#my one and only Cartman thought lol

[kennytheworkingclasshero]

Cartman is so confusing. This boy is a narcissist and he’s manipulative, he is incredibly antisemitic, racist, sexist and overall not a good person. He seemingly doesn’t care about his friends and will take any opportunity to hurt them and not think twice about it. And yet, he has also shown genuine care for Kenny, Stan and even Kyle. He stopped himself from killing the pangolin when he saw how much Stan was affected from the lockdown, even if that meant he would have to go back to school like normal (which he did not want to happen). He saved a bunch of baby cows because he knew how important it was to Stan, not because he actually cared about the cows liberation. He sobbed when Kenny was sick, he was the one that reached out to Stan and Kyle when he saw how much Kenny was sad that their relationship was dying and took steps to try and mend this. He saved Kyle in Smug Alert! because be “missed” “ripping on him” and showed genuine gratitude when Kyle saved him from getting assaulted, calling him “my little monster” affectionately. These examples don’t even begin to make up for everything that Cartman has done, he is not someone who deserves forgiveness or can even begin to atone for his behaviour, but he very much gives the “I can be a dickhead to you, but no one else can” vibe when it comes to his friends.

[everythingwasnormalhere]

Guys. Guys what if. South Park x SIX The Musical au

[fuqnia]

I'll Compliment You Frequently (1) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ kenny mccormick x fem!reader insert | college au, smut

♡ A/N | hi guys!! sorry for the delay, uni has been kicking my ass LOL. kenny was really fun to write for, i love him sm!! i hope u guys enjoy <3 ( i also took into consideration the feedback i got, and tested out a new writing style, so lmk if it works, or not!) i also made kenny kinda perverted... like he does not hold back LMFAO.

♡ C/W | NSFW (18+), ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP, kissing, smoking (weed and cigarettes), mentions of blood, drinking, kenny has a filthy mouth ☹️

♡ Synopsis | kenny always told himself it was just practice—just harmless lessons, just an excuse to get his hands on you without giving himself away. but every kiss, every touch, every shaky breath you let out made it harder to pretend. and when you finally looked at him like he was the only one you wanted, he knew—this was never just practice, and he was never letting you go.

♡ I HAD TO SPLIT THIS SHIT INTO THREE PARTS [i hate u tumblr >:(]

event masterlist | part two | part three

"Kenny, are you even listening to me?"

Kenny doesn’t look up. He’s got his pencil balanced between two fingers, rolling it back and forth like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. His physics textbook is open on his lap, filled with equations you’re pretty sure he hasn’t actually read in the last ten minutes.

You groan. “Unbelievable.”

He finally looks up, blinking like he’s just remembered you were talking. “Huh?”

“You weren’t listening.”

Kenny smirks, tilting his head. “Nah, I was. You’re freaking out about your big, life-changing first date.” He shifts, closing his textbook with a lazy thud. “With Damien.” A pause. Then, a slow grin. “Damn, never thought you’d be into the whole spawn of Satan thing. Should I start dressing in all black? Buy some candles? Sacrifice Cartman?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m just saying, I didn’t peg you as the type to fall for a guy who probably writes poetry about fire and brimstone.”

At that, your stomach twists—not just from nerves, but because, honestly? You’re still trying to figure out how you ended up here.

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. And now here you were, sitting on Kenny’s bed, spiraling.

You groan, flopping onto the edge of his bed. “I don’t like him like that. I just—” You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to act, or what to wear, or if I’m supposed to flirt or let him make the first move. What if I screw it up?”

Kenny watches you for a second, something flickering behind his eyes. It’s not unreadable—it’s softer than usual, almost thoughtful, but it’s gone before you can place it. He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s just a date. You talk, you eat, you go home. Not much to screw up.”

You glare. “Wow. Thanks for the wisdom.”

He snorts. “Alright, alright.” He taps his pencil against the textbook, eyes flicking over your face before he sighs. “I don’t know why you’re asking me, though.”

“Because,” you say, exasperated, “you’ve been on, like, a hundred dates.”

Kenny hums, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah, and?”

“So you know how this stuff works.”

For a moment, he just studies you. His usual smirk is there, but it’s lazy, a little less cocky than normal. He exhales through his nose, stretching his arms behind his head. “Fine. I’ll help.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

Kenny shrugs, but there’s an ease to it, like he’d already made up his mind before you even asked. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” His lips twitch. “Just don’t get all weird on me when you realize I give really good advice.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. The only advice you’ve ever given me is ‘don’t be a little bitch’ and ‘always keep cash for bail.’”

Kenny grins. “And have those ever steered you wrong?”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re such a perv.”

That makes him laugh—an actual laugh, warm and unbothered, like you just confirmed something he’s always known about himself. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You roll your eyes. “Literally everything.”

Kenny smirks, kicking at your thigh lazily. “I think you just like calling me names.”

“I think you just like being a perv,” you shoot back.

He shrugs, all mock innocence. “Gotta stay true to myself.”

You both laugh, the usual back-and-forth coming so easily that, for a second, you almost forget why you came here in the first place. But then the nerves creep back in, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Okay, but seriously—what the hell am I supposed to wear?”

Kenny raises a brow. “Uh… clothes?”

You glare. “Wow. Genius.”

He smirks. “I try.”

“No, but seriously.” You sit up, crossing your legs under you, suddenly restless. “Do I go full goth? Full emo? Full e-girl? What’s the move here?”

Kenny blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to get this worked up. “You’re… actually stressing about this?”

“Yes, obviously!” You grab a pillow and press it over your face, groaning into the fabric. “I’ve never done this before, and Damien actually looks like he stepped out of a Hot Topic ad, so if I don’t dress the part, what if he thinks I’m lame?”

Kenny snorts. “Babe, you are lame.”

You rip the pillow away just to smack him with it. He laughs, ducking out of the way, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying—you don’t have to be goth to impress him. He’s already taking you out, right? So he clearly likes you as you are.”

You frown, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But what if—”

“No buts.” Kenny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at you. “You could show up in a trash bag, and he’d still think you look good.” A beat. Then, his lips twitch. “Though, if you do go the trash bag route, I’d definitely want to see it.”

You smack his arm. “I’m being serious!”

“So am I! I think you’d rock the hell out of some Hefty.”

You groan, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “This is useless. I’m gonna wear something completely wrong, and he’s gonna realize I have no idea what I’m doing—because I don’t.”

Kenny’s smirk falters for half a second. It’s quick—so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already staring at him. He exhales, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Look,” he says, his voice softer now, “I don’t think you need to be anything for him. Just wear what makes you feel good, and you’ll be fine.”

You blink at him. “That was… surprisingly solid advice.”

Kenny shrugs, playing it off. “Told you I was good at this.” Then, just as quickly, his smirk returns, all smug and teasing again. “Now, if you really want to impress him, I’ve got a few ideas that involve—”

You cut him off by launching the pillow at his face.

Kenny dodges it at the last second, leaning to the side with an exaggerated whoa before laughing. “Weak throw,” he taunts, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “Zero form, no follow-through. Maybe I should be giving you lessons.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother with a comeback. Instead, you stare up at the ceiling, tracing random patterns in the chipped paint above.

“I’ll probably just lean into Damien’s aesthetic anyway,” you say quietly. “When I do my makeup. When I pick my outfit.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. There’s a small pause, just a couple of seconds, but long enough that you notice it. When he finally speaks, his voice is casual—too casual.

“Yeah?” He shifts, resting his chin in his palm. “So, what’s the plan? Smudged eyeliner? Black lipstick? Maybe some fake fangs to really sell the whole ‘mysterious and brooding’ thing?”

You huff a small laugh. “I’m not trying to cosplay as a vampire, Kenny.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He stretches out on the bed, arms behind his head. “But hey, if that’s your thing, no judgment. I support whatever dark and spooky transformation you’re about to undergo.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, hesitating. “It’s not a transformation,” you mutter. “I just… I don’t know. I want him to think I fit into his world.”

Kenny goes quiet again. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him looking at you. It’s different from his usual teasing glances—this one lingers, like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

Then, his voice comes, low and even. “You already do.”

Your brows furrow slightly, and you finally turn your head toward him. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You don’t have to look like him to fit in with him. If he’s into you, he’s into you. Not some—” He gestures vaguely. “Knockoff Hot Topic model.”

You exhale, pressing your palms over your face. “God, you make it sound so dumb when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it is dumb.” He nudges your foot with his. “You could show up in sweatpants and still have him eating out of the palm of your hand.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You don’t know that.”

Kenny gives you a look—half amused, half are you serious? “Babe, I do know that. Trust me. He’s already interested. You’re just overthinking.”

You drop your hands and sigh. “That’s all I do.”

Kenny smirks. “Tell me about it.”

You grab the pillow again and whack him with it. This time, you land the hit.

He groans dramatically, flopping onto his side. “Abuse,” he mutters. “This is abuse.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. It’s always like this with Kenny—effortless, familiar, like breathing. You can say the stupidest things, overthink every little detail, and he never makes you feel bad for it. Annoyed? Sure. But not bad.

Your smile fades slightly. “I just don’t wanna mess this up.”

Kenny props himself up on one elbow, looking at you properly now. “You won’t.”

“But what if—”

He cuts you off with a scoff. “Nope. We’re not doing this. No what-ifs, no spiraling. You’re gonna go, be your usual, kinda-annoying-but-still-charming self, and it’s gonna be fine.”

You make a face. “That was almost sweet until you insulted me.”

Kenny grins. “Can’t have you getting too comfortable, babe.”

You shake your head but feel some of the tension in your chest ease. “Okay. Fine. I’ll stop spiraling.”

“For now,” Kenny corrects. “Let’s be real, you’ll start up again in, like, twenty minutes.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “Shut up.”

Kenny just smirks, but there’s something softer beneath it, something he’s not saying. It’s in the way he watches you, the way he seems too relaxed, like he’s holding something back.

You don’t notice it, though. You’re too busy trying to keep your nerves from creeping back in.

Kenny’s phone buzzes against the blanket. He groans, rolling onto his side to grab it, squinting at the screen before muttering, “Oh, shit. I gotta go.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He shoves his phone into his pant pocket and stretches, cracking his back like an old man. “I promised Butters I’d help him with his stupid project for one of his classes.”

You raise a brow. “Wait—project? What, are you teaching a lesson on how to shotgun a beer?”

Kenny smirks. “Tempting, but no. He’s testing out some lesson plans for a class, wants me to pretend to be a first grader so he can practice.”

You snort. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re gonna mess with him.”

“Obviously.” Kenny grabs his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one shoulder. “I’m thinking full chaos. Maybe some fake tears, throw a tantrum, refuse to share my crayons. Really give him the authentic experience.”

You laugh, standing up to follow him to the door. “He’s gonna regret asking you.”

“He always does.”

You pull the door open, and the two of you step into the hallway. Kenny starts walking backward, hands in his pockets, that lazy smirk still in place. “Hey, by the way—”

You tilt your head. “What?”

His grin widens. “Don’t fuck on the first date.”

Your face heats instantly. “Kenny!”

He barks out a laugh, turning on his heel. “Just saying! Make him work for it, babe.”

“You’re disgusting!” you call after him.

Kenny just throws up a peace sign over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet, the distant hum of campus life barely registering over the sound of your own thoughts.

As expected, Red isn’t there when you step inside. The room is still, untouched since this morning, save for the half-empty coffee cup on your desk and the pile of blankets twisted at the foot of your bed. The silence presses in, thick with the weight of anticipation, of indecision.

Your closet doors are already open, the clothes inside hanging limply, offering no more answers now than they did before.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

And yet, here you are, standing in front of your closet like you’re waiting for it to choose for you.

Your fingers skim over the fabrics—worn-in band tees, oversized sweaters, your favorite pair of ripped jeans. Comfortable. Familiar. You could throw any of them on and be out the door in five minutes, no second-guessing, no spiral of what ifs. But not tonight.

Your hand moves past them, stopping on something buried near the back. A dress. You barely remember buying it, much less why. It’s different from anything you normally wear—shorter, tighter, the kind of thing designed to be looked at.

Damien would like it. Wouldn’t he?

It’s closer to the kind of thing the girls he talks to wear—the ones who fit effortlessly into his world, who don’t overthink every little thing. You aren’t one of them, but maybe for one night, you could pretend. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be done.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you pull it from the hanger and toss it onto the bed.

The rest comes quickly—heels instead of sneakers, jewelry you barely wear, makeup choices you’ve only experimented with in private. Each layer feels like stepping further into something unfamiliar, like molding yourself into a version of you that doesn’t quite exist.

The mirror doesn’t lie. You look different. Not bad. Not wrong. Just… not you.

You adjust the hem of the dress, shifting under the weight of your own reflection. It’s fine. It’s just for tonight. And tonight, you’re going to be the kind of girl someone like Damien would want. Even if you’re not sure that girl is you at all.

Your nails find your lips before you even realize what you’re doing, teeth scraping against the black polish. The sharp chemical taste spreads across your tongue, bitter and familiar, but you don’t stop. You stare at your reflection, eyes scanning over every detail—how the dress clings, how the heels make your legs look longer, how the makeup sharpens your features just enough. You should feel confident. You should feel excited. Instead, the longer you look, the more something uneasy coils in your stomach, tight and restless.

The room is too quiet. The silence only makes it worse, amplifying the thoughts swirling inside your head. You turn away from the mirror and grab your phone from the nightstand, flipping it over in your hands. Your thumb hovers over Kenny’s name in your messages, hesitating. He would answer. Probably. Even if he was busy helping Butters, he’d at least send something, a dumb joke or an offhanded comment, something that would make you roll your eyes but somehow settle the nerves buzzing under your skin.

You type out a message, then delete it. Then do it again. Then again. He already listened to you spiral about this once today. You don’t need to drag him into another round. Instead, you scroll down your contacts and tap on Stan’s name.

You: hey, does this look okay for a date???

You attach a picture, just a mirror selfie, nothing dramatic. The moment you hit send, you regret it. Stan isn’t exactly the best at responding to texts, and Wendy is probably with him anyway. You back out of the chat before you can overthink it any more and tap on Kyle’s name instead.

You: kyle. fashion emergency.

Nothing.

A full minute passes, and your anxiety only grows.

You bite your nail again, tasting the polish, then open Cartman’s chat. You type out something sarcastic, then delete it. Then something a little more serious, then delete that, too. Finally, you just settle on:

You: be honest, do I look stupid in this???

You wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.

You refresh the messages. Still nothing. No typing bubbles, no read receipts, no responses. The silence feels even louder now, stretching out across the room, pressing against your ribs. They’re probably just busy. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you. You tell yourself that over and over, but it doesn’t stop the creeping unease from settling deeper inside your chest.

You inhale deeply, pressing the phone against your palm, fingertips tapping anxiously against the sides. The rational part of your brain tells you it’s fine. They’re just busy. There’s no reason to feel like this, no reason for the gnawing pit of unease sitting heavy in your stomach. But it’s there anyway, tightening with every second that passes, with every unanswered text sitting in your inbox.

Maybe Kenny would answer.

You hesitate, staring at his name in your messages. You already talked to him about this once today—more like ranted while he rolled his eyes and gave you half-serious advice. He didn’t seem annoyed, but what if he was? What if you were being clingy? What if you were being weird?

You shake your head. It’s Kenny. He wouldn’t care.

Before you can overthink it, you type out a message.

You: ok, real question. do I look good or do I look like an idiot trying too hard??

You bite your lip, stare at the words for a second, then send a follow-up.

You: don’t be a dick about it. ☹️

You exhale, setting the phone on the bed next to you. He’ll answer. He always does. He might take a second if he’s still with Butters, but it won’t be long. Kenny’s the only person who texts back fast—sometimes instantly, sometimes before you even finish typing. But this time, the seconds drag on. Then a full minute. Then another.

You refresh the messages. Nothing.

You check the time, thumb hovering over the screen like maybe, somehow, that will make the notification appear. But there’s still nothing. No reply. No read receipt. Not even the little typing bubble to tell you he saw it.

Your stomach twists. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. He’s busy. He said he’d be helping Butters, and Butters actually takes his schoolwork seriously, so it’s not like Kenny can half-ass it the way he does everything else. He’ll probably see your message later, send back something dumb like “didn’t know you were into the whole desperate goth look, but hey, it works”, and you’ll roll your eyes and move on. But you don’t want to wait.

The walls of your dorm feel smaller by the second, the silence pressing in too hard. You feel ridiculous just sitting here, watching the clock, waiting for a response that isn’t coming anytime soon.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your bag and shove your phone inside. If he’s not answering, you’ll just go to him. It’s not weird. You’re friends. You’ve crashed Butters’ dorm a million times before—usually with Kenny, but still.

You step out of your dorm and immediately regret it. The hallway is empty, the soft hum of the overhead lights buzzing faintly, but the air feels too open, like the walls have been stripped away and you’re standing under a spotlight. The dress clings uncomfortably to your body, the fabric too thin, too unfamiliar, and the heels throw off your balance just enough to make every step feel unnatural. You cross your arms over your stomach, but it doesn’t make a difference. You still feel exposed.

Campus is quiet. The occasional student walks across the quad, a couple of people sit on the benches outside the library, but no one is paying attention to you. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But your skin still prickles with the crawling sensation of being watched, of standing out in a way you never do. Every step feels heavier than the last, like your body is moving forward while your mind begs you to turn around.

You’ve never cared about things like this before. Not about whether people were looking, not about how you came across, not about whether or not you belonged in a space. But now, the weight of it settles into your chest, cold and suffocating, the realization creeping in at the edges of your mind—this isn’t you. You aren’t the kind of person who wears things like this, who walks through campus like she owns the place, who turns heads and likes it. You aren’t effortless. You aren’t confident. And right now, you aren’t comfortable.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You tell yourself not to check it, but the thought lingers anyway. If Kenny had texted back, you wouldn’t still be stuck in this loop of doubt, wouldn’t be picking apart every decision that led to this moment. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But it still stings.

You press your lips together and keep walking. Butters’ dorm isn’t far, but the walk stretches out endlessly, each step echoing too loud in the quiet night. The wind moves through the trees, cool against your skin, and you can’t tell if the shiver that runs up your spine is from the temperature or from the uneasy, sinking feeling in your gut. It’s not just that the dress is uncomfortable—it’s that you feel uncomfortable in it. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, slipping into a version of yourself that was never meant to exist.

The building finally comes into view, warm light glowing through the lobby windows. You stop at the entrance, heart beating too fast against your ribs.

You could turn around. You could go back to your dorm, change into something that doesn’t make your chest feel tight, and pretend this never happened. No one would know. No one would care.

But instead, you pull open the door, step inside, and head toward Butters’ room before you can change your mind.

The hallway is quieter than you expected, the fluorescent lights above casting everything in a pale, artificial glow. Your heels click against the tile floor, a sharp contrast to the silence, and you wish you had worn anything else—sneakers, boots, something that didn’t announce your presence with every step. You walk for at least a minute before stopping in front of his door.

You hesitate.

Kenny’s voice carries through the thin wood, low and lazy, words muffled but still carrying that familiar tone of amusement. Butters’ voice follows, more animated, his usual nervous energy laced with whatever conversation they’re in the middle of. You lift your hand to knock, but at the last second, doubt creeps in, and the sound that actually comes out is weak, barely more than a tap.

For a second, nothing happens. Then there’s movement inside. A chair scraping back, footsteps approaching. The handle turns, and when the door swings open, you’re immediately hit with a wall of weed smoke.

Butters blinks at you, blue eyes going wide, mouth parting slightly like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. “Oh—uh—hey,” he says, voice cracking a little. He clears his throat. “What’re—uh, what’re you doin’ here?”

His room smells like a full-blown dispensary. Which is insane, considering he’s an RA. Technically, he’s supposed to be the one enforcing dorm rules, making sure no one is drinking or smoking or doing anything remotely fun. Butters being the Butters, though, probably just means he looks the other way whenever someone offers him a hit.

You glance past him. The window is cracked open, a sad attempt at ventilation, but it’s not doing much. Kenny is sprawled out on Butters’ bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding a joint between his fingers. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still mid-laugh at something that was said before you knocked. His shirt is pulled up slightly, exposing the dip of his hipbones, and the sight of him—completely at ease, completely unbothered—makes something twist in your stomach.

Butters is still staring at you, visibly thrown off. His gaze flickers down for half a second, barely noticeable, but it’s long enough to tell that he’s clocked the outfit. His brows furrow like he’s trying to figure out if he’s hallucinating.

You swallow thickly, throat suddenly dry, and lick your lips, the waxy taste of your lipstick spreading across your tongue. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails pressing into the material as you shift on your feet. The air feels heavier now, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides, making the dress cling tighter, the heels feel even more unstable beneath you.

