he's too tough to feel a thing. you don't say anything, knowing how he is. or do you?

he loves you, you don't see it. you say it, he thinks it. loving people was never good for dally, he loved his mother and all she did in return was die. he would kiss you, hold you, tell you what you wanna hear.. but what the hell is he supposed to say? i love you? i want to marry you? it'll just bring bad energy or something.

you both stay silent for the rest of the night, just holding each other. it'll always be awkward after an 'i love you'. maybe you'll work around it, maybe you'll break up, maybe you'll just continue to ignore it. you fall asleep before dallas, and his hand went up to your head to stroke your hair again. gentler, sweeter, calmer. he presses his lips to your forehead. he couldn't do this when you're awake. you want someone tough, right? everyone does.

"i love you too."

authors note: man i love dally. i could yap soooo much about how well he's written and how interesting he is. love you matt please marry me <333

lots of love, dolly x

[sunsetmaneuver]

sick day - bradley bradshaw x fem!reader

bello minions here is something that's been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute i hope you enjoy <3 this is one of my favs i've written

i am in a creative rut rn so please send me requests if you have anything you'd wanna see written!! i'm working on a hangman request rn but i love to dip my toes into a lot of different projects at the same time (it's the raging adhd)

length: 1.6k words

warnings: sick!reader, comfort, concerned boyfriend!bradley, fem!reader, just fluff honestly, not proofread lol sorry

The room is spinning.

The room is spinning, and your head could crush through a cinderblock.

Has your nose always been this clogged? Has your skin always been this sweaty? Have your limbs always ached this bad?

"Fuck," You mutter to yourself, voice weak with congestion. You reach over to grab your phone off your nightstand as a chill racks through your body. You curl your legs up into your chest to try and preserve some warmth while your fingers work at finding Bradley's contact. Not so easy to do with shaking hands, by the way.

He answers on the third ring, right as you're about to hang up and send a text instead.

"Morning, darlin'," His voice drawls out sweetly, and you can hear his smile in his tone. This alone makes you feel a little better. You put the phone on speaker and pull the covers up to your chin, making yourself into a tight little ball.

"Hi, honey," You coo back, trying to sound as normal as possible, though the congestion in your nose probably gives it away. You didn't want to worry him at all while he was at training, but you couldn't keep this from him all day. Bradley, contrary to the tough front he tries to put up, is a worrywart. You know for a fact that if he came home and found you sick in bed, he’d throw a fit about you not telling him. "How's training--" You're cut off by your own sneeze, then another, and then another.

"Bless you. Three sneezes? Since when do you sneeze in increments of three?" Bradley teases, not bothering to stifle the laugh that escapes him. There are indistinct sounds in the background, and every so often, you can make out Hangman and Coyote laughing. He must be on lunch. You instantly feel guilty for calling.

"Since I woke up feeling like my head is a bowling ball," You sigh, shutting your eyes to try and soothe the headache brewing in your temples.

"Are you sick?" You can almost see his face as he speaks - eyebrows knit together and a deep frown.

"No, I think it's just a migraine," You lie. "I just... I wanted to call.”

Bradley, like always, sees right through your bullshit.

"Sweetheart, I love you, but you're a terrible liar," His voice is joking and gentle as he speaks, and the background chatter of the mess hall slowly begins to disappear until all you hear is a door closing. "Do you need me to come home?"

You can feel sleep trying to take over your body again. "Mmm..." You hum. "Stay at work, I'm fine."

"You sure? It's not a big--"

"Mhmm..." You don't mean to cut him off, but you know you have less than one minute before you're consumed by REM. "Stay at love you, I work."

"What?" Is the last thing you hear before being taken by the sleep demon.

**

You're sleeping very peacefully until being awoken by the sound of the bedroom door opening and heavy boots meeting hardwood. They stop at your bedside, and you're suddenly very aware of the presence crouching down next to you. You pry your eyes open, revealing Bradley, and bring your hands up to rub the sleep from them.

"How was work?" You croak out, trying to distract him from the matter at hand. He doesn't answer, just sticks his hand out to touch your forehead before retracting it quickly.

"Jesus Christ, do you know that you're burning up right now?" He shakes his head and brushes the hair from your forehead that's been slicked down with sweat.

"I'm actually quite cold, to be honest," You quip back, giving a weak smile. Bradley’s annoyed huff makes your face drop. You know he’s not upset that you're sick; he’s upset that you don’t take care of yourself when you’re like this. "Why'd you come home early? I told you to stay at work."

"Actually, you told me to stay at 'love you'. After hearing that delirious statement, I told Mav I needed to come check on you." His hand reaches back out, and he strokes your cheek with his thumb. "You don't look so good, sweetheart."

You shut your eyes and lean into his touch, sniffing every few seconds to try and clear the mucus from your nose. "I feel like shit." You finally admit.

"I'm gonna run to the store and grab some things, okay? Will you be good here by yourself?"

"Bradley, I have a cold, not the plague." Your eyes open for a moment just to glare playfully at him. He smiles at you, leans forward, and kisses your hair.

"Do you want chicken and wild rice, or chicken noodle?" Bradley mumbles against your head. You shrug under the covers.

"Surprise me."

**

Bradley returned about 20 minutes later and was very startled to see you sitting on the couch. Well, more like lying in an incredibly condensed ball with three throw blankets on your body. You couldn't even bring yourself to put anything on TV in fear it would make your headache worse.

"What are you doing out of bed?" He fires at you as soon as he walks through the door. He puts the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and makes his way into the living room, stopping in front of your place on the couch.

"I got bored," You mumble, half asleep.

"Y/n, you were asleep."

"I know. I got bored."

Bradley sighs again and returns to the kitchen, where he unpacks everything. "I got you both kinds of soup, by the way," He calls from the next room. You don't have it in you to answer, so you just let out a soft hum of acknowledgment. You fall back asleep.

**

When you wake up again, you're back in bed. There's a pile of blankets on you large enough to provide warmth to a small village, and DayQuil on the bedside table. Fuck. No.

"Bradley?" You call out hoarsely, the rough state of your voice taking you back a bit. The soft sounds of the TV in the living room halt and are replaced by footsteps. He appears within seconds, clad in sweatpants and his favorite sweatshirt, the one you bought for him the first Christmas you spent together. His hair is no longer styled; instead, it sticks up in every direction, soft brown waves now frizzy. He looks delicious.

"Everything okay, babe?" He asks from the doorway, not daring to move another step. You pout at the sight.

"I don't want to take the DayQuil, and you won't come near me." You can't even stop the way your voice comes out as a whine. You feel like a child.

"Babe, you have to take the medicine if you want to feel better," Bradley runs a hand over his face. "And if I get sick, it'll take me weeks to recover from it. I have a mission to train for." He gestures to you quickly before crossing his arms again. You huff and roll your eyes at him before fully pulling the blankets over your head, covering your face. You couldn't bear to watch him just stand there.

"Really?" He rebuttals, his tone housing a little humor in it. You can't help but grin to yourself when you hear him stifling a giggle.

"I'm mad at you now." You call out, not moving from your place. The air around you is still for a few seconds before the bed dips beside you. Pulling back the blankets, Bradley begins to attack your face with kisses as soon as he can access it.

"Are you still mad?" He mumbles against your skin, body hovering over yours. You can't control the laughter that comes pouring out of your frail body, content in nature despite the sickness that wreaks havoc on your poor immune system.

"Extremely," You wiggle your face away from him and catch your breath. "You're going to get sick if you stay by me."

Bradley thinks for a second, shrugs, and plants one last kiss on your lips, soft and tender. The feeling of him lingers even after he pulls away. Mocha brown eyes burning into yours, he softens visibly.

"I'll be fine. I'd spend the rest of my life sick in this bed if it meant I could spend it with you."

**

"Bradley. You're snoring." You grumble for the fifth time tonight, arm drawing up behind you, lazily hitting your boyfriend on the shoulder to wake him.

Your sickness came and went, right to poor Bradley, within 4 days.

After insisting that spooning tonight would help you both (him) preserve body heat, Bradley promptly fell asleep holding you from behind, lips pressed right against your ear. While usually you have no issues with this, when he's sick, he snores. Loud. Louder than usual. Louder than any human being or any living creature ever has before.

He hums, stirring slightly before tightening his grip on you. His face finds its way down to your neck, nuzzling its way in gently to rest. His snoring stops, and you, eventually, fall back asleep.

It took Bradley about 3 weeks to get over the cold you had passed to him, and he made it a point to remind you all 21 days that you owed him. You knew he didn’t really mind staying in bed on his off days with his beautiful girlfriend pressed against him, waiting on him hand and foot, so you let him tease you as much as he wanted.

Plus, he was right. That night, back pressed against his chest, was the warmest you'd been in a while.

[dear-mimii]

love your body

pairing! newmom!sevika x bodydysmorphic!reader

cw! please PLEASE do not read this if you are someone who struggles with body dysmorphia or body image issues, because this. fic HEAVILY involves it. this was lowkey hard to write myself.

word count! 1k

an! my first fic back and it is… wow! this is like my second time writing a very (or at least to me) emotional story like this and… i mean i don’t know if this was the right one to end my hiatus but it was very interesting writing this.

your baby girl amora was beautiful. precious. you cherished her everyday since you gave birth to her, 2 and ½, nearly 3 months ago.

but there was one thing you couldn’t physically stand to look at. your body.

everyone is a bit thrown off postpartum… right? everyone bounces back soon. you were not bouncing back. your tits were perpetually swollen with breast milk, one sagged noticeably lower than the other and both were riddled with stretch marks.

every time you look past the mirror—disgusting, is what you think.

your stomach sags and stretches—much like the rest of you. you have a fold. never in a million years you thought you would have a fold of any kind. the few times you have time alone and you think about it, it’s always, “ill get everything back into place when amora gets older.” or, “it’s just a mom body… nothing working out can’t fix.”

sevika’s noticed—all of the little signs. you never got undressed in front of her—let alone in front of a mirror. you switched out your cute, silk nightgowns to oversized maternity shirts to wear to bed. whenever you showered you basically refused to look down, you just stared at the tile.

and while sevika absolutely hated that you felt that way, about the body that she loves every part of—she doesn’t know what to do. a sit down talk? a therapist? a psychiatrist? you are both dealing with this for the first time, and it’s not like there is a one stop shop cure for postpartum body dysmorphia.

postpartum body dysmorphia? could her wife—her beautiful, enchanting, goddess of a wife… genuinely think that of herself? it feels so clinical—surely it’s just some far fetched, one in a million diagnoses that you stumble upon when googling random symptoms.

for sevika it was gut-wrenching, like she wants to vomit, like somehow she could dry heave and you could love your body again.

──── ୨୧ ────

you were breastfeeding amora when sevika came tiny from grocery shopping, her human hand gripping full plastic bags. before she could look up to greet you, you had already discreetly shifted yourself on the couch so your back was facing towards the door.

“hey sweetheart, missed you.” sevika crossed the difference to the couch, leaning down to leave a peck on your cheek. her free hand—the mechanical one comes up to carefully stroke amora’s cheek, being careful not to let the sharp edge touch her brown skin. “and how’s my baby girl? she’s not giving you trouble, sweetheart?”

you just nod no with a soft smile, trying to distract yourself from the fact sevika can see the stretch marks leading to the nipple amora was suckling from. sevika straightened up a little to leave a tender kiss on your temple before reluctantly stepping away from the couch to put the groceries away.

after some time of playing with and entertaining amora, eating dinner, and eventually putting amora to bed, you had some time for yourself. which didn’t mean much to you anymore. all you did with your “me time” was sit in bed—or rather in the edge of the bed with sevika, and scroll on your phone or watch tv. tonight wasn’t much different, no change in schedule—except, sevika didn’t turn on the tv. the remote was on sevika’s side, she always turned on the tv.

you looked over at her, “babe? what’s wrong?” sevika took a breath before standing, taking her time as she walked over to the other side of the bed. she sat next to you, trying to lock eyes with you, but you wouldn’t look. not at her. not at the shame that you somehow “failed” her. sevika’s human hand rested in your lap, intertwining your fingers with hers.

“love. i want you to look at me. please.” the pleading in sevika’s voice wore down your resolve some—and you raise your head just a bit to look at her.

“i love you. you know that, you know that i would never leave you. and i… can’t help but feel like you’re hiding from me. physically.” a beat passes, “you don’t have to say it out loud—i just can’t watch you treat yourself like you have been. i understand that right now… you don’t love your body, the way you look.”

you tense up—breath hitches. you yourself haven’t even said it. not even in your mind.

your voice was small when you spoke, “that’s not true.”

“i think it is, love. you flinch and move away from me when i try and hold you. you don’t undress when the lights aren’t on, not in front of a mirror either. and i don’t know how to fix it completely… but you know that i will try every possible solution because i. love. you. let me show you what i see, sweetheart. please.”

it felt like a boulder was chained to your heart, dragging it further and further down in your chest. immediately, your eyes glisten and overflow. you separated your hand from hers, bringing both to cover your face and turn away in shame.

“i—im, i-i didn’t,” you choked on a sob, actively unraveling in mere moments. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me, a-and—im so sorry!” a horrible, pained sob wracked through your chest and seemed to crack it open. “i-im so sorry, im so sorry, im so…” you just continued and on, repeating an apology when you had nothing to apologize for.

sevika immediately wrapped her strong arms around you, shushing you, trying in vain to soothe you. she kissed the tip of your nose, the crown of your head, every part of your face while rocking you absentmindedly.

“shhh, shhh. it’s okay love, you don’t have to apologize. im not mad at you. i love you, my heart. i love your body. i love that you gave us our daughter. i. love. you.”

[airybcby]

Hiii! Can I get a Matcha with vanilla syrup and whipped cream, iced, with Osamu Miya? TYYY if you do it🫶🏼

Side note: this is my first ever requesting anything at all lol ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

order up!

iced matcha add vanilla syrup and whipped cream!

( i'm so glad to be your first ever ask!! )

જ⁀✦ so kiss me

( osamu miya x reader )

♡ a/n — for my for here or to go event! ( now closed! ) ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.5k

♡ content — osamu miya x reader, soulmate au, taste what your partner eats? type thing?, fluff, osamu hates you for like .2 seconds, domesticity, not proofread

♡ synopsis — Osamu Miya swore to himself that he would never meet his soulmate. How was he supposed to love a person who mixed orange soda with their chocolate??

── .✦ kiss me beneath the milky twilight

All throughout high school, Osamu Miya ate to get the taste of his soulmate out of his mouth.

Not because he hated it — not really.

But because they had horrible taste.

Artificial flavors. Syrupy textures. Sweet-on-sweet-on-sweet. 

Whoever they were, they clearly had no respect for their own digestive system — and Osamu, whose tastes were simple and clean, found himself suffering through phantom tastes of bubblegum lollipops and sour mango gummies in the middle of biology class.

The worst part?

The orange soda.

Every week, like clockwork — bright, fizzy, and absolutely foul. It always lingered.

“Maybe yer soulmate’s a kid,” Atsumu joked once, watching his twin slam down a bowl of miso soup like it could wash the sugar out.

“Maybe I’m the one who died and this is hell.”

But despite the teasing, despite his constant grumbling, Osamu never once said he didn’t want to meet them.

He just didn’t need to.

Not while he was building something with his own hands. 

Not while the dream of owning a restaurant was still in his mind. 

Not while he could taste everything they felt.

That was enough.

For a while.

By the time you walk into Onigiri Miya, the weather’s still clinging to winter. 

Cold air bites at your ears, and your gloved hands fumble with the handle of the shop door until it swings open with a soft jingle.

The smell hits you first.

Warm rice. Salted nori. Something sharp and sweet and savory, all at once.

It’s a small place — wooden counters, soft lighting, cozy tables pressed up against the windows. It’s clean, minimalist, and it feels like a hug the second you step inside.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes focused on the grill — him.

Osamu Miya.

You know who he is, vaguely. Not from his time playing volleyball with his brother. But from food blogs, and the internet, and whispers about that guy who turned down pro volleyball to open a rice ball shop.

You slide onto a stool and glance at the small, handwritten menu. It’s simple. Just like the space.

Just like him.

He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Welcome in. What can I get ya?”

His voice is deep, low, warm.

You blink down at the menu and order the first thing that catches your eye — a grilled salmon onigiri. Your voice is quiet, your fingers tap the wood of the counter, and Osamu just nods.

“Comin’ right up.”

You watch him work — fluid, precise, practiced. His hands move like he’s done this a thousand times. 

You notice the cut of his jaw, the way the light touches his temple. The quiet furrow of his brow.

When he places the plate in front of you, you smile, soft. “Thanks.”

And then you take the bite.

You don’t know it yet, but that’s the moment it all changes.

For Osamu, it’s instant.

A wave of warmth, so deep and sudden he nearly drops the pair of tongs in his hand.

It’s not just that you liked it — it’s that your whole body lit up from it.

It’s euphoria. 

A flavor he’s felt his whole life, whenever you had something sweet or stupid or sour — but now it’s coming from him. 

A full-circle pull that settles deep in his ribs, warm and sure.

He looks up, finally, eyes meeting yours.

You’re smiling.

Not politely. Not with awkwardness.

You’re smiling like the food just told you a secret.

And Osamu Miya knows.

It’s you.

You don’t know why you keep coming back.

It’s not just the food, even though it’s easily the best you’ve ever had. 

It’s not the price, or the quiet, or even the cozy atmosphere.

It’s him.

There’s something about the way Osamu watches when you eat — like he’s reading you through the curl of your lips and the shift in your posture. 

He’s quiet, always. But his eyes are warm. 

He always says your name when you walk in. Always sets your tea just the way you like it.��

He always remembers the candy you keep in your coat pocket and jokes about how your stomach must be made of steel.

Sometimes he smiles at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

And sometimes… when your eyes meet, you feel like you’ve known him forever.

The realization doesn’t hit you all at once.

It builds.

You eat something strange and Osamu winces. You bite into a chocolate bar and he makes a face. You leave a half-empty bottle of orange soda on the counter and he laughs, low and quiet.

“I used to puke from this taste,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Nothin’.”

But your heart races.

Because lately, you’ve been craving rice.

Not just any rice — his rice. The way he seasons it. The way it feels warm in your hands and soft against your teeth.

Sometimes you wake up with the taste of miso lingering on your tongue. Sometimes you taste grilled cod when you haven’t eaten a thing.

And when he touches your wrist to pass you a plate, something electric sparks beneath your skin.

You know.

You know, and it’s terrifying. 

Because this man — with his quiet smile and warm hands and steady presence — has been yours all along.

One evening, long after the dinner rush, you help him clean.

You don’t even ask. You’re just there, humming to yourself, wiping down counters. 

You say something small and dumb about how you had a dream he fed you miso soup, and he just pauses.

Looks at you.

“You always ate like a child,” he says softly.

You laugh. “I just like sweets-”

He nods. “Y’know… I used to hate orange soda.”

You pause.

And when your eyes meet his, everything clicks.

You see the knowing in his gaze. The warmth that’s always been there. You see the slow realization mirroring your own. The longing neither of you ever named.

And then—

“Well, do you like it now?” you whisper.

He smiles. Steps closer. “Hell no.”

When he kisses you, it’s soft. Familiar. Like something you’ve done in another life. 

Like something you’ve always known.

Later, he presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “Finally get to feed you real food.”

You smile, bright and full.

“I’ll never eat another sour gummy again.”

He hums. “Liar.”

You grin. “Maybe just one.”

And he doesn’t mind — not anymore. 

Not when every taste leads him home.

Osamu Miya wakes up with the taste of artificial strawberry on his tongue.

And not the good kind. The candy aisle, 4-for-a-dollar, chews like rubber kind.

He blinks at the ceiling, groaning low in his chest like he’s being punished for loving someone with no culinary morals. 

There’s a distant rustling sound, followed by the crinkle of plastic and the unmistakable pop of a soda can.

He turns his head. There you are.

Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, wearing his shirt and your sheepish grin, a half-eaten strawberry marshmallow in one hand and a fizzy neon-pink drink in the other.

He narrows his eyes. “Yer killin’ me.”

You gasp, fake and dramatic. “It’s breakfast!”

“It’s a crime.”

Still, he doesn’t look away. He never does. 

You’ve got crumbs on your cheek, hair sticking up on one side, and you’re smiling like you didn’t just hijack his entire mouth with the taste of childhood mistakes.

He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “How do ya even eat that crap first thing in the mornin’?”

“I don’t always,” you argue, poking a marshmallow at his shoulder. “Just sometimes. On special occasions.”

He glares at you, but it’s useless. 

You’ve had him wrapped around your finger since the moment you bit into that rice ball and smiled like you’d just seen god.

You take another sip of soda and hum in satisfaction. “You taste it?”

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Tastes like disrespect.”

You lean over, nuzzling against his shoulder with a pleased little hum. “Mm. Romantic.”

He sighs, long and suffering — but wraps an arm around you anyway, pulling you close.

“Y’know,” he mumbles into your hair, “most people’d kill for their soulmate to wake ’em up with breakfast in bed.”

You look up at him, sugar on your lips, eyes bright. “Well, most people aren’t lucky enough to have me.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Unlucky’s more like it.”

But his hand settles low on your back, fingers tracing lazy shapes against your spine, and he kisses your temple like it’s habit. Like he’s been doing it for a hundred years.

Because he has.

Because he will.

Forever, even if he has to taste your questionable choices every single day of his life.

And when you offer him a bite of your marshmallow, grinning wide?

He takes it.

Because love — real, quiet, everyday love — is sweet.

Even when it tastes like pink rubber and regret.

OSAMU MY LOVE

i hope you like it!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[fuqnia]

I’m Not Gonna Make the Same Mistakes (1) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ eric cartman x fem!reader insert | college au, smut, MDNI

♡ A/N | so sorry for the delay writing this, inbetween school, work and a lack of motivation it's been very hard to write. but i'm determined!! i hope u guys enjoy this <3 i also tried to take criticism, as many people said they don't like the toxicity of the reader, so hopefully it's better!

♡ C/W | nsfw (18+), all characters are aged up! drinking, college parties, inexperienced reader, oral sex (female receiving), reader is (?), cartman is cartman, fighting, toxicity

♡ Synopsis | you thought it was just nerves—just your first date jitters, obsessing over what to wear, how to act, if you’d mess it all up. but cartman doesn’t make it easier. he mocks, he insults, he gets under your skin like always—until he doesn't. because when your anxiety spirals and your confidence cracks, it's not your date you're running to—it's him. your oldest friend, your worst influence, the one person you never expected to offer comfort… or a kiss.

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Eric, are you even listening to me?”

You kicked him under the table, hard enough that his tray rattled. Cartman didn’t even flinch. He just kept chewing, slow and deliberate, staring blankly at the far wall like if he ignored you hard enough, you’d shut the fuck up.

“I’m listening,” he muttered, reaching for another fry.

“No, you’re not.” You scowled, gripping your fork so tight your fingers ached. “You’ve been sitting there like a lobotomized ape while I’m trying to talk about something important.”

Cartman exhaled loudly, finally dragging his eyes up to meet yours. “Yeah, uh, hate to break it to you, dude, but nothing you’ve said in the last ten minutes has been important. Unless, of course, we’re redefining ‘important’ to mean ‘the most insufferable fucking thing I’ve ever heard.”

You gritted your teeth. “It’s my first date ever, Eric.”

“And?” He popped another fry into his mouth, completely unbothered. “You want a medal? A little gold star? Should we throw you a fucking parade?”

You ignored the urge to stab him with your fork. “It’s a big deal.”

“Oh yeah. Huge deal,” Cartman said, nodding mockingly. “Your very first night of awkward small talk and forced laughter with some pasty douchebag who’s probably gonna spend the whole time trauma-dumping between sips of his fancy-ass latte. Major milestone.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What is your problem?”

“My problem is that I have to sit here and listen to you hyperventilate over some dude who probably has thoughts about astrology,” he shot back. “Like, I bet if I asked him his moon sign, he’d actually fucking know. That’s disgusting.”

“Oh my God.” You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Just admit you’re jealous and move on.”

Cartman let out a loud, ugly laugh. “Jealous? Of what? Your big, exciting evening of pretending to care about whatever profound shit this guy says about the meaning of life? Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather deep-throat this entire tray of fries.”

“Please do,” you snapped. “Maybe then you’ll finally shut the fuck up.”

Cartman smirked, grabbing a handful of fries and shoving them all in his mouth at once. He chewed, slow and obnoxious, staring straight at you the whole time.

You scrunched up your face, heat creeping up your neck as frustration boiled over. “Why can’t you actually just help me out here? You’ve been on multiple dates before.”

Cartman snorted, barely swallowing before shoving another fry into his mouth. “Yeah, and? You think that makes me your personal dating coach? Go read a fucking WikiHow article like a normal person.”

You clenched your fists. “I don’t want a WikiHow article, I want advice from someone who actually knows what they’re doing!”

“Then ask literally anyone else,” Cartman said, wiping his hands on his hoodie. “Ask Red. Ask Bebe. Hell, ask Butters—I’m sure he’d love the chance to go full rom-com mode and help you find your perfect first date outfit.” His voice dripped with mock sweetness before flattening again. “I don’t give a shit what you wear. Or what you say. Or how many seconds you wait before texting this guy back so you don’t seem too desperate or whatever the fuck your tiny little rat brain is freaking out about.”

Your face burned. “I’m not desperate.”

Cartman smirked, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Oh no? So you’re just, what, casually freaking the fuck out? Totally normal behavior?”

You opened your mouth, then snapped it shut, grinding your teeth. He was enjoying this. He was deliberately being the biggest asshole possible just to rile you up. You weren’t even sure why you had expected anything else.

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

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

“Fuck you,” you muttered, shoving your tray aside.

Cartman chuckled, picking up his drink and taking a slow sip like he had all the time in the world. “Nah, pretty sure that’s Damien’s job now.”

Your stomach twisted, but you weren’t about to let him see it. You pushed back your chair and stood abruptly, grabbing your bag. “Forget it. I’ll ask literally anyone else.”

Cartman didn’t stop you. He just kept smirking, watching you like he was already thinking of more shit to say. But as you turned on your heel and stormed away, you could still feel his eyes on you, like he wasn’t nearly as disinterested as he pretended to be.

You shoved open the door to your dorm, already knowing what to expect. The room was empty—again. Red was nowhere to be found, as usual. She was always out, either at some party, with her boyfriend, or just wandering campus like a feral cat with an unlimited social battery. The few times she actually was here, she barely stayed long enough to make it feel like you had a real roommate.

You tossed your bag onto your desk chair and stood there for a second, rubbing your temples. Cartman was an insufferable prick. You didn’t know why you thought talking to him would help. He never helped. He just made shit worse.

You exhaled sharply and turned to your closet, flinging the doors open. Clothes stared back at you, rows of sweaters, jeans, a couple of skirts you barely wore, some crop tops Red had drunkenly convinced you to buy during a late-night Target run. But nothing screamed perfect first date outfit.

Your fingers twitched at the hem of your shirt as you flipped through hangers, your stomach twisting tighter with every second that passed. What the fuck were you supposed to wear? Damien always looked so put together, like every outfit he owned was curated by some underground indie magazine. Meanwhile, you were standing here in a wrinkled T-shirt, suddenly hyper-aware that your socks didn’t even match.

You grabbed a black dress off the hanger and held it against yourself, frowning at your reflection in the mirror. Too formal? Too try-hard? Would Damien even notice if you put in the effort, or would he just nod thoughtfully and say something cryptic like, "Clothing is merely a reflection of the soul’s impermanence"?

You groaned, shoving the dress back and reaching for something else. Your heart was pounding. Why was this so fucking hard? It was just a date. Just dinner. Just Damien.

But your brain was already spiraling, feeding you every worst-case scenario imaginable. What if he got bored? What if he realized you weren’t as interesting as he thought? What if he never actually thought you were interesting and just asked you out because he felt like it?

You let out a frustrated noise, pressing your fingers into your temples. You needed to breathe. You needed to focus. But all you could do was stare at the disaster zone that was your closet, feeling like you were about five seconds away from losing your goddamn mind.

You dropped your hands from your temples and turned back to your closet, exhaling sharply. Okay. Think. What would Damien actually like?

Your usual outfits weren’t going to cut it. Not for this. Not for him. You needed something sleeker, darker—something that fit into his whole brooding, effortlessly cool, probably writes poetry about death aesthetic. Your fingers hesitated over your usual sweaters before moving toward the back of your closet, where the neglected, impulse-buy clothes lived.

Your hand landed on a black dress Red had convinced you to buy last semester. It was fitted, sleek, with lace detailing along the sleeves and hem. You had rolled your eyes at it back then, saying it made you look like you belonged in some kind of sexy Victorian funeral, but now? Now it felt like the only real option. You pulled it from the hanger and held it against yourself, tilting your head at the mirror. Maybe with the right tights, the right boots… yeah, this could work.

