#literally deep fried drinks

[lazysoulwriter]

i’m not leaving. not after this. - pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: 18+ (smut), pussydrunk!pedro, soft!dom energy, cursing, reader is in her twenties, first time hookup, clingy!pedro, post-nut confessions.

It was supposed to be casual. You both said that.

Dinner had turned into drinks, and drinks into laughter, and that laughter had stretched out until it was past midnight, and you were both stretched out on the only bed in your little hotel room—handsy, flushed, and a little buzzed from the wine and the chemistry.

You had straddled him without thinking twice. Pedro had let you. Of course he had.

And now… he was gone.

Not literally. Physically, he was very much here—his hands gripping your hips like you were something he was scared to lose, his mouth parted in awe beneath you, eyes glazed over as he looked down to where your bodies were connected.

But mentally? He was pussydrunk. And not doing a damn thing to hide it.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice barely a rasp, head falling back against the pillow. “Ohhh my fucking god.” You tried not to giggle, biting your lip as you rolled your hips slowly. “You okay there, old man?”

He blinked like he’d just been yanked back to reality. His hands squeezed tighter. “Don’t call me that. Not when you’re…” He groaned, deep in his chest, hips bucking up helplessly. “Jesus. You’re unreal. You’re… you’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You leaned down, kissing the sweat-slick skin of his throat. “I’m barely moving.” “I know,” he whined, half-laughing, half-moan. “That’s the problem. I can’t even fucking think.”

And he really couldn’t.

All he could focus on was the way you felt around him. Warm. Wet. Tight. How your skin was glowing in the soft lamp light. How your body moved like you knew what it was doing to him.

He couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop whispering, “so good, baby… fuck, you feel so good… i didn’t think it’d feel this good.”

You smiled as you leaned down, lips ghosting over his, breath hot. “You thought about it?”

Pedro nodded, forehead pressed to yours, curls damp with sweat. “Every night since I met you.” His voice cracked a little, like he wasn’t even embarrassed. “But this… this is something else.”

Your hips swiveled, and he shook. Brow furrowed, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m gonna come,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, but I—I can’t last like this. Baby, please, please let me—”

“Pedro.” You cupped his face. “It’s okay. I want you to.”

And he melted. Just like that.

A low, drawn-out groan escaped his lips as his body arched into yours, hands gripping you like he’d fall apart without you. And when he finally stilled, panting, flushed, brain completely fried—he kept holding you.

He didn’t move.

Not even when you gently sat back, still seated on his lap, brushing his curls off his forehead.

“You alive?” He nodded. A lazy, dizzy smile on his lips.

“I’m not leaving,” he said suddenly. You blinked. “Okay…” “No, I mean it. I’m not leaving you.” You blinked again. “That… was just sex, Pedro.”

He tilted his head, eyes soft. “Not to me.” Your chest tightened. “You just came.” “Yeah,” he said, like he was absolutely fine being dramatic, “and now I’m in love. Deal with it.”

You threw your head back laughing.

And he pulled you down into his arms, kissing you again, whispering against your mouth:

“I’m so fucked. So, so fucked.”

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

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[keeryhours]

wildflower chapter six

Eddie Munson x Henderson! female reader, Steve Harrington x reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Steve Harrington Masterlist

Summary:

When Eddie lets you down, you find comfort elsewhere.

Warnings:

Smut (18+), unprotected sex, p in v, oral (m and f receiving), accidental creampie, angst

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N:

Happy New Year and happy Wildflower update day! 🥳 I hope you enjoy!

—

Your days at the diner were never interesting. The most action you ever saw was the occasional rude customer you got to throw out. But it wasn’t often (anymore, at least) that Corroded Coffin came in to eat.

Thankfully the restaurant was pretty dead when they came in, but the customers that were there jumped up, asking for autographs the second the four boys walked in the door. The guys were polite, quickly signing some napkins and menus before excusing themselves.

“Hey, pretty lady,” Eddie greeted as he slid into a booth in your section, Gareth, Jeff, and Doug following.

“Hey mama, long time no see,” Gareth said, a knowing look on his face. Eddie kicked him under the table, Gareth hissing a quiet Ow!

You blushed deeply as you handed them each a menu. “You told them?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie said, giving the other boys a look that said please don’t say anything stupid. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” you assured him quickly. “He’s…your son, too.”

The words struck Eddie unexpectedly deep, filling him with a sense of warmth and love. He smiled, the confirmation bringing him a sense of pride. “Hey, I was thinking I could come by tonight after you get off? Hang out with you both for a little while?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” you said, smiling at Eddie like he was the only person in the room. “He’d like that. He’s been asking about Ebbie since you left.”

Eddie chuckled. It was definitely cute, and he loved that Asher had been thinking about him, but he couldn’t help but wonder when the title of Dad would be earned. He wanted to be Dad. He wanted Asher to be a Munson. “I’ve missed him too.”

You were happy to hear that. You wanted Eddie and Asher to have a relationship. You never thought the day would come, but now that it had, you realized this was what you had been longing for all along.

“What can I get you guys today?” You asked, pulling out your notepad and pen with your usual customer service smile.

Eddie held his hand up, indicating he wanted to speak first. “Well, are you on the menu?”

The guys at the table all groaned as you rolled your eyes, a blush on your cheeks as you raised a hand to cover the embarrassed smile on your lips. “Oh my god. You did not just say that.”

Eddie didn’t falter. “I mean, all this food looks delicious, but you look better.”

You smacked his arm lightly with the pad of paper. “Eddie Munson!”

The guys all busted out laughing, causing you to join in. Eddie blushed, but never took his eyes off of you.

Eventually, you got orders from all the boys. They ordered practically the whole menu between them, burgers and fries and chicken tenders and just about everything else, including the desserts.

“Okay guys, let me just put this in and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

As you turned and walked away, Eddie watched you. He watched the sway of your hips as you walked, the way your hair hung just right on your shoulders. He watched the way your little uniform dress hugged your curves and showed off your legs. He didn’t think he had a thing for housewives, but the apron was certainly doing something for him.

Gareth snapped him out of his thoughts by literally snapping in his face. “Uh, hello. Earth to Eddie.”

Eddie turned to look at the guys, who were all staring at him. “What?”

Gareth sat back in his seat. “So, what made you not call her for two years? Because you look like you’re about to pounce on her at any second.”

Eddie’s jaw clenched. He didn’t want to talk about this right now, or ever again, really. He knew how badly he fucked up. He had heard it from everyone endlessly, especially himself. “Gar-“

“Yeah, man, did you need to see her again to remember how hot she is?” Jeff asked with a laugh. “I mean, she always was-“

Eddie smacked a hand down on the table, startling the other guys. “Enough. Don’t talk about her like that.”

It was quiet for a second, then his three bandmates all started laughing.

“Oh, Eddie, man,” Doug said through his laughter. “You’ve got it bad.”

As you turned around with the four drinks on your tray, you saw the boys laughing. You couldn’t help the old high school fear that they were laughing at you.

But Eddie also seemed perfectly happy in his new life without you. You wondered if he missed you at all. If he ever thought about you on the road. If he slept with other women.

You reached the table and placed the drinks down, remembering perfectly who had ordered what. “Can I help you guys with anything else right now?” You asked, waitress persona back in place.

“I think we’re good for now,” Gareth answered. You looked at Eddie, but his cheerful expression from earlier was now gone.

“Alright, just let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back with your food shortly.”

Once the lunch rush hit, the diner was packed. Your section was full and you were kept much too busy to worry much about the Corroded Coffin boys, although you did feel bad that their meal kept getting interrupted by over eager fans.

Eventually, you noticed the guys had left. You moved over to their table to clear it off, gathering plates and dishes.

You gasped when you saw the $200 tip that was left for you.

—

“Ebbie coming?” Asher asked for about the millionth time that evening.

“He’s supposed to, buddy,” you told him, fingers tracing through his curls as you eyed the clock again. It was almost bedtime for Asher, and Eddie still hadn’t showed. He was supposed to be here hours ago.

“When?” He asked again.

“I don’t know, Ash,” you admitted, looking down at his big sad brown eyes that reminded you so much of his father’s. “It’s almost bedtime, though. Maybe Eddie will come visit tomorrow?”

“No!” The toddler stamped his foot down, tears welling in his eyes as he looked up at you with all his nearly 2-year-old anger. “No bed! Ebbie.”

Your heart broke for him. You wished you had let it be a surprise, because giving him this hope and then having to take it away was too much. His dad had just come into his life and he was already being unreliable. It made you question the whole thing all over again.

“I’m sorry buddy,” you told him again. “We’ll do something fun tomorrow. Let’s go take a bath and get in your pajamas, huh?”

Reluctantly, the little boy went with you. You ran his bath, playing with him in the water which had him giggling again. You were happy to see him happy, but the ache in your chest over Eddie’s no-show wouldn’t be forgotten.

By the time his bath was over and Asher was dried off and dressed in his Thomas pajamas, he was rubbing his eyes. You tucked him into bed, read him some of his favorite books, and he was already drifting off as you left the room, closing the door softly behind you.

You covered your face with your hands as the tears began to fall. You felt like you had let Asher down yourself, and that’s something you never wanted to do. Something you swore you wouldn’t do. And letting his father do it was something you swore against when Eddie came back into your lives.

You walked into the living room, eyeing the picture frames decorating the hallway as you walked past. The memories had you smiling to yourself. One of them stopped you short - it was you and Steve at Asher’s first birthday, Asher smiling between you. There was so much joy in that photo.

Steve. Steve, who had always been there. Steve, who had never let Asher down a day in his life and would never even dream of it. Steve, who would do anything for both of you.

You had made up your mind by the time you got to the living room. You lifted the phone from the receiver, dialed the familiar number and listened to it ring.

“Hello?” Steve answered after only a few seconds.

“It’s me,” you said through sniffles, wiping away the tears that had managed to fall without you noticing.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, suddenly very serious. “Are you okay? Is Asher okay? Did something happen?”

You huffed a small laugh - it was just such a Steve reaction. “We’re okay. Just…Eddie was supposed to come over tonight, and he never showed up.”

“That asshole,” Steve hissed on the other end of the line. “Why not?”

“I don’t know…I haven’t heard from him.”

Steve sighed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. How did Asher take it?”

“Not well,” you admitted. “He was really upset.”

“That pisses me off,” Steve said, sighing again. “Do you want me to come over?”

“…Would you?” You asked finally, realizing that’s exactly what you wanted right now.

“Of course. I was watching some movies with Robin, but I’ll gladly kick her out.” You heard something thrown at him, then a “Hey!” and some laughter.

“I don’t want to ruin your night-“

“You’re not ruining anything. I’ll be there in 10, okay?”

“Okay,” you smiled softly to yourself, then hung up the phone.

You wondered if you should make something for you both to eat. It was already 10pm, too late for anything substantial and he probably wasn’t hungry anyway. You settled for taking the cookie dough out of the fridge, lining up the balls of dough on the baking sheet. You were just putting the tray in the oven when the front door opened.

“Hey,” you greeted, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “I’m really happy you came over. I put some cookies in the oven.”

Steve crossed the kitchen quickly, wrapping you in a tight hug within his strong arms. You let yourself melt into the embrace, the feeling of guilt in your chest turning to one of warmth instead. He placed a kiss on the top of your head.

“Of course, you know I’m here any time you need me.” Steve cracked the oven door open, peeking inside. “Nice! Chocolate chip, a classic.”

You giggled as he closed the door, then turned to look at you, leaning against the counter. “Now tell me what happened.”

You recounted the story, starting with Eddie and the guys showing up at the diner. By the time you were done talking, the oven timer was going off. You slipped the oven mitts onto your hands and opened the door, pulling the tray of hot cookies out.

“I can’t believe he would just say he was coming and not show up or call or anything.” Steve shook his head. “These look delicious, by the way.”

Once the cookies were cool, you piled some onto a plate and went to sit on the couch. Steve brought one of the movies he and Robin hadn’t gotten to - Hellraiser - and you started it, although you weren’t paying the most attention as you kept chatting.

The air began to chill the exposed skin of your legs, sending shivers through your body. You pulled a blanket from the back of the couch to spread over your laps. Steve wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you cuddled into his side.

“You know you deserve better than this, right?” Steve whispered.

You looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you and Ash deserve better than someone unreliable. You deserve more than getting stood up.”

You let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. I feel like there has to be some reason. Eddie wouldn’t…I don’t know, the Eddie I knew wouldn’t have done this.”

Steve was quiet for a minute. “You haven’t talked to him for years, sweetheart. Things change.”

He was right, but the words made your stomach ache. You didn’t like thinking about the old Eddie, your Eddie, being gone now. But he had a point. You weren’t the same girl he left behind, either.

You pushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear. You were lost in thought, the movie long forgotten.

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve said quietly, his fingers gently brushing over your cheek. “You deserve the world.”

“That’s not true-“

“It is,” Steve said firmly. “You’re a beautiful, incredible woman. An amazing mom. Did I mention hot?”

You started laughing then, covering your blushing face with your hands. “Oh my god, stop.”

“I’m serious, though,” Steve said, chuckling lightly. “You are all of those things. I wish you could see your worth. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

He gently grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. Your eyes met his, seeing something behind them you’d never quite seen before. “Steve?”

His gaze flicked down to your lips. His tongue darted out to lick his own, like he was thinking about something. Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. Your eyes widened, completely shocked by his move, but you didn’t push him away. You found you didn’t entirely mind it.

Steve pulled away quickly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

It was completely unexpected. Completely out of nowhere. Steve was your best friend in the world, and it had never been more than that. You had always been off limits, always been Eddie’s girl. But…you weren’t upset at him. It was honestly…nice.

“It’s okay, Stevie…” You trailed a fingertip over his jaw. “I kind of liked it.”

He grinned sheepishly. “You…liked it?”

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “Maybe we could…do it again?”

Steve smiled at that. He placed his hands on your waist, pulling you closer to him on the couch. Your hands rested on his biceps, and you both leaned in until your lips were locked together once again.

It was strange, to think it was Steve’s lips on your own. You honestly hadn’t had many experiences outside of Eddie. He was your first boyfriend, and your last. It almost felt wrong, even though you and Eddie hadn’t been together for years, but it also felt right, as cheesy as that sounds.

His hands tightened on your waist as his tongue slipped into your mouth, exploring your own with an eagerness. He tasted so nice, like peppermint and the cookies you had eaten together. You moaned into the kiss, which made him moan back.

He placed a kiss to the corner of your lips before working over your jawline. When he reached your neck, he began sucking softly at the skin, wanting desperately to mark you up and claim you as his finally, but he knew he couldn’t leave hickies when you’d have to cover them for work and potentially have questions from Asher. So, he restrained himself, moving to a different spot whenever he worried it would start to bruise.

Your head was tilted to the side, eyes closed and soft moans leaving your lips as he devoured you, pulling you as close as you could get to each other. You took it a step further, swinging a leg over his lap and straddling him.

You could immediately feel how hard he was beneath you. He knew it, too.

“Sorry,” he said with a blush. “You’re just-“

You cut him off by grinding down onto the hardened bulge, making him groan loudly in surprise. You quickly covered his mouth with your hand, laughing quietly. “Shh!” Steve nodded, and you removed your hand.

“Just feels so good,” he mumbled, moving back to kissing your neck. His hands slid around to grab at your ass. He had longed to do that for as long as he could remember, and now that he had his hands on you, it was even better than he pictured in his head all those nights alone. The way your ass fit perfectly in his large hands, the plush of it when he squeezed, it made him impossibly hard.

He moved back up to your lips, kissing you feverishly. You bit down on his bottom lip, and he groaned quietly, his tongue darting out to lick at yours. The kiss had become sloppy, messy, and desperate, all tangled tongues and quiet moans and hands everywhere.

“Steve,” you moaned, his name feeling strange on your tongue in this context. Strange, but nice.

He moaned your name in return, guiding your hips to keep grinding on him. “Fuck, baby. You’re gonna make me cum in my pants like a fucking teenager if you keep doing this.”

You giggled, giving him one last movement along his aching cock before you climbed off of him. He watched you curiously, wondering if you’d changed your mind, and desperately hoping that wasn’t the case.

He realized all his fears were unfounded as you sunk to your knees in front of him, holding eye contact. His eyes widened and his lips parted, hands clenching into fists on the couch cushions.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice raspy as he looked down at you on your knees for him. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

You smirked at him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and began to pull them down. His erection was obvious in his boxers, straining against the thin material like it was begging for you. “I want to,” you said simply. His cock twitched at your answer.

You pulled his boxers down, exposing his hard cock to your hungry eyes. You practically drooled at the sight. He was big. Like, really big.

You wrapped your hand around it, struggling to close your fingers around his girth. He moaned at the contact, his cock twitching again in your hand. You stroked him a couple times, but he was already rock hard. You leaned forward and licked the precum from his tip.

“Sh- shit!” Steve hissed. “You really don’t have to-“ His head fell back as you engulfed his cock in your mouth, his protests turning to groans of pleasure. “Oh fuck.”

You took him deeper, as deep as you could fit him. You were a bit out of practice admittedly, so you kept gagging on him, but he seemed to love that. He fought to keep his eyes open as he watched you suck his cock, not wanting to miss a single second, but the feeling kept making his eyelids flutter closed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moaned, one hand moving to rest on the back of your head. He didn’t force you, everything you were doing to him was like heaven already. “You’re so good at this, oh my god.”

You almost laughed, but managed to keep up your motions instead. You paid extra attention to the underside of his cock with your tongue as you sucked him, sucking hard at the tip every now and then, which made his hips buck up into your mouth with a whiney moan. You gently massaged his balls in your hand as you worshipped his cock. You absolutely loved the way your best friend was falling apart for you, because of you.

His grip on your hair tightened, and you could feel his thighs tensing beneath your hands. You could tell he was getting close, even before he said “Baby, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop-“

You pulled off of him, a string of saliva connecting your plush lips to his dick. He looked at you with an expression of love and adoration and even pain. Like he loved you so much it hurt.

He pulled you to him, kissing you deeply again. He pulled his sweatpants back up. “Fuck. That was amazing,” he said, breathless. “Let’s go to your room?”

You nodded, and then nearly screamed as Steve picked you up bridal style. He carried you quietly to your bedroom and laid you gently on the bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, pushing his sweats and boxers back down. He was completely naked before you now, and your eyes roamed over him, enjoying the view maybe a little too much.

He moved for you then, pushing your shirt up as he placed kisses against your stomach, trailing up higher and higher until he reached your breasts. He pushed the shirt up and over your head then wrapped his lips around one of your nipples. Your head fell back against the pillows and you moaned quietly at the feeling of his hot mouth against your sensitive nipples. He gave both equal attention, before kissing back down your body.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Your heart swelled in your chest at his words, but you were quickly distracted when he began pulling your shorts and panties down your legs. Once you were naked, he spread your legs, eyes raking over your body, and especially your pussy, like a man starved.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, hands holding your shaking thighs apart. You were nervous - it had been a long time, and you hadn’t exactly been expecting this to happen.

He flattened his tongue and licked a stripe along your folds. You moaned, a hand covering your mouth to keep yourself quiet, because you weren’t sure if you’d have the self control for this.

“You taste so sweet,” he said, burying his face in your pussy and breathing it in like his favorite cologne. “Your pussy is perfect. Even better than I imagined.”

You didn’t focus too hard on that last part, quickly distracted by his tongue flicking over your clit before he wrapped his lips around it. You gasped, back arching as he began to devour you fully.

You had to grab a pillow and hold it over your face, because you couldn’t control the noises Steve was pulling from your body. You were powerless against the pleasure he was giving you, able to do nothing but ride it like a wave, fingers gripping white knuckled into the pillow case.

Steve was much better than your fingers or any toys. He had your orgasm building quickly, stronger than you’d felt in years. You held the pillow tightly against your face as you cried out when your orgasm hit, hips grinding up against Steve’s greedy mouth. He lapped up every bit of slick hungrily, moaning against your pussy.

When you had come down completely, Steve kissed along your thighs, biting gently on the skin there - he could mark you here, at least, where only he could see. He left light bruises on the inside of your thighs. When he was satisfied he moved up your body again slowly. He kissed you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You could feel his cock hard and insistent against you. You wanted him badly, so badly you couldn’t believe how desperate you felt for him. You were soaking wet, hips grinding against him as you were desperate for him to fill you.

“I- I don’t have a condom,” Steve said like it pained him, looking down at you. “We can stop-“

“No,” you said quickly. You had come this far after not having sex for two years (at least sober, the night with Eddie after the show had also happened), and you really did not want to stop now. “We can keep going. Just pull out.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Okay.” He reached down, lining himself up at your entrance. You jumped at the feeling at first, so unfamiliar now. And Steve was big. Not that Eddie wasn’t, but…two years. You barely even remembered the hookup.

“I’ll go slow,” Steve said, sensing your apprehension. “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay,” you said quietly, your heart beating hard in your chest. Steve being so sweet was making this easier, but you knew you wouldn’t want him to stop. “I’m ready.”

Steve slowly pushed inside. He only had his tip in when you clenched your eyes shut, fingernails digging into the skin of his biceps.

“Is this okay?” Steve asked quietly, placing gentle kisses along your cheek. He was carefully thrusting in deeper, moving at as slow of a pace as possible. It took every bit of restraint in his body not to pound you into the mattress.

“Yes,” you said, voice quiet. You were slowly adjusting around him, wanting him deeper and deeper. “Please, more.”

Steve groaned against your ear, pressing in deeper until he finally bottomed out. His hips were pressed flush against yours, his cock completely buried in your tight, perfect heat. It was the most incredible thing he’d ever felt.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he moaned. He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding your hand above your head as his other arm held him up. “Wanna make you feel so good. Wanna make you cum again, feel you cum around my cock.”

You whimpered at his words, wanting them all to come true. “Please,” you whispered instead.

Steve hummed, pulling his hips back before slowly rolling them into you again. You both moaned at the perfect friction created between you, the way his cock filled you up. Like a piece of you that had been missing.

He set a slow pace to start, rolling his hips against yours in a perfect rhythm. The only sounds in the room were the gentle creaking of the bed and the soft breathy moans from both of you. Steve held your hand tightly over your head, your left gripping onto his right arm for leverage.

When he could tell you weren’t in any pain, he sped up his movements, watching your face carefully for any sign you weren’t enjoying yourself. Instead he saw your beautiful features twist in pleasure, pleasure that he was giving you. Only him. Only Steve.

“You’re incredible,” he said, looking down at you with total adoration. “Absolutely incredible.”

You pulled him down into a heated kiss, your left hand moving up to tangle in his hair. He started fucking you faster, skin slapping against yours as he began really pounding into you.

Steve pulled away to watch you again, finding himself addicted to the way you looked when getting fucked. He looked down at where you were joined, watching his cock disappear inside your perfect cunt. He had to look away before he came immediately.

Little “ah-ah-ah!”s were spilling from your lips, making Steve feel like he’d never been so turned on in his entire life. Everything about you was perfect to him. Everything about this was more than he ever dreamed of, alone with his cock in his hand.

“I’m so close, Stevie,” you whined, pulling him close to you. He was fucking you at the perfect angle, cock hitting just the right spot deep inside. Somewhere you could never reach on your own.

“Cum for me, baby, please,” he said, letting go of your hand to reach between you and rub circles on your clit. “Need to feel you cum all around my dick.”

The extra stimulation on your clit combined with the sensation of his cock filling you completely, pressing against your g-spot with every thrust, sent you over the edge a second time. You came hard, burying your face in his neck as you cried out in pleasure.

It was too much for Steve. Your pussy clenched around him over and over as you rode out your orgasm, and it was so good, and you were just so wet and tight, it sent him over the edge himself before he even knew what was happening.

He moaned your name over and over as he came inside you, ropes of his cum coating your walls. You rode each other through your orgasms, bodies intertwined.

It wasn’t until you came down that you both realized what happened. Steve pulled out of you, a look of pure fear on his face. “Jesus, fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m such an idiot. I-I don’t know what happened, I just…”

“Steve,” you said, placing a hand on his arm to calm his panic. “It’s okay. I…I can go to the doctor, get the pill.”

He visibly calmed once you said that. He placed a hand on your thigh, looking at you seriously. “I’ll take you. I’ll pay for it.”

“Okay,” you agreed softly. “Now come cuddle with me. Unless you’re planning to leave?”

“No!” He said quickly. “No, of course not. You’re not…you’re not just some hookup.” He crawled back into the bed with you, leaning against the pillows. He held an arm out and you cuddled against his side.

Your fingertips idly traced along his chest, feeling the softness of his chest hair. Steve played with your hair gently, twirling your curls around his finger. You were close to drifting off.

Your moments of quiet bliss were interrupted by a knock at the door. You both froze, wondering who could possibly be here at this hour. You had an idea, but you didn’t like the thought of it.

The knock sounded at the door again, and you jumped up. “I’ve got to get that before they wake up Asher.” You pulled your panties back on and grabbed the first shirt you saw.

“Wait, I’m coming with you,” Steve said, fumbling for his own pants, but you were already out of the bedroom.

You opened the door, and your fears were confirmed.

“Eddie,” you said, more like a statement. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry,” he said in a rush. He was out of breath, like he’d ran here. “We were working in the studio today, and I- I got caught up, and I didn’t realize the time, I was just so caught up in the music and the band that I didn’t think-“

Eddie stopped cold as he looked at something over your shoulder. You turned and saw Steve standing there like a deer in headlights. He was shirtless, only wearing his sweatpants hung low on his hips. It felt like deja vu, only reversed this time.

You turned back to Eddie, who was now looking down at what you were wearing. Steve’s shirt. You hadn’t even noticed what you’d thrown on.

Eddie looked at you with a look of pure horror on his face. You’d think you were still together, like you’d cheated on him with Steve right in front of him. That’s how it felt to Eddie, at least.

“Jesus, what- what did you do?” Eddie asked. His eyes were filled with pain, and even though you weren’t together and you owed him nothing, you felt like the absolute worst person on the planet.

“Ed…”

“Listen man, it’s-“

Eddie held up his hand, silencing the other man. “I…do not want to hear from you right now.”

“Eddie, you’re being unfair,” you said.

“Unfair! How am I being unfair?” Eddie scoffed. He couldn’t even look at the two of you. “I just walked in on you having sex with Steve Harrington-“

“Okay, first of all, you did not walk in on us having sex,” you pointed out. “And second of all, did you forget we’re not together?”

Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. Sure, he knew that, but - you’d slept together since he’d been home. It may have been a drunken hookup, but still. You were still kind of his girl, weren’t you? You’d always been. You always would be. Right?

“That doesn’t matter, it’s still-“

“It’s still what?” You asked. “Tell me, Eddie, were you celibate those two years on tour? Or did you fuck groupies after shows while you left me and your son behind?”

Eddie’s face tensed. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know about my son.”

“True,” you said, “but you didn’t answer the other question.”

Eddie stayed silent. It was answer enough. The whole apartment was awkwardly silent, the tension in the air palpable, like a weight over you all.

“You know, you really let Asher down today,” you said. “He was excited to see you. He asked about you all night until he went to bed.”

Eddie’s heart broke. “I’m so sorry. I never meant for that to happen. I never meant to hurt him, or you.” He swallowed. “But does that mean you had to run into the arms of Steve Harrington?”

“Eddie…” you sighed. “I think you should leave. It’s late. We can talk about this later.”

Eddie just looked at you, then to Steve. He shook his head. “Yeah. We’ll talk later.”

And with that, he turned and left the apartment, wanting to slam the door but at least having the forethought not to since Asher was asleep. He walked down the hall, down the stairs, to the parking lot. His trusty van was there. He had driven himself this time.

There were so many memories in that van, memories with you. Hell, Asher was probably conceived in the back of the damn thing. Eddie climbed into the front seat and lay his head on the steering wheel.

And he cried.

tag list

@awkward00noodle @american-idiot-jpg @georgeweasleyslostearhq @fandom-princess-forevermore @emxxblog @hopesicle @hellv1ra @whimsiwitchy @avalon-wolf @kellsck @toomuchbucky @sashaphantomhive @losingmygrasponreality @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddiesgirl1944 @ashcal99 @richardsamboramylove55 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @allhailtheslothoverlord @micheledawn1975 @browneyes528 @costellation-hunter @taccobelle @hellmastereddie @siriuslysmoking @princessadriana4-blog @littlemissholy @punkrockmlchael

[zepskies]

CONNECTION

Pairing: Beau Arlen x Soulmate!Reader 

Summary: Beau saved you from your car nearly going over a rickety bridge, discovering he was your soulmate in the process. Now, the two of you enjoy a milestone date at the county fair.

AN: Finally, here’s the sequel to Over the Bridge! If I get more inspo for this in the future, I may come back to these two, make it a little soulmate storyverse. 💜 Plus, this also fulfills another square for @jacklesversebingo.

JVB Prompt: “Am I under arrest or not?”

Posted on Patreon: 5/07/2025

Word Count: 2K

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, lots of flirting and sexual innuendo, bits of spice, protective dad Beau, smidge of angst

Read Part 1 || Beau Arlen Masterlist

“Well, this is just theft of the highest order.”

You giggled around another (stolen) mouthful of rum raisin ice cream, complete with little praline pieces, all while screaming kids of all ages on the Tilt a’ Whirl zoomed by behind you and Beau.

Chaos filled the grassy fairgrounds from every corner, from the bleating goats and mooing cows at the nearby petting zoo, to the rigged carnival games posted every ten feet or so, creating a maze of color and noise.

The smell of fried food was thick in the air like invisible fog; greasy pizza and burgers, over-buttered popcorn, caramel covered apples, cloying cotton candy swirled with fried Oreos and other icing-covered confections, all priced at nearly triple they were worth.

Beau had spent a chuck of change just to get the two of you into the Lewis and Clark County Fair, along with Emily and two of her friends. She had run off an hour ago with his last $50 in cash. He was resorting to his credit card now, though he refused most of your offers to pay for food and drinks and games throughout the night.

He invited you, after all, and this was technically your fifth date. One month in.

Sometimes he found it hard to believe that he found you out on the Morelli Bridge, your car literally hanging on the edge. And then your thoughts ran through, sharp in his mind, a vice grip around his heart. Something deep inside him gave way, like the shifting of tectonic plates.

He felt you, and everything changed.

He'd pulled you out of that little Toyota, covered you with his body when bullets rained across the side of the firetruck partially giving you two cover. He escorted you to safety through the shootout before he and his team wrangled up the would-be thieves of a showhorse, Big Thunder. (The stallion had proved to be too much for his captors anyway.)

Now, you were stealing his ice cream.

“I just asked you to hold it for me, not take a chunk out of it,” Beau pressed his point, albeit with a chuckle at your embarrassed, yet somehow unapologetic face.

“I’m sorry, I just took a little bite!” you said, and handed him back his cone after he put his wallet away. Your smile turned sly. “I forgot which one was mine for a second.”

Punctuated by a generous tonguing of your ice cream cone, heavily laden with your own order of rocky road this time.

“Sure,” Beau snorted. He eyed you in suspicion, even though he was drawn to the way your pink tongue slipped around the soft tip of your ice cream. That, and the way you looked up at him through your lashes.

“I gotta call it like I see it, sweetheart. Petit Theft in the first degree,” he added. But his arm snuck around your waist and pulled you in close. Caging you in.

A smirk began to play on your lips. “Hmm. Okay, Sheriff. Am I under arrest or not?”

His mouth twitched. Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a pair of handcuffs strapped to my belt right now. 

His thought clearly reached you through the bond—the golden, thrumming thread that tied his soul to yours. Or at least, that's how he saw it in his mind whenever he closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of you. He was pretty sure his heart was following suit, especially when he could feel your flirty amusement, your flush of pleasure at his suggestion.