“Hey,” you say softly, barely pushing the word past your lips. “Uh, sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt your project or whatever.”

Butters blinks again, like he’s still processing that you’re actually standing here, dressed like this, standing in his doorway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again, his voice higher than usual.

“Oh, uh—gosh, no, you ain’t interruptin’ nothin’!” He laughs, a little too quick, a little too forced. “I mean, I was workin’ on my lesson plans, but, uh, I don’t think Kenny’s takin’ it all too seriously.”

Behind him, Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, dude. I think I make a pretty convincing first grader.”

You force a small smile, but it feels stiff on your face, unnatural. Butters glances back at Kenny, his brows still slightly raised, like he’s searching for some kind of explanation—maybe from him, maybe from you. But Kenny hasn’t even looked at you yet.

You shift your weight again, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “Um—can I come in?”

Butters straightens immediately, like he just realized he’s blocking the doorway. “Oh! Oh, yeah! Yeah, sure, come on in!” He steps aside quickly, waving you in, though there’s still a hint of confusion in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to explain why you’re here.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you, and the smell of weed thickens, clinging to your clothes, settling in the back of your throat. The air in here feels different—warmer, hazier, lived-in. A stark contrast to the sterile quiet of your own dorm. But that contrast does nothing to settle the unease sitting heavy in your chest.

You glance at Kenny again, your stomach twisting slightly at how relaxed he looks, at how completely unaffected he seems by the fact that you texted him and he never answered, that you literally had to show up in person just to get a response. He still hasn’t looked at you.

Instead, he flicks the ash from his joint into a crushed soda can on Butters’ desk, stretching his arms over his head with a slow, lazy sigh. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a strip of skin just above his sweatpants. It’s nothing, just a fleeting glimpse, but for some reason, it makes your fingers clench against your bag strap even tighter.

Then, finally—finally—his eyes drag toward you. At first, there’s nothing. Just a glance, casual and fleeting, like you’re just there in the room, another person, another interruption. But then his gaze drops lower, taking in the dress, the heels, the effort you never put in. His smirk falters—just barely, just for a second. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something but then stopping himself.

Something flickers across his face, something sharp and momentary—like recognition, or realization, or maybe something closer to irritation.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. His lips curl back into an easy smirk, his head tilting slightly to the side, his usual amused indifference slipping right back into place like a mask.

“Well, well,” Kenny murmurs, his voice slow and deliberate, finally looking you over like he’s seeing you for the first time. His smirk widens, his tone dropping into something almost mocking. “Look who decided to get all dressed up.”

You don’t like the way Kenny says that. It’s not the words themselves—it’s the way they come out of his mouth, slow and drawling, soaked in something that makes your stomach twist. The way his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s assessing you rather than just seeing you. The way his smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s already decided this whole thing is funny, like you’re just another thing for him to make fun of.

Heat rushes up your neck, crawling over your skin, and before you can stop yourself, you whip around, turning your back to him completely.

“Butters.” His name leaves your mouth in a rush, urgent, almost pleading. You step forward and plant both hands on his shoulders, gripping them just a little too tightly, enough that you can feel the way his body stiffens in surprise. His eyes go huge, his mouth parting slightly, frozen under the intensity of your stare.

“Do I look fine?” Your voice comes out breathless, higher than normal. You barely give him a second to respond before you press further. “Like—actually fine. Do I look… pretty?”

Butters looks like you just grabbed him by the collar and shook him. His entire body goes rigid, his face turning the color of a stop sign, eyes darting everywhere except at you. “W-Well, uh—” He lets out a nervous laugh, shoulders twitching under your hands. “G-Golly, uh, ya look—uh, I mean, o’course ya do! I mean, I ain’t—uh, I ain't never seen ya wear somethin’ like this before, but—uh, y-yeah! You—you look real nice!”

His voice jumps an octave toward the end, cracking slightly, and if you weren’t currently spiraling, you might’ve found it funny. But right now, all you can focus on is the way he stammers through his words, the way he doesn’t sound sure at all, the way his hands twitch awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. That sinking feeling in your chest only gets heavier.

Because that’s not the answer you wanted. You wanted something solid, something confident. Something to make you feel good. But instead, all you feel is ridiculous. 

Like you’ve made a mistake. Like you knew this wasn’t right, but you did it anyway, and now you have to stand here and sit with it.

You swallow hard, your grip on Butters’ shoulders loosening slightly. Your heartbeat pounds too fast in your ears, and suddenly, the dress feels tighter than before, like it’s constricting your ribs, like it’s too much.

Behind you, Kenny makes a noise—something between a scoff and a laugh, exhaling smoke as he speaks. “Jesus, dude, try not to have a heart attack.”

Butters flinches, his face burning even redder, and you should feel bad, but you don’t have the space for it right now. Because now Kenny is talking again, and you can feel his eyes on you without even turning around.

“You good, sweetheart?” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s something underneath it—something you can’t place, something that makes your stomach churn. “You seem kinda stressed.”

You don’t turn to face him. You can’t. Not when you know he’ll still be wearing that damn smirk, not when you already feel so stupid. Instead, you pull your hands away from Butters and take a small step back, curling your fingers into your palms.

“Yeah,” you mutter, voice tight. “I’m fine.”

Kenny hums like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you either.

Then Butters—sweet, oblivious, perfectly timed Butters—cuts through the tension like he just remembered why you might be here in the first place.

“Oh, wait a minute—ain’t ya got a date with Damien tonight?”

You blink. The words hit you like a slap to the face, grounding you just enough to snap you back into reality. Right. That’s why you’re here.

Not because you needed to see Kenny. Not because you needed someone to talk you off the ledge. Because you have a date. A real one. With someone who actually asked you out instead of just messing with you until you lost your patience.

You shift on your feet, clearing your throat. “Uh. Yeah. I do.”

Butters brightens a little, clearly relieved to have something normal to latch onto. “Well, shoot! That’s real excitin’! He, uh—he must be real lucky, huh?”

His voice is gentle, reassuring in the way Butters always is, but the compliment makes your stomach twist. You should feel good about that. It’s what you wanted to hear. But the way it sits in your chest feels wrong, like you’re holding onto something fragile, something that might crack open if you let yourself think about it too much.

You barely notice the way Kenny exhales smoke again, slow and measured, before he speaks.

“Lucky, huh?” His tone is light, but there’s something behind it, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Yeah, I bet he thinks so.”

You don’t turn around. Because if you do, you’ll have to see whatever look is on Kenny’s face right now. You’ll have to see that smirk, that lazy amusement, that stupid thing in his eyes that always makes you second-guess everything. And you can’t do that right now. Not when you already feel like you’re hanging onto your confidence by a thread.

Instead, you force a small, dry laugh. “I mean. He asked me out, so. Guess he thinks so.”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Well, yeah, course he does! I mean, you—you really do look nice n’ all! Bet he’s gonna love it!”

Kenny makes another noise behind you, and you don’t know what it means, but you feel it in your spine.

“So, what?” he says, tone still casual, still teasing. “You dress up like this for him, but not for me?”

It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. Kenny says shit like this all the time—pushes buttons, says things just to get a reaction, makes everything sound like something when it isn’t. That’s just him.

And yet.

The way he says it—low and smooth, a smirk audible even without looking—hits somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you don’t know how to name. You swallow hard, fingers clenching against your bag strap.

You still don’t turn around. Instead, you force another laugh, but this one is thinner, more strained. “Kenny.” You say his name like a warning, but it comes out weaker than you want it to.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Relax, sweetheart. Just messin’ with you.”

Butters, ever the peacemaker, laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon, Kenny, don’t tease her too much now! It’s her first date, she’s probably real nervous ‘bout it already!”

You exhale, shaking your head slightly, trying to pull yourself together. There's an uncomfortable tightness in your chest, like a string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. You don’t want to leave yet. You can’t leave yet—not when you feel like this, like your skin is too tight, like if you step outside, the air itself might suffocate you.

So instead, you turn back to Butters, ignoring the way your pulse jumps when you catch Kenny watching you from the corner of your eye. “Hey, um… mind if I chill here for a while?” Your voice is light, casual, like this is normal. “I’ll even help with your project if you want.”

Butters blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh! Uh—well, gee, yeah, sure! I mean, if ya ain’t in a hurry or nothin’—I could definitely use some help!” He brightens immediately, shuffling back toward his desk. “I was just tryin’ to work out a lesson plan on, uh, phonics! Y’know, like, the way kids learn sounds n’ letters n’ such.”

Behind you, Kenny exhales another slow drag of smoke, shifting on Butters’ bed. “Phonics, huh?” His voice is easy, smooth, teasing. “You think she even knows how to read, dude?”

You roll your eyes and turn to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. “I do know how to read, actually. But thanks for your concern.”

Kenny smirks, flicking the ash from his joint into the soda can on the desk. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, fighting the urge to throw something at him.

Kenny grins wider, completely at ease, and it’s annoying how unaffected he looks. He’s lounging back, half-sprawled, the dim light casting soft shadows along his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the lazy half-lidded amusement in his eyes. He’s comfortable, relaxed, like nothing about this—about you standing in his friend’s dorm, in a dress you wouldn’t normally wear, about the way you were practically begging Butters for validation just a minute ago—means anything to him.

And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he’s just high, maybe he’s just being Kenny, maybe he’s just teasing. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You suck in a slow breath and shake your head, forcing yourself to turn back to Butters. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

Butters immediately brightens again, flipping through a mess of papers on his desk. “Now, see, the tricky part is makin’ it fun, ‘cause kids, they don’t got long attention spans, right? So ya gotta make it a game or somethin’ interactive! I was thinkin’ maybe, like, flashcards or a little song—”

You nod along, grateful for the distraction, for something to ground yourself in. But just as you reach for one of the papers, Kenny shifts behind you, the bed creaking slightly.

“You sure you’re in the mood for schoolwork right now?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something smug, something that makes the back of your neck prickle. “Thought you’d be too busy planning your big night.”

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens slightly around the paper. “And I thought you’d be too busy helping Butters instead of sitting here getting high on his bed.”

Butters laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon now, I don’t mind it! Besides, it’s, uh—it’s good to have, uh, a subject to practice on, y’know? Kids do get distracted real easy, an’ all—”

Kenny hums. “Right. Gotta prepare for all the troublemakers.”

You do turn then, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are already on you, his smirk small but sharp, like he’s amused by something you haven’t figured out yet. But there’s something else too—something lingering in the way he’s looking at you, something that makes your stomach feel unsteady. Like he’s waiting for you to react, to crack, to let slip whatever it is you’re trying to hold together.

It’s infuriating. So you hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly. “That is kind of your specialty, isn’t it?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to push back. Then he grins again, slow and lazy, and taps his fingers against his stomach. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away as long as you probably should.

Butters, ever oblivious, clears his throat and gestures back to the papers in your hands. “Uh, so, about my project—”

You blink and snap yourself out of it, finally breaking eye contact with Kenny as you turn back toward Butters. “Right. Yeah. Let’s focus on that.”

Butters shuffles his notes together, puffing up a little like he’s getting into character. “Alrighty then!” His voice lifts with forced authority, a little shaky but full of determination. “For this lesson, I’m gonna be the teacher, an’ you two are gonna be my students, alright?”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “We’re really doing this?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yup! Roleplay is a great way to engage young learners! Helps ‘em get immersed in the lesson an’ retain information better!”

Kenny chuckles from behind you, low and amused. “Y’hear that? We’re gonna retain information better.”

You turn your head just enough to glance at him, your lips twitching with a barely restrained smirk. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll love being a first grader again.”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from the joint. “Hey, I was a great first grader.”

“Doubtful.”

Butters claps his hands together, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark Kenny is about to make. “Alright, students! Go on an’ take a seat now, class is about to begin!”

You hesitate for a second, eyes flicking to the only two seating options: Butters’ desk chair or his bed, where Kenny is already sprawled out like he owns the place. Sitting at the desk would be too serious, too separate, and after everything tonight, after how you feel in this outfit, sitting alone just feels… unappealing.

So you move toward the bed, pressing a knee onto the mattress before settling in next to Kenny.

The second you do, Kenny shifts, stretching his arms up before letting them fall back against the blanket, his body loose and lazy, completely unbothered. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and the scent of smoke and faded cologne lingers in the air between you.

You try not to focus on it.

You also try not to focus on the fact that your dress rides up just a little when you sit, exposing more of your thigh than you expected. Or the fact that Kenny notices, his gaze flickering down for half a second before he props an arm behind his head like he wasn’t looking at all.

You clear your throat and cross your legs, leaning back against the wall. “Alright, Mr. Stotch,” you say, forcing yourself to focus on Butters instead. “What’s today’s lesson?”

Butters beams, clearly excited to finally have your attention on the lesson itself. He flips through his papers, scanning his notes before looking up at the both of you. “Alrighty, class! Today, we’re gonna be learnin’ all about phonics! Now, does anybody know what a vowel is?”

Kenny snorts. “Yeah, man, I love vowels.”

Butters sighs, already exhausted. “Now, Kenny, that ain’t an answer—”

“They’re the ones that aren’t consonants, right?” you chime in, smirking slightly.

Butters looks relieved. “That’s right! Good job!”

Kenny makes a show of gasping. “Wow. Teacher’s pet much?”

You elbow him lightly. “Maybe if you paid attention instead of getting high, you’d know things.”

Kenny grins, turning his head to look at you fully, his expression playful but unreadable in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Oh, I know things, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but before you can fire back, Butters groans dramatically. “Alright, alright, enough goofin’ off now! Let’s focus, class!” Butters, clearly relieved to have his class under control, puffs up again and clears his throat. “Now! Like I was sayin’, vowels are real important ‘cause they help make up all sorts of words! Ya can’t have a sentence without ‘em! So, let’s practice soundin’ ‘em out together, alright?”

He starts going through his notes, explaining how vowel sounds change depending on the word, how long and short vowels work, how they’re the building blocks of reading. And for a little while, it’s… actually kind of fun. Kenny still throws in dumb remarks here and there, making you roll your eyes, but you let yourself get into it, trying to at least be a little helpful.

Then, just as Butters is getting into a section about blending letters, a loud BANG echoes against the door.

“Butters!” A voice shouts from the other side, urgent and impatient. “Dude, open up! We need an RA!”

All three of you freeze. Butters blinks, caught completely off guard. “Oh, uh—hold on now, I—” He fumbles as he stands, hastily shuffling his papers together before hurrying toward the door. He throws a panicked look over his shoulder as he reaches for the handle. “I swear, if this is ‘bout another clogged toilet—”

He pulls the door open, and standing outside is a frazzled-looking freshman, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Dude,” they gasp, leaning against the frame. “You gotta come quick—there’s, like, actual blood.”

Butters visibly pales. “Wh-What?!”

“My friend split his forehead open downstairs, and there’s so much blood—I think he passed out, man, you gotta do something!”

“Oh golly,” Butters breathes, panic washing over his face. He turns back to you and Kenny, eyes darting wildly. “I—I gotta go—”

Kenny, still lounged on the bed like nothing could possibly be this important, exhales slowly and flicks his joint into the soda can. “Dude, you gonna handle that, or you need me to step in and perform emergency brain surgery?”

Butters gapes at him. “Kenny, this is serious!”

Kenny shrugs. “So’s brain surgery.”

You smack his arm. “Kenny.”

He grins at you, but before he can say anything else, Butters is already scrambling to grab his keys. “Y’all just—stay here! I’ll be right back!”

And with that, he rushes out the door, leaving you and Kenny alone in the hazy dorm room, the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against the wall as Butters’ frantic footsteps disappear down the hallway. The room feels strangely quiet now, the distant hum of campus life barely filtering through the closed door. The lingering scent of weed still hangs heavy in the air, settling into your skin, into your clothes, into the fabric of Butters’ bedspread beneath you.

You shift slightly, reaching for your phone, unlocking the screen with a quick tap. The time blinks up at you—you still have a little while before Damien picks you up. Not long, but enough. Enough to stay here a little longer, enough to push away the nerves creeping up your spine, enough to breathe.

Kenny hasn’t moved. He’s still sprawled out next to you, half-sitting, half-lounging, his head tilted lazily against the wall. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy-lashed, watching you in that slow, unreadable way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap idly against his stomach, and even though his expression is relaxed, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your breath feel shallow.

You hesitate for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the side of your phone. Then you turn your head toward him and smile.

“Okay,” you say, shifting a little closer, pressing your knee against the mattress for balance. “Honest opinion.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Outfit. Makeup. Everything. Be real with me.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, eyes flicking slowly over your face, then down, tracing the line of your dress, the curve of your legs where they cross. His tongue flicks over his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, before he exhales and leans back further against the wall.

“You really want my honest opinion?”

You nod, waiting, your stomach twisting with anticipation.

Kenny hums, dragging his fingers through his hair before smirking slightly. “Alright.”

Then he shifts suddenly, moving closer—just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne under the smoke.

“You look hot,” he says simply, like it’s just a fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. No teasing lilt, no exaggerated flirtation, no smugness. Just those two words, direct and confident, sinking straight into your ribs.

You swallow, your fingers gripping your phone a little tighter. “Yeah?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches, his eyes flicking back to yours. “Yeah.”

Warmth floods through your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you’re smiling—brightly, wide enough that your cheeks start to burn. The relief is instant, washing over you like cool air after being stuck in a too-hot room. It’s stupid how much you needed to hear that, how the knots in your stomach loosen just from two simple words.

You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “I hope Damien thinks so too.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t come back with something snarky like “oh, he will” or “if he doesn’t, he’s blind”. He just looks at you, his smirk frozen in place but his expression unreadable, something flickering behind his eyes too quick to catch.

The silence stretches a second too long, so you shift closer to him, moving across the mattress until your thigh nearly brushes his. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move at all—just watches as you tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers twisting a loose strand nervously.

“I’m so nervous,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Like, I feel stupidly nervous.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no shit.”

You groan and press your palms together in your lap, bouncing your foot against the mattress. “Like, it’s just a date. Just dinner. It’s not that big of a deal, right?”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from his joint. “Depends. Are you plannin’ on suckin’ his dick in the parking lot after, or is this more of a getting to know you situation?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “Kenny!”

“What?” He exhales smoke lazily, smirking. “It’s a valid question.”

You shove at his arm, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

He grins, tapping the ash off into the soda can on the nightstand. “I’m just sayin’, if it’s the first option, then yeah, I’d be nervous too.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Kenny chuckles, watching you with that easy, amused expression. You shift slightly, pressing your knee into the mattress for balance, your body angling toward him. The air feels warm, dense with the sharp, skunky bite of weed, layered beneath the lingering scent of his cologne—something musky, a little sweet, like amber and worn leather. There’s sweat in the mix too, faint but present, clinging to his hoodie from being in this cramped dorm room for too long. It’s familiar, grounding, the kind of scent that sticks to fabric, to skin, to memory.

You hesitate for a second, then take a slow breath. “What do you think of Damien?”

Kenny finally moves, tilting his head slightly, his smirk twitching. “Oh, we’re really doing this?”

You blink. “Doing what?”

“Asking for my opinion like it actually matters.” He lets his head roll against the wall, looking at you with an exaggerated pout. “I dunno, babe, you’ve never given a fuck about my thoughts on the people you’ve dated before.”

You snort. “That’s because I’ve never dated anyone before.”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, like he forgot that part. “Shit. Right.”

You exhale, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. “I dunno, I just… I feel like I should ask?”

Kenny watches you for a beat, his expression shifting—his smirk falters just slightly, his eyes narrowing like he’s working through a thought he’s not sure he wants to say out loud. Then he shakes his head, the usual amusement sliding back into place. “Alright.” He stretches his arms behind his head, exhaling dramatically. “He’s fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s it? Fine?”

Kenny scoffs. “You want me to write a fucking dissertation?” He deepens his voice, putting on a fake, pretentious tone. “Damien Thorn is a captivating subject with an aura of brooding mystique, and I believe he would make an excellent breeding partner for my best friend.”

You smack his arm. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

Kenny laughs, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t hate the guy. He’s just kinda… predictable.”

You tilt your head. “Predictable how?”

“Y’know.” Kenny waves his hand vaguely. “The whole mysterious, I only wear black, I stare out of windows dramatically and contemplate the void thing. Talks like he’s been alive for 300 years and saw all his wives die in childbirth.”

You let out a short laugh. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

Kenny grins. “Tell me he hasn’t unironically said the words ‘society doesn’t understand me’ at least once.”

You hesitate. “…He might have.”

“Exactly.” Kenny sits up a little, leaning toward you. “I mean, I get it. He’s got that whole tortured artist, vampire prince, probably jerks off to his own poetry thing going on. Some girls are into that. You’re obviously into that. Just don’t let him convince you to do weird cult shit, alright?”

You shove his arm again, laughing. “I highly doubt he’s in a cult.”