You tossed the dress onto your bed and rummaged through your dresser, grabbing a pair of fishnet tights and your platform boots. You had seen Damien wear boots like these before—scuffed, well-worn, effortlessly stylish. Of course, his probably had some deep, symbolic meaning behind them, like they represented the weight of existence or some bullshit. Yours just came from a clearance sale at the mall.

You caught your reflection in the mirror and frowned. The outfit was one thing, but your usual makeup wasn’t going to work. You grabbed your makeup bag from your desk, digging through it until you found the dark eyeshadow palette you had bought months ago. It had been an impulse purchase, something you thought you might experiment with before chickening out and sticking to your usual routine. But tonight, you needed bold. You needed something dramatic.

You set it down next to the dress and stared at everything laid out before you, heart pounding. Is this too much? Am I trying too hard?

Cartman’s voice rang in your head, mocking. “I bet if I asked him his moon sign, he’d actually fucking know.” You gritted your teeth, fingers tightening around the fabric of the dress, but your focus drifted before you could stop it, your mind tugged toward something you didn’t want to think about.

You and Cartman had been best friends since childhood, even though no one ever really understood how or why. Hell, even you questioned it sometimes. You were different in almost every way that mattered. He was loud, crude, always looking for ways to stir shit up just for the fun of it. Meanwhile, you had spent most of your life trying to be the one who smoothed things over, trying not to let his chaos completely ruin your social life. But somehow, despite all of that, you had always been tight. It wasn’t like you had some defining moment, some grand reason for why you had stuck together all these years. Maybe it had started back in elementary school, when you were one of the only people who didn’t immediately write him off as unbearable. Maybe it was middle school, when you started realizing that, beneath all the insults and general asshole behavior, he was always on your side when it actually mattered. And maybe, after so many years of being tangled in each other’s lives, it had just become second nature to have him around.

You had told him everything, sometimes against your better judgment. Even when you knew he’d be a dick about it, even when you knew he’d twist your words or turn your problems into a joke, you still told him. Because for as much as he mocked you, he listened. As much as he acted like he didn’t give a shit, he always knew when something was wrong, even if he never said it outright. You had spent years dealing with his bullshit, years of hearing the worst insults imaginable come out of his mouth, but when it came down to it, you trusted him more than almost anyone.

Which is why his attitude about this date was getting under your skin more than it should. He wasn’t just teasing you, not in the usual way. There was something else there, something meaner, sharper, almost irritated. Maybe he really was just pissed that you had spent the last few days obsessing over Damien, but something about it felt different. He wasn’t just making fun of the guy; he was shutting down the conversation completely, acting like the entire thing wasn’t even worth talking about. It almost felt like… you weren’t even sure. Like it bothered him. Like he wanted you to drop it, not just because he was sick of hearing about it, but because he didn’t want you thinking about Damien at all.

You shook your head, exhaling sharply, trying to push the thought away. It didn’t matter. Fuck him. He didn’t get it. He had never had to worry about this kind of thing before, never had to sit there and wonder whether anyone actually noticed him. People had always paid attention to Cartman, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. He didn’t get what it felt like to want someone to see you, to actually want you. And now, finally, it was happening. You weren’t about to let him ruin it just because he wanted to be a miserable little asshole about it.

You turned back to the mirror, gripping the dress a little tighter. Tonight, you weren’t just Cartman’s best friend, weren’t just the person he insulted over shitty dining hall food, weren’t just another part of his life that he took for granted. Tonight, you were going to be someone else, someone Damien would actually be drawn to, someone he would look at and actually want. And if Cartman had a problem with that, then that was his fucking problem.

You pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it onto your bed before stepping into the dress, tugging it down and smoothing the fabric over your hips. It felt different from what you usually wore—tighter, sleeker, like it belonged to someone more confident, someone who didn’t second-guess herself over every little thing. You adjusted the neckline, tugging it slightly lower, then turned to the mirror, tilting your head as you examined yourself. It wasn’t you, not entirely, but maybe that was a good thing.

Grabbing the fishnet tights, you sat on the edge of your bed and rolled them up your legs, making sure there weren’t any snags before pulling on your platform boots. They were heavier than the sneakers you usually wore, the thick soles adding a little more height, making you feel grounded in a way that your own nerves wouldn’t allow. You stood, giving yourself one last once-over before moving to your desk, where your makeup bag sat waiting.

You unzipped it and started your usual base routine, foundation blending seamlessly into your skin, concealer covering up the faint stress-induced shadows under your eyes. Your hands moved on autopilot, muscle memory guiding each step—powder, bronzer, a bit of blush to bring warmth back to your face. Everything felt the same, the familiar comfort of routine keeping your thoughts steady, but when you reached for your neutral eyeshadow palette, your hand froze midair.

It wasn’t enough. Not for tonight.

You hesitated, fingers hovering over your usual soft browns and shimmery golds before pulling back. No. Not this time. You reached deeper into your bag and pulled out the darker palette.

Carefully, you dipped your brush into the darkest shade and swept it across your lids, blending the color outward, dragging it just beneath your lower lash line to add depth. It was intense, bolder than anything you had ever worn before, but you kept going, layering the pigment until it looked right. Next came the eyeliner, sharp and dramatic, extending into a precise wing that made your eyes look sharper, more defined. You leaned closer to the mirror, exhaling slowly as you traced the inner corners, elongating them just enough to make the whole look feel deliberate.

The last step—lashes. You grabbed the most dramatic pair you owned, ones Red had left behind once after getting too drunk to put them back in their case. They were thick, dark, long enough that they cast faint shadows on your cheekbones when you blinked. You hesitated only for a second before applying the glue, waiting for it to dry slightly before pressing them into place.

When you finally pulled back from the mirror, your breath caught in your throat.

This wasn’t just different. It was striking. You looked like someone else entirely—someone confident, someone who knew exactly what she was doing. You tilted your head, watching the way the light caught on the smoky pigments, how the black liner made your gaze feel heavier, more deliberate.

You stared at your reflection for a long moment, taking in every detail—the sharp eyeliner, the heavy lashes, the dark smudges of eyeshadow that made your eyes seem deeper, more intense. It was striking, but it was also strange, like you had stepped into someone else’s skin. You weren’t sure if it suited you or if you just wanted it to. Either way, it was too late to change anything now.

Turning away from the mirror, you reached for your hair products, running your fingers through the strands as you decided how to style it. You tried a few different things, adjusting and readjusting, watching the way each change altered the look entirely. Eventually, you settled on something that felt right, something that complemented the rest of the transformation. It was different from how you usually wore it, but that was the point. Every choice tonight was intentional.

With everything in place, you stepped back, staring at yourself again. This time, you didn’t reach for anything else. There was nothing left to fix, nothing left to adjust. You had done exactly what you set out to do, shaping yourself into someone bolder, someone worthy of Damien’s attention.

And yet, the longer you stood there, the less certain you felt.

You lifted your hand to your mouth, biting at your thumbnail as unease settled deep in your stomach. You weren’t sure why you felt so restless—maybe it was the silence of the dorm, the way the air felt too still, too heavy. Maybe it was the way your reflection still didn’t feel right, like you had put on a costume that didn’t quite fit.

Needing a distraction, you grabbed your phone off your desk and unlocked it, your fingers hovering over your messages before quickly typing out a group text.

you: ok does no one love me??? i need emergency emotional support before this date

You sent it and waited, staring at the screen like you could will someone to respond faster. Nothing. The read receipts stayed blank, the little typing bubbles never appeared.

Frowning, you sent another message, this time individually.

you to kyle: pls tell me i don’t look like an idiot before i spiralyou to stan: does this outfit make me look mysterious or like i just crawled out of a halloween store clearance bin you to kenny: pls respond if u love me you to red: ik ur prob busy being hot and mysterious but i need u to validate me rn you to eric: say something mean so i can get mad and feel normal again

You hit send and stared at the screen, waiting, but the seconds stretched into minutes, and still—nothing.

Your chest tightened slightly as you refreshed the messages, but there were no new notifications, no responses, no read receipts. It wasn’t like you expected them all to be sitting by their phones waiting to text you back, but it felt off to get radio silence from everyone at once. Even Cartman, who never passed up an opportunity to talk shit, had nothing to say.

You locked your phone, tapping your fingers anxiously against the case. The silence in the dorm seemed louder now, pressing in on you, making the room feel smaller. You had wanted reassurance, some kind of validation, something to make you feel anchored before the date, but instead, all you got was more uncertainty.

Without thinking, you grabbed the black cardigan draped over your desk chair and pulled it on, wrapping it around yourself even though it didn’t match the outfit. The dress felt too tight now, the makeup too heavy, like you had weighed yourself down in a persona that didn’t fit.

You snatched your purse and phone off the bed, shoving the strap over your shoulder with shaky hands before heading for the door. The second you stepped into the hallway, the cold air hit you, but it didn’t help settle the anxious energy buzzing under your skin. Your feet carried you forward before you had time to second-guess where you were going, your mind already set on your destination.

Cartman’s dorm.

You weren’t sure why, not exactly. He had spent the entire afternoon being an insufferable dick, mocking you, dismissing everything you said, making you feel like an idiot for even caring about this date. He was the last person who would give you any kind of genuine reassurance, and yet, he was the only one you could think to go to. Maybe it was because you knew he would say something, even if it was just some mean-spirited insult that would snap you out of your spiraling thoughts. Or maybe it was because, despite all his bullshit, you knew Cartman always had something to say about you.

You walked quickly, your boots clicking against the pavement as you cut across campus. The night air was cold, but you barely felt it, your pulse thrumming too hard in your ears. Most of the dorms were dark, the campus practically deserted. It was Friday night, which meant almost everyone was off getting drunk at house parties or crammed into shitty clubs downtown. The only people left were the ones like you—people who had nowhere better to be.

You tightened your grip on your purse strap, swallowing hard as you neared Cartman’s dorm building. It wasn’t like you had a plan for what you were going to say when you got there. You just needed him to open the door. You just needed him to look at you, make one of his stupid comments, roll his eyes and tell you you were being dramatic. You just needed something to break through the overwhelming, suffocating feeling that you were losing your grip on yourself.

Reaching his building, you barely hesitated before yanking the door open and heading inside.

You walked down the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps sharp against the tile as you passed rows of closed dorm doors. The overhead fluorescents flickered faintly, buzzing with that familiar, artificial hum that made everything feel sterile and lifeless. Most of the rooms were quiet, their occupants either gone for the night or too wrapped up in their own lives to make any noise. The few that weren’t had muffled voices seeping through the cracks, the occasional burst of laughter, or the low thrum of shitty bass-heavy music rattling through the thin walls.

When you finally reached Cartman’s door, you didn’t stop to second-guess yourself. You didn’t have to knock. You never did. He and Kenny were lazy as hell and never bothered locking it, either because they didn’t care or because neither of them wanted to be inconvenienced by getting up. You grabbed the handle and pushed, stepping inside without hesitation.

The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of the TV, casting blue-tinted shadows over the mess of blankets, discarded clothes, and empty soda cans scattered across the floor. The air was thick with the stale scent of weed, cheap fast food, and whatever ungodly amount of cologne Kenny had sprayed on himself before leaving for the night. The only sound came from the TV, where some rerun played at low volume, barely registering over the occasional click of Cartman’s phone as he scrolled.

He was exactly where you expected him to be—half-sprawled on his unmade bed, hoodie slightly rumpled, one hand resting against his stomach while the other lazily held his phone. He barely reacted when you walked in, only flicking his eyes toward you for half a second before looking back at his screen. His expression was flat, unimpressed, like you had just interrupted his very important evening of doing absolutely nothing.

“You look like you just crawled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin,” he said, voice as dry as ever, thumb still mindlessly swiping across his phone.

Normally, you would have had a response ready, something sharp and immediate to throw back at him, but the words barely even registered. Your stomach felt twisted up, too tight, like you had been holding your breath for too long and couldn’t let it out properly. Your arms hung stiff at your sides, fingers twitching with restless energy. You weren’t even sure why you had come here anymore—just that the panic in your chest had gotten so unbearable that you needed to be somewhere else, needed to hear something other than the deafening silence of your dorm.

The lack of response must have thrown him off, because after a few beats of silence, Cartman’s fingers slowed against his phone. He glanced up at you again, brows knitting together, his mouth shifting from its usual smug curve into something firmer, more uncertain. His eyes flickered over your face, taking in the tension in your jaw, the way your arms were too stiff, the way you stood like you were bracing for impact.

His expression hardened, his tone losing some of its usual laziness. “Jesus, dude. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it, your throat tightening as the weight of the night pressed down all at once. You tried to blink it away, to force yourself to hold it together, but the burning behind your eyes wouldn’t go away.

Cartman immediately sat up, his phone slipping from his hand and landing on his blanket with a dull thud. His entire body tensed, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he had just witnessed something catastrophic. “Whoa—what the fuck,” he blurted, his voice shooting up half an octave.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing hard, trying to keep yourself from completely falling apart, but it was obvious you had already lost that battle. Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched against your ribs, uneven and sharp.

“Are you—? Dude, no,” Cartman said quickly, practically scrambling to the edge of his bed. “You better not start fucking crying right now. I swear to God, I will— I’ll fucking—” He gestured wildly, like he was trying to physically push the situation away from himself.

You let out a shaky breath, not quite a sob but dangerously close.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he hissed, running both hands through his hair, his entire face contorted in absolute panic. “Okay, okay, uh—chill? Can you do that? Can you not have a full mental breakdown in the middle of my fucking dorm?”

You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders trembling.

“Okay, fuck, fine,” Cartman said quickly, his voice strained like he was physically wrestling with the discomfort of witnessing emotions in real time. “I— I take it back, alright? The Hot Topic thing. You don’t look that bad. You actually— you look fine. Good, even. If you’re into that whole vampire prostitute aesthetic.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob against your palms, your breath still uneven.

Cartman pointed at you like he had just won an argument. “See? That’s good. That’s improvement. We’re making progress.” He leaned forward slightly, his fingers twitching like he had the instinct to do something—to pat your shoulder, maybe, or shove you lightly to snap you out of it—but then he thought better of it and just clenched his hands into fists instead.

His knee bounced as he exhaled sharply. “Okay, real talk? You need to chill the fuck out. What’s the problem here? You look like you just found out Santa Claus is fake and your whole world is crumbling.”

You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes. “Santa is fake, dumbass.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, so is whatever the fuck you’re spiraling over right now.” He gestured vaguely at you, his expression still tight, still uncomfortable, but underneath all of it, there was something else—something almost genuine. “It’s just a date. You’re acting like you’re about to be led to the fucking gallows.”

You exhaled shakily, finally lowering your hands from your face. “It’s my first date.”

“So?” He raised an eyebrow. “You think this is some kind of once-in-a-lifetime moment? That this guy is, what, your soulmate or some dumb shit?”

You hesitated, your lips pressing into a thin line. “No, but…”

Cartman scoffed. “But what? What, you’re scared he’s gonna take one look at you and run for the fucking hills? Newsflash, dude—if he asked you out, he’s already interested. So unless you do something truly fucking stupid, you’re fine.”

You chewed on your lip, your hands twisting together.

Cartman sighed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was dealing with this right now. “Look, you want my honest opinion?”

You gave him a wary glance. “Do I?”

“Tough shit, I’m giving it anyway.” He crossed his arms, his gaze leveling with yours, sharper than before. “You’re overthinking the fuck out of this. You dressed up, you look different, yeah, whatever. But the only thing that’s actually weird right now is you acting like someone you’re not. You wanna impress this dude? Stop making it a fucking performance.”

His words settled over you, cutting through the panic just enough to make you pause.

Cartman’s face twisted slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “And, like… hypothetically—if he did take one look at you and decide you weren’t worth his time? Then he’s a fucking idiot. And you’re better off not wasting yours.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, Cartman scowled and waved a hand in your direction. “Jesus, do not fucking look at me like that, I swear to God.”

You wiped your eyes, your lips twitching slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re grateful or some shit. Like I just said something profound.” He made a disgusted noise. “I will take it back.”

You sniffled again, but the crushing weight in your chest felt a little lighter now.

Cartman rolled his eyes, flopping dramatically back onto his bed. “I knew you were gonna make this so much worse before you even got here. And yet, I still let you in. Because I’m a great fucking friend.”

You let out a breath, shaky but steadier. “Yeah. You are.”

“Fucking gross,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Get out of my room.”

You let out a laugh, breathy and unsteady but real, the lingering tension in your chest easing just enough for you to move again. Without thinking, you sat down beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight as you folded your legs beneath you. Cartman didn’t react, staring up at the ceiling like he was already regretting allowing this entire conversation to happen.

You glanced down at him, then reached over and pinched the soft skin of his elbow, making him jolt. “Ow, what the fuck?” He yanked his arm away, scowling as he rubbed the spot like you had actually injured him.

“Why didn’t you answer my text earlier?” You leaned against his pillow, watching him, your fingers still twitching with leftover nerves. “I texted all of you, and nobody answered.”

Cartman scoffed, dropping his hand back onto his stomach. “Yeah, no shit. I saw that desperate little cry for attention.” He turned his head slightly, giving you a pointed look. “Maybe I didn’t feel like dealing with your dramatic bullshit at the time.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet, here you are, dealing with it anyway.”

“Yeah, because instead of waiting for a response like a normal person, you showed up at my fucking door.” He gestured vaguely at you, exasperated. “Like a lost puppy. All sad and desperate for validation.”

You made a face, jabbing his arm with your finger this time. “Fuck off.”

He smirked, but his expression shifted after a second, his eyes a little less sharp. He exhaled, stretching his legs out slightly. “Whatever. Not like you would’ve wanted to hear what I had to say anyway.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “And what would you have said?”

Cartman hesitated, his tongue running over his teeth before he shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably some dumb shit about how you’re a fucking idiot for freaking out this hard over a guy who probably stares at himself in the mirror and thinks deep thoughts about his own existence.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You really don’t like him, huh?”

“I don’t like most people,” he corrected, shifting onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “But yeah. No, I don’t fucking like him.”

You watched him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why, though? You don’t even know him.”

Cartman scoffed. “I know enough.” His voice came out sharper than before. He rolled onto his back again, stuffing his hands behind his head, clearly done with the conversation. “But whatever. Not my problem.”

You stared at him, feeling like there was something there, something unsaid, but before you could push it, he let out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Now, seriously,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

You let out a laugh, the last of your nerves settling as you shifted closer and leaned into his space. Cartman immediately frowned, turning his head slightly like that would somehow create distance between you, but you only moved in further, pouting dramatically.

"Come on," you whined, dragging out the words. "I actually need you to be a good friend right now."

Cartman groaned, tilting his head back against the pillow with an exaggerated eye roll. "Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking needy. I already talked you off the ledge, what more do you want from me?"

You poked his cheek, making him flinch. "I wanna know what first dates are actually like. You’ve been on plenty, right? You never even told me about your first one."

Cartman scoffed, shaking his head like the question itself was ridiculous. "Yeah, because it was a bullshit middle school date that didn’t matter. Why the fuck would I ever bring that up?"

You squinted at him, tilting your head. "Because I tell you everything? And yet, somehow, I never got the details on this."

He stared at you for a long moment, before finally letting out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Fine, Jesus. But only because I know you’re gonna keep being fucking annoying about it."

You grinned, settling beside him with your chin propped against your palm. "Oh, absolutely. So go on. Tell me about the great, legendary Eric Cartman’s first date."

His lip curled, his expression shifting into something sour. "Okay, first of all, fuck you."

You beamed. "And?"

Cartman exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring at the ceiling. "And second of all, it was fucking stupid," he muttered, his fingers drumming against his stomach as he thought back. "It was Heidi."

You blinked. "Wait, Heidi Turner?"

"Yeah, obviously. Who the fuck else would it be?" He rolled his eyes, voice dripping with disdain. "It was sixth grade. We were in class together, and she started doing that thing where she’d laugh at all my jokes, even when they weren’t funny, and kept saying dumb shit like, ‘Wow, Eric, you’re actually really smart.’" He grimaced. "Like, she was practically begging for it. So eventually, I was like, ‘Fine, I’ll give the people what they want,’ and I asked her out."

You snorted. "Yeah, that definitely sounds like how a middle school romance starts."

Cartman ignored you, continuing. "So I take her to the movies, right? We go to see some dumb superhero flick—whatever the fuck was out at the time. I was thinking it’d be chill, easy, you know? Just sit there, eat some popcorn, let her bask in my presence."

You rolled your eyes, but he kept going, his face contorting like the memory itself was painful. "But no. Heidi spends the entire time trying to, like, talk. During the movie. Asking me if I like the characters, what I think about the plot, whether I ever want a serious relationship." His voice turned mocking. "‘Do you think love is real, Eric?’ Like, bitch, shut the fuck up, I am trying to watch Iron Man punch people in the face."

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. "Oh my god."

"And then," he continued, waving a hand, "she tries to hold my hand—which, whatever, fine, that’s what couples do, right? But she would not let go. Like, death grip. Like she thought I was gonna fucking disappear if she let go for two seconds." He shuddered. "I swear to God, my hand was sweating, and she just held on tighter."

You were laughing so hard you had to wipe at your eyes. "That’s actually fucking adorable."

Cartman shot you a glare. "No. It was suffocating. And then, at the end of the night, she kissed me, right?" He made a face, eyes narrowing like he was still mentally picking the moment apart. "And everyone makes a big fucking deal about first kisses, so I was like, ‘Okay, let’s see what all the hype is about.’ And then it just… wasn’t."

You tilted your head, brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

Cartman clicked his tongue, shaking his head like the whole thing still frustrated him. "I mean, it didn’t feel like shit. I was just standing there, waiting for some, I don’t know, big realization or whatever. Like I was supposed to suddenly get it. But I didn’t." He scoffed, shaking his head again. "So yeah, maybe I’m just too emotionally evolved for dumb middle school relationships."

You snorted. "Yeah, that definitely sounds like you."

"Exactly," he said, smirking as he laid back again, tucking his hands behind his head. "So there you go. My first date. It was fucking dumb, and yours is gonna be too. Any other dumbass questions, or can you leave now?"

You frowned slightly, thinking back to high school. You had known Cartman and Heidi had dated again at some point, but none of the guys ever really talked about their relationships. They’d mention people in passing, sure, but never in a real way. You had heard whispers about them being together, little hints here and there, but no one ever told you. And Cartman sure as hell had never brought it up himself.

You hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "But you two got back together in high school, right?"

Cartman’s smirk faded just slightly, his fingers stilling against his stomach. His voice came out more clipped, like he was already annoyed by the question. "Yeah. What about it?"

You shrugged, watching him. "I just never really heard much about it. You guys never talked about it."

Cartman let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, maybe that’s because there wasn’t shit to talk about." He stretched his arms behind his head, but the movement felt forced, like he was trying to appear more casual than he actually was. "It was just a thing. She liked me, I liked the attention, whatever."

You frowned slightly. "That’s it?"

"That’s it," he said firmly. Then, without missing a beat, he shot you a glare. "And before you start trying to psychoanalyze me with your dumbass little detective act—no, I don’t regret it, no, I don’t miss her, and no, I don’t have some big hidden meaning behind why it didn’t work out."

You held up your hands in mock surrender, smirking slightly. "Didn’t say anything."

"You were about to," he muttered, rolling his eyes before turning back toward the ceiling. 

You giggled at him, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. Cartman just groaned, rubbing a hand down his face like dealing with you physically pained him. Neither of you spoke after that, letting the low hum of the TV fill the space.

Your fingers idly picked at the hem of your dress as your thoughts drifted, circling back to what he had said earlier. He had been kissed on his first date. That was just part of it, apparently, like it was supposed to happen automatically. You hadn’t really thought about it before, but now the realization hit you like a brick to the face.

You turned to him abruptly, eyes wide. "Wait. Will Damien kiss me on my first date then??"

Cartman made a face, tilting his head just enough to look at you. "What?"

You sat up, full-on panicking now, gripping his blanket in your fists. "I didn't even think about that! I was too busy worrying about what to wear and what to say and whether or not I’ll sound like a fucking idiot—but what if he tries to kiss me??"

Cartman stared at you for a second, then barked out a laugh, his whole face lighting up with absolute glee. "Oh, this is fucking gold," he snorted, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at your spiraling. "You—freaking out over a kiss."

"This isn’t funny, Eric!" you snapped, grabbing his pillow and smacking him with it. He barely even flinched, still grinning like an asshole.

"It’s hilarious," he shot back, dodging when you tried to hit him again. "Jesus Christ, you’re acting like he’s gonna fucking sacrifice you in a blood ritual. It’s a kiss, dude. Not a life sentence."

Your pulse was hammering in your ears, your entire body buzzing with nervous energy. "Yeah, but—! I’ve never—!" You gestured wildly, like that explained everything.

Cartman’s smirk froze for half a second. His eyebrows twitched just slightly, like his brain had lagged. Then, slow as ever, his expression shifted into something downright wicked. "Wait. Wait." He sat up fully, eyes gleaming. "You mean to tell me you’ve never—?"

"Shut up," you groaned, shoving at his shoulder, but it was too late. His entire demeanor shifted, his grin stretching wider, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

"Oh, this is fucking beautiful," he cackled. "You’re telling me you’ve gone your entire life, all the way to college, without even one kiss? Not even a shitty middle school one? Not even, like, a drunk party thing?"

You curled in on yourself, face burning. "No," you muttered through gritted teeth, absolutely hating the way his expression lit up like he had just found a new favorite hobby.

Cartman slapped his knee, doubling over. "Holy shit," he wheezed, shaking his head. "No fucking way."

"Stop laughing, asshole!" you shrieked, smacking him again with the pillow, but that only made him laugh harder, nearly tipping over onto his side.

"This is the best fucking thing I’ve ever heard," he gasped between laughs, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. "Oh, this is a goddamn event now. I should fucking sell tickets."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "This is the worst night of my life."

Cartman took a deep breath, steadying himself, though his grin remained firmly in place. "Nah, the worst night of your life is coming up, buddy. When your goth prince leans in all slow and romantic, and you panic so hard you fucking headbutt him."

You whipped your head up, horrified. "That could happen??"

Cartman threw his head back, laughing so hard he nearly slid off the bed. Meanwhile, you were spiraling into full-blown crisis mode.

You shot up, pacing the room in frantic circles, running your hands through your hair. “This is a disaster. No, this is worse than a disaster. This is historic failure territory. I’m gonna be known as the idiot who ruined her first date because she didn’t know how to kiss properly.”

Cartman, still wheezing from laughter, barely lifted his head to look at you. “Yeah, and that’s the legacy you deserve.”

“Oh, shut up,” you snapped, kicking the edge of his bed. He barely flinched, too busy wiping at his eyes, still grinning like a jackass.

But you couldn’t stop. The thoughts kept coming, one worse than the last. You turned on him again, hands flying as you spoke. “How does it even work? Is there some kind of—technique? What if I tilt my head the wrong way? What if I just sit there and forget to move? What if my lips are too stiff? What if my breath smells weird? What if my teeth clink together with his?"

Cartman let out an exaggerated gasp, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Oh my God. That would be so fucking funny. You two lean in all romantic, and then—bam—you knock your front teeth together like a couple of fucking dumbasses. He’d probably recoil in horror. Maybe even start bleeding."

You smacked his arm. "Can you take this seriously for one second?"

Cartman rubbed his arm like you had actually hurt him, even though you both knew you hadn’t. "Oh, I am taking this seriously. I'm deeply invested in this tragedy."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I should’ve asked literally anyone else.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have told you the truth,” Cartman said, still grinning. “They’d give you some flowery bullshit like ‘just follow your heart’ or ‘it’ll happen naturally.’ Meanwhile, I’m here to tell you, with complete certainty, that you’re going to fuck this up in ways I can’t even predict yet."

You whirled on him, pointing a finger. "You suck at being reassuring."

"I wasn't trying to be reassuring," he said, shrugging. "I was trying to mentally prepare you for the trainwreck that’s about to occur. You should be thanking me, really."

You let out a strangled noise and collapsed onto his bed, face buried in your hands. "This is my nightmare."

Cartman patted your back with the fakest sympathy imaginable. "Don’t worry, dude. Worst-case scenario, you’re so shockingly bad at kissing that Damien never speaks to you again, and you die alone. Best-case scenario… nah, actually, that’s still probably gonna happen."

Your frown deepened, the lump in your throat growing tighter as your eyes burned. The joke had stopped being funny. The panic that had started as something ridiculous, something you could brush off, had settled into something real.

Cartman must have noticed, because his smirk faltered. His head tilted slightly, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to gauge just how bad this had gotten. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, shifting on the bed. “Are you seriously about to cry? Over a kiss?”

You sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “It’s not just that,” you muttered, voice tight. “It’s—fuck, I don’t know, Eric. It’s everything. I just—I feel like an idiot. Like I’m already gonna mess this up, and now I have to worry about this on top of everything else—”

Cartman groaned, louder this time, like he was physically allergic to you having feelings in his presence. “Okay, no. We are not doing this. You are not about to sit here and have a fucking meltdown over the possibility of some moody goth kissing you.”