Joke’s on you, you shot back, all while you savored another lick of ice cream. I don’t mind being restrained.

Beau choked on a piece of praline. Your giggle reached his ears, but your soothing hand up and down his back is what made him preen like a dog getting scratched behind the ears.

You’re dangerous, he replied. He was smirking way too hard, his face getting warm as the suggested fantasy started to play itself out in his mind. He could tell that you noticed, mostly because he could feel your amusement through the bond. Now a month into this, it was getting easier to tell, and easier to control what he let slip through this little WiFi connection.

Your resulting smile was impish. Sexy as hell really. No one would ever know it by the look of you, a high school English teacher with sweet smiles and smart, encouraging words for his daughter about life, literature, and work ethic.

But Beau was already getting a much different education. He was learning fast too. You were a little wild cat hiding under pretty blouses, manicured nails, and sharp, teasing eyes.

He felt the edge of your nails grazing up and down his spine. A nice tingle trembled down and down, shooting right to his dick.

I thought you weren’t afraid of a little danger, you said, the words like a sultry caress in his mind, warm and effervescent in his chest.

Somehow, he managed to swallow past another dose of rummy caramel and a raisin chunk without incident. You gave him a taste of your rocky road as well to pay him back for your earlier theft.

“Dangerous and cheeky,” he muttered afterward, unable to temper a smile.

You just tipped your head back and laughed. It made your body shake and your eyes shine.

He couldn’t resist the compelling urge to bow his head to kiss you, capturing your lips, swallowing your giggles, warning you with a playful squeeze on your waist. You clung to the front of his buttoned-down shirt and dueled him for another taste of butterscotch, this time from his tongue.

After a couple more samples, you realized that the real ice cream was melting. You pointed out a bench to sit and finish your confections in peace, so he followed your lead. He still kept a casual arm around your waist.

He liked the feel of you in his arms. So far, you were a hell of a good fit.

He’d spent most of his life skeptical of the “cosmic bond,” of soulmates. He was twenty-five when he met Carla. They were barely a year in when she told him with teary, anxious eyes that she was pregnant. He thought he'd done right by marrying her, no matter what his mother said at the time.

A whole fifteen years later, and one hell of a year he'd tried to forget, Carla grabbed the whiskey bottle out of his hand long enough to tell him that she’d found her true other half, a man that wasn’t broken. A man that could understand her, support her—everything Beau just couldn’t do anymore. Maybe he never had.

That man bought a three-story house on a hill out here in Helena, Montana for just him, Carla, and Emily.

Beau moved out here along with them, but he was lucky if he got a full week with his daughter, especially after he admittedly almost got that smarmy crypto thieving bastard killed two summers ago. Now that was another one Carla hadn’t forgiven him for. Not that he blamed her either.

Believe it or not though, Beau wasn’t feeling sorry for himself. He was trying to learn from his mistakes too. He’d told you some of that long, long story, but not all. Some things were too difficult, and some things he wasn’t ready for…but he did want to be better.

You had no say in who you were saddled to on this soulmate thing, whether he liked it or not. (And there were times when it was both.) It didn’t mean you had to be with him, but it did mean that he wanted to try to be a man who deserved you.

“Okay,” you said, tapping his thigh. By now your cone was gone, and he was polishing his off. You were reapplying your lipstick. He liked that shade on you, like taking a bite out of a nice juicy plum. “What do you wanna do after this?”

“I’d like to find where my daughter ran off to.”

Beau had half his attention on you and the other half scoping out the fairgrounds. He’d been trying his damnedest to keep an eye on Emily, even after she ran off with her friends. She did check in every hour via text, but it wasn’t the same as putting his own two eyes on the girl.

Okay, maybe Beau was a little paranoid on the subject, but he felt it was immensely justified. After what happened two years ago, she was lucky all he did was start tracking her phone. 

You, however, had proven to be a major distraction.

But he had a lead. You'd told him that Em and Jake, some kid in your honors class, had been “talking.” Beau had even overheard his daughter talking with her little friends, something about meeting him by the Ring Toss.

“Where’s the Ring Toss again?” Beau asked. He took out the folded-up map from his back pocket and spread it out across his thigh. You leaned over and pointed it out, tapping a couple inches above his knee.

“Looks like it’s right around the corner from the Ferris Wheel.”

Hmm, of course, he thought. Without meaning to, it slipped through the Connection and reached you. You glanced over at him and noted that calculating look on his face. Your lips twitched upward.

“What?” you asked.

“I think she’s meeting ‘Jake from Statefarm’ over there,” he said dryly, complete with air quotes.

You tilted your head at him in amusement. “Hmm, interesting. What do you plan to do, Detective?”

Beau checked the app on his phone that tracked his daughter’s. Sure enough, it showed she was close by. He compared it with the map to try and figure out an exact location.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just gonna see if my daughter’s trying to pull a fast one at the quintessential make-out spot for generations of county fairgoers across America.”

You bit your lip and valiantly held in a snort. Though you just had to inject some reality into his little melodrama.

“She’s 18 years old, Beau. You think she’s never made out with a boy before?”

The man released a long and heavy sigh. He preferred to think of his daughter as his perfect little angel who still thought boys were “doodie-head dummies,” like she claimed when she was eight. However, he’d noticed her wearing a lot more makeup recently. More crop tops and tighter clothes too. He hoped it wasn’t Carla who was buying her that crap.

…But that wasn’t a rabbit hole he needed to travel down tonight. After a beat, Beau shook his head.

“Anyway, ready to go, milady?” he said, offering you his hand after he stood from the bench.

You quirked a brow at him, but you accepted the offer.

“If you’re going to try to get me on that big metal hamster wheel of death so you can spy on your daughter, I’m just letting you know right now that it’s not gonna happen,” you informed him.

Beau gave you a charming smile then, lacing his fingers with yours.

“Aw, come on, darlin’. It’s perfectly safe. I’ll be holding your hand the whole time.”

And more than that, if you let me, he teased. And he was satisfied at feeling the weight of your blush, the warm tendril of pleasure.

“Nuh uh. I’m not doing it, sorry,” you said, even as you fought a smile. “I’d rather make out in a haunted house than risk getting stuck a hundred feet up in the air.”

Beau could respect that. But, an idea struck him when he noticed the horse-drawn wagon up ahead. Now that’s worth $20.

“How about a hayride?” he suggested.

Your eyes followed the path of his pointed finger, and you smiled.

“Oh, now you’re talking.”

“Twenty minutes, takes you all around the grounds,” he said. “Potentially some exclusive spots.”

Cue a suggestive brow waggle.

You smirked. “Twenty minutes, huh?”

Let’s see how many bases you can run, cowboy. You squeezed his arm, no doubt pressing your tits against his bicep on purpose.

Beau shot you a look, half amused, half heat and warning not to tempt him too much. He didn’t need more than half the town catching him in flagrante, so to speak. He shook his head, even while a smirk once again pulled at his lips.

Fuckin’ dangerous, sweetheart.

Your unrepentant giggle could’ve done him in right there.

AN: lol I hope you guys like this little soulmate au! I haven't been to the fair in years, but for some reason I'm craving rum raisin and a candy apple lollipop. 😝

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JVB Masterlist

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Beau Arlen Tag List:

@luci-in-trenchcoats @supernotnatural2005 @waynes-multiverse @gabavaldman @hobby27

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @everything-is-all-clear @suckitands33 @roseblue373

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@deansbbyx @chernayawidow @syrma-sensei @tmb510 @k-slla

@mrlonelycat @mimaria420 @mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @cheynovak

@deanbrainrotwritings @jackles010378 @alwaystiredandconfused @my-stories-vault @siampie

@sanscas @kaleldobrev @angelbabyyy99 @spnwoman @pieandmonsters

@ultimatecin73 @nicksalchemy1 @onlyangel-444 @sexyvixen7

[gildedsilk]

Annoying ❀

• Choi Yeonjun x Reader | Wc: 800+ | Fluff ༻

𝜗𝜚 Gildie's Note ៹ I love Wendy’s DOWN. I need some rn

TW : Swearing, bickering, Yeonjun eats reader’s food (d!e), derogatory terms unseriously

༺ Masterlist

“Order whenever you’re ready,” a woman’s voice crackled through the speaker.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned over Yeonjun’s lap.

“I can’t see!” you whined, shoving his head aside with a grin.

Yeonjun gave you a look. “Sit back.”

“The car’s not even moving,” you said, ignoring him as the bright menu lit up the drive-thru like a weird, greasy halo.

Yeonjun sighed, eyes dropping to your shorts—tiny denim things, unzipped and half-undone, but only because you were still wearing your bikini from the beach.

You’d begged him to stop at Wendy’s. You were starving.

You flipped on your fake “I have manners” voice.

“Hi! Can I get a bacon double stack Biggie Bag, please?”

“Damn.”

You turned and glared at Yeonjun, who was trying—and failing—not to laugh.

“What would you like to drink?” the woman asked.

“Diet Coke, please.”

“Okay, and for the sauce?”

“Barbecue.”

“What size would you like your meal?”

You glanced at Yeonjun. You already knew what was coming. “…Large.”

“Daaamn.”

You smacked his chest. He clutched it dramatically, shaking from silent laughter.

“Alrighty! Will that be all?”

You sat back down and pulled out your phone, letting him take over.

“Uh—can I also get a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger and a medium Sprite?” he added casually. You knew damn well he was planning to steal your fries.

“Yup, will that be all?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that’ll be $14.50. Please pull up to the window.”

Yeonjun pulled forward, stopping behind the car ahead. He peeked over at you, still scrolling on your phone.

“Put your seatbelt back o—”

“Fuck you.” You didn’t even look up. Pure venom in your tone. He turned away to hide his smile.

“What’d I do?”

“You called me a fat bitch.”

“HUH?!” He nearly choked on air. “I literally didn’t!”

“You said—and I quote—‘Damn, this is why your back is big as fuck.’”

Yeonjun snorted. “Stop putting words in my mouth!”

He pulled up to the window as the car ahead moved, fishing out his card and handing it to the worker.

“You’re the one who usually orders the whole menu, and somehow I’m the problem,” you muttered.

The worker gave you a brief side-eye while handing the card back. You smiled sweetly.

Yeonjun just shook his head. “My princess is so dramatic.”

“Boy…”

“Hm?”

You stared at him. Then went back to your phone like he wasn’t worth the energy.

But Yeonjun? He was in the mood to bother you.

Usually, he’d poke at you for attention—annoy you into looking at him. But tonight? He had other plans.

He took the food bags, thanked the woman, then dropped yours right on your lap like you were a table.

You gave him a look that could kill.

He put the drinks in the cupholders, already wrist-deep in his own bag. He pulled out what had to be half the fries and shoved them in his mouth all at once.

“Stop eating my food!” you snapped, snatching the bag from his greedy hands.

He chewed obnoxiously loud. “Mmm. So good,” he said with his mouth full, eyes wide and sarcastic.

“You’re so annoying…” You scoffed. “I should throw your food out the window.”

“Do that,” he said, licking his fingers, “and you’re going out the window too.”

[dramagodesss]

sixteen : a really hot 'a-piece-of-shit' ex

playin' the players

a/n : happy bday to that anon did it for you boo 🙂‍↕️- anyways kinda going crazy writing this lmaoo (i know it's short but miss girl is busy). btw left a lil note for ya'll so it's easier to understand the whole color thing they got going on with the short film— enjoyyy.

the camera’s rolling.

again.

you’re perched on a barstool, the light glowing a deep orange behind you — soft, sultry, almost hazy. extras sway in the background, pretending to drink and laugh.

jj steps into frame. his eyes linger on you a second too long, hand grazing your waist. “you're gonna make me fall in love with you if you keep lookin' at me like that.”

your lips curve. you say it like a dare. “then fall.”

he kisses you — slow at first, then deeper. fingers thread into your hair.

and then��� CRASH.

jj’s ripped away from you, shoved backwards.

cue: rafe.

he steps into frame, all fury and swagger, shoving jj against the bar.

“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” rafe snarls, voice low, dangerous.

the light shifts.

green bleeds in — sharp, jealous. red pulses at the edges — lust, rage, fire.

jj shoves rafe back, voice clipped. “back off.”

you step between them, breathing hard, voice high. “what are you doing here?”

rafe’s gaze is locked on jj. “he doesn’t get to kiss you like that.”

jj laughs, bitter. “oh? and you do?”

your character turns to rafe, eyes wide. “we’re not together anymore, remember? that was your choice.”

a beat.

then rafe says, quieter but venomous: “you can’t tell me this—” (he gestures to you and jj) “—is real.”

your voice shakes, just slightly. “you don’t get to decide what’s real anymore.”

silence.

cut.

liam shoots out of his chair. “oh my god—that was insane. that was—guys, that was perfect.”

everyone exhales.

you and jj step apart, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline.

rafe runs a hand down his face, catching your eye just once before looking away.

and the green fades into black.

but this time, it's not about the film.

not anymore.

oh lord have mercy.

the whole crew’s here — both the short film team and all of your friends. and obvioulsy them. laughter floats through the air, orders get yelled out at the counter, and the whole place smells like fries and milkshakes.

“you like curly fries, right?” he asks, not really asking. he’s already tapping his card at the counter, mouthing your order to the cashier.

you blink, amused. “uh yeah how- you stalking my fry preferences now?”

“just being a thoughtful scene partner,” he shrugs, smug. “method acting.”

you slide into a booth by the window. before you can even pick a side, jj slips in beside you, grinning like he’s won something. and before you can throw something at him, rafe slides in on your other side, heavy and silent.

great. sandwiched between two hot hockey man. yay.

his shoulder brushes yours. deliberate.

his eyes flick to you — unreadable, but his voice is low and smooth. “been reading the new pages.”

you pause, turning just slightly toward him.

“yeah?”

“yeah.” his mouth curves, slow and infuriating. “looks like we’re gonna have a lotta fun.”

you raise a brow. “fun how?”

he shrugs. “falling in love. breaking hearts. you know. all the romantic shit.”

jj scoffs, half-laughing as he drops the tray on the table. “rafe’s idea of romance is like… red flags and leather seats.”

“and yours is?” rafe shoots back, not even looking at him.

jj grins, unbothered. “me.”

"then romance is dead." rafe mutters back.

your fries sit untouched between them, tension crackling louder than the jukebox.

outside, it’s golden hour.

inside, you’re stuck between the both of them.

literally and metaphorically.

and both are very much sitting way too close.

taglist : @beewritess @davinashifts333 @lanasangelsz @littlefreak-liz @drewstarkeyswife0 @lalaloopsieparty @ethanthequeefqueen @wtfisastiles @angelicameron @moth-feeet @drewstarkeyswife-7 @hiphopstar @cokewithcameron @cameronsbabydoll @chillgal135 @ayy1234567 @pogueprincesa @isinpfortvdmen @iheartrosalia @luvrclub @yesshewrites1 @sideboobrry11 @espressh0e @mysticbby2009 @arianagreenblattfanxx10 @hwaaholic @aves05 @thecolorpearl05 @dreamybabbyy @wintercrows @lesbiana2 @chillgal135 @verycherryblossomhideout @daddyrafeslittleslut @pillowprincess4him @xoxobellamy @dylsdaily @at-todds-heart @nonbeliever1@rafes-honey @lilithblackkk @isktfguhn @rafecamssfavgirl @mirellef2001 @jennieonline

[lanternfeather]

sevika x reader headcanons - cooking together

i love cooking/baking and i feel like normally sevika doesn’t care much for food aside from fueling herself but i would make such good food for her 🥰

• before she meets you, she is very utilitarian about taking care of herself.

• food especially is as simple and quick as possible. she would either get takeout from an undercity food stall or throw some shit together in a bowl and call it a day.

• her stand-by dish is “whatever soup” or “rice with ingredients” - literally whatever she has in her fridge or cupboard, which makes for some interesting combinations, but she isn’t picky and she’s grateful she has food.

• when she gets together with you, you invite her over for a home cooked meal one night. it’s something nice- roasted chicken, crispy potatoes, tender carrots, refreshing salad, thoughtful drinks. she is blown away and feels a deep sense of longing and nostalgia since she hasn’t had food made with love since she was terribly young.

• she comes over for dinner enough that you tease her that she’s here for the food just as much as for you. she scoffs, but you can see that it holds some truth for her.

• you realize that, after watching her get takeout so often and so frequently have a miserably bare kitchen, that she doesn’t really know how to cook.

• sevika definitely isn’t the type of person who is taught by others. but she wants to impress you and learn about your interests. so as long as you frame it as “cooking together” rather than “teaching her to cook”, she is always ready for a lesson.

• she makes a lot of progress very fast- she’s extremely smart after all, and just wants to make you happy and provide for you.

• she is beaming with pride the first time she invites you over to HER place for her own version of a home cooked meal. it’s still pretty basic, but you know it was made with love, and nothing makes you happier.

• forget about baking. sevika does not believe in measuring ingredients or being precise about anything. even though she’s new to cooking, she intuitively measures with her heart. she absolutely loves when you make a sweet treat for her, and loves watching you bake, finding it very endearing.

• i feel like sevika would gravitate toward comfort food a lot. it’s understandable- she’s tired after work, worn out, lonely, bruised, and all she wants is some satisfying greasy fried crispy thing from a food vendor. you show her how to make her favorite comfort foods at home but also somehow cultivate in her a craving for fruits and vegetables.

[fardwader]

you’re too good to me (and you know it, too) pt. 4

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: For some unknown reason, Peter Parker cannot stop finding new, inventive ways to humiliate himself in front of you.

And for some reason, you keep helping him up anyway.

Or, the 5 times you save Peter— and the 1 time he saves you.

pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6

a/n: im alive!!!!! oh my god i have been in the worst writing slump ever, this chapter actually took everything out of me to write (also i am so sick helpme), anyways URGHHH im so sorry for the late upload i hope u guys like this i lowkey hate it but its whatever...

wordcount: 3k

taglist: @ladylokilaufeyson5 @wlnut @lonenymphaea, @moon-shampoo, @elfypineapple

tags: 5+1 fic, slow burn, friends to lovers, reader is annoyingly oblivious, peter is a sad dork, no use of y/n, sarcastic peter and an even more sarcastic reader, multi part, past gwen and peter, not canon compliant, gwen stacy is so beautiful...., crazu overuse of italics, reader is terrified and in denial, reader highkey lowkey doesnt like her boyf...

(four)

Jonah had impeccable timing.

He bumped into you— quite literally— at your cousin's birthday party, sending a huge chunk of chocolate fudge cake off of his plate and onto the only decent evening dress you owned. 

You looked up, ready to physically tear him a new one, and there he was: tall, sharp-jawed, and already offering you a napkin with a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

“I promise you that was not the first impression I was going for.” 

All the insults you had mentally prepared died on your tongue as he smiled, warm and disarming— like sunlight breaking through the sky.

Normally, you’d roll your eyes and mutter something snarky under your breath while you walked away, but instead, a quiet burst of laughter escaped you— a surprised, breathy huff that honestly surprised the both of you.

You quirked a brow. “Do you usually throw dessert at girls you like, or am I just special?”

“Nope,” he said, smile widening, “just you.”

That made you laugh again, fuller and realer this time. Maybe it was the soft haze of the champagne that was making you more agreeable, or the ridiculousness of the entire situation— but suddenly the night didn't seem all that bad.

“Alright, cake boy,” you sighed, dabbing at your ruined dress. “You owe me a drink.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, shooting his hand out, “It’s uh– Jonah, by the way.”

One drink turned into two, then a shared plate of fries, then lazy conversation about seemingly everything and nothing at the same time. 

Jonah was quick-witted and so very easy on the eyes— muscle in all the right places and dimples that punctuated every warm smile.

He was the kind of guy who, for some reason, knew how to make you laugh without trying too hard. He didn't ask too many questions or try to dig deep. 

He just let things happen. Light, casual, and uncomplicated.

And that was the part you found most appealing.

Because after weeks of quiet, suffocating tension— of tiptoeing around feelings you weren’t ready to name and fearing what might happen if you did— “uncomplicated” felt like exactly what you needed.

So when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you gave it to him without even thinking.

It didn’t feel like a big deal.

Just… nice.

You honestly weren't looking for anything serious, and to Jonah's credit, he never made it feel like you had to be.

Your dates were simple, nothing to write home about. Tacos at a food truck on a Wednesday night, or a walk through Central Park with his hand brushing yours like he wasn’t sure how to hold it just yet, or a movie you barely remembered because the seats were too comfortable and the company too easy.

Jonah never pushed or prodded.

You liked that about him.

You weren’t exactly sure when it shifted— when an easy distraction started to feel like something real.

Maybe it was the night he waited with you at the subway station in the rain, holding his jacket over you both— though it did little to stop you from getting soaked. Still, it was the thought that counted. 

Or maybe it was the morning he showed up at your door with bagels and that dumb, dimpled grin, just because he “had a feeling you forgot to eat breakfast again.”

There wasn’t a single grand gesture. No fireworks. No earth-shattering kiss that rewrote the entirety of your being.

Just a slow, steady bloom of something tender inside of you.

You found yourself texting him when something stupid happened at work, reaching for his hand when the sidewalk got too crowded.

And he was always there.

It didn’t make your heart race, didn’t make you feel like you were flying. But it was there.

Steady. Predictable. Safe. 

And honestly, that felt like enough.

That’s why it stung a little more when he canceled on you for the third time that week. 

It wasn't a huge deal. Just a trip to the movies to catch some shitty slasher movie that came out recently. Something as chill as all the other dates that came before it.

But it was supposed to be your thing, a tiny pocket of time carved out of a week all for you.

'hey, work ran late. raincheck? promise i'll make it up to u?"

You typed out a quick response, yeah no worries its good :), before sighing and chucking your phone face down onto your bed— digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets— because that felt easier than telling the truth.

Because the truth was, you actually tried. Like, really tried.

You'd put on that soft brown sweater he said he liked— that skirt he bought you. You even tried to do something with your hair— for once.

All in a stupid attempt to actually impress him. To matter.

And now, here you were, dressed up for no one. Your chest tight in a way that always came after expectations were left unmet.

You stayed like that for a while— palms pressed against your face, trying to push back whatever ugly emotion that was clawing its way up to the surface. 

Disappointment, maybe. Or just that crushing feeling of someone not showing up for you the way you'd hoped they would.

Eventually, you peeled yourself off the bed and padded into your kitchen. 

Might as well go out or something, go get food while you're actually put together, so the night wasn't as unsalvageable.

But that’s when you saw him.

Peter, looking like death incarnate, slumped against your kitchen counter— practically bracing against it like it’s the only thing holding him up, a hoodie about two sizes too big draped over his form.

His skin is alarmingly pale, contrasted by the flush of his nose. His eyes are glassy, and his hair— usually messy in an endearing way— now just looks sad, flopped against his damp forehead.

“You look like hell.”

“Aw, thanks,” he rasps. “You always know how to make a guy feel special.”

You cross your arms against your chest, leaning against the doorframe, “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice all muffled and nasally.

“You’re absolutely not fine, you sound like a congested lawnmower,” you say, shooting him an unimpressed look.

“I gotta–I gotta go,” he sniffs, grabbing for his backpack and missing by at least six inches. “Dr. Connors is waitin’ on those tissue samples and I—achoo!—can't just not show up—”

“Come on, Patient Zero,” you grab him by the shoulders, dragging him to the couch, “sit down before you pass out.”

Peter opens his mouth to argue before being interrupted by a violent cough that practically doubles him over.

You arch a brow.

“...That could’ve happened to anyone,” he manages to rasp out when it’s over.

“Sure. Anyone who’s extremely, definitely sick.”

“I heal fast,” he says, still fighting. “I’ll be fine in like, twenty minutes— just need some Dayquil and maybe one of those throat lozenges that taste like May’s purse.”

You place a hand on his forehead.

He leans into your touch before he can stop himself— he’s burning up.

“Pete,” you say, softer now, “please don’t make me tie you to the couch. Because I will.”

His eyes flutter half-closed at your touch. 

“You don’t have rope.”

“Not the point.”

He hesitates— wobbles a little, then lets out the world’s most dramatic sigh and finally sinks down onto the couch.

“You shouldn’t have even left your bed in this condition,” you say, digging through your junk drawer for a thermometer.

He groans, muffled through the throw pillow. “I had things to do.”

“You have a fever,” you call back, “I doubt you could be useful in the lab right now, Parker.”

When you return, he’s slumped sideways, eyes half-lidded. You nudge his shoulder and hold up the thermometer.

“Open.”

“Wow, at least buy a man dinner first.”

“Peter.”

He opens his mouth. The thermometer beeps after a few seconds, and you frown at the number that flashes on the screen. 

“39.4°C”

He shrugs weakly. “That’s not that bad.”

“Parker.”

He blinks up at you, sluggish and glassy-eyed, the fever clearly fogging up whatever filter he has left. His gaze drifts, moving from your outfit and lingering somewhere around your face— though it’s hard to tell exactly where he’s looking.

Then, inexplicably, he smiles.

"You look nice today."

You blink, momentarily stunned. Not because of the words themselves— you've heard compliments before, of course— but because of the way he said it. 

Soft. Offhanded, like it had slipped out before he could catch it.

You glanced down at yourself— the version of yourself you had put on all in an attempt to get your boyfriend to notice you. 

And now here was Peter Parker, feverish and flushed and somehow still managing to see you better than Jonah had in weeks.

“Don’t try and change the subject, Peter–” 

“No seriously,” he hummed, already halfway unconscious, blinking up at you like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming. “You always look nice and stuff. Just… extra nice tonight. Fancy.” 

"Mhm," you muttered, heading back into the kitchen under some flimsy excuse to get some medicine to try and hide the flush that climbed its way onto your cheeks, "I had plans. They got canceled."

Peter doesn't say anything, not right away. 

Then: 

"Cake Boy?" 

You snort, "Jonah. Yes." 

Earlier, you hadn't really told Peter about Jonah and how far your relationship had actually progressed. Only the faint mention of some guy who spilled cake down your dress.

It wasn't like you were hiding it or anything. It just felt weird to tell him.

You weren't sure why. 

Maybe because saying it out loud made it feel more real. Maybe because the second you told Peter about Jonah, it would become something that mattered— and you weren’t ready to admit that it did.

Or maybe it was because Peter has always been the person you told everything to. 

The one who stayed up with you on the fire escape at 3 a.m. eating greasy pizza, the one who binged watched cheesy horror movies with you— the one who somehow always knew what you were feeling, even when you couldn’t find the words for it.

So yeah, maybe bringing Jonah into the conversation felt like inviting a stranger into something private.

You rummaged around your cupboards for some Ibuprofen and a mug, more for something to do with your hands than any real purpose.

“We were supposed to catch that new slasher movie tonight,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, like it didn’t bother you. “Third time he’s bailed this week. But you know. Work."

There’s a grumbled noise that comes from the couch that sounds suspiciously like a judgmental hmmph.

You raise your brows as you return to the living room, bottle of water in one hand, two pills in the other. “What was that?”

"Nothin'," Peter says, barely lifting his head.

“Seriously, he works a busy job,” you defend as you sit beside him, handing him the pills, “he works in finance, he’s in line for a promotion, I think.”

“Sure,” he croaks, sniffling into the collar of his hoodie.

You shoot him a look as he takes the pills from your hand, dry-swallowing them without blinking. You hold the water bottle out anyway, but he just shakes his head.

You cross your arms. “Okay. Dude, what’s your problem with him?”

Peter shrugs one shoulder weakly. “I dunno. Doesn’t seem like your type.”

You scoff, settling back against the couch. “What is my type, then?”

He opens his mouth, then hesitates. His eyes flick toward you— like he might actually say it. Like he wants to.

You feel it hang in the space between you– another one of those moments that’s all potential and no follow-through.

But instead, he coughs— long, wheezy, miserable.

You hand him a tissue and let it go.

He blows his nose dramatically. “Thanks, Nurse Ratched.”

“I should’ve let you suffer.”

“You kind of are,” he says, voice muffled through the tissue. “You just keep talkin’ about your perfect, rich finance boyfriend while I’m dying.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, fighting a smile. “You are so dramatic.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he shifts— slowly, like it’s second nature— and lets his head drop into your lap with a quiet, exhausted sigh, cheek pressing against your thigh.

You freeze. Just for a second.

Then your hand hovers awkwardly in the air like it isn’t quite sure what to do with itself. Peter’s curls are tickling your arm. His breath is warm against your leg. 

He’s got the smallest, softest smile on his lips. 

"So, finance guy. Huh?" You can feel him smirk against your thigh.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it– there’s never any bite behind it.

Your fingers twitch, finally settling in his hair— gently carding through the curls that are still damp from his earlier fever-sweat.

“Yes, finance guy,” you reply, your voice dry but fond. “He wears loafers and talks about stocks unironically."

Peter lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Sexy."

“Oh, incredibly,” you deadpan, scratching lightly at his scalp. “Every woman’s dream.”

His eyes were barely open now, lids even heavier with your hand carding through his hair. “I’m sorry your plans got canceled,” he mumbled into your thigh, voice rough. “But I’m kinda glad you’re here.”

Your hand stills for a beat in his hair.

It’s subtle, barely a hitch, but Peter notices.

Because, of course, he notices.

He seems to notice everything when it comes to you— every shift in your voice, every change in your routines, every text you type a little too quickly, and every laugh that was a bit too warm.

So when you started dressing a little nicer, started canceling on him last minute, started smiling down at your phone in a way that wasn’t meant for him— he knew.

And he let it happen.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t pry. Didn’t say a word, even when it stung more than he cared to admit. Because he knew he didn’t have the right, you weren’t his— and he knew that.

But here you were. His head in your lap, your hand tangled in his hair, and something about it feels dangerously close to hope.

You gently tap his shoulder, “C’mon, up, Parker. You’ve gotta get up.”

He groans, low and muffled, pressing his face further into your thigh like that might somehow make you take it back. “Five more minutes,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and congestion.

You bite back a smile, trying— and failing— not to sound as fond as you feel. “Get up, I’ve gotta get you some soup.”

He groans again.

You huff, amused, and your fingers brush over his scalp again before you catch yourself. “Peter…”

He finally looks up, just barely. His eyes are glassy with exhaustion but still achingly soft, locked on yours. “I like it here,” he admits, quieter now. “Don’t make me move yet.”

But, to his disappointment, you gently shove him off. 

He lands back against the cushions with a dramatic oof, flopping onto his side like his bones were made out of jelly.

"Rude," he mumbled, squinting up at you through red eyes. "I bare my soul and you throw me to the wolves."

"You were melting into my thigh," you say, standing and stretching with a small smile. "I need circulation, and you need soup, Peter."

"Who needs sustenance when you’re comfortable?" he counters, eyes fluttering shut again as he dramatically clutches at the throw pillow you hand him like it’s a poor substitute for you. "You’re cruel. Heartless. 0 stars, no bedside manner."

You shake your head, laughing softly as you drape the blanket over him— walking over to the kitchen.

Peter watches you move around the room, your silhouette softened by the dim glow of the kitchen light. 

You’re humming— quietly, absentmindedly— and it makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the fever. 

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, coating himself in its warmth. But it's not as warm as your lap, or your fingers in his hair, or the sweet sound of your voice up close and soft just for him.

For a second, you were there, and you let him have it. That intimate and easy quiet, and then it was gone.

Because you’re not his, never was, never will be. 

He needs to start reminding himself of that.

He hears the clink of a spoon, the cupboard shutting, the soft pad of your feet returning— and he plasters on a grin like it doesn't matter at all.