“Bet you twenty bucks he owns a human skull.”

“He does not own a human skull.”

Kenny snickers. “Not one he admitted to owning, anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest is lighter now, your nerves not nearly as suffocating as they were before.

Kenny’s smirk lingers for a second before he shifts again, moving just slightly closer. His knee knocks against yours, barely noticeable, and when you look up at him again, his expression isn’t as cocky as before.

“Just don’t let him make you feel like you gotta change anything,” Kenny says, voice lower now, steadier. “He likes you, right? So don’t do that thing where you overthink shit and start trying to fit into his world instead of just… y’know. Being you.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. His gaze is steady, his smirk smaller now, like he’s saying something important but trying to play it off like it’s nothing.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, instinctively, but even as the words leave your mouth, they don’t feel entirely true.

Kenny doesn’t call you out on it. He just hums, tilting his head slightly, watching you like he’s waiting for you to say something else.

And you know he knows you’re lying.

It’s in the way his gaze lingers, sharp and assessing, like he’s picking apart your words, unraveling the things you don’t say. Kenny’s always been good at that—good at knowing when you’re bullshitting, good at catching the cracks in your voice, the little shifts in your body language that most people don’t bother to notice.

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to sit in this feeling, in this stupid tension twisting in your chest, in the way his eyes keep pinning you in place. So you do what you always do when you don’t want Kenny to get too close to the truth.

You change the subject.

You exhale through your nose, glancing down at the joint still smoldering between his fingers. “Can I take a hit?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You shrug, forcing yourself to look casual, even though your heart is still beating too fast in your chest. “It’ll help me relax.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Babe, you take one hit of my shit, and Damien’s gonna have to carry your ass to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

Kenny smirks, lifting the joint between two fingers. “Oh yeah?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping into something lower, more amused. “Prove it.”

You don’t hesitate. You snatch the joint from his hand and bring it to your lips, inhaling slow and deep just to be a little cocky about it.

The burn hits immediately, hot and acrid down your throat, and you almost cough but refuse to give him the satisfaction. You hold it, exhaling slower than necessary just to make a point.

Kenny watches, eyes flicking between your lips and the lazy tendrils of smoke curling into the air.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Didn’t even choke. Proud of you, babe.”

You smirk, tilting your chin up. “Told you.”

But then, after a few seconds, the warmth starts to settle into your limbs, a slow, creeping buzz spreading through your chest, your fingers, your head. It doesn’t hit all at once—it moves in waves, rolling in slow and syrupy, making your body feel both heavier and lighter at the same time. Your shoulders loosen, your legs relax, and the tension that had been coiling in your stomach just moments ago starts to unravel, leaving a strange, heady calm in its place.

You blink, sucking in a slow breath, and hand the joint back to Kenny, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead like you need to steady yourself. “Fucking how strong is your shit?”

Kenny grins around the joint, taking a lazy drag. “You feelin’ it already?”

You scoff. “No, I just always lose control of my spine after one hit.”

Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke, chuckling. “Yeah, that’ll happen.” He leans back against the wall, stretching his legs out, still watching you with that smug, entertained expression. “My guy hooks me up with the good shit. You’d die if I gave you an edible.”

You groan, letting your head drop back against the wall. “I am gonna die. I can feel my bones.”

Kenny laughs at that, a real, unfiltered laugh, the kind that makes his shoulders shake. “God, you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.”

You glare at him, but it has no weight behind it. Everything feels too hazy, too warm. “Shut up,” you mumble, dragging a hand down your face. “I don’t usually do this, okay? Sorry I don’t have a stoner tolerance like you.”

Kenny smirks, tapping the joint against the ash-filled soda can before taking another drag. “It’s cute.”

You pause, blinking slowly, the words settling over you in a way they probably shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the weed making everything feel heavier, warmer, but the way he said it—it’s cute—lingers in the air longer than it should, hanging between you like an unspoken thing. You don’t look at him. 

Instead, you exhale softly, tracing your fingers against the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in the feeling of it. The buzz in your head makes it easier to let words slip out without overthinking them first, makes it easier to just ask without worrying about how it’ll land.

“Kenny,” you say suddenly, tilting your head to the side. “What was your first serious date like?”

Kenny looks over at you, raising an eyebrow. “Serious?”

“Yeah,” you say, shifting slightly on the bed. “Like, not just some random hookup or some girl you took to a movie just to make out with her after. Like, actual dating.”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He twirls the joint between his fingers, exhaling a slow curl of smoke before speaking. “Alright. Lemme think.”

You watch him as he stares at the ceiling, like he actually has to dig through his memories to find one that counts.

“Guess that’d be my junior year,” he finally says. “Dated this girl for a couple months. She was nice. Real sweet, real into, like… astrology and crystals and shit.”

You blink, caught off guard. Not because it’s shocking—Kenny’s always been good with people, always had people drawn to him in a way you never really questioned—but because you didn’t know this.

And now that you think about it, you don’t really know anything about any of them when it comes to dating.

You’ve been friends with Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and Kyle since childhood, close enough to have a million inside jokes, to know exactly how each of them takes their coffee, to predict their reactions before they even open their mouths. But their love lives? They never talked to you about that. Maybe you never asked. Maybe it never seemed important. Maybe, until now, you never cared.

But now, sitting here, listening to Kenny talk about a girl you never knew existed, about dates you were never aware of, about pieces of his life you were never a part of… It feels weird.

You push the thought down, forcing a smirk. “Oh, so a witchy girl.”

Kenny grins, glancing at you. “Yeah, she used to say our star signs weren’t compatible or some shit, but she still let me feel her up behind the bleachers, so, y’know. Guess she wasn’t that concerned.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his arm. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, but, for real—it was kinda nice. We went on actual dates. Coffee shops, late-night drives, that kinda shit. Used to sit on her roof and talk for hours.”

Your fingers twitch slightly against your lap. “Why’d you break up?”

Kenny exhales, rubbing his thumb against the filter of the joint. “She moved.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, but it’s slower this time, like he’s trying to brush it off before it can mean too much. “Her mom got a new job or whatever, and that was that. We texted for a little after, but y’know how that shit goes.”

You watch him for a second, the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way he keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling like he doesn’t really want to see your reaction.

“You liked her a lot, huh?” you ask, softer this time.

Kenny smirks, but it’s smaller now, lazier, like he’s letting it sit on his lips just to keep up the act. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

A strange weight settles in your stomach, warm and pressing, like a slow burn spreading through your chest. It isn’t anger, isn’t sadness, but it itches in a way you don’t know how to shake. The thought of Kenny—your Kenny—being with someone else, taking her on late-night drives, sitting on rooftops with her, kissing her—it twists at something deep inside you, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

You shift on the bed, pressing your foot against Kenny’s ankle without thinking. Your fingers move automatically, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bone, grounding yourself in the warmth of his skin through his socks. It’s casual, the kind of touch that’s always been normal between you, but right now, under the weight of his gaze—half-lidded, curious, lingering—it feels different.

You clear your throat. “Were you nervous?”

Kenny blinks, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“Your first date.” Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “Like, actually nervous?”

Kenny scoffs, his grin twitching. “Pfft, no.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’m naturally charming.”

You roll your eyes but keep tracing circles against his ankle. “Kenny.”

He exhales, like he’s debating whether to tell you the truth. Then, finally, he sighs and leans further back against the wall, legs stretching out slightly.

“Alright, fine,” he admits. “Maybe a little nervous.”

You smirk. “I knew it.”

Kenny nudges your knee with his own, the pressure warm and firm. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I wasn’t you nervous.”

You scoff. “Okay, rude.”

He chuckles, shifting slightly, his knee pressing against yours again. “I mean, c’mon. You’re sitting here rubbing my ankle like you’re tryin’ to summon a genie. If you were any more nervous, you’d be vibrating.”

Heat spreads up your neck, but you don’t move your hand. You should, but you don’t. Instead, you huff, tilting your head back against the wall. “God, I hate you.”

Kenny grins, lazy and satisfied. “Nah. You love me.”

The words land differently this time, settling into the space between you. They should roll off like they always do, easy and meaningless, just another joke between best friends. But tonight, they hang in the air for a second too long, stretching between the warmth of his skin against yours, the slow buzz in your head, the way his voice dips just slightly when he says it.

You straighten up, pulling your hands away from him, suddenly too aware of yourself, of where you’re sitting, of how close you let yourself get. Your body still feels loose from the weed, but inside, there’s a tight knot of unease curling in your stomach. It’s not about him, not about who he kissed, not about some girl you never met. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that you’ve never kissed anyone.

You press your palms against your thighs, staring down at them. Your dress has ridden up slightly, showing more skin than you meant to, and for some reason, that makes your face heat even more.

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. It’s never mattered before. None of the guys ever talked about their relationships with you—not Stan, not Kyle, not even Cartman. Not because they didn’t have them, but because… because why? Because they knew? Because they knew you didn’t have stories of your own to share, because they knew you’d never had a first kiss, a first date, a first anything?

It’s like they were all protecting you from it. From knowing too much, from feeling left out. But now, sitting next to Kenny, it’s impossible to ignore.

You swallow hard. “Did you guys kiss?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, eyes still locked on your lap. “On your first date,” you clarify, quieter now. “Did you kiss her?”

Kenny exhales slowly, like he’s deciding whether to mess with you or just answer. Then, after a pause, he smirks. “Yeah.”

Your stomach dips. Not because you’re jealous. Not because you wish it had been you. But because he just knows—because they all know—and no one ever says it out loud.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny tilts his head, looking at you like you just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Uh… ‘cause I wanted to?”

You nod, your nails digging into the fabric of your dress. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

Kenny frowns slightly, watching you a little too closely now. “Babe, what’s with the interrogation?”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No reason.”

Kenny doesn’t buy it. You can feel him not buying it. But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Y’know,” he says, voice lazier now, like he’s just musing aloud, “I was gonna ask if you’ve ever kissed anyone, but I feel like I already know the answer.”

Your entire body tenses. “Fuck off.”

He grins, eyes flashing with something smug. “So that’s a no, then?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

Kenny laughs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Babe, it’s fine. Nothin’ wrong with being a late bloomer.”

You exhale sharply, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. It’s not like you didn’t know, but hearing it out loud, having it confirmed, makes you feel stupid. You force yourself to shrug, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Kenny watches you for a beat, smirk twitching slightly. Then, suddenly, his grin turns sly. “You nervous about kissing Thorn tonight?”

You freeze. His smirk widens. “Oh shit—you are.”

You click your heels together nervously, the soft tapping sound filling the space between you. Your fingers twitch against your thighs, and the heat from the weed makes everything feel too much—too loud, too noticeable, too real. You groan, dragging your hands down your face before turning to Kenny, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Of course I’m nervous,” you say, voice tight. “I don’t wanna screw this up.”

Kenny tilts his head slightly, that same knowing smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes stay locked onto yours, sharp and focused. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you press your palms against your lap, shifting against the bed.

“I don’t know the first thing about kissing,” you admit, voice quieter now, like saying it out loud makes it real. “Like, yeah, I’ve read books, and I’ve seen it in movies and TV and whatever, but it’s not the same. It’s not real.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, and for once, he doesn’t throw out some crude joke, doesn’t immediately make fun of you. He just leans back against the wall, rolling the joint between his fingers, tapping it lightly against the edge of the soda can.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice easy, like this is just another conversation. “It’s not the same.”

You let out a long sigh, tipping your head back. “God, what if I’m bad at it? What if he can tell I’ve never done it before?”

Kenny lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Babe, trust me, it’s not that deep.”

You snap your head toward him. “Yes, it is that deep! I don’t wanna be weird about it! I don’t wanna be one of those people who doesn’t know where to put their hands or, like, smashes their teeth together or—”

Kenny laughs, cutting you off, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, dude, you are way too in your own head about this.”

You frown. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny hums, exhaling another slow curl of smoke toward the ceiling, and when he looks at you again, his smirk has faded just a little. His gaze lingers, his expression thoughtful, like he’s actually considering something instead of just coming up with another joke.

Then he tilts his head slightly and says, “You want me to teach you?”

For a second, you think you misheard him, that maybe the weed is making you imagine things, but no—Kenny is still looking at you, still smirking, still waiting. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a sharpness in his expression now, a weight behind the words that makes your stomach twist.

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, tapping ash from the joint. “I mean, I could teach you.” His lips twitch, like he’s amused by the way you instantly froze. “Since you’re so fuckin’ worried about being bad at it.”

Your stomach flips, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Your body knows this is a joke, knows this is just Kenny being Kenny, but for some reason, your brain short-circuits at the idea, at the possibility.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “Oh, please.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, entirely too entertained by your reaction. “What? You don’t trust me?”

You cross your arms. “I do trust you.”

“So what’s the problem?” His voice is smooth, coaxing, like he’s daring you to take him seriously.

“The problem is that you’re a jackass,” you shoot back, glaring at him, but your chest feels too warm, your skin buzzing.

Kenny chuckles, watching you like he’s already won. He leans in just slightly, his knee pressing more firmly against yours. “C’mon, babe. What better way to learn than hands-on experience?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. Because if you open your mouth right now, you’re not sure what’s going to come out.

And Kenny—fucking Kenny—sees it. His smirk deepens, but his eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap against his thigh, slow and deliberate, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s quieter now, lower, like he’s giving you an out.

“Just say the word.”

You fiddle with the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric between your fingers as your frown deepens. Heat creeps up your neck, your chest, your face—too much warmth pooling beneath your skin, making it impossible to sit still.

You swallow hard, eyes darting toward the door before flicking back to him. “You’re just gonna make fun of me,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his smirk twitching at the edges. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” You glare at him, but it doesn’t hold much weight, not with the way your pulse is racing, not with the way his knee is still pressed against yours, grounding you in place. “You’ll do it, and then you’ll be a dick about it forever.”

Kenny exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “If I was gonna make fun of you, I would’ve already done it.”

You press your lips together, still twisting the fabric of your dress, still feeling like you’re one wrong move away from completely losing your grip on reality.

“And what if Butters comes back?” you say quickly, grasping at the excuse like it’s a lifeline. “That’d be—mortifying.”

Kenny chuckles, leaning in slightly. “Please. Butters walks in on this? That’s what makes him finally drop out and join a monastery.”

You let out a short laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

Kenny grins, but the usual lightness in his expression doesn’t fully return. There’s a sharpness beneath the amusement, a glint in his eyes that lingers as he watches you. His gaze moves over your face, slower now, like he’s picking apart every detail—the way your fingers won’t stop twisting in your dress, the way your breathing has changed, the way your eyes flicker to the door like you’re looking for an escape. He’s searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that you’re refusing just to refuse.

You shift slightly, your body moving before your brain fully catches up. It’s small—just a slow, uncertain scoot closer—but Kenny notices immediately. His smirk twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you close the space between you.

Without looking away, he reaches over and taps the joint against the edge of the soda can, snuffing it out before setting it down completely. The room feels quieter now, the haze of smoke lingering but no longer moving, the only sound the distant hum of campus outside and the soft rustling of your dress as you fidget in place.

Your fingers curl against the fabric. Your throat feels tight. “This won’t be weird, right?”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t speak, waiting for you to finish.

You lick your lips, glancing at him before looking down at your lap. “We’ll still be best friends?”

For the first time tonight, Kenny hesitates. It’s brief, barely a flicker, but you see it—the way his smirk fades just enough, the way his eyes drop from yours for half a second before snapping back up. He leans back against the wall, resting his arm against his knee, and lets out a slow breath.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, his voice lower now, quieter. “We’ll still be best friends.”

You study him, searching his face for anything—any shift, any sign that he’s just saying what you want to hear. But Kenny is good at this. He’s always been good at keeping things easy, at making you believe nothing ever rattles him.

And maybe that’s what you want right now. Maybe you just need this to be easy.

Your fingers tighten around the hem of your dress again, pulse hammering in your ears. You nod, exhaling softly.

“Okay.”

Kenny blinks at you owlishly, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. For a moment, he just stares, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off, to shove him and call him a dumbass like you always do. But you don’t.

Instead, you stay right where you are, hands resting lightly against your lap.. The warm haze from the weed still lingers in your body, but this feels different now—clearer, more deliberate.

Then Kenny exhales through his nose, a boyish smile tugging at his lips, lopsided and easy in a way that makes your stomach flip. He tilts his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours.

“C’mere.” The words are soft, almost coaxing.

You should hesitate. You should think about this more, about what it means, about why Kenny—your best friend, your Kenny—is looking at you like this, like he’s completely fine with this, like it’s not a big deal at all.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you fully climb onto Butters’ mattress, shifting closer to him. The bed creaks beneath the movement, the fabric of your dress rustling as you settle beside him. You’re close enough now that your knees bump together, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him, his orange parka bunched up slightly where it’s unzipped, revealing a worn-out band tee underneath.

You tilt your chin up, looking at him, and smile wider. “You seriously don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice quieter now, like you don’t want to break whatever this moment is. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Kenny’s eyes flicker, the dim lighting making the blue of them darker, softer. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t do any of the things you expect him to do. Instead, he reaches up lazily, rubbing the side of his neck before dropping his hand back down.

“Babe,” he says, and his voice is different now—lower, warmer. “If I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have told you to c’mere.”

You nod once, barely moving, voice just above a whisper. “Okay.”

Kenny’s lips twitch, and for a split second, he looks at you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head. But he doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.

You wet your lips, shifting slightly on the mattress, fingers still curled against the hem of your dress. Your pulse is loud, drumming in your ears, and even though you’re the one who asked for this, who let it get this far, you suddenly feel like you’re out of your depth.

You blink up at him, hesitating before mumbling, “So… how does this usually start?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What, you want me to narrate it for you?”

You huff, nudging his knee with yours. “Kenny.”

He grins, but there’s something easy about it, something reassuring. He leans back a little, resting his weight on one hand, the other draped over his knee. “Relax. It’s not a fuckin’ science experiment.”

“Yeah, but—” You exhale sharply, fidgeting with your dress again. “Do I, like… do something? Say something?”

Kenny watches you for a second, amusement flickering in his eyes, but there’s no teasing bite behind it. His gaze drops briefly—to your mouth, then back up—and the movement makes your stomach flip.

He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your skin buzz. “Nah. You just let it happen.”

Just let it happen. Like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not sending a nervous jolt through every inch of your body.

Your fingers twitch, and you inhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. You glance at his lips—just a flicker of a look, barely a second—but he catches it. His smirk deepens, but his voice stays calm when he murmurs, “You wanna try, or you need me to do all the work?”

You laugh, breathless and anxious, shaking your head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny grins. “Yeah, that’s kinda the whole point.”

You swallow, hands gripping your dress tighter. Finally, you make yourself move. Your heart pounds as you shift closer, your knees sinking into the mattress. Your movements are slow, hesitant, but Kenny doesn’t pull away—he just watches, his expression calm, patient, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Your hands land on his knees, plopping down with a little less grace than you intended, fingers squeezing lightly like you need something to ground yourself. You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his jeans, solid and real beneath your palms.

You’re close now. Really close. You stare at his face, your breath uneven as you take in every detail you never let yourself look at for this long before.

His eyes—so blue, deeper in this dim lighting, framed by lashes that are unfairly thick. His freckles, scattered across his nose and cheekbones, some so faint they’re almost invisible against his skin. The silver glint of his lip piercing, the slight redness around the hoop in his eyebrow, like he’s fidgeted with it too much today.

And fuck, he smells good. The familiar scent of smoke clings to him, but underneath it, you catch the warm spice of his cologne—something woody, a little sweet, mixed with the faint musk of skin warmed by too many layers. It makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers dig just slightly into his knees.

Kenny doesn’t smirk, doesn’t joke, doesn’t make it a thing. His lips part just slightly, his gaze steady, something careful about the way he’s looking at you now—relaxed, sure of himself, but also waiting. Like he’s giving you all the time in the world to figure out what you want to do next.

Your breathing is shallow, your pulse wild. You wet your lips, eyes flicking downward for half a second before snapping back up, nervous energy coiled tight in your chest.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, voice low. “You good?”

You bite your lip, the pressure grounding you for half a second, but it doesn’t help much. Your chest is tight, stomach twisted into nervous knots, hands still resting on Kenny’s knees like they belong there. You can feel your pulse, each beat heavy in your throat, behind your ribs, beneath your skin.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you shake your head lightly. Kenny notices. His eyebrows lift just a little, his lips parting like he’s about to ask what’s wrong, but you speak first—your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you…?” Your fingers twitch against the rough denim beneath them, gripping slightly before loosening again. You swallow hard, eyes flicking to his lips, then back up. “Can you start it?”

Kenny blinks once, slowly, and you hate how nervous you feel under his gaze, how exposed you must look right now. You don’t even know why you asked, why the words slipped out so naturally. Maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself to get this right. Maybe it’s because if you make the first move, you’ll hesitate, overthink, ruin it before it even happens.