You sniffled, keeping your hands over your face. “Then what the fuck do I do? Just hope I figure it out in the moment? What if it’s awful? What if—”

Cartman threw his hands up. "Alright, Jesus, fine. You need practice or some shit, right? Do it on my pillow or something. I’ll critique you."

Your hands dropped from your face as you slowly turned to look at him. "... What?"

He shrugged like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “Kiss my pillow. I’ll tell you if you suck.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “I—I don’t even know where to start with how fucking stupid that is.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Dude, you wanna sit here crying, or do you wanna do a test run? It’s a solid idea."

You let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. “How the fuck is this a solid idea?"

“Because!” He patted his pillow like he was selling you some kind of luxury product. “This way, when you bomb your first real kiss, you can at least say you attempted some prep work. Like a warm-up."

You rubbed your temples. “This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had.”

Cartman smirked. “That doesn’t mean you’re not considering it.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, then at the pillow, then back at him. Cartman was grinning now, arms crossed over his chest, watching you like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks. His eyes practically sparkled with amusement, waiting for you to crack under the pressure.

Gripping the pillow tightly, you held it stiffly in front of your face, fingers digging into the fabric as your brain went into full meltdown mode. The longer you sat there, the more unbearable it became. Every single logical part of you screamed that this was stupid, humiliating, a complete and total loss of dignity. You should have thrown the pillow at Cartman’s smug face and walked out the door ten minutes ago, but instead, you were sitting there, actually considering it.

The longer you hesitated, the worse it got. Your stomach twisted with secondhand embarrassment for yourself as the weight of the situation pressed down on you. What if you actually went through with it? What if you messed up kissing a goddamn pillow? Would Cartman critique you? Would he start giving you fucking pointers? You’d never live it down. This was social suicide, and you were standing on the edge, debating whether to jump.

A tiny, pathetic whimper slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your face immediately twisted in horror, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of mortification crashed over you. "This is so fucking embarrassing," you muttered under your breath, dropping the pillow like it had personally betrayed you before grabbing it again and hurling it onto the floor.

Cartman lost his shit.

He practically folded in on himself, gripping his stomach as loud, unrestrained laughter spilled out of him. His whole body shook from the force of it, his head thrown back as he gasped for air between wheezes. "Holy shit," he choked out, barely able to speak through his laughter. "I fucking knew you were gonna break."

Cartman was still laughing, still clutching his stomach like this was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, but you didn’t react. You just sat there, completely still, hands curled into your lap, eyes locked onto the discarded pillow on the floor. The sound of his laughter faded into background noise, distant and muffled, like you weren’t even in the same room anymore.

A tight, sinking feeling settled in your chest, pressing down like a weight you couldn’t shake. The panic that had been simmering under your skin all night reached its boiling point, but instead of bubbling over into frustration or embarrassment, it just… flattened. You felt stuck, unable to do anything but sit there, trapped in your own head.

Cartman’s laughter slowed, turning into breathy chuckles before fading completely. “Oh man, that was fucking beautiful,” he sighed, shaking his head as he leaned back against the bedframe. "Like, genuinely, one of the top ten best moments of my life. Fuck, maybe even top five."

You didn’t respond.

He waited a beat, still smirking slightly, expecting you to snap back at him like you always did. When you didn’t, the amusement in his face flickered, his expression shifting as he finally looked at you.

“Dude. Come on. That was funny as hell.”

You kept staring at the pillow, jaw tight, stomach churning.

Cartman frowned, his brows pulling together slightly. "Seriously? Are you really about to go full existential crisis over this?"

Silence.

You could feel the shift in the air, the way his whole posture tensed as he realized something was off. Usually, when he got under your skin, you threw it right back at him. That was the dynamic. He pushed, you pushed back. But now, you weren’t pushing at all. You weren’t doing anything.

Cartman cleared his throat, shifting on the bed. “Okay, dude, seriously, you gotta stop looking like that. You’re being fucking weird.”

Your fingers curled into fists against your knees, knuckles whitening.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath before suddenly kicking at your leg—not hard, just enough to get your attention. "Alright, what the fuck do you want from me? You need some inspiring ‘you got this, champ’ speech? A fucking TED Talk? Want me to tell you you’re overthinking like a dumbass? Because I can do that, but you gotta actually speak."

You lifted your head, eyes meeting his for the first time since your meltdown started. Your throat felt tight, thoughts tangled in a mess you couldn’t sort through fast enough. You wanted reassurance, but nothing he said would fix the gnawing anxiety twisting in your stomach. You wanted to feel prepared, to not go into your first kiss like a total idiot, but nothing felt like enough.

Cartman exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against his knee. His jaw tensed, his mouth pressing into a thin line like he was forcing himself to say something he really didn’t want to say. His gaze flicked away for half a second before he sucked in a breath and let the words fall out.

“Do you just wanna practice on me or what?”

For a second, you were convinced you had misheard him, that your brain had twisted his usual bullshit into something worse, but no—he had actually said it. Cartman, of all people, had just offered to let you practice kissing on him.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, your body locked in place as you tried to figure out whether or not he was fucking with you. That was the thing with Cartman—he never took anything seriously. He turned everything into a joke, especially when it came to you. If you were anxious, he made fun of you for it. If you had a problem, he turned it into a bit. If you ever needed him, really needed him, he’d find some way to make it worse. That was just how he was.

And yet… he wasn’t laughing now.

You forced a weak chuckle, even though it barely sounded like you. "Don’t joke like that."

Cartman didn’t react right away. He just sat there, arms still crossed, staring at you, his knee bouncing slightly. Normally, by now, he would have been grinning, waiting for you to humiliate yourself further so he could drag it out as long as possible. But he wasn’t. He was just sitting there, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against his sleeve.

If this was really just another setup to make fun of you, wouldn’t he have committed to the bit already? Wouldn’t he be laughing? You studied him, searching for that smugness, that usual gleeful I’m having the time of my life making you miserable look. But it wasn’t there.

You shifted slightly, your pulse still racing, your palms sweaty. "Seriously, dude. You shouldn’t joke about shit like that."

His expression flickered, just for a second, before he exhaled sharply and looked away. "Yeah, whatever."

You swallowed again, your tongue heavy in your mouth, your thoughts racing too fast to keep up with. The idea was still there, sitting in your brain, refusing to leave. It was insane. Completely humiliating. But… was it really worse than making an absolute fool of yourself in front of Damien?

Practicing on a pillow was stupid. You already knew that. You wouldn’t learn anything from it. But practicing on Cartman—a real person—was different.

Would it be bad?

Cartman had kissed people before. He had experience. He knew what he was doing. If you got over the pure insanity of the situation, it almost made sense. It was just logistics. Like a test run before the actual event.

Your fingers twitched against your knee as you sat frozen, staring at the wall, considering it. Actually considering it.

Cartman stayed quiet, still looking away, his leg bouncing. You couldn’t tell if he was regretting what he said or if he was waiting to see if you’d take the bait. The thought made your throat tighten again, your stomach churning.

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisting, but you forced yourself to speak anyway. "Do you seriously mean it?"

His tapping stopped. His knee stilled.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, his expression tight, guarded. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t rolling his eyes. He wasn’t waiting for you to freak out so he could make fun of you for it. He was just… watching. His eyes flickered over your face, searching for something, though you weren’t sure what.

You swallowed hard. Your hands curled into fists in your lap, your nails digging into your skin. The thought of going into your first kiss completely blind, of messing it up, of making yourself look like a total idiot in front of Damien, made your skin crawl. But the thought of actually doing this, of kissing Cartman, was just as impossible. This was Cartman. The person who had spent his entire life making fun of you, getting under your skin, pushing every single one of your buttons just to watch you snap. He had never let you live anything down. If you did this, if you actually went through with it, he would have ammo against you for the rest of your life.

Cartman exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before leaning back against the bedframe. His fingers twitched against his hoodie, flexing, gripping the fabric, like he was trying to physically stop himself from saying something he didn’t want to say. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let out a slow breath and spoke.

"If I was serious, which, by the way, I’m not saying I am, would you actually do it?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your whole body felt too tight, too tense, like you were holding your breath without meaning to. The cliff you had been teetering on felt even steeper now, the ground beneath you unstable.

"Would you?" You countered, not quite ready to admit your answer.

Cartman’s jaw clenched, his fingers flexing again. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked down for a split second before meeting yours again, something unreadable passing through his expression before he finally exhaled.

"Yeah," he muttered, barely above a breath. "I would."

You stared into his eyes, blinking rapidly as your brain scrambled to process what he had just said. His eyes—one brown, one blue, held your gaze. You had seen them a million times before, usually filled with amusement at your expense, gleaming with mischief whenever he was about to say something awful, rolling dramatically whenever you called him out on his bullshit. But now, looking at him like this, there was none of that. No teasing, no smugness, no obvious sign that he was setting you up for humiliation.

Your gaze drifted, taking in the rest of his face, studying him like you hadn’t spent most of your life sitting across from him at lunch, or slumped next to him on a couch, or dealing with him in some other unavoidable way. He still had that round, babyish face that made it impossible to tell when he was actually serious. His features were softer than most guys your age, the slight fullness in his cheeks still lingering from childhood, making it hard to take him seriously even now. His mouth was pulled into a tight line, the corners barely downturned, like he was biting back a comment he would normally blurt out without thinking. His hoodie bunched slightly where his arms were crossed over his chest, the fabric stretching just a little over his stomach as he shifted, adjusting himself.

You let out a quiet, barely audible oh, sitting up straighter, hands pressing against your knees like that would steady you.

Cartman shifted slightly, his expression not changing, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. He looked like he was waiting for you to react—maybe waiting for you to back out, call him an idiot, pretend this whole thing never happened.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. "Is this—" You stopped, your voice coming out rougher than you expected. Clearing your throat, you tried again, steadying yourself. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Cartman’s brows twitched downward slightly, just enough for you to catch it before he forced his face back into something neutral. His mouth tightened at the edges, his fingers twitching again where they rested against his hoodie.

"Do you really think I'd do that?" he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

You hesitated, your fingers curling against your legs. "Yes," you admitted, because of course that was the kind of shit he pulled. He had spent years teasing you, laughing at your expense, picking at your insecurities just because he could. It wasn’t crazy to think this was just another one of his games.

His jaw clenched, and for the first time since this conversation started, he looked away, exhaling sharply through his nose. His knee bounced once before he stilled it, his arms pressing a little tighter over his chest before he turned back to you. "Well, I’m not," he said flatly, his tone even, his voice lower than usual. "So if you wanna keep freaking out over whether or not you’re gonna suck at kissing this dude, then whatever, but I’m actually giving you a fucking solution here. Your call."

You didn’t answer right away. You just kept staring at him, studying the way his face stayed firm, how there was no amusement in his expression, no hidden gotcha moment waiting to happen.

Cartman sighed, long and dramatic, before rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, dude,” he muttered, shifting on the bed. He moved closer, pressing his weight onto one arm as he turned to face you properly. The mattress dipped slightly under him, the warmth of his body suddenly right there, close enough that you could feel it even through your cardigan.

“Alright,” he said, his tone shifting into something more matter-of-fact, like he was explaining a business deal instead of offering to kiss you. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re not gonna tell anyone about this. Not Stan, not Kyle, not Kenny, especially not Butters, because that little freak would get way too into it—no one.”

Your stomach flipped, your hands gripping your knees a little tighter. “I wasn’t planning on—”

He cut you off with a pointed look. “I mean it. If you do tell anyone, I’ll feed your parents to you.”

You blinked. “What the fuck?”

He smirked slightly, like he was proud of how casually he had just said that, but his posture remained tense, his fingers drumming once against his knee before stopping. “I’m just covering my bases,” he said with a shrug. “I know how you get when you freak out over shit. Next thing I know, you’ll be trauma-dumping to Kyle like, ‘oh my God, I kissed Cartman, my life is ruined.’”

Your face burned. “That is not how I talk.”

“Yeah? Well, doesn’t matter, because it’s not gonna happen,” he said simply, like that was the end of it. He still hadn’t moved back. He was right there, the heat of his body pressing into your space, his face closer than it had ever been to yours before.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, but every inhale just made you more aware of how close he was. His hoodie smelled like his usual detergent, something vaguely fresh but a little worn-in, mixed with the lingering scent of whatever cheap cologne he had half-assedly sprayed on earlier. You weren’t sure why you even noticed that, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Cartman exhaled, his gaze flicking over your face before locking onto your eyes again. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice casual, but there was an edge to it, like he needed to get this out before you got any dumb ideas, “this changes nothing between us.”

You blinked at him, still struggling to think properly, still trying to catch up with the fact that this was actually happening. “What?”

He rolled his eyes, sitting up a little straighter but still refusing to move away. “You heard me. We’re not making this a thing, alright? You’re freaking out about your stupid goth date, I’m offering a solution, that’s it.” He tilted his head slightly, brows raised like he was waiting for you to argue. “We’re still friends. Nothing more. You get that, right?”

You nodded automatically, though the words barely processed. Your brain was too busy short-circuiting over the fact that Cartman was sitting this close, talking about kissing you like it was some casual favor, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t going to completely scramble your thoughts and make everything a hundred times more confusing than it already was.

He eyed you for a second longer, then nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Just making sure you’re not about to get all fucking weird about this.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m not gonna get weird.”

Cartman smirked. “Yeah? You already look weird about it.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands for a second before dragging them down. “Just—shut the fuck up and tell me what to do.”

Cartman snickered, his smirk widening as he leaned back slightly, resting his weight on one arm like he was getting way too comfortable with this. “Oh, you want me to tell you what to do?” he drawled, tilting his head like he was about to drag this out for as long as possible. “Jesus Christ, dude, I didn’t realize I had to give a full lesson. What, do I need to make flashcards?”

You shot him a glare, but the heat creeping up your face betrayed you. You could feel it, the warmth blooming along your cheeks, spreading to your ears, making you feel even stupider than you already did.

Cartman started to laugh but stopped short, his smirk faltering just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face, taking in the way your hands fidgeted against your lap, the way your lips pressed together too tightly, the way you weren’t even looking at him anymore.

His knee bounced once before he exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. When he spoke again, his voice was still smug, but the usual edge to it had softened, just enough to feel different.

“Alright, alright, calm the fuck down,” he muttered, waving a hand. “You’re making this way bigger than it needs to be. It’s just a kiss, dude, not a fucking marriage proposal.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again. His smirk was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp. His posture had loosened slightly, like he was trying to make this seem more casual, more like it was nothing. You weren’t sure if it was for his benefit or yours.

“You’re freaking yourself out for no reason,” he continued, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Look, all you gotta do is relax and follow my lead. That’s literally it. You don’t need to overthink it, you don’t need to stress, and you definitely don’t need to sit there looking like you’re about to throw up.”

You frowned. “I don’t look like I’m about to throw up.”

Cartman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “This is so fucking stupid.”

He snorted, nudging your leg with his foot. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who came to me for help, so I don’t know what to tell you.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers gripping the fabric of your cardigan. “Right. Okay. Just—fine. What now?”

Cartman’s smirk twitched, his eyes flicking to your lips for half a second before he stretched his arms behind his head, like this was the most boring thing in the world. “Now?” He tilted his chin slightly. “You come here and actually do it.”

Your jaw dropped, heat flaring up your neck as you gawked at him. "No fucking way," you blurted out, shaking your head so hard it almost made you dizzy. "I’m not doing it first. You have to do it."

Cartman let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head like you had just said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. "Oh, please. You’re the one having the meltdown over not knowing how to kiss someone, so why the fuck would I be the one to initiate? That defeats the whole point, dumbass."

You clenched your hands into fists in your lap, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yeah, well, I need practice, so you should go first to— I don’t know—demonstrate or some shit!"

His smirk widened, his knee bouncing slightly as he watched you unravel. "Ohhh, I see what this is," he drawled, shifting so he was facing you more directly. "You’re scared. You wanna do this, but you don’t wanna own up to it, so you’re making me do all the work."

Your face burned, your entire body tensing up. "That is not— that’s not what’s happening!"

Cartman clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, stretching his arms behind his head again. "Fine, whatever. Guess we’re just sitting here all night, then, because there’s no fucking way I’m making the first move."

You stared at him, your pulse pounding in your ears. He looked so fucking smug, sitting there like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t throwing you into a full-blown mental crisis.

But you couldn’t just do it. You couldn’t.

Your nails dug into your palms, your whole body screaming at you to say something, but you just sat there, frozen, watching as Cartman waited, smirking like he already knew you weren’t going to go through with it.

Your thoughts spiraled, grasping at anything to ground you, anything that would make this feel less impossible. You tried to remember how first kisses were supposed to start—not in real life, because real life was a fucking mess, but in books, in movies, in all the places where this kind of thing was scripted, where everything fell into place exactly how it was meant to.

Didn’t people usually lean in first, slow and hesitant, eyes flicking between each other’s mouths? Didn’t the moment build, stretching out like a rubber band about to snap? Or was that just bullshit? Was it supposed to be effortless, natural, instinctual—something you just did without having to think about it? Because that wasn’t happening. There was no instinct, no sudden surge of confidence, no automatic pull toward Cartman like some corny romance scene.

You weren’t leaning in. You were frozen.

Your nails scrunched into his sheets, gripping them so tightly your knuckles ached. Your knees pressed against his thighs, but he still didn’t move, didn’t react, just kept his arms lazily folded behind his head like this was the most boring thing in the world.

Your heart pounded, your chest tight, your stomach in knots so tangled you weren’t sure they’d ever come undone. Every inch of you burned—your face, your ears, your throat. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look away from him, because if you didn’t, you were going to lose your fucking nerve.

Your hands curled even tighter in the fabric beneath you. Your breath came out shakier than you wanted it to.

"I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?"

It barely sounded like your own voice. More like a confession. A plea. A desperate attempt to reclaim some control over this situation.

Cartman exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, not as sharp, not as full of smug amusement. "Yeah. Okay."

You sucked in a breath, held it for a second too long, then forced yourself to move. Your fingers tightened against the fabric as you leaned in, hesitating, second-guessing, trying to remember how this was supposed to go.

Cartman didn’t move. He didn’t lean in, didn’t pull back, didn’t do anything. He just sat there, watching you closely, his knee bouncing slightly, his lips parting like he was about to say something. The words never came. His eyes flicked between yours, waiting.

Your breath stuttered as your lips ghosted over his, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the faintest brush of skin against skin. The contact was barely there, just a whisper of a touch, but your entire body tensed, a fresh wave of nerves rushing through you.

Finally, you pressed your lips against his.

Warmth. That was the first thing you registered. His lips were softer than you expected, slightly chapped, but they yielded against yours. Your whole body locked up, too stiff, too rigid, unsure if you should move or stay still, afraid to do anything wrong. 

A split second later, panic flared through you, a sudden, horrible realization that you had no idea what you were doing. The thought hit you so hard that your brain completely short-circuited. Without meaning to, you moved too fast, tilting your head abruptly, leaning in deeper without any coordination.

Your forehead smacked into his with a dull, painful thud.

Cartman grunted, jerking back as the impact hit him, his whole body recoiling as your lips barely managed to stay connected for a fraction of a second longer. Pain shot through your skull, making you wince, but the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the fact that it had happened at all.

The silence that followed lasted less than a second before Cartman burst out laughing.

He collapsed backward onto the bed, one hand slapping against his chest while the other clutched his forehead. His laughter came out in uneven gasps, his whole body shaking as he let out a sharp wheeze between laughs. "What the actual fuck was that?"

You felt your stomach drop, humiliation crashing over you all at once. Your hands flew to your face, pressing hard against your cheeks in some desperate attempt to hide. "Shut up," you choked out, your voice high and strained as the heat in your face burned unbearably.

Cartman only laughed harder, his entire body still shaking as he tried and failed to compose himself. "Dude, you just—you fucking headbutted me mid-kiss! What the fuck were you even doing?" His breath hitched as another wheeze escaped him, his face red from laughing too hard.

You groaned, curling in on yourself as the weight of your embarrassment became unbearable. "I don’t know! I panicked! It just happened!"

Cartman rolled onto his side, still laughing, wiping at his eyes like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. "Oh my god, I wish I got that on camera. You’re actually the worst fucking kisser in human history."

You smacked his arm hard, making him jolt slightly, but he didn’t stop grinning. "Stop fucking laughing," you snapped, barely able to meet his gaze.

"I can’t," he wheezed, still shaking. "That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced."

Groaning again, you flopped onto his mattress, covering your face with both hands as your mortification reached its peak. "This is literally my nightmare," you mumbled against the fabric.

Cartman was still grinning when he nudged your knee with his, his amusement refusing to fade completely. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice still uneven from how hard he had been laughing. "Come on, round two. We’re fixing that disaster."

Your breath hitched as you peeked through your fingers, face still burning as you turned your head just enough to see him. He was still sitting close, still too warm, still looking at you like this wasn’t a big deal. His usual smirk had softened just slightly, not enough to be gone completely, but enough that you hesitated, your pulse loud in your ears.

He tilted his head, his eyes flicking over your face like he was assessing whether you were about to bolt. "Unless you wanna go out there and actually do that to Damien."

You groaned again, shoving at his arm without any real force. Cartman barely moved, his body rocking slightly from the push, but it only made him laugh harder. His grin stretched across his face, smug and entertained, his breath still uneven from how hard he had been wheezing earlier.

"Dude, I swear to God," he cackled, wiping at his eyes. "You’re actually fucking hopeless."

Your face burned even hotter, frustration mixing with the embarrassment still lingering in your chest. You sat up, fixing him with a glare, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. "Shut the fuck up, Eric," you snapped. "You’re not exactly helping."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Not my fault you have the coordination of a fucking potato."

You sucked in a deep breath, gritting your teeth, then shifted closer to him. His smirk twitched slightly, but he didn’t move back. His knee bumped against yours, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he watched you move in, his expression expectant, still cocky, but waiting.

You hesitated, just for a second. Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in.

This time, Cartman actually leaned in too.

Your lips met again, and for a few seconds, everything in your brain finally shut off. It was fine. It was normal. It was a kiss. His lips were warm, softer than you expected, and he wasn’t stiff or uncomfortable—he actually kissed you back. His mouth moved against yours, slow, almost lazy, like he wasn’t putting in effort but wasn’t pulling away either.

For a moment, it felt like you were actually doing it right.

Then, you got too eager.

Your hands gripped his hoodie, your body pressing forward slightly, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved your tongue into his mouth with zero finesse, no build-up, nothing.

Cartman jerked back so violently he nearly fell off the bed. "What the fuck—" His entire body recoiled, his hands shooting up to shove at your shoulders as he burst into laughter, his face twisting in disgust. "Oh my God, dude!"

You barely had time to react before he screamed. A full-volume, head-thrown-back scream like he was being murdered, except it was punctuated by uncontrollable laughter. He practically collapsed, rolling onto his side, clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath, still shaking from how hard he was laughing.

"What the fuck was that?" he wheezed, his entire body rocking with laughter. "Why did you fucking—oh my God, dude, I think you licked my uvula!"

Your eyes widened in horror. "I did not!"

"You fucking did!" He kept laughing, slapping a hand against his knee, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "You tried to eat my whole goddamn mouth!"

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his face. "Shut up!"

He barely even felt it. He was too far gone, still curled up, still gasping between laughs. "Dude, holy shit—"

"I panicked!" you shrieked, hands flying to your face as the mortification crushed you. "I thought that’s what you were supposed to do!"

Cartman rolled onto his back, clutching his chest, still laughing. "Not like that!" He gasped, finally catching enough breath to form a sentence, though his grin never faded. "Jesus Christ, dude, that was—I swear to God—that was a fucking assault."

You groaned so loudly you thought you might actually explode. "This was a mistake."

Cartman wiped at his eyes, breath still uneven. "Yeah, for me," he muttered, shaking his head. "Holy fuck, that was awful."

You wanted to crawl into the floor and disappear. Every inch of you was burning, your hands twitching with the overwhelming urge to either punch Cartman in the face or throw yourself out the nearest window. He was still laughing, his body shaking as he wiped at his eyes, looking like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in his entire life.

But then, somewhere between his wheezes, his gaze flicked over to you, and his laughter slowed just enough for him to actually see you. Your face was completely flushed, your shoulders tense, your hands balled into fists against his sheets. You weren’t just embarrassed—you were humiliated. Your lips pressed together tightly, your chest rising and falling unevenly, your eyes locked onto a spot on the floor, avoiding him entirely.

Cartman let out one last chuckle before exhaling, rolling his shoulders like he was forcing himself to calm down. He was still grinning, but when he spoke, his voice had dropped slightly, losing some of the teasing edge. "Alright, dude, relax," he muttered, sitting up straighter. "It wasn’t that bad."

You whipped your head toward him, glaring. "Are you fucking kidding me? You screamed."

Cartman snorted, smirking. "Yeah, because you literally invaded my mouth like a fucking alien parasite."

Your stomach clenched with embarrassment all over again, and you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"Okay, first of all," Cartman said, nudging your knee with his, "if you were that bad, I wouldn’t be offering to fix it, now would I?"

You peeked at him through your fingers. "Fix it?"

He rolled his eyes like you were an idiot. "Yes, fix it, dumbass. You wanted practice, right? So let’s practice. One more time."

You froze, your whole body tensing again. "I—what?"

Cartman huffed, shifting slightly so he was facing you more directly. "Look, I know you’re a fucking overthinker, so let’s just get this part out of the way before you start spiraling again. You don’t just shove your tongue in immediately, alright? Start slow. Let the other person meet you halfway. You gotta give them time to react to it, or else you’re just… I don’t know, assaulting their esophagus."

You groaned again, feeling the mortification creep up your spine. "Jesus Christ, Eric—"

"I’m helping you," he cut in, raising an eyebrow. "You asked for this, remember?"

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He had a point. You had asked for this. You had wanted to make sure you didn’t humiliate yourself in front of Damien. And despite all his teasing, Cartman was actually… helping. In his own, completely asshole way.

You took a slow breath, shaking out your hands before looking back at him. "Alright. One more time."

Cartman smirked. "One more time."

You swallowed hard, nodding, your breath coming a little unsteadily as you shifted closer to him. The space between you disappeared fast, the heat of his body pressing against yours as you adjusted your position on the bed. Cartman didn’t lean away, didn’t make another joke, didn’t ruin the moment with some last-minute insult. Instead, he moved toward you too, his weight shifting on the mattress as his arm settled close to your side, brushing against your hip.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, loud and distracting, your skin prickling with nervous anticipation. He was close now, his face inches from yours, his body radiating warmth, the scent of his hoodie—clean detergent, cheap cologne, something distinctly him—filling the tiny space between you. He exhaled through his nose, his usual bravado dialed down into something calmer, more focused. His gaze flickered over your face once, then he murmured, voice quiet and unusually soft, “Just relax.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Cartman leaned in first, the movement so natural, so uncharacteristically slow that you barely registered it happening before his lips were on yours. There was no hesitation in the way he kissed you. His lips met yours with an ease that sent another shiver down your back, warm and firm, neither too demanding nor too hesitant. Unlike last time, there was no awkward fumbling, no nervous hovering, no disaster waiting to happen. He kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing, like this wasn’t just some stupid favor or some joke waiting to be made.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself against him. His lips moved against yours, setting a pace that was easy to follow, smooth and controlled, guiding you without words, without teasing. His mouth was warm, the way he kissed you slow but assured, like he was giving you space to figure it out, letting you fall into step with him instead of forcing it.

The heat curled low in your stomach as you gripped the hoodie tighter, pressing forward on instinct, your chest brushing against his. A quiet sound slipped from you, barely audible, but it was enough for Cartman to react. His breathing changed just slightly, a barely-there hitch as he angled his head, moving against you with a little more purpose. His fingers twitched against the bed, his knuckles brushing the fabric like he had the urge to move them but was still holding back.

You weren’t holding back.

Your body leaned in more, closing any remaining space between you. Your hands clenched the hoodie tighter as you moved with him, your lips parting just slightly against his. His reaction was immediate, meeting you halfway, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach twist with nerves. The movement of his lips against yours was slow but firm, not impatient, but deliberate, like he was waiting for you to catch up, waiting for you to relax into it the way he had told you to.

Your pulse thundered under your skin, the warmth of him pressing into you, his mouth sliding against yours, his scent surrounding you. The smallest graze of his tongue barely brushed against yours, light and unintrusive, more of a suggestion than anything. Your body tensed before it melted, the shift happening all at once, your fingers curling even tighter in his hoodie as you let yourself lean into it. A noise bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it, soft and breathy, breaking against his mouth.