“Any chance my nurse also makes toast?” he rasps, winking.

Because if he keeps it light, maybe it won’t feel so heavy.

You arch a brow, setting down a small bowl beside him on the coffee table. "Your nurse made soup. Homemade, by the way. Well, semi-homemade. I just added some garlic and salt to the canned stuff. But whatever."

Peter grins up at you— it’s lazy, foggy at the edges, but it still carries that boyish charm that seems to emanate from him. "Gourmet."

You flash him a smile. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Peter takes a slow, careful sip of the soup, wincing a little at the temperature but grateful for the warmth.

You settle beside him again, brushing a stray curl from his damp forehead and tucking it behind his ear with a tenderness that catches you both off guard.

“You just focus on getting better,” you say softly, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’ll handle the rest. Soup, tea, maybe some actual toast if you're good.”

He tries to protest, but his voice is too weak, so he just lets out a tired chuckle. His eyes close briefly, his breathing evening out.

You stay there, watching over him, fussing— let’s be real, when do you not fuss over him?

And slowly, imperceptibly–  he starts to look a little less like the sick, feverish mess from earlier and more like the Peter you know and love. 

And for a moment, you forget about Jonah, him canceling, and the way he made you feel.

And, honestly— for now, that’s enough.

previous chapter !! or next chapter !!

[fuqnia]

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

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

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

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

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

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

“Eric, are you even listening to me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t enough. Not for tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frowning, you sent another message, this time individually.

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

You hit send and stared at the screen, waiting, but the seconds stretched into minutes, and still—nothing.

Your chest tightened slightly as you refreshed the messages, but there were no new notifications, no responses, no read receipts. It wasn’t like you expected them all to be sitting by their phones waiting to text you back, but it felt off to get radio silence from everyone at once. Even Cartman, who never passed up an opportunity to talk shit, had nothing to say.

You locked your phone, tapping your fingers anxiously against the case. The silence in the dorm seemed louder now, pressing in on you, making the room feel smaller. You had wanted reassurance, some kind of validation, something to make you feel anchored before the date, but instead, all you got was more uncertainty.

Without thinking, you grabbed the black cardigan draped over your desk chair and pulled it on, wrapping it around yourself even though it didn’t match the outfit. The dress felt too tight now, the makeup too heavy, like you had weighed yourself down in a persona that didn’t fit.

You snatched your purse and phone off the bed, shoving the strap over your shoulder with shaky hands before heading for the door. The second you stepped into the hallway, the cold air hit you, but it didn’t help settle the anxious energy buzzing under your skin. Your feet carried you forward before you had time to second-guess where you were going, your mind already set on your destination.

Cartman’s dorm.

You weren’t sure why, not exactly. He had spent the entire afternoon being an insufferable dick, mocking you, dismissing everything you said, making you feel like an idiot for even caring about this date. He was the last person who would give you any kind of genuine reassurance, and yet, he was the only one you could think to go to. Maybe it was because you knew he would say something, even if it was just some mean-spirited insult that would snap you out of your spiraling thoughts. Or maybe it was because, despite all his bullshit, you knew Cartman always had something to say about you.

You walked quickly, your boots clicking against the pavement as you cut across campus. The night air was cold, but you barely felt it, your pulse thrumming too hard in your ears. Most of the dorms were dark, the campus practically deserted. It was Friday night, which meant almost everyone was off getting drunk at house parties or crammed into shitty clubs downtown. The only people left were the ones like you—people who had nowhere better to be.

You tightened your grip on your purse strap, swallowing hard as you neared Cartman’s dorm building. It wasn’t like you had a plan for what you were going to say when you got there. You just needed him to open the door. You just needed him to look at you, make one of his stupid comments, roll his eyes and tell you you were being dramatic. You just needed something to break through the overwhelming, suffocating feeling that you were losing your grip on yourself.

Reaching his building, you barely hesitated before yanking the door open and heading inside.

You walked down the dimly lit hallway, your footsteps sharp against the tile as you passed rows of closed dorm doors. The overhead fluorescents flickered faintly, buzzing with that familiar, artificial hum that made everything feel sterile and lifeless. Most of the rooms were quiet, their occupants either gone for the night or too wrapped up in their own lives to make any noise. The few that weren’t had muffled voices seeping through the cracks, the occasional burst of laughter, or the low thrum of shitty bass-heavy music rattling through the thin walls.

When you finally reached Cartman’s door, you didn’t stop to second-guess yourself. You didn’t have to knock. You never did. He and Kenny were lazy as hell and never bothered locking it, either because they didn’t care or because neither of them wanted to be inconvenienced by getting up. You grabbed the handle and pushed, stepping inside without hesitation.

The room was dim, lit only by the dull glow of the TV, casting blue-tinted shadows over the mess of blankets, discarded clothes, and empty soda cans scattered across the floor. The air was thick with the stale scent of weed, cheap fast food, and whatever ungodly amount of cologne Kenny had sprayed on himself before leaving for the night. The only sound came from the TV, where some rerun played at low volume, barely registering over the occasional click of Cartman’s phone as he scrolled.

He was exactly where you expected him to be—half-sprawled on his unmade bed, hoodie slightly rumpled, one hand resting against his stomach while the other lazily held his phone. He barely reacted when you walked in, only flicking his eyes toward you for half a second before looking back at his screen. His expression was flat, unimpressed, like you had just interrupted his very important evening of doing absolutely nothing.

“You look like you just crawled out of a Hot Topic clearance bin,” he said, voice as dry as ever, thumb still mindlessly swiping across his phone.

Normally, you would have had a response ready, something sharp and immediate to throw back at him, but the words barely even registered. Your stomach felt twisted up, too tight, like you had been holding your breath for too long and couldn’t let it out properly. Your arms hung stiff at your sides, fingers twitching with restless energy. You weren’t even sure why you had come here anymore—just that the panic in your chest had gotten so unbearable that you needed to be somewhere else, needed to hear something other than the deafening silence of your dorm.

The lack of response must have thrown him off, because after a few beats of silence, Cartman’s fingers slowed against his phone. He glanced up at you again, brows knitting together, his mouth shifting from its usual smug curve into something firmer, more uncertain. His eyes flickered over your face, taking in the tension in your jaw, the way your arms were too stiff, the way you stood like you were bracing for impact.

His expression hardened, his tone losing some of its usual laziness. “Jesus, dude. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it, your throat tightening as the weight of the night pressed down all at once. You tried to blink it away, to force yourself to hold it together, but the burning behind your eyes wouldn’t go away.

Cartman immediately sat up, his phone slipping from his hand and landing on his blanket with a dull thud. His entire body tensed, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he had just witnessed something catastrophic. “Whoa—what the fuck,” he blurted, his voice shooting up half an octave.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing hard, trying to keep yourself from completely falling apart, but it was obvious you had already lost that battle. Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched against your ribs, uneven and sharp.

“Are you—? Dude, no,” Cartman said quickly, practically scrambling to the edge of his bed. “You better not start fucking crying right now. I swear to God, I will— I’ll fucking—” He gestured wildly, like he was trying to physically push the situation away from himself.

You let out a shaky breath, not quite a sob but dangerously close.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” he hissed, running both hands through his hair, his entire face contorted in absolute panic. “Okay, okay, uh—chill? Can you do that? Can you not have a full mental breakdown in the middle of my fucking dorm?”

You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders trembling.

“Okay, fuck, fine,” Cartman said quickly, his voice strained like he was physically wrestling with the discomfort of witnessing emotions in real time. “I— I take it back, alright? The Hot Topic thing. You don’t look that bad. You actually— you look fine. Good, even. If you’re into that whole vampire prostitute aesthetic.”

You let out a wet, half-laugh, half-sob against your palms, your breath still uneven.

Cartman pointed at you like he had just won an argument. “See? That’s good. That’s improvement. We’re making progress.” He leaned forward slightly, his fingers twitching like he had the instinct to do something—to pat your shoulder, maybe, or shove you lightly to snap you out of it—but then he thought better of it and just clenched his hands into fists instead.

His knee bounced as he exhaled sharply. “Okay, real talk? You need to chill the fuck out. What’s the problem here? You look like you just found out Santa Claus is fake and your whole world is crumbling.”

You sniffled, rubbing at your eyes. “Santa is fake, dumbass.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, so is whatever the fuck you’re spiraling over right now.” He gestured vaguely at you, his expression still tight, still uncomfortable, but underneath all of it, there was something else—something almost genuine. “It’s just a date. You’re acting like you’re about to be led to the fucking gallows.”

You exhaled shakily, finally lowering your hands from your face. “It’s my first date.”

“So?” He raised an eyebrow. “You think this is some kind of once-in-a-lifetime moment? That this guy is, what, your soulmate or some dumb shit?”

You hesitated, your lips pressing into a thin line. “No, but…”

Cartman scoffed. “But what? What, you’re scared he’s gonna take one look at you and run for the fucking hills? Newsflash, dude—if he asked you out, he’s already interested. So unless you do something truly fucking stupid, you’re fine.”

You chewed on your lip, your hands twisting together.

Cartman sighed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was dealing with this right now. “Look, you want my honest opinion?”

You gave him a wary glance. “Do I?”

“Tough shit, I’m giving it anyway.” He crossed his arms, his gaze leveling with yours, sharper than before. “You’re overthinking the fuck out of this. You dressed up, you look different, yeah, whatever. But the only thing that’s actually weird right now is you acting like someone you’re not. You wanna impress this dude? Stop making it a fucking performance.”

His words settled over you, cutting through the panic just enough to make you pause.

Cartman’s face twisted slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “And, like… hypothetically—if he did take one look at you and decide you weren’t worth his time? Then he’s a fucking idiot. And you’re better off not wasting yours.”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, Cartman scowled and waved a hand in your direction. “Jesus, do not fucking look at me like that, I swear to God.”

You wiped your eyes, your lips twitching slightly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re grateful or some shit. Like I just said something profound.” He made a disgusted noise. “I will take it back.”

You sniffled again, but the crushing weight in your chest felt a little lighter now.

Cartman rolled his eyes, flopping dramatically back onto his bed. “I knew you were gonna make this so much worse before you even got here. And yet, I still let you in. Because I’m a great fucking friend.”

You let out a breath, shaky but steadier. “Yeah. You are.”

“Fucking gross,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Get out of my room.”

You let out a laugh, breathy and unsteady but real, the lingering tension in your chest easing just enough for you to move again. Without thinking, you sat down beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight as you folded your legs beneath you. Cartman didn’t react, staring up at the ceiling like he was already regretting allowing this entire conversation to happen.

You glanced down at him, then reached over and pinched the soft skin of his elbow, making him jolt. “Ow, what the fuck?” He yanked his arm away, scowling as he rubbed the spot like you had actually injured him.

“Why didn’t you answer my text earlier?” You leaned against his pillow, watching him, your fingers still twitching with leftover nerves. “I texted all of you, and nobody answered.”

Cartman scoffed, dropping his hand back onto his stomach. “Yeah, no shit. I saw that desperate little cry for attention.” He turned his head slightly, giving you a pointed look. “Maybe I didn’t feel like dealing with your dramatic bullshit at the time.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet, here you are, dealing with it anyway.”

“Yeah, because instead of waiting for a response like a normal person, you showed up at my fucking door.” He gestured vaguely at you, exasperated. “Like a lost puppy. All sad and desperate for validation.”

You made a face, jabbing his arm with your finger this time. “Fuck off.”

He smirked, but his expression shifted after a second, his eyes a little less sharp. He exhaled, stretching his legs out slightly. “Whatever. Not like you would’ve wanted to hear what I had to say anyway.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “And what would you have said?”

Cartman hesitated, his tongue running over his teeth before he shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably some dumb shit about how you’re a fucking idiot for freaking out this hard over a guy who probably stares at himself in the mirror and thinks deep thoughts about his own existence.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You really don’t like him, huh?”

“I don’t like most people,” he corrected, shifting onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “But yeah. No, I don’t fucking like him.”

You watched him for a second, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why, though? You don’t even know him.”

Cartman scoffed. “I know enough.” His voice came out sharper than before. He rolled onto his back again, stuffing his hands behind his head, clearly done with the conversation. “But whatever. Not my problem.”

You stared at him, feeling like there was something there, something unsaid, but before you could push it, he let out a long, dramatic sigh.

“Now, seriously,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

You let out a laugh, the last of your nerves settling as you shifted closer and leaned into his space. Cartman immediately frowned, turning his head slightly like that would somehow create distance between you, but you only moved in further, pouting dramatically.

"Come on," you whined, dragging out the words. "I actually need you to be a good friend right now."

Cartman groaned, tilting his head back against the pillow with an exaggerated eye roll. "Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking needy. I already talked you off the ledge, what more do you want from me?"

You poked his cheek, making him flinch. "I wanna know what first dates are actually like. You’ve been on plenty, right? You never even told me about your first one."

Cartman scoffed, shaking his head like the question itself was ridiculous. "Yeah, because it was a bullshit middle school date that didn’t matter. Why the fuck would I ever bring that up?"

You squinted at him, tilting your head. "Because I tell you everything? And yet, somehow, I never got the details on this."

He stared at you for a long moment, before finally letting out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Fine, Jesus. But only because I know you’re gonna keep being fucking annoying about it."

You grinned, settling beside him with your chin propped against your palm. "Oh, absolutely. So go on. Tell me about the great, legendary Eric Cartman’s first date."

His lip curled, his expression shifting into something sour. "Okay, first of all, fuck you."

You beamed. "And?"

Cartman exhaled sharply through his nose, glaring at the ceiling. "And second of all, it was fucking stupid," he muttered, his fingers drumming against his stomach as he thought back. "It was Heidi."

You blinked. "Wait, Heidi Turner?"

"Yeah, obviously. Who the fuck else would it be?" He rolled his eyes, voice dripping with disdain. "It was sixth grade. We were in class together, and she started doing that thing where she’d laugh at all my jokes, even when they weren’t funny, and kept saying dumb shit like, ‘Wow, Eric, you’re actually really smart.’" He grimaced. "Like, she was practically begging for it. So eventually, I was like, ‘Fine, I’ll give the people what they want,’ and I asked her out."

You snorted. "Yeah, that definitely sounds like how a middle school romance starts."

Cartman ignored you, continuing. "So I take her to the movies, right? We go to see some dumb superhero flick—whatever the fuck was out at the time. I was thinking it’d be chill, easy, you know? Just sit there, eat some popcorn, let her bask in my presence."

You rolled your eyes, but he kept going, his face contorting like the memory itself was painful. "But no. Heidi spends the entire time trying to, like, talk. During the movie. Asking me if I like the characters, what I think about the plot, whether I ever want a serious relationship." His voice turned mocking. "‘Do you think love is real, Eric?’ Like, bitch, shut the fuck up, I am trying to watch Iron Man punch people in the face."

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. "Oh my god."

"And then," he continued, waving a hand, "she tries to hold my hand—which, whatever, fine, that’s what couples do, right? But she would not let go. Like, death grip. Like she thought I was gonna fucking disappear if she let go for two seconds." He shuddered. "I swear to God, my hand was sweating, and she just held on tighter."

You were laughing so hard you had to wipe at your eyes. "That’s actually fucking adorable."

Cartman shot you a glare. "No. It was suffocating. And then, at the end of the night, she kissed me, right?" He made a face, eyes narrowing like he was still mentally picking the moment apart. "And everyone makes a big fucking deal about first kisses, so I was like, ‘Okay, let’s see what all the hype is about.’ And then it just… wasn’t."

You tilted your head, brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

Cartman clicked his tongue, shaking his head like the whole thing still frustrated him. "I mean, it didn’t feel like shit. I was just standing there, waiting for some, I don’t know, big realization or whatever. Like I was supposed to suddenly get it. But I didn’t." He scoffed, shaking his head again. "So yeah, maybe I’m just too emotionally evolved for dumb middle school relationships."

You snorted. "Yeah, that definitely sounds like you."

"Exactly," he said, smirking as he laid back again, tucking his hands behind his head. "So there you go. My first date. It was fucking dumb, and yours is gonna be too. Any other dumbass questions, or can you leave now?"

You frowned slightly, thinking back to high school. You had known Cartman and Heidi had dated again at some point, but none of the guys ever really talked about their relationships. They’d mention people in passing, sure, but never in a real way. You had heard whispers about them being together, little hints here and there, but no one ever told you. And Cartman sure as hell had never brought it up himself.

You hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "But you two got back together in high school, right?"

Cartman’s smirk faded just slightly, his fingers stilling against his stomach. His voice came out more clipped, like he was already annoyed by the question. "Yeah. What about it?"

You shrugged, watching him. "I just never really heard much about it. You guys never talked about it."

Cartman let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well, maybe that’s because there wasn’t shit to talk about." He stretched his arms behind his head, but the movement felt forced, like he was trying to appear more casual than he actually was. "It was just a thing. She liked me, I liked the attention, whatever."

You frowned slightly. "That’s it?"

"That’s it," he said firmly. Then, without missing a beat, he shot you a glare. "And before you start trying to psychoanalyze me with your dumbass little detective act—no, I don’t regret it, no, I don’t miss her, and no, I don’t have some big hidden meaning behind why it didn’t work out."

You held up your hands in mock surrender, smirking slightly. "Didn’t say anything."

"You were about to," he muttered, rolling his eyes before turning back toward the ceiling. 

You giggled at him, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. Cartman just groaned, rubbing a hand down his face like dealing with you physically pained him. Neither of you spoke after that, letting the low hum of the TV fill the space.

Your fingers idly picked at the hem of your dress as your thoughts drifted, circling back to what he had said earlier. He had been kissed on his first date. That was just part of it, apparently, like it was supposed to happen automatically. You hadn’t really thought about it before, but now the realization hit you like a brick to the face.

You turned to him abruptly, eyes wide. "Wait. Will Damien kiss me on my first date then??"

Cartman made a face, tilting his head just enough to look at you. "What?"

You sat up, full-on panicking now, gripping his blanket in your fists. "I didn't even think about that! I was too busy worrying about what to wear and what to say and whether or not I’ll sound like a fucking idiot—but what if he tries to kiss me??"

Cartman stared at you for a second, then barked out a laugh, his whole face lighting up with absolute glee. "Oh, this is fucking gold," he snorted, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at your spiraling. "You—freaking out over a kiss."

"This isn’t funny, Eric!" you snapped, grabbing his pillow and smacking him with it. He barely even flinched, still grinning like an asshole.

"It’s hilarious," he shot back, dodging when you tried to hit him again. "Jesus Christ, you’re acting like he’s gonna fucking sacrifice you in a blood ritual. It’s a kiss, dude. Not a life sentence."

Your pulse was hammering in your ears, your entire body buzzing with nervous energy. "Yeah, but—! I’ve never—!" You gestured wildly, like that explained everything.

Cartman’s smirk froze for half a second. His eyebrows twitched just slightly, like his brain had lagged. Then, slow as ever, his expression shifted into something downright wicked. "Wait. Wait." He sat up fully, eyes gleaming. "You mean to tell me you’ve never—?"

"Shut up," you groaned, shoving at his shoulder, but it was too late. His entire demeanor shifted, his grin stretching wider, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

"Oh, this is fucking beautiful," he cackled. "You’re telling me you’ve gone your entire life, all the way to college, without even one kiss? Not even a shitty middle school one? Not even, like, a drunk party thing?"

You curled in on yourself, face burning. "No," you muttered through gritted teeth, absolutely hating the way his expression lit up like he had just found a new favorite hobby.

Cartman slapped his knee, doubling over. "Holy shit," he wheezed, shaking his head. "No fucking way."

"Stop laughing, asshole!" you shrieked, smacking him again with the pillow, but that only made him laugh harder, nearly tipping over onto his side.

"This is the best fucking thing I’ve ever heard," he gasped between laughs, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. "Oh, this is a goddamn event now. I should fucking sell tickets."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "This is the worst night of my life."

Cartman took a deep breath, steadying himself, though his grin remained firmly in place. "Nah, the worst night of your life is coming up, buddy. When your goth prince leans in all slow and romantic, and you panic so hard you fucking headbutt him."

You whipped your head up, horrified. "That could happen??"

Cartman threw his head back, laughing so hard he nearly slid off the bed. Meanwhile, you were spiraling into full-blown crisis mode.

You shot up, pacing the room in frantic circles, running your hands through your hair. “This is a disaster. No, this is worse than a disaster. This is historic failure territory. I’m gonna be known as the idiot who ruined her first date because she didn’t know how to kiss properly.”

Cartman, still wheezing from laughter, barely lifted his head to look at you. “Yeah, and that’s the legacy you deserve.”

“Oh, shut up,” you snapped, kicking the edge of his bed. He barely flinched, too busy wiping at his eyes, still grinning like a jackass.

But you couldn’t stop. The thoughts kept coming, one worse than the last. You turned on him again, hands flying as you spoke. “How does it even work? Is there some kind of—technique? What if I tilt my head the wrong way? What if I just sit there and forget to move? What if my lips are too stiff? What if my breath smells weird? What if my teeth clink together with his?"

Cartman let out an exaggerated gasp, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Oh my God. That would be so fucking funny. You two lean in all romantic, and then—bam—you knock your front teeth together like a couple of fucking dumbasses. He’d probably recoil in horror. Maybe even start bleeding."

You smacked his arm. "Can you take this seriously for one second?"

Cartman rubbed his arm like you had actually hurt him, even though you both knew you hadn’t. "Oh, I am taking this seriously. I'm deeply invested in this tragedy."

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face. “I should’ve asked literally anyone else.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have told you the truth,” Cartman said, still grinning. “They’d give you some flowery bullshit like ‘just follow your heart’ or ‘it’ll happen naturally.’ Meanwhile, I’m here to tell you, with complete certainty, that you’re going to fuck this up in ways I can’t even predict yet."

You whirled on him, pointing a finger. "You suck at being reassuring."

"I wasn't trying to be reassuring," he said, shrugging. "I was trying to mentally prepare you for the trainwreck that’s about to occur. You should be thanking me, really."

You let out a strangled noise and collapsed onto his bed, face buried in your hands. "This is my nightmare."

Cartman patted your back with the fakest sympathy imaginable. "Don’t worry, dude. Worst-case scenario, you’re so shockingly bad at kissing that Damien never speaks to you again, and you die alone. Best-case scenario… nah, actually, that’s still probably gonna happen."

Your frown deepened, the lump in your throat growing tighter as your eyes burned. The joke had stopped being funny. The panic that had started as something ridiculous, something you could brush off, had settled into something real.

Cartman must have noticed, because his smirk faltered. His head tilted slightly, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to gauge just how bad this had gotten. “Oh, come on,” he groaned, shifting on the bed. “Are you seriously about to cry? Over a kiss?”

You sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “It’s not just that,” you muttered, voice tight. “It’s—fuck, I don’t know, Eric. It’s everything. I just—I feel like an idiot. Like I’m already gonna mess this up, and now I have to worry about this on top of everything else—”

Cartman groaned, louder this time, like he was physically allergic to you having feelings in his presence. “Okay, no. We are not doing this. You are not about to sit here and have a fucking meltdown over the possibility of some moody goth kissing you.”

You sniffled, keeping your hands over your face. “Then what the fuck do I do? Just hope I figure it out in the moment? What if it’s awful? What if—”

Cartman threw his hands up. "Alright, Jesus, fine. You need practice or some shit, right? Do it on my pillow or something. I’ll critique you."

Your hands dropped from your face as you slowly turned to look at him. "... What?"

He shrugged like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “Kiss my pillow. I’ll tell you if you suck.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “I—I don’t even know where to start with how fucking stupid that is.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Dude, you wanna sit here crying, or do you wanna do a test run? It’s a solid idea."

You let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. “How the fuck is this a solid idea?"

“Because!” He patted his pillow like he was selling you some kind of luxury product. “This way, when you bomb your first real kiss, you can at least say you attempted some prep work. Like a warm-up."

You rubbed your temples. “This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had.”

Cartman smirked. “That doesn’t mean you’re not considering it.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, then at the pillow, then back at him. Cartman was grinning now, arms crossed over his chest, watching you like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks. His eyes practically sparkled with amusement, waiting for you to crack under the pressure.

Gripping the pillow tightly, you held it stiffly in front of your face, fingers digging into the fabric as your brain went into full meltdown mode. The longer you sat there, the more unbearable it became. Every single logical part of you screamed that this was stupid, humiliating, a complete and total loss of dignity. You should have thrown the pillow at Cartman’s smug face and walked out the door ten minutes ago, but instead, you were sitting there, actually considering it.

The longer you hesitated, the worse it got. Your stomach twisted with secondhand embarrassment for yourself as the weight of the situation pressed down on you. What if you actually went through with it? What if you messed up kissing a goddamn pillow? Would Cartman critique you? Would he start giving you fucking pointers? You’d never live it down. This was social suicide, and you were standing on the edge, debating whether to jump.

A tiny, pathetic whimper slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your face immediately twisted in horror, eyes squeezing shut as a wave of mortification crashed over you. "This is so fucking embarrassing," you muttered under your breath, dropping the pillow like it had personally betrayed you before grabbing it again and hurling it onto the floor.

Cartman lost his shit.

He practically folded in on himself, gripping his stomach as loud, unrestrained laughter spilled out of him. His whole body shook from the force of it, his head thrown back as he gasped for air between wheezes. "Holy shit," he choked out, barely able to speak through his laughter. "I fucking knew you were gonna break."

Cartman was still laughing, still clutching his stomach like this was the funniest thing he’d ever seen, but you didn’t react. You just sat there, completely still, hands curled into your lap, eyes locked onto the discarded pillow on the floor. The sound of his laughter faded into background noise, distant and muffled, like you weren’t even in the same room anymore.

A tight, sinking feeling settled in your chest, pressing down like a weight you couldn’t shake. The panic that had been simmering under your skin all night reached its boiling point, but instead of bubbling over into frustration or embarrassment, it just… flattened. You felt stuck, unable to do anything but sit there, trapped in your own head.

Cartman’s laughter slowed, turning into breathy chuckles before fading completely. “Oh man, that was fucking beautiful,” he sighed, shaking his head as he leaned back against the bedframe. "Like, genuinely, one of the top ten best moments of my life. Fuck, maybe even top five."

You didn’t respond.

He waited a beat, still smirking slightly, expecting you to snap back at him like you always did. When you didn’t, the amusement in his face flickered, his expression shifting as he finally looked at you.

“Dude. Come on. That was funny as hell.”

You kept staring at the pillow, jaw tight, stomach churning.

Cartman frowned, his brows pulling together slightly. "Seriously? Are you really about to go full existential crisis over this?"

Silence.

You could feel the shift in the air, the way his whole posture tensed as he realized something was off. Usually, when he got under your skin, you threw it right back at him. That was the dynamic. He pushed, you pushed back. But now, you weren’t pushing at all. You weren’t doing anything.

Cartman cleared his throat, shifting on the bed. “Okay, dude, seriously, you gotta stop looking like that. You’re being fucking weird.”

Your fingers curled into fists against your knees, knuckles whitening.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath before suddenly kicking at your leg—not hard, just enough to get your attention. "Alright, what the fuck do you want from me? You need some inspiring ‘you got this, champ’ speech? A fucking TED Talk? Want me to tell you you’re overthinking like a dumbass? Because I can do that, but you gotta actually speak."

You lifted your head, eyes meeting his for the first time since your meltdown started. Your throat felt tight, thoughts tangled in a mess you couldn’t sort through fast enough. You wanted reassurance, but nothing he said would fix the gnawing anxiety twisting in your stomach. You wanted to feel prepared, to not go into your first kiss like a total idiot, but nothing felt like enough.

Cartman exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against his knee. His jaw tensed, his mouth pressing into a thin line like he was forcing himself to say something he really didn’t want to say. His gaze flicked away for half a second before he sucked in a breath and let the words fall out.

“Do you just wanna practice on me or what?”

For a second, you were convinced you had misheard him, that your brain had twisted his usual bullshit into something worse, but no—he had actually said it. Cartman, of all people, had just offered to let you practice kissing on him.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, your body locked in place as you tried to figure out whether or not he was fucking with you. That was the thing with Cartman—he never took anything seriously. He turned everything into a joke, especially when it came to you. If you were anxious, he made fun of you for it. If you had a problem, he turned it into a bit. If you ever needed him, really needed him, he’d find some way to make it worse. That was just how he was.

And yet… he wasn’t laughing now.

You forced a weak chuckle, even though it barely sounded like you. "Don’t joke like that."

Cartman didn’t react right away. He just sat there, arms still crossed, staring at you, his knee bouncing slightly. Normally, by now, he would have been grinning, waiting for you to humiliate yourself further so he could drag it out as long as possible. But he wasn’t. He was just sitting there, his jaw tight, his fingers twitching slightly where they rested against his sleeve.

If this was really just another setup to make fun of you, wouldn’t he have committed to the bit already? Wouldn’t he be laughing? You studied him, searching for that smugness, that usual gleeful I’m having the time of my life making you miserable look. But it wasn’t there.

You shifted slightly, your pulse still racing, your palms sweaty. "Seriously, dude. You shouldn’t joke about shit like that."

His expression flickered, just for a second, before he exhaled sharply and looked away. "Yeah, whatever."

You swallowed again, your tongue heavy in your mouth, your thoughts racing too fast to keep up with. The idea was still there, sitting in your brain, refusing to leave. It was insane. Completely humiliating. But… was it really worse than making an absolute fool of yourself in front of Damien?

Practicing on a pillow was stupid. You already knew that. You wouldn’t learn anything from it. But practicing on Cartman—a real person—was different.

Would it be bad?

Cartman had kissed people before. He had experience. He knew what he was doing. If you got over the pure insanity of the situation, it almost made sense. It was just logistics. Like a test run before the actual event.

Your fingers twitched against your knee as you sat frozen, staring at the wall, considering it. Actually considering it.

Cartman stayed quiet, still looking away, his leg bouncing. You couldn’t tell if he was regretting what he said or if he was waiting to see if you’d take the bait. The thought made your throat tighten again, your stomach churning.

Your chest tightened, your stomach twisting, but you forced yourself to speak anyway. "Do you seriously mean it?"

His tapping stopped. His knee stilled.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, his expression tight, guarded. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t rolling his eyes. He wasn’t waiting for you to freak out so he could make fun of you for it. He was just… watching. His eyes flickered over your face, searching for something, though you weren’t sure what.

You swallowed hard. Your hands curled into fists in your lap, your nails digging into your skin. The thought of going into your first kiss completely blind, of messing it up, of making yourself look like a total idiot in front of Damien, made your skin crawl. But the thought of actually doing this, of kissing Cartman, was just as impossible. This was Cartman. The person who had spent his entire life making fun of you, getting under your skin, pushing every single one of your buttons just to watch you snap. He had never let you live anything down. If you did this, if you actually went through with it, he would have ammo against you for the rest of your life.

Cartman exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before leaning back against the bedframe. His fingers twitched against his hoodie, flexing, gripping the fabric, like he was trying to physically stop himself from saying something he didn’t want to say. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let out a slow breath and spoke.

"If I was serious, which, by the way, I’m not saying I am, would you actually do it?"

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Your whole body felt too tight, too tense, like you were holding your breath without meaning to. The cliff you had been teetering on felt even steeper now, the ground beneath you unstable.

"Would you?" You countered, not quite ready to admit your answer.

Cartman’s jaw clenched, his fingers flexing again. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked down for a split second before meeting yours again, something unreadable passing through his expression before he finally exhaled.

"Yeah," he muttered, barely above a breath. "I would."