Kenny’s expression shifts—his smirk isn’t there anymore, but he doesn’t look surprised either. He lifts a hand, slow and easy, and rests it against your hip.

“You sure?” His voice is quiet,  so much gentler than you expected.

You nod again, a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

Kenny hums, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress, barely a touch at all, just a faint pressure against your hip. He’s still watching you, still waiting like he’s making absolutely sure you won’t change your mind.

And then, finally, he moves. It’s slow—so slow that it almost drives you insane. He shifts forward just enough that his nose bumps yours, his breath warm when it ghosts over your lips. His hand on your hip squeezes, just a little, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

But you don’t. You can’t. Your eyes flutter shut just as he finally closes the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

For a moment, your brain short-circuits. Every nerve in your body goes into overdrive, screaming at you that this is happening, that Kenny’s mouth is on yours, that this isn’t a dream or a joke or some hypothetical situation—you’re kissing him.

In your panic, you react way too fast. You lean in too hard, pressing your face into his like you’re trying to merge with him. Your nose smashes against his cheek, and for half a second, you swear you can hear the muffled oomph he lets out as you practically headbutt him.

Kenny jerks back, startled, hands instinctively flying up.

And then—

He starts laughing.

A deep, unrestrained laugh bursts out of him, his head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking. His fingers press against his mouth for a second like he’s processing what just happened, but it does nothing to hide his grin.

“Oh, fuck—” He exhales through his laughter, eyes shining with amusement. “You tryna kill me?”

Your entire body floods with mortification. “Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. “I hate myself.”

Kenny snickers, still shaking his head. “That was—I mean, holy shit, that was aggressive. That was a choice.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Your voice comes out strangled, your face burning so hot you swear you’re seconds away from combusting.

Kenny wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You face-planted into me. That was like—” He presses his palm flat against his face, mimicking the movement. “That was a full-on body slam.”

You groan again, collapsing forward onto his shoulder. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Kenny chuckles, hands settling lightly against your waist. “Nah, it was hilarious.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “It was not hilarious.”

His smirk grows. “It kinda was.”

You let out a dramatic, suffering groan, gripping the fabric of his band tee in your fists. “I knew I’d be bad at this.”

Kenny clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “Nah. You’re just overthinking it.”

You huff, still gripping his shirt. “Overthinking what? I literally attacked your face.”

Kenny grins, squeezing your waist lightly. “Yeah, you did. Real eager. Love the enthusiasm.”

You whine in embarrassment, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder again. “You’re so annoying.”

Kenny snickers, rubbing slow circles against your hip with his thumb. “Relax. We’ll try again.”

You hesitate, your breath catching slightly. “W-We?”

He leans in a little, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Yeah, we.”

Slowly, you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His smirk is smaller now, his amusement still lingering, but there’s no teasing in his expression anymore. His eyes are steady, locked onto yours, his grip on your waist grounding, warm.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his voice lower when he asks, “That okay?”

You nod. That’s all it takes. Kenny leans in again, slower this time, his lips brushing against yours before pressing in fully. The kiss is soft, deliberate—nothing rushed or messy, just the warmth of his mouth against yours, the slight tilt of his head, the faint inhale he takes between movements. It’s nice. It feels good.

And then, without thinking, you shove your tongue into his mouth like you’re trying to force the next step instead of easing into it.

Kenny makes a muffled, startled sound before breaking away, hands gripping your waist to push you back slightly. You barely process what happened before you see the expression on his face—his mouth parted, blinking like you physically knocked the breath out of him.

His lips twitch. And twitch again. His shoulders shake as he presses his fist against his mouth, exhaling sharply through his nose, trying so hard not to crack up.

“NOT AGAIN,” you groan, hands flying to your face.

Kenny inhales sharply, his voice tight like he’s forcing himself to sound normal. “I—” He clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, no, it was good—”

You peek between your fingers. “You’re lying.”

“I swear,” he says, his voice strained like he’s barely keeping it together.

“You are literally trying not to laugh—”

“I’m—” Kenny presses his lips together hard, but a short chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He exhales, grinning. “Okay, maybe you jumped the gun a little.”

“I suffocated you,” you mumble into his shirt.

He snickers. “I mean, yeah. A little. But hey, some people are into that.”

You groan louder, shoving his shoulder weakly. “Shut up.”

Kenny only grins, reaching up with deliberate ease to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and unhurried, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before falling back down. The touch is soft, so casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before, like it means nothing. But your stomach clenches, breath stalling in your throat as if it does.

He hums lightly, amusement flickering in his expression as he tilts his head. “Third time’s the charm.”

Your pulse jumps. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, because you know he’s teasing, but the way he says it—the slow drag of his voice, the rasp in his tone—makes your body go completely useless. You feel it everywhere, a warmth that pools beneath your ribs, creeping down your spine, curling into your fingers. You should say something back, roll your eyes, laugh it off. Do anything but stare at him like an idiot.

Kenny notices immediately. The smirk on his lips softens, the playfulness in his expression giving way to something calmer, something steadier. He doesn’t make another joke, doesn’t push you like you’re expecting. Instead, his hands lift with an ease that makes your throat tighten, fingers curving around your face like he’s done this before—like it’s second nature. His palms are warm, rough in some places but gentle against your skin, his thumbs brushing slow, absentminded strokes over the apples of your cheeks.

You feel small beneath his hands, every inch of you burning under his stare. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you like this—like they weren’t in a hurry, like they weren’t waiting for you to mess up, like they wanted to see you like this.

You barely manage to force a weak smile, uncertain and shaky, but it’s real, and Kenny sees it. His own smile lingers just a second longer, and then, finally, he leans in.

Your entire body feels locked in place, nerves coiling so tightly that you’re convinced you might combust before his lips even touch yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth, the slight shift of his fingers against your skin as he tilts his head. It’s slow—painfully, agonizingly slow—and you don’t know if it’s because he’s hesitating or because he knows you need the time to process what’s happening. Either way, it makes your head spin.

Then, finally, his lips press against yours. Your stomach tightens, breath catching in your throat as you press in slightly, mirroring the gentle pressure he gives. His lips move against yours with an easy confidence, coaxing you into the rhythm of it, letting you take your time. It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s better.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to send a shiver down your spine, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks again, keeping you steady. It’s effortless, natural, like you were always supposed to be here, like kissing Kenny McCormick was never meant to feel awkward or forced or rushed. It just is.

You mirror him, shifting slightly as your hands slide up from his knees to rest against his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft under your fingers, warmed by his body heat, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You part your lips just a little more, letting him take the lead, letting yourself follow the rhythm he’s already set. When you exhale, a quiet, breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny reacts immediately. His fingers tighten against your waist, just enough for you to feel it, for it to send a spark down your spine. His lips press harder against yours, the teasing edge from earlier gone completely, replaced with something slower, heavier. His hand slips from your cheek, fingers dragging lightly down your jaw before settling at the side of your neck, his thumb pressing just beneath your pulse point.

Your lips part slightly, and the second they do, Kenny takes it. His tongue slides against yours, slow, careful, like he’s waiting to see how you’ll react. And the only thing you can do is melt into it.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling slightly, and Kenny groans softly into your mouth. The sound is quiet, but you feel it like a shock straight through your chest. It makes, your body feel too warm, too aware of every place he’s touching you. You can’t tell if it’s the weed still lingering in your system, making everything feel heavier, or if it’s just him. Either way, you don’t care. You don’t stop. You don’t overthink it. You just let it happen.

Kenny moves against you, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to teach you what this is supposed to feel like. His lips mold perfectly to yours, warm and sure, his fingers pressing into your waist in a way that makes your body melt into the heat of him. You part your lips slightly, mirroring the way he tilts his head, and the second he deepens the kiss more, a slow warmth curls through you, leaving your fingers twitching against his chest.

Then—

The sound of keys jingling outside the door yanks you back to reality like a bucket of ice water.

The two of you jerk apart so fast it’s almost embarrassing. You scramble to put space between your bodies, hands gripping the mattress to steady yourself as your heart slams against your ribs. Kenny reacts a second slower, still blinking like his brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, his lips slightly parted, his fingers frozen midair where they had been gripping your waist just moments ago. Your breaths come fast, uneven, your body still buzzing with the ghost of his touch, and you barely have time to process what just happened before the door swings open.

Butters rushes inside, his face flushed, hair slightly damp with sweat, his entire body vibrating like he just ran all the way across campus. He doesn’t even look at you and Kenny, doesn’t notice how far apart you suddenly are, doesn’t clock the tension radiating off you both like heat off pavement. He just stumbles into the room, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hands shaking as he points back toward the door, his voice high and breathless as he blurts out, “There was so much blood.”

You barely register the words at first, still too dazed from what just happened, your mind still stuck in the feel of Kenny’s hands on you, his mouth pressed against yours. But the way Butters’ voice cracks at the end, the way he looks genuinely rattled, has your body catching up before your brain does. You sit up straighter, blinking fast, heart still hammering in your chest as you try to force your thoughts back to reality.

Kenny, on the other hand, just sighs, running a hand down his face like this is the most exhausting thing he’s had to deal with today. “Jesus, dude,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Butters is still catching his breath, gripping the back of his desk chair like he needs to physically steady himself. “Th-That kid that knocked earlier—he wasn’t jokin’!” His voice wobbles, his hands still shaking. “Some guy split his forehead open on the stairs, and—and oh golly, Kenny, there was so much blood—I think he passed out before the paramedics even got there!”

The words hit you like a slap, your stomach flipping in actual concern this time. “Are you serious?”

“I—I didn’t know what to do! His friend was freakin’ out, and I—oh gosh, I’ve never seen so much blood come outta someone’s head before, I swear—”

You barely hear the rest. Your brain is still reeling, but not for the right reasons. Butters is talking, still rambling about the student, about how the ambulance showed up and how the paramedics asked him questions he definitely wasn’t qualified to answer. But you’re only half-listening, only catching pieces of his words, because your whole body still feels hot from the kiss, your lips still tingle from Kenny’s, and sitting here next to him like nothing happened feels impossible.

And Kenny—of course Kenny—looks totally fine. Relaxed, even. Like he wasn’t just making out with you on Butters’ bed, like he wasn’t just kissing you like he meant it, like he wasn’t just touching you like he wanted to. He sits there, his legs stretched out slightly, arms resting on his knees, nodding along to whatever Butters is saying like he’s actually paying attention. But when you glance at him, you see it. The way his tongue flicks out just slightly to wet his lips. The way his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s resisting the urge to move. The way he hasn’t put much distance between you, like some part of him doesn’t want to.

Kenny finally exhales, long and slow, before pushing himself off the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you as he stands, and you watch from the corner of your eye as he crosses the room, his usual lazy swagger in his step despite the fact that Butters still looks shaken.

Butters is gripping the back of his desk chair so tightly that his knuckles are white, his chest still rising and falling unevenly. His face is flushed, his eyes darting wildly like his brain is still stuck back there, still seeing the blood pooling on the floor.

Kenny doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps up behind Butters and throws an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a loose, lazy half-hug, his lips brushing close to Butters’ ear as he murmurs something low, something you don’t catch. But whatever it is, it works—Butters’ shoulders slump slightly, his grip on the chair loosening as he exhales shakily, nodding along to whatever Kenny is saying.

You take the moment for what it is—a chance to breathe, to collect yourself, to force your body to calm down. You exhale sharply, pushing the thought away, and move on autopilot. Your fingers smooth out the fabric of your dress, adjusting the hem where it had bunched up slightly, fixing the way the straps had slipped off your shoulders without you even noticing. Your hair is next. You reach up, smoothing your fingers through it, checking for any tangles, for anything that might look out of place. The last thing you need is for Butters to turn around and see something, to somehow know just from looking at you.

You grab your phone off the bed, fingers ghosting over the screen, but instead of unlocking it, you hesitate.

Your thumb drags absently along the edge of the device before you press it lightly against your lips, your stomach twisting when you feel the slight swell, the lingering dampness. They tingle, faint but noticeable, like a reminder that Kenny had just been there, that this wasn’t some hazy, almost happened moment.

You shake the thought away and reach for your bag instead, fingers digging through it until you find your makeup pouch. The zipper slides open with a quiet rasp, and you pull out your lip tint and gloss, checking your reflection in your phone screen as you reapply both with quick, practiced strokes. The tint darkens your lips back to the way they were before, covering the slight redness, making it look like nothing happened. The gloss goes on smooth, sticky, sealing everything back in place like armor.

You click the cap back on, slip both items back into your bag, and inhale deeply through your nose before finally looking up again.

Kenny still has an arm slung around Butters, still murmuring to him in that same low, easy voice, like he’s talking him down from the adrenaline. Butters’ breathing has slowed, his shoulders less tense, his face still a little pale but no longer panicked.

And then, as if sensing you watching, Kenny lifts his gaze, his eyes finding yours across the room. His expression doesn’t change. Not really. But his eyes linger.

You look away and check the time on your phone and your stomach twists when you realize how late it is. Damien is going to pick you up soon. The thought feels distant, almost unreal, like something you planned ages ago rather than something happening tonight.

You exhale sharply, pushing the nerves down, and stand up from the bed. Immediately, your legs feel unsteady, a little too light, like the ground isn’t as solid as it should be. The weed is still affecting you. You blink a few times, steadying yourself before making your way toward Butters and Kenny.

Kenny steps to the side as you approach, moving out of the way like he already knows what you’re about to do. Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around Butters first, pulling him into a warm hug, rubbing his back lightly.

“You good?” you murmur, keeping your voice quiet.

Butters exhales, nodding against your shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, still a little shaky. “I think so.”

You give him another squeeze before pulling back slightly, keeping a hand on his arm. “After my date, I can come back here,” you offer. “We can just hang out or something. You don’t have to be alone.”

Butters blinks at you before smiling, the gesture small but genuine. “Yeah,” he says, voice softer now. “That’d be nice.”

You nod, giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze before finally turning toward Kenny.

He’s already watching you, his expression relaxed but focused. The second you step forward, his lips twitch, his body shifting slightly like he already knows what’s coming. You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing yourself against his chest, hugging him tightly. His arms slide around you with that same casual ease, warm and solid, his grip firm against your back.

You don’t pull away immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up, looking at him, and smile. “Seriously,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Thank you.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes flicker over your face, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s holding onto something unspoken. Then, after a beat, his smirk returns, slow and lazy.

“Anytime, babe.”

You smile up at him before sticking your tongue out, scrunching your nose in a playful grimace. Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, his grip on you loosening as you finally step back.

“I’ll text you how it goes, yeah?” you say, adjusting your dress as you glance between him and Butters. “And you better actually reply this time.”

Kenny tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Oh, so now you want me to text you?” His voice is low and teasing.

You roll your eyes, lightly smacking his arm before stepping back fully. “Yes, asshole. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Kenny chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head like this is all just some casual conversation, like he wasn’t just kissing you not even five minutes ago. “Yeah, yeah, I got you.” He flicks his eyes over you once, slow and assessing, before lazily adding, “Have fun on your little date.”

There’s something in the way he says it, something subtle, but you don’t have time to pick it apart. You shoot him a look but decide not to push, not when your nerves are already creeping back in.

You grab your phone and bag, giving Butters one last reassuring squeeze on the arm before heading toward the door. You should be thinking about Damien, about the date, about whether or not this was all a mistake.

But as you step into the hallway, you feel it again—your lips still tingling, your heartbeat still uneven, the warmth of Kenny’s hands still lingering on your skin.

It’s been a couple of hours since you left, and Kenny shouldn’t still be thinking about you. But he is.

You’d barely been gone ten minutes before he was pulling out his phone, checking for a text that hadn’t even been sent yet. He told himself he was just making sure he didn’t miss it—because obviously, he’d respond if you actually messaged him this time. But when he caught himself doing it again twenty minutes later, he knew he was full of shit.

So, to distract himself (and Butters), he called over Cartman, Stan, and Kyle, because watching some shitty movie at Butters’ dorm was definitely better than sitting around with his own thoughts.

Now, he’s stretched out on Butters’ bed, his parka tossed onto the floor, legs crossed at the ankles while some generic action flick plays on the TV. Cartman is sitting on Butters’ desk chair, hogging the popcorn like a gremlin, Kyle is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, and Stan is lazily leaning against the edge of Butters’ desk. Butters himself is perched at the foot of the bed, still looking mildly traumatized from earlier, but at least he’s not freaking out anymore.

Kenny should be into this—should be enjoying the mindless explosions, the dumb banter, the way Cartman keeps making fun of the movie while Stan and Kyle bicker about literally nothing. But his head isn’t here. Not really.

Because every few minutes, he glances at his phone. Still nothing.

His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, his teeth sinking into it slightly as his leg bounces against the mattress. He doesn’t check the time again, even though he wants to. It doesn’t fucking matter how late it is. You’re probably still on the date. Probably having a great fucking time. Probably—

“Dude,” Stan says suddenly, snapping Kenny out of his thoughts. “Why the hell do you look so pissed?”

Kenny blinks, realizing he’s been glowering at the TV screen without even realizing it. He exhales sharply, schooling his face back into something neutral before throwing a lazy smirk in Stan’s direction. “Just thinking about how much of a dumbass you are.”

Stan rolls his eyes, flicking a piece of popcorn at him. “Wow. Classic comeback.”

“Yeah, I’m workshopping it,” Kenny says, popping a chip into his mouth, but the momentary distraction isn’t enough to pull him back into the present. His focus drifts again, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for his phone.

He checks his messages. Still nothing.

Kenny clicks his tongue, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him like he doesn’t give a shit. But he does. And he fucking hates that he does.

Butters, still sitting at the foot of the bed, swings his legs a little before turning toward Kenny, his expression innocent but curious. “Hey, Ken, you think [Y/N]’s date’s goin’ well?”

The entire room goes quiet. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman all turn to look at him at the same time, like someone just hit pause on the movie. Kenny feels the weight of their stares pressing against him, waiting, and he instantly regrets not leaving the second you did.

Kyle is the first to speak, eyebrows pulling together as he shifts where he’s sitting on the floor. “Wait—she has a date?”

Butters, completely unaware of the way Kenny’s jaw tenses, nods. “Yeah! With Damien.”

Cartman throws his head back and howls. It’s loud, obnoxious, and grating in the way only Cartman can manage, and Kenny immediately wants to deck him.

“Oh, that’s fucking priceless,” Cartman wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “The girl we spent our whole goddamn childhood with—the girl who’s never held hands, never kissed anyone, never even had a fucking crush—finally gets a date, and it’s with Damien fucking Thorn?”

Kyle shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing at his temple. “Of all people.”

Stan snorts, pushing himself up slightly from the desk. “Is she trying to summon Satan, or—?”

Kenny doesn’t say shit. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t react the way he usually would. Because for the past two fucking hours, he’s been sitting here, waiting for a text, waiting for a reason to stop thinking about your lips, about how fucking soft you were against him, about the way your hands fisted into his shirt like you didn’t want to let go. 

And now, all he can think about is you—with him. You, sitting across from Damien at some dimly lit restaurant, playing with your drink, tucking your hair behind your ear. You, laughing at something he said, eyes bright, that soft smile on your lips. You, nervous but excited, wondering if you’ll kiss him goodnight.

Kenny’s stomach turns, something bitter rising in his throat.

Cartman is still laughing, still rambling about how it’s so fucking weird that you, you, are on a date at all, and it’s pissing Kenny the fuck off.

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, forcing himself to stay neutral, forcing himself to keep his expression lazy, unreadable. He leans back against the bed, grabbing his phone again, spinning it once in his palm.

“Yeah, well,” Kenny finally mutters, voice even, controlled. “Guess she finally got sick of waiting around.” 

Cartman turns to Kenny, still grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He leans forward in the chair, resting his elbow on Butters’ desk, and points at Kenny with a smirk that already pisses him off. The kind of look Cartman gets when he knows he’s about to dig into something good.

“Dude, come on,” Cartman says, shaking his head with a loud laugh. “I thought you got over your little crush on her. It’s been years, man.”

Kyle sighs through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances at Kenny. His voice isn’t teasing like Cartman’s, but there’s still that familiar hint of exasperation in it. “Seriously, man? You’ve had, what, like—multiple hookups, a few relationships? You’ve dated both guys and girls, and you’re still stuck on her?” He tilts his head, his expression softer than Cartman’s but still scrutinizing. “It’s not a big deal if you still like her or whatever, but…” He hesitates for a second, like he’s actually trying to be careful with his words. “You don’t think that’s kind of unhealthy?”

Kenny flips his phone in his hand, keeping his face blank, his fingers the only part of him that moves. He could laugh, make a joke, brush it off. Could tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business. But for some reason, he doesn’t say anything.

