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fuqnia · 1 month ago

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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 ₊˚⊹♡

#south park x reader #south park x y/n #south park smut #i wanna be your boyfriend m!list #eric cartman x reader #reader insert #fem reader

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20forty9 · 1 year ago

Text

I Didn't Mean To Haunt You

Chapter III - Sisyphus

Summary : Suliman makes the spirit realize something about itself and the curse it bears. You find yourself feeling more down than usual.

Word Count : 5.3k

Warnings : Suicidal ideation, uncomfortable touching because it's Suliman, lol.

Pairings : Gojo Satoru/Reader, Geto Suguru/Reader, Everyone/Reader (Reverse Harem)

Cross-posted on Ao3

A/N : Hiya! Back with another short chapter. I'm posting this one early because I'll be away next week and won't update for 2 weeks. I'll be active on Tumblr as always, though! As an apology for my going away, you get more Satoru and Suguru this chapter! Enjoy, please let me know what you think of this chapter, I love reading your comments and they motivate me. (I see your comments ladies, and they make me smile - I'm lurkin' and I'm stalkin' when you least expect it-) (please someone get this reference, I'm embarrassed now)

Sometimes the curiosity can kill the soul but leave the pain. ~Alice In Wonderland

Even after two or three weeks of back and forth blood tests, physical tests, psychological tests and even more tests , the initial shock that the spirit’s heart no longer belonged to itself didn’t wear off. It seemed that it checked its pulse every alternating hour, just to confirm that it truly wasn’t there. And each time without fail, there would be a lack of thumping underneath its shaky fingertips.

The missing heart didn’t seem to stop any normal biological workings of its body, however. Sweat still formed underneath its palms, blood still pumped throughout its body, but it was a mystery as to how. Even with all the lingering questions at the back of its mind, the spirit was too afraid to ask, scared that there would be a possibility that it would learn something it would rather not know in the first place.

It spends most of its time looking outside the window of its locked room. With every day that passes, it starts to resemble a prison cell more and more. The spirit would never imagine it would long for its old life, shrouded in naivety and unknowing of the current horrors it now faces. It feels melodramatic as it reminisces; stop complaining, you got what you deserved, a nasty voice says at the back of its mind . Why didn’t it just stay with its kind instead? Why did it have to wonder what the other side looked like? It spends most hours chastising itself for how stupid it was for shaking a dirty human’s hand.

Said-dirty human unlocks the door to the spirit’s room, a small smile playing upon her lips. Dreading that Suliman is gathering it for another test, it cowers into the furthest corner of its bed, shoulders raised up to its ears as it tries to make itself seem as small as possible, as if it could make itself vanish into thin air, but the glare it sends her is deadly.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she says, sitting down on the bed, hands neatly folded over her lap. “I come bearing good news.”

What you consider good news is terrible news for me, it thinks to itself, teeth grinding together.

“You’ll be allowed outside today,” Suliman wistfully looks outside the window, peering down and observing the garden outside.

That makes its eyes widen by a slight margin. It doesn’t remember the last time it felt the sun on its bare skin, nor the soft breeze enveloping it with a soft caress. Hell, it doesn’t even recall when it last smelled fresh air.

It realizes a moment too late that it gave too much of a reaction to the woman in front of it. She squints her eyes as the smile on her face grows, unnaturally so, pleased with herself. Too trusting, too expressive. Get a hold of yourself.

“Follow me,” she beckons it to follow as she gets up from the bed, taking slow steps out of the doorway as she leads it down the dimly lit hallway.

The spirit notices that there’s a new painting adorning one of the once-empty spaces along the wall; a picturesque illustration of a landscape made up of yellow sand and brown dead grass, with short trees with skinny stumps and lots of foliage. It can’t help but wonder where this location is. Its eyes scour the small details of the painting, noticing each brushstroke and dot that the artist left behind in their wake. The oranges and blues of the sky mix together, creating a beautiful sunset. At the bottom of the frame sits a golden plaque.

South Malawi… it reads the words in its head. Wonder where that is.

A shove to its shoulder from one of the men standing behind it pulls the spirit from its daydreaming, and begrudgingly, it continues to follow Suliman from behind. It knows it shouldn’t take the opportunity to go outside for granted, but it can’t help but think this is another one of her big schemes that will only cause pain and grievance.