You stared into his eyes, blinking rapidly as your brain scrambled to process what he had just said. His eyes—one brown, one blue, held your gaze. You had seen them a million times before, usually filled with amusement at your expense, gleaming with mischief whenever he was about to say something awful, rolling dramatically whenever you called him out on his bullshit. But now, looking at him like this, there was none of that. No teasing, no smugness, no obvious sign that he was setting you up for humiliation.

Your gaze drifted, taking in the rest of his face, studying him like you hadn’t spent most of your life sitting across from him at lunch, or slumped next to him on a couch, or dealing with him in some other unavoidable way. He still had that round, babyish face that made it impossible to tell when he was actually serious. His features were softer than most guys your age, the slight fullness in his cheeks still lingering from childhood, making it hard to take him seriously even now. His mouth was pulled into a tight line, the corners barely downturned, like he was biting back a comment he would normally blurt out without thinking. His hoodie bunched slightly where his arms were crossed over his chest, the fabric stretching just a little over his stomach as he shifted, adjusting himself.

You let out a quiet, barely audible oh, sitting up straighter, hands pressing against your knees like that would steady you.

Cartman shifted slightly, his expression not changing, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his posture. He looked like he was waiting for you to react—maybe waiting for you to back out, call him an idiot, pretend this whole thing never happened.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. "Is this—" You stopped, your voice coming out rougher than you expected. Clearing your throat, you tried again, steadying yourself. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Cartman’s brows twitched downward slightly, just enough for you to catch it before he forced his face back into something neutral. His mouth tightened at the edges, his fingers twitching again where they rested against his hoodie.

"Do you really think I'd do that?" he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

You hesitated, your fingers curling against your legs. "Yes," you admitted, because of course that was the kind of shit he pulled. He had spent years teasing you, laughing at your expense, picking at your insecurities just because he could. It wasn’t crazy to think this was just another one of his games.

His jaw clenched, and for the first time since this conversation started, he looked away, exhaling sharply through his nose. His knee bounced once before he stilled it, his arms pressing a little tighter over his chest before he turned back to you. "Well, I’m not," he said flatly, his tone even, his voice lower than usual. "So if you wanna keep freaking out over whether or not you’re gonna suck at kissing this dude, then whatever, but I’m actually giving you a fucking solution here. Your call."

You didn’t answer right away. You just kept staring at him, studying the way his face stayed firm, how there was no amusement in his expression, no hidden gotcha moment waiting to happen.

Cartman sighed, long and dramatic, before rolling his eyes. “Jesus Christ, dude,” he muttered, shifting on the bed. He moved closer, pressing his weight onto one arm as he turned to face you properly. The mattress dipped slightly under him, the warmth of his body suddenly right there, close enough that you could feel it even through your cardigan.

“Alright,” he said, his tone shifting into something more matter-of-fact, like he was explaining a business deal instead of offering to kiss you. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re not gonna tell anyone about this. Not Stan, not Kyle, not Kenny, especially not Butters, because that little freak would get way too into it—no one.”

Your stomach flipped, your hands gripping your knees a little tighter. “I wasn’t planning on—”

He cut you off with a pointed look. “I mean it. If you do tell anyone, I’ll feed your parents to you.”

You blinked. “What the fuck?”

He smirked slightly, like he was proud of how casually he had just said that, but his posture remained tense, his fingers drumming once against his knee before stopping. “I’m just covering my bases,” he said with a shrug. “I know how you get when you freak out over shit. Next thing I know, you’ll be trauma-dumping to Kyle like, ‘oh my God, I kissed Cartman, my life is ruined.’”

Your face burned. “That is not how I talk.”

“Yeah? Well, doesn’t matter, because it’s not gonna happen,” he said simply, like that was the end of it. He still hadn’t moved back. He was right there, the heat of his body pressing into your space, his face closer than it had ever been to yours before.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, but every inhale just made you more aware of how close he was. His hoodie smelled like his usual detergent, something vaguely fresh but a little worn-in, mixed with the lingering scent of whatever cheap cologne he had half-assedly sprayed on earlier. You weren’t sure why you even noticed that, but it made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

Cartman exhaled, his gaze flicking over your face before locking onto your eyes again. “Just so we’re clear,” he said, voice casual, but there was an edge to it, like he needed to get this out before you got any dumb ideas, “this changes nothing between us.”

You blinked at him, still struggling to think properly, still trying to catch up with the fact that this was actually happening. “What?”

He rolled his eyes, sitting up a little straighter but still refusing to move away. “You heard me. We’re not making this a thing, alright? You’re freaking out about your stupid goth date, I’m offering a solution, that’s it.” He tilted his head slightly, brows raised like he was waiting for you to argue. “We’re still friends. Nothing more. You get that, right?”

You nodded automatically, though the words barely processed. Your brain was too busy short-circuiting over the fact that Cartman was sitting this close, talking about kissing you like it was some casual favor, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t going to completely scramble your thoughts and make everything a hundred times more confusing than it already was.

He eyed you for a second longer, then nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Just making sure you’re not about to get all fucking weird about this.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m not gonna get weird.”

Cartman smirked. “Yeah? You already look weird about it.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands for a second before dragging them down. “Just—shut the fuck up and tell me what to do.”

Cartman snickered, his smirk widening as he leaned back slightly, resting his weight on one arm like he was getting way too comfortable with this. “Oh, you want me to tell you what to do?” he drawled, tilting his head like he was about to drag this out for as long as possible. “Jesus Christ, dude, I didn’t realize I had to give a full lesson. What, do I need to make flashcards?”

You shot him a glare, but the heat creeping up your face betrayed you. You could feel it, the warmth blooming along your cheeks, spreading to your ears, making you feel even stupider than you already did.

Cartman started to laugh but stopped short, his smirk faltering just slightly. His eyes flicked over your face, taking in the way your hands fidgeted against your lap, the way your lips pressed together too tightly, the way you weren’t even looking at him anymore.

His knee bounced once before he exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. When he spoke again, his voice was still smug, but the usual edge to it had softened, just enough to feel different.

“Alright, alright, calm the fuck down,” he muttered, waving a hand. “You’re making this way bigger than it needs to be. It’s just a kiss, dude, not a fucking marriage proposal.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again. His smirk was still there, but it wasn’t as sharp. His posture had loosened slightly, like he was trying to make this seem more casual, more like it was nothing. You weren’t sure if it was for his benefit or yours.

“You’re freaking yourself out for no reason,” he continued, tapping his fingers against his knee. “Look, all you gotta do is relax and follow my lead. That’s literally it. You don’t need to overthink it, you don’t need to stress, and you definitely don’t need to sit there looking like you’re about to throw up.”

You frowned. “I don’t look like I’m about to throw up.”

Cartman raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.”

You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “This is so fucking stupid.”

He snorted, nudging your leg with his foot. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who came to me for help, so I don’t know what to tell you.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers gripping the fabric of your cardigan. “Right. Okay. Just—fine. What now?”

Cartman’s smirk twitched, his eyes flicking to your lips for half a second before he stretched his arms behind his head, like this was the most boring thing in the world. “Now?” He tilted his chin slightly. “You come here and actually do it.”

Your jaw dropped, heat flaring up your neck as you gawked at him. "No fucking way," you blurted out, shaking your head so hard it almost made you dizzy. "I’m not doing it first. You have to do it."

Cartman let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head like you had just said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. "Oh, please. You’re the one having the meltdown over not knowing how to kiss someone, so why the fuck would I be the one to initiate? That defeats the whole point, dumbass."

You clenched your hands into fists in your lap, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yeah, well, I need practice, so you should go first to— I don’t know—demonstrate or some shit!"

His smirk widened, his knee bouncing slightly as he watched you unravel. "Ohhh, I see what this is," he drawled, shifting so he was facing you more directly. "You’re scared. You wanna do this, but you don’t wanna own up to it, so you’re making me do all the work."

Your face burned, your entire body tensing up. "That is not— that’s not what’s happening!"

Cartman clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath, stretching his arms behind his head again. "Fine, whatever. Guess we’re just sitting here all night, then, because there’s no fucking way I’m making the first move."

You stared at him, your pulse pounding in your ears. He looked so fucking smug, sitting there like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t throwing you into a full-blown mental crisis.

But you couldn’t just do it. You couldn’t.

Your nails dug into your palms, your whole body screaming at you to say something, but you just sat there, frozen, watching as Cartman waited, smirking like he already knew you weren’t going to go through with it.

Your thoughts spiraled, grasping at anything to ground you, anything that would make this feel less impossible. You tried to remember how first kisses were supposed to start—not in real life, because real life was a fucking mess, but in books, in movies, in all the places where this kind of thing was scripted, where everything fell into place exactly how it was meant to.

Didn’t people usually lean in first, slow and hesitant, eyes flicking between each other’s mouths? Didn’t the moment build, stretching out like a rubber band about to snap? Or was that just bullshit? Was it supposed to be effortless, natural, instinctual—something you just did without having to think about it? Because that wasn’t happening. There was no instinct, no sudden surge of confidence, no automatic pull toward Cartman like some corny romance scene.

You weren’t leaning in. You were frozen.

Your nails scrunched into his sheets, gripping them so tightly your knuckles ached. Your knees pressed against his thighs, but he still didn’t move, didn’t react, just kept his arms lazily folded behind his head like this was the most boring thing in the world.

Your heart pounded, your chest tight, your stomach in knots so tangled you weren’t sure they’d ever come undone. Every inch of you burned—your face, your ears, your throat. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to look away from him, because if you didn’t, you were going to lose your fucking nerve.

Your hands curled even tighter in the fabric beneath you. Your breath came out shakier than you wanted it to.

"I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?"

It barely sounded like your own voice. More like a confession. A plea. A desperate attempt to reclaim some control over this situation.

Cartman exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than before, not as sharp, not as full of smug amusement. "Yeah. Okay."

You sucked in a breath, held it for a second too long, then forced yourself to move. Your fingers tightened against the fabric as you leaned in, hesitating, second-guessing, trying to remember how this was supposed to go.

Cartman didn’t move. He didn’t lean in, didn’t pull back, didn’t do anything. He just sat there, watching you closely, his knee bouncing slightly, his lips parting like he was about to say something. The words never came. His eyes flicked between yours, waiting.

Your breath stuttered as your lips ghosted over his, close enough to feel the warmth of him, the faintest brush of skin against skin. The contact was barely there, just a whisper of a touch, but your entire body tensed, a fresh wave of nerves rushing through you.

Finally, you pressed your lips against his.

Warmth. That was the first thing you registered. His lips were softer than you expected, slightly chapped, but they yielded against yours. Your whole body locked up, too stiff, too rigid, unsure if you should move or stay still, afraid to do anything wrong. 

A split second later, panic flared through you, a sudden, horrible realization that you had no idea what you were doing. The thought hit you so hard that your brain completely short-circuited. Without meaning to, you moved too fast, tilting your head abruptly, leaning in deeper without any coordination.

Your forehead smacked into his with a dull, painful thud.

Cartman grunted, jerking back as the impact hit him, his whole body recoiling as your lips barely managed to stay connected for a fraction of a second longer. Pain shot through your skull, making you wince, but the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the fact that it had happened at all.

The silence that followed lasted less than a second before Cartman burst out laughing.

He collapsed backward onto the bed, one hand slapping against his chest while the other clutched his forehead. His laughter came out in uneven gasps, his whole body shaking as he let out a sharp wheeze between laughs. "What the actual fuck was that?"

You felt your stomach drop, humiliation crashing over you all at once. Your hands flew to your face, pressing hard against your cheeks in some desperate attempt to hide. "Shut up," you choked out, your voice high and strained as the heat in your face burned unbearably.

Cartman only laughed harder, his entire body still shaking as he tried and failed to compose himself. "Dude, you just—you fucking headbutted me mid-kiss! What the fuck were you even doing?" His breath hitched as another wheeze escaped him, his face red from laughing too hard.

You groaned, curling in on yourself as the weight of your embarrassment became unbearable. "I don’t know! I panicked! It just happened!"

Cartman rolled onto his side, still laughing, wiping at his eyes like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. "Oh my god, I wish I got that on camera. You’re actually the worst fucking kisser in human history."

You smacked his arm hard, making him jolt slightly, but he didn’t stop grinning. "Stop fucking laughing," you snapped, barely able to meet his gaze.

"I can’t," he wheezed, still shaking. "That was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced."

Groaning again, you flopped onto his mattress, covering your face with both hands as your mortification reached its peak. "This is literally my nightmare," you mumbled against the fabric.

Cartman was still grinning when he nudged your knee with his, his amusement refusing to fade completely. "Alright, alright," he said, his voice still uneven from how hard he had been laughing. "Come on, round two. We’re fixing that disaster."

Your breath hitched as you peeked through your fingers, face still burning as you turned your head just enough to see him. He was still sitting close, still too warm, still looking at you like this wasn’t a big deal. His usual smirk had softened just slightly, not enough to be gone completely, but enough that you hesitated, your pulse loud in your ears.

He tilted his head, his eyes flicking over your face like he was assessing whether you were about to bolt. "Unless you wanna go out there and actually do that to Damien."

You groaned again, shoving at his arm without any real force. Cartman barely moved, his body rocking slightly from the push, but it only made him laugh harder. His grin stretched across his face, smug and entertained, his breath still uneven from how hard he had been wheezing earlier.

"Dude, I swear to God," he cackled, wiping at his eyes. "You’re actually fucking hopeless."

Your face burned even hotter, frustration mixing with the embarrassment still lingering in your chest. You sat up, fixing him with a glare, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. "Shut the fuck up, Eric," you snapped. "You’re not exactly helping."

He snorted, shaking his head. "Not my fault you have the coordination of a fucking potato."

You sucked in a deep breath, gritting your teeth, then shifted closer to him. His smirk twitched slightly, but he didn’t move back. His knee bumped against yours, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he watched you move in, his expression expectant, still cocky, but waiting.

You hesitated, just for a second. Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in.

This time, Cartman actually leaned in too.

Your lips met again, and for a few seconds, everything in your brain finally shut off. It was fine. It was normal. It was a kiss. His lips were warm, softer than you expected, and he wasn’t stiff or uncomfortable—he actually kissed you back. His mouth moved against yours, slow, almost lazy, like he wasn’t putting in effort but wasn’t pulling away either.

For a moment, it felt like you were actually doing it right.

Then, you got too eager.

Your hands gripped his hoodie, your body pressing forward slightly, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved your tongue into his mouth with zero finesse, no build-up, nothing.

Cartman jerked back so violently he nearly fell off the bed. "What the fuck—" His entire body recoiled, his hands shooting up to shove at your shoulders as he burst into laughter, his face twisting in disgust. "Oh my God, dude!"

You barely had time to react before he screamed. A full-volume, head-thrown-back scream like he was being murdered, except it was punctuated by uncontrollable laughter. He practically collapsed, rolling onto his side, clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath, still shaking from how hard he was laughing.

"What the fuck was that?" he wheezed, his entire body rocking with laughter. "Why did you fucking—oh my God, dude, I think you licked my uvula!"

Your eyes widened in horror. "I did not!"

"You fucking did!" He kept laughing, slapping a hand against his knee, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "You tried to eat my whole goddamn mouth!"

You grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at his face. "Shut up!"

He barely even felt it. He was too far gone, still curled up, still gasping between laughs. "Dude, holy shit—"

"I panicked!" you shrieked, hands flying to your face as the mortification crushed you. "I thought that’s what you were supposed to do!"

Cartman rolled onto his back, clutching his chest, still laughing. "Not like that!" He gasped, finally catching enough breath to form a sentence, though his grin never faded. "Jesus Christ, dude, that was—I swear to God—that was a fucking assault."

You groaned so loudly you thought you might actually explode. "This was a mistake."

Cartman wiped at his eyes, breath still uneven. "Yeah, for me," he muttered, shaking his head. "Holy fuck, that was awful."

You wanted to crawl into the floor and disappear. Every inch of you was burning, your hands twitching with the overwhelming urge to either punch Cartman in the face or throw yourself out the nearest window. He was still laughing, his body shaking as he wiped at his eyes, looking like he had just witnessed the funniest thing in his entire life.

But then, somewhere between his wheezes, his gaze flicked over to you, and his laughter slowed just enough for him to actually see you. Your face was completely flushed, your shoulders tense, your hands balled into fists against his sheets. You weren’t just embarrassed—you were humiliated. Your lips pressed together tightly, your chest rising and falling unevenly, your eyes locked onto a spot on the floor, avoiding him entirely.

Cartman let out one last chuckle before exhaling, rolling his shoulders like he was forcing himself to calm down. He was still grinning, but when he spoke, his voice had dropped slightly, losing some of the teasing edge. "Alright, dude, relax," he muttered, sitting up straighter. "It wasn’t that bad."

You whipped your head toward him, glaring. "Are you fucking kidding me? You screamed."

Cartman snorted, smirking. "Yeah, because you literally invaded my mouth like a fucking alien parasite."

Your stomach clenched with embarrassment all over again, and you groaned, pressing your hands over your face. "I knew this was a bad idea."

"Okay, first of all," Cartman said, nudging your knee with his, "if you were that bad, I wouldn’t be offering to fix it, now would I?"

You peeked at him through your fingers. "Fix it?"

He rolled his eyes like you were an idiot. "Yes, fix it, dumbass. You wanted practice, right? So let’s practice. One more time."

You froze, your whole body tensing again. "I—what?"

Cartman huffed, shifting slightly so he was facing you more directly. "Look, I know you’re a fucking overthinker, so let’s just get this part out of the way before you start spiraling again. You don’t just shove your tongue in immediately, alright? Start slow. Let the other person meet you halfway. You gotta give them time to react to it, or else you’re just… I don’t know, assaulting their esophagus."

You groaned again, feeling the mortification creep up your spine. "Jesus Christ, Eric—"

"I’m helping you," he cut in, raising an eyebrow. "You asked for this, remember?"

Your mouth opened, then shut again. He had a point. You had asked for this. You had wanted to make sure you didn’t humiliate yourself in front of Damien. And despite all his teasing, Cartman was actually… helping. In his own, completely asshole way.

You took a slow breath, shaking out your hands before looking back at him. "Alright. One more time."

Cartman smirked. "One more time."

You swallowed hard, nodding, your breath coming a little unsteadily as you shifted closer to him. The space between you disappeared fast, the heat of his body pressing against yours as you adjusted your position on the bed. Cartman didn’t lean away, didn’t make another joke, didn’t ruin the moment with some last-minute insult. Instead, he moved toward you too, his weight shifting on the mattress as his arm settled close to your side, brushing against your hip.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, loud and distracting, your skin prickling with nervous anticipation. He was close now, his face inches from yours, his body radiating warmth, the scent of his hoodie—clean detergent, cheap cologne, something distinctly him—filling the tiny space between you. He exhaled through his nose, his usual bravado dialed down into something calmer, more focused. His gaze flickered over your face once, then he murmured, voice quiet and unusually soft, “Just relax.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

Cartman leaned in first, the movement so natural, so uncharacteristically slow that you barely registered it happening before his lips were on yours. There was no hesitation in the way he kissed you. His lips met yours with an ease that sent another shiver down your back, warm and firm, neither too demanding nor too hesitant. Unlike last time, there was no awkward fumbling, no nervous hovering, no disaster waiting to happen. He kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing, like this wasn’t just some stupid favor or some joke waiting to be made.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, anchoring yourself against him. His lips moved against yours, setting a pace that was easy to follow, smooth and controlled, guiding you without words, without teasing. His mouth was warm, the way he kissed you slow but assured, like he was giving you space to figure it out, letting you fall into step with him instead of forcing it.

The heat curled low in your stomach as you gripped the hoodie tighter, pressing forward on instinct, your chest brushing against his. A quiet sound slipped from you, barely audible, but it was enough for Cartman to react. His breathing changed just slightly, a barely-there hitch as he angled his head, moving against you with a little more purpose. His fingers twitched against the bed, his knuckles brushing the fabric like he had the urge to move them but was still holding back.

You weren’t holding back.

Your body leaned in more, closing any remaining space between you. Your hands clenched the hoodie tighter as you moved with him, your lips parting just slightly against his. His reaction was immediate, meeting you halfway, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach twist with nerves. The movement of his lips against yours was slow but firm, not impatient, but deliberate, like he was waiting for you to catch up, waiting for you to relax into it the way he had told you to.

Your pulse thundered under your skin, the warmth of him pressing into you, his mouth sliding against yours, his scent surrounding you. The smallest graze of his tongue barely brushed against yours, light and unintrusive, more of a suggestion than anything. Your body tensed before it melted, the shift happening all at once, your fingers curling even tighter in his hoodie as you let yourself lean into it. A noise bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it, soft and breathy, breaking against his mouth.

Cartman made a low sound, something close to a hum, like he had felt that reaction more than he had heard it. His posture changed, his weight settling more fully into the mattress, his head tilting just slightly, enough that the kiss turned deeper, slower. Your heart hammered as your grip on him tightened, your hands twisting into the fabric like letting go wasn’t even an option.

Your body felt too warm, your skin buzzing, your lips tingling with the press of his, the slide of breath between you. Every nerve felt on edge, oversensitive, your mind clouded with nothing but the feeling of his mouth moving against yours. Your breathing was uneven, your lips parting a little more, chasing the kiss without thinking. The moment stretched, neither of you pulling away, neither of you hesitating, neither of you making it into a joke.

Cartman was the first to break it, pulling back just enough to put space between you, though not much. His breath was still uneven, his lips slightly red from the kiss, his face a little flushed, but his expression was difficult to read. His eyes flickered over your face like he was trying to process something before he exhaled sharply, his mouth pressing into a firm line for a second. His tongue swiped over his lower lip once before he leaned away fully, his posture shifting back into something looser, like he was willing himself to act normal again.

He stretched his arms over his head, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice rougher than usual, like the words were slow to come out. “That was better.”

Your mind was still reeling, your body buzzing with the lingering sensation of Cartman’s lips against yours. It had been your first real kiss—the first one that actually felt right, the first one that hadn’t been awkward fumbling or a complete disaster. Your breath was still unsteady, your fingers tingling, your skin warm from how close the two of you had been just moments ago.

You blinked at him, your thoughts slow and tangled, but as the realization settled in—you had actually done it, and you hadn’t completely sucked—a wide, breathless smile spread across your face. Before you could stop yourself, you lunged forward, throwing your arms around him and crushing him into a tight hug.

"Thank you," you mumbled against his shoulder, squeezing him so hard that he rocked slightly where he sat. "You’re still an asshole, but you’re a good friend. Damien won’t know what hit him."

Cartman let out a strangled grunt, his whole body tensing at the sudden contact. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, shifting under your weight but making no real effort to push you off. "Why the fuck are you hugging me—"

"Because I love you," you said, tightening your grip. "Platonically. Mostly."

His hands finally came up, not to return the hug, but to pry you off him. "Alright, get off me, you needy bitch. I just did you the biggest favor of your life, and now you’re trying to suffocate me?"

You laughed, leaning back but still grinning at him, the weight in your chest lighter than it had been all day. "Relax, coach. I was showing gratitude."

Cartman rolled his eyes, smoothing down his hoodie like you had personally offended him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just don’t go getting all emotional about it. It was a favor, not a fucking Hallmark movie."

"You sure?" You smirked, tilting your head as you nudged his leg with yours. "That was a pretty good kiss. Almost seemed like you enjoyed it."

His expression immediately soured. His jaw tensed, his nose scrunched up slightly, and his eyes narrowed in a way that told you you had just hit a nerve. "Shut the fuck up."

You snickered, standing from the bed, your heart still beating a little too fast, your lips still tingling from the kiss. 

"Hey," Cartman muttered, not quite looking at you, but not ignoring you either. His hands twitched against his hoodie, gripping the fabric for a second before relaxing. "Don’t fucking waste that, alright? If you go in there and kiss that goth bastard like a fucking goldfish, I’m revoking your practice rights."

The corner of your mouth twitched, something warm settling in your chest at the way he was still looking out for you, even if he had to disguise it with his usual smugness. "Noted, coach. I’ll make you proud."

"You better," he grumbled, turning away with a huff. His leg bounced slightly, a subtle twitch in his posture that hadn’t been there before, but you didn’t comment on it.

You turned toward your bag, pulling it onto your lap as you dug around for your phone. The screen lit up, the time staring back at you, reminding you just how little time you had before your date. Your reflection in the dark screen caught your attention, and you frowned, leaning in slightly.

Your lipstick was smudged.

Your stomach flipped, a fresh wave of heat creeping up your neck. You hadn't even thought about that. You had been so wrapped up in everything—your nerves, your panic, the way Cartman had kissed you without turning it into a joke—that you hadn't even considered the fact that there would be evidence of it left on your face.

Cartman hadn’t said anything either.

You swallowed, pushing the thought aside as you reached for your makeup bag. Unzipping it quickly, you pulled out your lip tint, tilting your phone slightly so you could use the reflection to fix it. You swiped the color back over your lips carefully, blending it in, trying to make sure it didn’t look like you had just been making out with someone minutes before going on a date.

Behind you, Cartman shifted on the bed, the mattress creaking slightly as he moved. You could still feel his presence, still sense the way he was watching you even if you weren’t looking directly at him. The air in the room felt different now, heavier in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As you smoothed out the last of your lip tint, you finally glanced back at him. He was leaning back on his hands now, his posture forced into something casual, but there was something off about the way he was looking at you. His eyes flicked from your lips back to your phone, like he was pretending he hadn’t been paying attention.

You pressed your lips together, making sure the color was even before stuffing the tint back into your bag. "Alright," you muttered, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. "I should probably go."

Cartman let out a short breath, his knee still bouncing. "Yeah," he muttered, nodding. "Go knock your little goth boyfriend on his ass."

You laughed, shaking your head as you adjusted the strap of your purse. The nerves that had been eating away at you all day had finally settled, and for the first time in hours, you felt like you could breathe. As you turned back toward Cartman, something caught your eye, making you pause.

There was a faint smudge of color on his lips, barely noticeable, but unmistakable. Your lipstick had transferred onto his mouth.

Your stomach flipped, and before you could think twice, you stepped closer. "Oh, hold on," you said, already reaching out.

Cartman barely had time to react before your fingers brushed against his lips. His whole body tensed at the contact, his shoulders locking up as his eyes widened slightly before snapping into a glare.

"Hey, what the fuck—" His voice was muffled against your fingers as you wiped at the stain, rubbing your thumb over the corner of his mouth. His lips twitched, like he wanted to bare his teeth at you but was holding himself back.

"You got my lipstick on you," you said, grinning as you swiped at it again, this time more thoroughly.

Cartman jerked his head back, his scowl deepening, but there was a flicker of something behind his eyes, something unsettled. "So fucking what? Let me rock it."

Snorting, you grabbed his chin before he could pull away completely, tilting his face back toward you. "Oh my god, hold still," you said, laughing through your words as you rubbed away the last of the color.

He let out a dramatic groan, tilting his head back even further like you were torturing him. "Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking annoying," he grumbled, but he wasn’t actually stopping you. His hands stayed planted against the bed, his knee had stopped bouncing, and he was letting you touch him without his usual exaggerated resistance. His face was warm under your fingers, his skin slightly flushed, his lips pressed into a tight line like he was biting back more words than usual.

You wiped at the last bit of color, giving a satisfied hum. "There. Much better."

Cartman opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but then he hesitated. His gaze flicked over your face, and for a moment, he wasn’t glaring, wasn’t smirking, wasn’t wearing the usual amused look he always had when he was about to say something shitty. His jaw tensed slightly, his lips parting just enough, like he was waiting for you to move away first.

That was when you realized how close you were.

Your hand was still resting against his chin, your fingers brushing the side of his face. He wasn’t leaning into the touch, but he wasn’t pulling away either. His breathing wasn’t as even as it had been before, his shoulders locked in place like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You quickly pulled your hand back, rubbing your fingers against the sleeve of your cardigan like that would somehow erase the moment. "Now you don’t look like you’ve been making out with someone before my date," you said, clearing your throat as you took a step back.

Cartman scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. "Please, I could have pulled it off."

You smirked, grabbing your phone again as you adjusted your bag. "Oh yeah? Next time, I’ll use red. See how bold you’re willing to be."

His expression twitched, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before his usual irritation took over. His scowl deepened, but he didn’t fire back as quickly as he normally would have. His lips pressed into a firm line, his hands tightening where they rested on the bed before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"Alright, I’m actually leaving now," you said, heading toward the door.

He let out a breath, shifting back on the bed, his arms crossing over his chest again. "Yeah, yeah. Try not to fucking embarrass yourself out there."

As you reached for the handle, you turned to look at him one last time. He was still in the same spot, still sitting with his arms crossed, but his expression wasn’t as relaxed as he was trying to make it seem. His jaw was set, his eyes slightly narrowed, his lips still pursed like he had words forming but wasn’t saying them.

You smirked anyways, flipping him off as you opened the door. "No promises."

He didn’t respond right away. He watched you for a second longer, his leg bouncing slightly, his fingers drumming against his hoodie, before looking away.

You didn’t wait for anything else before stepping out.

It had been a few days since your date, and Cartman had heard every detail. You had texted him nonstop, sending updates like you were narrating some once-in-a-lifetime event. Damien had been charming, paid for dinner, walked you back to your dorm, and to top it all off, he kissed you at the end of the night. You had ended the last text with I didn’t headbutt him!!! and way too many emojis.

Cartman had left you on read.

Now, he was walking back from trivia night with Stan, Kyle, Kenny, and Butters, hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie. He kept his head down, barely listening as the others picked apart everything they got wrong that night. Normally, he would have been leading that charge, shitting on Kyle for the answers he got wrong, calling Stan an idiot for second-guessing himself, making fun of Butters for celebrating a lucky guess. But tonight, he wasn’t in the mood.

Kenny must have noticed, because as they crossed the street back toward campus, he shot Cartman a look. “Dude, what’s up with you? You’ve been quiet all night.”

Cartman scowled, barely glancing at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Kyle scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve barely said a word for two hours? That’s insane considering how much you love to talk out of your ass about how bad we are at trivia.”

“You are bad at trivia,” Cartman muttered, kicking at a stray rock on the sidewalk. “That’s just a fucking fact.”

“Yeah, but usually you won’t shut up about it,” Stan pointed out, zipping up his jacket as the cold night air rolled through. “Didn’t even talk shit when Kyle said the wrong answer on that Star Wars question.”

Cartman rolled his eyes. “Whatever, dude. I just wasn’t in the mood.”

Kenny smirked, watching him a little too closely. “You still thinking about her date?”

Cartman’s stomach twisted. His hands clenched in his hoodie pocket, fingers gripping the fabric so tight he thought the seams might pop. He didn’t look at Kenny, just scoffed. “Oh my God, you’re all fucking obsessed,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. “I don’t give a shit about her date, alright? Why the fuck would I? That goth motherfucker can have her. I don’t care.”

Kenny’s smirk widened slightly, and Stan and Kyle exchanged a glance. Butters, who had been quiet up until now, let out a nervous laugh. “Golly, fellas, maybe Eric’s just real tired! I mean, we have had a long day—”

“Shut the fuck up, Butters,” Cartman snapped.

Kyle exhaled, shaking his head. “Dude. Just admit it.”

Cartman frowned. “Admit what?”

Kenny nudged him with his elbow, grinning. “That you’re jealous as fuck.”

Cartman stopped walking.

The others took a few more steps before realizing and turning back to face him. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, arms crossed, his expression shifting through several emotions in real time before settling on something defensive and pissed off.

“Ohhh, fuck you, Kenny,” he said, shaking his head. “You guys are so fucking stupid, I swear to God.”

Kenny chuckled, unfazed. “Then why’d you stop walking?”