Stan, still lounging against the desk, tilts his head and smirks. “Dude, you need to get laid.”

Kyle groans, already rubbing his temples. “That’s not even the problem, Stan. He does get laid.”

“Yeah, but apparently, it’s not enough,” Cartman chimes in, his grin widening. “Because if it was, he wouldn’t be sitting here, waiting for his childhood crush to text him back while she’s out with the literal son of Satan.”

Kenny clenches his jaw but doesn’t change his expression. He keeps his posture loose, casual, like none of this is phasing him, like he hasn’t spent the past two hours waiting for his phone to light up, like his stomach hasn’t been twisted in knots since the second you left.

It pisses him off how easy it is for them to pick at him, how it takes barely anything for them to know. He’s never been obvious about it. He’s never acted weird about you. Sure, he’s flirted, but he flirts with everyone. He’s never admitted anything, never made it a thing, never once told you. But it doesn’t matter. Because they all see it. They have for years.

He could play it off, act like they’re just reaching, like he’s only checking in because you’re his best friend and of course he’s going to make sure you’re okay. That would be easy. That’s what he should do.

But instead, he just shrugs, rolling onto his side and stretching out further on the bed, tossing his phone onto the pillow next to him. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice flat. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

Cartman snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure, dude.”

Kyle gives him a look but doesn’t push it. “Whatever, man. I just hope she’s having a good time.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for a second, then kicks lightly at the mattress near Kenny’s leg. “You wanna stop being all moody and actually watch the movie?”

Kenny doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t argue, doesn’t let them see the way his jaw tightens slightly as he shifts against the mattress.

Butters, ever the optimist, glances over at him and brightens up, like he’s trying to steer the conversation into something less tense. He claps his hands together once before pointing at Kenny with a knowing look.

“Don’t worry about it, Ken! I heard Tammy Warner’s gonna be at Tolkien’s party this weekend.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, his lips twitching like he’s debating whether or not to dignify that with a response. He props himself up on one elbow, glancing over at Butters with a lazy smirk. “Oh yeah?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! She broke up with her boyfriend a couple weeks ago, and—well, y’know how she is. She’s probably lookin’ to, uh… ya know…” He trails off, his cheeks going pink, and gestures vaguely with his hands.

Stan snorts. “Hook up with the first guy who gives her a drink?”

Kyle shakes his head. “Jesus, Stan.”

Cartman just grins. “Nah, that is how she operates, though. And Kenny’s always been on her list.”

Kenny chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. He knows exactly what they’re trying to do—trying to get him to shake this off, trying to remind him that there are others, that there’s no reason for him to be sitting here like some lovesick loser. It’s almost funny, because any other time, he’d be all over it. He’d make some crude joke, lean into it, turn the conversation into something easy, something typical.

But right now, the thought of fucking around with Tammy Warner or anyone else just feels boring. Still, he plays along, because that’s what he does.

“She has been lookin’ at me a lot lately,” Kenny muses, smirking as he stretches his arms over his head. “Guess I wouldn’t mind giving her a little attention.”

Cartman barks out a laugh. “Oh, please. If you show up, she’s gonna throw herself at you the second you walk in.”

Kyle makes a face. “Do you even like her, though?”

Kenny shrugs, rolling onto his back again. “She’s fun. Hot. Knows what she wants.” His tone is casual, dismissive, like he’s already mentally moving on from the subject. “What’s not to like?”

Butters nods quickly, like he’s relieved to see Kenny back to acting like himself. “See? So, no reason to be mopin’ around! You got options, buddy!”

Stan hums in agreement. “And Tolkien’s parties always get wild. Even I have a good time, and I hate parties.”

Kenny just smirks, grabbing his phone off the pillow next to him and spinning it in his fingers again. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”

But his eyes flicker to the screen anyway. Still no text.

An hour passes. The movie is ending, the credits rolling over an overdramatic orchestral score that doesn’t fit the half-dead energy in the room. Cartman is slumped in Butters’ desk chair, his arms crossed over his stomach, eyes half-lidded like he’s been in and out of sleep for the past twenty minutes. Kyle sits on the floor, absently scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention to anything. Stan, now stretched across the foot of the bed, lazily reaches for the last of the snacks, finishing off an open bag of chips. Butters, still sitting near Kenny, yawns loudly, rubbing his eyes like he’s about two seconds from passing out himself.

Kenny barely watched the movie. His thoughts have been elsewhere all night, drifting between wanting to stop thinking about you and failing miserably at it. He tells himself it’s not a big deal, that you’re probably still out, that he’s wasting his time even checking. But despite all of that, his gaze keeps flicking to his phone. And then, as if the universe wanted to personally fuck him over, the screen lights up.

His entire body goes still for half a second before he reaches for it, his thumb swiping across the screen. He already knows it’s from you—he doesn’t even have to check. And then he reads it.

you: date went great btw!!! he said i looked rlly good and he was soooo sweet. like literally the nicest guy ever. and guess what?? he kissed me at the end!!!

The words sit there, glowing back at him, far too fucking cheery, far too casual, like they aren’t currently making his stomach twist into a tight, ugly knot. He reads it twice, three times, like maybe it’ll change, like maybe he misread it, like maybe he’s fucking hallucinating. But the words don’t change.

You kissed him. Damien fucking Thorn.

His jaw locks, his fingers tightening around his phone. He tells himself it shouldn’t matter. It’s not a big deal. It was one date. Of course it ended with a kiss. Of course Damien was sweet to you. Of course he complimented you. What kind of guy wouldn’t? Kenny isn’t surprised. But it still pisses him off. It’s not like he’s ever had a claim on you. It’s not like he’s ever done anything about it. He has no right to be pissed off. No right to feel anything about it at all.

So instead of saying what he actually wants to say, he types out the easiest, laziest response he can manage.

kenny: damn, first date and he’s already makin moves? u really are growin up on me 🤧

His thumb hesitates over the send button for a second longer than it should. Then, finally, he taps the screen.

The response comes back almost immediately.

you: shut upppp 😭 it was cute ok

Kenny exhales slowly through his nose, staring at the message before clicking his phone off and tossing it back onto the bed. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

Across the room, Kyle  stretches with a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I’m calling it. I got an early class tomorrow.”

Stan nods, shoving his phone into his pocket as he pushes himself up off the floor. “Yeah, same. You heading out, Cartman?”

Cartman doesn’t even open his eyes. “Five more minutes.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, grabbing a pillow off Butters’ bed and chucking it at him. “Get your fat ass up.”

Kenny barely listens.

His mind is elsewhere, replaying your text over and over again, the words echoing in his head like a dull, relentless pulse. He can still feel the way your body pressed against his earlier, the way your lips moved with his, the way you had looked at him right before you left. And now you’re probably sitting in your dorm, smiling down at your phone, thinking about someone else.

It’s been a few days since you practiced kissing with Kenny, and you’ve been doing your best not to think about it.

Some moments, it’s easy. When you’re in class, when you’re studying, when you’re texting Damien and planning your next date. But then, there are times—like when you catch Kenny watching you across the dining hall, when you reapply lip gloss and your lips still tingle faintly—where it sneaks back into your mind before you can stop it.

Now, though, you’re focused on Damien. You’re walking together toward your next class, the air crisp with the last bite of winter, the sun filtering through the trees overhead. He walks with an effortless kind of confidence, hands tucked into the pockets of his black coat, his silver chain catching in the light when he turns his head. And being around him still makes you nervous. So you talk. Maybe a little too much.

“…And then Cartman had the nerve to say I looked like a Hot Topic employee who got fired for shoplifting,” you say, throwing your hands up. “Like, first of all, rude. Second of all, if anyone’s getting arrested for stealing, it’s him.”

Damien lets out a quiet laugh, lips twitching at the corners. “I mean, I think you could pull off the shoplifter look. Maybe a black beanie. A fuck capitalism pin on your bag.”

You groan, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Not you too.”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, his smirk growing. “The vibe is there.”

You roll your eyes but grin anyway, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your sweater as you walk.

It still feels surreal that this is happening. That Damien, who always has people hanging onto his every word in class, is walking with you like this is normal. That he kissed you. That he wants to see you again. Your stomach twists, but you push through it, forcing yourself to act normal.

“So,” you say, shifting the conversation, “are you still coming to Tolkien’s party this weekend?”

Damien hums, tilting his head slightly. “Probably. I don’t really do parties, but I feel like if I don’t go, I’ll have to hear about it for the next three months.”

You laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He glances at you, his expression relaxed but interested. “Are you going?”

You nod. “Yeah, Kenny and the guys are going, and Butters practically begged me to be his drinking buddy.”

Damien smirks. “Good to know your priorities are in order.”

You laugh again, and for the first time since you started walking together, the nerves ease. The conversation flows easily after that, moving from music to class to whatever dumb shit Cartman sent in the group chat this morning. You don’t even notice how much time has passed until you round the corner of the building, and the topic changes so fast you almost miss it.

“Speaking of Tolkien’s party,” Damien says, his voice casual, “it’s probably gonna be a shitshow. People will be hooking up left and right.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Oh. Yeah, probably.”

Damien smirks, glancing at you with interest. “Ever had a drunken hookup before?”

Your face heats up immediately. “What? No.” You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands dismissively. “I mean, I don’t really do that kind of thing.”

Damien hums, his smirk never fading. “No judgment. Some people like that whole ‘bad decisions’ thrill.” He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to piece together something in his head. “So, what do you do?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh.”

Damien stops walking for a moment, turning slightly toward you, one eyebrow raising when you don’t answer right away. “Wait.” His smirk grows a little, teasing but still curious. “You haven’t?”

Your stomach clenches, and you glance away, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “I—um.” You hesitate before letting out a breath. “I mean. Not really.”

Damien watches your face closely. Then, after a beat, his amusement shifts into something more thoughtful. “Like… at all?”

You wince, laughing a little at how awkward this has become. “Yeah.” You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. “I’m not exactly experienced. Or whatever.”

Damien is quiet for a moment, then he exhales, the smirk on his lips easing into something closer to a smile. His eyes soften slightly, and his voice comes out smooth, calm. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

You stare at him, caught completely off guard. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything, like he isn’t making your stomach flip.

Before you can even begin to respond, he continues, his tone light but reassuring. “You don’t need to stress about that kind of thing. It’s not a big deal.” He shrugs, still looking at you with that same relaxed expression. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

You blink up at him, still processing, but the way he says it—the way he doesn’t make it weird or tease you—makes the tension in your chest loosen. You exhale, your grip on your bag finally relaxing.

“Yeah,” you say after a second, your voice softer now. “I guess you’re right.”

Damien grins. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, but when you glance at him again, you’re smiling. A real smile, not the small, polite ones you’ve been giving him all day, but a bright, genuine one that takes over your whole face before you even realize it.

Damien looks at you, his expression shifting slightly. His smirk doesn’t quite drop, but the way he watches you changes, like he wasn’t expecting that reaction. Like it threw him off for just a second.

You hesitate for only a moment before smiling again, pushing through the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. “Thanks for walking me,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

The second you pull away, heat creeps up your neck, your body reacting before your brain fully processes what you just did. It wasn’t a big deal—just a small, fleeting thing—but the way Damien’s smirk grows makes your stomach twist.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “No problem,” he says easily, voice smooth. “I’ll text you later.”

You nod, mumbling a soft “okay” before turning toward the lecture hall doors. You feel his gaze on you as you step inside, but you don’t look back.

The second you sit down, you let out a slow breath, pulling out your phone and unlocking it without thinking. Your fingers move automatically as you tap open your messages and start typing to Kenny.

you: bro i just had the wildest convo w damien on the way to class. i accidentally told him i have no experience and he was like oh that’s cute lol 

You hit send, staring at the screen for a second before typing again.

you: i literally almost died but he was nice abt it

A few moments pass. You glance up at the front of the lecture hall, half-listening as people settle into their seats. Your professor hasn’t arrived yet, so you check your phone again. Kenny’s typing bubble appears, then disappears. Then, finally, his reply pops up.

kenny: yeah? that’s great

You frown slightly at the screen. That’s… not the response you were expecting. Kenny’s usually quick with teasing, always throwing in some dumb joke or a sarcastic remark. But this? This is short. Blunt. Almost dismissive.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

you: ur not gonna roast me for it? damn. personal growth 🫡

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

kenny: nah, just busy

You stare at the screen. He’s never been this short with you before. Even when he was actually busy, he’d still throw in something snarky. Before you can think too much about it, your professor walks in, signaling the start of class. You sigh, slipping your phone back into your bag, but the feeling lingers, nagging at the back of your mind.

It’s the night of Tolkien’s party, and your dorm room is in total chaos. Clothes are piled onto your bed, half your makeup bag is scattered across your desk, and an open energy drink sits precariously close to your curling iron. Red is perched on her bed, legs crossed, lazily sipping from her drink as she watches you sift through outfits with mild amusement. Butters sits cross-legged on the floor, fidgeting with his sweater sleeves, looking between you and Red like he’s trying to decide if he should offer input or keep quiet.

“You’re really committing to this look, huh?” Red teases, tilting her head as she watches you adjust your top in the mirror.

You give her a flat look through the reflection. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grins, her eyes flicking over you before she takes another sip of her drink. “I mean, I get dressing up for a party, but this is definitely more effort than usual.”

You roll your eyes, turning to Butters for backup. “Do I look that different?”

Butters, who had been nervously picking at a loose thread on his sweater, quickly looks up, blinking at you. “Uh—no! I mean—uh, you always look nice! But, um…” He hesitates, then gestures weakly at your makeup. “You did do, uh, a little more than usual.”

Red smirks knowingly. “She’s dressing up for herself, obviously.”

You groan, throwing a shirt at her. She ducks out of the way, laughing. “You guys are so annoying,” you mutter, smoothing out your skirt.

Once you’re finally finished, you grab your lip gloss, swiping it on before clicking the cap shut. As you toss it back into your bag, you hesitate, fingers trailing over the strap before you turn toward Butters. “Hey, have the guys been acting weird to you?”

Butters blinks, caught off guard. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know,” you say, frowning slightly. “It just feels like they’ve been avoiding something. Or avoiding me, I guess.” You hesitate before adding, “Kenny especially.”

Butters tilts his head in thought. “Now that you mention it… maybe a little? I mean, Stan and Kyle seem normal, but they have been kinda weird in group chat. And Kenny…” He trails off, rubbing his arm. “I dunno. He’s just been quiet. You did say he was acting different after your date, right?”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. I texted him about it, and he barely reacted. Then when I tried to bring it up again, he just brushed it off.”

Red shrugs, standing up and stretching. “Maybe he’s just got other shit going on.”

Butters nods, seeming to agree. “Yeah! It could just be school stress or, uh, life stuff.”

You purse your lips, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

Still, the unease lingers. Kenny has never been the kind of guy to keep things to himself. If something was bothering him, he’d either say it outright or joke about it until it wasn’t a big deal anymore. This silence, this distance, isn’t like him.

Red claps her hands together. “Alright, we going or what? If we keep standing around, we’re gonna miss the fun.”

You shake off your thoughts, forcing a smirk as you grab your bag. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

The three of you pile into an Uber, the ride buzzing with Red’s excitement and Butters’ nervous energy. Red is already scrolling through her phone, texting people to see who’s here, while Butters keeps adjusting his sweater sleeves, mumbling something about how he really shouldn’t drink too much tonight. You mostly just stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and unease.

By the time you pull up to Tolkien’s house, the party is already in full swing. Music pulses through the air, the bass heavy enough to rattle the pavement under your feet. Groups of people are scattered across the front lawn, some laughing loudly, others deep in conversation, red solo cups in almost everyone’s hands. The porch is packed, people leaning against the railing, the front door swinging open every few seconds as more people push inside.

Red takes one look at the scene and grins. “Alright, I’m off.”

Before you can even respond, she’s already disappearing into the crowd, slipping effortlessly between people like she’s done this a hundred times before. You barely catch a glimpse of her bright red hair before she’s gone, leaving you and Butters standing at the entrance.

Butters swallows, glancing up at you. “Uh… kitchen?”

You nod. “Kitchen.”

The two of you weave through the crowded hallway, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, weed, and too many different perfumes and colognes mixing together. People are already getting sloppy—someone bumps into your shoulder, laughing loudly, barely glancing at you before stumbling toward the living room. The music is louder in here, some bass-heavy rap song vibrating against the walls.

The kitchen is just as packed, but at least it’s easier to move. Butters heads straight for the counter, eyeing the array of bottles like he’s trying to calculate which one is least likely to kill him. You hover nearby, arms crossed, keeping a close watch. Butters is a lightweight—last time he drank too much, he spent two hours apologizing to everyone at a party before throwing up in Stan’s backyard.

He grabs a bottle of vodka, hesitating before pouring some into his cup. “Uh. Maybe I should mix it with something.”

You grab a random soda from the counter and hand it to him. “Yeah, maybe don’t kill yourself in the first five minutes.”

Butters mumbles a thanks, focusing on making his drink. You take the moment to glance around the kitchen, scanning the crowd. You recognize most of the people here—Tolkien’s parties always bring in a mix of friend groups, but it’s mostly familiar faces. Wendy is leaning against the fridge, deep in conversation with Bebe. Craig and Tweek are off to the side, already looking half-drunk. A couple of freshmen linger near the drinks, clearly out of their element.

But something feels off. Then, you realize why. Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and Stan aren’t here.

You frown slightly, checking your phone, but there are no new texts from any of them. Kyle said he was coming. Stan always shows up to these things, even if he complains about it. Cartman never misses an opportunity to drink for free. And Kenny? Kenny loves parties. So where the hell are they?

Butters must notice your expression because he looks up from his drink. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah. Just… surprised the guys aren’t here yet.”

Butters glances around too, frowning. “Huh. That is kinda weird. I thought Kyle said he was coming?”

“He did,” you say, checking your phone again. Still nothing. You glance at the time. “Maybe they’re just late.”

Butters shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe.”

You stay by the kitchen counter, still keeping an eye on Butters while making small talk with people who pass by. The party has only gotten louder, the music pulsing through the walls, the crowd swelling as more people arrive. Butters seems to be holding his liquor well enough—his words are still clear, and he’s not swaying yet, but his usual awkwardness has definitely increased. You’re mid-sentence, teasing him about how he always nurses his drinks too carefully, when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“There you are.”

You turn to see Damien standing at the edge of the kitchen, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room before settling on you. He looks good, as always—dressed in a fitted black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his silver chain catching the light. His smirk is easy, confident, like he already knows you were waiting for him.

“Butters,” Damien acknowledges, giving him a nod before turning his attention back to you. “I was wondering when I’d run into you.”

Your stomach flips slightly, but you push it down, giving him a smile. “Well, you found me.”

He steps closer, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes flicking over you in a way that feels intentional. “You look good tonight.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you roll your eyes, playing it off. “Oh, so I don’t usually look good?”

Damien chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

Before you can respond, Butters lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. You glance at him and immediately notice how stiff he looks, gripping his cup like it’s his only lifeline. He’s awkward a lot, but right now, it feels different.

“You okay, dude?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Butters nods way too quickly. “Oh! Yeah! Just—uh—just drinkin’ my drink!” He takes a sip, avoiding eye contact.

You blink at him, confused, but before you can say anything else, movement from the doorway catches your eye. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman finally walk into the kitchen.

Your stomach tenses slightly. It’s not that you weren’t expecting them—it’s that something about the way they enter the room feels… off. They move together, like they were just talking about something before stepping inside. And the second they see you, all three of them hesitate for a split second.

Cartman recovers first. His face stretches into a grin before he barks out a short, amused laugh. “Oh, this is fucking hilarious.”

You barely have a second to process what that means before he’s walking straight toward you. Kyle lets out a long, pointed sigh like he already knows where this is going and wants no part of it. Stan doesn’t even acknowledge it, heading straight for the counter, grabbing a bottle, and pouring himself a drink like he’s bracing himself for whatever bullshit is about to happen.

Before you can move, Cartman slings an arm around your shoulder and squeezes, his grip firm like he’s making a show of how friendly he is.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he drawls, drawing out the words with a smirk. “Little miss hopeless romantic, out here at a party, all dressed up and ready to impress.” He pats your shoulder dramatically. “I’m so proud.”

You groan, shoving at his arm. “Cartman, get off.”

Cartman only tightens his hold for a second before finally letting go, though he doesn’t step back. Instead, his eyes flick to Damien, giving him an exaggerated once-over before tilting his head.

“So,” Cartman says, still smirking, “I take it you two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

Damien, to his credit, doesn’t react much. He just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And?”

Cartman snorts, grabbing a solo cup off the counter. “Nothing. Just interesting.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do you sound like you have thoughts?”

“I always have thoughts,” Cartman says, smug. He pauses for a beat, then adds, “I just think it’s fucking hilarious.”