Cartman made a low sound, something close to a hum, like he had felt that reaction more than he had heard it. His posture changed, his weight settling more fully into the mattress, his head tilting just slightly, enough that the kiss turned deeper, slower. Your heart hammered as your grip on him tightened, your hands twisting into the fabric like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Your body felt too warm, your skin buzzing, your lips tingling with the press of his, the slide of breath between you. Every nerve felt on edge, oversensitive, your mind clouded with nothing but the feeling of his mouth moving against yours. Your breathing was uneven, your lips parting a little more, chasing the kiss without thinking. The moment stretched, neither of you pulling away, neither of you hesitating, neither of you making it into a joke.

Cartman was the first to break it, pulling back just enough to put space between you, though not much. His breath was still uneven, his lips slightly red from the kiss, his face a little flushed, but his expression was difficult to read. His eyes flickered over your face like he was trying to process something before he exhaled sharply, his mouth pressing into a firm line for a second. His tongue swiped over his lower lip once before he leaned away fully, his posture shifting back into something looser, like he was willing himself to act normal again.

He stretched his arms over his head, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like the words were slow to come out. “That was better.”

Your mind was still reeling, your body buzzing with the lingering sensation of Cartman’s lips against yours. It had been your first real kiss—the first one that actually felt right, the first one that hadn’t been awkward fumbling or a complete disaster. Your breath was still unsteady, your fingers tingling, your skin warm from how close the two of you had been just moments ago.

You blinked at him, your thoughts slow and tangled, but as the realization settled in—you had actually done it, and you hadn’t completely sucked—a wide, breathless smile spread across your face. Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him and crushing him into a tight hug.

"Thank you," you mumbled against his shoulder, squeezing him so hard that he rocked slightly where he sat. "You’re still an asshole, but you’re a good friend. Damien won’t know what hit him."

Cartman let out a strangled grunt, his whole body tensing at the sudden contact. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, shifting under your weight but making no real effort to push you off. "Why the fuck are you hugging me—"

"Because I love you," you said, tightening your grip. "Platonically. Mostly."

His hands finally came up, not to return the hug, but to pry you off him. "Alright, get off me, you needy bitch. I just did you the biggest favor of your life, and now you’re trying to suffocate me?"

You laughed, leaning back but still grinning at him, the weight in your chest lighter than it had been all day. "Relax, coach. I was showing gratitude."

Cartman rolled his eyes, smoothing down his hoodie like you had personally offended him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t go getting all emotional about it. It was a favor, not a fucking Hallmark movie."

"You sure?" You smirked, tilting your head as you nudged his leg with yours. "That was a pretty good kiss. Almost seemed like you enjoyed it."

His expression immediately soured. His jaw tensed, his nose scrunched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed in a way that told you you had just hit a nerve. "Shut the fuck up."

You snickered, standing from the bed, your heart still beating a little too fast, your lips still tingling from the kiss. 

"Hey," Cartman muttered, not quite looking at you, but not ignoring you either. His hands twitched against his hoodie, gripping the fabric for a second before relaxing. "Don’t fucking waste that, alright? If you go in there and kiss that goth bastard like a fucking goldfish, I’m revoking your practice rights."

The corner of your mouth twitched, something warm settling in your chest at the way he was still looking out for you, even if he had to disguise it with his usual smugness. "Noted, coach. I’ll make you proud."

"You better," he grumbled, turning away with a huff. His leg bounced slightly, a subtle twitch in his posture that hadn’t been there before, but you didn’t comment on it.

You turned toward your bag, pulling it onto your lap as you dug around for your phone. The screen lit up, the time staring back at you, reminding you just how little time you had before your date. Your reflection in the dark screen caught your attention, and you frowned, leaning in slightly.

Your lipstick was smudged.

Your stomach flipped, a fresh wave of heat creeping up your neck. You hadn't even thought about that. You had been so wrapped up in everything—your nerves, your panic, the way Cartman had kissed you without turning it into a joke—that you hadn't even considered the fact that there would be evidence of it left on your face.

Cartman hadn’t said anything either.

You swallowed, pushing the thought aside as you reached for your makeup bag. Unzipping it quickly, you pulled out your lip tint, tilting your phone slightly so you could use the reflection to fix it. You swiped the color back over your lips carefully, blending it in, trying to make sure it didn’t look like you had just been making out with someone minutes before going on a date.

Behind you, Cartman shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking slightly as he moved. You could still feel his presence, still sense the way he was watching you even if you weren’t looking directly at him. The air in the room felt different now, heavier in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As you smoothed out the last of your lip tint, you finally glanced back at him. He was leaning back on his hands now, his posture forced into something casual, but there was something off about the way he was looking at you. His eyes flicked from your lips back to your phone, like he was pretending he hadn’t been paying attention.

You pressed your lips together, making sure the color was even before stuffing the tint back into your bag. "Alright," you muttered, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. "I should probably go."

Cartman let out a short breath, his knee still bouncing. "Yeah," he muttered, nodding. "Go knock your little goth boyfriend on his ass."

You laughed, shaking your head as you adjusted the strap of your purse. The nerves that had been eating away at you all day had finally settled, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. As you turned back toward Cartman, something caught your eye, making you pause.

There was a faint smudge of color on his lips, barely noticeable, but unmistakable. Your lipstick had transferred onto his mouth.

Your stomach flipped, and before you could think twice, you stepped closer. "Oh, hold on," you said, already reaching out.

Cartman barely had time to react before your fingers brushed against his lips. His whole body tensed at the contact, his shoulders locking up as his eyes widened slightly before snapping into a glare.

"Hey, what the fuck—" His voice was muffled against your fingers as you wiped at the stain, rubbing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. His lips twitched, like he wanted to bare his teeth at you but was holding himself back.

"You got my lipstick on you," you said, grinning as you swiped at it again, this time more thoroughly.

Cartman jerked his head back, his scowl deepening, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes, something unsettled. "So fucking what? Let me rock it."

Snorting, you grabbed his chin before he could pull away completely, tilting his face back toward you. "Oh my god, hold still," you said, laughing through your words as you rubbed away the last of the color.

He let out a dramatic groan, tilting his head back even further like you were torturing him. "Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking annoying," he grumbled, but he wasn’t actually stopping you. His hands stayed planted against the bed, his knee had stopped bouncing, and he was letting you touch him without his usual exaggerated resistance. His face was warm under your fingers, his skin slightly flushed, his lips pressed into a tight line like he was biting back more words than usual.

You wiped at the last bit of color, giving a satisfied hum. "There. Much better."

Cartman opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he hesitated. His gaze flicked over your face, and for a moment, he wasn’t glaring, wasn’t smirking, wasn’t wearing the usual amused look he always had when he was about to say something shitty. His jaw tensed slightly, his lips parting just enough, like he was waiting for you to move away first.

That was when you realized how close you were.

Your hand was still resting against his chin, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He wasn’t leaning into the touch, but he wasn’t pulling away either. His breathing wasn’t as even as it had been before, his shoulders locked in place like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You quickly pulled your hand back, rubbing your fingers against the sleeve of your cardigan like that would somehow erase the moment. "Now you don’t look like you’ve been making out with someone before my date," you said, clearing your throat as you took a step back.

Cartman scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. "Please, I could have pulled it off."

You smirked, grabbing your phone again as you adjusted your bag. "Oh yeah? Next time, I’ll use red. See how bold you’re willing to be."

His expression twitched, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before his usual irritation took over. His scowl deepened, but he didn’t fire back as quickly as he normally would have. His lips pressed into a firm line, his hands tightening where they rested on the bed before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Alright, I’m actually leaving now," you said, heading toward the door.

He let out a breath, shifting back on the bed, his arms crossing over his chest again. "Yeah, yeah. Try not to fucking embarrass yourself out there."

As you reached for the handle, you turned to look at him one last time. He was still in the same spot, still sitting with his arms crossed, but his expression wasn’t as relaxed as he was trying to make it seem. His jaw was set, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips still pursed like he had words forming but wasn’t saying them.

You smirked anyways, flipping him off as you opened the door. "No promises."

He didn’t respond right away. He watched you for a second longer, his leg bouncing slightly, his fingers drumming against his hoodie, before looking away.

You didn’t wait for anything else before stepping out.

It had been a few days since your date, and Cartman had heard every detail. You had texted him nonstop, sending updates like you were narrating some once-in-a-lifetime event. Damien had been charming, paid for dinner, walked you back to your dorm, and to top it all off, he kissed you at the end of the night. You had ended the last text with I didn’t headbutt him!!! and way too many emojis.

Cartman had left you on read.

Now, he was walking back from trivia night with Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He kept his head down, barely listening as the others picked apart everything they got wrong that night. Normally, he would have been leading that charge, shitting on Kyle for the answers he got wrong, calling Stan an idiot for second-guessing himself, making fun of Butters for celebrating a lucky guess. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood.

Kenny must have noticed, because as they crossed the street back toward campus, he shot Cartman a look. “Dude, what’s up with you? You’ve been quiet all night.”

Cartman scowled, barely glancing at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kyle scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve barely said a word for two hours? That’s insane considering how much you love to talk out of your ass about how bad we are at trivia.”

“You are bad at trivia,” Cartman muttered, kicking at a stray rock on the sidewalk. “That’s just a fucking fact.”

“Yeah, but usually you won’t shut up about it,” Stan pointed out, zipping up his jacket as the cold night air rolled through. “Didn’t even talk shit when Kyle said the wrong answer on that Star Wars question.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. I just wasn’t in the mood.”

Kenny smirked, watching him a little too closely. “You still thinking about her date?”

Cartman’s stomach twisted. His hands clenched in his hoodie pocket, fingers gripping the fabric so tight he thought the seams might pop. He didn’t look at Kenny, just scoffed. “Oh my God, you’re all fucking obsessed,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. “I don’t give a shit about her date, alright? Why the fuck would I? That goth motherfucker can have her. I don’t care.”

Kenny’s smirk widened slightly, and Stan and Kyle exchanged a glance. Butters, who had been quiet up until now, let out a nervous laugh. “Golly, fellas, maybe Eric’s just real tired! I mean, we have had a long day—”

“Shut the fuck up, Butters,” Cartman snapped.

Kyle exhaled, shaking his head. “Dude. Just admit it.”

Cartman frowned. “Admit what?”

Kenny nudged him with his elbow, grinning. “That you’re jealous as fuck.”

Cartman stopped walking.

The others took a few more steps before realizing and turning back to face him. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed, his expression shifting through several emotions in real time before settling on something defensive and pissed off.

“Ohhh, fuck you, Kenny,” he said, shaking his head. “You guys are so fucking stupid, I swear to God.”

Kenny chuckled, unfazed. “Then why’d you stop walking?”

Cartman’s jaw tightened. “Because I’m surrounded by dumbasses, clearly.”

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny all looked at each other, the amusement in their faces only growing.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “So if you don’t care, why haven’t you roasted her about it yet?”

Cartman opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

They were still watching him, waiting for a response, waiting for him to snap back with some insult, waiting for him to say anything.

He should have. He had wanted to. He had wanted to roast you for your stupid texts, for how excited you had been, for how you had sent him a play-by-play of the night like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you. He had wanted to tell you that you were being fucking embarrassing, that Damien probably thought you were desperate, that you were putting way too much stock into one date. He had wanted to call you a loser for the emoji spam alone.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had left you on read.

His fingers curled tighter into his hoodie as he forced out a smirk. “Because I don’t care,” he said, throwing his arms out like this whole conversation was ridiculous. “I mean, shit, dude, good for her! She’s finally not a fucking virgin loser anymore! Should I be proud? Should I send the goth motherfucker a congrats text? Frame her first date certificate?”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Bro.”

“What?!”

Stan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dude, if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be getting so defensive about it.”

Cartman scoffed, turning back toward campus, walking faster. “You guys are fucking annoying.”

Kyle groaned, following after him. “Oh my God, you are so full of shit.”

Cartman ignored him, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes fixed ahead. He could feel them looking at him, could hear the stupid smirks in their voices, could tell they thought they had him all figured out.

This wasn’t jealousy. It was annoyance. You had taken up so much of his time with your stupid date prep, freaked out to him about how nervous you were, dragged him into your dumb little crisis, and now you were off making out with some goth asshole and acting like it was the best night of your life.

Kenny caught up beside him, walking a little too casually. “You sure you don’t care?”

Cartman didn’t look at him. His jaw was still tight, his fingers still curled into his hoodie, his stomach still unsettled from the memory of your last text.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m sure.”

Kenny hummed like he didn’t believe him. “Alright.”

Cartman didn’t say anything else. He kept walking, kept his hands in his pockets, kept his face neutral. The others let it go after that, but the weight in his chest didn’t.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

The bass thumped through the walls, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, cheap weed, and too many bodies crammed into one house. The party was in full swing, people laughing too loud, red solo cups littering every surface, the usual chaos of a Friday night in college. You leaned against the wall in the farthest corner of the room, holding your drink close as you nodded along to what Damien was saying.

For the past couple of weeks, you had been trying to hang out with Eric, trying to call, trying to text, but he kept brushing you off. Every attempt was met with short responses, sarcastic excuses, or straight-up ghosting. Busy, got shit to do, go bother your goth boyfriend. Sometimes he wouldn’t even respond at all.

You wanted to believe it was just Eric being Eric, that he was always like this, that he had a habit of being a lazy piece of shit when it came to effort in friendships. But it didn’t feel like that this time. It felt deliberate.

You had seen him on campus plenty, sitting with the guys at lunch, lounging in the dorm common areas, playing video games with Kenny. He wasn’t busy. He was just avoiding you.

And the worst part? You had no clue why.

Damien’s voice pulled you back to the present. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he took a sip from his cup. “Something on your mind?”

You blinked, adjusting your grip on your drink, forcing yourself to focus. You had dressed for Damien tonight, picked an outfit that leaned heavier into his style—dark mesh, layered silver jewelry, the deep, smoky eye makeup you knew he liked. You wanted to impress him, to make sure you fit next to him, to look like you belonged at his side.

Smiling, you shook your head. “Nah, just a little tired.”

Damien studied you for a second, his sharp, gray eyes dragging over your face, his expression difficult to place. His lips were slightly parted like he was debating whether to push for more, but he didn’t ask again. He was good at that—holding back just enough to make you wonder, keeping his emotions measured, never giving too much away. That mystery had drawn you to him in the first place, made you curious, made you want to know what went on beneath the quiet, confident exterior.

His smirk widened slightly, his gaze dipping lower as he took another sip of his drink before leaning in, lowering his voice. “Well, if you need a way to wake up, I can think of a few.”

His hand brushed against your hip, the touch light but lingering, his fingers pressing just enough to send a small shiver through you.

Excitement sparked in your chest, your heart picking up a little at the attention. He had been flirty before, but not like this, not this direct, not this confident in his intentions. You liked it. You had spent weeks wondering if he really liked you as much as you liked him, if you were overthinking things, if you should make the first move. But now, he was right here, taking that step for you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup as warmth spread through your body, nerves mixing with anticipation. He was watching you closely, waiting for your reaction, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew you weren’t going to pull away.

You opened your mouth to respond, your pulse quickening, but before you could say anything, your eyes flicked past Damien’s shoulder, and your stomach twisted.

Through the crowd, the front door swung open, letting in a short gust of cold air that swept through the entryway. Kyle stepped in first, followed by Stan, who was already glancing around like he was trying to spot someone. Kenny trailed behind them, hood still up despite being indoors, his cup already full—probably grabbed from the porch table on the way in.

And then Cartman walked in.

His shoulders were slouched, hands stuffed into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, the same gray one you always saw him in when he didn’t want to deal with people. His mouth was set in a flat line, not a scowl, but close. He wasn’t saying anything to the others, just following behind like he hadn’t even really wanted to come in the first place.

You weren’t sure why you were surprised. You’d known they were going to be here. You’d heard Stan mention it earlier in the week, maybe even twice. It wasn’t like this party was exclusive. It was one of those open-invite things—just a bunch of people piling into a too-small house, half for the drinks and half for the excuse to say they had plans.

Damien shifted beside you. He must’ve followed your gaze, because his voice dropped just slightly. “You good?”

You turned back to him too quickly, your expression too forced. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

He didn’t look convinced.

You glanced over again, trying to be subtle. Cartman was still by the door, standing slightly off to the side while Stan and Kyle greeted someone. Kenny had already disappeared into the kitchen. Cartman’s gaze swept lazily over the room before landing—too quickly—on you.

It was barely a second. He looked, blinked, and then looked away just as fast. Like he hadn’t seen anything. Like you weren’t there at all.

The feeling that hit your chest was sharp and immediate, a little flash of heat behind your ribs that left you stunned more than hurt. You didn’t know what you’d expected—eye contact, a nod, even one of his usual shitty expressions—but not that. Not that total dismissal.

You forced a breath out through your nose, lifted your drink, and took a long sip, letting the vodka burn away the rest of whatever you were feeling. When you turned back to Damien, your face was already rearranged into a smile.

“So, yeah,” you said, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation like nothing had happened. “You were saying something about your band getting a show?”

Damien didn’t press. He raised his eyebrows slightly, like he’d caught your shift in tone but wasn’t going to call it out. Instead, he leaned in again, his voice smooth and easy. “Yeah, it’s next Friday. Small venue, some DIY place in the Heights, but the lineup’s decent. You should come. I’ll put you on the list.”

You nodded, focusing on the way his hand brushed your arm as he spoke. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He smiled, just slightly, a soft curve of his mouth that seemed rare on him. The music behind you shifted to something heavier, a distorted bassline shaking the walls, and Damien leaned in a little closer to hear you better. You kept talking, letting the conversation move from music to classes to some weird sociology reading you both had hated last week. Slowly, the tension in your body started to ease again.

But it didn’t last. You spotted Kyle out of the corner of your eye before he reached you, Stan trailing just behind him. They wove through the crowd, eyes locked on you and Damien, and even from a distance you could tell something was off.

They stopped a few feet away, standing just close enough to make it clear they weren’t just passing by.

“Hey,” Kyle said, a little too casual, his eyes flicking between you and Damien. “Didn’t know you guys were here.”

You lifted your cup a little, giving them a half-smile. “Yeah, we’ve been here a while.”

Stan didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at Damien, then back at you, his mouth tightening slightly.

Damien leaned back against the wall, sipping from his drink. “Sup.”

Kyle nodded slowly, but his posture was tight. Not hostile, not openly rude, but stiff in that way that made it obvious he was holding something back. “Didn’t realize you two were… hanging out again.”

Damien let out a soft breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “You guys always check up on her like this?”

Kyle’s jaw shifted slightly, but he didn’t break eye contact. “When we need to.”

You straightened up a bit, shoulders tightening. “Okay. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Kyle said, his tone still calm, but his eyes sharp.

Stan looked like he wanted to say something more, but held it back, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

You opened your mouth to press them further, frustration building in your chest, but the moment slipped away as your eyes caught movement across the room. Cartman had reappeared in the crowd, standing just far enough away that you could see him clearly through the shifting bodies and dim, uneven lighting. He was alone, leaning slightly against the wall near the hallway entrance, one hand wrapped tightly around a red plastic cup. The curve of the cup bent where his fingers dug into it, like he didn’t realize how tightly he was holding it—or maybe he did.

His eyes were fixed on you. Not glancing. Not casually scanning the room. Watching.

He didn’t look at Kyle. He didn’t look at Damien, even as he stood right next to you. He wasn’t looking at Stan, or at the argument building quietly in front of you. His gaze didn’t shift. It stayed exactly where it had been. Right on you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your own cup, the condensation on the plastic sticking to your skin. Around you, the conversation carried on, though it had lost its clarity. Kyle was asking Damien how long you’d been “talking,” his voice laced with subtle judgment, like he was trying to phrase something ugly in a way that still sounded polite. Stan was quieter, but more direct, asking if Damien was just having fun or if he actually gave a shit. Damien, true to form, didn’t look rattled. He shrugged, the smallest smirk tugging at his mouth, his arms still relaxed even as their tone shifted. He didn’t take the bait.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure what had been said last. Your eyes were still locked across the room, where Cartman stood like a goddamn storm cloud in human form, drink in hand, not blinking, not smiling, not moving. His mouth was set in that tight line you knew too well, the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched it like he was holding back something sharp.

That was when Kenny reappeared beside him, slipping out of the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a half-eaten brownie in the other. He started talking to Cartman right away, his tone bright and animated, using wide gestures like he was halfway through retelling a stupid story.

But Cartman didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance at him.

Kenny slowed, visibly confused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Cartman’s face. Then, slowly, he followed his line of sight—tracked it across the room, through the crowd, until his gaze landed on you.

The smirk that curled on Kenny’s face was instant and unmistakable. Then he lifted his arm and, in that loud, unbothered way only Kenny could get away with, shouted across the house, “Yo! Lover girl! What the hell are you doing all the way over there? Get over here already!”

The words cut through the music and the noise like a blade. A few people turned to look, and someone nearby laughed. You heard a fake wolf-whistle off to the side, followed by a chorus of low, amused murmurs.

Your entire body went rigid, heat flaring in your face so fast it was dizzying. You felt it crawl up your neck, blooming under your skin, impossible to hide.

Across the room, Cartman’s stare finally broke—but only long enough to shoot Kenny a look so cutting and cold it could’ve sliced the tension in half. It wasn’t loud or over-the-top, no sarcastic sigh or dramatic eye-roll, just that narrowed, scathing look he always gave when he was two seconds from losing his patience.

You stood stiffly against the wall, your drink still clutched in both hands, the condensation from the plastic cup seeping into your palms. The blood still hadn’t left your face, and when you finally turned your head, you caught Stan, Kyle, and Damien all watching you.

Stan’s expression was pinched with quiet concern, eyes flicking from you to Cartman and back like he was trying to do the math in his head and didn’t like what it added up to. Kyle was a little less subtle, looking between you and Damien with that tight-lipped, half-skeptical frown of his, as if he was trying to decide if he should say something or just stay out of it. Damien, by contrast, stood perfectly still beside you, his fingers tapping slowly against his drink, not tense exactly, but no longer relaxed either.

Kenny, picking up on the frozen standoff from across the room, muttered something to Cartman and nudged him with his elbow. Cartman didn’t move, his stare fixed somewhere in the middle distance. But Kenny nudged him again, harder this time, and finally Cartman shifted his weight and followed Kenny through the crowd, reluctantly dragging himself toward your corner of the party like it was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.

When they reached you, Kenny took the lead, his usual grin in place as he raised his drink in a mock-toast and nodded at Damien like this was all perfectly normal. “Hey, dude.”

Damien looked at Kenny briefly, gave a polite nod, and then turned his attention to Cartman, who still hadn’t said a word. He stood just behind Kenny, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other gripping his drink like he was imagining crushing it.

You watched the whole thing unfold like you weren’t even part of it.

Cartman’s eyes finally lifted to meet Damien’s. The silence stretched long enough that even Stan looked like he was about to say something just to fill it.

Damien raised an eyebrow, his tone cool but dry. “You gonna keep looking at me like that, or do you want to take a picture?”

Cartman’s lip curled, not quite a smile. “Why? So you can hang it in your sad little dorm full of Joy Division posters and half-dead succulents?”

Kenny let out a sharp laugh and then immediately tried to stifle it behind his drink.

Damien didn’t flinch. “I don’t hang pictures of people I’m not interested in. You might, though. You seem the type to print out people’s selfies and stab thumbtacks through the eyes.”

Cartman stepped forward just slightly, his smirk turning sharper. “Oh, that’s cute. You memorize that one on your way over here? I bet you practice your insults in the mirror, don’t you? Like, ohhh, what would really impress her tonight—should I bring up her failed talking stages? Or maybe name-drop a band nobody likes?”

Stan looked up toward the ceiling and exhaled like he wanted to leave his body.

Kyle muttered under his breath, “Here we fucking go.”

Damien straightened just slightly, calm but not backing off. “You want to make this about me? Fine. But you’ve been dodging her calls for two weeks straight and now you show up to a party just to hover in a corner and glare at me like I killed your cat. Grow up.”

Cartman’s face twitched, not a full reaction, but enough that the silence following Damien’s words felt heavier than it should have. For a second, it almost looked like he might walk away. His jaw clenched. His shoulders shifted.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cartman said, lifting his hand like he was about to recite a script. “Forgive me for not rolling out the red carpet for Damien Fucking Dark-Aesthetic, King of Brooding One-Liners. Didn’t realize I was competing with a guy who probably gets hard to Bauhaus and writes poetry about the moon.”

You blinked, slowly, as the words left his mouth. Competing?

That was the part that stuck. Not the insults. Not the typical Cartman-style meltdown or the way his voice got louder the more unhinged he sounded. Competing.

Competing with Damien?

Damien looked like he was already preparing a response, the kind that came clipped and venom-laced and probably just as dramatic as Cartman's. He inhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he was going to start with something measured and end it with a kill shot—

But you finally stepped forward.

“What the fuck is happening right now?”

Your voice cut clean through the tension, and for a moment, all of them went still. Cartman stopped mid-breath, his mouth half-open like he was ready to keep going. Damien’s expression didn’t change much, but he looked at you now instead of through Cartman. Even Stan, who had been trying his hardest not to get dragged in, shifted his weight uneasily.

Kyle, never one to miss an opportunity, snorted. “You tell us. This dude’s melting down in real time.”

Cartman’s head whipped toward him instantly. “Shut the fuck up, Jew.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, you are so fucking original.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for not wanting to watch her make out with fucking Dracula while I stand here like a dumbass!”

“That’s not what’s happening!” Kyle snapped. “You’re being a freak, as usual!”

“Eat shit, Kyle!”

“Eat better shit, Cartman!”

You groaned, already reaching for Cartman’s arm. He tried to resist for a half second, still gesturing wildly toward Kyle, his mouth mid-rant, but you were already grabbing his wrist and pulling.

“Okay. That’s enough. Come here,” you muttered, dragging him away from the group before someone threw a punch or shattered a bottle.

Cartman sputtered. “What? Where the fuck are we going?”

“Away from them,” you said, not bothering to look back. “Before you embarrass yourself any worse.”

“I’m not embarrassing myself, he’s just—”

“Cartman.”

You said his name flat, final, without the bite as you pulled him into the kitchen with more force than necessary. You didn’t let go until you were both tucked into the farthest corner by the back door. The overhead lights were harsh, too bright after the haze of the party. A few people milled around, talking over the music and pouring drinks, but the corner was quiet enough. You let go of him abruptly and stepped back, heat crawling up your neck from how much of a scene had already been made.

He was already looking at you, arms crossed, mouth in a tense, crooked line that wasn’t quite a smirk. There was no apology in his face, no hint of regret. Just that typical guarded expression he always wore when he didn’t want to be read.

You stared up at him, your voice sharp. “What the fuck was that back there?”

He didn’t blink. “That? That was me trying to help before you started grinding on that guy like a fucking music video.”

You recoiled slightly. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Cartman raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, clearly unbothered. “You were two seconds from asking him to read you his diary over a Joy Division record.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Eric. We were just talking.”

He scoffed. “Right. Just talking. That’s why his hand was practically in your back pocket.”

You could feel your jaw clenching. “You don’t get to act like this after ignoring me for two fucking weeks. Where do you get off?”

Cartman’s expression didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes—quick, fleeting. Still, he shoved it down fast. “Maybe if you weren’t blowing up my phone like a needy ex, I would’ve answered one of your fifty texts.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Needy ex?”

“I mean, come on,” he said, stepping forward, voice rising slightly. “You texted me about Damien’s outfit. Twice. And when I didn’t answer, you sent me a playlist. A fucking playlist, dude.”

You could feel your face flush—not from embarrassment, but from how goddamn infuriating he was. “Because I thought you cared! Because you’re my best friend and I wanted to talk to you!”

He rolled his eyes, mouth twitching into a grin that had too much teeth and none of the usual humor. “No, you wanted someone to gas you up. That’s all I’ve been lately, right? Personal hype man. Walking ego boost.”

You stared at him, stunned. “That’s not fair.”

Cartman let out a dry laugh and turned toward the counter for a second, hand raking through his hair, frustration clearly simmering just beneath the surface. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you weren’t so busy treating me like your emotional support dog, I would’ve answered. But no. I’m just supposed to sit there and nod along while you swoon over some Hot Topic wet dream.”

“Jesus, Eric. You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, turning to face you again. “I don’t answer for a few days and suddenly I’m the villain? You ever think maybe you were suffocating me?”

That one landed hard. You stepped back, your mouth slightly open. “Suffocating you?”

He didn’t blink. “Yeah. I gave you space. You had your little romance thing going on. I figured I’d back off, let you live your goth girl fantasy.”

You shook your head slowly. “No. You iced me out. You didn’t even give me a chance to know what was going on. You picked a fight, ignored me, and now you’re acting like I forced you to.”

“I didn’t force anything,” he said, shrugging again. “You made choices. I made mine.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, that familiar sting crawling up the back of your throat—not from guilt, but from the way he had flipped everything so completely that for a moment, you actually started questioning if this really was your fault.