Cartman’s jaw tightened. “Because I’m surrounded by dumbasses, clearly.”

Stan, Kyle, and Kenny all looked at each other, the amusement in their faces only growing.

Kyle raised an eyebrow. “So if you don’t care, why haven’t you roasted her about it yet?”

Cartman opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

They were still watching him, waiting for a response, waiting for him to snap back with some insult, waiting for him to say anything.

He should have. He had wanted to. He had wanted to roast you for your stupid texts, for how excited you had been, for how you had sent him a play-by-play of the night like it was the best thing that had ever happened to you. He had wanted to tell you that you were being fucking embarrassing, that Damien probably thought you were desperate, that you were putting way too much stock into one date. He had wanted to call you a loser for the emoji spam alone.

But he hadn’t.

Instead, he had left you on read.

His fingers curled tighter into his hoodie as he forced out a smirk. “Because I don’t care,” he said, throwing his arms out like this whole conversation was ridiculous. “I mean, shit, dude, good for her! She’s finally not a fucking virgin loser anymore! Should I be proud? Should I send the goth motherfucker a congrats text? Frame her first date certificate?”

Kenny rolled his eyes. “Bro.”

“What?!”

Stan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dude, if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t be getting so defensive about it.”

Cartman scoffed, turning back toward campus, walking faster. “You guys are fucking annoying.”

Kyle groaned, following after him. “Oh my God, you are so full of shit.”

Cartman ignored him, keeping his hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes fixed ahead. He could feel them looking at him, could hear the stupid smirks in their voices, could tell they thought they had him all figured out.

This wasn’t jealousy. It was annoyance. You had taken up so much of his time with your stupid date prep, freaked out to him about how nervous you were, dragged him into your dumb little crisis, and now you were off making out with some goth asshole and acting like it was the best night of your life.

Kenny caught up beside him, walking a little too casually. “You sure you don’t care?”

Cartman didn’t look at him. His jaw was still tight, his fingers still curled into his hoodie, his stomach still unsettled from the memory of your last text.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m sure.”

Kenny hummed like he didn’t believe him. “Alright.”

Cartman didn’t say anything else. He kept walking, kept his hands in his pockets, kept his face neutral. The others let it go after that, but the weight in his chest didn’t.

He wasn’t jealous.

He wasn’t.

The bass thumped through the walls, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, cheap weed, and too many bodies crammed into one house. The party was in full swing, people laughing too loud, red solo cups littering every surface, the usual chaos of a Friday night in college. You leaned against the wall in the farthest corner of the room, holding your drink close as you nodded along to what Damien was saying.

For the past couple of weeks, you had been trying to hang out with Eric, trying to call, trying to text, but he kept brushing you off. Every attempt was met with short responses, sarcastic excuses, or straight-up ghosting. Busy, got shit to do, go bother your goth boyfriend. Sometimes he wouldn’t even respond at all.

You wanted to believe it was just Eric being Eric, that he was always like this, that he had a habit of being a lazy piece of shit when it came to effort in friendships. But it didn’t feel like that this time. It felt deliberate.

You had seen him on campus plenty, sitting with the guys at lunch, lounging in the dorm common areas, playing video games with Kenny. He wasn’t busy. He was just avoiding you.

And the worst part? You had no clue why.

Damien’s voice pulled you back to the present. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he took a sip from his cup. “Something on your mind?”

You blinked, adjusting your grip on your drink, forcing yourself to focus. You had dressed for Damien tonight, picked an outfit that leaned heavier into his style—dark mesh, layered silver jewelry, the deep, smoky eye makeup you knew he liked. You wanted to impress him, to make sure you fit next to him, to look like you belonged at his side.

Smiling, you shook your head. “Nah, just a little tired.”

Damien studied you for a second, his sharp, gray eyes dragging over your face, his expression difficult to place. His lips were slightly parted like he was debating whether to push for more, but he didn’t ask again. He was good at that—holding back just enough to make you wonder, keeping his emotions measured, never giving too much away. That mystery had drawn you to him in the first place, made you curious, made you want to know what went on beneath the quiet, confident exterior.

His smirk widened slightly, his gaze dipping lower as he took another sip of his drink before leaning in, lowering his voice. “Well, if you need a way to wake up, I can think of a few.”

His hand brushed against your hip, the touch light but lingering, his fingers pressing just enough to send a small shiver through you.

Excitement sparked in your chest, your heart picking up a little at the attention. He had been flirty before, but not like this, not this direct, not this confident in his intentions. You liked it. You had spent weeks wondering if he really liked you as much as you liked him, if you were overthinking things, if you should make the first move. But now, he was right here, taking that step for you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your cup as warmth spread through your body, nerves mixing with anticipation. He was watching you closely, waiting for your reaction, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew you weren’t going to pull away.

You opened your mouth to respond, your pulse quickening, but before you could say anything, your eyes flicked past Damien’s shoulder, and your stomach twisted.

Through the crowd, the front door swung open, letting in a short gust of cold air that swept through the entryway. Kyle stepped in first, followed by Stan, who was already glancing around like he was trying to spot someone. Kenny trailed behind them, hood still up despite being indoors, his cup already full—probably grabbed from the porch table on the way in.

And then Cartman walked in.

His shoulders were slouched, hands stuffed into the pockets of his zip-up hoodie, the same gray one you always saw him in when he didn’t want to deal with people. His mouth was set in a flat line, not a scowl, but close. He wasn’t saying anything to the others, just following behind like he hadn’t even really wanted to come in the first place.

You weren’t sure why you were surprised. You’d known they were going to be here. You’d heard Stan mention it earlier in the week, maybe even twice. It wasn’t like this party was exclusive. It was one of those open-invite things—just a bunch of people piling into a too-small house, half for the drinks and half for the excuse to say they had plans.

Damien shifted beside you. He must’ve followed your gaze, because his voice dropped just slightly. “You good?”

You turned back to him too quickly, your expression too forced. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”

He didn’t look convinced.

You glanced over again, trying to be subtle. Cartman was still by the door, standing slightly off to the side while Stan and Kyle greeted someone. Kenny had already disappeared into the kitchen. Cartman’s gaze swept lazily over the room before landing—too quickly—on you.

It was barely a second. He looked, blinked, and then looked away just as fast. Like he hadn’t seen anything. Like you weren’t there at all.

The feeling that hit your chest was sharp and immediate, a little flash of heat behind your ribs that left you stunned more than hurt. You didn’t know what you’d expected—eye contact, a nod, even one of his usual shitty expressions—but not that. Not that total dismissal.

You forced a breath out through your nose, lifted your drink, and took a long sip, letting the vodka burn away the rest of whatever you were feeling. When you turned back to Damien, your face was already rearranged into a smile.

“So, yeah,” you said, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation like nothing had happened. “You were saying something about your band getting a show?”

Damien didn’t press. He raised his eyebrows slightly, like he’d caught your shift in tone but wasn’t going to call it out. Instead, he leaned in again, his voice smooth and easy. “Yeah, it’s next Friday. Small venue, some DIY place in the Heights, but the lineup’s decent. You should come. I’ll put you on the list.”

You nodded, focusing on the way his hand brushed your arm as he spoke. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He smiled, just slightly, a soft curve of his mouth that seemed rare on him. The music behind you shifted to something heavier, a distorted bassline shaking the walls, and Damien leaned in a little closer to hear you better. You kept talking, letting the conversation move from music to classes to some weird sociology reading you both had hated last week. Slowly, the tension in your body started to ease again.

But it didn’t last. You spotted Kyle out of the corner of your eye before he reached you, Stan trailing just behind him. They wove through the crowd, eyes locked on you and Damien, and even from a distance you could tell something was off.

They stopped a few feet away, standing just close enough to make it clear they weren’t just passing by.

“Hey,” Kyle said, a little too casual, his eyes flicking between you and Damien. “Didn’t know you guys were here.”

You lifted your cup a little, giving them a half-smile. “Yeah, we’ve been here a while.”

Stan didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at Damien, then back at you, his mouth tightening slightly.

Damien leaned back against the wall, sipping from his drink. “Sup.”

Kyle nodded slowly, but his posture was tight. Not hostile, not openly rude, but stiff in that way that made it obvious he was holding something back. “Didn’t realize you two were… hanging out again.”

Damien let out a soft breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “You guys always check up on her like this?”

Kyle’s jaw shifted slightly, but he didn’t break eye contact. “When we need to.”

You straightened up a bit, shoulders tightening. “Okay. I don’t need babysitting.”

“Didn’t say you did,” Kyle said, his tone still calm, but his eyes sharp.

Stan looked like he wanted to say something more, but held it back, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets.

You opened your mouth to press them further, frustration building in your chest, but the moment slipped away as your eyes caught movement across the room. Cartman had reappeared in the crowd, standing just far enough away that you could see him clearly through the shifting bodies and dim, uneven lighting. He was alone, leaning slightly against the wall near the hallway entrance, one hand wrapped tightly around a red plastic cup. The curve of the cup bent where his fingers dug into it, like he didn’t realize how tightly he was holding it—or maybe he did.

His eyes were fixed on you. Not glancing. Not casually scanning the room. Watching.

He didn’t look at Kyle. He didn’t look at Damien, even as he stood right next to you. He wasn’t looking at Stan, or at the argument building quietly in front of you. His gaze didn’t shift. It stayed exactly where it had been. Right on you.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your own cup, the condensation on the plastic sticking to your skin. Around you, the conversation carried on, though it had lost its clarity. Kyle was asking Damien how long you’d been “talking,” his voice laced with subtle judgment, like he was trying to phrase something ugly in a way that still sounded polite. Stan was quieter, but more direct, asking if Damien was just having fun or if he actually gave a shit. Damien, true to form, didn’t look rattled. He shrugged, the smallest smirk tugging at his mouth, his arms still relaxed even as their tone shifted. He didn’t take the bait.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure what had been said last. Your eyes were still locked across the room, where Cartman stood like a goddamn storm cloud in human form, drink in hand, not blinking, not smiling, not moving. His mouth was set in that tight line you knew too well, the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched it like he was holding back something sharp.

That was when Kenny reappeared beside him, slipping out of the kitchen with a drink in one hand and a half-eaten brownie in the other. He started talking to Cartman right away, his tone bright and animated, using wide gestures like he was halfway through retelling a stupid story.

But Cartman didn’t answer. He didn’t even glance at him.

Kenny slowed, visibly confused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Cartman’s face. Then, slowly, he followed his line of sight—tracked it across the room, through the crowd, until his gaze landed on you.

The smirk that curled on Kenny’s face was instant and unmistakable. Then he lifted his arm and, in that loud, unbothered way only Kenny could get away with, shouted across the house, “Yo! Lover girl! What the hell are you doing all the way over there? Get over here already!”

The words cut through the music and the noise like a blade. A few people turned to look, and someone nearby laughed. You heard a fake wolf-whistle off to the side, followed by a chorus of low, amused murmurs.

Your entire body went rigid, heat flaring in your face so fast it was dizzying. You felt it crawl up your neck, blooming under your skin, impossible to hide.

Across the room, Cartman’s stare finally broke—but only long enough to shoot Kenny a look so cutting and cold it could’ve sliced the tension in half. It wasn’t loud or over-the-top, no sarcastic sigh or dramatic eye-roll, just that narrowed, scathing look he always gave when he was two seconds from losing his patience.

You stood stiffly against the wall, your drink still clutched in both hands, the condensation from the plastic cup seeping into your palms. The blood still hadn’t left your face, and when you finally turned your head, you caught Stan, Kyle, and Damien all watching you.

Stan’s expression was pinched with quiet concern, eyes flicking from you to Cartman and back like he was trying to do the math in his head and didn’t like what it added up to. Kyle was a little less subtle, looking between you and Damien with that tight-lipped, half-skeptical frown of his, as if he was trying to decide if he should say something or just stay out of it. Damien, by contrast, stood perfectly still beside you, his fingers tapping slowly against his drink, not tense exactly, but no longer relaxed either.

Kenny, picking up on the frozen standoff from across the room, muttered something to Cartman and nudged him with his elbow. Cartman didn’t move, his stare fixed somewhere in the middle distance. But Kenny nudged him again, harder this time, and finally Cartman shifted his weight and followed Kenny through the crowd, reluctantly dragging himself toward your corner of the party like it was the last place on Earth he wanted to be.

When they reached you, Kenny took the lead, his usual grin in place as he raised his drink in a mock-toast and nodded at Damien like this was all perfectly normal. “Hey, dude.”

Damien looked at Kenny briefly, gave a polite nod, and then turned his attention to Cartman, who still hadn’t said a word. He stood just behind Kenny, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other gripping his drink like he was imagining crushing it.

You watched the whole thing unfold like you weren’t even part of it.

Cartman’s eyes finally lifted to meet Damien’s. The silence stretched long enough that even Stan looked like he was about to say something just to fill it.

Damien raised an eyebrow, his tone cool but dry. “You gonna keep looking at me like that, or do you want to take a picture?”

Cartman’s lip curled, not quite a smile. “Why? So you can hang it in your sad little dorm full of Joy Division posters and half-dead succulents?”

Kenny let out a sharp laugh and then immediately tried to stifle it behind his drink.

Damien didn’t flinch. “I don’t hang pictures of people I’m not interested in. You might, though. You seem the type to print out people’s selfies and stab thumbtacks through the eyes.”

Cartman stepped forward just slightly, his smirk turning sharper. “Oh, that’s cute. You memorize that one on your way over here? I bet you practice your insults in the mirror, don’t you? Like, ohhh, what would really impress her tonight—should I bring up her failed talking stages? Or maybe name-drop a band nobody likes?”

Stan looked up toward the ceiling and exhaled like he wanted to leave his body.

Kyle muttered under his breath, “Here we fucking go.”

Damien straightened just slightly, calm but not backing off. “You want to make this about me? Fine. But you’ve been dodging her calls for two weeks straight and now you show up to a party just to hover in a corner and glare at me like I killed your cat. Grow up.”

Cartman’s face twitched, not a full reaction, but enough that the silence following Damien’s words felt heavier than it should have. For a second, it almost looked like he might walk away. His jaw clenched. His shoulders shifted.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cartman said, lifting his hand like he was about to recite a script. “Forgive me for not rolling out the red carpet for Damien Fucking Dark-Aesthetic, King of Brooding One-Liners. Didn’t realize I was competing with a guy who probably gets hard to Bauhaus and writes poetry about the moon.”

You blinked, slowly, as the words left his mouth. Competing?

That was the part that stuck. Not the insults. Not the typical Cartman-style meltdown or the way his voice got louder the more unhinged he sounded. Competing.

Competing with Damien?

Damien looked like he was already preparing a response, the kind that came clipped and venom-laced and probably just as dramatic as Cartman's. He inhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he was going to start with something measured and end it with a kill shot—

But you finally stepped forward.

“What the fuck is happening right now?”

Your voice cut clean through the tension, and for a moment, all of them went still. Cartman stopped mid-breath, his mouth half-open like he was ready to keep going. Damien’s expression didn’t change much, but he looked at you now instead of through Cartman. Even Stan, who had been trying his hardest not to get dragged in, shifted his weight uneasily.

Kyle, never one to miss an opportunity, snorted. “You tell us. This dude’s melting down in real time.”

Cartman’s head whipped toward him instantly. “Shut the fuck up, Jew.”

Kyle rolled his eyes. “God, you are so fucking original.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for not wanting to watch her make out with fucking Dracula while I stand here like a dumbass!”

“That’s not what’s happening!” Kyle snapped. “You’re being a freak, as usual!”

“Eat shit, Kyle!”

“Eat better shit, Cartman!”

You groaned, already reaching for Cartman’s arm. He tried to resist for a half second, still gesturing wildly toward Kyle, his mouth mid-rant, but you were already grabbing his wrist and pulling.

“Okay. That’s enough. Come here,” you muttered, dragging him away from the group before someone threw a punch or shattered a bottle.

Cartman sputtered. “What? Where the fuck are we going?”

“Away from them,” you said, not bothering to look back. “Before you embarrass yourself any worse.”

“I’m not embarrassing myself, he’s just—”

“Cartman.”

You said his name flat, final, without the bite as you pulled him into the kitchen with more force than necessary. You didn’t let go until you were both tucked into the farthest corner by the back door. The overhead lights were harsh, too bright after the haze of the party. A few people milled around, talking over the music and pouring drinks, but the corner was quiet enough. You let go of him abruptly and stepped back, heat crawling up your neck from how much of a scene had already been made.

He was already looking at you, arms crossed, mouth in a tense, crooked line that wasn’t quite a smirk. There was no apology in his face, no hint of regret. Just that typical guarded expression he always wore when he didn’t want to be read.

You stared up at him, your voice sharp. “What the fuck was that back there?”

He didn’t blink. “That? That was me trying to help before you started grinding on that guy like a fucking music video.”

You recoiled slightly. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Cartman raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, clearly unbothered. “You were two seconds from asking him to read you his diary over a Joy Division record.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Eric. We were just talking.”

He scoffed. “Right. Just talking. That’s why his hand was practically in your back pocket.”

You could feel your jaw clenching. “You don’t get to act like this after ignoring me for two fucking weeks. Where do you get off?”

Cartman’s expression didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes—quick, fleeting. Still, he shoved it down fast. “Maybe if you weren’t blowing up my phone like a needy ex, I would’ve answered one of your fifty texts.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Needy ex?”

“I mean, come on,” he said, stepping forward, voice rising slightly. “You texted me about Damien’s outfit. Twice. And when I didn’t answer, you sent me a playlist. A fucking playlist, dude.”

You could feel your face flush—not from embarrassment, but from how goddamn infuriating he was. “Because I thought you cared! Because you’re my best friend and I wanted to talk to you!”

He rolled his eyes, mouth twitching into a grin that had too much teeth and none of the usual humor. “No, you wanted someone to gas you up. That’s all I’ve been lately, right? Personal hype man. Walking ego boost.”

You stared at him, stunned. “That’s not fair.”

Cartman let out a dry laugh and turned toward the counter for a second, hand raking through his hair, frustration clearly simmering just beneath the surface. “Yeah? Well, maybe if you weren’t so busy treating me like your emotional support dog, I would’ve answered. But no. I’m just supposed to sit there and nod along while you swoon over some Hot Topic wet dream.”

“Jesus, Eric. You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he shot back, turning to face you again. “I don’t answer for a few days and suddenly I’m the villain? You ever think maybe you were suffocating me?”

That one landed hard. You stepped back, your mouth slightly open. “Suffocating you?”

He didn’t blink. “Yeah. I gave you space. You had your little romance thing going on. I figured I’d back off, let you live your goth girl fantasy.”

You shook your head slowly. “No. You iced me out. You didn’t even give me a chance to know what was going on. You picked a fight, ignored me, and now you’re acting like I forced you to.”

“I didn’t force anything,” he said, shrugging again. “You made choices. I made mine.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, that familiar sting crawling up the back of your throat—not from guilt, but from the way he had flipped everything so completely that for a moment, you actually started questioning if this really was your fault.

“You’re twisting this,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond. He just leaned back against the counter, eyes shifting toward the doorway like he was ready to be done with the conversation, like he’d spoken his twisted version of the truth and expected you to take it as fact. The arrogance of it sat in his posture—his crossed arms, the dismissive tilt of his head, the slight curve to his mouth that wasn’t a smirk but looked too damn close. He was trying to look calm, like this wasn’t a big deal. But his fingers were twitching against his hoodie, and he couldn’t keep still for long.

Your chest tightened. Your mouth felt dry. You’d come into this expecting a fight, maybe some messy apology if you could pull it out of him. But not this—this passive deflection, this gaslighting, this refusal to even acknowledge what you were really upset about.

“God,” you muttered, voice cracking around the edges. “You’re such a fucking coward.”

He flinched, just slightly. Not enough to admit it. But his jaw flexed. His shoulders pulled tighter.

“Yeah? Takes one to know one,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes.

The ache behind your eyes swelled suddenly, and before you could stop it, the tears started. You tried to blink them back, to keep your chin high, but it was no use. You turned your face away, one hand lifting to wipe your cheek, hoping he didn’t see—but of course he did.

Cartman let out a breath, sharp and annoyed, but quieter than usual. His arms dropped to his sides, his whole posture sagging. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.

He pushed off the counter and grabbed your wrist—not rough, but not exactly gentle either. He didn’t explain where he was taking you. He didn’t even ask. He just tugged you along behind him, away from the harsh kitchen light and the muffled sound of the party, down a narrow hallway you didn’t even realize was there. You let him. You didn’t have the strength to fight him off, not when your throat was tight and your face was still wet.

The hallway was narrow and dim, ending in a plain wooden door tucked behind a hanging sheet that looked like it had been used to block off storage. Cartman pushed it open without hesitation and guided you inside.

It was a utility room, maybe. Not quite a basement, not quite a closet. The smell of old wood and detergent lingered in the air, and a single cracked window let in the faintest bit of outside light. A narrow wooden bench ran along one side of the wall, and there were boxes stacked in the corner, some with labels that had long since faded. It was quiet—blissfully, heavily quiet.

He shut the door behind him with a soft click. The noise of the party dulled to a low, distant throb.

You stood there in the silence, arms wrapped around yourself, your face burning with leftover embarrassment. Your throat hurt from how long you’d been holding it all in. He didn’t say anything right away. He stood near the door, hands shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie, his shoulders slightly hunched like even he didn’t know what to do now.

“I wasn’t trying to make you cry,” he muttered, his voice quieter than before.

You let out a shaky breath and turned to face him. “But you did. You humiliated me. You made me feel like I was crazy for caring.”

His brow furrowed, and he looked at you now—really looked. His eyes were dark and restless, like he was working through what to say, but everything sounded wrong. He wasn’t smirking anymore. His mouth was pulled tight at the corners, and his usual defensiveness had cracked, just enough to see that he wasn’t as composed as he pretended.

“I didn’t want to talk about it,” he said eventually, voice low, like each word came out reluctantly. “I didn’t want to hear about how happy you were. Not when I was just… there. Watching it happen.”

You frowned, anger simmering again beneath the hurt. “Then why didn’t you just say that? Why did you make it my fault? Why are you always doing that—twisting things, making me feel like I’m crazy for being upset?”

He didn’t deny it. His eyes dropped to the floor, his jaw set, but his shoulders tensed like the weight of your words hit harder than he expected.

“Because it’s easier,” he muttered. “It’s easier to piss you off than admit I give a fuck.”

Your chest tightened again, and your voice cracked as it left your mouth. “So you’d rather make me feel like shit than just admit you care?”

He looked up slowly, and this time, there was no mockery in his expression. His brows pulled in, lips parted like he was about to speak and didn’t trust what would come out. He looked torn, like he wanted to defend himself but didn’t know how without making it worse.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he said finally. “You’re acting like I’ve got this figured out, like I know how to handle it when someone I—” He stopped himself, cutting the sentence off mid-thought, shaking his head like he could erase the rest of it before it slipped out. “I panicked, okay? I panicked, and I pushed you away before you could do it first.”

Your eyes burned again. “I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line. “Yeah, well. You didn’t say that either.”

He stepped closer—hesitant, deliberate. His hands were clenched in his hoodie again, and he stopped a few inches from you.

“You’re not crazy,” he muttered, voice rough. “You’re just the only person I actually give a shit about. And that scares the fuck out of me.”

You let out a shaky, breathless sound, part laugh, part exhale, like the tension in your chest had finally cracked just enough to let something softer in. It wasn’t a full laugh, not really, but it was enough. You wiped under your eyes with the sleeve of your cardigan and shook your head a little, looking at him through the leftover tears.

“That’s not true,” you murmured, voice still thin but steadier now. “You care about Kenny. And Stan. And Kyle, even if you pretend to hate him every other day.”

Cartman gave a long, exaggerated sigh, tipping his head back like the ceiling had just insulted him personally. “Ugh, don’t remind me. The fuck do you think this is, some after-school special?”

You rolled your eyes, but a weak smile tugged at your mouth, and he saw it—his own shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked less tense now, less coiled, like the edge had been filed off the worst of his pride.

“Alright,” he said, dragging his hands down his face with a groan. “Fine. I’m an asshole. Happy?”

You gave him a look. “Not if you say it like that.”

He dropped his hands and looked at you properly this time, his expression more serious than you were used to. There was still a flicker of defensiveness in his eyes, but it was buried now, dulled beneath the weight of something more honest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded weird coming out of him, like they didn’t quite fit his mouth. “For being a dick. For not answering. For making it your problem when I was the one being... whatever.”

You blinked, surprised that he didn’t immediately follow it with a joke, but he didn’t. He just stood there, watching you, waiting. That was the most unnerving part—he meant it. Or he was trying to.

“I’ll listen,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you wanna talk about Damien. Or whatever the fuck. I won’t make fun of it. Not unless he shows up in a cape or starts writing you poems about death or something, in which case, I make no promises.”

Your smile widened, slow and cautious but real. “You always make fun of things.”

“Yeah, well. I’m growing,” he said, gesturing vaguely to himself. “Character development. It’s disgusting.”

You laughed, not loud, but genuine, the sound easing the last of the tension between you. A smile spread across your face—finally real, not forced through frustration or tears. You looked up at him, the corners of your eyes still slightly damp, but no longer stinging.

Without saying anything, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Cartman stiffened at first, like he always did when someone touched him without warning, but it only lasted a second. His arms came around you hesitantly, like he was trying to figure out where to place his hands. One settled around your lower back, the other hovered like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed, but eventually gave in and pulled you closer. He wasn’t the best hugger—he held too tightly, too awkwardly—but it still made your chest feel lighter.

You squeezed him tighter and buried your face briefly against the shoulder of his hoodie. “Let’s sit,” you murmured. “I have so much to tell you about Damien.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to look at you, his brow already twitching like he was regretting his apology.

“Ugh,” he groaned dramatically, dragging out the word as he let you lead him toward the wooden bench along the wall. “This is my punishment, huh? I make one emotional breakthrough and now I get to listen to you gush about Count Fuckula for an hour?”

You laughed again as you sat down, brushing your hair out of your face. “You said you’d listen.”

“Yeah, but I also say I’m gonna stop eating cheese after midnight and that hasn’t happened either.”

Still, he sat next to you, elbow brushing yours, legs slightly spread the way he always sat—like he took up more space than necessary, like claiming the area was the only way to feel in control. You nudged his knee with yours.

“You’re not getting out of this,” you said, pulling your legs up and turning toward him slightly. “I’m talking eyeliner, playlists, the way he held my hand—”

Cartman groaned again, but there was no bite behind it. “Jesus Christ. Fine. Go ahead. Let’s hear it. Make me regret every choice I’ve ever made.”

You leaned back against the wall, your knees pulled up toward your chest as you smiled through Cartman's exaggerated groaning. His hand was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, jaw tense in that way it always was when he was pretending not to care.

"Okay," you said, settling in. "So you know that playlist I sent you? The one with the weird French synth-pop?”

Cartman grunted. “I didn’t listen to it.”

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, laughing anyway. “Well, Damien did. He knew like half the songs already. Apparently, his mom was some former club DJ or something, which is... weirdly cool? And we’ve just been... I don’t know. Talking. A lot.”

Cartman didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze lingering.

“He’s not what I expected,” you continued, more softly now. “I thought he was going to be kind of pretentious—and, okay, yeah, he kind of is—but he’s also funny. In a dry way. And weirdly sweet? Like he brought me coffee before our 9 a.m. class the other day because he knew I hadn’t slept.”

Cartman let out a long breath, staring at the floor. “Sounds riveting.”

You ignored him. “And we’ve been hanging out more. Alone. Like, at his place.” You paused, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye. “And I think it’s kind of getting serious. Or close to it, maybe. And I’m... excited.”

Cartman finally looked at you, and his brows were pulled together, mouth set in a flat line. “Excited.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. “Like. I don’t know. I haven’t really... done anything before. But I want to. With him. And it’s terrifying, because I have no idea what I’m doing, and he’s been with people, and I don’t want to mess it up or make it awkward. I’ve been overthinking it, obviously, but—”

“You’re gonna have sex with him?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “I mean... yeah. Probably. Not, like, right away. But we’ve talked about it, and—"

Cartman scoffed, sharp and loud. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

You sat up straighter, frowning. “What?”

“I bring you here, I apologize, I listen, and then you turn around and say, ‘Hey, Cartman, just a heads-up, I’m planning to fuck Count Dracula sometime next week.’”

Your face twisted in confusion. “Why are you mad? You said you’d listen. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Yeah, I said I’d listen. Not that I wanted a front-row seat to you skipping off into goth dick wonderland.”

“You’re being an asshole again,” you said, flatly.

He laughed, bitter and humorless. “And you’re being fucking delusional. You think that guy’s gonna take care of you? You think he gives a shit past the eyeliner and the sob stories about how he doesn’t talk to his dad?”

“That’s not fair,” you snapped, voice rising. “You don’t know him.”

“I know the type,” Cartman muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I know how guys like that work. They say just enough cool poetic shit to get you into bed, and then they’re gone.”

Your stomach turned, a mix of rage and confusion and guilt flaring at once. “Why are you acting like this? You disappeared for weeks. You’re the one who picked a fight with me. And now I’m trying to tell you the truth, and you’re punishing me for it.”

“I’m warning you,” he said, his voice lower now, sharper. “Because I know how this ends. And you’re gonna come running to me after he fucks off, and I’m supposed to just sit there and help you pick up the pieces like always.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” you yelled. “I never asked you to do any of it!”

Cartman stared at you, his face hard, but his eyes flickered—something sharp giving way to something else, something smaller, more wounded, but he didn’t let it show for long.

You breathed hard, chest rising and falling, unsure if you were angry or hurt or both. Probably both. Maybe worse.

“Fine,” he said, after a long pause, his voice quieter but more bitter. “Go be with him. But don’t come crying to me when he ruins it.”

You swallowed, hard, blinking through the heat building behind your eyes again. “I didn’t expect you to be proud of me, Eric. But I thought you’d at least try not to make it about you.”

Cartman threw his head back and let out a loud, dramatic groan that echoed off the walls. “Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? I’m not making this about me. You’re the one who dragged me into this little private confessional just to give me the play-by-play of your descent into goth-boy dick hell.”

You recoiled, your face flushing with both embarrassment and anger. “I didn’t drag you. You dragged me. You’re the one who yanked me out of the kitchen like you had something to say, and now you’re acting like I forced you to listen to me.”

“I thought we were talking! Like, for real! Not—whatever this is! You crying and me sitting here hearing about how excited you are to lose your virginity to some dude who wears scarves indoors.”

You clenched your fists in your lap, breathing sharp. “You’re seriously mad that I opened up to you?”

“I’m mad because it’s you, and you don’t even fucking see it,” he snapped, slapping his hand against the wall behind him like he needed to release it somewhere. “You’re sitting here acting like this is just some cute milestone, like it’s no big deal, and I’m the only one being honest about what that means.”

“I know what it means,” you said, your voice rising now too. “You think I’m not thinking about it every goddamn second? You think I’m not terrified? You think it’s been fun sitting on this, wondering if I’m going to fuck it up and embarrass myself and have no one to talk to about it because the only person I want to talk to keeps ghosting me every time he gets weird and petty?”

Cartman flinched—barely—but it was there. His jaw tightened, and he looked away, like he didn’t want to see the way your voice cracked on the last word.

“I’m a virgin,” you said flatly, your voice sharper now, steadier even as your chest tightened. “This is all new for me. I’m scared, Eric. I don’t know what I’m doing. And you—you’ve never told me anything. You’ve been on dates. You’ve been with people. But whenever I ask, you either lie or make some dumb joke and change the subject.”