The small group makes their way to the impressive greenhouse, and though it has passed through it multiple times by now, it still can’t help but admire the humongous banana plant that nearly reaches the top of the archway of the glass ceiling. It can see that it is flowering, the pastel pink of the flower’s petals contrasting against the vibrant green of the plant’s huge leaves. The spirit doesn’t know if it’s Suliman who takes care of this herself, or if she has a team of gardeners for it, but either way it holds a small smidge of respect to whoever upkeeps the greenhouse.

Right before they reach the exit of the greenhouse, Suliman stops and turns to face the spirit.

“I expect that you’ll behave and listen to what I tell you to do,” she says, eyes boring into its own. “If you don’t, I’ll be very disappointed.” Code-word for ‘I have no problem tossing you back into that room where you first woke up and letting you rot.’

Anxiously, it subtly nods that it will obey her. As badly as it wants to turn tail and run, the spirit knows that there is a high chance that whatever plan it tries to pull will inevitably backfire on it.

With that, the shaman smiles again with an air of satisfaction before she opens the doors.

Immediately, a small breeze brushes against its face, as if the wind is welcoming it back outdoors. The spirit inhales deeply, the smell of dewy grass hitting its nostrils – the garden must’ve been recently watered. It’s early in the evening, the sun barely starting to set, so most people are inside preparing dinner, leaving Suliman, the spirit, and her small group of men to themselves. There are a few small bats starting to fly haphazardly from tree to tree, the afternoon light casting cool shadows along the ground.

Suliman leads it through the gardens, her hands brushing through the neatly-trimmed foliage and stroking delicate flower petals. If she were anyone else, the spirit would think that this is the image of pure innocence, of embracing the natural beauty of the world, but in reality, it is anything but. Instead, this is the image of despicable ugliness, manipulation that can rot someone’s bones deep to their core.

They arrive at an expanse of land that remains untouched by the gardeners, void of trees and any shrubbery. With a wave of her hand, the group of men stop walking, hanging back and staying still along the path of the gardens. Their cold eyes stay locked onto the spirit, analyzing each breath it takes.

Meanwhile, Suliman continues to take a few steps forward, putting a fair amount of distance between her and the spirit. Her lips move as she moves her hands to form a symbol that it doesn’t recognize, familiar dark and wispy tendrils that once covered its arm being erected from the ground.

It immediately takes a few steps back, arms raising defensively in front of itself, fists clenched in case the shaman tries to attack it again. Instead, a smirk plays upon her lips, and with another quick motion of her hands, the tendrils move to wrap around themselves, slowly shaping into what looks like a scarecrow; black and purple shadowy arms outstretched with skinny stump-like legs to keep it standing upright.

When the weird scarecrow doesn’t show any sign of moving, the spirit’s shackles slightly lower, but its muscles are still tense in unease. It casts a confused look in Suliman’s direction, who approaches the spirit and steps behind it, her hand coming up to move its right bicep to raise again, this time to aim at the tendrils. Her other hand wraps around its waist, making dread and nausea pool in the familiar pit at the bottom of its stomach. It swallows down the rising bile at the back of its throat, eyes trying to focus on the scarecrow in the distance. Her touch makes its skin crawl, and it's almost considering ripping it off.

Suliman hooks her chin over its shoulder, gaze boring into the side of its head. The hand resting on its waist trails up the side of its rib, making goosebumps erupt along its skin, before it latches onto its chin, turning its head to face her. Her unnaturally soft skin seems like sandpaper against its own, making it swallow back the uncomfortable amount of spittle gathering in its mouth. When did it become so powerless?

“I want you to destroy that,” her eyes flit over to the scarecrow. “Use your fire.”

With that, she retreats to observe from behind, hands clasped together in expectation.

Its eyes drift back to the target in front of it. It knows from previous experience that if it tries anything with its other abilities, they won’t reply to its first initial pull until it does it again, but that only results in agonizing pain. What’s to say this won’t be different?

The spirit takes a quick glance back to the shaman looming behind it. Her eyes are almost closed from the large grin that stretches across her face. Everything about her is just… wrong. Unfortunately, it can’t afford to piss her off unless it wants to get locked in that cellar once again.