Kyle rubs his temples, already done with this conversation. “Cartman, shut up.”

Stan takes a sip of his drink, looking like he kind of wants to see where this is going.

You glare at Cartman, resisting the urge to throw your drink at him. “Why do you even care?”

Cartman grins wider. “Oh, I don’t.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping like he’s telling some huge secret. “I just think it’s funny how fast you’re moving.”

You stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Cartman just smirks. “Relax, I’m just making conversation.” He glances toward Damien. “You don’t mind, right?”

Damien exhales through his nose, looking entirely unbothered. If anything, he seems mildly entertained, like he’s watching a show he’s only half-invested in. “You’ve always been an instigator, huh?”

Cartman grins. “It’s a gift.” He reaches for the bottle Stan was using and pours himself a drink, still smirking like he knows something you don’t. “Anyway, don’t mind me. Have fun.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply before turning back to Damien. “Sorry about him.”

Damien shrugs, his expression smooth, unconcerned. “I knew what I was getting into.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Stan, then back to you. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod, brushing it off, even though something about Cartman’s tone nags at the back of your mind. “Yeah. Let’s just enjoy the party.”

Cartman snorts loudly, making a dramatic show of taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, let’s just enjoy the party,” he mimics, shaking his head. “Because we all know how good you are at ignoring shit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Cartman, I swear to God—”

Butters, ever the neutral party, speaks up before you can get into it with him. “Hey, uh—where’s Kenny?”

Stan barely looks up from his drink. “Probably getting faded or some shit.” He swirls the liquid in his cup lazily before sniggering. “Or squeezing Tammy Warner’s tits.”

Your fingers tighten around your own cup, your brain immediately latching onto that part of the sentence. “Wait. Kenny’s here?”

Stan raises an eyebrow at your reaction. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t he be?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s a good question. You don’t know why you assumed he wasn’t coming, but after the past few days—after the weird, clipped texts, the distance, the silence—it just felt… off. And now, finding out he’s here, somewhere in this house, possibly feeling up Tammy Warner?

“Did he say he was coming?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay casual.

Kyle shrugs. “I mean, yeah? It’s a party. Kenny doesn’t need to confirm he’s showing up, he just does.”

“Yeah,” Cartman adds, still smirking. “And from what I heard, he was real excited about tonight.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cartman grins wider, taking another slow sip of his drink. “I could tell you.” He pauses, dragging it out, clearly enjoying whatever game he’s playing. Then, with a shrug, he adds, “Or, you could just go find him.”

You hate that the idea tempts you. You swallow thickly, forcing the feeling down, and turn to Damien. He’s been quiet, watching the conversation unfold with a neutral expression, his sharp eyes scanning the room like he’s already a step ahead of everyone. He doesn’t look amused or annoyed—just aware.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” you ask, keeping your voice light.

Damien’s gaze flicks back to you, studying your face for a moment. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful, before letting out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he says, his tone smooth, steady. “Let’s get out of here.”

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, fingers curling around his as you tug him toward the living room. His grip tightens slightly, letting you lead him through the crowded kitchen, but he doesn’t question it.

As you turn, you hear Kyle say something—too low for you to catch—but whatever it is, it makes Stan, Cartman, and Butters burst out laughing.

You don’t turn back. You don’t want to know what they’re saying. Instead, you tighten your grip on Damien’s hand, weaving through the crowded living room until you find a quieter corner near the far wall. The party is louder here—the bass from the speakers thumping through the floor, conversations blending into an unrecognizable buzz—but it’s easier to focus on him now. Away from Cartman’s bullshit, away from them, away from whatever joke they were making at your expense.

Damien leans against the wall, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other stays loosely in yours for just a second longer before he lets go. His head tilts slightly as he looks at you, his expression calm, unreadable in a way that doesn’t feel unkind—just measured.

“So,” he says, his voice even, smooth beneath the noise. “Are you actually having fun, or are we faking it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I am having fun.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Okay, now I’m having fun. Before? Not so much.”

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smirk. “Because of them?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “They’re just… being them.”

Damien hums, eyes flickering past you toward the kitchen. “They’re protective of you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He looks back at you, tilting his head. “Kyle. Stan. Even Cartman, in his own weird way. They’re watching you.”

You shift your weight, glancing over your shoulder instinctively. Sure enough, even from across the room, you catch Kyle’s eyes flicking in your direction before he quickly looks away. Stan is still talking to someone, but he’s angled toward the kitchen like he’s waiting for something. Cartman is laughing at whatever dumb shit he just said, but you know he’s keeping tabs too.

You turn back to Damien, frowning slightly. “They’re not watching me. They’re just… I don’t know, being annoying.”

Damien doesn’t argue, just studies your face for a second longer before nodding. “If you say so.”

You exhale, shaking off the conversation. “I didn’t pull you over here to talk about them.”

His expression softens slightly, a small nod of agreement. “Then what did you pull me over here for?”

You grin, tilting your head. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you without Cartman breathing down my neck.”

He chuckles, the sound low but genuine. “That’s fair.”

The conversation shifts after that. The longer you stand there, the easier it is to relax again. The knot in your stomach loosens, your shoulders drop, and soon, you’re laughing with Damien, your voice getting lost in the buzz of the party. People pass by—some friends, some classmates, a few faces you barely recognize. Heidi stops for a second to greet you before heading off with Nichole. Tolkien and Clyde walk by, Clyde already looking a little drunk as he waves dramatically in your direction. One of Damien’s friends calls out to him, making a joke you don’t quite catch, and Damien just shakes his head, amusement flickering across his face.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just talking, but at some point, you forget about Kenny entirely. At least, until you see him. Across the room, just past a break in the crowd, Kenny stands near the staircase, one arm draped lazily around Tammy Warner’s shoulders, his fingers brushing the strap of her top. She’s pressed close to him, talking into his ear, laughing at something he just said. His expression is relaxed, easy, like he’s not thinking about anything at all.

Then, as if sensing it, Kenny’s head tilts slightly, his gaze drifting, and his eyes find yours. The noise of the party fades into the background.

For a second—just a second—you and Kenny look at each other. You don’t know what’s written all over your face, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make Kenny pause. His fingers still against Tammy’s shoulder, his posture straightens just slightly, and for a moment, his smirk fades. Then, deliberately, his hand slides further down Tammy’s back.

And before you can even process it—before you can even breathe—he turns, leans in, and kisses her.

Heat creeps up your neck so fast it’s suffocating, your fingers gripping your cup so tightly you almost crush it. You feel stupid—so, so stupid—because why does this matter? Why are you reacting like this? This isn’t new. Kenny does this. He hooks up, he flirts, he moves on. You knew that. You know that.

And yet, you’re standing here, watching his lips move against someone else’s, and it feels like your entire body is burning from the inside out.

You whip around, turning to Damien so fast it makes you dizzy. “Did you know flamingos are pink because of their diet?”

Damien barely reacts, just raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod way too fast, your words spilling out in an unhinged, desperate rush. “Yeah! It’s because they eat shrimp. Without it, they’d be, like, gray or something. Which is crazy, right?”

Damien blinks at you, unimpressed. “Are you okay?”

“Totally!” you say, too loudly. You force a laugh that sounds completely unnatural. “Just, uh—random fact. Thought you’d like it.”

Damien doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, expression neutral, before glancing over your shoulder—right toward Kenny.

Your chest tightens, and guilt starts to boil under your skin, heavy and uncomfortable. You feel caught, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, but you don’t even know what. You shift slightly, fingers gripping the strap of your bag, trying to ground yourself. Your thoughts are moving too fast, spiraling in directions you don’t want them to go.

You force yourself to breathe, shaking your head. “I’m just concerned for Kenny,” you say, clearing your throat. “He hasn’t been acting normally lately.”

Damien tilts his head slightly, his sharp eyes flickering over your face like he’s measuring the weight of your words. He doesn’t react immediately, just takes a slow breath before nodding once. “Why don’t you go talk to him, then?” His voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist. “I’ll still be around. You can find me later.”

The way he says it feels off. It’s a suggestion, but the way his words land makes it feel more like a decision that’s already been made for you. His tone isn’t upset, not annoyed or demanding, just settled, like he already knows what you’re going to do. You stare at him for a second longer, searching for something in his face, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. He’s completely at ease, waiting for you to decide what he already expects.

You swallow the strange feeling creeping up your throat and force a weak smile. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Then I’ll come find you.”

Damien watches you for another beat before nodding. Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd, slipping back into the party effortlessly.

You stand there for a moment, letting out a slow breath before turning toward the staircase. Kenny isn’t there anymore. The uneasy feeling in your stomach tightens. He had been right in front of you, and now he’s just gone. You scan the room, moving your gaze through the party, searching for any sign of him.

The kitchen is packed, but he’s not there. The couch is crowded with people already too drunk to care about anything, and he’s not there either. The music is loud, rattling through the walls, but none of it distracts you from the fact that you’re actively looking for him now. It’s stupid, but your feet are already moving, guiding you through the crowd, brushing past familiar faces, nodding absently when someone greets you.

Finally, you spot him. Kenny is near the bottom of the staircase again, leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his parka. He’s talking to someone, his head tilted slightly, his posture relaxed, but his eyes look distant, unfocused, like he isn’t really invested in the conversation. Tammy is still nearby, lingering close, her body angled toward him, but she’s not the focus of his attention anymore.

Before you can think too hard about it, you walk up to him, brushing your fingers against his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Hey.”

Kenny’s head lifts slightly, and the second his eyes meet yours, something flickers across his face. His expression shifts, like he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there, but he covers it quickly, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Hey, look who it is,” he says, his voice smooth but carrying something beneath it. “Thought you’d be busy with your boyfriend.”

Your stomach tightens at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. You glance at Tammy briefly, feeling her eyes on you, then turn back to him.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say, crossing your arms.

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t hold any humor. “Sure.”

You shift slightly, the energy between you feeling heavier than you expected. “Can we talk?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, his smirk not faltering. “We are talking.”

You exhale sharply, already irritated. “Alone.”

For a second, something in his expression hardens, like he’s debating whether or not to go along with this. He doesn’t move immediately, just watches you, his lips parting slightly before he exhales through his nose and turns to Tammy.

“I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Tammy doesn’t look offended. If anything, she looks mildly entertained, like she already knew Kenny wasn’t fully paying attention to her. She smiles, shrugging. “Sure thing, Ken.”

She disappears into the crowd, and now it’s just you and Kenny, the noise of the party buzzing around you, the air thick with alcohol and the lingering smell of weed. Kenny shifts his weight slightly, his hands back in his pockets as he watches you closely.

“So?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “What’s so important?”

His voice is easy, casual, but there’s an edge to it, something just beneath the surface that makes your stomach tighten. You cross your arms over your chest, feeling suddenly exposed, too aware of the space between you, the way his eyes are fixed on you like he’s waiting to see where you’re going with this. Your thighs press together instinctively, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much. You bite your lip, debating in your head, your thoughts running too fast.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you are reading too much into things. Maybe Kenny is just being Kenny, and you’re standing here, making a big deal out of nothing.

But if it’s nothing, why does it feel so different?

You blink at him, inhaling slowly before finally speaking, your voice softer than you intended.

“I missed you.” The words slip out before you can second-guess them, and immediately, you see Kenny’s expression shift. His smirk twitches slightly at the corner, like he doesn’t know if he should keep up the act or actually take you seriously. His fingers flex in his pockets, but he doesn’t move.

You exhale, shifting slightly. “Are you okay?” Your voice is sincere, searching. “I just—I don’t know. I feel like you’ve been acting off lately. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly like he’s thinking about how to respond. His jaw tenses for a second before he finally looks back at you.

“Missed me, huh?” His voice is lower, quieter, but it’s not teasing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your arms. “Of course I did.”

Kenny watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face, scanning. His usual cocky, lazy confidence seems to waver, just for a second, before he exhales and shifts his weight.

“I’m fine,” he says finally, his voice steady but missing that usual bite.

You frown slightly. “Are you?”

Kenny clicks his tongue, his smirk twitching back into place. “Nah, you’re probably just reading too much into it,” he says, throwing your own words back at you. It should feel playful, like he’s messing with you, like normal. But it doesn’t.

You frown slightly, watching him for a moment, but you push it down. Instead, you stand up a little straighter, forcing a weak smile onto your lips. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are overthinking it. If he says he’s fine, then he’s fine. You don’t want to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, so you just nod.

“Well,” you say, exhaling slowly. “I’m glad nothing’s wrong.”

You reach out before you can second-guess it, tugging lightly on the fabric of his parka, just enough to make him sway a little. It’s familiar, instinctive, the way you’ve always teased him when you wanted his attention.

Kenny glances down at where your fingers pull at his coat before looking back up at you, one eyebrow raising slightly.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “So. You and Tammy, huh?”

His smirk twitches, but the way he shifts slightly, the way his fingers flex in his pockets, makes something tighten in your chest. It’s so small, barely noticeable, but you see it.

Kenny scoffs, shaking his head. “You say that like we’re getting married or some shit.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

He shrugs, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “I mean, yeah. She’s fun.”

You hum, rocking back on your heels. “Fun, huh?”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh. “Why? You jealous?”

Your stomach clenches before you can stop it, but you keep your expression neutral. “Why would I be jealous?”

Kenny tilts his head, studying your face. His smirk is still there, but it doesn’t feel as sharp as before.

“I dunno,” he says finally, voice lazy. “Just askin’.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not. If you like her, then great. I just didn’t think she was your type.”

Kenny’s smirk lingers, but there’s something different behind his eyes now. “Yeah?” His voice is quieter, his head tilting slightly. “And what is my type?”

You pause, caught off guard. “I mean…” You hesitate, thinking. “I don’t know. Just… not her.”

Kenny watches you for a beat before clicking his tongue again, the smirk deepening. “Huh.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, but the look on his face makes your stomach flip.

Before you can say anything else, someone calls his name from across the room. Kenny glances over his shoulder, exhaling sharply before looking back at you.

“Guess I should get back to my type,” he says, his smirk curling at the edges.

You blink at him, wide-eyed, something in your chest tightening. He’s turning away, about to disappear back into the party, and for some reason, the thought of that makes panic rise in your throat. You don’t want him to leave. Not yet. Not when it finally feels like you have him back, even just a little, after days of distance and weirdness.

The words come out before you can stop them. “Do you wanna ditch?”

Kenny pauses, glancing back at you, brow arching slightly. His expression flickers with curiosity, the smirk still lingering, but there’s something else there now, like consideration.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “I mean—like, go for a drive or something? Just us?” You rub your arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. “I don’t know. I kinda just wanna get out of here for a bit.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his options. The party is still loud around you, people shouting, music pulsing through the walls, laughter breaking through the chaos. Tammy is somewhere in that mess, waiting for him to come back.

Then, Kenny exhales through his nose, his features relaxing. “Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Relief floods through you so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. You nod, grabbing his wrist lightly, tugging him toward the door before either of you can change your mind. Kenny follows easily, his stride matching yours, his body warm where your fingers wrap around his skin. Neither of you look back.

By the time you push out the front door, the cold night air bites at your skin, sharp and crisp compared to the stuffy heat of the party. The front yard is still packed with people, but the noise is muffled now, distant as you make your way down the driveway.

Kenny reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keys and tossing them into the air before catching them effortlessly. “Alright, princess,” he says, glancing at you as you head toward his truck. “Where to?”

You chew your lip, thinking. “I don’t know. Just drive.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Just don’t start bitching if we end up in the middle of nowhere.”

You smile, climbing into the passenger seat. “No promises.”

Kenny smirks, starting the engine. The low rumble of the truck hums beneath you as he pulls out onto the road, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The party fades into the distance, swallowed by the night.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The only sounds are the steady purr of the engine, the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind picks up, and the faint hum of the radio playing some old rock song under Kenny’s breath. You watch the road, the way the headlights cut through the darkness, the lines on the pavement stretching endlessly ahead.

You don’t know why you needed to leave.There was no real reason to grab Kenny, to pull him away from the party, to make up an excuse about just wanting to drive. But the second you saw him walking away, something in you panicked. It didn’t feel right to let him go, not when things between you had been so weird lately, not when it finally felt like you had his attention again.

That’s all it is, you tell yourself. You just missed him.

Things had been off, and you hated it. Kenny had been your best friend for years, and you were just trying to fix whatever weird distance had settled between you. That’s all this was.

You glance at him, taking in the way he drives so effortlessly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against his thigh. He looks relaxed, his posture easy.

You chew your lip before finally speaking. “Sorry if I’m being clingy.”

Kenny’s fingers flex slightly against the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance at you right away, just lets out a short exhale, like he’s thinking about his answer. “You’re not,” he says finally.

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting in your seat. “I kinda am.”

Kenny finally looks at you, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the road. His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but doesn’t quite get there. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Wow. So reassuring.”

Kenny chuckles, the sound low, amused. “Hey, you said it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, smoothing it out over your thighs before glancing at Kenny. “We can just tell the guys that I wasn’t feeling well,” you say, your voice casual. “And you, being the oh so gracious friend that you are, took me home.”

Kenny lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah. Gracious. That’s me.” He drums his fingers lazily against the wheel. “You really think they’re gonna buy that?”

You shrug. “I mean, it’s not technically a lie.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, throwing you a sideways glance. “You weren’t feeling well?”

You hesitate, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean…” You chew your lip, exhaling. “Not really.”

Kenny hums, tilting his head slightly. “Because of the party? Or because of him?”

You stiffen, fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. “Who?”

Kenny huffs a laugh. “Yeah, alright.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I just didn’t feel like being there anymore. That’s all.”

Kenny nods slowly, tapping his fingers against the wheel again. “Well, whatever you say, princess.”

You groan, pushing your shoulder against his arm. “Stop calling me that.”

Kenny chuckles but doesn’t respond, just keeps his focus on the road. The quiet settles between you again, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable, familiar in a way that makes you feel like you made the right decision in pulling him away from the party. You don’t ask where he’s going. You don’t really care.

event masterlist | part two | part three

[mantequillamcwhoremick]

Probably a common Kenny question but how do you think he'd react/feel if someone admitted to him that they're fully aware of his curse but never said or mentioned anything about it?

LMAO you've hit the spot hahahah I literally have an almost finished Fic Wip exactly about this topic so I've given it LOTS of thought.

Okay first and foremost: Kenny isn't a very reactive guy. He's pretty good at keeping his negative emotions in check, probably owed to his upbringing where he always had to be the sane, calm and collected one to endure his home life (parentification let's go!!!). Instances like in the Coon & Friends trilogy (where he lashes out at Kyle) are pretty unique and rare, the only other time he gets similarly angry and acts on it happens in "Poor and Stupid" where Cartman mocks both NASCAR fans and people in poverty.

Deadass when his friends ditched him for Halloween bc he couldn't afford a phone for the e-scooter (ep "The Scoots") he wasn't even mad, even though he had every reason to be. He was just sad. Similarly in Post Covid; he revealed he'd been pissed at his friends for giving up on their broship, but what did he do? He studied and researched for decades how to go back in time and fix it, and post-mortem he left the option open for THEM to continue his work.

My headcanon is that he tried and learned to be the calm one so Karen could have some semblance of stability in their home, but this situation you're describing wouldn't require him to stay strong for Karen (unless it's Karen that would remember his death). I'd say this is a pretty solid conclusion, drawn from his behavior in episodes like "The Poor Kid" and "The City Part of Town" (which ig are the only Karen and Kenny centric episodes lol). I still think (because of "Going Native" and how he handled Butters' emotional issues) that Kenny simply defaults to understanding and a rational caretaker role, no matter the person. Heck, he was even kind enough to leave Cartman his PSP (ep "Best Friends Forever") because he feels bad for Cartman's loneliness. If you have empathy with an IRL Cartman, there's no one you wouldn't be understanding with.

Having an analysis of Kenny's temper tendencies out of the way, I'm gonna move on to the next statement: I think it might slightly depend on WHO this hypothetical person was, the one who "admitted to him that they're fully aware of his curse but never said or mentioned anything about it."

There's two main reasons that this could even happen:

1: The person is so freaked out by this situation that they were afraid to say anything for a long time, they possibly even thought they might be insane and imagining things

2: The person is Cartman

And because I kinda analyzed this in my fic (not yet published), I'm gonna reference it a little and explain my decisions.

The fic's premise is that in a sudden turn, Butters remembers Kenny's last death. Butters freaks out when he sees Kenny come back and after initially lashing out at Kenny thinking he's a ghost coming to haunt him (like in "The Death of Eric Cartman"), he later apologizes to Kenny, concluding he just imagined his death and is insane. (Butters has been conditioned to not trust his mind & brain, assigned mental disorders when there's nothing wrong with him in the aforementioned episode as well as in "City Sushi", so I felt that this makes sense) This makes Butters a perfect contestant for scenario 1.