Cartman muttered something under his breath and turned toward the wall again.

“What?” you demanded. “Say it.”

He turned back slowly, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think you wanted to know.”

“Of course I wanted to know!” you shouted. “You’re my best friend. You’re supposed to be the one I can talk to about this shit. But instead, you go cold, shut me out, and then show up tonight acting like I betrayed you just by moving on with my life.”

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide whether to shout back or walk out, his chest rising and falling in tight, uneven breaths. His face was red, mouth twisted like he wanted to scream or spit or maybe laugh in that cruel, bitter way he always did when he felt cornered.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said eventually, but there was no conviction in it. “You never asked. Not really.”

“You never let me in.” You leaned forward, voice cracking again, softer now. “You’ve been shutting me out for years, Eric. You act like you know everything, like you’re always ten steps ahead of everyone, but the truth is, you don’t know how to be vulnerable without turning it into a joke. And I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m going to get.”

You kept going. “This is all new for me, okay? I don’t know what I’m doing. And you never talk about your own experiences, so I’ve got nothing to compare it to. You’ve been through this. You’ve done all of it. But you act like I’m insane for asking you about it.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, his fingers tugging at the edge of his hoodie sleeve. “Maybe I don’t wanna give a play-by-play of every time I got felt up behind the bleachers. Sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” you said, eyes narrowing. “I just wanted to talk to you. Not read another blog post or watch another video telling me to ‘trust my instincts.’ I wanted to hear it from someone who knows me. From you.”

He was still avoiding your eyes. His knee bounced slightly, jaw tight. “It’s awkward,” he said finally, his tone quieter, more measured. “The first time. It’s never smooth. You’re thinking too much. You forget half of what you planned. Your brain just... blanks. You kinda just learn by screwing it up a little less every time.”

You didn’t interrupt. You sat there, listening—really listening. His posture was tense, his shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to shield himself from how personal it all sounded out loud.

“But it’s not about doing it right,” he continued. “It’s about paying attention. Slowing down. You notice how they react. What they like. If you can’t read the room, you’re screwed. Literally.”

You let out a soft, nervous laugh that you immediately regretted, biting your lip as you nodded. “So basically, I’m doomed.”

Cartman snorted. “Probably.”

You bumped his knee with yours, and his lips twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but not a smirk either. His face had softened just a little, the usual tightness around his eyes fading.

The silence between you settled. Not entirely comfortable, but less strained. You glanced down at your lap, where your hands were clenched together, thumbs fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. There was a question hovering in the back of your throat, one you didn’t even know how to phrase properly. You weren’t going to say it out loud—not directly—but it tugged at you anyway, quietly begging to surface.

“I just...” you started, faltering. You didn’t look at him. “I kind of wish I could practice. Just... not go into it completely blind.”

Cartman looked over at you, his brows pulling together slightly. “What, like run drills? Flashcards?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He was quiet again, but his body tensed slightly, the muscles in his jaw shifting. His eyes didn’t leave you now. His voice, when he finally spoke, was slower—lower, cautious. “You thinking about asking Damien to... what? Walk you through it like a tutorial?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. God, no. That would make it worse. He already knows what he’s doing. And I don’t want to ruin it by—by freezing up or doing it all wrong.”

Cartman blinked slowly, and you watched the realization settle in. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. But his face changed. The smugness disappeared like a light switch had flipped—his eyebrows knitting in slow confusion, his lips parting as if a half-thought protest had caught somewhere between his teeth. For once, he was actually quiet.

He shifted back on the bench. Not away, just enough to lean against the wall again, arms crossing his chest like he needed something to do with his hands before he said anything too real.

“You’re not talking about kissing,” he said, voice lower now, drawn out in that tone he used when he was already three steps ahead. “We already did that.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tilted his head, blinking slow, and you could see the exact moment it clicked. His brows lifted, just slightly. Not in surprise—he didn’t look shocked anymore. He looked entertained.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, smiling now, but it wasn’t nice. “You wanna practice sex stuff. On me.”

Your stomach twisted into a full-blown knot. You felt your entire body tense, heat rushing up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “That’s not—no. I just meant... I don’t know.”

He barked out a laugh and leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “You’re kidding. You’re not kidding. Jesus Christ. I leave you alone for five minutes and suddenly you’re asking if I’ll let you climb on top of me for training.”

You buried your face in your hands. “You are the worst person I could have told.”

He grinned, wolfish now. “You mean the best. Come on—this is fucking gold. You wanna do like... what? A trial run? I’m gonna need a syllabus.”

You didn’t look up. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, far too pleased with himself. “If you hated me, you’d be asking Kyle. Or someone emotionally available. Instead, you’re here. With me. Hoping I’ll let you dry hump me like a crash test dummy before goth boy decides to whip it out.”

You groaned into your hands.

“I mean, fuck,” he said, laughing now. “You’ve really hit rock bottom, huh?”

“Can you be serious for once in your goddamn life?” you snapped, finally lifting your head. “This isn’t just some joke.”

He paused. The laughter stopped, just for a moment. His expression didn’t drop entirely, but it changed—his eyes narrowed, mouth twitching like he was weighing how far he could push before you actually cracked.

You didn’t look away. “You said it earlier. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m tired of feeling like I’m supposed to already know.”

He sat up straighter, his smug posture relaxing, just slightly.

You exhaled. “I’m not asking you to—do anything. Not all the way. But I don’t want the first time anyone touches me to be when I’m already halfway naked and scared out of my mind. I want to know how it’s supposed to feel. I want to not be shocked.”

Cartman was quiet. His mouth parted, but no sound came out at first.

Then, slowly, the edge returned—but dulled. His grin wasn’t sharp now. Just crooked. Cautious.

“And you want me to be the one to teach you?” he asked, voice not as smug as before, but still skeptical. “Like I’m the... what? The prep course before you go full honors with Damien?”

You held his stare. “You’re the only person I wouldn’t feel stupid in front of.”

That shut him up.

Cartman looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t quite know how to process. His fingers drummed once against his arm, then stilled.

“You’re seriously gonna make me be the responsible one, huh?” he muttered, voice low, more tired than mocking. The usual sharpness was gone. He sat still, the bounce in his leg finally quiet. His eyes were steady on yours, like he was bracing for whatever you were about to say.

You bit your lip. It wasn’t a conscious move, just instinct. Like if you didn’t, your voice might shake when it came out. “You don’t have to,” you said softly. “I mean, really. If you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to.”

Cartman let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re acting like I’m being drafted.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossing lazily over his chest. “Look—this doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s a weird-ass room at a college party. You said you wanted to try stuff. So try it. I’m not gonna freak out and write poetry about it or whatever.”

He was trying to play it off—he always did—but his posture wasn’t loose. His arms were crossed too tightly, fingers digging into the opposite sleeve, knuckles flexing every few seconds like he didn’t know where to put his hands now that they might actually be needed for something.

He wasn’t looking at your mouth anymore. He was watching your eyes, waiting. Watching for the first sign that you’d change your mind and bolt.

You took a breath and nodded, slower this time. “Okay.”

He nodded back, once, like he’d been expecting you to say that but still needed to hear it out loud.

There was a pause—long enough for the air to shift again. He uncrossed his arms, glanced down at the space between your knees, and scratched the side of his neck like he didn’t want you to notice his hands were shaking just slightly.

“Alright,” he muttered. “So, uh. What first?”

You scrunched up your face, the nerves bubbling into something closer to frustration—or maybe just embarrassment. You pulled your knees in slightly, arms hugging yourself for a second before you turned toward him. “How am I supposed to know, dude?” you muttered, shooting him a glare that didn’t hold any real heat. “You’re the one who knows this shit. Not me.”

Cartman let out a sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the cold cinderblock walls. “Wow. So you’re throwing yourself at me and making me do the planning? Unbelievable.” He shook his head, settling back against the wall like he owned the whole damn room now. “God, I should start charging for this. Make a little side hustle. Teach virgins how not to cry during foreplay.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the way your lips curled into a smile. That familiar smugness was back in his tone, the same asshole bravado he’d always used to cover anything remotely real—but it didn’t push you away. If anything, it grounded you. The teasing, the mean little jabs—it was him. And somehow, that made everything feel safer.

You scooched closer on the crate you’d both claimed as seating, the wooden slats creaking beneath the weight shift. Your knee knocked gently into his, and you didn’t move away. The air was heavier now, thicker in the space between your bodies. The party noises on the other side of the wall were faint, like they belonged to someone else's night. Here, the silence felt personal. Kind of electric.

Your heart was thudding, but it wasn’t fear exactly. Not anymore. It was something else—something tighter in your chest, but warm. Excitement, maybe. Stupid, reckless excitement. The kind you didn’t want to name yet.

You looked over at him, and your voice was quieter now, but still laced with that nervous edge. “So… we should kiss now, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, and he grinned—wide, crooked, borderline cocky. He tilted his head, squinting like he was pretending to think it over, dragging out the moment just to be annoying. “Well, I mean, if we’re following the official tutorial, yeah. That’d be step one. Unless you’d rather jump straight to simulated grinding, but I think that’s more advanced.”

You shoved his shoulder without any real force. “I swear to God, I will leave.”

“Relax,” he said, still grinning. “You’re paying for this lesson in blushes and dignity, remember?”

You gave him a look, but you didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned in closer.

He didn’t joke again. Not right away. He just looked at you—still smug, yeah, but his smile had softened around the edges. His posture had, too. He wasn’t holding himself quite so tightly anymore.

And he was waiting. You could feel it. Even under the teasing, even through the walls he never really dropped, there was something careful in the way he stayed still—like he was leaving space for you to choose.

You leaned in, slower this time. No laughter in your chest. No panic in your throat. Your breath caught halfway up and stayed there, suspended as you tilted your head just enough to align with his. His lips were parted, the corners of his mouth twitching. His eyes were half-lidded, watching you.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet. Just leaned close until your mouth hovered over his, your nose brushing his, your forehead almost pressing to his. You were so close you could feel his breath, warm against your skin, could see the faint crease between his brows, the way he was holding perfectly still like his body didn’t trust him to react naturally.

“Can I kiss you?” you asked, voice quiet, not because you were scared, but because anything louder might have cracked the moment open too fast.

He didn’t give you a yes. He didn’t give you anything that easy. Just made a low sound deep in his throat, like he couldn’t believe you were asking, like it annoyed him that you needed the confirmation at all.

But he didn’t move. So you kissed him.

Your lips moved against his slow and soft, your hand barely lifting to rest against the edge of his thigh for balance. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t grab at you, either. Just tilted his head slightly to meet you better, his mouth parting just enough to press back, matching your pace. Like he was letting you take the lead, but not totally surrendering to it.

There was something about it that made your chest feel tight—not in a bad way, just in that way where your body recognized the shift before your brain could catch up.

When you finally pulled back, your breath came shallow, your pulse thrumming behind your ears. You blinked at him slowly, and he stared back—his mouth still parted, eyes darker now, like he was still piecing together what just happened.

He exhaled, not quite a sigh, but close. “You’re really leaning into this roleplay, huh?”

You narrowed your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You wanna shut up for two seconds?”

Cartman shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he couldn’t stop it. His hands were clenched lightly in his lap now, and when he spoke again, the smugness didn’t quite land.

“You didn’t suck that time,” he said.

You smiled, more out of instinct than pride, and rolled your eyes with a soft scoff. “Great. High praise coming from you.”

Before he could toss something smug back, you leaned in again. This time with less hesitation, more heat humming under your skin. Your hand brushed the side of his jaw as your lips found his once more, mouths pressing together in a kiss that landed heavier than the first. Not rushed, but fuller. More sure of itself.

He didn’t pull away. His hands were still resting in his lap, caught somewhere between tension and restraint. But you moved. Carefully at first, then with more purpose. You shifted forward on the crate until your knees brushed the outside of his thighs, and you hesitated for just a second—just long enough to make sure he didn’t tense or flinch. Then you swung one leg over and settled on his lap.

His breath caught. Not loud, not exaggerated, but you felt it. Felt it in the way his chest stiffened under yours, in the way his fingers twitched where they hovered awkwardly near your hips, unsure if he should touch or stay frozen.

Your knees tightened against his sides, and the pressure in your chest bloomed into a full-on rush of warmth—like this was it, like you were doing the thing now. The thing that had felt so untouchable before, locked behind everyone else's experience but never yours. Your hands slid into his hair, and you tilted your hips, just slightly, testing the weight of your body over his.

It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You didn’t know exactly what you were doing—just mimicking the rhythm you'd seen in scenes from movies, read in passages late at night you never admitted to rereading. You moved your hips again, slow, pressing down into his lap.

Cartman broke the kiss with a sudden inhale, his hands finally flying up to your waist—not forceful, not pushing you off, but definitely halting your movement. His eyes were wide, blinking hard, his mouth still parted as he stared up at you like you’d just slapped him and kissed him at the same time.

“Whoa—okay,” he said, voice hoarse, tighter than usual. “What—what are you doing?”

You stared back, breath a little shaky now, the heat still high in your chest. “I thought… that’s what I was supposed to do.”

His grip stayed firm at your sides, not moving. His brows were drawn tight now, confusion mixing with something else. Not disgust, not discomfort—but surprise. Honest, unfiltered surprise. Like the reality of what was happening had only just caught up to him.

He blinked once, hard, and swallowed. His voice came out low and uneven, like it took effort just to string the words together. “Are you—like, actually doing this? Like for real?”

You opened your mouth to answer, the nerves rushing back in your chest all at once. “I mean, I thought we were just—”

But before you could finish, he leaned up and kissed you. No warning this time, no room to think, just the sudden press of his mouth on yours. His hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, dragging you down harder into his lap like he’d finally let go of whatever restraint had been holding him in place.

His lips moved against yours with more intent, his breath quick and hot. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, didn’t give you any more time to second-guess what you were doing. He just held you there and rolled his hips up into yours, like he was trying to feel everything at once.

You gasped into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hoodie. Your knees squeezed around his sides as your body jolted slightly from the pressure. He did it again, this time with more purpose, more tension behind it, like the motion had startled even him the first time, but now he couldn’t stop.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath, head tilting slightly as you looked down at him. His cheeks were flushed pink, the color creeping up his neck and into the tips of his ears. His eyes were darker, wide but focused, like he couldn’t look anywhere but at you now. 

His hands were still on your waist, steady but stiff. Not gripping. Not pulling. Just there—hovering on the edge of movement, like he was waiting for a cue you hadn’t given him yet.

“…You’re really good at kissing,” you said finally, voice soft, a little unsteady, but real. The words felt stupid the second they left your mouth, but you needed to break the silence. Needed to say something.

His mouth twitched like he was going to say something cocky—maybe fire off a line—but he didn’t. He just blinked, eyes flicking away for half a second like the compliment made him short-circuit.

You leaned in again before he could recover, and kissed him gently. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers fisting into the fabric of his hoodie as you deepened the kiss, your body rocking forward instinctively. You didn’t know what you were doing—you were just following a thought, a hunch, a thread of something you'd read or overheard. That when guys were into it, their bodies gave them away.

You shifted again, subtly, adjusting how you were sitting on him. Your hips pressed down a little harder than before.

He stilled.

His mouth stuttered against yours, then pulled back suddenly, breath catching as he looked at you with wide, startled eyes.

“…Are you—what are you doing?”

You froze.

Heat rushed to your face so fast it made your scalp prickle. “Nothing,” you said quickly, voice higher than it should’ve been. “I wasn’t—I mean, I just moved. I didn’t—”

Cartman stared at you, eyes narrowed slightly. There was a long, weighted pause.

He sighed, long and loud, like you were making him suffer for something that had been your idea to begin with. His hands lifted from your waist, dragging over his face before settling back into his lap.

“I’ll eat you out,” he muttered.

Your brain stalled.

“What?”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks still pink but his tone returning to its usual impatient cadence. “I said I’ll go down on you. Jesus. You’re the one who wanted to practice, aren’t you?”

You blinked at him, completely stunned, every thought in your head disintegrating into white noise.

He raised his eyebrows, like this was your fault. “Well? You want experience or not?”

You stared at him, still straddling the crate, your hands gripping the edge beside your thighs like the wood might steady you. Your mouth opened, but the words tripped over each other before they even made it out.

“I mean—shouldn’t I—I thought I was supposed to go down on you first or something,” you blurted, your voice breaking somewhere in the middle. “Like that’s how it usually goes, right? I mean, it’s not like I—God, I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Cartman groaned, long and theatrical, as he pushed himself up from the crate and dropped to his knees in front of you. The shift was fast and natural, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like this wasn’t new for him. Like being between someone’s legs didn’t make his heart stutter the way yours was threatening to.

“Oh my God, shut up,” he muttered, already reaching to guide your knees apart.

You blinked, your pulse roaring in your ears. “Wait, I’m just—I’m saying, I thought that’s what guys wanted—”

Cartman looked up at you, his hands braced on either side of your thighs now, fingers firm against the crate. His voice was flat, but not cold. More like he was exhausted by the fact that you were still talking.

“You’re not doing this for me,” he said. “That’s not the point.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

“It’s more important you figure out what you like,” he continued, eyes meeting yours with a kind of frank intensity that made your chest tighten. “How else are you supposed to tell Damien what to do if you don’t even know what works for you?”

You swallowed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice lower now. “It’s not about doing it perfectly. It’s about not freezing up. Not pretending you’re fine when you’re not. And the only way to do that is if you’ve already felt it before. If you’ve already done this.”

Your breath hitched. His hands were still on the crate, his knees pressing into the floor like he wasn’t thinking about what he looked like or how bizarre this situation might’ve seemed from the outside.

You felt dizzy. Nervous. But also steadying—like the ground wasn’t entirely falling out from under you.

“Okay,” you said, quietly.

His eyes flicked up again, and he waited.

You nodded.

He moved immediately, fingers pressing to the top of your knees. Just the weight of his hands made you tense up again, thighs jumping like your brain hadn’t caught up to what was happening. You tried not to react, tried to play it cool, but you were already gripping the edge of the crate like your life depended on it, your palms slick and twitching. He paused for maybe half a second, his thumbs shifting against your skin, then let out a dry snort.

“Jesus. Chill out. I’m not gonna bite.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt locked, your mouth too dry to speak, and your heart was hammering behind your ribs like you’d run a mile uphill. You stared at his hands, watched them move slowly up your legs, felt every inch of heat they left behind as your skirt bunched higher with each inch. It didn’t even feel real. None of this felt real. It felt like something stupid and insane that you would probably lose sleep over for the rest of your life, even if it wasn’t happening yet.

Cartman’s fingers hit the waistband of your tights and he paused again.

“…Can I pull these down?” His voice was quieter now, not soft exactly, but not smug either. Like the edge had dulled just slightly, like even he wasn’t sure how to play this.

You gave another tiny nod, trying not to look at him. You were already flushed head to toe, your chest burning hot under your clothes, your thighs trembling like the cold had found a way into your bones. You weren’t cold, though. If anything, you felt like your skin was overheating, too many nerves firing at once. His hands hooked the fabric, and you squeezed your eyes shut for a second as he started pulling.

He went slow, which almost made it worse. His fingers dragged the waistband down over your hips in little jerky movements, like he wasn’t used to doing this while someone watched. The tights stuck for a second at your knees and he muttered something under his breath—probably about the fabric, or you, or both—but didn’t ask for help. He just kept going until the fabric pooled around your ankles and your thighs were completely exposed.

He made a sound. Just a short exhale. Not a laugh. Not a word. Like something got caught in his throat and he wasn’t going to try and explain it.

“…Wow,” he said finally. He didn’t say it like a compliment. More like he didn’t know what else to do with the silence.

You wanted to die. Actually, genuinely, die. Your arms curled tight around your midsection before you even noticed, fingers gripping your sleeves, shoulders hunched like you could physically shrink out of this moment. You weren’t even looking at him. You couldn’t. You just stared straight ahead, face burning, hands twitching with the effort it took not to cover yourself up again.

Cartman shifted on the floor. You heard the sound of his hoodie sleeve brushing his jeans as he adjusted his grip on the ground. Then he cleared his throat.

“You’re, uh… you weren’t kidding about the nervous thing.” His voice was casual, but too casual. Like he was talking just to fill the air. “Your legs are, like, shaking.”

You laughed once. It came out broken and way too loud for the room. “Oh my God. Shut up.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t say anything for a second. His hands stayed planted against the floor. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel him staring. Not in a gross way. Not greedy or weird. Just… focused. Weirdly quiet.

Then, after a beat: “Can I take these off?”

It took you a second to realize he was talking about your underwear.

Your whole body tensed. You nodded again before your mouth could decide if it was allowed to say the word yes without completely falling apart.

Cartman shifted forward on his knees. His hands came back up and his fingers slipped under the waistband. You swallowed hard, bracing your arms tighter across your stomach as the fabric peeled away from your skin, damp and clinging. You hated how much it stuck, how the elastic dragged down with a soft little sound you couldn’t unhear. He didn’t say anything. Not a word. Not a joke. Not even a grunt. He just kept going until they were off, until they joined your tights in a crumpled mess around your ankles.

You were bare now. Just sitting there. Skirt shoved up, legs open, completely exposed. It didn’t feel sexy. It didn’t feel cool or mysterious or even rebellious. You just felt stupid. You felt seen, and not in the good way.

You risked a glance down at him. His face was tight—jaw clenched, mouth drawn in a line, eyes fixed squarely between your legs. His expression was unread—no. Tense. He looked tense. Like he was trying to process a thought and it wouldn’t come all the way out. His brows were furrowed, just slightly, and he wasn’t blinking enough.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out thick.

“…This is so fucking weird.”

You exhaled, loud and nervous. “Yeah.”

“No, like—” He rubbed the side of his face, the blush now fully visible under his eyes and spreading across his cheeks. “I don’t know what the fuck I expected, but this—” He gestured vaguely. “This is a lot.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, eyes locked on the floor again. “You can back out if you want.”

He scoffed. “Are you serious?”

You flinched. “I just meant—if it’s too weird, I get it.”

There was a pause. His knees shifted again, pressing closer between yours.

“I’m not backing out,” he muttered.

Your fingers flexed in your sleeves again, knuckles burning. You felt like you were going to melt into the floor and disappear. You wanted to say something cool. Something normal. Instead, you blurted: “Do I look... weird?”

He blinked, caught off-guard. His lips twitched, not a smile, more like a short circuit. “What the hell does that even mean?”

You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like—I don’t know! I’ve never had anyone look at me like this before, okay? Maybe my thighs look weird or my stomach’s all bunched or—God, I don’t know.”

He looked up finally. His face was still pink. His mouth twitched again, but this time, it stayed crooked.

“You’re such a freak.”

You opened your mouth to snap at him, but then he leaned in.

His palms slid up your thighs again, warmer now, more sure. His breath hit your skin, slow and steady, and the second it did, you forgot whatever insult you’d been about to throw back at him. You forgot your name. You forgot how to sit still.

“Okay,” Cartman muttered, and his voice was barely a voice now. “Okay. I’m gonna start.”

You nodded again, hands curled into fists, whole body so tense you thought your teeth might shatter.

You could feel Cartman lean in—slow and steady, like he was trying not to spook you. His breath hit your skin first, hot and damp, brushing the inside of your thigh like a warning. And then you snapped—knees slamming shut on instinct like a mousetrap. Your whole body jerked back against the crate, arms curling in tighter across your stomach, breath hitching hard in your chest.

He froze.

For a second, nothing happened. Then you heard him exhale, sharp through his nose, and when you dared to glance down, he was looking up at you—eyebrows raised, face somewhere between concern and smug amusement, like he was half-ready to ask if you were okay and half-ready to make fun of you for flinching like he was a dentist about to go in with a drill.

“Uh,” he said, blinking slowly, “so… guess that’s a no on the tongue thing, huh?”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice muffled and pathetic. “I just—freaked out. I didn’t mean to—”

Cartman sat back a little, not retreating entirely, just giving you some space. “Dude, relax,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t kick me in the teeth or anything. Yet.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. His eyes flicked up to your face and then back down again, and when he spoke next, his voice was different—rougher, a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure how to say any of this without making it worse.

“Okay, look. We’ll start slower.” He shifted forward again, his knees brushing yours. “No mouth stuff. Yet.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Oh my God, don’t call it that.”

“What, you want me to say cunnilingus?” He wiggled his eyebrows, mock-posh. “Because I will.”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder weakly, but he didn’t budge. He just let the joke sit there, giving you a second to breathe, then dropped his voice again—low, casual, like he was just explaining something normal and not offering to get you off in a weird basement closet.

“I’ll use my fingers, alright? That’s it. Just that. It’s less freaky.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes skimming over your knees. “It’s gonna feel weird at first. Probably. But that’s normal. You’ll be fine.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, heartbeat climbing again like it hadn’t already been trying to explode through your ribs. “What… um. What do I do?”

He blinked, startled by the question. “You… just sit there?”

You stared at him.

Cartman groaned, exasperated. “I mean—you don’t have to do anything, alright? I’ll go slow. You tell me if anything feels weird or bad or you hate it or whatever.” He paused. “And don’t do that thing where you say you’re fine but you’re obviously not, because I can tell when you’re lying, you’re really fucking bad at it.”

You felt your face heat up even more. “Okay.”

His hands hovered near your knees again, not quite touching. “Can I?”

You hesitated—just a second—then nodded. This time, you didn’t snap your legs shut.

He let out a slow breath, like even he had been bracing for a repeat. Then he leaned in, hands moving to rest gently on your thighs, thumbs brushing soft arcs across your skin. It was still careful, still clumsy in a way—like he was used to doing this behind a movie theater or in a car, not kneeling in front of someone who was watching him like he might vanish.

You looked down at him again, your breathing shallow, chest tight like it couldn’t hold a full inhale. He looked different like this. Focused. Not grinning, not making jokes, not performing. Just watching you. Checking in. And for once, not filling the silence with bullshit.

Then his hand moved.

Slow. Careful. His fingers skimmed up your thigh with this weird sort of caution, like he was testing the floorboards before stepping. Every inch he covered sent a jolt straight up your spine. Not like electricity—more like gravity tightening. Your breath caught. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You didn’t even blink.

His fingers dipped between your legs, hesitating there for a split second, and then—

You jerked.

Just a little. A twitch. A sharp breath sucked through your teeth the second one of his fingers slid into the slick heat of your folds and pressed gently, curiously, like he wasn’t even sure he should be allowed to be there. The noise that came out of you wasn’t a word, wasn’t anything useful. It was soft, broken—half a gasp, half something else entirely. You bit down hard on your lip, face burning so hot you could feel it pulsing behind your ears.

Cartman didn’t tease you. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he murmured, quiet and low, “Yeah, that’s it. You’re good.”

His eyes flicked up, catching your face. You couldn’t meet them. Your head tilted down, hair falling forward like a shield, your hands still death-gripping the edge of the crate under your thighs. You could feel your own pulse fluttering in your stomach, in your throat, everywhere. It was too much. All of it.

His finger dragged through the slick slowly, rubbing up and down, tracing the shape of you like he was memorizing it. His hand wasn’t shaking, but you could tell he was holding back—applying only the lightest pressure, not rushing anything, just letting the motion settle in until your thighs started twitching with every pass.

“Still okay?” he asked, not looking up this time, voice quiet.

You nodded quickly, still biting your lip, face fully on fire now. “Y-Yeah. Just—feels weird.”

“Good weird or freak-out weird?”

You made another noise. Frustrated. Flustered. Your hips shifted without meaning to, a tiny roll into his hand, like your body was starting to answer before your brain could.

“Okay, that’s good,” he said, and his voice wasn’t cocky.

He pressed in closer now, two fingers rubbing gently up and down the slick center of you. He found your clit after a few tries—missed it once, twice, then landed on it, and your legs jumped so hard he actually froze.

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut. “Sorry—sorry, I just—”

“No, that’s good,” he said quickly. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

You cracked one eye open. He was looking at you again, a weird tightness in his brow like he didn’t want to screw it up. His cheeks were red, but not from laughing. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, and he was breathing through his nose in short little huffs, like he was the one trying not to freak out.

He went back in with more purpose now, rubbing small, careful circles over your clit. Not fast, not rough, just steady. Your whole body responded like a switch had flipped. Your hips twitched, your thighs tensed, and your breath came faster without warning.

“Dude,” Cartman muttered under his breath, like he couldn’t help it. “You’re really—”

He didn’t finish. You were glad. You might’ve died on the spot if he had.

Instead, he kept going, watching your face now like it was a scoreboard. Like every stutter in your breath was telling him something. His fingers didn’t stop. Didn’t fumble. You started to breathe harder, sharper. Your thighs squeezed around his arm, and he didn’t pull away.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured. “Just keep breathing. Don’t freak out. You’re fine.”

You nodded, or tried to. It barely counted—more of a twitch, like your whole body had condensed into this tight, shivery bundle of nerves and heat and you weren’t sure which part of you could still respond in full sentences. You could feel your breath stuttering out of your chest, quick and thin, and your hands were still balled up so hard your fingers ached. But you nodded.

Cartman shifted a little closer, his other hand steadying itself on your thigh, and his voice dropped lower—still calm, but with that edge creeping back in. A hint of something smug.

“Okay,” he muttered, glancing down. “Gonna put a finger in now.”

Your head snapped up before you could think about it. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, like he’d been waiting for you to react exactly like that.

You blinked, face burning even hotter. “...Okay.”

Except it barely came out. More of a whimper. Just a tiny, breathy sound like your voice had folded under pressure and given up halfway through.

But Cartman didn’t laugh. He didn’t even raise his eyebrows. He just gave this short little nod—practical, almost clinical—and looked back down, focused again. You felt the shift in his hand as he adjusted, and then—

The pressure hit before the sensation did. One finger, slowly, pushing in through the heat and wetness, and your whole body tensed like you’d been jolted awake. The stretch was… different. Not painful. Just new. A dragging ache that made your back arch, made your hips twitch, made your lips part around a sound you couldn’t stop.

You moaned. Quiet, shaky.

Cartman’s head snapped up instantly.

His eyes met yours, wide for just a second—caught somewhere between startled and smug—and then he grinned. Big. Stupid. That old shit-eating smirk like it had been waiting just under the surface.

“Oh my God,” he said, voice low but smug as hell. “Did you just moan?”

You slapped both hands over your face. “Shut up.”

“No, no, hang on—” His grin widened. “That was you, wasn’t it? That little noise? Like ‘mmnh—’” He mimicked you horribly, voice pitched high and ridiculous. “Jesus, dude, I didn’t even move yet.”

You groaned, curling forward, face buried in your hands like you could maybe muffle the heat crawling up your neck. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he said, and now he sounded like himself again—cocky, relentless, riding the high of embarrassing you like it was a personal hobby. “You’re just mad ‘cause I’m good at this.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, but the second you did, you felt him shift again—and his finger moved.

Your breath caught.

He watched your face, smirk still tugging at his mouth, but his eyes sharper now, tracking the way your lips parted, the way your thighs twitched. He moved again—deeper this time, slow and careful, curling just slightly on instinct—and you whined, your voice cracking halfway out of your throat.

His grin twitched.

“…Okay, yeah,” he muttered. “That was definitely a moan.”

“Cartman—” You tried to say his name like a warning, but it came out more like a whimper.

“What? I’m helping. You’re the one losing it over one finger.” He pumped it in again, shallow but smooth, the wet sound of it filling the quiet like it wanted to humiliate you on his behalf. “God, Damien’s gonna break you.”

You slapped his shoulder. Weakly. “I swear to God—”

He laughed under his breath, barely dodging your hand, still grinning like he’d just won a bet. But his pace didn’t change. You could feel your breath catching faster now, feel something coiling tight in your stomach. His finger curled again, just slightly, and your whole body jolted—hips twitching, breath catching, another moan dragging out of your mouth before you could even try to bite it back.