It takes a deep breath to steel itself, thumb pressing against its middle finger, closing its eyes to focus on singling out the cursed energy that surely must be enemating from the tendrils. Strangely enough, it feels nothing. Attributing it to its nervousness around Suliman, the spirit tries harder to concentrate, but there’s still a lack of cursed energy in the air. Very strange; a woman of her power should surely be exuding large amounts of it, especially the offsprings of her unintelligible technique, but there seems to be a void instead. Her control must be absolutely phenomenal, it thinks to itself.

No matter – after countless years of being deaf, its other senses have become impossibly more refined. Its eyes can pick out details that others cannot see from long distances, and for its ability to actually hit anything, it must know precise measurements. In the case of the scarecrow, it stands exactly fifty-four meters away from the spirit.

With a quick snap of its right hand, sparks emerge from the tips of its fingers, a hot beam of fire emerging and darting towards the target at high speeds, engulfing it in bright unnatural blue and cyan flames. When the flames and smoke dissipate a few seconds later, all that is left is a pile of ashes laying in the grass.

The spirit felt absolutely no pain.

But…

“Isn’t it amazing, what a blazing fire can decimate in a matter of mere seconds?” Suliman immediately invades its view, interrupting its slowly dawning horror. “You are gifted with such immense power… you could destroy anything that stands in your path.”

The insinuation that she has something else on her mind isn’t lost on it, but the spirit quickly backs away from her, trying to put a safe amount of distance between the two. Another snap of its fingers, and it summons a small flame on the tip of its index finger. Blue and cyan. It gets snuffed out as quickly as it came.

The nausea seems to take over again; the flames aren’t as hot as they originally used to be and are a completely different colour. It’s an unfamiliar feeling to manipulate fire that feels like it doesn’t belong to itself, like the element knows its own existence is wrong. Hot white anger pulses through the spirit, teeth grinding together as its jaw clenches painfully hard. How dare she reduce it to this? How dare she manipulate its very being this way? She’ll pay. It will destroy her and everything she’s worked for. The spirit still has its fire, it will make sure it decimates everything here. She’ll fucking regret the day she met this spirit–

Searing pain courses from its left arm and spreads throughout its entire body, making it double over, heaving and gasping shallow breaths of air. As it tries to recuperate itself, it sees Suliman crouch down to meet its eyes, tilting her head as if to taunt it further.

“Sorry, did I forget to mention…?” She says, grey eyes lighting up in morbid glee. “You better learn how to control that anger, spirit. What is it that Mark Twain said… oh, I know! Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured. Or something along those lines– honestly, he never interested me very much.”

Her gaze trails down to the spirit’s left arm, and its own follows. Underneath the short silk wrap, it notices that the curse mark has peeked through the fabric. Did the fabric move when it snapped its fingers…? Wait, no–

“–It’s spreading,” Suliman finishes its thought process.

Just when it felt a flicker of hope at the prospect of being able to use its fire to ruin this god forsaken place, it all comes crumbling back down. There is no winning against this cruel shaman and whatever demented curse that has been placed upon it.

“Well, that’s enough for today. It’s getting late,” she says, waving a simple gesture at the men on standby. They immediately make their way over, surrounding her and the spirit as they force it to walk forward back towards the greenhouse. “I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.”

As the sun sets behind them, the spirit can’t help but think it would rather die than be here.

It yearns to let itself rot in the ground and let go.

It’s been about a week or so since you have seen any of the other students around campus. You would like to assume it’s the higher-ups doing it on purpose, trying to isolate you from the rest of them, but in reality you know that it’s you doing this to yourself. You’ve barely left your dorm room, spending your days moping in bed instead. For some reason, the nightmares have been getting worse. Though you used to be able to go for days without sleep, it doesn’t seem to apply to you now.

Your hands tremble, muscles weak and face dripping with sweat every time you wake up violently from whatever nightmare you were having. It’s enough to drain you for the rest of the day. Instead of going outside and training or doing anything else to distract yourself from it, you stare at the wall in front of you, eyes unfocused and mind anywhere but the present.

The lack of sleep makes the pain in your arm more bothersome than ever, but you can’t find it in yourself to care enough to take the shitty medication Yaga gives you. It sits untouched on the nightstand beside your bed.

It doesn’t help that you’ve also barely eaten, only having a few snacks that you keep in one of the drawers in the room and some water when you feel like you can stomach it. You had just enough energy today to take a shower for the first time in nearly a week, so maybe you’ll be able to actually eat a meal this evening.