“You’re twisting this,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond. He just leaned back against the counter, eyes shifting toward the doorway like he was ready to be done with the conversation, like he’d spoken his twisted version of the truth and expected you to take it as fact. The arrogance of it sat in his posture—his crossed arms, the dismissive tilt of his head, the slight curve to his mouth that wasn’t a smirk but looked too damn close. He was trying to look calm, like this wasn’t a big deal. But his fingers were twitching against his hoodie, and he couldn’t keep still for long.

Your chest tightened. Your mouth felt dry. You’d come into this expecting a fight, maybe some messy apology if you could pull it out of him. But not this—this passive deflection, this gaslighting, this refusal to even acknowledge what you were really upset about.

“God,” you muttered, voice cracking around the edges. “You’re such a fucking coward.”

He flinched, just slightly. Not enough to admit it. But his jaw flexed. His shoulders pulled tighter.

“Yeah? Takes one to know one,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.

The ache behind your eyes swelled suddenly, and before you could stop it, the tears started. You tried to blink them back, to keep your chin high, but it was no use. You turned your face away, one hand lifting to wipe your cheek, hoping he didn’t see—but of course he did.

Cartman let out a breath, sharp and annoyed, but quieter than usual. His arms dropped to his sides, his whole posture sagging. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

He pushed off the counter and grabbed your wrist—not rough, but not exactly gentle either. He didn’t explain where he was taking you. He didn’t even ask. He just tugged you along behind him, away from the harsh kitchen light and the muffled sound of the party, down a narrow hallway you didn’t even realize was there. You let him. You didn’t have the strength to fight him off, not when your throat was tight and your face was still wet.

The hallway was narrow and dim, ending in a plain wooden door tucked behind a hanging sheet that looked like it had been used to block off storage. Cartman pushed it open without hesitation and guided you inside.

It was a utility room, maybe. Not quite a basement, not quite a closet. The smell of old wood and detergent lingered in the air, and a single cracked window let in the faintest bit of outside light. A narrow wooden bench ran along one side of the wall, and there were boxes stacked in the corner, some with labels that had long since faded. It was quiet—blissfully, heavily quiet.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click. The noise of the party dulled to a low, distant throb.

You stood there in the silence, arms wrapped around yourself, your face burning with leftover embarrassment. Your throat hurt from how long you’d been holding it all in. He didn’t say anything right away. He stood near the door, hands shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders slightly hunched like even he didn’t know what to do now.

“I wasn’t trying to make you cry,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before.

You let out a shaky breath and turned to face him. “But you did. You humiliated me. You made me feel like I was crazy for caring.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at you now—really looked. His eyes were dark and restless, like he was working through what to say, but everything sounded wrong. He wasn’t smirking anymore. His mouth was pulled tight at the corners, and his usual defensiveness had cracked, just enough to see that he wasn’t as composed as he pretended.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” he said eventually, voice low, like each word came out reluctantly. “I didn’t want to hear about how happy you were. Not when I was just… there. Watching it happen.”

You frowned, anger simmering again beneath the hurt. “Then why didn’t you just say that? Why did you make it my fault? Why are you always doing that—twisting things, making me feel like I’m crazy for being upset?”

He didn’t deny it. His eyes dropped to the floor, his jaw set, but his shoulders tensed like the weight of your words hit harder than he expected.

“Because it’s easier,” he muttered. “It’s easier to piss you off than admit I give a fuck.”

Your chest tightened again, and your voice cracked as it left your mouth. “So you’d rather make me feel like shit than just admit you care?”

He looked up slowly, and this time, there was no mockery in his expression. His brows pulled in, lips parted like he was about to speak and didn’t trust what would come out. He looked torn, like he wanted to defend himself but didn’t know how without making it worse.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said finally. “You’re acting like I’ve got this figured out, like I know how to handle it when someone I—” He stopped himself, cutting the sentence off mid-thought, shaking his head like he could erase the rest of it before it slipped out. “I panicked, okay? I panicked, and I pushed you away before you could do it first.”

Your eyes burned again. “I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line. “Yeah, well. You didn’t say that either.”

He stepped closer—hesitant, deliberate. His hands were clenched in his hoodie again, and he stopped a few inches from you.

“You’re not crazy,” he muttered, voice rough. “You’re just the only person I actually give a shit about. And that scares the fuck out of me.”

You let out a shaky, breathless sound, part laugh, part exhale, like the tension in your chest had finally cracked just enough to let something softer in. It wasn’t a full laugh, not really, but it was enough. You wiped under your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan and shook your head a little, looking at him through the leftover tears.

“That’s not true,” you murmured, voice still thin but steadier now. “You care about Kenny. And Stan. And Kyle, even if you pretend to hate him every other day.”

Cartman gave a long, exaggerated sigh, tipping his head back like the ceiling had just insulted him personally. “Ugh, don’t remind me. The fuck do you think this is, some after-school special?”

You rolled your eyes, but a weak smile tugged at your mouth, and he saw it—his own shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked less tense now, less coiled, like the edge had been filed off the worst of his pride.

“Alright,” he said, dragging his hands down his face with a groan. “Fine. I’m an asshole. Happy?”

You gave him a look. “Not if you say it like that.”

He dropped his hands and looked at you properly this time, his expression more serious than you were used to. There was still a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes, but it was buried now, dulled beneath the weight of something more honest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded weird coming out of him, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “For being a dick. For not answering. For making it your problem when I was the one being... whatever.”

You blinked, surprised that he didn’t immediately follow it with a joke, but he didn’t. He just stood there, watching you, waiting. That was the most unnerving part—he meant it. Or he was trying to.

“I’ll listen,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you wanna talk about Damien. Or whatever the fuck. I won’t make fun of it. Not unless he shows up in a cape or starts writing you poems about death or something, in which case, I make no promises.”

Your smile widened, slow and cautious but real. “You always make fun of things.”

“Yeah, well. I’m growing,” he said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Character development. It’s disgusting.”

You laughed, not loud, but genuine, the sound easing the last of the tension between you. A smile spread across your face—finally real, not forced through frustration or tears. You looked up at him, the corners of your eyes still slightly damp, but no longer stinging.

Without saying anything, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Cartman stiffened at first, like he always did when someone touched him without warning, but it only lasted a second. His arms came around you hesitantly, like he was trying to figure out where to place his hands. One settled around your lower back, the other hovered like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but eventually gave in and pulled you closer. He wasn’t the best hugger—he held too tightly, too awkwardly—but it still made your chest feel lighter.

You squeezed him tighter and buried your face briefly against the shoulder of his hoodie. “Let’s sit,” you murmured. “I have so much to tell you about Damien.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to look at you, his brow already twitching like he was regretting his apology.

“Ugh,” he groaned dramatically, dragging out the word as he let you lead him toward the wooden bench along the wall. “This is my punishment, huh? I make one emotional breakthrough and now I get to listen to you gush about Count Fuckula for an hour?”

You laughed again as you sat down, brushing your hair out of your face. “You said you’d listen.”

“Yeah, but I also say I’m gonna stop eating cheese after midnight and that hasn’t happened either.”

Still, he sat next to you, elbow brushing yours, legs slightly spread the way he always sat—like he took up more space than necessary, like claiming the area was the only way to feel in control. You nudged his knee with yours.

“You’re not getting out of this,” you said, pulling your legs up and turning toward him slightly. “I’m talking eyeliner, playlists, the way he held my hand—”

Cartman groaned again, but there was no bite behind it. “Jesus Christ. Fine. Go ahead. Let’s hear it. Make me regret every choice I’ve ever made.”

You leaned back against the wall, your knees pulled up toward your chest as you smiled through Cartman's exaggerated groaning. His hand was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, jaw tense in that way it always was when he was pretending not to care.

"Okay," you said, settling in. "So you know that playlist I sent you? The one with the weird French synth-pop?”

Cartman grunted. “I didn’t listen to it.”

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, laughing anyway. “Well, Damien did. He knew like half the songs already. Apparently, his mom was some former club DJ or something, which is... weirdly cool? And we’ve just been... I don’t know. Talking. A lot.”

Cartman didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze lingering.

“He’s not what I expected,” you continued, more softly now. “I thought he was going to be kind of pretentious—and, okay, yeah, he kind of is—but he’s also funny. In a dry way. And weirdly sweet? Like he brought me coffee before our 9 a.m. class the other day because he knew I hadn’t slept.”

Cartman let out a long breath, staring at the floor. “Sounds riveting.”

You ignored him. “And we’ve been hanging out more. Alone. Like, at his place.” You paused, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye. “And I think it’s kind of getting serious. Or close to it, maybe. And I’m... excited.”

Cartman finally looked at you, and his brows were pulled together, mouth set in a flat line. “Excited.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “Like. I don’t know. I haven’t really... done anything before. But I want to. With him. And it’s terrifying, because I have no idea what I’m doing, and he’s been with people, and I don’t want to mess it up or make it awkward. I’ve been overthinking it, obviously, but—”

“You’re gonna have sex with him?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “I mean... yeah. Probably. Not, like, right away. But we’ve talked about it, and—"

Cartman scoffed, sharp and loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sat up straighter, frowning. “What?”

“I bring you here, I apologize, I listen, and then you turn around and say, ‘Hey, Cartman, just a heads-up, I’m planning to fuck Count Dracula sometime next week.’”

Your face twisted in confusion. “Why are you mad? You said you’d listen. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Yeah, I said I’d listen. Not that I wanted a front-row seat to you skipping off into goth dick wonderland.”

“You’re being an asshole again,” you said, flatly.

He laughed, bitter and humorless. “And you’re being fucking delusional. You think that guy’s gonna take care of you? You think he gives a shit past the eyeliner and the sob stories about how he doesn’t talk to his dad?”

“That’s not fair,” you snapped, voice rising. “You don’t know him.”

“I know the type,” Cartman muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I know how guys like that work. They say just enough cool poetic shit to get you into bed, and then they’re gone.”

Your stomach turned, a mix of rage and confusion and guilt flaring at once. “Why are you acting like this? You disappeared for weeks. You’re the one who picked a fight with me. And now I’m trying to tell you the truth, and you’re punishing me for it.”

“I’m warning you,” he said, his voice lower now, sharper. “Because I know how this ends. And you’re gonna come running to me after he fucks off, and I’m supposed to just sit there and help you pick up the pieces like always.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” you yelled. “I never asked you to do any of it!”

Cartman stared at you, his face hard, but his eyes flickered—something sharp giving way to something else, something smaller, more wounded, but he didn’t let it show for long.

You breathed hard, chest rising and falling, unsure if you were angry or hurt or both. Probably both. Maybe worse.

“Fine,” he said, after a long pause, his voice quieter but more bitter. “Go be with him. But don’t come crying to me when he ruins it.”

You swallowed, hard, blinking through the heat building behind your eyes again. “I didn’t expect you to be proud of me, Eric. But I thought you’d at least try not to make it about you.”

Cartman threw his head back and let out a loud, dramatic groan that echoed off the walls. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? I’m not making this about me. You’re the one who dragged me into this little private confessional just to give me the play-by-play of your descent into goth-boy dick hell.”

You recoiled, your face flushing with both embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t drag you. You dragged me. You’re the one who yanked me out of the kitchen like you had something to say, and now you’re acting like I forced you to listen to me.”

“I thought we were talking! Like, for real! Not—whatever this is! You crying and me sitting here hearing about how excited you are to lose your virginity to some dude who wears scarves indoors.”

You clenched your fists in your lap, breathing sharp. “You’re seriously mad that I opened up to you?”

“I’m mad because it’s you, and you don’t even fucking see it,” he snapped, slapping his hand against the wall behind him like he needed to release it somewhere. “You’re sitting here acting like this is just some cute milestone, like it’s no big deal, and I’m the only one being honest about what that means.”

“I know what it means,” you said, your voice rising now too. “You think I’m not thinking about it every goddamn second? You think I’m not terrified? You think it’s been fun sitting on this, wondering if I’m going to fuck it up and embarrass myself and have no one to talk to about it because the only person I want to talk to keeps ghosting me every time he gets weird and petty?”

Cartman flinched—barely—but it was there. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, like he didn’t want to see the way your voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m a virgin,” you said flatly, your voice sharper now, steadier even as your chest tightened. “This is all new for me. I’m scared, Eric. I don’t know what I’m doing. And you—you’ve never told me anything. You’ve been on dates. You’ve been with people. But whenever I ask, you either lie or make some dumb joke and change the subject.”

Cartman muttered something under his breath and turned toward the wall again.

“What?” you demanded. “Say it.”

He turned back slowly, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

“Of course I wanted to know!” you shouted. “You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be the one I can talk to about this shit. But instead, you go cold, shut me out, and then show up tonight acting like I betrayed you just by moving on with my life.”

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shout back or walk out, his chest rising and falling in tight, uneven breaths. His face was red, mouth twisted like he wanted to scream or spit or maybe laugh in that cruel, bitter way he always did when he felt cornered.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said eventually, but there was no conviction in it. “You never asked. Not really.”

“You never let me in.” You leaned forward, voice cracking again, softer now. “You’ve been shutting me out for years, Eric. You act like you know everything, like you’re always ten steps ahead of everyone, but the truth is, you don’t know how to be vulnerable without turning it into a joke. And I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m going to get.”

You kept going. “This is all new for me, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. And you never talk about your own experiences, so I’ve got nothing to compare it to. You’ve been through this. You’ve done all of it. But you act like I’m insane for asking you about it.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his fingers tugging at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “Maybe I don’t wanna give a play-by-play of every time I got felt up behind the bleachers. Sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” you said, eyes narrowing. “I just wanted to talk to you. Not read another blog post or watch another video telling me to ‘trust my instincts.’ I wanted to hear it from someone who knows me. From you.”

He was still avoiding your eyes. His knee bounced slightly, jaw tight. “It’s awkward,” he said finally, his tone quieter, more measured. “The first time. It’s never smooth. You’re thinking too much. You forget half of what you planned. Your brain just... blanks. You kinda just learn by screwing it up a little less every time.”

You didn’t interrupt. You sat there, listening—really listening. His posture was tense, his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to shield himself from how personal it all sounded out loud.

“But it’s not about doing it right,” he continued. “It’s about paying attention. Slowing down. You notice how they react. What they like. If you can’t read the room, you’re screwed. Literally.”

You let out a soft, nervous laugh that you immediately regretted, biting your lip as you nodded. “So basically, I’m doomed.”

Cartman snorted. “Probably.”

You bumped his knee with yours, and his lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but not a smirk either. His face had softened just a little, the usual tightness around his eyes fading.

The silence between you settled. Not entirely comfortable, but less strained. You glanced down at your lap, where your hands were clenched together, thumbs fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. There was a question hovering in the back of your throat, one you didn’t even know how to phrase properly. You weren’t going to say it out loud—not directly—but it tugged at you anyway, quietly begging to surface.

“I just...” you started, faltering. You didn’t look at him. “I kind of wish I could practice. Just... not go into it completely blind.”

Cartman looked over at you, his brows pulling together slightly. “What, like run drills? Flashcards?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He was quiet again, but his body tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw shifting. His eyes didn’t leave you now. His voice, when he finally spoke, was slower—lower, cautious. “You thinking about asking Damien to... what? Walk you through it like a tutorial?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. God, no. That would make it worse. He already knows what he’s doing. And I don’t want to ruin it by—by freezing up or doing it all wrong.”

Cartman blinked slowly, and you watched the realization settle in. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. But his face changed. The smugness disappeared like a light switch had flipped—his eyebrows knitting in slow confusion, his lips parting as if a half-thought protest had caught somewhere between his teeth. For once, he was actually quiet.

He shifted back on the bench. Not away, just enough to lean against the wall again, arms crossing his chest like he needed something to do with his hands before he said anything too real.

“You’re not talking about kissing,” he said, voice lower now, drawn out in that tone he used when he was already three steps ahead. “We already did that.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tilted his head, blinking slow, and you could see the exact moment it clicked. His brows lifted, just slightly. Not in surprise—he didn’t look shocked anymore. He looked entertained.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, smiling now, but it wasn’t nice. “You wanna practice sex stuff. On me.”

Your stomach twisted into a full-blown knot. You felt your entire body tense, heat rushing up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not—no. I just meant... I don’t know.”

He barked out a laugh and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “You’re kidding. You’re not kidding. Jesus Christ. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly you’re asking if I’ll let you climb on top of me for training.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You are the worst person I could have told.”

He grinned, wolfish now. “You mean the best. Come on—this is fucking gold. You wanna do like... what? A trial run? I’m gonna need a syllabus.”

You didn’t look up. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, far too pleased with himself. “If you hated me, you’d be asking Kyle. Or someone emotionally available. Instead, you’re here. With me. Hoping I’ll let you dry hump me like a crash test dummy before goth boy decides to whip it out.”

You groaned into your hands.

“I mean, fuck,” he said, laughing now. “You’ve really hit rock bottom, huh?”

“Can you be serious for once in your goddamn life?” you snapped, finally lifting your head. “This isn’t just some joke.”

He paused. The laughter stopped, just for a moment. His expression didn’t drop entirely, but it changed—his eyes narrowed, mouth twitching like he was weighing how far he could push before you actually cracked.

You didn’t look away. “You said it earlier. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m supposed to already know.”

He sat up straighter, his smug posture relaxing, just slightly.

You exhaled. “I’m not asking you to—do anything. Not all the way. But I don’t want the first time anyone touches me to be when I’m already halfway naked and scared out of my mind. I want to know how it’s supposed to feel. I want to not be shocked.”

Cartman was quiet. His mouth parted, but no sound came out at first.

Then, slowly, the edge returned—but dulled. His grin wasn’t sharp now. Just crooked. Cautious.

“And you want me to be the one to teach you?” he asked, voice not as smug as before, but still skeptical. “Like I’m the... what? The prep course before you go full honors with Damien?”

You held his stare. “You’re the only person I wouldn’t feel stupid in front of.”

That shut him up.

Cartman looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know how to process. His fingers drummed once against his arm, then stilled.

“You’re seriously gonna make me be the responsible one, huh?” he muttered, voice low, more tired than mocking. The usual sharpness was gone. He sat still, the bounce in his leg finally quiet. His eyes were steady on yours, like he was bracing for whatever you were about to say.

You bit your lip. It wasn’t a conscious move, just instinct. Like if you didn’t, your voice might shake when it came out. “You don’t have to,” you said softly. “I mean, really. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”

Cartman let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re acting like I’m being drafted.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “Look—this doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a weird-ass room at a college party. You said you wanted to try stuff. So try it. I’m not gonna freak out and write poetry about it or whatever.”

He was trying to play it off—he always did—but his posture wasn’t loose. His arms were crossed too tightly, fingers digging into the opposite sleeve, knuckles flexing every few seconds like he didn’t know where to put his hands now that they might actually be needed for something.

He wasn’t looking at your mouth anymore. He was watching your eyes, waiting. Watching for the first sign that you’d change your mind and bolt.

You took a breath and nodded, slower this time. “Okay.”

He nodded back, once, like he’d been expecting you to say that but still needed to hear it out loud.

There was a pause—long enough for the air to shift again. He uncrossed his arms, glanced down at the space between your knees, and scratched the side of his neck like he didn’t want you to notice his hands were shaking just slightly.

“Alright,” he muttered. “So, uh. What first?”

You scrunched up your face, the nerves bubbling into something closer to frustration—or maybe just embarrassment. You pulled your knees in slightly, arms hugging yourself for a second before you turned toward him. “How am I supposed to know, dude?” you muttered, shooting him a glare that didn’t hold any real heat. “You’re the one who knows this shit. Not me.”

Cartman let out a sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the cold cinderblock walls. “Wow. So you’re throwing yourself at me and making me do the planning? Unbelievable.” He shook his head, settling back against the wall like he owned the whole damn room now. “God, I should start charging for this. Make a little side hustle. Teach virgins how not to cry during foreplay.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your lips curled into a smile. That familiar smugness was back in his tone, the same asshole bravado he’d always used to cover anything remotely real—but it didn’t push you away. If anything, it grounded you. The teasing, the mean little jabs—it was him. And somehow, that made everything feel safer.

You scooched closer on the crate you’d both claimed as seating, the wooden slats creaking beneath the weight shift. Your knee knocked gently into his, and you didn’t move away. The air was heavier now, thicker in the space between your bodies. The party noises on the other side of the wall were faint, like they belonged to someone else's night. Here, the silence felt personal. Kind of electric.

Your heart was thudding, but it wasn’t fear exactly. Not anymore. It was something else—something tighter in your chest, but warm. Excitement, maybe. Stupid, reckless excitement. The kind you didn’t want to name yet.

You looked over at him, and your voice was quieter now, but still laced with that nervous edge. “So… we should kiss now, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and he grinned—wide, crooked, borderline cocky. He tilted his head, squinting like he was pretending to think it over, dragging out the moment just to be annoying. “Well, I mean, if we’re following the official tutorial, yeah. That’d be step one. Unless you’d rather jump straight to simulated grinding, but I think that’s more advanced.”

You shoved his shoulder without any real force. “I swear to God, I will leave.”

“Relax,” he said, still grinning. “You’re paying for this lesson in blushes and dignity, remember?”

You gave him a look, but you didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned in closer.

He didn’t joke again. Not right away. He just looked at you—still smug, yeah, but his smile had softened around the edges. His posture had, too. He wasn’t holding himself quite so tightly anymore.

And he was waiting. You could feel it. Even under the teasing, even through the walls he never really dropped, there was something careful in the way he stayed still—like he was leaving space for you to choose.

You leaned in, slower this time. No laughter in your chest. No panic in your throat. Your breath caught halfway up and stayed there, suspended as you tilted your head just enough to align with his. His lips were parted, the corners of his mouth twitching. His eyes were half-lidded, watching you.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just leaned close until your mouth hovered over his, your nose brushing his, your forehead almost pressing to his. You were so close you could feel his breath, warm against your skin, could see the faint crease between his brows, the way he was holding perfectly still like his body didn’t trust him to react naturally.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked, voice quiet, not because you were scared, but because anything louder might have cracked the moment open too fast.

He didn’t give you a yes. He didn’t give you anything that easy. Just made a low sound deep in his throat, like he couldn’t believe you were asking, like it annoyed him that you needed the confirmation at all.

But he didn’t move. So you kissed him.

Your lips moved against his slow and soft, your hand barely lifting to rest against the edge of his thigh for balance. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t grab at you, either. Just tilted his head slightly to meet you better, his mouth parting just enough to press back, matching your pace. Like he was letting you take the lead, but not totally surrendering to it.

There was something about it that made your chest feel tight—not in a bad way, just in that way where your body recognized the shift before your brain could catch up.

When you finally pulled back, your breath came shallow, your pulse thrumming behind your ears. You blinked at him slowly, and he stared back—his mouth still parted, eyes darker now, like he was still piecing together what just happened.

He exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close. “You’re really leaning into this roleplay, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You wanna shut up for two seconds?”

Cartman shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop it. His hands were clenched lightly in his lap now, and when he spoke again, the smugness didn’t quite land.

“You didn’t suck that time,” he said.

You smiled, more out of instinct than pride, and rolled your eyes with a soft scoff. “Great. High praise coming from you.”

Before he could toss something smug back, you leaned in again. This time with less hesitation, more heat humming under your skin. Your hand brushed the side of his jaw as your lips found his once more, mouths pressing together in a kiss that landed heavier than the first. Not rushed, but fuller. More sure of itself.

He didn’t pull away. His hands were still resting in his lap, caught somewhere between tension and restraint. But you moved. Carefully at first, then with more purpose. You shifted forward on the crate until your knees brushed the outside of his thighs, and you hesitated for just a second—just long enough to make sure he didn’t tense or flinch. Then you swung one leg over and settled on his lap.

His breath caught. Not loud, not exaggerated, but you felt it. Felt it in the way his chest stiffened under yours, in the way his fingers twitched where they hovered awkwardly near your hips, unsure if he should touch or stay frozen.

Your knees tightened against his sides, and the pressure in your chest bloomed into a full-on rush of warmth—like this was it, like you were doing the thing now. The thing that had felt so untouchable before, locked behind everyone else's experience but never yours. Your hands slid into his hair, and you tilted your hips, just slightly, testing the weight of your body over his.

It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You didn’t know exactly what you were doing—just mimicking the rhythm you'd seen in scenes from movies, read in passages late at night you never admitted to rereading. You moved your hips again, slow, pressing down into his lap.

Cartman broke the kiss with a sudden inhale, his hands finally flying up to your waist—not forceful, not pushing you off, but definitely halting your movement. His eyes were wide, blinking hard, his mouth still parted as he stared up at you like you’d just slapped him and kissed him at the same time.

“Whoa—okay,” he said, voice hoarse, tighter than usual. “What—what are you doing?”

You stared back, breath a little shaky now, the heat still high in your chest. “I thought… that’s what I was supposed to do.”

His grip stayed firm at your sides, not moving. His brows were drawn tight now, confusion mixing with something else. Not disgust, not discomfort—but surprise. Honest, unfiltered surprise. Like the reality of what was happening had only just caught up to him.

He blinked once, hard, and swallowed. His voice came out low and uneven, like it took effort just to string the words together. “Are you—like, actually doing this? Like for real?”

You opened your mouth to answer, the nerves rushing back in your chest all at once. “I mean, I thought we were just—”

But before you could finish, he leaned up and kissed you. No warning this time, no room to think, just the sudden press of his mouth on yours. His hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, dragging you down harder into his lap like he’d finally let go of whatever restraint had been holding him in place.

His lips moved against yours with more intent, his breath quick and hot. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, didn’t give you any more time to second-guess what you were doing. He just held you there and rolled his hips up into yours, like he was trying to feel everything at once.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hoodie. Your knees squeezed around his sides as your body jolted slightly from the pressure. He did it again, this time with more purpose, more tension behind it, like the motion had startled even him the first time, but now he couldn’t stop.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath, head tilting slightly as you looked down at him. His cheeks were flushed pink, the color creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. His eyes were darker, wide but focused, like he couldn’t look anywhere but at you now. 

His hands were still on your waist, steady but stiff. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just there—hovering on the edge of movement, like he was waiting for a cue you hadn’t given him yet.

“…You’re really good at kissing,” you said finally, voice soft, a little unsteady, but real. The words felt stupid the second they left your mouth, but you needed to break the silence. Needed to say something.

His mouth twitched like he was going to say something cocky—maybe fire off a line—but he didn’t. He just blinked, eyes flicking away for half a second like the compliment made him short-circuit.

You leaned in again before he could recover, and kissed him gently. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his hoodie as you deepened the kiss, your body rocking forward instinctively. You didn’t know what you were doing—you were just following a thought, a hunch, a thread of something you'd read or overheard. That when guys were into it, their bodies gave them away.

You shifted again, subtly, adjusting how you were sitting on him. Your hips pressed down a little harder than before.

He stilled.

His mouth stuttered against yours, then pulled back suddenly, breath catching as he looked at you with wide, startled eyes.

“…Are you—what are you doing?”

You froze.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it made your scalp prickle. “Nothing,” you said quickly, voice higher than it should’ve been. “I wasn’t—I mean, I just moved. I didn’t—”

Cartman stared at you, eyes narrowed slightly. There was a long, weighted pause.

He sighed, long and loud, like you were making him suffer for something that had been your idea to begin with. His hands lifted from your waist, dragging over his face before settling back into his lap.

“I’ll eat you out,” he muttered.

Your brain stalled.

“What?”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks still pink but his tone returning to its usual impatient cadence. “I said I’ll go down on you. Jesus. You’re the one who wanted to practice, aren’t you?”

You blinked at him, completely stunned, every thought in your head disintegrating into white noise.

He raised his eyebrows, like this was your fault. “Well? You want experience or not?”

You stared at him, still straddling the crate, your hands gripping the edge beside your thighs like the wood might steady you. Your mouth opened, but the words tripped over each other before they even made it out.

“I mean—shouldn’t I—I thought I was supposed to go down on you first or something,” you blurted, your voice breaking somewhere in the middle. “Like that’s how it usually goes, right? I mean, it’s not like I—God, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Cartman groaned, long and theatrical, as he pushed himself up from the crate and dropped to his knees in front of you. The shift was fast and natural, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like this wasn’t new for him. Like being between someone’s legs didn’t make his heart stutter the way yours was threatening to.

“Oh my God, shut up,” he muttered, already reaching to guide your knees apart.

You blinked, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Wait, I’m just—I’m saying, I thought that’s what guys wanted—”

Cartman looked up at you, his hands braced on either side of your thighs now, fingers firm against the crate. His voice was flat, but not cold. More like he was exhausted by the fact that you were still talking.

“You’re not doing this for me,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

“It’s more important you figure out what you like,” he continued, eyes meeting yours with a kind of frank intensity that made your chest tighten. “How else are you supposed to tell Damien what to do if you don’t even know what works for you?”

You swallowed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now. “It’s not about doing it perfectly. It’s about not freezing up. Not pretending you’re fine when you’re not. And the only way to do that is if you’ve already felt it before. If you’ve already done this.”

Your breath hitched. His hands were still on the crate, his knees pressing into the floor like he wasn’t thinking about what he looked like or how bizarre this situation might’ve seemed from the outside.