Cartman’s grin dropped a little.

He looked up at you again—still smug, still clearly enjoying the power trip—but his eyes flickered over your face like he was recalibrating. Like maybe he hadn’t actually expected it to work this well.

He shifted his hand again, the heel of his palm brushing higher, closer to your clit, and your back arched in response.

“…Shit,” he muttered. Not cocky this time. Just surprised.

You were already shaking. Knees wobbling. Hands gripping the crate like you were afraid you’d lift off the floor if you let go. You could barely breathe, and he hadn’t even added a second finger yet.

“Still good?” he asked, and this time, it didn’t sound like teasing.

You nodded, barely able to get the word out. “Y-Yeah. Just… don’t stop.”

Cartman laughed.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—low and short and so fucking smug it made your skin crawl. He didn’t even try to hide how amused he was. He leaned in a little, palm pressing heavier against your thigh as he tilted his head and grinned up at you like he’d just caught you mid-fall and decided to let you keep tumbling.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, mouth curled into a full-on smirk now. “You’re so fucking gone already. One finger and you’re begging.”

You flinched like he’d hit a nerve—and maybe he had, because it was true, and hearing it out loud made the heat in your face flare so bad you were pretty sure you could boil alive in it. You looked away immediately, eyes darting to the wall like it could give you cover, but it didn’t matter. He was still watching you. Still moving.

And then he added another.

Your whole body locked up for half a second—back arching, thighs twitching as he pushed in slow, the stretch sharper this time, more intense. You gasped, not even meaning to, the sound escaping before you could think, and Cartman snorted like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“There it is,” he said, fingers curling just a little. “That’s what I was waiting for.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, fast, trying to smother the next noise before it got out. Your eyes were wide, chest rising in sharp, unsteady jerks, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of your ribs. His fingers moved again—pushing in deep, then dragging back slow, steady, relentless. You bit into your palm, trying to breathe through your nose, trying to stay quiet, but your hips were already twitching again, chasing the pressure without thinking.

“You really thought you were gonna handle Damien without panicking,” Cartman muttered, voice thick with amusement. “You can’t even handle me.”

You whimpered, shaking your head even though you weren’t sure what you were denying. The words didn’t come. They couldn’t. Your throat was tight, your mind blank, your whole body focused on the slow, rhythmic thrust of his fingers and the heat crawling up your spine like it was going to swallow you whole.

And Cartman just kept grinning.

“God,” he muttered, more to himself now. “You’re soaked. It’s like a fucking Slip N’ Slide down here.”

You made a sound—somewhere between a moan and a sob—and clapped your hand tighter over your mouth, as if that would somehow erase the noise. As if he hadn’t already heard all of it. As if he wasn’t getting off on the way you were trying so hard to hold it together.

He leaned in closer, smirk pressing sharp against the edge of his voice.

“What?” he said, almost whispering now. “You embarrassed?”

You nodded frantically, eyes squeezed shut, face burning so bad it felt like it might crack open from the heat.

Cartman snorted again, his thumb brushing the top of your thigh, way too close to everything.

“Good.”

You didn’t flinch this time. You didn’t hide. Slowly, you lowered your hand from your mouth and looked down at him, the flickering overhead light catching the gloss in your eyes. There was no witty comeback, no dramatic gasp, no fake outrage like you’d usually hurl his way when he pushed too far. Your lip was trembling faintly, your breathing shallow and fast, and your face—flushed and vulnerable—was twisted up in this awkward, pleading kind of uncertainty.

And Cartman saw all of it.

His hands stilled. His fingers, still buried inside you, stopped moving like they’d hit a wall. He blinked once, not confused, not oblivious, but like he’d just registered it fully—what this actually was. His mouth parted, eyes flicking over your face again, slower this time, less sure of himself. You weren’t just squirming and gasping and biting your lip because you were turned on. You were trying not to freak out. You were trusting him with a part of yourself you hadn’t even figured out yet, and he’d been riding that like it was a joke.

He exhaled slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was rough but different—stripped down, quieter, steadier. “You’re doing good.” His eyes didn’t drop. He held your gaze, his brow furrowed in the kind of awkward, unspoken apology that only Cartman could manage—like the words themselves were too hard to form, but the meaning was still there in the way his voice softened, in the way he wasn’t smirking anymore.

You blinked quickly, heat stinging at the corners of your eyes again, and gave a small, shaky smile. Nodded. Just barely. That was all he needed.

He dipped his head lower without saying anything else, mouth brushing over your thigh first—slow and steady, like he was letting you feel each inch of him as he shifted. 

Your whole body flinched, breath hitching hard in your throat. He didn’t hesitate this time. His tongue was hot, dragging slow through the wet mess between your thighs like he was trying to feel out every reaction you couldn’t verbalize. He didn’t tease, didn’t joke, didn’t say a single smug word. He just held you open—one hand braced on your thigh, the other still inside you, fingers curled slightly, resting there while his mouth took over.

“Fuck—” The word broke out of you, hoarse and high-pitched. “Eric—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. His fingers shifted slightly inside you, curling deeper, finding a spot that made your stomach lurch and your back arch. His mouth worked in time with the motion, lips slick and focused, tongue moving in tight, practiced circles until your breathing was just soft, broken gasps layered one over the other.

Your voice cracked before the words made it out. “Fuck—Eric, I’m—” You couldn’t even finish. You felt your whole body start to curl in on itself, like every muscle was bracing. “I’m gonna cum—oh my god—I’m gonna—”

He didn’t stop. But you felt the shift in his rhythm, the way his tongue slowed just slightly, pressing in deeper instead of faster, dragging that moment out like he knew exactly how close you were and wanted to hold you right there. You whimpered, eyes wide, head falling back against the wall with a soft thud as your hands clenched hard in your lap, fingers digging into your own sleeves like they might anchor you.

And then he spoke—his voice low and breathy against your skin, but smug as ever.

“Oh, now you’re gonna cum?” he muttered, not bothering to lift his head. “You sure? I don’t wanna, like, mess up the vibe if you’re just being dramatic again.”

The words hit you like a slap and a punchline all at once. Your face flamed hotter, your throat catching around a choked breath, and your whole body seized up like it wanted to crawl backward out of itself. “Shut the fuck up,” you gasped, the sentence barely coherent through the noise in your head. “I swear to god—”

But you never got the rest out.

His fingers curled, sharp and perfect, hitting deep, and his tongue flicked fast and focused over your clit with this ruthless consistency that knocked every thought clean out of your brain. The tension broke in a flash—fast, full, and overwhelming. Your thighs clamped down around his head on instinct, your hips jolting forward as your body locked up and came hard, every nerve alight and spasming with a heat you hadn’t known you could feel. You moaned—loud, unfiltered, torn straight from your throat—and there was no covering it this time.

Your body shuddered, legs trembling, stomach jumping in helpless aftershocks, and through all of it Cartman stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. His mouth kept working you through it, tongue dragging slow and heavy now like he was licking the last of it from you, like he wanted the mess, like he’d been waiting for it.

And then the realization hit.

Your face went cold first, then hot again in a full wave of red that swept up your neck and hit behind your ears. Your eyes flew open. You blinked at the ceiling like it might somehow undo what just happened, like the warehouse lights above might offer you an exit from your own body.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, voice ragged and too loud. “I just—Eric—I came on your fucking face—”

Cartman finally leaned back, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth in one slow swipe. His chin glistened. His lips were shiny. He looked up at you with this totally shameless expression, eyes lit up like you’d handed him a trophy he hadn’t even asked for. His smirk spread slow and stupid, cocky in a way that made your stomach turn and your skin crawl in equal measure.

“Yeah,” he said, like he’d just confirmed something obvious. “You did.”

You covered your face with both hands again and let out a noise that wasn’t a word, wasn’t even a proper groan—just a mortified sound from somewhere deep in your chest as your body tried to collapse into itself and disappear.

Cartman was still looking at you, clearly enjoying himself. You didn’t have the strength to glare. You barely had the strength to sit up. All you could do was stay folded in, thighs still twitching, breathing uneven, the taste of your own orgasm still thick in the air and his fucking grin burned into your eyelids.

event masterlist | part two ₊˚⊹♡

[thiamstuff]

“You’re My Raccoon”

Here is the link

Liam and Theo’s first official date?

Total disaster. Burnt pasta, McDonald’s fries, a war over the blanket, and-unfortunately-blushing. Theo’s still deciding if dating Liam is chaos or comfort. (Spoiler: it’s both.)

The apartment smells like burnt tomato sauce and Theo’s terrible life choices.

Liam stares down into the pot like it personally offended him. Bubbles pop aggressively at the surface, the sauce watery in some places, scorched black in others, a complete disaster.

“This is your fault,” Liam mutters, nudging Theo out of the way with his hip.

Theo raises both hands like he’s innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You literally dumped the pasta into cold water and then walked away.”

Theo snorts, flicking a piece of spaghetti at him. “I was multitasking.”

“You were on your phone watching raccoon videos.”

“Yeah. And? Inspirational content.”

Liam glares at him. “You were supposed to cook. It was your turn.”

“I did cook.”

“No, you ruined cooking.”

Theo leans casually against the counter like he’s done nothing wrong. He’s wearing Liam’s black Henley—his favorite one—and the sleeves are pushed up just enough to expose his forearms. Liam tries not to notice. Tries not to notice the way Theo’s hair is still slightly damp from his shower, how he smells like Liam’s shampoo now, how he’s standing barefoot in Liam’s apartment like he’s always belonged there.

Theo grabs a spoon, stirs the disaster sauce like it’s fine. “I mean, how bad can it be?”

Liam watches a soggy noodle float to the top like a corpse. “We’re gonna die.”

Theo tastes the sauce anyway. Grimaces. “Okay. Maybe we shouldn’t eat this.”

“You think?”

Theo tosses the spoon in the sink. “Wanna get McDonald’s?”

Liam’s already grabbing his keys.

_

The drive’s quiet. Not awkward quiet. Just their usual quiet.

Theo’s got his knee up on the seat, picking at the skin around his thumb like he’s got a million things to say and no idea how to say them. Liam drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming along to some stupid pop song on the radio.

Every few seconds, Liam catches Theo glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Theo opens his mouth like he’s about to speak but then shuts it again.

Liam pretends he doesn’t notice. Turns the music up.

They pull into the drive-thru, and Theo leans over, reading the menu like he’s never been to McDonald’s before in his life.

“Why are you studying it like it’s the SATs?” Liam asks.

Theo’s dead serious. “I have to choose wisely. This is my first post-prison McDonald’s.”

Liam laughs under his breath. “It’s not that deep.”

“It is,” Theo says. “Fries are life or death.”

Liam shakes his head but his heart’s so full it hurts a little.

_

They end up parked on the edge of Beacon Hills, the kind of place where the trees thin out and the sky stretches wide and open above them.

Theo’s sitting on the hood of Liam’s car, a McDonald’s bag crumpled between them, a box of fries balanced precariously on his knee. Liam’s drinking a Coke, kicking at the gravel with his sneaker.

“Okay, you have to admit,” Theo says, mouth full of fries, “I absolutely killed this order.”

“You got two cheeseburgers and fries,” Liam deadpans. “The most basic order.”

“Yeah, but the execution? Immaculate.”

“You sound like Gordon Ramsay.”

“I could be. If Gordon Ramsay liked raccoons.”

Liam raises an eyebrow. “Why do you keep bringing up raccoons?”

Theo just grins. “I feel spiritually connected to them. Messy. Hungry. Unhinged.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You like it.”

Liam chokes on his drink.

Theo laughs so hard he drops a fry on his hoodie.

_

The sky’s stupidly clear tonight. Stars scattered across it like someone spilled glitter.

They fall into a comfortable silence, shoulders brushing, sharing fries, sharing warmth.

Theo leans back on his elbows, eyes on the stars. “You ever think about how weird this is?”

“What?”

“This. Us. Me, out of jail. Living in your apartment. Wearing your clothes. Sharing your fries.”

Liam tosses a fry at him. “You make it sound like you’re a stray I took in.”

Theo catches the fry in his mouth, smirking. “Did you?”

Liam rolls his eyes but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not a stray.”

“Am I yours then?” Theo says it so casually, but his voice drops just a little too soft.

Liam’s throat goes dry.

“You’re mine,” Liam says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been.

Theo goes quiet. For once, he doesn’t have some smart-ass comeback.

He just leans a little closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough to feel.

_

When they get home, Theo hovers in the hallway, tugging at his sleeve.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says. “Don’t wanna make things weird.”

“You already did,” Liam says, stepping out of his shoes. “You wore my shirt. You stole my fries. There’s no recovery.”

Theo scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah but… the bed’s your space.”

“So?” Liam tosses him a pillow. “You’re part of that space now.”

Theo’s ears turn so pink. Like instantly.

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” he mutters.

“Nope.”

“Fine. But I’m sleeping on top of the blanket.”

“You’re not,” Liam says, walking past him. “Because you’re a blanket hog and you’ll end up wrapped around me anyway.”

Theo groans. “I hate you.”

“You like me.”

Theo mumbles something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to yeah, I do.

_

It takes them fifteen minutes to settle because Theo keeps moving around, overthinking where to put his arms.

At first, they lie stiffly, backs to each other like the bed’s suddenly too small.

Liam flips over first. Hooks his chin on Theo’s shoulder.

“You’re still awake,” Liam whispers.

“No I’m not.”

“You’re literally talking to me.”

“I’m sleep-talking.”

Liam laughs softly against his skin. “Come here.”

He drags Theo closer, his chest pressed against Theo’s back, arms lazily wrapped around his waist.

Theo goes rigid. His breath stutters.

“You gonna freak out?” Liam teases.

“I’m considering it.”

“You want me to let go?”

Theo’s quiet. “...No.”

Liam nuzzles the side of his neck. “Good.”

A long beat passes. The kind that feels like the world shrank to just this bed, just this room, just them.

“I’ve never really done this before,” Theo whispers. “The date thing. The… this thing.”

“The ‘falling asleep in my arms’ thing?” Liam hums. “Yeah, me neither. Guess we’re both just gonna figure it out.”

“Could’ve picked someone less annoying to figure it out with.”

“You love it.”

Theo sighs, settling deeper into the hold. “Unfortunately.”

_

Ten minutes later, Theo’s still awake. Still tense. Still overthinking.

“You gonna relax or—”

Liam doesn’t finish the sentence. He just leans forward and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Theo’s cheek.

Theo’s entire body short-circuits. His face turns a deep, furious shade of red.

Liam smirks against his skin. “Oh my god, are you blushing?”

Theo shoves his face into the pillow. “Shut up.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I hate you.”

Liam peppers another kiss to his jaw just to be extra annoying. “You like me.”

“Shut up.”

“You like me.”

Theo groans, dragging the blanket over both their heads to hide.

Liam’s voice softens. “Goodnight, raccoon boy.”

“M’not a raccoon.”

“You’re my raccoon.”

Theo huffs, but Liam can feel his smile in the dark.

And as Theo finally, finally relaxes, fingers loosely gripping Liam’s wrist where he’s holding him, Liam thinks maybe this was the perfect first date after all.

Hey hey, this is my little gift for @bigjarofthiam ! 💙

It’s actually my first time posting a fic like this I really hope you like it

I do have the before story like how Theo got out of prison but I haven’t posted that part yet.

I made this mood board, inspired by your one-shot fics

Thiam one shots

[multiheadcanons]

I TELEPATHICALLY CHANNEL ALL OF MY PERIOD PAINS AND TRANSFER IT TO THE MERCS AND DONT CHANGE THE PRONOUNS.

scout: scout is god’s favorite. he exercises so often that he doesn’t really experience cramps, and though his cycle is heavy it only lasts a few days. serious mood swings too. don’t show him any sad shit because it will profoundly affect him and he will cry. and then he’ll get mad at you because he’s crying. then you have to go make amends. and you better do it right or you’ll piss him off more. tries not to jump as often because he hates the feeling of it when he’s on his period.

soldier: no noticeable change but the cravings go crazy. literally posted in the kitchen at all times, if not cooking something staring intently at the microwave, honestly he’s probably doing both. likes the heat of the oven on his stomach. someone get him a rice sock to put in the microwave— actually maybe don’t. that’s a weapon. you just gave him a weapon. he’ll actually fight you with it if he gets pissed off enough. please don’t get hit by soldier’s rice sock.

pyro: posted in the shower, and it’s like a sauna in there. the heat relaxes their muscles; and they feel a little closer to normal. on the field, they do their best to not let it affect them, but sometimes the blood pooling in the suit makes them want to throw up. can’t handle the smell of it as they literally bake in their suit. they’re in the shower if they’re not on the field. and they’ve never been more grateful for their bed being so soft.

demo: cramping, bleeding, and pissy. will take a page out of scout’s book and switch out his grenade launcher for his sword and run more often to alleviate the cramps. can’t take any medication for any of the pains because he drinks too much, so he doubles the dose when he takes aspirins for the hangovers and calls it a day. also is in bed if he isn’t on the field. and unnecessarily touchy. the pressure of a hug feels good on his back. just starts draping himself across anyone who’s unfortunate enough to sit in the same room as him, and closes his eyes and tries to sleep. the team has learned it’s because he wants some pressure placed on his stomach. they’ll generally oblige for him. it’s not too much to ask for a belly rub here and there.

heavy: the cramps don’t bother him. the mood swings he can handle… mainly. it’s the cravings. the cravings kill him. there is no reason he should want a deep fried pickle encrusted in a fruity pebble beer batter and garnished with cilantro and lime, but dammit does he so bad. that’s when he starts making scooby-doo level sandwiches. and he’s so sentimental. it doesn’t seem so, but the random “i value you as a member of the team” from heavy goes so far for the team’s morale. dont cry about it, because he will tear up and reaffirm that you are loved and he loves you. and don’t let him and scout sync up or they’re both going to watch sad movies and cry on each other’s shoulders. what saps.

engineer: god’s favorite… kinda. generally light cycles, no cramps, but they last like a week and a half and his body in general just aches. back hurts, legs hurt, arms hurt, shoulders hurt, major headaches. he’s pounding ibuprofen like it’s going out of style. he could really use a massage, but he feels awkward complaining. so he grits his teeth and gets to work. more sour than normal, but it’s not mood swings. he is in physical pain. it’s like he can feel every bone in his body, and he’s feeling them age in real time. sometimes, if the doctor catches him eating ibuprofen, engie can get a quick massage out of him. enough to give temporary relief from the aches. obviously not enough to give real relief, but enough that whichever body part isn’t working works… a little more. the first time engie got a massage, the doctor just started firmly knocking on his tibia, and engie’s eyes were opened to what it could potentially feel like to have a bolt screwed into his body. his legs felt like jelly, and he had never felt better for battle!

medic: dead in the infirmary. leave him alone. bad cramps, thick clots in his cycles. luckily they only last about five days but he is in pain pretty much every day of it. it pisses him off. it’s exhausting, he’s exhausted, and he wears way too much white and cream to be bleeding the way he does. takes it out on the field. he’ll fistfight you if you get close enough for his arms to reach. fuck the bonesaw, these hands got guaranteed crits. prefers cold compresses over warm ones, though he knows they’re less effective. warming devices overheat him too quickly to use them often, and he prefers to be cold. the ubers help a lot, but once the charge is over the pain returns. at that point he’s taking the whole uterus out. fuck the dumb shit. normally asleep on the operating table, and if you catch him slipping you’ll see blood on his pants. if you bring it up he’ll kill you.

sniper: dead in the van. leave him alone. not as bad as it could be, in comparison to the other mercs, but the second the bleeding starts he is pissed off at worst and irrevocably annoyed at best. cramps hit him very specifically as he’s sitting. and he sits a lot on the job. but standing hurts his feet. he can’t win any way he slices it, and that pisses him off. he starts feeling some type of way about his job, which pisses him off, he’s just very pissy on his period. ultra mega major shit talker. and he will back it up if he has to, then be pissed he got himself in that position. jarate is shelved for the moment. he might be gross but he’s not a freak. the period cravings go crazy, hide the whole fridge. but if he goes in there and the fridge is empty, guess what? he’s gonna be pissed. he will beg someone to get in that kitchen and cook. he will pay for a hot meal. he’d pay ten times the market price for a bag of chips right now. he’s on the verge of tears from the hunger he’s feeling. then his stomach hurts because he’s eating like garbage. and guess what…. yeah you know, he’s gonna get pissed off.

spy: dead in the smoking room. leave him alone. god’s most hated. body aches, mood swings, migraines, cramps for a week. some of those cramps will drop him to the floor, and he hasn’t quite learned how to not react to the pain, so he stays in the smoking room for as long as he can. he’s on as much pain medication as he can be on without destroying his organs. cigarette consumption doubles. bags under his eyes from uncomfortable sleep. on the verge of tears pretty much at all times, and he never knows why. he’s just more distraught than usual. but if you actually piss him off he’ll just shoot you in the foot.

[sevasey51]

One night Jay and Will reveal to Connor just how unhinged and petty his wife can be when people cross her. Jay and will come with receipts and think it’s hilarious 😂

She’s Sweet… Until She’s Not

Summary: At Molly’s, Jay and Will reveal to a stunned but amused Connor just how petty and chaotic his wife can be when crossed—complete with stories of sabotage, strategic revenge, and a grudge notebook. Connor is both horrified and proud, realizing he married a tiny war general.

It was a rare Friday night where nobody was on shift—no code blues, no emergency surgeries, no last-minute warrants or patients crashing. Just a couple beers, too many fries, and good company at Molly’s. Connor sat at the high-top with his arm slung around your shoulder, your fingers absentmindedly picking at the salt on the rim of your glass. Jay and Will were across from you, deep in a debate about which of them had suffered the most public embarrassment courtesy of one petty, vengeful, and infuriatingly clever you.

Connor, completely unaware of what was coming, sipped his beer and tilted his head. “Wait—what are you two even talking about?”

Jay leaned forward, smirking. “Oh, we’re talking about your sweet wife and how she turns into a petty little war general when someone pisses her off.”

You gave Jay an innocent look, blinking slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh please,” Will snorted. “Connor, I’m not exaggerating—she has a grudge journal. An actual notebook. Labeled. With color-coded sticky tabs.”

Connor nearly choked on his drink. “She what?”

“It’s adorable,” Jay deadpanned. “And terrifying. She’ll smile at you in the hallway while silently plotting your downfall.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. Connor slowly turned to look at you, now very interested.

Jay pulled out his phone. “You wanna see receipts?”

Connor blinked. “You have receipts?”

“Oh, do we,” Will said, sliding his phone across the table. “Remember when that nurse kept passive-aggressively moving her wheelchair bag out of the staff bathroom because it ‘took up too much space’? She got mysteriously assigned to every single code brown for three weeks straight. Weird.”

“She said it was coincidence,” you shrugged innocently. “I mean, staffing rotates…”

Jay leaned in. “And remember that paramedic who said she was too dramatic about endo pain? A week later, someone sent in an anonymous complaint about his parking violations, and suddenly he’s getting ticketed every shift. Wild how the system works.”

“I believe in accountability,” you said, sipping your drink with zero shame.

Will grinned. “She had a full PowerPoint ready when Med tried to cut her department’s supply budget. Literally titled ‘Congratulations, You Played Yourself.’ With memes.”

Jay added, “And don’t forget the iced coffee situation.”

Connor raised a brow. “What iced coffee situation?”

Jay and Will shared a look. Then Will smirked. “Okay. One time, Connor, someone at Med kept ‘accidentally’ drinking her labeled coffee from the fridge.”

“Which is sacred territory,” Jay added.

Will nodded solemnly. “So she replaced it with a decoy. Same cup, same label. Filled it with a very specific laxative and oat milk blend. Waited. Watched. Then walked by the nurse’s station the next day, sipping her real coffee, and went: ‘Hope that tasted okay. It was a trial batch.’ And just walked away.”

Connor stared at you. “That was you?! That was you?! I remember that week! The whole floor had a hydration station set up!”

You bit your straw to keep from laughing.

“She’s an icon,” Jay said, raising his glass to you. “And she keeps that same energy in every aspect of life. Like that one guy on Insta who kept flirting with her in DMs? Instead of blocking him, she kept sending him unsolicited photos of your surgery textbooks. Nothing but blood, muscle, bone. He ghosted himself.”

Connor looked at you with a mixture of awe, amusement, and just a little fear.

“I married a chaotic mastermind,” he muttered.

“You did,” Will confirmed.

“She’s our tiny war general,” Jay said, clinking his glass with yours.

You raised your glass with a cheeky smile. “To justice.”

Connor just laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You terrify me.”

And you? You just leaned into his side and murmured, “Good. Keep it that way.”

[iguana-eyanna]

From The Bird's Eye View Chapter 5

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: Although you achieved your dream of being a designer, you never considered meeting a man who's also a father.

a/n: This story line has been about 4 years in the making as "The Blood Within Us" was my favorite fic to write. I really wanted to finish the Bruce Wayne saga but I have been facing a lot of writer's block now a days. This current series will have two chapters that will be published in a few months. In the mean time, thank you for reading.

“Tim! You’re going to be late to school!” You yelled, knocking on his door once again. 

As if on cue, Tim was rushing towards his bag and trying to knot a tie for his uniform, murmuring sorry under his breath. 

You paused his power walk to the dining room and did his tie for him.

“I know your nervous about your debate competition tonight, but you don’t need to pull all nighters. Especially since you asked for time off on night patrol.”

“I know, I know. I was just reviewing my notes last night and slept on my desk. Didn’t hear my third alarm.” He said, seeing how you were done with his tie. 

“There. You know, I can teach you how to do it.” You said, walking with him to the table to eat a quick breakfast. Tim grabs a toast and some eggs on his plate.

“Mom, you’re a fashion designer, you’re a literal pro. Besides, you do it better than Bruce.”

“Thanks for the kind words.” Bruce replied, making Tim chuckle nervously. He presses a kiss on your head as he sat down next to you with his fixed plate. 

You look at your son who looked a bit distant as he rushed his breakfast. Call it mother’s intuition but you felt something was wrong.

“It’s time to head to head to school, Master Tim.” Alfred announced as he made his way to the car.

“Bye guys!” Tim yelled out before making his way out before kissing your cheek.

You look over to your son as he rushed his way out from the dining room.

“Is he gonna be okay?” You ask Bruce as he was about to drink from his mug. 

Bruce knows what you meant. About almost four months ago, Tim was captured by the Joker. That monster tormented him, trying to create a replicate of the conniving villain using unspeakable methods. When Bruce and Barbra Gordon saved Tim, the damage was already done. 

Tim went through extensive therapy and had night tremors. Both you and Bruce said to take his time before going back to school, but Tim pressed on, saying he’d be behind on all his school work and the new friends he’s made. But deep down, he just wanted to feel somewhat normal again.

“He’s keeping busy with school. Tim just needs an outlet to just feel like a teenager again. I thought I had to face every struggle when I was his age, I don’t want him to feel like that.” He said, taking a sip.

“I can’t imagine. At least he has you to guide him.”

“He has the both of us.” Bruce reached out for your hand, squeezing it.

You then left Bruce at home so you could go in the office. You were more busy than ever, especially when you were opening a Japan branch in the coming year.

Later on, you got a ping of your phone alerting you it was time for lunch so you left work and traveled farther away from the city.

You walked over in the uneven path. The sun didn’t glare too much and the breeze was soft. You had a small bouquet of flowers in your hands. They were small yellow flowers that had hints of dandelions. You then got off the path to a small patch of grass, now only a few steps away from where you’ve been visiting for sometime.

“Hi, Jason.”

Your son turns around, a bit in a daze as he heard his name. 

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” He said, turning around. He was about to give you a hug but paused, unsure if the embrace was welcomed. You give him a sympathetic smile and closed the gap between you two, feeling his arms tighten around you.

“Sorry, not been used to this in awhile… also, not really sure what I’m doing here.” He said, looking back at the cemetery, staring at his name on the tombstone.

Jason Todd: Friend, Brother, & Son.

Son.

That word felt foreign to him. 

It’s almost been a month since he’s reunited with the family. After days of constant fighting with Bruce under his alias of The Red Hood, it was time to end this never-ending battle of his anger and come back home. 

“I usually come here to clear my head and talk to you.” You said, dusting away the leaves that were on top of the gravestone. 

He knew since his death that you took it the hardest. Even when you took in Tim, that hurt never left your heart. And now that he��s here, you’ve been healing day by day. 

The world knew of Jason’s death. It was featured in every news channel and tabloid. You and Bruce never cleared how he passed and you all decided as a family to have an interview with Lois Lane, who was the only person you trust for the most fragile time in your family. 

And people bought that he was in a protection detail of some sort, but for some reason… it didn’t sit right with you. It was like no one cared that he was gone for so long and could magically appear like nothing has happened. 

You try to have him open up, but he didn’t want to have you bear all his pain for him.

But isn’t that’s what a mother should do for her child?

“You know your room is always there for you, right?” You ask Jason as you turned to him. He’s been crashing most nights with Roy Harper, as they had a scuffle the first time they met again, but had a tearful reunion with each other.

“I know, but I think it’s time if I found a place for myself. Dick is helping me find some apartments in Blüdhaven. But I’ll pop in time to time to be with you guys.”

You smile at him, giving him a comforting side hug. 

“You always have a home with us.”

He smiles as he kisses the top of your head as he was now much taller than you.

“C’mon, let’s go get some food.”

+

Bruce looks down at his desk in his study room, looking down in his hands that held a small leather box. 

“Master Bruce?” 

Bruce looks up and sees Alfred alone, and Bruce released the breath he was holding onto nervously.

“Has the package arrive yet?” Alfred asks, locking the door before heading towards him.

Bruce softly smiles as he shakes his head yes, giving Alfred the small box.

“Just came after she left, I’ve been anxious for weeks.” 

“Well, it’s not every day Gotham’s most famous bachelor would one day be off the market.” Alfred teased as Bruce opens the box, revealing the engagement ring for you. 

“That’s why I bought out the restaurant where we had our fifth date.”

“Fifth date?” Alfred asks, sitting down opposite of Bruce.

“Well, first date wasn’t an official date, second one we had Dick join us to go to that ice cream parlor, third I had to cancel halfway due to Clayface III, fourth we had movie night at her place and fifth… it was when I realized that things can be different.” 

Bruce admits that starting a relationship with you, he didn’t have the right intentions. He could never deserve the love you give him. He swore that he’ll make it his life’s mission to make up every mistake that has affected you.

And almost after 8 1/2 years later, he’s finally decided to ask you to marry him. Yes, Bruce could have asked you many times before hand but there has been so many set backs and memories you both wish to forget, but he feels now is the most perfect time to start a new chapter with you.

“Where is she now?” Alfred asks.

“Getting lunch with Jason, he just sent me a message just now.”

“So you and Master Todd are talking again?” Alfred asks, knowing things haven’t been easy with son and father.

“We’re uh, slowly getting there. He even asked if he could spar with Tim tonight.”

“I don’t think that’ll be such a good idea.” Alfred warned.

Alfred has seen how Tim’s been reacting lately since Jason’s arrival. Tim has been questioning what’s his place would be now that the prodigal son has returned, and better yet, what his status is in this family.

“We’ll all have a talk afterwards. Everything is going to change tonight.” Bruce said, with hope in his eyes.

Alfred gave a small smile and got up, heading out of the office. 

“Indeed it will, sir.”

Meanwhile, you and Jason just came back to the manor as you mentioned that Bruce was taking you out for dinner tonight. It’s been awhile since it’s been the two of you, so you were very excited. 