You currently lay down on your side, back facing the doorway and gazed fixed upon the blank wall that the bed is pressed up against. Your hair is still damp from the shower you took an hour ago (you couldn’t be bothered to dry it), strands of hair staining the pillowcase with water. Your arms are left uncovered, clean bandages laying on the floor, exposing the curse mark and old scars that run along the length of them.

It felt like just when you thought things could start to look up, life always threw you in for another loop, no matter how hard you tried and continued to try. There were days where this bothered you more than usual, and some days where you just didn’t care enough, feeling completely numb. At least when you pretended to be happy, putting on a nice smile and ignoring the constant nagging voice at the back of your mind, you could imagine what it would be like to feel normal for once.

There’s a sudden large palm that gently touches your back, making you suck in a deep breath and flinch away, quickly turning your head to face whatever was disrupting your peace. Wide eyes lock onto dark brown ones, the familiar sight of Yaga greeting you instead of an enemy.

“ Sorry,” the teacher signs, immediately retracting his hand, opening his mouth to speak. “I tried to grab your attention, but you weren’t responding . ”

Immediately, you break eye contact and shake your head.

“ It’s fine, ” you move your hands lazily in reply.

Yaga takes in the sight; messy unkempt hair sticks up at awkward angles, your eyes are impossibly sunken in, and there’s a shake to your hands when you sign. The brunette sighs out deeply, disappointed that he didn’t catch onto this sooner.

“Come with me, let’s get you out of this room,” he says.

You can’t look directly at him, but you can’t tear your eyes away from his lips, either. I don’t want to, you think to yourself, I don’t want to go out there right now. I want to stay here. Leave me alone.

“You can’t stay in here and rot in bed all day, it’s not good for you. At least come with me to prepare some tea,” Yaga refuses to leave you alone in this state of mind, having become familiar with it by this point. There are bad days, and then there are worse days.

Empty, droopy eyes look back at him, not a single trace of emotion across your face. You know he won’t leave until he gets what he wants – you remember the time Yaga dragged you out of the room by the feet as you threw a tantrum – and resolutely shuffled your body to get out of bed.

Satisfied, Yaga stands up, extending a hand that you don't accept. Instead, you take the bandages laying on the floor and wrap them around to cover both arms individually. Though they’re loose, you don't want to be touched by anyone right now. Even though it’s not cold enough, you take an oversized hoodie and put it on, the loose sleeves barely touching the bandages. You’re already wearing some soft baggy sweatpants and fuzzy socks on your feet.

Without exchanging any words or signs, Yaga leads you out of the room after you put your shoes on. You don't bother looking up, either, too wrapped up in your own self-pity to really care enough about what he may have to say to you.

There’s a communal kitchen in the dormitories, and the teacher must’ve passed through before visiting your room because there are already two mugs full of piping hot green tea set on the table. Slowly, you both sit down across from each other.

For a solid twenty minutes, you don’t talk. Both of you slowly sip on your tea, letting the taste comfort you. You feel your muscles start to loosen up, though you can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion catching up or from the relaxed state the drink puts you in.

Yaga doesn’t ask any questions about what is running through your mind, knowing he won’t get an answer. When you are in this state, you tend to keep everything close to your chest; whether it’s because you want to, or because you don't know where to start or what to say is unknown to the both of you. For lack of a better term, you shut down.

Instead, he decides to take your mind off of things.

With a tap to the table to grab your attention, Yaga puts his cup down.

“I got approval from the elders to send you out on a mission with my students,” he says.

Your eyebrows lightly raise in surprise. You weren't expecting them to fold that quickly, even though it took a few weeks.

“They’ll be sending you all out tomorrow,” he takes the last sip left of his tea. “I want you to be very careful, don’t unleash anything that will make them lose their minds.”

You nod, feeling the swell of determination blossom in your chest. “ I won’t let you down. ”

Yaga slightly tilts his head to the side, the corners of his mouth quirking up very subtly.

“When have you ever?”

You look down at your empty mug. Just now? When I could barely manage to get out of bed, like usual? I let my emotions get the better of me again, I’ve become weak. It’s an endless cycle. I’m so tired.

Instead of acknowledging any of these thoughts anymore, you look back up at your friend, sending him a tired smile, one that you hope comes across as genuine.