You felt dizzy. Nervous. But also steadying—like the ground wasn’t entirely falling out from under you.

“Okay,” you said, quietly.

His eyes flicked up again, and he waited.

You nodded.

He moved immediately, fingers pressing to the top of your knees. Just the weight of his hands made you tense up again, thighs jumping like your brain hadn’t caught up to what was happening. You tried not to react, tried to play it cool, but you were already gripping the edge of the crate like your life depended on it, your palms slick and twitching. He paused for maybe half a second, his thumbs shifting against your skin, then let out a dry snort.

“Jesus. Chill out. I’m not gonna bite.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt locked, your mouth too dry to speak, and your heart was hammering behind your ribs like you’d run a mile uphill. You stared at his hands, watched them move slowly up your legs, felt every inch of heat they left behind as your skirt bunched higher with each inch. It didn’t even feel real. None of this felt real. It felt like something stupid and insane that you would probably lose sleep over for the rest of your life, even if it wasn’t happening yet.

Cartman’s fingers hit the waistband of your tights and he paused again.

“…Can I pull these down?” His voice was quieter now, not soft exactly, but not smug either. Like the edge had dulled just slightly, like even he wasn’t sure how to play this.

You gave another tiny nod, trying not to look at him. You were already flushed head to toe, your chest burning hot under your clothes, your thighs trembling like the cold had found a way into your bones. You weren’t cold, though. If anything, you felt like your skin was overheating, too many nerves firing at once. His hands hooked the fabric, and you squeezed your eyes shut for a second as he started pulling.

He went slow, which almost made it worse. His fingers dragged the waistband down over your hips in little jerky movements, like he wasn’t used to doing this while someone watched. The tights stuck for a second at your knees and he muttered something under his breath—probably about the fabric, or you, or both—but didn’t ask for help. He just kept going until the fabric pooled around your ankles and your thighs were completely exposed.

He made a sound. Just a short exhale. Not a laugh. Not a word. Like something got caught in his throat and he wasn’t going to try and explain it.

“…Wow,” he said finally. He didn’t say it like a compliment. More like he didn’t know what else to do with the silence.

You wanted to die. Actually, genuinely, die. Your arms curled tight around your midsection before you even noticed, fingers gripping your sleeves, shoulders hunched like you could physically shrink out of this moment. You weren’t even looking at him. You couldn’t. You just stared straight ahead, face burning, hands twitching with the effort it took not to cover yourself up again.

Cartman shifted on the floor. You heard the sound of his hoodie sleeve brushing his jeans as he adjusted his grip on the ground. Then he cleared his throat.

“You’re, uh… you weren’t kidding about the nervous thing.” His voice was casual, but too casual. Like he was talking just to fill the air. “Your legs are, like, shaking.”

You laughed once. It came out broken and way too loud for the room. “Oh my God. Shut up.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t say anything for a second. His hands stayed planted against the floor. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel him staring. Not in a gross way. Not greedy or weird. Just… focused. Weirdly quiet.

Then, after a beat: “Can I take these off?”

It took you a second to realize he was talking about your underwear.

Your whole body tensed. You nodded again before your mouth could decide if it was allowed to say the word yes without completely falling apart.

Cartman shifted forward on his knees. His hands came back up and his fingers slipped under the waistband. You swallowed hard, bracing your arms tighter across your stomach as the fabric peeled away from your skin, damp and clinging. You hated how much it stuck, how the elastic dragged down with a soft little sound you couldn’t unhear. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even a grunt. He just kept going until they were off, until they joined your tights in a crumpled mess around your ankles.

You were bare now. Just sitting there. Skirt shoved up, legs open, completely exposed. It didn’t feel sexy. It didn’t feel cool or mysterious or even rebellious. You just felt stupid. You felt seen, and not in the good way.

You risked a glance down at him. His face was tight—jaw clenched, mouth drawn in a line, eyes fixed squarely between your legs. His expression was unread—no. Tense. He looked tense. Like he was trying to process a thought and it wouldn’t come all the way out. His brows were furrowed, just slightly, and he wasn’t blinking enough.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out thick.

“…This is so fucking weird.”

You exhaled, loud and nervous. “Yeah.”

“No, like—” He rubbed the side of his face, the blush now fully visible under his eyes and spreading across his cheeks. “I don’t know what the fuck I expected, but this—” He gestured vaguely. “This is a lot.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, eyes locked on the floor again. “You can back out if you want.”

He scoffed. “Are you serious?”

You flinched. “I just meant—if it’s too weird, I get it.”

There was a pause. His knees shifted again, pressing closer between yours.

“I’m not backing out,” he muttered.

Your fingers flexed in your sleeves again, knuckles burning. You felt like you were going to melt into the floor and disappear. You wanted to say something cool. Something normal. Instead, you blurted: “Do I look... weird?”

He blinked, caught off-guard. His lips twitched, not a smile, more like a short circuit. “What the hell does that even mean?”

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like—I don’t know! I’ve never had anyone look at me like this before, okay? Maybe my thighs look weird or my stomach’s all bunched or—God, I don’t know.”

He looked up finally. His face was still pink. His mouth twitched again, but this time, it stayed crooked.

“You’re such a freak.”

You opened your mouth to snap at him, but then he leaned in.

His palms slid up your thighs again, warmer now, more sure. His breath hit your skin, slow and steady, and the second it did, you forgot whatever insult you’d been about to throw back at him. You forgot your name. You forgot how to sit still.

“Okay,” Cartman muttered, and his voice was barely a voice now. “Okay. I’m gonna start.”

You nodded again, hands curled into fists, whole body so tense you thought your teeth might shatter.

You could feel Cartman lean in—slow and steady, like he was trying not to spook you. His breath hit your skin first, hot and damp, brushing the inside of your thigh like a warning. And then you snapped—knees slamming shut on instinct like a mousetrap. Your whole body jerked back against the crate, arms curling in tighter across your stomach, breath hitching hard in your chest.

He froze.

For a second, nothing happened. Then you heard him exhale, sharp through his nose, and when you dared to glance down, he was looking up at you—eyebrows raised, face somewhere between concern and smug amusement, like he was half-ready to ask if you were okay and half-ready to make fun of you for flinching like he was a dentist about to go in with a drill.

“Uh,” he said, blinking slowly, “so… guess that’s a no on the tongue thing, huh?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice muffled and pathetic. “I just—freaked out. I didn’t mean to—”

Cartman sat back a little, not retreating entirely, just giving you some space. “Dude, relax,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t kick me in the teeth or anything. Yet.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. His eyes flicked up to your face and then back down again, and when he spoke next, his voice was different—rougher, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how to say any of this without making it worse.

“Okay, look. We’ll start slower.” He shifted forward again, his knees brushing yours. “No mouth stuff. Yet.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Oh my God, don’t call it that.”

“What, you want me to say cunnilingus?” He wiggled his eyebrows, mock-posh. “Because I will.”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder weakly, but he didn’t budge. He just let the joke sit there, giving you a second to breathe, then dropped his voice again—low, casual, like he was just explaining something normal and not offering to get you off in a weird basement closet.

“I’ll use my fingers, alright? That’s it. Just that. It’s less freaky.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes skimming over your knees. “It’s gonna feel weird at first. Probably. But that’s normal. You’ll be fine.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, heartbeat climbing again like it hadn’t already been trying to explode through your ribs. “What… um. What do I do?”

He blinked, startled by the question. “You… just sit there?”

You stared at him.

Cartman groaned, exasperated. “I mean—you don’t have to do anything, alright? I’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird or bad or you hate it or whatever.” He paused. “And don’t do that thing where you say you’re fine but you’re obviously not, because I can tell when you’re lying, you’re really fucking bad at it.”

You felt your face heat up even more. “Okay.”

His hands hovered near your knees again, not quite touching. “Can I?”

You hesitated—just a second—then nodded. This time, you didn’t snap your legs shut.

He let out a slow breath, like even he had been bracing for a repeat. Then he leaned in, hands moving to rest gently on your thighs, thumbs brushing soft arcs across your skin. It was still careful, still clumsy in a way—like he was used to doing this behind a movie theater or in a car, not kneeling in front of someone who was watching him like he might vanish.

You looked down at him again, your breathing shallow, chest tight like it couldn’t hold a full inhale. He looked different like this. Focused. Not grinning, not making jokes, not performing. Just watching you. Checking in. And for once, not filling the silence with bullshit.

Then his hand moved.

Slow. Careful. His fingers skimmed up your thigh with this weird sort of caution, like he was testing the floorboards before stepping. Every inch he covered sent a jolt straight up your spine. Not like electricity—more like gravity tightening. Your breath caught. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You didn’t even blink.

His fingers dipped between your legs, hesitating there for a split second, and then—

You jerked.

Just a little. A twitch. A sharp breath sucked through your teeth the second one of his fingers slid into the slick heat of your folds and pressed gently, curiously, like he wasn’t even sure he should be allowed to be there. The noise that came out of you wasn’t a word, wasn’t anything useful. It was soft, broken—half a gasp, half something else entirely. You bit down hard on your lip, face burning so hot you could feel it pulsing behind your ears.

Cartman didn’t tease you. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he murmured, quiet and low, “Yeah, that’s it. You’re good.”

His eyes flicked up, catching your face. You couldn’t meet them. Your head tilted down, hair falling forward like a shield, your hands still death-gripping the edge of the crate under your thighs. You could feel your own pulse fluttering in your stomach, in your throat, everywhere. It was too much. All of it.

His finger dragged through the slick slowly, rubbing up and down, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it. His hand wasn’t shaking, but you could tell he was holding back—applying only the lightest pressure, not rushing anything, just letting the motion settle in until your thighs started twitching with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asked, not looking up this time, voice quiet.

You nodded quickly, still biting your lip, face fully on fire now. “Y-Yeah. Just—feels weird.”

“Good weird or freak-out weird?”

You made another noise. Frustrated. Flustered. Your hips shifted without meaning to, a tiny roll into his hand, like your body was starting to answer before your brain could.

“Okay, that’s good,” he said, and his voice wasn’t cocky.

He pressed in closer now, two fingers rubbing gently up and down the slick center of you. He found your clit after a few tries—missed it once, twice, then landed on it, and your legs jumped so hard he actually froze.

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut. “Sorry—sorry, I just—”

“No, that’s good,” he said quickly. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

You cracked one eye open. He was looking at you again, a weird tightness in his brow like he didn’t want to screw it up. His cheeks were red, but not from laughing. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and he was breathing through his nose in short little huffs, like he was the one trying not to freak out.

He went back in with more purpose now, rubbing small, careful circles over your clit. Not fast, not rough, just steady. Your whole body responded like a switch had flipped. Your hips twitched, your thighs tensed, and your breath came faster without warning.

“Dude,” Cartman muttered under his breath, like he couldn’t help it. “You’re really—”

He didn’t finish. You were glad. You might’ve died on the spot if he had.

Instead, he kept going, watching your face now like it was a scoreboard. Like every stutter in your breath was telling him something. His fingers didn’t stop. Didn’t fumble. You started to breathe harder, sharper. Your thighs squeezed around his arm, and he didn’t pull away.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Just keep breathing. Don’t freak out. You’re fine.”

You nodded, or tried to. It barely counted—more of a twitch, like your whole body had condensed into this tight, shivery bundle of nerves and heat and you weren’t sure which part of you could still respond in full sentences. You could feel your breath stuttering out of your chest, quick and thin, and your hands were still balled up so hard your fingers ached. But you nodded.

Cartman shifted a little closer, his other hand steadying itself on your thigh, and his voice dropped lower—still calm, but with that edge creeping back in. A hint of something smug.

“Okay,” he muttered, glancing down. “Gonna put a finger in now.”

Your head snapped up before you could think about it. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, like he’d been waiting for you to react exactly like that.

You blinked, face burning even hotter. “...Okay.”

Except it barely came out. More of a whimper. Just a tiny, breathy sound like your voice had folded under pressure and given up halfway through.

But Cartman didn’t laugh. He didn’t even raise his eyebrows. He just gave this short little nod—practical, almost clinical—and looked back down, focused again. You felt the shift in his hand as he adjusted, and then—

The pressure hit before the sensation did. One finger, slowly, pushing in through the heat and wetness, and your whole body tensed like you’d been jolted awake. The stretch was… different. Not painful. Just new. A dragging ache that made your back arch, made your hips twitch, made your lips part around a sound you couldn’t stop.

You moaned. Quiet, shaky.

Cartman’s head snapped up instantly.

His eyes met yours, wide for just a second—caught somewhere between startled and smug—and then he grinned. Big. Stupid. That old shit-eating smirk like it had been waiting just under the surface.

“Oh my God,” he said, voice low but smug as hell. “Did you just moan?”

You slapped both hands over your face. “Shut up.”

“No, no, hang on—” His grin widened. “That was you, wasn’t it? That little noise? Like ‘mmnh—’” He mimicked you horribly, voice pitched high and ridiculous. “Jesus, dude, I didn’t even move yet.”

You groaned, curling forward, face buried in your hands like you could maybe muffle the heat crawling up your neck. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, and now he sounded like himself again—cocky, relentless, riding the high of embarrassing you like it was a personal hobby. “You’re just mad ‘cause I’m good at this.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, but the second you did, you felt him shift again—and his finger moved.

Your breath caught.

He watched your face, smirk still tugging at his mouth, but his eyes sharper now, tracking the way your lips parted, the way your thighs twitched. He moved again—deeper this time, slow and careful, curling just slightly on instinct—and you whined, your voice cracking halfway out of your throat.

His grin twitched.

“…Okay, yeah,” he muttered. “That was definitely a moan.”

“Cartman—” You tried to say his name like a warning, but it came out more like a whimper.

“What? I’m helping. You’re the one losing it over one finger.” He pumped it in again, shallow but smooth, the wet sound of it filling the quiet like it wanted to humiliate you on his behalf. “God, Damien’s gonna break you.”

You slapped his shoulder. Weakly. “I swear to God—”

He laughed under his breath, barely dodging your hand, still grinning like he’d just won a bet. But his pace didn’t change. You could feel your breath catching faster now, feel something coiling tight in your stomach. His finger curled again, just slightly, and your whole body jolted—hips twitching, breath catching, another moan dragging out of your mouth before you could even try to bite it back.

Cartman’s grin dropped a little.

He looked up at you again—still smug, still clearly enjoying the power trip—but his eyes flickered over your face like he was recalibrating. Like maybe he hadn’t actually expected it to work this well.

He shifted his hand again, the heel of his palm brushing higher, closer to your clit, and your back arched in response.

“…Shit,” he muttered. Not cocky this time. Just surprised.

You were already shaking. Knees wobbling. Hands gripping the crate like you were afraid you’d lift off the floor if you let go. You could barely breathe, and he hadn’t even added a second finger yet.

“Still good?” he asked, and this time, it didn’t sound like teasing.

You nodded, barely able to get the word out. “Y-Yeah. Just… don’t stop.”

Cartman laughed.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—low and short and so fucking smug it made your skin crawl. He didn’t even try to hide how amused he was. He leaned in a little, palm pressing heavier against your thigh as he tilted his head and grinned up at you like he’d just caught you mid-fall and decided to let you keep tumbling.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, mouth curled into a full-on smirk now. “You’re so fucking gone already. One finger and you’re begging.”

You flinched like he’d hit a nerve—and maybe he had, because it was true, and hearing it out loud made the heat in your face flare so bad you were pretty sure you could boil alive in it. You looked away immediately, eyes darting to the wall like it could give you cover, but it didn’t matter. He was still watching you. Still moving.

And then he added another.

Your whole body locked up for half a second—back arching, thighs twitching as he pushed in slow, the stretch sharper this time, more intense. You gasped, not even meaning to, the sound escaping before you could think, and Cartman snorted like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“There it is,” he said, fingers curling just a little. “That’s what I was waiting for.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, fast, trying to smother the next noise before it got out. Your eyes were wide, chest rising in sharp, unsteady jerks, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of your ribs. His fingers moved again—pushing in deep, then dragging back slow, steady, relentless. You bit into your palm, trying to breathe through your nose, trying to stay quiet, but your hips were already twitching again, chasing the pressure without thinking.

“You really thought you were gonna handle Damien without panicking,” Cartman muttered, voice thick with amusement. “You can’t even handle me.”

You whimpered, shaking your head even though you weren’t sure what you were denying. The words didn’t come. They couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your mind blank, your whole body focused on the slow, rhythmic thrust of his fingers and the heat crawling up your spine like it was going to swallow you whole.

And Cartman just kept grinning.

“God,” he muttered, more to himself now. “You’re soaked. It’s like a fucking Slip N’ Slide down here.”

You made a sound—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and clapped your hand tighter over your mouth, as if that would somehow erase the noise. As if he hadn’t already heard all of it. As if he wasn’t getting off on the way you were trying so hard to hold it together.

He leaned in closer, smirk pressing sharp against the edge of his voice.

“What?” he said, almost whispering now. “You embarrassed?”

You nodded frantically, eyes squeezed shut, face burning so bad it felt like it might crack open from the heat.

Cartman snorted again, his thumb brushing the top of your thigh, way too close to everything.

“Good.”

You didn’t flinch this time. You didn’t hide. Slowly, you lowered your hand from your mouth and looked down at him, the flickering overhead light catching the gloss in your eyes. There was no witty comeback, no dramatic gasp, no fake outrage like you’d usually hurl his way when he pushed too far. Your lip was trembling faintly, your breathing shallow and fast, and your face—flushed and vulnerable—was twisted up in this awkward, pleading kind of uncertainty.

And Cartman saw all of it.

His hands stilled. His fingers, still buried inside you, stopped moving like they’d hit a wall. He blinked once, not confused, not oblivious, but like he’d just registered it fully—what this actually was. His mouth parted, eyes flicking over your face again, slower this time, less sure of himself. You weren’t just squirming and gasping and biting your lip because you were turned on. You were trying not to freak out. You were trusting him with a part of yourself you hadn’t even figured out yet, and he’d been riding that like it was a joke.

He exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was rough but different—stripped down, quieter, steadier. “You’re doing good.” His eyes didn’t drop. He held your gaze, his brow furrowed in the kind of awkward, unspoken apology that only Cartman could manage—like the words themselves were too hard to form, but the meaning was still there in the way his voice softened, in the way he wasn’t smirking anymore.

You blinked quickly, heat stinging at the corners of your eyes again, and gave a small, shaky smile. Nodded. Just barely. That was all he needed.

He dipped his head lower without saying anything else, mouth brushing over your thigh first—slow and steady, like he was letting you feel each inch of him as he shifted. 

Your whole body flinched, breath hitching hard in your throat. He didn’t hesitate this time. His tongue was hot, dragging slow through the wet mess between your thighs like he was trying to feel out every reaction you couldn’t verbalize. He didn’t tease, didn’t joke, didn’t say a single smug word. He just held you open—one hand braced on your thigh, the other still inside you, fingers curled slightly, resting there while his mouth took over.

“Fuck—” The word broke out of you, hoarse and high-pitched. “Eric—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. His fingers shifted slightly inside you, curling deeper, finding a spot that made your stomach lurch and your back arch. His mouth worked in time with the motion, lips slick and focused, tongue moving in tight, practiced circles until your breathing was just soft, broken gasps layered one over the other.

Your voice cracked before the words made it out. “Fuck—Eric, I’m—” You couldn’t even finish. You felt your whole body start to curl in on itself, like every muscle was bracing. “I’m gonna cum—oh my god—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. But you felt the shift in his rhythm, the way his tongue slowed just slightly, pressing in deeper instead of faster, dragging that moment out like he knew exactly how close you were and wanted to hold you right there. You whimpered, eyes wide, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as your hands clenched hard in your lap, fingers digging into your own sleeves like they might anchor you.

And then he spoke—his voice low and breathy against your skin, but smug as ever.

“Oh, now you’re gonna cum?” he muttered, not bothering to lift his head. “You sure? I don’t wanna, like, mess up the vibe if you’re just being dramatic again.”

The words hit you like a slap and a punchline all at once. Your face flamed hotter, your throat catching around a choked breath, and your whole body seized up like it wanted to crawl backward out of itself. “Shut the fuck up,” you gasped, the sentence barely coherent through the noise in your head. “I swear to god—”

But you never got the rest out.

His fingers curled, sharp and perfect, hitting deep, and his tongue flicked fast and focused over your clit with this ruthless consistency that knocked every thought clean out of your brain. The tension broke in a flash—fast, full, and overwhelming. Your thighs clamped down around his head on instinct, your hips jolting forward as your body locked up and came hard, every nerve alight and spasming with a heat you hadn’t known you could feel. You moaned—loud, unfiltered, torn straight from your throat—and there was no covering it this time.

Your body shuddered, legs trembling, stomach jumping in helpless aftershocks, and through all of it Cartman stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. His mouth kept working you through it, tongue dragging slow and heavy now like he was licking the last of it from you, like he wanted the mess, like he’d been waiting for it.

And then the realization hit.

Your face went cold first, then hot again in a full wave of red that swept up your neck and hit behind your ears. Your eyes flew open. You blinked at the ceiling like it might somehow undo what just happened, like the warehouse lights above might offer you an exit from your own body.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, voice ragged and too loud. “I just—Eric—I came on your fucking face—”

Cartman finally leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth in one slow swipe. His chin glistened. His lips were shiny. He looked up at you with this totally shameless expression, eyes lit up like you’d handed him a trophy he hadn’t even asked for. His smirk spread slow and stupid, cocky in a way that made your stomach turn and your skin crawl in equal measure.

“Yeah,” he said, like he’d just confirmed something obvious. “You did.”

You covered your face with both hands again and let out a noise that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a proper groan—just a mortified sound from somewhere deep in your chest as your body tried to collapse into itself and disappear.

Cartman was still looking at you, clearly enjoying himself. You didn’t have the strength to glare. You barely had the strength to sit up. All you could do was stay folded in, thighs still twitching, breathing uneven, the taste of your own orgasm still thick in the air and his fucking grin burned into your eyelids.

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

[sowerpatch]

vending machines and rooftop basketball and bad dumplings

Paige Bueckers x Fem!OC

Summary:

“You’re, like, seven feet tall and famous.”

“Only six, actually. The other foot is charisma.” Or Paige thinks they’re flirting. Isha thinks it’s a clinical concern. It’s the same thing, really.

Word count: 4,450

Dallas Meadows Hospital was cold, but not unfamiliar.

Paige Bueckers had spent enough time in buildings like this to know the rhythm of them. The constant beep of monitors, the shuffling of rubber soles, and the way fluorescent lights hummed like a choir of disinterested bees overhead. Very familiar.

She wasn’t afraid of hospitals. Not anymore.

After her ACL tear in college, she’d practically lived in one — MRIs, surgeries, rehab appointments, physical therapies so intense it left her crying into ice packs. She knew what it was like to be the one in the gown. The one being wheeled in and out. The one learning patience when everything inside you was screaming to move.

That didn’t make it any easier to see someone else she cared about go through it.

She adjusted the stuffed blue dolphin under her arm, a relic of some team bonding prank that Nalyssa insisted on keeping. She shifted to find comfort in the plastic chair outside Recovery Room 2B.

Nalyssa Smith had gone down in practice the day before, and Paige’s stomach still flipped when she remembered the sound. That awful, taut pop, followed by silence and then screaming.

Her other teammate, Dijonai Carrington, had gone to grab coffee, swearing she’d bribe the vending machine into surrendering something caffeine-adjacent.

That left Paige alone with her thoughts, a nearly empty bag of sour candy, and the unique sensation of her hoodie absorbing every degree of chill from the chair.

She was halfway through mentally ranking which Sour Patch Kids color represented the stages of grief when a voice cut through the lull.

“You’re in my spot.”

Paige looked up. And promptly forgot how to blink.

The woman in front of her was wearing navy blue scrubs, a white coat, and an expression that hovered somewhere between ‘I’ve seen things’ and ‘I have no time for your nonsense.’

Her dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few stray curls escaping around her temple. The badge clipped to her hip read Dr. I. Alberts, Resident.

This, Paige thought, is what happens when a goddess takes up internal medicine.

“This one?” Paige asked, sweeping her arm across the entirely vacant row of chairs. “You sure you don’t mean the identical one on either side of me?"

Dr. Alberts didn't smile. Just tilted her head with that same flat expression. “This one has the best vantage point to eavesdrop on the nurses arguing about cafeteria meatloaf. It's tradition.”

Paige blinked. Then grinned. “You’re a drama fan. I respect that.”

The doctor said nothing. She just dropped into the seat next to Paige with the air of someone reluctantly sitting next to the only open outlet at an airport.

“You always threaten strangers with passive-aggressive seating claims, or is this my lucky day?”

“Depends. You always talk this much before noon?”

Paige held up her hands. “Fair enough. I’m Paige, by the way.”

The woman looked at her. “I know.”

“Wait, you know me?” Paige blinked.

“You’re, like, seven feet tall and famous.”

“Only six, actually. The other foot is charisma.”

That earned her the briefest twitch of lips. Not quite a smile, but Paige felt the gravitational pull of it in her chest.

“Skittles?” Paige offered, putting down the Sour Patch packet and extending the other crumpled candy bag like it was a peace treaty.

“Aren’t those mostly sugar and lies?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Dr. Alberts plucked one from the bag. A red one. Bold move.

“Isha,” she said at last.

“Nice to meet you, Isha.”

Another lip twitch.

Paige wasn’t sure what just happened, but she knew two things:

One, she had no idea if Nalyssa was out of surgery yet.

And two, she might have just met her favorite human being on Earth.

She didn't believe in love at first sight. But she was starting to believe in something awfully similar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Over the next few days, Paige saw Isha again. And again. And again.

Sometimes in hallways. Once in the elevator. Twice while Paige was busy pretending she needed another snack from the vending machine. (She didn’t. She wanted an excuse to look like she belonged on that floor.)

Each encounter was short. A nod. A smirk. A quip. Isha was the human embodiment of a deadpan emoji.

But Paige, never one to walk away from a challenge, decided she would crack her.

It started with snacks. She began leaving little candy offerings near the nurse's station. No note. Just a different sugar delivery system each day.

Then came the post-it notes. One read: ‘I rate this floor's vending machine 2 out of 5 stars. No Twix.’

Another: ‘Tell the surgeon in Room 5B he looks like a background character in Grey's Anatomy.’

Eventually, she caught Isha reading one. And smiling. Barely. But it counted.

They finally spoke again in the staff lounge. Somehow, Paige had wrangled a key card from a good-natured nurse named Kathy, who decided that matchmaking was part of her patient-doctor care responsibilities.

"Basketball, huh?" Isha said, eyeing Paige over the rim of a terrible coffee.

"Yup. Professionally weird tall person."

"You hurt?"

"Nah. Just playing nurse for my teammate."

"You’re bad at sitting still."

"You noticed that in ten seconds? Impressive."

Isha raised an eyebrow. “I majored in noticing things.”

Paige leaned forward, chin in hand. "So… are you always this charming, or am I just special?"

Isha sipped her coffee with the focus of someone trying not to smirk.

Paige kept trying. And, slowly, she started winning.

One day, Isha caught her loitering by the vending machine again.

"Stalking me now?"

"No," Paige said, mock-offended. "I happen to have a very deep and complex emotional relationship with Sour Patch Kids."

"You're impossible."

"And yet… you're still here."

This time, Isha smiled. Not a full grin. But enough.

Paige's heart did something very irresponsible in her chest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a Tuesday when Paige made her move.

They were sitting on a bench outside the hospital exit, watching as a squirrel carried what looked like an entire muffin into a tree.

"Okay," Paige said. "New plan. If I beat you in HORSE, you let me take you out. Real date. Not in this building."

Isha stared at her. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“You look like you haven’t slept since Friday, but that’s not the point.”

“You are a literal WNBA player.”

“And you are literally avoiding a free dinner with someone who’s offering you Sour Patch Kids on demand.”

Isha narrowed her eyes. “You get one shot. One. If I make mine and you miss, this never happened."

“Deal.”

That’s how Paige found herself carrying a portable hoop onto the hospital rooftop that evening, dragging Dijonai with her to help set it up.

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Dijonai said, wheezing from the effort.

“Oh come on, the lighting is romantic.”

“The lighting is a broken emergency exit sign.”

Still, Isha showed up. In sneakers and scrubs, looking every bit like she wanted to pretend this was ridiculous and secretly didn’t.

“You seriously brought a hoop.”

“You seriously thought I was bluffing?”

They played.

Isha made the first shot.

Paige nailed hers, then sunk the next three with the kind of ease that said, ‘I’m good, but I’m also trying very hard to look like I’m not destroying you.’

When the game ended, Isha had "HORSE" and Paige had a grin wider than the state of Texas.

"I think I sprained my dignity," Isha muttered.

"I'll kiss it better," Paige offered.

Isha stared.

"Too soon?"

“Slightly.”

They stood there under the humming rooftop lights.

And finally, finally, Isha said, “Fine. One date. But no basketball.”