Jason, for some reason, became silent once you arrived back home. Before you go up on the steps, you look over at Jason who was staring down in his lap.

“You’ve awfully been quiet recently.” You said, looking at your son.

Jason purses his lips and looks at you with uncertainty. 

“I know I’ve been keeping some stuff about what’s happened to me in the last few years. I just, don’t know how to tell you without breaking your heart again.”

You raise your hand up to his and squeeze his hand.

“I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through, Jay. Ever since you’ve been back, I feel like something is going to rip the carpet under me and I’ll lose you again. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

Jason sniffles and wipes away his watery eyes. 

“Thank you.” Jason replied.

You smile at him gently and hug him.

“I uh, heard you’re gonna be hanging out with Tim tonight. I think that’s great that the two of you can talk for real this time, maybe having a big brother would help him move forward.” You stated.

Jason just nods his head, knowing what you meant.

He then followed you inside and headed straight to the bat cave, awaiting for Tim. In ten minutes, the young Drake boy looked uneasy, like he was about to meet his creator. 

“H-Hey.” Tim said, shifting on his bare feet as he entered the bottom of the bat cave.

Tim has been dreading this day.

Sparring with Bruce and Dick benefited Tim’s fighting skills. Bruce taught him calculation and timing. Dick supported encouragement and using your instincts. 

But Jason? In his time as Red Hood, he has killed men, mercenaries, you name it. And now that Jason was here ready to fight, Tim was scared that maybe Jason would use all his anger on him.

Jason bandaged his hands and took off his shirts. Every inch of his skin was etched with faded scars and bullet wounds. Tim gulped loudly as he prepped his stance.

In an instant, Jason charged first, taking Tim off guard.

“Hey! We didn’t start yet!” Tim yelled out, being knocked down on the ground.

“Lesson one, Drake: A fight can happen any time, any place. Never lose your guard.” Jason offered his hand. As Tim received it, Jason lifted him off the ground and body slammed him opposite of where he laid.

“Lesson two: never trust if your opponent has mercy. Always protect yourself.” 

Tim huffed out loud before jumping on his feet, wiping away the sweat and the cut on his brow. 

Jason looked too calm for this spar. Not an inch of his hair was out of place, even his white streak by his widow’s peak shown brightly in the dark cave.

Tim ran forward, striking with his right fist. Out of nowhere, Jason took out a small ninja star and flicked it towards Tim’s face. Just in time, Tim ducked it and body rolled on the mat, looking at Jason like a mad man.

“Are you out of your mind?” Tim screamed out loud.

“Lesson three: Be resourceful. Take anything in reach to your advantage. Bruce didn’t teach you these things?” Jason asked, circling Tim like a vulture flying around its prey.

“Bruce taught me how to sharpen my hacking skills, how to control my body in duress.” 

Jason scoffed as he looked at Tim. 

“I thought you had something in you, but I was wrong. What kind of Robin are you?”

That statement broke Tim as he tightened his fists and struck Jason in the chest. Jason staggered a little and looked at Tim, smirking.

“There he is!” Jason yelled out, almost mechanically.

Tim furrowed his brow and took a punch again to Jason’s shoulder. Jason looked like he was enjoying this little fight and took another punch from Tim.

“Why aren’t you fighting back?” Tim asked, getting frustrated.

“I wanna see what you can do, surprise me.” Jason smiled wickedly, raising his fist.

The two of them began to strike again, wanting to know who the last man will stand.

+

“It’s been awhile since we had a date night.” You said, holding Bruce’s hand as you two were being driven by Alfred to your mystery date. 

“I know, a lot has happened and I thought the two of us deserve some time together.” Bruce said, rubbing his thumb across your thigh from the slit of your dress.

“And what would our time be spent on tonight?” You ask, gleaming.

“A night of your favorite cuisine, soft music in the background, and a melted chocolate soufflé.” Bruce replied, leaning in for a kiss.

You smiled as you kissed Bruce, losing your hand in his dark ravenous hair. You could feel his hands in the back of your dress, trying to find the zipper by your spine.

“Bruce…” You warned as you felt his lips by your neck.

“We have until 15 minutes till we get to the restaurant. I just want you to myself for just a little bit.” He whispers, feeling his hot breath by your ear.

“I bet you won’t last for 8 minutes.” You dared.

“Make it 6”  Bruce remarked, seeing a sly look in his hand.

You two smiled as you both couldn’t help but take your hands off each other.

A knock is heard from the driver’s cabin, alerting that Alfred could possibly hear every word you’re saying. 

You cover your mouth in embarrassment as Bruce couldn’t help but laugh out loud. 

“Why don’t we wait after tonight?” You ask Bruce, straightening up in your seat.

“Of course, I’ll behave just for you.” Bruce reaches out for your hand, kissing it as you blushed.

Your fingers intertwined with each other as you look lovingly in each other’s eyes.

+

The two sons were getting tired. Jason was heaving his chest, as Tim may have bruised ribs from being kicked a few times too many.

Tim, now sporting a deeper cut by his temple, tries to wipe the trickling blood from his forehead with his arm. Tim refuses to back down, especially to Jason. An idea pops in his head and he slowly circles around Jason, taunting him.

“What makes you think you could be capable of teaching me to fight?” Tim asks.

Jason huffs and gives a wicked smirk. “If you’ve forgotten already, I have a reputation. Nothing gets past me.”

“You sure about that? Heard when you were Robin, you had no control, no conscience. Just chaos at every turn you made.”

Tim caught a glimpse of Jason’s tough exterior slowly cracking. Jason resumed in silencing, alerting Tim that his tactic might work. So, he took his chance and punched Jason by his left cheekbone.

“Did I strike a nerve?” Tim asks.

Jason was silent, but his eyes grown darker from their natural color. 

Tim almost felt worried, but he knew Jason would never do anything that could hurt him seriously.

Right?

“If we’re striking nerves, I wanted to clarify that I’m only here cause Ma asked me to come. Said she’s worried about you. But I see it in Bruce’s face. He thinks you’ll never be ready to go out on the field again. And frankly, I don’t think you’re able to.”

“Who says you have the final say? You just showed up to Gotham out of the blue just to prove that you’re what, the prodigal son? Please, I survived the Joker. You were overpowered by a man with no powers or strength. He was smart enough to end the job quick with you.”

A ripple soared through the air as Tim found himself on the ground as he held his left jaw as Jason was huffing his chest, breathing heavily.

Jason could only be described like a raging animal, as his dark past was catching up to him.

He grabbed Tim by the collar and raised him high as his feet dangled in the air. 

Right when Jason was about to make the first strike, he suddenly hears maniacal laughter.

‘Show him who you truly are…’ the voice sneered.

Jason staggered away as he dropped Tim, feeling his head pound. 

“Get out…” Jason held onto the sparring mat as he grit his teeth.

“J-Jason, are you alright?” Tim asks as he holds his side.

Jason whipped his head fiercely as he bear his teeth. 

“I SAID GET OUT!”

Tim took an immediate step back with fear in his eyes. Jason can see it to you as he forced his eye sight downward as he was crouched on the floor.

“You don’t know what it’s like… to have everything you ever wanted taken away in a single second. I tried protecting my birth mom by taking every beating that demon gave to me. I tried saving her from that bomb. I felt myself dying at an instant. Then I come back with half a mind of my own, still hearing that psychotic man’s voice in my head.”

Tim can see Jason almost crying as his shoulders were slumped.

Tim treaded lightly towards Jason as he slowly got on his knees, then slowly placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder. The older brother almost flinched with physical contact, but it was when he looked up to Tim who’s eyes weren’t full of fear but with sympathy. 

The two brothers get up from the sparring mat as Jason gave a heartfelt hug. Tim was shocked at first, but accepted the embrace.

“Amateurs, all of you.” A young voice said out loud.

Jason and Tim looked around their surroundings, searching for the voice.

Tim picked up a sparring bo staff and defended his ground.

“Who are you? Show yourself!” 

A quiet whip like sound pierced the wind as a small shadow lands a couple of feet by them. 

The figure wore dark ancient clothing, asian descent if Tim could describe it. The stranger lifted their mask off and revealed a boy, much younger than both the brothers.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asked harshly as he shoved past Tim.

“Mother is on an important mission. I wished to join her but she told me to come here and meet father.”

“Wait wait wait, you know this kid?” Tim asks, lowering his staff. 

The young figure sneered from the last statement.

“I am to be respected and feared, my age does not limit my lethal skills, Tim Drake.” 

Tim had enough and tries striking his opponent but he swiftly moved out of his way and swept Tim off his balance, just like Jason has performed before.

“And he calls himself the smart one.” The child comments.

“Look demon spawn, no one picks on Drake unless me, okay? And you have shown up on the worst night possible. Bruce isn’t here.”

“I have waited for almost 10 years to meet him, what’s another hour?” 

Tim rises up from the mat as he looks at the child.

“Why do you want to meet Bruce?” 

“Because he’s my father.” The child crosses his arms

Silence filled the cave. Not even a gust of wind dare to make a whistling sound. 

Tim looks at Jason for confirmation as the elder brother bows his head.

“Then who’s your mom?” Tim dares to ask.

Damien beams with pride as he steps closer to Tim.

“Someone you should be very afraid of.”

+

After you and Bruce finished your very intimate dinner, your heart began to flutter.

"Bruce, you know that you didn't have to reserve all of the restaurant just so we could have dinner alone?"

You said, sipping your wine.

"Of course not, that's why I bought the restaurant from the owner."

"Bruce!"

You two started laughing out loud as you knew that Bruce wasn't serious. If you just met Bruce now, you'd think he's this pompous rich guy. You told him first on that he didn't need to impress you with grand gestures or money. As long as you two worked as a team who gave back to their community and their family, then you never had to question his love for you.

Those were all the things Bruce was thinking of saying to you tonight.

"What's in that mysterious mind of yours?" You ask.

He smiles to himself as he softly held your hand in his, feeling his chest tighten with slight anxiousness.

"There's been something I've been wanting to say to you for some time..."

He was about to get out of his chair until his phone buzzed. He looks at the caller and sees that it's Tim.

Bruce powers his phone off, thinking it wouldn't be important.

"Everything alright?" You ask.

"Yeah, absolutely. Where was I?"

"You wanted to tell me something." You said, trying to suppress a smile of your sudden excitement.

Bruce reaches for your hand and kisses your palm, giving you the most genuine gaze you haven't seen in a while.

"I have been wanting to do this for the longest time. Love, I-"

A sudden ring is heard from your phone as you reach towards your purse.

"It's Jason. I think the kids have been trying to reach us."

"They're fine, trust me." Bruce tries to change the subject but you shake your head.

"I don't know Bruce, something feels wrong."

You answer your phone as you place it towards your ear.

"Hi honey, we just finished eating dinner. What - J - You want to talk to Bruce?"

Bruce face turns shocked as you offer your phone to him.

"Jason, now's not a good time." Bruce says.

"Bruce, I wouldn't have called you unless it was important. You need to come back to the manor now." Jason said.

"Did you tell him yet?" Tim asks from afar but then his two sons started bickering.

"Guys, what are you two trying to say? Hold on." Bruce taps the screen and places it on speaker as he stood up facing away from your nervous state.

Tim takes over the conversation as he steals the phone from Jason.

"Bruce, some kid broke into the cave while we were sparring saying he's-"

"Wait, a kid broke into the cave? Why are you and Jason fighting?" You ask, raising form your chair.

"It's fine, I told them it's alright."

"Uh, I don't think so. Tim's still recovering from the last fight he's had and you left them both unsupervised!"

"They're fine, but can we handle the situation at hand? You're the one that wanted to call them back."

"And now you're blaming me for caring? Well excuse me for-"

"I tire of this nonsense." An unfamiliar voice said as they possibly took the phone away from the bickering siblings.

"Bruce Wayne, my name is Damian al Ghul, son of Talia al Ghul and grandson of the powerful Ra's al Ghul. I am your rightful heir, your true blood son, conceived from 8 years ago when you were on a mission with my mother."

Silence filled both rooms.

"Perhaps the connection disconnected?" Damian asks the brothers.

"Nope, he heard." Jason said as the call suddenly ended.

Bruce looks at the phone, then back at you as your eyes filled with tears of betrayal.

Bruce tries to go up to you, feeling his throat tighten.

"Love, I-"

"Stop, please." You said, moving backwards as your voice lowers.

"I think its best we go back to the manor. Let's just talk later, okay?"

You try to smile but it failed as your eyesight was lost in more tears.

You leave Bruce standing there alone as you walked to the limo that was waiting outside.

"Hello Madame, I guess a congratulations are in order?" Alfred asks cheerfully as he turned back to you.

His face fell as he saw you trying to cover your tears with your left hand that had no ring. You couldn't even muster a sentence to the one person that has your one interest at heart for this night.

Alfred bowed his head in silence until Bruce came inside and sat far from you as you couldn't even look at him.

"Where to, Master Bruce?" Alfred asks.

"Home, there's someone expecting to see me."

"Who sir?"

Bruce felt hesitant to answer, but then he locked his gaze to the window.

"My son, Damian."

Taglist:

@thisnameistaken1234

@linora09

[songbirdsanctuary]

WoF based food?

WoF based food.

Arc 1: The Dragonet Prophecy

1. Clay – Smoky Mud Pit Stew A rich, earthy stew of river clams, slow-cooked fish, mushrooms, and spicy swamp herbs. Note: "Don’t worry, I made a vegetarian version for the RainWings and SilkWings. Also, you can sit in it while you eat — it’s best enjoyed warm!"

2. Tsunami – Seawing Saltberry Splash A fizzy oceanfruit drink with sea salt and crushed ice from Deep Palace springs. Note: "Refreshing, punchy, and good for knocking some sense into your gills. Best served with a splash — literally!"

3. Glory – Sunfruit Ambrosia A radiant, shimmering fruit salad using sweet jungle fruits and edible gold dust from RainWing gardens. Note: "A royal favorite. Looks good, tastes better. You're welcome."

4. Starflight – Scrollcake Thinly layered honey pastries stacked to resemble scrolls, dusted with powdered sugar and wisdom. Note: "Food and knowledge together at last. Warning: does not substitute for actual reading."

5. Sunny – Sunshine Pudding A bright, golden custard made from desert dragonfruit and cactus nectar. Note: "It’s like eating a hug! Also, don’t ask about the secret ingredient (okay, it’s love).”

Arc 2: The Jade Mountain Prophecy

6. Moonwatcher – NightWing Dream Cookies Starry dark chocolate cookies with cherry jam filling and a hint of sleepy herbs. Note: "Best enjoyed before stargazing or a nap."

7. Qibli – Scorpion Pepper Jerky Fiery, dry-aged jerky with a crunch of spice so hot even SandWings sweat. Note: "Clever dragons keep a drink nearby. Braver dragons eat two at once."

8. Winter – Frozen Cloudberry Sorbet An elegant, chilled dessert made from rare IceWing berries and fresh mountain snow. Note: "Refined. Controlled. And yes, it’s the best thing you’ll eat this week.”

9. Peril – Fire-Charred Meatsticks Seared meat skewers cooked with her own flames — perfectly blackened on the outside, juicy inside. Note: "Yes, I cooked them myself. Yes, with my own talons. No, I didn’t burn anything important.”

10. Turtle – Seaweed Noodle Casserole Comforting layers of kelp noodles, scallops, and creamy coral sauce baked under coral-reef cheese. Note: "I made too much... again. Want some? Please take some. Please.”

Arc 3: The Lost Continent Prophecy

13. Blue – SilkSpun Veggie Wraps Delicate leaf wraps filled with rainbow vegetables and honey drizzle. Note: "Beautiful, balanced, and safe for hivewings too! Eating peacefully never tasted so good.”

14. Cricket – Hivewing Honey Spark (Drink) A fizzy concoction of golden nectar, electrified citrus, and pollinated ginger. Note: "Made without mind-control ingredients! Because that’s a thing I worry about still!”

15. Swordtail – Buzzwing Crunchies Fried fruit bites coated in spiced nectar glaze. Note: "Crunch louder than your problems. You’re welcome.”

16. Sundew – Thornfruit Tang Cake A spiky, sweet cake made with carnivorous plant nectar and thornfruit jelly. Note: "Yes, it’s vegan. No, it won’t bite you back. I trained it.”

17. Snowfall – Royal Glacier Trifle Layered frostberries, chilled cream, and snowflake sugar crystals. Served in a carved ice bowl. Note: "Delicate, sophisticated, and absolutely freezing. Just like the Ice Kingdom.”

18. Luna – Cocooned Moonbread A fluffy bread roll baked in a silk pod, infused with calming herbs and a touch of moonlight. Note: "It’s like being wrapped in a hug. Also, you can plant the wrapper.”

[henrioo]

°•*⁀➷ BEACH DAY: CROCODILE

꒰ SYNOPSIS ꒱ : "Crocodile is a king, and kings don't fulfill anyone's wishes, unless that someone is you. The small, young and only son of one of the most feared pirates, a child who would never have his desires denied by his father.

꒰ WARNINGS ꒱ : Platonic! Crocodile, IT'S NOT A ROMANTIC STORY, Dad! Crocodile, Child! Reader, Male! Child! Reader, difficult childhood due your Dad's business, mentions a lonely childhood, mean children

꒰ WC ꒱ : 995

꒰ NOTES ꒱ : Trying to back in my schedule of posting and writing, I'm passing through some bad time with a lot of personal problems so my mind is kinda off for everything, but at least I gonna try to post what I already had (I always say that and never do) anyway enjoy :p

Firstly, your father would be extremely offended if his precious son asked to go to the beach. Dear, your father is the king of the desert and is literally made of sand, why on earth would you want to go to a beach full of stupid people with dirty sand?

Of course, just as Crocodile is unable to refuse your requests every time, what can he do? He spoiled his little boy a little… so soon he's planning a trip to the beach while putting up with you talking about it every day since you as a little child couldn't contain your excitement.

Initially he thought about going to a private beach, he could rent an entire island just to avoid other people, but when you looked at him with those huge puppy eyes saying “but then there won't be other children for me to play with?” He gave up and was at your feet again, bless you, your perfect son who had him wrapped around your finger.

He agreed to go to a public beach, but that doesn't change that he didn't want many people, so he planned to go to a less inhabited island and during a period when there would be fewer people, of course, he made sure the beach was very beautiful and big enough so you can have the most fun. He wasn't ruining her experience for his own selfish limits.

Father of sunscreen, Crocodile doesn't want to see you turning into a pepper, so he makes sure you're completely white from all the sunscreen. It's a little difficult to do this with just one hand, but you were always a patient child and helped your father without any problems, soon you were ready, with your crocodile themed children's swimwear, your colorful floaties and animation for a lifetime.

Crocodile wasn't very excited about swimwear either, so he just wore an open shirt and longer shorts. The problem was that everyone on the beach was staring at the seductive man, was it his fault for being so handsome? Of course, having Daz Bones next to him staring deathly at everyone ensured that no one bothered him, which was perfect for the pirate.

Swimming too deep is a big no, Crocodile can't swim and that means he can't rescue you if you start to sink, not only that, but most of his employees are also Devil Fruit users, which just makes it difficult for him to be sure you will be fine in the water. Now if he goes with you to the beach with a non-user, like Mihawk for example, he may be more comfortable with you going to the deeper parts, accompanied of course.

Crocodile is also very careful about keeping you well hydrated. He knows that children are more sensitive, so he is constantly calling you to drink water, juices or any other liquid. Luckily, you are very obedient and don't waste the chance to drink something delicious, so it was easy to keep it under control. Crocodile also didn't trust just any restaurant or food vendor, so he hired a chef to prepare everything you could want to eat on the beach, whether it was fried fish or ice cream, you had everything at your disposal, prepared by someone you trusted, so Crocodile knew you I wasn't taking any risks.

He gets a little apprehensive when you get close to other children, Crocodile is extremely protective of you. After all, you are his greatest treasure, he would kill and die to prevent you from getting hurt in any way, but when he sees you smiling while playing with the children, he feels his heart relax, in the end, you are still a child, and he doesn't want to in no way to deprive you of having a normal childhood. He already knows how terrible it must be for you to be the son of a pirate, to live on a ship without ever settling on an island for long, the lack of children for you to live with, you can't even go to school, and instead you study with him, his life is not normal like most children and any opportunity he has to give you some moments of a normal childhood he is definitely doing it. He just wants you to grow up happy, regardless of everything.

Now, that doesn't mean he won't be a protective father. All he has to do is see you building your beautiful sandcastle, which he may have helped to stand with his powers without you realizing, when another older child approaches. He is reluctant but doesn't want to act immediately, it's only when the child kicks his castle that he gets angry, then a wave of sand covers the child, knocking him to the ground, the boy has probably swallowed enough sand to never but forget the taste. As soon as the boy runs away crying to his parents, Crocodile rebuilds his entire sandcastle before you can even miss him or cry about it. Your bright smile along with a “thank you daddy” makes it all worth it.

Although he enjoyed the beach day, which basically consisted of him sitting around watching you being a normal kid and having fun and the occasional discussion about business with Daz, the best part for Crocodile is when it starts to get dark, and you're already too tired. He carries you in his arms, using his powers to clean all the sand from your body, you are completely exhausted and sleep like a rock, with the only detail of holding your father's shirt with your small hand.

Crocodile just puts pajamas on you, preferring that you take a shower when you're awake, then he puts you in his bed and covers you. You have a huge smile on your face and are probably having sweet dreams, he watches you for a few moments before leaving to finish some things and then going to sleep.

[koiiiji]

author's note ; i literally feeling like this crying bulldog. you eating healthy because you wanna lose weight, i eat fcking plain food because my stomach takes any fried, junk food, anything that is not boiled as personal offence... we are not the same😔😔 (i'm jealous one)

it's just self inserted, this stuff been my personal pain for past 2 months, so yeah... cheers to everyone suffering from same shit or just dieting ✌🏻😔

Hwangyeon Choi (as worst supporter ever, but best gremlin)

it was saturday evening, and you found yourself seated across from Hwangyeon, watching in half-amusement, half-despair as he polished off his second order of extra-crispy, extra-spicy fried chicken. the smell alone was enough to make you feel a deep, primal longing. you sat with your rice bowl, glancing over at him with big, round eyes as he tore into a piece, all smiles and bliss.

he noticed your stare and grinned, holding up a crispy wing in front of you. “hey, you sure you don’t want to try it? just one little piece?”

you sighed dramatically. “Hwangyeon, my stomach thinks fried food is a personal attack. one bite and i’ll be dying on the couch, moaning about my life choices, and then you’ll feel guilty and be like, ‘i’m so sorry for making you try it.’”

he raised an eyebrow, giving you an exaggerated skeptical look. “me? feel guilty? nah, I’d be fine. i’d be over here with my crispy wing, whispering sweet nothings to it. ‘shh, don’t listen to her, baby. you’re perfect just as you are.’”

you burst out laughing, swatting his arm. “you would be whispering to fried chicken! who’s your real girlfriend here, Hwangyeon?”

he gave the wing an exaggerated kiss before taking another bite, groaning in pure bliss. “this is the love of my life,” he mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. “seriously, it’s a miracle food. crispy, spicy, juicy — how do you not eat this?”

you gave him an amused, knowing look. “i did try it. once. remember? and then i spent the entire next day clutching my stomach in agony, and you looked at me like i’d broken your heart.”

Hwangyeon paused, looking sheepish. “okay, maybe i do remember that. but come on! you’re missing out!”

you leaned back, crossing your arms. “oh, i’m missing out? on what, babe? six hours of burning stomach and that lovely bloated feeling where i can’t button my pants?”

he winced, then grinned. “look, that’s just part of the experience.”

you groaned, burying your face in your hands with a dramatic sigh. “evil. pure evil. how do i even tolerate you?”

“easy.” he took another smug bite. “i’m adorable and you’re totally in love with me.”

“bitch” you mumbled, pretending to sulk. “one day, i’ll join you, and you’ll be the one who has to keep up with me.”

he took another bite, savoring it with his eyes closed. “and i am up for the challenge, no problem.”

you picked at your rice, giving him a mock suspicious look. “you know, if you ever do feel guilty, you could totally try some of my healthy, boiled food for a change.”

he stopped mid-bite, looking at you like you’d just suggested he jump off a cliff. “boiled… food? like, with no seasoning?”

you gave him a smirk. “like lightly seasoned. very healthy, good for your stomach, and won’t make you feel like a rock is sitting inside you. you should try it!”

Hwangyeon scrunched up his face, feigning horror. “lightly seasoned? oh no, next you’ll tell me you eat plain rice and drink unsweetened tea.” (no seriously, adding sugar to tea should be legally punished)

you raised your tea glass. “cheers to unsweetened tea.”

he looked scandalized. “i can’t even imagine… what does your stomach have against happiness?”

he picked up another wing, waving it in front of your face with a wicked grin.

and despite the fact that you still craved this chicken, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

Ma Teasoo (as steak king and grumpy old man 'it was better back in my days')

another cozy night in with Taesoo, and as usual, he was happily devouring a mountain of grilled steak and ribs. the savory aroma filled the air, and you couldn’t help but watch him with a mix of longing and amusement. he expertly handled his chopsticks, tearing into a juicy piece of meat, while you poked at your bowl of plain rice and boiled chicken.

Taesoo glanced over, his brow furrowing as he took in your meal. “are you really just having that?” he grumbled, shaking his head. “come on, babe, you should eat more. this isn’t enough to keep you going!”

you crossed your arms defensively. “it’s plenty for me! my stomach can’t handle heavy stuff, and i’m doing just fine with this.”

he let out an exaggerated sigh, his expression a mix of disbelief and concern. “boiled chicken and rice? that’s not real food! how do you expect to be strong? you need some good meat in your life!”

you raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful glare. “and end up feeling awful? no thanks! too much seasoning or salt or oil makes me feel like i’m dying.”

he huffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “i just don’t get it! if i had to live on that, i’d be miserable. you’d be happier with a good steak!”

you chuckled, your lips curving into a smirk. “strong enough to be doubled over in pain? i’ll stick with my plain food, thank you very much!”

he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking like a grumpy old man. “you’re too stubborn for your own good. one bite wouldn’t hurt! just imagine the flavor —”

“flavor i can’t handle, Taesoo!” you interrupted, raising your hands as if to ward him off. “i appreciate your concern, but i know what works for my stomach.”

he shook his head, still looking unconvinced. “you know, back in my day, we didn’t eat this rabbit food nonsense. we had real meals! if you were tired, you ate a good meat, and that fixed everything.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at his grumbling. “first, babe, what do you mean 'back in my days' you literally just two years older! second, if i ate a steak, i’d be on the couch moaning about my stomach for hours. not exactly my idea of a good time.”

he let out a reluctant chuckle, but his expression softened. “fine, but you’ve gotta promise me you’ll eat something more substantial than plain rice every now and then. just don’t make this a habit!”

you smiled, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “deal. i’ll throw in some boiled chicken and veggies. but i get to choose my meals, okay?”

“alright, alright,” he said, still looking a bit grumpy but unable to hide the affection in his eyes. “but i’ll always be ready to sneak some real food into your life when you’re not looking.”

you laughed, knowing full well he meant every word. and despite his gruff demeanor, his caring nature was always there, hidden behind the grumbles and playful complaints.

no but seriously, speaking about this eating topic, i found some good points! i can do separate post if you interested🤓🤔

[0ssak1]

A GENTLEMAN?

The princess, and the punk.

Part One!

pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x Fem!Reader - HS AU

Warnings: profanity, maybe ooc dialogue, and very obviously not proof read

Notes: AAA THANK YOU FOR THE LOVE!!!!!!!!!!! I don’t know how many parts this will have..

“Honestly, it could be worse.”

You spoke, chewing on your cold fries from Burger Mart. Mark had the bright idea to order and pay after, then just didn’t pay at all and made you two run. You sat in a patch of grass on a hill in some park. People were jogging, walking, or feeding ducks. Average stuff..

You haven’t even checked your phone once while talking with him, him being the punk (literally) who got you out of a boring detention. Mark was at the edge of lake, tossing pieces of his burgers bread at the ducks who keep screaming at him that now suddenly did not want his burger bits. You smiled, giggling at the sight.

He spun around, hearing your giggles. “What? Can’t a guy be casual for once?”

“I think you mean domestic.”

“…Right.” The pierced boy turned back to the ducks, jingling with every movement. You watched as he stepped away and walked back over to you, plopping on the ground.

You cleared your throat as he sipped on his soda, glancing from his shoes to his face that was turned away from yours. “I think this has been the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Mark choked on his straw that pressed up to the roof of his mouth, scraping the skin. (Authors note: I fucking HATE when this happend.)

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, this technically is a date. Friends have dates—“ You tried to explain, sitting up. It felt good, a guy actually listening to you, and not making fun of you (hurtfully.)

“Also cmon, you gotta admit you’d be damn lucky to get a date with me.” You snickered, a bit of a cockiness slipping into your tone.

“Not hard to bag a date with a hot chick.”

“It is with a mohawk—“

.

.

.

Silence.

The only sound being the splash of the water fountains nearby..

Mark looked away from you, playing with the straw of his drink. The sound of the plastic rubbing against each other was disgusting.. Just like how it almost seemed he disgusted you in that moment— “Mark..? Shit, I’m sorry I- um.. I don’t talk to guys often an—“

He burst out cackling. “You would fuckin actually think that offends me? Oh sweetheart, you’re so easy.”

You stared at him, eyes wide and starstuck.. oh that.. ASSHOLE!

“What?! Oh.. oh my god! Fuck you, really!” You turned away out of embarrassment, throwing your hands down against the grass.

You felt the cold metal of his rings against your jaw, his pointer pressing you to look at him. “Yeah? ‘bet ya wanna.”

In the span of knowing him/2 hours, you had already imagined what it would feel like for his snakebites to press against your plush red/pink tinted lips..

You pushed his hand off, rolling your eyes. “You’re such an asshole, really—“

He chuckled, grabbing your again and holding it between his too.

“Sorry, princess.”

That’s a new one, you thought to yourself. Honestly, in a way.. you were sort of senior princess, just not queen. Everyone knew you and looked up to you (if that being based off looks, or your height, or to ask for help..) and here you were with him, a outcast.

You leaned towards him, your hand pressing against his chest as your lips just barely grazed his, only for you to grab your soda.

Mark scoffed, looking you up and down. “Way to get a guy worked up.” He muttered, turning his head away.

Mark set down his soda, lying back in the grass with his arms crossed under him. You almost wanted to squeeze his biceps.. was that.. weird? You ignored the thought and joined after him, crossing your legs at the ankles.

Your gaze watched the stars, still as you sat in your bedroom looking out the window. You hadn’t even gotten his number. Maybe tomorrow.. You leaned back against your pillows, looking at your posters staring right back at you.. goddamnit.. you were in too deep for that idiot.

He was so stupid, really! Jumping out a window, stealing food, and feeding ducks bread which they should be eating grapes. What was next? He was gonna take you to prom? Oh that would be a sight..

You slumped down, adjusting yourself to lay your head on your pillows. You hesitantly grabbed your spare, squeezing it tightly to your chest as your thighs curled up to hug it. You grabbed your phone, checking your camera roll as—

He had taken selfies when you weren’t looking. He honestly looked so.. absolutely not. wait. So if he had taken photos, could have..

Your thumbs dragged quickly against the screen, opening your contacts. You looked up “Mark”

There was nothing. You groaned and cleared it, seeing something else. A contact name, reading “the punk hottie.”

Was he for real?

I’m so sorry this was less than the one before.. aa… part 3 at 50 likes?

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