“Nevertheless, stay alert and please take care of my students for me,” the teacher says, rising from his chair. “And go take a walk before the sun sets today.”

He doesn’t see you rolling your eyes behind his back as he walks away – he acts too much like a father sometimes. However, you decide to listen to Yaga anyway; a walk will do you some good.

After putting your empty cup in the dishwasher, you stuff your hands in the pocket of your hoodie, making your way outside. It’s more cloudy than usual today, the sun barely peeking through the dark clouds, but that doesn’t deter you. You take slow steps as you try to enjoy a leisurely stroll around campus. There doesn’t seem to be a single soul around today, probably staying inside just in case it starts raining.

It’s been a long time since you have lived in isolation away from everyone besides the man who took you in, so you don't feel lonely as you walk down the pathway by yourself, but you have to admit that it feels like something is missing. Though you had only interacted with Yaga’s students a handful of times, they had a certain energy they brought to the room, one that couldn’t be replicated on its lonesome. Geto, Gojo and Shoko always freely joke around each other, complimenting each other’s personalities perfectly.

You find yourself yearning for that connection that they have with each other.

You look up ahead, feet dragging along the ground as you notice a figure sitting underneath the shadows of a large tree, lost in their own world. The pure white hair is unmistakingly Gojo’s, who seems to be alone for once, not surrounded by his entourage of friends. He seems to be looking down at something in his lap, and you decide to approach him.

Gojo hears your footsteps on the pavement before he sees you, peering through his glasses to look at you.

“Wow, you look like shit,” he says.

Direct to the point as always.

You simply nod in reply. Too exhausted to think about Gojo’s discomfort surrounding the cursed spirit situation, you sit down next to him, back pressed against the thick trunk of the tree. Your shoulders are nearly touching, but you make sure to lean back just far enough once you notice the proximity.

You observe Gojo’s face from the side for a moment, noticing the furrow of his brows and the tired look in his eyes hiding behind the pair of sunglasses. If you were in any other state of mind, you might say that the white-haired man looks sad , but you quickly shake that thought out of your mind. Him, being sad? He’s the most arrogant and extroverted person here, always surrounded by someone. And yet…

Gojo closes the book resting in his lap when he notices you trying to take a subtle peek at what he was reading. There’s a strange leaping sensation in your throat as you see the cover.

Why is he reading a book about sign language?

The white-haired man tries to shuffle the book out of your sight, putting his large hands over it and turning to face you slightly.

“Can I help you?” He asks, and shit, you can’t tell if he’s joking or being sarcastic now that his eyes are covered by the pitch-black sunglasses.

You shrug awkwardly, shaking your head no.

“Wait, no, try signing instead,” Gojo says, turning his body slightly to face you more. You raise an eyebrow, but obey him anyway.

“ Seemed like you could use some company, ” you sign.

Gojo stares at him for a moment, brows furrowing, before he shakes his head, looking absolutely stumped. “Nope, I got nothing.”

Not entirely surprised, you point from the book to him. Why do you have this in the first place?

He huffs, sunglasses dropping down to the tip of his nose, bright blue eyes averting to look anywhere but at you.

“I gotta know when you’re talking shit about me,” he says, crossing his arms. “Plus, sensei seems to be super keen on trying to get you to join us for missions, so I have to understand you somehow. You can’t fight and write in that dumb notebook of yours at the same time.”

Though you can’t speak in the first place, you find yourself speechless. Or motionless, in this case . Gojo was so rude on your first meeting, shackles raised and ready to fight you at any moment, yet here he is now, determined to try to pick up sign language faster than any other person you have ever known… though he words it in his own strange way.

Unable to formulate a reply, you give him a soft smile, one that you know you don't need to fake.

The white-haired male doesn’t speak any further until he looks down at the book, moving his hands off of it to open it again, then looking back up at you, whose eyes are already on his lips.

“Teach me how to sign my name.”

So, for the next twenty minutes, you teach Gojo how to fingerspell his name, the latter catching on rather quickly. Of course he’s naturally good at sign language , you think to yourself somewhat bitterly.

Gojo’s blue eyes are uncovered at this point, sunglasses resting on top of his head as he brings his entire focus to the lesson at hand. He seems strangely invested, nodding his head vigorously as you sign your own name, then a common greeting.