Paige grinned. “That’s okay, Ma. I’m good at other sports. Like… wine drinking. Or being charming.”

“We’ll see about that.”

But her smile said she already had.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Their first official date was tacos. 

Not some candlelit, five-course ordeal — just tacos. Cheap, delicious, messy. Paige had insisted on taking Isha to her favorite hole-in-the-wall spot where the tortillas were hand-pressed and the owner called everyone ‘boss.’ 

“You brought me to a taco stand behind a gas station,” Isha said, raising an eyebrow as she examined the chipped plastic table. 

Paige beamed. “Only the finest for my favorite doctor.” 

“I’m not even your doctor.” 

“Yet.” 

They ate on the curb under a flickering streetlamp. Paige kept talking. About Minnesota winters, pregame rituals, the weird adrenaline cocktail of fear and joy that came before tipoff. Isha, to her credit, asked questions. Then more. She shared stories about her residency, about growing up in Houston with her immigrant parents, about a childhood obsession with ER that had absolutely influenced her career path despite all denials. 

“I once tried to perform CPR on my brother’s GI Joe,” she confessed. 

“That’s… weirdly adorable.” 

“He didn’t make it.” 

“Was there a funeral?” 

“A full procession. My mom cried laughing.” 

They both laughed. And kept laughing. 

After dinner, they walked to Isha’s car. Paige kept brushing their hands together as they walked, not quite holding, just teasing. Isha noticed. Didn’t pull away. 

“So,” Paige said, slowing as they reached the car, “scale of 1 to 10, how charming was that date?” 

“Eight. Points deducted for salsa on your jeans.” 

“It’s called flair.” 

Isha rolled her eyes but didn’t move to unlock the car. 

Paige leaned in slightly. “Want to know how I can earn the other two points?” 

Isha smiled, soft and curious. “How?” 

Paige gently tucked a curl behind Isha’s ear. “Second date. Slightly less taco-based. Maybe.” 

Isha hesitated just long enough to be dramatic. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to flirt through the entire thing.” 

“No promises,” Paige said, grinning. 

The next time was a museum. Then coffee. Then a shared sushi box on a bench while Paige pretended she understood abstract art and Isha critiqued brushstrokes like she’d moonlighted as a curator. And always — always — Paige tried to make her laugh. 

It became an unspoken game: who could break the other first? 

Paige won most of the time. 

They’d meet at odd hours. Late night pho after shifts, a spontaneous lunch on Paige’s off-day, a quick drive-thru to Dunkin before the sun rises.  

Paige showed up with a different compliment every time. 

“Have I told you your scrubs are my favorite color today?” 

“They’re gray.” 

“Exactly. Mysterious, like your soul.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculously into you.” 

They’d share music on long drives, Paige tapping the steering wheel to the beat, Isha sneaking glances at her when she thought she wasn’t looking.  

Once, they danced in Paige’s kitchen to a Spotify playlist labeled 'Old School Jams + Bops.' 

“You know,” Isha murmured, leaning into Paige’s arms, “you’re not as smooth as you think.” 

“I’m smoother,” Paige whispered back. 

One night, curled up beside her on the couch, Paige looked at Isha and said, “So… how does it feel to be officially dating a woman who owns more sneakers than you have pairs of socks?” 

“Deeply intimidating,” Isha murmured, tucking her feet under Paige’s legs. 

“You like it.” 

“I tolerate it.” 

But her smile said otherwise. 

Then Paige added, “Also, you now legally have to let me win all future arguments.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how relationships work.” 

“It is in mine.” 

Isha kissed her cheek. “We’ll negotiate.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It started with silence. 

Isha didn’t answer her phone. Or her texts. Or the backup call Paige made to the nurses’ station when her stomach started to churn. Nine hours passed. Nine. With nothing. 

Paige tried not to panic. 

She failed. 

By the time she was pacing the waiting room at Dallas Meadows Hospital, she was a wreck. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to her chin, heart hammering like it was in overtime. 

Kathy finally emerged from a side door. 

“She’s okay,” the nurse said, voice calm. “She got pulled into an emergency surgery after her attending went down. No time to check her phone.” 

Paige nearly sank into the nearest chair. 

When Isha finally walked out of the stairwell — scrubs rumpled, hair half-loose, and shadows under her eyes — Paige stood up too fast. 

“You look awful,” she blurted. 

Isha blinked. “Nice to see you too.” 

“Sorry, baby. I mean, are you okay?” 

“Alive. Barely caffeinated.” 

They stared at each other. The space between them felt thick with all the words Paige hadn’t let herself say. 

“You can’t do that to me,” she said finally, voice barely a whisper. 

“I didn’t plan — ” 

“I know. Just… don’t. Not again.” 

And then Paige crossed the room in two strides, cupped Isha’s face in both hands, and kissed her like the world had just restarted. 

Because for her, it had. 

When they finally pulled apart, Isha rested her forehead against Paige’s. 

“Sorry I scared you, darling.” she murmured. 

“You didn’t scare me,” Paige said. “You terrified me, Ma. There’s a difference.” 

Isha chuckled weakly. “Next time I’ll send a carrier pigeon.” 

“I’d accept smoke signals. Just something.” 

Paige pulled her into another hug, tighter this time. 

“I missed you like an idiot,” she whispered. 

“You’re not an idiot,” Isha whispered back. 

“Tell that to my pacing record.” 

They spent the rest of the night in Paige’s apartment. Isha fell asleep on the couch before they could even finish the movie Paige had queued. Paige covered her with a blanket, watched her chest rise and fall, and softly whispered, “You scared me because I love you.” 

Isha, half-asleep, replied, “I know. Me too.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It happened slowly. Then all at once. 

Isha moved in with very little ceremony: a weekend bag, two plants named after obscure Star Trek characters, and a kettle Paige broke within a week. 

They didn’t talk about it much. Didn’t set rules or timelines. It just made sense. 

Paige cleared out a dresser drawer. Isha filled it. 

Isha claimed the left side of the bathroom sink. Paige left little notes on the mirror with dry erase markers: ‘You’re doing great’ and ‘Refill the toilet paper pls’ and ‘You smell nice.’ 

They painted the guest room together one Sunday, arguing about whether “aloe mist” was an acceptable color name. 

“I swear this looks like toothpaste,” Paige insisted, covered in flecks of green. 

“It’s calming!” Isha protested, waving a roller. 

“Calming like a dentist’s office.” 

Isha dabbed paint onto Paige’s nose. “You’re impossible.” 

“Yet deeply lovable.” 

“You’re lucky I like your face.” 

They shared a look. Half-challenge, half-flirting. Then burst out laughing. 

Isha brought books. Paige brought takeout. They shared everything else. 

On game days, Isha packed orange slices in Paige’s duffel and pretended not to double check her water bottle. On hospital nights, Paige ordered late-night Thai and Chinese foods and stayed up so Isha wouldn’t come home to an empty apartment. 

Sometimes Paige would wait by the door with a blanket, arms open, no words needed. Isha would step into the warmth like it was her recharge station. 

“I should marry you just for the foot rubs,” Isha mumbled once, half-asleep. 

“Make me a mixtape first,” Paige replied. 

“You own a cassette player?” 

“Babe, I’m an old soul.” 

It wasn’t perfect. 

They had fights. About messes, about missed calls, about who used the last of the oat milk and didn’t replace it. But it always ended with apologies. With sleepy hugs and forehead kisses. 

With home. 

One night, wrapped in a too-small blanket, Paige whispered, “This isn’t how I thought my life would go.” 

Isha stirred. “Regrets?” 

Paige shook her head. “Just… surprised.” 

Isha smiled against her shoulder. “Good surprise?” 

Paige kissed the top of her head. “Best surprise, Ma.” 

Then, after a pause: “Also, we’re getting a better blanket. This one is a scarf.” 

“Deal.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They didn’t say ‘I love you’ the way it happened in rom-coms. There was no string quartet, no artfully timed fireworks, no kiss-in-the-rain moment. It happened on a completely average Tuesday, in the middle of something as mundane as dinner prep. 

They were in the kitchen, making frozen dumplings that sizzled gently in the skillet. The Bachelorette was on in the background, muted just enough that the contestants’ frantic yelling blended into white noise.  

Isha, still in her scrubs, was ranting animatedly about a surgeon who kept calling her ‘Isabel’ despite three corrections, an email signature, and a name badge the size of a license plate. 

“It’s not even hard!” she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of tongs a little too aggressively. “It’s four letters! Two Syllables! ‘Isha’ is not a cryptic cipher!” 

Paige was only half-listening, flipping dumplings with one hand while texting Dijonai with the other. “Did you try tapping it out in Morse code?” 

Isha glared, the corner of her mouth twitching despite her best efforts to stay indignant. “Don’t tempt me. I will tape my name to my forehead.” 

Paige set her phone down, leaned against the counter casually, and said with deceptive ease, “I love you, by the way.” 

Silence fell like a feather, not heavy or jarring, but deliberate. The kind of stillness that made every breath suddenly feel louder. 

Isha blinked. “What?” 

“I said I love you,” Paige repeated, a slow smile curling at her lips. “Just figured I should say it before I burn your dinner. Which, by the way, is a very real possibility.” 

Isha’s brows lifted, stunned, as if the air had shifted. “You’re serious?” 

“Unless you’re secretly in love with that surgeon who calls you Isabel.” 

That earned a soft, incredulous laugh from Isha, who put the tongs down like they were too hot to handle. She crossed the room, every step measured but unhurried, and without a word, pulled Paige into a kiss. Gentle, warm, laced with everything she hadn’t yet said. 

When they finally parted, she whispered, forehead against Paige’s, “I love you too.” 

They didn’t speak for a long while after that. 

They didn’t need to. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Some nights just collapse around you. 

This one had teeth. 

From the very first quarter, Paige felt off. Her timing a fraction too slow, her feet stuck in invisible cement. Layups clanged off the rim. Passes went wide. Her usual fluidity felt replaced by static. She wasn’t just playing poorly. She was unraveling in real time, under the blinding lights and judgmental roar of the crowd. 

By the final buzzer, the scoreboard was a brutal punctuation mark: Wings 63, Liberty 85. A twenty-two point implosion. 

The locker room buzzed with post-game chatter, reporters like vultures, flashbulbs ready to pounce. Paige didn't wait. She slipped out the side exit, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with no music playing. Her phone buzzed relentlessly—messages from teammates, coaches, Dijonai—but she ignored everyone. 

The ride home was a blur of headlights and guilt. 

When she stepped into the apartment, she found Isha curled up on the couch, feet tucked under her, a book open in her lap. She was already dressed in comfort clothes: leggings and Paige’s UConn T-shirt that was two sizes big on her. 

Isha looked up, took one look at Paige’s expression, and closed the book without a word. 

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t fill the silence with platitudes. 

She simply opened her arms. 

Paige crumpled into her like an avalanche finally reaching the bottom of the mountain. Her breath hitched, shoulders tense, every failure clinging to her skin like sweat. 

“I sucked,” she mumbled, voice muffled against Isha’s shoulder. 

“You didn’t suck,” Isha murmured. “You just had a bad game.” 

“I let them down. Everyone.” 

“Not me, darling.” Isha said simply. 

And that broke something. In a good way. 

Paige shook with the effort of holding it together. “I hate this feeling. Like I’m failing. Like I’m not enough.” 

Isha pulled her tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back. “You are more than enough, baby. You’re everything.” 

Time passed in slow breaths and quiet touches. No judgment. Just warmth. 

Eventually, Isha leaned back slightly. “I brought lasagna and chicken wings. Your favorites. For after you finish punching yourself emotionally.” 

A shaky laugh escaped Paige’s lips. “You really do know me.” 

“I study greatness, my love. Occupational hazard.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The new season roared in with the unrelenting chaos of a freight train. Media day lights, preseason scrimmages, new teammates with fresh egos, new plays that twisted Paige’s muscle memory into knots. Expectations were sky-high. The Wings were aiming for the playoffs, and every practice buzzed with the weight of it. 

But beneath it all, Paige felt... anchored. Not weighed down. Not stressed. But steady in a way she hadn’t felt in years. 

Because this time, she had Isha. 

They’d carved out a rhythm, a life tucked into the in-between hours. Morning smoothies were a ritual now, complete with Isha fussing over protein-to-fruit ratios while Paige danced to 2000s pop in fuzzy socks. Their kitchen had become a home stage. Blenders whirring, Spotify blasting, dance battles erupting mid-breakfast. 

“You’re gonna tear your ACL doing the ‘Single Ladies’ again,” Isha warned one morning as Paige spun too enthusiastically in her socks and collided with the fridge. 

“Worth it,” Paige replied, holding a banana like a microphone. “This is performance art, babe.” 

Isha just shook her head, but her laugh was warm. It always was. 

Their shared calendar was a collage of game days and night shifts, but they made space where they could: a coffee date squeezed between press conferences and surgeries, late-night pho on Paige’s balcony under fairy lights they forgot to take down after Christmas, and mid-day quick run to their favorite farmer’s market.  

They left notes in each other’s pockets too. Scribbled encouragements, crude doodles, and dumb jokes about feet (Paige’s favorite subject, apparently). 

On the day after their first big win, Paige burst through the apartment still wearing half her Wings uniform, tossed her bag aside, and shouted, “Put on shoes! You’re coming with me.” 

“What kind of shoes?” Isha asked warily, already slipping on sneakers. 

“The kind that let you climb fire escapes,” Paige grinned, grabbing her hand. 

Minutes later they were scaling the side of their building, breath puffing in clouds in the cold night air.  

When they reached the roof, Paige revealed her grand plan: a portable Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of hot cider, and a basketball she’d stuffed in her gym bag. 

“The cider was almost a disaster,” Paige confessed. “I spilled some on your calendar.” 

“I noticed. My schedule now smells like cinnamon.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They sat on a blanket, sipping from paper cups as city lights shimmered in the distance. Paige nudged Isha’s shoulder. “You remember our first rooftop date?” 

“You mean our first highly illegal hospital trespass?” 

“Same thing.” 

Paige stood, tugged Isha to her feet, and gently spun her in place. “I’m thinking about how far we’ve come,” she whispered. “From Sour Patch peace offerings to this.” 

Isha stepped closer. “You know I hated that vending machine.” 

“But you liked me.” 

“I tolerated you.” 

Paige kissed her. Soft. Steady. Familiar. 

“I love you more than that rooftop hoop,” Paige whispered when they broke apart. “And that hoop meant everything.” 

“I know, darling.” Isha murmured, eyes glassy. “You’re it for me, too.” 

Above them, stars blinked like quiet witnesses. Below them, the city kept moving. But here, on this roof, it all stood still. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years later, Paige found herself back in the same place she’d once waited with a blue dolphin under one arm and a racing heart in her chest. 

Dallas Meadows Hospital hadn’t changed much. 

The halls still echoed with soft footsteps and the occasional screech of a rogue gurney wheel. The walls still smelled vaguely like lemon-scented cleaner and old hope. The vending machine in the east wing still swallowed dollars with the same cruelty. Someone had finally upgraded the coffee, though. Now it tasted like burnt ambition instead of despair. 

Paige sat in her usual seat outside Recovery Room 2B, one long leg crossed over the other, a paperback on her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She held the faded blue dolphin gently, rubbing its worn flipper absentmindedly. It had become a kind of quiet tradition. Something nostalgic, like a good luck charm she didn’t quite believe in but couldn’t let go of. 

From down the hallway, she heard the click of familiar footsteps. 

Then she saw her with her golden plate pinned on her white coat — Dr. Isha Bueckers, Attending. 

Her hair was a little shorter now, clipped at her chin in sleek curls that framed her face. Her coat fit a bit differently, a little more tailored, a little more confident. There was also something new in her eyes. Years of experience, maybe, or just the quiet strength that came from knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be. And that there was a thin and shiny gold band resting on her ring finger. 

“You’re in my spot,” Isha said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. 

“I saved it, Ma.” Paige replied, patting the seat beside her. “And brought company.” 

Isha sat, knees bumping Paige’s, and reached for the stuffed dolphin. “God, this thing’s still alive?” 

“Barely,” Paige laughed. “But it’s tougher than it looks. Like someone I know.” 

From around the corner, a young nurse’s voice floated down the hall, just a whisper: “Is that her? That’s Paige Bueckers, right?” 

Paige smiled without turning her head. “Still getting recognized.” 

“You’re a walking statue,” Isha said. “And still too tall.” 

“You still love me, though.” 

Isha turned, her face softening. “Of course I do.” 

“Tell me again.” 

“I love you,” she said. No hesitation. No pretense. Just the truth, clean and sure. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Legs tangled. Shoulders leaning together. No rush. No schedule. Just stillness and breath and memory. 

Eventually, Paige exhaled, a slow, content sigh. “You know, I didn’t believe in fate.” 

“Still don’t,” Isha replied, resting her head against Paige’s shoulder. “We built this. We chose this.” 

“Yeah,” Paige whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. “But if I had to start it all over again, vending machines and rooftop basketball and bad dumplings and all… I’d still choose you.” 

“I know, darling.” 

And in the hum of fluorescent lights and quiet hospital chatter, they sat in the exact place they’d started. Only now, their story wasn’t beginning. 

It had already begun. 

And it was still going. 

[bird-in-the-space]

The Price Of Greed

You tell a story about a young sparkling and Leviathan, the great beast of the sea.

(Author's note: Kinda jumped around with this idea, but finally got it out. Inspired by the Epic song Ruthlesness. I decided that one of Limos's names will be Leviathan. Kinda made up a new origin story for the sparkeaters. )

Warnings: mentions of the cybertron's caste system, reader having empurata, poverty, falling, and nearly getting eaten, mentions of a massacre, reader being blinded and crippled, angst, floods, curses, and mentions of the war (this fic is pretty long, a novel worth).

------------------------------------------------------------

Dark clouds blanketed the sky. The crumbling echo of thunder sang in the air as furious bolts of lightning danced above the waves of Cybertron’s sea. The water flowed with the wind, crashing near the gray beaches and hills of your homely abode.

You stood near the entrance of your home, watching and listening to the thunder in the sky and the waves of the sea. It distracted you from the sight of the city that lay in ruins in the distance, flooded and ravaged by the fangs of war that crippled your homeworld. It was a sight you were used to, despite its contrast to your intact home, one of the last safe places on Cybertron.

You sometimes wondered how it had come to this, but deep down, you knew it was the arrogance of the Senate and its senators, who believed themselves above anything else and thought their actions would bear no consequences. 

That age was now long gone, replaced by a war fought by factions who had long forgotten their original causes. 

Listening to the thunder and watching the sea gave you a sense of comfort and nostalgia for the things of the past. You had no fear of the sea that could destroy anything in its path or drown anyone who would dare to venture into its depths. You never did. You also do not need to worry about it rising beyond its ordinary level and destroying your home, just as it had consumed the city. He had made sure of that, just like how your home was one of the last places that still had a flowing source of energon. 

“I don’t want to eat anymore of this!” a voice echoed from within your home. 

You glanced inside, where the light burned. It was time for supper, and it sounded like one of the sparklings had trouble having their fill for the night. 

Leaning on your cane, you walked inside your home, an old temple once built for one of the thirteen primes. Now, a home to you and those whom you have welcomed under its roof. 

Inside, in the middle of the room, sat a fire pit, which provided light and warmth to your home. Around it sat the residents, some your old friends and some refugees who had nowhere else to go to flee from the war that had waged on for several cycles now.

Locket, one of the refugees and a former caretaker of newborn sparklings, tried to feed one of the sparklings some energon. 

“Zephyr. You need to have your fill. Otherwise, you’ll be grumpy in the morning,” Locket tried to convince the sparkling, who was barely three cycles old. 

“I’m not hungry!” the young mechling looked away from the bowl offered to him, crossing his arms. 

“You say that, but then you are gonna complain in the morning due to an empty tank,” Locked sighed tiredly. 

“Can’t we have something else? We eat this every day,” Zephyr said. 

 “And you should be grateful for that. If we were anywhere else, we wound’t probably even have this to sustain ourselves,” Locket replied. 

“I got this Locket,” Hitch, one of the other residents, pitched in. 

“Listen up, kidos. If you don’t eat your energon, you become a nasty sparkeater,” Hitch started. 

“What?” Zephyr snapped his optics toward the bot.

“You can become a sparkeater if you don't eat your energon?” Starflare, a young femmeling, asked with a frightful tone. 

“Yeah. Don’t you know there’s a terrible curse?” Hitch asked, only intensifying the little sparkling’s fright.

“The legends say that if you refuse to take your energon, you begin starving, and when you become starved enough, you start craving not energon, but sparks. And then you become a hungry sparkeater, that hunts down other little disobedient sparklings like you,” Hitch exaggerated. 

The sparklings gasped and hid behind each other. 

“Hitch…Too much,” Locked shook her head. 

“What? You know, sparkeaters are real,” Hitch shrugged as he sat down. 

“I’m not scared of sparkeaters,” Zephyr said, crossing his arms. Despite the front, it was clear he was scared. 

You chuckled as you approached them. 

“Having fun scaring the little ones?” you asked as you sat down. 

“Apologies, (Name). It seems someone is just having trouble taking their energon for the night,” Locket glanced at Zephyr. 

“But it’s so bland!” Zephyr whined. “And we eat it every day,” 

Before Locket could scold him, you chuckled. “That is understandable. Consuming the same thing every day can be exhausting.”

“But it is important to take care of yourself, and if you don’t have anything else, you should take what is at hand,” you said. “Otherwise, you might have nothing to fill your hunger, and you would be sick all the time.” 

“Would you like to be sick constantly, Zephyr?” you asked. 

“No…” Zephyr muttered. 

“Then perhaps taking your dinner will prevent that from happening,” you said. “You know what, if you take your fill, once the storm passes, we could go to the fields and see if we can find any good harvest for the next supper. How does that sound?” you asked. 

“Can I get the best rust sticks?” he asked. 

“Hey, not fair! I want rust sticks!” another sparkling, Crackjaw, exclaimed. 

You chuckled. “Only if you take your energon for the night,” 

“Okay!” Zephyr took the bowl and began drinking the energon. 

“I want rust sticks, so I’m taking my energon too,” Crackjaw began drinking his bowl of energon. 

“Finally… they took their energon,” Locked exhaled, even if the two mechlings began competing with each other. 

“(Name). Can you really become a sparkeater if you don’t take your energon?” Starflare asked curiously. 

You looked at her softly. “You do not need to worry. To become a sparkeater, you must live a life of creed or bear the curse of Limos.” 

“The curse of Limos?” Starflare questioned, tilting her helm curiously. 

“Yes. You see, sparkeaters were born from the curse of Limos, one of Unicron’s four harbingers, “ you replied. 

“It is said that if you bear the curse of Limos, you will know never-ending hunger. You will try to quench your hunger with energon, but no amount will be enough to end your thirst. And then, when you became dry and hollow, you became hungry for sparks inside other living beings, losing all sense of self,��� you explained. “Never to return to who you used to be,” 

“Why did Limos create such a curse?” Starflare asked. 

“Because he hated Cybertronians. All Harbingers of Unicron hated Primus’s creations. That’s what all the stories say,” Zephyr replied. 

“But that’s what the stories say. But the truth might be much more than that. You see, the Harbingers never hate without a reason,” you said. “A few things Limos hated most were injustice and unfairness,” 

“Then what was the reason he created sparkeaters?” Crackjaw asked.  

“The Senate that once ruled Cybertron did something really bad to him. “ Hitch said. “They hurt his child,” he added. 

“Limos had a child?” Starflare asked with a surprised tone. 

“Yes. Limos had a child, whom he greatly loved. You see, even the Harbingers were capable of love. And it was that love that brought the birth of sparkeaters and the Sea of the Damned,” you glanced toward the sea soutside. 

“Why is it called the Sea of the Damned?” Starflare asked. 

You hummed. “Perhaps I could interest you with a story. It might help us pass the time till the storm calms down,” you suggested. 

“Yes, please!” Starflare answered eagerly. 

Zephyr scoffed. “I don’t need bedtime stories,”

 “Ah, but I think you will be interested in this one, “ you said.

“Tell me, have you ever heard of the story of the Leviathan?” you asked. 

“The Leviathan?” Crackjaw questioned. 

“The mysterious beast of dweths, who devours anything in its path. And an old fairytale. Turns out Leviathan was Limos himself,” Hitch revealed.

“That is true, but I have a version, that might answer many of your questions and how sparkeaters and the Sea of the Damned came to be,” you said. 

"Tell us, please!" Starflare exclaimed.

It made you chuckle. “Alright, let me tell you a story about the Leviathan, and a sparkling he loved like his own…” You started. 

…

Long before the war, when Cybertron was still ruled by the Senate, you lived far out on the plains, where the farming communities resided. Despite their low status in the system, they cared for you as best they could, cultivating whatever they could to provide for you while paying taxes set by the system. You were a young, sparkling back then, and you apparently suffered from a condition known as Empurata.

Your community explained that it was a cruel procedure, typically inflicted on criminals, but someone had unlawfully done it to you.

It left you conflicted for a time, but you quickly overcame it. You had grown used to living with a single optic and clawed hands. Besides, you couldn’t remember anything when it happened, or anyone who could have done it to you.

All you knew was that you were a sparkling left on your own, and your community was kind enough to take you in.

Living on the plains was challenging. Due to the energon shortage, it was hard to farm anything, and the Senate didn’t exactly care for the people, especially those in the lower class.

You and others sometimes had to venture into the dangerous areas of Cybertron’s surface to find energon, which often did not lead to success. 

One day, you and your friends ventured into the canyons in search of energon, drawn by the many caves scattered throughout the area.

While exploring one of the caves, the ground suddenly gave way beneath you. You plunged into what appeared to be a river of transparent liquid.

Helpless against the current, you were swept deeper and deeper into Cybertron’s underworld, until at last, you emerged into what seemed like an ocean—vast, alien, and eerily still.

You were terrified as you drifted through what could only be described as a vast, dark abyss. As you sank deeper, you found enormous mechanical creatures that glided effortlessly through the strange space around you.

One of them—a monstrous being with rows of sharp, gleaming teeth—noticed you and immediately surged forward, its jaws wide open.

As you were not built to move in an environment like this, there was no way for you to flee from the monster. With no way to escape, you shut your optic and braced yourself, certain you were about to become the creature’s meal.

But then, just before the beast could strike, another presence collided with it, knocking it away. The force of their struggle stirred powerful currents, tossing you helplessly through the strange, liquid void.

And when you finally regained control and steadied yourself, you saw the creature that had tried to devour you, bitten in half, its remains slowly sinking into the depths below.

Then you saw something that left you in awe.

It was another creature—far larger than the beast from before—yet it bore no terrifying features. With a sweeping tail and luminous fins that glowed a brilliant energon-blue, it moved through the water with breathtaking grace. From deep within its form came resonant, melodic tones, as if it were singing a song only the depths could understand.

You had never seen anything like it. And despite its immense size, you felt no fear.

It slowly turned its head until you were face to face with its optic. Compared to it, you were no more than a pebble. Yet there was no hostility in its gaze—only curiosity. It studied you with a calm, intelligent presence.

“What are you doing so far in these depths, little one?” you heard a voice in your mind. 

You were left stunned as you realized the creature was speaking to you, not with words, but directly into your mind. In that moment, only one name surfaced in your thoughts: Leviathan, the great, devouring beast of the depths. 

“We were looking for energon,” you said aloud, your voice trembling. “But the ground gave way, and I fell. The current brought me here.”

You hesitated, then dared to ask, “Please… do you know where we could find energon?”

Leviathan’s massive optic regarded you in silence. Within it, you saw what you could only describe as indifference and… sadness. 

“There is no energon here for you,” the voice echoed in your mind. “Return to the surface.”

“I… I don’t know how!” you said.

Without warning, Leviathan moved. The water around you surged as powerful currents swept you away. You tumbled through the depths, disoriented and weightless.

Before you could even comprehend what had happened, you broke through a surface. 

You found yourself inside a cave, floating in a still pool of water. Slowly, you climbed out, your limbs heavy and your mind dazed. As you stepped outside, blinking against the light, you realized—you were back at the canyon.

Your friends and community members were stunned to see you when you returned. Relief washed over their faces as they rushed to your side. When they couldn’t find you, they had nearly accepted that you’d perished in the fall.

They brought you to the local medic, and to everyone’s amazement, you had survived with only a few scratches and dents.

You tried to explain what you had seen—that you had met Leviathan. But they didn’t believe you. They said it was the aftershock, a hallucination brought on by trauma. What you needed, they insisted, was rest.

You were certain the creature you had encountered was Leviathan—the mythical being said to dwell in a hidden sea beneath Cybertron, a monster of endless hunger and ancient legend.

But the Leviathan you met had saved you. He had guided you back to the surface. He had acted nothing like the stories.

What lingered with you most wasn’t his size or power—it was the sorrow, the anger, and the profound loneliness in his gaze.

And it left you wondering… why?