What did I have Kenny do? Well, in my fic Kenny is overjoyed to finally have someone that would believe him about his curse, but that's not the scenario you provided. But given Kenny's temper patterns and savior complex/caretaker tendencies (gestures at the entire Mysterion arc and anything to do with Karen, including the TFBW DLC "From Dusk Til Casa Bonita", and also "Going Native" where he swiftly accepts his role as support system for Butters), I find it pretty solid to assume he would show a lot of understanding for why the person didn't say anything before. It's a lot to digest to watch someone die, even more if they just... come back? And everyone else acts like nothing happened? On SEVERAL occasions?? Like, Kenny is the first to relate to that sentiment. He'd be understanding about everything the person would be confused & distressed about, and also the reasons why they didn't say anything before.

After Kenny gets his understanding & patient savior complex stuff out of the way, I imagine him slowly going insane trying to figure out WHY this person remembers. That's the second part of the premise in my fic; Kenny and Butters try to figure out why Butters remembers, and why now, and Kenny's main motive is because he wants to find a way for his best friends to remember. The Coon & Friends trilogy proves that Kenny is very distressed by Stan and Kyle not remembering, they mean a lot to him. He feels safer and more comfortable with them than probably with his own family. In my fic, his attempts at figuring out why Butters remembers end up with no results and Kenny slowly starts losing it, lashing out at his friends for feelings of resentment he had long buried and his rational temper control starts cracking more and more. I feel like this is how he'd react in any case of anyone remembering his death, as long as it's not Stan or Kyle. I doubt either Stan or Kyle would ever even wind up as the person to be aware of his curse and not tell him. Especially not Kyle.

Scenario 2 is if Kenny found out that Cartman remembers, has remembered since forever, and never said a word. In my fic (spoiler alert?) Kenny doesn't even deal with Cartman. He just goes straight home to pull out his gun and shoot himself lmaooo he does this because he wants to talk to Satan in Hell and demand answers, bc he doesn't know who else to turn to. In Chaos Plan I have a bit where I describe my take on Kenny's general feelings towards Cartman canonically showing signs of remembering his deaths, and the quote goes like this:

"Kenny often wonders if Cartman does remember his deaths, but is simply too much of a shithead to say anything about them." (Chaos Plan chapter 17)

Kenny is a big "Do no harm but take no shit" kinda guy when it comes to Cartman. He doesn't fight him when it's pointless and prefers to preserve his energy (unlike Kyle), but he does call him out on his bullshit occasionally (at least when it's targeted against Kenny and/or his family). Kenny is also scarily emotionally mature for a 9/10 year old (makes sense bc of his upbringing) so I doubt he'd get his hopes up about ever getting some kind of compassion or collaborative effort from Cartman to figure out what's up with his curse's mechanics. While Kenny and Cartman have an interesting friendship, and Kenny is kind of Cartman's soft spot, I can still imagine Kenny thinking "sure, my luck that the worst possible person remembers my deaths and no one else" and kind of be apathetic about it, kind of like he is by the end of the Coon & Friends trilogy before he shoots himself lmaoooo

So yeah, that's what I think :)) You said the question is common but honestly if it is, then it's for good reason because it's one of the most interesting ones the entire show of South Park has provided. I'm probably biased lol but still, thank you so much for the ask anon <3 I hope you weren't expecting a short answer ahahahahah

[randomsufff]

HEHAHBFKI More South Park doodles I think I’m going insane.

Actually this is kind of the product of me being liking South Park way back in high school but was too embarrassed to draw them when I was bored in class and now it’s all kinda flooding back 💀

Read below if you want to know more about my New Kid and my thoughts behind some of the doodles cause this turned out longer then I though 💀

Anyways- introducing my New Kid. No name cause I literally have no idea. Whatever the cannon name is ig- though I’d think it’d be funny if she was referred to New Kid by literally everyone like in game. I like the idea that a lot of people have with their New Kids that they liked the makeover section with the girls during the Stick of Truth a little too much. I also like it cause… uh… I didn’t play Stick of Truth. (The combat system is not my cup of tea) So it’s not until the start of TFBW does she know shes really a girl.

To give context to the top right drawing- I couldn’t remember the dialogue Wendy says in the alleyway if you say you’re a trans girl- but I do know what she says if your a cis girl (I always knew you were a girl) cause I did a second play through as a cis girl. And I don’t know if there’s supposed to be a huge time jump between the end of Stick of Truth and TFBW but I think it would be funny if it was just the next day- so combine these two fact to get “Wendy always clocked New Kid as a girl but NK just found out yesterday 💀”

Anyways- she’s such a cutie, I love her and her cool superhero outfit I gave her. Outside of the game- I’d like to think of her basically exactly how she acts in game. Mostly non-verbal, with the occasional zingy one liner, and just kinda goes along with the crazy shit the happens in South Park un phased. Like if she was in a episode- the plot would happen and she would be on screen, but wouldn’t say anything, and anytime another character would address her, they’d respond however as if she spoke lmao. Aroace, just like me, so she’s just friends with everyone (except Cartman) and vibes with everyone.

The mini Style comic I though of cause 1) I wondered if Kyle had the same elf ears as the other elfs did in game (again, never played and it’s been a while since I saw gameplay so whoops if it’s confirmed or whatever) and 2) I thought it would be funny if Stan was caught lacking and tried to /rp his way out of it (I wanted to add an extra bit where Kyle would be like “Oh, are our characters gay for each other??? (ARE YOU /SRS OR /J STAN)” and Stan would have to just “yes, and” his way out.)

The last three images were kinda of a stream of consciousness put on paper and made neat lol. I really like showing that all the costumes the kids wear are homemade and stuff- either stuff taken from their parents or visibly taped together etc- cause I think it’s charming. Anyways- I though Kyle’s little robe could be like one of his parents bath robe- and it would be a little too long for him to run without eating shit so he’d have to hike it up like a skirt/dress. Which lead to me thinking that Cartman would say some shit about that and how Kyle, who has a literal Golf Club, would smack his ass up. Which then lead to me thinking about how since Kyle’s the Elf King and Stan’s basically his right hand how he might lift it up wedding dress style if needed (/RP GUYS, RIGHT?RIGHT???) and how Cartman would react, which lead to that one JoJo meme cause thats literally how they’d retaliate.

Always- I’ll probably have at least one more post about South Park I swear. There was a period of time before I stopped watching (I gotta pick it up again) where I would doodle a bit of whatever was happening in the episode, each episode. Crazy I know, but not only did it improve my drawing skills but it helped me remember what actually happened in episodes cause I have shit memory and definitely don’t remember some of the episodes I watched. So I might redraw some of those- see if anyone can tell what episode they’re from.

[stanleys-marsh]

OKAYYYY, here's my south park headcanons about some characters' future careers:

— stan: for a long time he thought about being a veterinarian, but he realized that he wouldn't have the stomach to see injured animals without losing his mind lol

so he started to develop an interest in psychology, because of his personal issues, and he wanted to focus on child psychology.

(i also think he would just want an okay job that pays well, too. as long as he can buy his board games whenever he wants, he's happy lol)

— kyle: lawyer, which seems super cliché because of his father, but he really wanted to make a difference somehow. things def don't go how he expected, i imagine him inevitably having to take on cases where he knows the person is guilty but having to prove their innocence, and how that affects him. or cases where the person is innocent, but he wasn't enough to get them acquitted.

it's a really fucked up type of career, i think it suits him because of these issues.

— kenny: i really like scientist kenny from post-covid! at school he always did well in subjects involving science, he's just a huge nerd about it, so he decided this was the path he wanted to go, although it is not easy at all because he is poor.

— cartman: he went to a business school, and he was a good student just because he was going to use his knowledge for shady stuff lol

eventually, he needed kyle to get him out of jail. at first, kyle swore up and down that he wouldn't help him because he knew cartman was guilty, but then he gave in.

— butters: he gives me art teacher vibes, or just kindergarten teacher 😭 but i also like to think he helped cartman with his shady business without knowing that it was illegal. he ended up in jail too, god bless.

— wendy: journalist. and she just doesn't sleep. she gets so obsessed when she does her articles.

and she has dyslexia, so she keeps asking stan how to spell words. could she just google it? yes, but she likes to ask him, and he doesn't mind.

— craig: well, his most famous headcanons are him working at NASA, but I'm thinking he tried to follow that, but it didn't work out, so he became a physics teacher. as soon as he could, he started to work in a college as a professor tho, he doesn't have patience for teenagers.

another thing i thought about is that he works in the most boring job possible, but he just wants to have enough money to pay the bills and have a good life, (not much different from what I said about stan too).

— tweek: he spent a long time saying he wasn't going to take over Tweak Bros., but at some point he thought "damn, we make good money with the coffeehouse...", and then he finally accepted to become the new boss because in that economy, there's no way to refuse that.

he went to a business school, too.

— clyde: he never even wanted to go to college, partly out of laziness, partly because he had no interest in any specific career.

but like the good nepobaby that he is, he just started working at his dad's shoe store, and that was it.

— jimmy: he does stand-up, but he's a journalist, too. nothing much different from when he was a kid, his passion for it has only grown. him and wendy worked together a lot times.

— tolkien: the only one i can't think of anything specific 😭 he's already rich asf, so maybe he'll use his money to just study the things he likes, without necessarily having a job in the field.

[wendytestabrat]

kyle LOVES cartman's determined attitude

what i rlly liked abt the end of obesity special was it showed once again how all of the shit kyle acts like he hates about cartman is what he actually loves, as i've talked about before 483836738 times. kyle actually loves cartman's unapologeticness and sass even though he shits on him A LOT for it, evidenced by the the fact that he gets all annoyed when cartman starts suddenly acting good LOL (i.e stunning & brave, all of season 20, and post covid). but mainly what he loves about cartman is his DETERMINATION. as i've talked about before, that's one of the main things C&K have in common is they're both EXTREMELY stubborn and passionate and never give up when they set their mind to something (and i analyzed this in their MBTI types bc they're both Js) even if they're both fighting for completely opposite things and this special RLLY emphasized how much kyle shares that trait in common with cartman when the insurance guy is like "i didn't realize i was dealing with someone who had so much determination" LOL. i remember i talked abt in a rant once a longass time ago how that's the main thing cartman loves about kyle and i used the moment in imaginationland where cartman is like "KAHL YOU'VE NEVER WALKED AWAY FROM ANYTHING IN YOUR LIFE!1!1!" as evidence, but i've never rlly talked much about how much kyle appreciates that trait in cartman too. this special rlly showed how kyle LOVES cartman's tough boisterous obnoxious attitude and he appreciates his persistence in getting pretty much anything he wants. that's why kyle was DISAPPOINTED to see cartman so upset and easily giving up when he couldn't get the weight loss drug. he doesn't understand how cartman is tough and has willpower with literally everything EXCEPT his health (and other things that are good for him such as his school grades, i mean according to kyle bc i don't give a shit about grades either) LOL. that pep talk kyle gave cartman about being tough rlly helped cartman and got through to him bc fighting for the shit he wants is his whole thing and kyle was reminding him who the fuck he is. (yeah heidi could never lol). the fact that kyle even thought of that as something good to give cartman advice on, shows it's something he's observed and even ADMIRED about him over the years. so that's how we know in all of those moments when kyle would shit on cartman for being bad, breaking the rules, and always needing to get his way that he was just full of shit and lying bc he likes it LOL. like i remember back in "scott tenorman must die" how kyle kept telling cartman to let it go and drop it when he saw how cartman wasn't giving up and kept trying over and over to get his $10 back from scott, but the fact that kyle was even observing how much cartman wouldn't give up, shows how much this trait about cartman rlly stood out to him and INTRIGUED him. and the main reason why cartman's tenacity interested kyle so much and he was going out of his way to shit on him for it is bc kyle knows damn well he can be like that too, so either he was shitting on cartman for being overly tenacious bc he's insecure that he has that quality in himself, or he just secretly admires the trait in cartman and doesn't know how to process it (it's probably both) LOL. i'm sure kyle liked how there was finally someone else in south park, let alone in his friend group, that's as persistent as him and can match his energy bc he's tired of being the only one in town who's extremely extra lol. this DEF goes hand in hand with that rant i did a while back about how the reason why kyle hates seeing cartman sad and it hits him way harder than when he sees stan sad is bc he's used to seeing cartman's tough over-the-top extroverted personality and LOVES that about him even though he won't admit it, and this special just further proves my point. so thank you once again matt & trey for proving me right for the 47383573838 time.

[missuswalker]

DUDE ALL OF UR WRITINGS ARE SO GOOD u literally make Stan sound like a loser AND HE IS!!!! AND I EAT IT UP ITS SO FUNNY AGAIAHJAHQIA THE JUMPSCARE TOO😭😭😭

Could I req hcs of Stan (the slimy. The STINK.) and Kyle (I feel like he always has a prominent forehead vein from all the rage he has in his body) separate with some mutual pining w a f!reader that’s suuuuuper flirty n zesty w her friends like saying some out of pocket goofy shit like barking n meowing or “I’m hard” or like “I need u carnally.” LOL but also gets easily flustered when flirted back with??? I will kiss the ground u walk upon btw (thank you sm I’m literally up at 3:37 giggling thinking of when u post a response to this)

i'm in love with you for this YOU GUYS THINK UP THE GOOD SHIT

stan and kyle with a flirty reader

✮ summary: stan and kyle crushing on a flirty reader (who gets flustered when flirted back with)

✮ warnings: sexual jokes LMAO

kyle broflovski

i can't imagine him getting all "omg i- i- i- i- 😱😱" over it

like thats not happening

his face will get red, yes

but he's not gonna get super flustered over it

he'll be like "🫥😧" and side eye the hell out of you

it's funny to him sometimes, but also, if he's already pissed off, it's just annoying

"damn, tryna take it to the temple? 😏" "y/n, shut the fuck up."

but that only encourages you to do it more

but it makes him think he's not special since you flirt with your friends, too

"bebe, you can be my baybay if you know what i mean 😏😏 just call me mommy 😁"

and then gets upset and hopes you come flirt with him

the first time he flirted back, it was like you shut down

"why ask for my number when you can just call me a good girl" "i bet you'd like that wouldn't you"

IT WOULD SIMPLY BE THAT, NOT EVEN THAT INTENSE

you'd almost start doing the butters foot kick thing like in the episode where he had to partner up with cartman

"what 😁 huh 🥰 say that again? 😊"

he'd think it was so funny

his rizz isn't bad either so it's even worse

would pull the "you don't have anything to say, huh"

he'd start calling you petnames to make it worse

"come sit over here, babe"

just shit like that

realizes he's the only one you get super flustered over, so he makes his move

after a couple more days of torturing you

his ego just expands

thinks he's the shit

pulls out the black tshirt

stan marsh

oh my god he literally is a loser

"hey stan-ley, wanna give me that stan-d?" "woah."

brags about it

"y/n said she'd gobble me up yesterday 😏" "dude, what the flip" "kenny, you just don't get it."

but when he's around you he says the stupidest shit

"looking good, marshy poo" "oh, thanks 😰😁"

when he flirts back, it's all mid

"nice shirt, stanley" "nice face, y/n"

but when it still flusters you, he's like "yeah, she likes me"

"would you be interested in going out with me 🤓"

and then would be all like "uhhh i mean, uh, would you, let's go on a date"

thought he ate the girls up

standing there like "😏"

"yeah, sure"

AND IS SHOCKED

pretends he's not shocked

"oh, sweet 🥱" "like this pussy" "😦"

a/n: i love this so much

not proofread because im lazy (sexy facial expression)

[junkyarddawgz]

I'd love to know which of my fics (only one is currently up on ao3) I should prioritize based on what people like most, so I thought I'd leave it up to you guys here! Full descs are under the poll and cut.

Mortalizer: This fic gets deep but when things start to get chaotic outside of Kenny's own crisis, the action really picks up. I have so much plot going for this story and I'm really excited about it lol. Apart from dying, there will be lots of Crenny and Style, lots of character development, interactions with the Goth Kids, interesting disguises, hero-Cartman, friendly kidnapping, climbing through bedroom windows, etc. Currently there are nine chapters up on my AO3 (junkyarddawgz)

Heres the AO3 Desc

Kenny McCormick discovers he's been rejected by death. As denial drives him mad, he begins to toy with his own life- until a series of horrifying crimes remind him that not everyone comes back from the grave. Or... One year ago, Kenny's entire life fell apart, and the new version of it is not worth living. Every time he tries to end it, though, he only wakes up again; alive and with a beating heart. No one even remembers he was ever dead... that he knows of. After weeks of dying almost every day, two new things happen too close together to be coincidence; someone else is dead, and another anonymous someone seems to know Kenny has been too. He hardly even gets a chance to panic before things start to get way worse, and Kenny realizes he might be the only person who can stop whoever is behind it all. (Mysterion vs Serial killer)

Creek Fic (Untitled): When something goes way wrong with young NASA astronaut Craig Tucker's mission Feldspar, he finds himself trapped in an endless solo mission that should only have lasted 28 days. With NASA refusing to keep him in the loop about what the hell is even going on, he is surprised to discover he actually looks forward to those informationless ground-control calls each day. Maybe he just misses human contact, or maybe there really is something more behind his infatuation with that one twitchy, blond ground-control agent.

I wrote that desc just now, but it probably won't be the same one I write in for the eventual AO3 upload. No I don't have an outline or even really a full plot going for this one yet, but I do have a general idea of what it might be. Soooo.... slowburn, angsty, trapped in space Creek fic, anyone?

Children on the Edge of Forever: A tragic spin on the season 2 episode "City on the Edge of Forever" (which is itself titled after a Star Trek episode) in which instead of telling silly stories while they sit in the bus hanging off the edge of a cliff and wait for Miss Crabtree's return, the kids find themselves confessing deep honesties in their last moments before the bus finally gives in to the temptation of gravity. Confessions range from those of love- requited or not, personal identities, crimes, and final forgivenesses. Each chapter is written in the POV of one kid on the bus (I'll be doing about 12 of them) with a final chapter detailing their shared ending.

Yes, they do all die in the end, but that doesn't mean we can't have Style, Creek and Bendy fluff before their final demise lol. I haven't written an official desc yet, but the first chapter should be up before the end of December regardless of poll results (simply because it's already mostly written).

Totally Killer AU (Untitled): This one is based on the 2023 slasher film Totally Killer, which was ALMOST a good movie lol. I decided to make it actually good. Heres the AO3 desc:

When the decade of materialism and Madonna finally began to draw the curtains of a close, three teenagers at South Park high had their lives brought to their own abrupt ends. The face of their killer is never unmasked, slipping away through the cracks of passing time. 35 years later, as the third decade of the century hits a halfway point, a fourth victim is claimed to mark the killer's return. Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski find themselves thrown not only in the middle of it all (and maybe even at each other), but also back in time- to the point just before everything first began.

TIME TRAVEL STYLE!!! This one is going to be so good because I'll be writing their parents as teenagers and showing so much background. I feel like fresh characters (or fresh versions of them at least) in a South Park fic is something you rarely see, so I think it will be fun to try and pull off.

Anyway, this fic involves Stan and Kyle working together to try and prevent the first murders from ever happening so as to save the fourth victim from dying in the future. Theres angst and fluff to come no matter who dies lol.

[casmick-consequences]

Black Pete, my beloved

This is just gonna be a post where I talk about Black Pete from 'Our Flag Means Death' and his arc on the show (so far!!!!), as well as what he means to me. (And by post, I mean essay, lol. I'm passionate.)

So right from the get-go, you immediately see the kind of character Pete is set up to be. Stereotypical rugged pirate, very much "I live to loot and plunder and I eat danger and bloodshed for breakfast". He's immediately set up to be someone who is very unlikeable, and someone who you would get annoyed with fast. An overly confident macho character that thinks he's better than everyone else, yet has nothing to prove it. Think characters like Nelson Muntz from 'The Simpsons' or Eric Cartman from 'South Park'.

In episode 1, you see him being the character to effectively try to start a mutiny because he thinks the captain, Stede Bonnet, is incompetent and unfit to be a captain, even confidently stating that he'd take over in his stead because 'he's the most experienced'.

If there was one character trait to shadow all of this, though, it is undoubtedly his idolization and admiration for the dreaded and feared pirate; Captain Blackbeard. He makes up stories of him having been on his crew, and this being the reason as to why he is so skilled and great. Whether these stories are true is never mentioned, but nonetheless not a single person (except the quite gullible captain Stede) believes a word he says.

What is SO interesting about his character, however, is that all of this is just a first look into his character. It's a first impression. Yes, throughout the show he shall always have his little moments of "being a dick", but the further you get into the show, the more you see the layers of him.