His attention is finally diverted to something behind you. Gojo waves at the person with a small grin stretched across his face. Curious, you turn around, seeing Geto approach the duo.

“Hey guys, what’re you doing over here?” He asks, taking a seat in the grass in front of the two of you, legs crossed. He notices the book in Gojo’s hand. “Sign language?”

“Yeah,” The latter shrugs nonchalantly.

Geto grabs the book from off his friend’s lap, flipping through the pages. Wondering what the pictures look like, you move over to peer over Geto’s shoulder and take a glance at them. The raven-haired man tilts his head slightly to the side to allow for a better view, pausing at a specific page.

“Ohh, look, they have signs for animals,” he smiles.

An image of an unhealthy black betta fish sits right next to another of a pure white one with healthy fins. There’s a smaller picture of a red and white koi fish underneath both of them, rolled over on its back. Next to the images are illustrations of hand signals, with the names and meanings written next to them.

“This is how you sign fish, right?” He asks, turning to look at you. You suddenly notice how close your faces are to each other, but neither of you make a move to change that as you nod, pointing to the black fish.

“Sad fish, ” you sign, then point to the other one. “ Happy fish. ” Then, the red and white one. “ Dead fish.”

All three of you suddenly deadpan.

“Did you seriously pick up a kid’s book on sign language?” Geto turns his head up to look at Gojo.

“They didn’t have any other available books, sue me!” He immediately exclaims in defense, yanking the book back. “There weren’t many sign language books.”

“Kinda morbid for a kid’s book, don’t you think?”

“It’s never too early to learn about mortality!” He says with a gleeful smile spread across his face before reading through the pages again.

You huff in amusement before you get nudged by Geto’s elbow, who looks at you expectantly.

“How do I sign my name?” He asks, the look in his eyes so soft that it makes you nervously look away for a second.

Another ten minutes pass as you teach them both how to sign each other’s name. You’re just about to move onto Shoko’s name when there’s a large flash of light that explodes from the dark grey clouds in the sky. Immediately, it starts pouring. Thick droplets of rain cascade and puddles are already forming in the divets in the ground.

“Oh shit – let’s go inside!” Gojo exclaims, lifting his shirt up to hide the book underneath it to protect it.

“Run, run ! Go!” Geto laughs, grabbing your wrist and heaving you up off the ground, the three of you immediately dashing through the storm to the dormitories. Your converse are completely soaked when the raven-haired man accidentally makes you run through a large puddle, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. The cold rain is so refreshing as it hits your skin, waking you up more than your blistering shower did this morning.

You look back at Gojo, who frantically scrambles behind the two of you to slam the door shut as the wind picks up, blowing rain into the entranceway of the building.

The three of you exchange looks with each other, taking in each other’s soaked appearances. Then, the two young men burst into laughter, you silently laughing, eyes crinkling as the smile spreads widely across your face. You can see Gojo and Geto’s shoulders shake from their sniggering.

Your clothes are anything but dry, sticking awkwardly to your skin with mud covering you head-to-toe, but it’s so amusing that you all just keep chortling at the situation.

“Wh– wait– what happened to the book?!” Geto asks his friend through bursts of chuckles.

Gojo reaches underneath his soaked shirt, pulling the book out; all the pages are crinkled, water dripping down the spine of it. He pouts, realizing it’s completely ruined.

“Aw man,” he whines. “It’s totally done for.”

Reluctantly, he throws it in the trash bin near the front door, knowing there’s nothing he can do to salvage it.

“Well,” Geto says after catching his breath, looking at the two of you. “Guess we gotta go dry off. I’m gonna go take a warm shower, that rain was freezing .”

Gojo’s already running back to his own room, waving a simple goodbye to them and leaving a trail of water in his wake.

Geto awkwardly throws a smile in your direction. “See you tomorrow, I guess?”

You nod in reply, grinning and doing a sideways peace sign. “ See you later.”

As the raven-haired man walks in the same direction that Gojo went, you steal a quick glance at the trash bin. You make your way over to it, peering inside, and hesitantly reach an arm inside of it, grabbing the book that was thrown away just mere moments ago.

You hold the book close to your chest, heading in the opposite way from where the two men disappeared into to go back to your own room, feeling a weird sense of satisfaction in the back of your mind.

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