…

After a few days of recovery, you returned to the cave where you had resurfaced from the strange sea. You knew trying to reach that place again would be far too dangerous—yet the desire to see Leviathan once more lingered in your spark.

You remembered his voice, how it had resonated like a song. And you wondered… could music carry your gratitude to him?

You had heard that some oceans could carry sound across great distances. So you brought with you an instrument—one that the others had taught you to play—and began to play.

The notes echoed softly through the cave, drifting into the stillness like a message carried on the current. You played a song. Then another.

And you hoped… that somewhere, in the depths below, he was listening.

Then, something mystical happened.

The world around you faded, and suddenly, you saw the strange sea once more—vast, dark, and shimmering with otherworldly light. And there, suspended in its depths, was Leviathan.

It was as if your mind had crossed into that hidden realm, allowing you to see and hear him without ever leaving the cave.

“Why have you come back here?” his voice echoed once more in your mind.

“I wanted to thank you for saving me,” you replied. “But I didn’t know how to reach you without putting myself in danger… so I thought maybe the echo of music could.”

You hesitated, then added softly, “I also thought it might cheer you up.”

“Cheer me… up?” he repeated, the words slow and unfamiliar, as if tasting them for the first time.

“When we met… when I looked into your optics,” you said gently, “I felt like you were sad. Angry. Maybe even a little lonely.”

You paused, then added, “And when I heard your song, I thought… maybe music could help. Maybe it could make you feel a little less alone.”

Leviathan was silent.

He stared at you, and for a moment, you feared you had said too much. The elders in your community always warned that assuming things about others was impolite—disrespectful, even.

You opened your mouth to apologize, but then…

“Thank you,” he said at last. “Your gesture… was thoughtful.”

His approving tone gave you the courage to offer more songs, and he accepted. You played for him, each melody a gift carried through the strange current between your minds.

You told him your name. And in return, he allowed you to call him Leviathan.

When you returned home, something unexpected awaited you. The members of your community greeted you with joy—they had discovered a fresh clutch of energon, enough to sustain everyone for a while.

It felt like more than a coincidence.

Somewhere deep inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that your meeting with Leviathan had something to do with it. As if, in some quiet, unseen way… he had given something back.

… 

After that second encounter, you began visiting Leviathan more often, always when he welcomed it. He wasn’t the most talkative, but he listened. Sometimes, when you played, he would even harmonize with you, his deep, resonant tones blending with your melodies in haunting, beautiful ways.

He even offered quiet guidance, helping you refine your musical skills with surprising insight. And after each visit, your community seemed to grow luckier in finding energon. 

Despite the old stories and fearsome rumours about him, Leviathan never appeared cruel or terrifying to you. He actually seemed like he was someone who just struggled socially.

After many visits, Leviathan confided in you.

He admitted he was not fond of Cybertronians. Long ago, some had wronged him deeply—so deeply that the pain still echoed in his voice. They had taken his siblings from him, and he had never been able to find them. That loss had left him angry… and unbearably lonely.

In your sweet, sparkling innocence, you offered an idea that he could come live with you, so he wouldn't be lonely anymore. Despite having a place to call home in your community, you were technically a sparkling with no close family. 

Your words seemed to genuinely surprise him. 

Leviathan then asked if you would like him to come visit you. 

You said yes, without hesitation. The only worry that crossed your mind was him being a colossal being dwelling in a hidden sea beneath Cybertron.

You didn't know how your friends and community would react to him. But you had no doubts that they would be startled seeing a creature like him suddenly come out of the earth, and perhaps assume the worst. 

Leviathan assured you there was no need to worry. “I will see you on your next visit,” he said.

His words left you both curious and eager. What did he mean?

When you returned to the cave, you were met with a sight that stopped you in your tracks.

Standing there was a tall mech, his frame sleek and powerful, adorned in vibrant shades of blue that shimmered like energon under starlight. But what truly caught your attention were his optics—unlike any you had ever seen.

His left optic glowed a brilliant blue, clear and bright. But his right optic was dark, with a pale white iris at its center—like a lone star shining in the night sky.

It took you a moment to realize that the mech standing before you was Leviathan, now in his robot mode.

How he had managed to shrink from his massive alt form, or how he had emerged from the depths to walk the surface, didn’t linger long in your mind. Those questions were swept away by your excitement and eagerness to introduce him to your friends and community.

Leviathan followed you to your home, where he met your friends and the rest of your community. At first, they were wary; he was unlike any Cybertronian they had ever seen. To them, he looked like someone from the upper caste, perhaps even royalty. But when he showed nothing but politeness and humility, they allowed him to be, even though they were perplexed by him sharing the same name as the mythical beast. 

As you showed him around your home, his attention was quickly drawn to its poor condition. He asked questions, quietly observing the worn structures and the modest lives of those around him.

It was during one of the conversations with one of your community members that he began to learn more about your struggles and about you.

In one of those conversations, he would learn that your appearance was the result of a practice called Empurata. His expression would darken when he learned what kind of practice it was and that someone had been cruel enough to do it on a sparkling like you, then leaving you on the streets to fend for yourself. 

It was perhaps a blessing that you were taken in by the farmers—otherwise, you might not have survived for long.

At the end of the visit, Leviathan pulled you to the side and asked if you would like him to stay with you and become your official parental figure. 

He explained that he had spoken with members of your community about restoring the nearby abandoned temple, once built in honor of one of the Thirteen Primes. Since no one truly cared for it anymore, they had agreed to let him repair and repurpose it. He wanted to make it into a home for both of you.

The idea that he wanted to adopt you nearly brought you to tears.

You asked if he was sure.

He nodded. He told you he had grown fond of you, and that the thought of leaving you, still so young and full of wonder, felt wrong to him.

You accepted, throwing your arms around him. He embraced you in return, lifting you gently into his arms and carrying you to the old temple.

There, you watched in awe as he used his mystical powers to restore the crumbling structure. Stone and metal shifted, light filled the halls, and warmth returned to a place long forgotten.

Before long, the temple was no longer a ruin—it was a home.

And for the first time in your life… You had someone to call family.

… 

Under Leviathan’s care, you grew and learned many things from him. He taught you how to read and write, and introduced you to musical arts you hadn’t even known existed. He even shared the secrets of his powers, and in time, you learned to control water.

But most importantly, he taught you what it felt like to have a family.

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was inexperienced when it came to raising someone, so he often asked for help from your community. Because of this humility, your community gradually warmed to him.

With his presence, your fortunes improved—energon became easier to find, and the harvests grew more abundant.

It was a time of great change.

You grew into a gifted young bot, quickly becoming one of your community’s most talented musicians. You once dreamed of performing in the city, but as someone from a poor farming district, such opportunities were out of reach.

Your community often spoke cautiously about the cities. They were said to be dangerous, unwelcoming places, and few ever dared to venture there. So, you found contentment in playing for your own people and neighboring farming communities, where your music brought joy and unity.

However, as time passed, the energon shortage became concernly worse. Even the energon found by your improved luck was not nearly enough to stabilize things. 

You spoke about it with Leviathan, who then pulled you to the side and told you how he was responsible for the energon shortage. 

He explained that he possessed the power to manipulate energon and control the flow of its natural sources. Long ago, when he and his siblings were taken from their home and imprisoned, something inside him broke. After escaping and failing to find them, he made the choice to deny the Cybertronians their energon. 

He dried up the energon rivers, fountains, and everything that once flowed freely, cutting off the planet's lifeblood. It was also because of him that crystallized energon became difficult to find, forcing many to seek it off-world. All of this was due to a great wrong done to him and his siblings.

You were surprised, while you were aware that he had siblings and that the ancient Cybertronians had wronged him. However, you had no idea that Leviathan himself was the cause of the energon shortage.

Yet, you understood why he acted as he did and the reasons behind his sadness and anger.

As your community continued to struggle, you pleaded with Leviathan.

You asked him to give Cybertronians a chance—to believe that change was possible. You wanted to prove that your kind could rise above their flaws, unite, and care for Cybertron as it deserved.

Leviathan was hesitant. The wounds of the past ran deep. But after a long silence, he agreed.

He would give you a challenge—a test to see if unity and purpose could still be found among your people. To start small, he tasked you with restoring one of the old energon wells, long dry and forgotten. If you succeeded, he would allow it to flow once more.

You accepted without hesitation.

… 

The task Leviathan had given you was far from easy. 

At first, you turned to your community for help, but many were reluctant. They didn’t believe the well would ever flow again, even if it were cleaned. Convincing them proved difficult. So, with Leviathan’s quiet approval, you bent the truth just a little. You told them you had dreamed of the well flowing once more.

That small spark of hope was enough to sway a few of your friends. After all, your luck had been unusually good lately, despite the hardships.

Together, you began the work. Cleaning the well was grueling—mud-caked, rusted, and long forgotten. Still, you pressed on. Slowly, others came to curiously watch. Even Leviathan appeared, observing from a distance with quiet, focused attention.

And then the work was done. 

The well was clean, and its structure was restored. 

You and your friends waited, searching for any sign, any shimmer or pulse of energon. But nothing happened. 

Your friends, tired and disheartened, started to question whether it had all been for nothing. And you worried if this wasn’t enough to please Leviathan.

“Dig below your feet,” Leviathan whispered into your mind.

You looked down, sensing a strange pressure beneath the ground. Trusting your instincts, you took a daring step forward and drove your shovel into the earth.

To your delight, a glimmer of energon began to seep through the soil.

Cheers erupted around you as your friends watched the well come to life.

Then, with a sudden burst, energon sprayed upward, flooding the well in a brilliant surge. The force lifted you and a few others off your feet, and you floated briefly before splashing back down, laughing with pure joy.

The sound of the eruption drew others from nearby communities. They arrived in awe, eyes wide at the sight of the once-dry well now overflowing with energon.

You looked around and saw your people gathering with buckets, their faces lit with hope and excitement.

And in the distance, standing tall and silent, was Leviathan.

He met your gaze and gave you a slow, approving nod.

… 

After witnessing the well fill with energon once more, hope began to bloom among your community and those from neighboring settlements. Inspired by your success, Leviathan gave you a new challenge: to clean one of the lakes long choked with waste.

You shared the task with your community, presenting it as another dream, just like before. This time, they didn’t hesitate. The miracle of the well had stirred hope within them. 

Together, you began clearing the lake, removing layers of waste left behind by those from the cities. Bots from other communities joined in, drawn by the promise of more energon and the growing sense of purpose.

Perhaps hope was what you all needed most.. 

Leviathan watched from the side, silent as always—but this time, he seemed genuinely impressed by the number of bots who had come together to help. You hoped this would soften his view of Cybertronians… and perhaps convince him to restore the natural flow of energon for good.

With united effort—and a subtle clue from Leviathan—you uncovered a pressure point beneath the lakebed. Moments later, the lake erupted with a surge of energon, nearly sending you flying back to the shore.

Cheers rang around the lake. 

For the first time in eons, Cybertron flowed with fresh energon. Bots drank from it, filled their containers, and celebrated the return of something they had nearly forgotten.

You hoped this would be the change your world needed. That the Senate would finally see reason and rethink its ways.

But oh… how wrong you were.

…

When they came, you should have known it was the omen of your incoming misfortune. 

The news of the lake filling itself with energon again spread fast, and someone from the Senate had come to see the lake for themselves. 

As you and your neighboring communities did not hold the Senate or the city-dwelling bots in high regard, you were skeptical of the senator’s presence and that of his guard. Still, you made an effort to be polite and hospitable.

You told the senator about the cleaning of the well and the lake, and how they were once again filled with energon. Together, you decided to take only amounts that was necessary. You wanted to avoid drying them up again, and even began planning whether other places could be cleaned as well.

You tried to convince him that, since Cybertron itself was a living being, caring for it and taking only what was needed might allow many of the energon rivers and sources to flow once more.

The senator promised to look into it and perhaps share the ideas with others in the Senate before departing back to the city.

It left you hopeful, but it was only the beginning of what would later bring great suffering and grief.

…

Before you even knew it, armed forces had been sent from the city. They surrounded the lake and even the well, cutting off access for you and the neighboring communities. They claimed it was to protect the sources from those with less noble intentions. However, that claim quickly lost its meaning when they began preventing you from drawing energon—and started draining the sources themselves.

You tried to reason with the senator who had been placed in charge of the operation. You warned that if the lake and well were completely drained, it could take years for them to refill. There was even a chance they might never recover. While Leviathan could control energon and its flow, he could not create it, so he would not be able to replenish what was lost.

But the senator only explained that, although the consequences had been considered, he and the Senate had agreed to extract the energon for long-term storage. These were difficult times, he said, and it was best to secure the energon for the future.

He assured you that, since your united communities had helped the sources refill once before, the Senate would ensure you received your fair share in time.

Neither you nor the other communities believed him.

You knew the Senate would not honor its word. They would keep the energon for themselves and the higher class. Your communities belonged to the lower class, so they would happily leave you to perish in starvation, even if you contributed to the society’s sustenance. 

Anger spread quickly among the bots. It was justified. All your efforts to clean the well and the lake were being erased by the Senate’s decision. You had agreed to share the lake and protect its well-being together, and now someone else is intentionally draining it dry without caring about the consequences. 

The armed forces, bearing the badge of the Autobots, tried to intimidate you. But their presence only fueled the growing fury among your people.

And then, the shots were fired.

It happened in the blink of an optic. One moment, bots were yelling and cussing out the senator, and then one of the guards shot someone down, killing the poor bot. 

And then they began shooting down everyone. 

As you were impoverished farmers, there was nothing you could do. Those who tried to fight back were killed in an instant. Even those who ran away were gunned down. 

It was a massacre. 

You helplessly watched as many of your friends and bots you knew were killed. You tried to help them and take cover, but then one of the guards threw a grenade, causing an explosion near you. One of its shrapnel pieces struck you in your optic, blinding you and inflicting incredible pain. Then a bullet hit you in the spine, causing you to fall and black out. 

You later regained consciousness. Unable to see and feeling excruciating pain in your spine, you could barely move. All you could hear was silence. There was a terrible smell of burned metal, and you could feel your hands covered in energon. 

It left you in shock to realise there was no one alive. They had killed everyone. 

You heard the senator and his guards come when they noticed you were still online. You feared for your life, but then the senator decided to leave you unharmed as you were no threat to them. 

You asked them why they massacred your people. You pleaded with them to reconcile before Leviathan could learn what they had done. Leviathan was no evil by spark, but he was easily angered when it came to injustice. He would undoubtedly be enraged and do something terrible. 

The senator only laughed when you mentioned Leviathan’s name, mocking you for believing in a myth. You tried to convince him that Leviathan was real—that he was your adoptive sire—but your words only earned more taunts from the one who had ordered the massacre.

He told you to go home to your sire, sneering that no one would lift a finger for a bot with an empurata. You were to remember your place in the system.

Mockingly, he gestured toward the path that led back to where you lived. And so, under the watchful eyes of the senator and his guards, you limped away in pain, leaning heavily on a stick you picked from the ground to support you.

…

The walk back to your home was excruciating. With your blindness, you couldn’t tell how far you still had to go, and the pain in your spine brought forth countless tears. You eventually found your way back when you heard the sounds of wind chimes from one of your community members’ houses. It brought both relief and sorrow—relief because you had made it, and sorrow because the owner of that house would never return.

All you could hear was silence. Everyone had been slaughtered in the massacre.

Unable to go any further, you called out to Leviathan. 

“Sire! Sire! Please, I need you!” you exclaimed, energon falling from your damaged optic. 

Leviathan appeared to you in an instant. 

His voice was filled with shock when he spoke, clearly horrified by your state. The moment you felt his arms around you, you shook with grief and anguished relief. 

He picked you up and took you back to your shared home. 

Inside your home, he manipulated the energon in your veins to stop the bleeding and pull the bullet embedded in your spine out. He then gave you fresh energon to replace the energon you had lost. 

Although he was able to stop the bleeding by manipulating the energon, he did not possess the power to heal. So, he attempted to leave in search of your local medic.

But you stopped him before he could go. You told him what had happened—that there had been a massacre, and no one had survived. There was no one left who could fix you.

You told him about the Senate’s decision and how it had led to the slaughter. 

After you were finished, Leviathan was quiet. Dreadful silence filled your home. Even if you could not see him, you could tell he was boiling with rage. It only left you more fearful of what he might do. 

It was like the saying – calm before the storm. 

You pleaded with him not to do anything terrible or cause harm to those who were innocent of the Senate’s actions. 

He let out a sigh before promising you that he would not punish those who had no part in the massacre. However, since a great wrong had been committed, a harsh punishment must be inflicted.

You pleaded with him not to do it. Even if he did something to punish the guilty, innocents could be caught in the crossfire. 

He apologized to you, admitting it was a promise he could not keep.

If he remained, nothing would change, and he would be ignoring his very existence… as a Harbinger of Unicron.

The revelation left you in shock. You didn’t try to stop him as he left the home he had built for you.

You had only known him as the Leviathan from the stories, a monster that dwelled in the depths, with a hunger like that of a black hole. But the stories never spoke of Leviathan as one of Unicron’s children, one of the four Harbingers.

And yet, it all made sense now.

Leviathan, your adoptive sire, was Limos, the Devourer.

… 

Alone in your home, you could only understand what happened next by listening to the world around you. After Leviathan’s departure, there was an earthquake—and then a great flood. The sea, once hidden beneath Cybertron’s crust, rose to the surface, unleashing massive waves. You heard the distant screams of bots as they were swept away, and from the sounds of explosions and collapsing structures, you could only guess that the city had been consumed by the sea.

You could only imagine how many were injured—or perished—in the flood.

Then came the storm. Thunder unlike any you had ever heard shook the skies. In the air, you heard tones that sounded almost like music, leaving you to wonder if it was Leviathan conducting his punishment upon the guilty.

When the storm finally passed, silence followed. The only thing different being the sea that had taken its place near your home; it did not retreat back beneath Cybertron's crust, and most likely allowed the city to stay flooded. 

You learned what happened next from a friend who found you in your home. 

Apparently, your sire—Limos—had appeared in the city before those who ordered the draining of the lake and the massacre of your people. There, he had cast a curse.

Everyone responsible for the massacre, and all who had consumed the energon blessed by him, would know endless hunger. They would be driven mad by greed, until they desired nothing but the sparks of living beings.

At first, you didn’t understand what the curse would become—until, two weeks later, when you heard news of the survivors' changing. They had turned into vicious creatures that hunted and devoured sparks of other Cybertronians, spreading terror across Cybertron.

They came to be known as sparkeaters.

The drowned city was abandoned, and news of a Harbinger of Unicron appearing spread like wildfire. The Senate tried to mask the truth, claiming it had all been a terrible natural disaster. But the emergence of the sparkeaters made their lies impossible to believe.

Chaos spread. The Senate’s rule began to crumble. People no longer showed support—or obedience—to their laws. The disaster had been their undoing, and while it was said that only a Prime chosen by the Matrix could defeat a Harbinger, no such Prime had been chosen for eons. So, there was no one who could have stopped Limos.

And then, a few cycles later, a war broke out.

The truth of the disaster was buried, forgotten with the ruins of the city. There was nothing left there—only the sea that had taken permanent residence.

It came to be known as the Sea of the Damned.

Your sire returned to you once.

You did not approve of what he had done, but you understood him. He told you he had reunited with his siblings and was leaving Cybertron. Before departing, he left you the abode, a source of energon, and a guardian to ensure no harm would come to you again. He also gave you a blessing—one that granted you full dominion over the Sea of the Damned.

And then, he left.

That was the last time you ever heard from him.

After the war broke out, you welcomed many refugees into your home, so long as they respected the rules and did not provoke the wrath of your protector. To help provide necessary sustenance, you taught them farming as it was one of the last things you had from your perished community. 

One of them, a weary medic, managed to repair your optic, allowing you to see once more. Unfortunately, he lacked the resources and tools to fix your spine, but you didn’t mind. You had grown used to your walking stick and managed well enough.

The world had changed. But by the sea, you found a somber kind of comfort. Many terrible things had happened; you lost many friends and one of your only family members, but for the sake of your new friends and family, you pushed forward as their protector. 

… 

"That's so sad. If the Senate hadn’t done what they did, maybe there wouldn’t be any sparkeaters," Starflare said.

"Maybe… maybe not," you replied. "But because of their flawed ways, their downfall was inevitable."

"They hurt so many bots. That’s why there’s a war," you added quietly.

"I heard Limos had a child," Hitch said. "But I’ve never heard that version before. It sounded like… you were there."

"Maybe… I was…" you murmured.

"What happened to Limos’s child was terrible," Crackjaw said. "No wonder he was upset."

"I had no idea the Senate was that evil," Zephyr whispered.

"Wait! What happened to Limos’s child then?" Starflare asked eagerly.

"Let’s just say… Limos’s child stayed in the home they once shared. And when others needed a place to feel safe, they welcomed them. They found a new family."

"How could Limos’s child still be kind after everything they went through?" Zephyr asked.

"Because they believed that showing kindness and compassion was the greatest strength of all," you said gently.

"The Senate was full of selfish and greedy bots, and they paid a heavy price for their actions. Arrogance brings downfall, but understanding and kindness will lead you to a brighter future."

"Uh, I never want to upset someone like Limos. I will be kind through and through," Starflare decided.

"Me too. I will also appreciate what I have," Crackjaw said. "I would rather drink this than have nothing," he motioned with his bowl of energon.

"That is a good mindset," you said with a proud tone.

"What about you, Zephyr?" you asked.

"I think I want to be kind like Limos's child, but I also want to be someone who doesn't tolerate injustice... like Limos," he replied.

"He might have been wrong flooding an entire city and creating the sparkeaters, but it doesn't mean it wasn't entirely justified," he added.

"I want to be able to stand on my feet and do what is must to protect my friends," he looked at you.

You looked at him softly. "I believe you will be able to do so as long as you do not let anger control your actions."

Outside, the storm began to calm.

“(Name), could you... Maybe play a song?” Zephyr asked softly.

"Of course, if that’s what you wish, little ones," you said and glanced at the others.

"Yes, please!" Starflare smiled.

"I want to hear a song!" Crackjaw added.

You giggled. "Very well then," you said, lifting your instrument. You began to play a melody—one you had once played for your sire—as the storm slowly faded, giving way to your song.

[justatiredghost]

Alternatives ch1 ao3

Jonathan Sims was losing the debate on what to do about the Fears and the Panopticon. They want him to take on even more guilt, passing the fears onto other worlds, dooming them as well. Wasn’t one world bad enough? But Georgie has one more suggestion they need to consider, one that might put them all in danger. But it’s risky enough even the Spider might not see it coming. Maybe they have a chance to win this and save the world after all.

-

“Since we’re discussing all our options, there’s one more we should consider,” Georgie said. 

There was a palpable tension in the air and John’s head was pounding. He was frustrated and angry and in pain and he knew there was no winning this argument. Might as well hear one more option that wouldn’t work, that would let the Fears win. He nodded and wished this was over. He needed a smoke. 

“You could help us.”

“I-I don’t follow,” John said. “I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“No, I mean,” Georgie continued. “Every time Melanie and I get people out, they inevitably get taken back. Melanie said you managed to kill an avatar. I know it’s asking a lot, but if you’re here, you could do whatever it is you do to destroy anyone that comes for our people.”  

“I—“ but John didn’t know what to say. It wouldn’t work, it couldn’t work. He’d been trying to do exactly that from the start, and he couldn’t even save the people in his dreams. Thinking about it now, maybe it was because he was in the tunnels, but it hurt, trying to follow that thought. He winced and pressed a hand to his temple. 

“John?” Martin asked in concern. 

“No, th-that can’t work. Can it?” John said. 

“You don’t know?” Martin asked. 

“I mean,” John said. “I’ve tried to help people trapped in domains before. It didn’t work.”

“You did?” Martin asked, before leaning over to continue at a whisper. “If this is about Jordan Kennedy—“

“No, no,” John said quickly, not wanting to discuss that at the moment. He’d faced enough judgement for the time being. Everyone had enough reasons to hate him. “From the beginning, I’ve been having nightmares about statement-givers. Shared nightmares. I could never stop it or help the victims.”

“Yeah, I don’t miss those,” Melanie muttered. 

“But that’s not the same thing,” Basira pointed out. “Have you actually tried getting anyone out since all this started?”

“N-no, but—“

“Melanie and Georgie did it. Even if the Eye won’t let you, surely you can at least protect them.”

“I-I don’t, um—“

“You’ve been protecting Martin, right?” Basira pushed. 

“No,” John admitted. “I don’t think I’ve really been doing anything there.”

“But you have,” Martin pointed out. “You got me out of the Lonely. You got Daisy out of the Buried.”

John flinched, worried about how Basira might react to hearing Daisy’s name, but she didn’t say anything, just continued to watch him. All eyes were on him now and it was getting unbearable. He didn’t think he could do any of what they were asking and he didn’t want to let them down, put them at risk. He didn’t know what to say. 

“John?” Martin prompted, because apparently he’d waited too long to reply. 

He hadn’t even realized he was swaying slightly until Martin steadied him. His head was pounding, and he couldn’t get himself to think, it hurt and for once it didn’t feel like the tunnel was to blame for the fog settling over his mind. 

“Has he passed out again?” Melanie asked. 

“Sorry, I just—“ John tried to gather his thoughts. He needed to get a hold of himself. 

“You mentioned it was difficult playing Eric Delano’s tape, like the Eye was fighting you,” Basira said, eyes sharp. “Is that what’s happening now?”

“I-I-I-I don’t—“

“It’s okay, take it easy,” Martin said, arm around him now. When had that happened? “It’s— it’s a hypothetical, right? Is that why you don’t know?”

“No, no. I mean, yes, but it’s hard to think about it— regardless, I’m not sure I can do what you’re asking.”

“But isn’t it worth a shot?” Georgie pressed. “Maybe it won’t work, maybe it won’t even do anything in the long run, but we can always go back to the other plan if this leads nowhere.”

“And if it’s the Eye trying to stop you considering this, that means there’s a good chance it could work,” Martin said, much too excited. 

“It’s up to you all,” John said, feeling suddenly so exhausted and defeated. It felt pointless. It felt like torturing these people with brief hope and freedom before they got snatched back up by the domains. But he was too tired to object. He so desperately wanted to fix this, wanted to help. He didn’t know if this would, but he knew doing what Annabelle wanted wouldn’t help anyone, so he supposed this was the better option. 

“Let’s do it,” Basira said after a pause. 

“Hell yeah,” Melanie exclaimed. 

“Now?” John asked. 

“No, you look like you’re about ready to pass out,” Georgie said. “Get some rest, we’ll work out the details in the morning.”

[cussundria-nerd-kneal]

Yeah! I have a head canon that Solas used to be a BIG tea drinker back in Arlathan's time, because whatever plants existed back then where magic was everywhere and influenced the landscape made the leaves and flowers taste different when they were steeped, but now they're all extinct... And the plants that remain still give the prosperities that he's looking for, but they taste TERRIBLE in comparison. And now he hates tea, because all of it is way too bitter (though it could be he hasn't figured out how to brew these 'new' plants to where they don't taste bitter, lol). I've thought about this so much, how the landscape must have changed for Solas. And I've wondered about Arlathan, given Inquisition's top notch environmental story telling. There were so many COOL contraptions still around that we got to kinda interact with, or see in use. It's bordering on Sci-Fi, some of those laser beams were so advanced, like that one in the Exalted Plains.

And thank you! I sat for like, 10 minutes trying to figure out a good mash up between Common and Elvish, and 'Commvlish' was the best sounding one. xD I got the idea that modern elvish is like spanglish from my discord group, where a couple of the members were trying to figure out the current dragon age elvish... and kept getting tripped up that its based off of PHRASES, and no actual structure that most languages have. But it reminded me of how spanglish came about. :3

And, as for "how did Solas keep up his humble apostate persona?" Lmao, I have NO idea. He has way stronger will than I do, that is for sure! Though, I think he came really really close to cracking when Morrigan came into the picture. xD I think he might have been fine going "They're so primitive now, they don't know any better, they're doing their best. It'd be cruel to correct them, for how could they know the knowledge that I have?" But then Morrigan walkzes in, with zero qualms to correct people on the ancient elven knowledge... and Solas' eye starts twitching, because now there's someone whose SO CLOSE to getting it right, but she's sooooooo wrong on a lot of things, and it begins to drive him nuts when they get to Mythal's temple. xD

Since Solas is an ancient elf, he must possess some odd characteristics in comparison to modern elves. Maybe he is tall, like a human, with wide shoulders and longer, more expressive ears? His eyes have a lilac/grey colour, a peculiar one. different gestures, he sometimes stumbles when talking in human languages. But his elvhen! perfect, melodic, and he knows vocabulary that was believed to be lost. And how he stumbles upon things that are a mystery for him, but a common experience for everyone else.

And he sometimes forgets that his world is gone. lol

[akkivee]

SOMEBODY NEEDS TO STOP RHYME ANIMA (DONT)