We've established he's kind of a dick, he's self-centered, delusional... but under all this there's actually the sweetest core you could imagine. Whenever he does something wrong, or he offends someone, he's the first to apologize as soon as he can.

Accidentally stab Frenchie's flag during an ambitious attempt to start a mutiny? Show remorse and say I'm sorry immediately. Your captain makes someone cry? Tell him that that wasn't okay and console the crying person as soon as possible. Your captain wants to put a cursed suit onto other innocent people, just to lift the curse from themselves? Question it because it makes you feel like a horrible person.

And even to Stede himself. In Season 1, it was pretty clear that Pete did not think anything of Stede. He thought he was dumb, incompetent etc etc and loved NOTHING more than the idea to get rid of him. But then in Season 2, where a very offensive comment is made towards Stede by the newly-back-from-the-sorta-dead scribe, Lucius Spriggs, who now holds a vendetta against Stede because he's indirectly the reason Lucius had to come sorta back from the dead in the first place, you see him like this:

He is visibly uncomfortable here, while in season 1, he would've jumped on the Anti-Stede train in a SECOND. But here, he just sits and tries to kind of get rid of the thick tension of that moment, and get the negative attention away from Stede. GROWTH.

Not only that, but (and this is gonna be an insanely weird opinion of mine but hear me out): out of all the crewmembers on Stede's ship, I might say that none of them are as much like Stede than Pete is. Stede is quite dumb, quite gullible, obsessed with Blackbeard, very much wants to be a "big, strong pirate" and despite all of this still manages to be kind to the people around him and makes sure to take care of others just like he takes care of himself. To me, that sounds just like Pete.

And, maybe one of his most redeeming qualities:

He is the sweetest, most loving and most caring partner on the ship.

Lucius is pretty much what you think of when you hear the words "sassy gay sidekick". He's sassy, he's queer, he's confident, he's very flirtatious and basically the LAST person you'd think to pair with Pete. He's also immediately portrayed as likeable, and is understandably one of the absolute favorites in the entire fandom.

They sound like the crackiest pair of them all. And yet somehow, they work perfectly together. They balance eachother out like two sides of the same coin. What Pete lacks in self-awareness, Lucius got enough for the both of them. What Lucius lacks in pirate skills, Pete has heaps to keep them both safe. And so on and so forth.

Throughout the show, Pete has learned to put someone else before him for once. It used to always be him as number one, but it becomes very clear that he now has a new number one. His number one.

There are lots of reasons why this relationship in particular means a lot to me. The main one being the way that they are perceived in the show.

Pete has a cleft lip, a bit of a lisp, a bald head, and overall just isn't what you'd normally expect from a TV show that depicts gay characters. He's average-looking. He's just some guy. And despite all of this, he gets to be in a sweet and loving relationship with his cute boyfriend who loves him, adores him, and looks at Pete like he's the most beautiful thing in the world.

Lucius himself isn't really that conventionally attractive either, but this fandom definitely perceives him better than they do Pete. Which is apparent in the way they pair him up with other, more conventionally attractive people, which is upsetting but hey. That's how the world works, I guess.

But it's the way these two are not perfect in any way, they're just two dudes on a ship who happen to be in the most beautiful relationship imaginable. Their relationship isn't perfect either, but it's perfect enough. They're just like a regular couple you'd see anywhere in real life. Nothing too fabricated, and it all just feels so real. Which is also why they remind me so much of my personal relationship with my beautiful, amazing partner whom I love more than anything in the world. The Lucius to my Pete.

Pete means a lot to me because, aside from having the best oneliners in the show and making me want to study him in a lab, in a way I see a lot of myself in him. I like to think I'm not nearly as delusional or self-centered as him, but the way he engages with the world around him feels just so familiar to me.

He's a bit dumb most of the time, and he's prone to make mistakes, but he always means well. He keeps up a hard, rough exterior to be able to protect his loved ones and look tough to others, yet in his core he is so incredibly sensitive and caring He found love in a place and time where it pretty much could've been impossible, and he spreads that love as far as his bare, sleeveless arms can reach.

He's a dick, but he's my dick. He whittled his boyfriend a damn finger, he deserves to be a little obnoxious every now and again as a treat.

So yeah. Black Pete does not NEARLY get the appreciation and recognition he deserves. And neither does his relationship with Lucius. And I wanna thank Matthew Maher for his incredible performance of this incredible character. Thank you!

(Also he's trans because I'm trans and I said so <3 ok bye)

[kestalsblog]

Stan/Kyle/Cartman Drabble 🗻🌲

I needed a break, so I gave myself a reward of writing some today. I was struck with this scene a little while ago. I'd been wanting to try Style for a while, but I just love my guy Cartman too much to leave him out 🙈🥰 So, enjoy some . . . Styleman?? LOL. 🏕️

Contains suggestive content and a bit of mature language. Best for 18+. Nothing graphic. I don't post anything explicit on Tumblr.

Normally Stan loved camping with his friends. The fresh mountain air, the indigo-greens of the night sky, the cricket song. The way he could look at the wild, open landscape and not feel insignificant because out here, everyone was insignificant.

Hell, coming out this far in the forest pines had been his idea, but if past-him could have looked into the future's crystal ball, he sure wouldn't be freezing his ass off in a lonely sleeping bag just so he could listen to Cartman and Kyle get it off together in the tent beside his. Feeling his teeth clash together, sensitive from the cold, he cursed Kenny for turning down the invitation. At least then he wouldn't be so hopelessly alone.

Cartman and Kyle's silhouettes flickered across his own tent wall like two candle flames. Sometimes they intertwined; other times, they shivered apart. Stan could hear their muffled whispers and giggles, punctuated by Kyle's occasional petulant shh!

Looking back, Stan wasn't sure when the nature of their relationship had changed - if it had ever changed at all, for that matter. Maybe it had been like this as long as they'd known each other, and he'd just missed the signs.

Earlier in the evening, Kyle and Cartman been bickering in their usual fashion over the snacks Cartman had brought, how well Kyle had pitched the tent (which had started a slew of sexual innuendos from Cartman that had Kyle ready to commit murder), and Stan had been convinced things might be like the old days again.

At least like before college, back when things felt normal. But no, those days were gone, and Stan didn't know why, but he felt his eyes burn when he thought about how those years were never, ever returning. Now Cartman and Kyle couldn't fight without the heated exchange ending in an intense make-out session or a half-concealed fuck in Kenny's closet at a house party.

He hated himself for wishing they'd go back to hating each other. At least then he wouldn't feel left out.

On the bright side, the tears were keeping Stan somewhat warm. Octobers in South Park could unleash unforgiving weather. Normally he didn't mind sitting in the cold until he went numb - he even relished it - but now it was only painful.

Kyle let out an exceptionally loud yelp, followed by Cartman's ruthless snickering. Stan let his eyes drift back to the outlines of their bodies displayed across the fabric tent wall. At some point, their shape had become one.

Stan turned on his side so he couldn't see them anymore. A few tears ran from his eyelashes into his lip, and he tasted salt mixed with the marshmallows from earlier. Maybe he shouldn't have invited both of them. Kyle probably would have come alone, maybe even Cartman. He gripped himself tighter, huddling under the sleeping bag's cover. None of it made sense, Cartman and Kyle . . . Kyle and Cartman . . .

He was Kyle's best friend, the one who had always been kind to him. For fuck's sake, he'd even been there for Cartman growing up too. What had they done for each other except make both their lives miserable?

But now . . . now he listened to a small, slightly stifled moan, probably from Kyle, and he wished he'd never suggested coming camping altogether, not if the only things to keep him warm were his cheap sleeping bag, his tears, and his jealousy. Maybe the two of them were better off being here without him. He should just pack his stuff and go home.

"Shh, shh, Stan can hear us," Cartman's voice suddenly rang clearly, interrupting some scampering night creature nearby their tents.

"It's not like he doesn't know," followed Kyle, but then his voice became gentler when he called out, "Stan?"

Was it better to pretend to be asleep? Fear grazed Stan's cheek in the form of a frigid breeze that trespassed the tent's opening. Both Cartman and Kyle were suddenly quiet, and the change in atmosphere only lowered Stan's feelings. If he weren't here, they could be having unrestrained fun together. He really should just go home.

Fear escalated to terror when an obscenely loud sniffle escaped his nostril.

"Stan?" gasped Kyle's voice, louder now.

Stan turned with a jolt to see Cartman and Kyle break apart from one another and start emerging from their tent to come to his. Sure enough, within seconds, Kyle's face popped through the tent's slot. His wild hair was spiraling in untamed curls around his head, and his cheeks were rosy pink. "Are you crying?" Kyle's eyes widened with concern. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, what gives, dude?" Cartman's face poked in next, directly under Kyle's. If Stan weren't heavy with his own sorrows, he might have found the image comical. "Lonely in here, Stan?" he joked, but the quip went straight through Stan's heart.

I'm going to cry. I'm going to cry. Stan felt his nostrils quivering, his eyebrows. Could he blame the cold, and would they believe him if he did?

"Stan, that's not true, is it Are you lonely?" asked Kyle, nudging his way into the tent. He sat next to Stan's lantern, only a few inches away because there wasn't much room. "I mean, it'll be a tight fit, but we can all hang out. I thought you liked your space . . ."

"Or you could join us." Cartman's jack-o-lantern smirk cracked across his face.

"Isn't that what I literally just suggested?" snapped Kyle, shooting him a side eye as if his entire neck wasn't covered with his love bites.

"No, you were just saying we could all have a sleepover," fake-yawned Cartman. "I'm suggesting, if the poor guy is lonely, that he join us." There was no mistaking the sly undertone. Stan felt unforeseen heat overtake his face when Cartman directed a flirtatious wink in his direction.

"W-What are you saying?" Stan hated the sound of his voice. He hated how harshly he was now gripping the cover of his sleeping bag, and how some not-so-small, shameful piece of himself was yearning, straining to be included, to be . . . What am I thinking? His heart beat violent rhythms through his ears. Ugly sound. No wonder no one wanted him; he was embarrassing.

"Oh my God, Stan, I'm sorry about him," Kyle started, flustered now himself. "He's just being, well, Cartman."

"Oh, come on." Cartman rolled his eyes, which had assumed an oddly comforting caramel coloration in the lantern light. "Don't tell me you've never thought about Stan that way. We both have."

"What?" Stan heard his voice lift an octave, followed by Cartman's devious laughter and Kyle's stuttering.

"I-I mean, it's just . . ." Kyle's voice went nowhere.

"Come on, just picture it." Cartman lifted his hands as if he were painting the image in the air for them to see. "These romantic ass woods and mountains and nature and shit. The three of us doing it like animals? Shit, it's a wet dream, if you ask me." His tongue rolled over his lips with sinister slowness, and Stan would never admit to the way his heart leapt over a few beats at the sight. Surely this was some kind of terrible prank; neither of them had expressed wanting to be with him in the past, even if many of his own nights had been spent in painful pining to join them.

He knew they weren't particularly monogamous. He wasn't even sure if they saw themselves as a real couple, and he'd always been a little heartbroken trying to piece together what was so unappealing about him that he'd never turned their heads that way. Hadn't he shown that he cared for them both? Wasn't he a nice enough person? It had to be the inherent ugliness he knew lurked under his skin, the repulsive something-or-other about him that made him unlovable, untouchable. He was embarrassing. He was -

"Don't mock me like this," he tried to say without crying, but Kyle must have detected the tear in his voice because he suddenly crawled forward and took his hand. Kyle had held his hand before. Right now, it felt different. His fingers gripped Stan's, squeezing.

"Stan, I'd never do that. You know how much you mean to me." His eyes were so close to Stan's, right there, a dark shade of green that reminded Stan of the trees and grass he loved so dearly. Lily pads. His eyes were like lily pads in dark water. He'd never seen such eyes on anyone else. "I know Eric has a fucking horrible way of suggesting it, but . . . if you're lonely in here, I mean, and if you want to . . ." His face blossomed with red. "I can't say I haven't . . . ever thought about it, is all. The three of us." He cleared his throat. "You're my best friend. You're, uh . . ."

"You've thought about it?" Stan wasn't sure how much more new information he could take. If his voice went any higher, he was pretty sure he'd go through some kind of reverse puberty. His ears rang.

"Oh, be serious, Stan. You can't deny you're hot as fuck. A real dreamboat with that classic look of yours. Plus, you have that good- boy sweet vibe about you," Cartman added, causing Stan to jump at the sudden closeness of his voice. He felt it tickle his earlobe. When the hell had he moved so quickly and silently to his other side? Encased between the two of them, Stan felt his heart racing and his previous tears searching for a place to go. "Prime for corruption, if you ask me." Cartman's voice sank a few levels; Stan felt his lips ghost down his ear to his neck, and he jumped closer to Kyle.

"It doesn't have to be like that," cried Kyle, exasperated, reaching a gloved hand to cup at Stan's cheek. The warmth of his hand radiated through the fabric. "Like I said before, you know how much I care about you. We only have to do this if you want to." His eyes simmered. "We can be slow."

Even Cartman, to his credit, paused by Stan's neck, clearly waiting for some form of permission to continue. Stan searched for the words to respond, his mind grasping nothing. All he could think about were the parties he had spent watching the two of them kiss while he sat twisted with sharp pains, the nights he had walked home alone, the loneliness like a smog he couldn't shake off his shoulders. How that smog followed him absolutely fucking everywhere.

Such were his thoughts when he whispered, his voice dispersing like fading fog on the syllable, "Yes."

Cartman surged in like a shark then, his parted lips and teeth clamping into the soft, open skin of Stan's neck. At the same moment, Kyle muttered, "Oh, Stan, I've been waiting for this," and then gently pressed their mouths together.

So much was happening - Stan felt his pulse quicken even further. His temperature elevated, and he couldn't believe he'd been cold ten minutes ago. The heat of Eric's mouth, scented faintly of chocolate, fastened to his skin while he tasted the bright spearmint flavor of Kyle's lips. Underneath the mint, he detected subtle cocoa. Realizing that flavor must have come from Cartman's candy bar earlier and yet he was tasting it through Kyle's mouth sent Stan's thoughts into madness.

Kyle's mouth was exceedingly gentle, his lips slowly but, with defined pressure, moving against his. Is this what Cartman felt all the time from him? Kyle was kissing him, his best friend. The person he'd spent his whole life beside. A person he loved. Kyle.

Stan felt a little dizzy trying to keep up with his shifting emotions when Cartman nipped at his neck. He gasped into Kyle's mouth.

"He's so innocent," teased Cartman. He licked a quick trail up the length of Stan's throat, making him shudder all over again. "So cute. This is gonna be fun." Stan wasn't even sure what to think of Cartman, how to explain the fierce arousal he felt when he'd watched Kyle and Cartman make out. There was a commanding aspect to his personality he couldn't quite fathom, some alluring fantasy of being overpowered associated with his expressive gestures.

"Don't go rushing this," ordered Kyle, the usual warning vexation returning to his tone when he pulled backward some. Stan, breathing hard, noticed a new shine to his eyes he'd never noticed before. He thought he'd known every side of Kyle once. "I want to take my time with this." He was speaking to Cartman, but his eyes were settled on Stan.

Stan was struck with the abrupt realization that he was not simply being looked at - he was being studied. As if Kyle were waiting for the right moment to devour him. These were the looks he'd been craving, this was the attention, and now that it was here, all here, and he was voiceless, helpless. He felt his shoulders tremble under their hands like the falling pine needles outside. His skin reddened beneath their vigilant eyes. He had no idea what to do, which moves to make.

He'd been so utterly convinced a moment like this would never come for him that it all felt like some cruel magic trick the forest was playing on him, almost as if he'd wished so hard for something, he was hallucinating it now.

"Don't worry," Cartman said, his voice more soothing than Stan had ever heard. He hadn't known he was even capable of comfort. Did he really know his two friends at all? "We'll take good care of you, sweetheart." And then somehow, Stan was kissing Cartman - the sweet taste of his tongue coating his mouth like velvet chocolate. Someone's hands were in his hair - Kyle's? - and before he knew it, his head was being shifted from one side to the other, both of them taking turns kissing him. Their mouths were both burning, blazing, even. They both tasted good. Chocolate mint. Stan felt his lips slacken. What to do, what to do?

At some point, he could no longer keep up with which mouth belonged to whom, which long fingers and strong palms were tugging at his coat collar and his hair. He registered through his swimming, unfocused-brain rush of desire the chorusing of insects somewhere beyond the tent.

Was this sweet, tingling taste the flavor of devotion?

If I ever continued this, the rest would have to go to Ao3. Too steamy for here 😳 I hope you enjoyed 🤭🥰🙈 🍫🍵

[drownedinlavender]

Eric is a character. He is a work of fiction. All of these characters that we know and love and fawn over are just that, characters, they're make believe.

I understand being uncomfortable by the hate speech, that's one thing, but I see people actually hating him like he personally killed their parents and made them into chilly. Matt and Trey write him as a bigot because someone has to be in order to write the story they're trying to tell, in order to get the point across they're trying to make. Someone HAS to be the villain. And when he's extremely anti semetic, xenophobic, racist, he loses because that's the message. Bigots lose. Bigots are a joke.

Matt and Trey stated in an interview that Eric is the product of his surroundings and as someone that grew up in a middle of nowhere town in Wisconsin, there were a lot of kids that shared many similarities with Cartman. They were racist, xenophobic, and just straight up mean. Many of which told me my family and I should go back to Mexico where I belonged. But they also all came from broken homes. A lot of them were simply attention starved, neglected children internalizing the problems of the adults around them. And looking back now, I don't hold any ounce of contemp or negative emotion towards those children, my heart goes out to them. They didn't have anyone that cared enough about them to correct their behavior. Any kind of attention, including negative, was better than none due to how neglectful their gaurdiens were.

This isn't me arguing why people that hate Cartman should love him, or hold pity for him. On the contrary, I hate to argue lol. This is only me divulging my thoughts on a character I personally think is written with a lot of dimension and depth. I like the idea of Eric as a character. A 10 year old child overly spoiled by his crack addicted, sex worker mother who is lonely and isolated to the point of only relying on her child for friendship so she treats him more like a friend than a child thus creating a spoiled, deeply insecure, self centered, bigoted asshole of a kid. His mother, along with most of the adults around him, failed him and now he's making it everyone's problem. His childhood is like a joker origin story lol how wild

Anyway, that is all :'D

[fuqnia]

I'll Compliment You Frequently (3) ₊˚⊹♡

♡ kenny mccormick x fem!reader insert | college au, smut

♡ A/N | can u tell i really love cartman. (still mad this is 3 parts) also i'm so sorry for kenny's dialogue lmfao

♡ C/W | NSFW (18+), ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP, kissing, oral sex (male & female receiving) inexperienced reader, p in v penetration, kenny has a filthy mouth ☹️

event masterlist | part one | part two

Your eyes snap open, and you shake your head, like you can physically knock the thought out of your skull.

No. That’s insane. Red doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. She’s always been the type to stir shit up just to watch what happens. Kenny doesn’t like you. He never has. If he did, he wouldn’t have spent the last decade shamelessly hooking up with every willing person in South Park. He wouldn’t have kissed Tammy Warner at Tolkien’s party. He wouldn’t have sat there in his truck, acting like giving him a blowjob was no big deal.

Your phone buzzes again, and you finally pull yourself out of your spiral long enough to glance at it. Your lock screen is filled with notifications—text after text from Kyle, Stan, and Butters, all checking in.

Kyle’s messages are straightforward, but you can tell he’s actually worried.

KYLE: hey, haven’t seen you in class. you good?

KYLE: seriously, what’s going on?

KYLE: if this is about damien, don’t let it fuck up your grades. just talk to me.

Stan’s texts are scattered, like he’s been meaning to reach out but keeps getting distracted.

STAN: yo, are u sick or some shit? u havent been around.

STAN: dude, even cartman’s noticing. that’s bad.

STAN: hit me up, we’ll go get a drink or something.

And then there’s Butters, who’s been spamming you with increasingly distressed messages.

BUTTERS: Oh hamburgers, Kyle said you’ve been missing class, are you okay?

BUTTERS: Gosh, I know breakups are hard, but you’re scaring us a little :(

BUTTERS: Do you need anything? Soup? A hug? I can bring you my mom’s essential oils!

BUTTERS: Or, gosh, maybe I could just come sit with you? You shouldn’t be alone when you’re sad!

You feel a pang of guilt, staring at the screen. They’ve all been trying to check in on you, and you’ve been ignoring them, letting your own mess swallow you whole. You should probably answer, reassure them that you’re not dead, at the very least. But before you can start typing, another text comes in.

CARTMAN: sup. u busy?

You frown immediately. Of all the people to reach out, Cartman is the last one you expected.

YOU: what do you want

His response is almost instant.

CARTMAN: jeez bitch, chill. just wanted to say sorry about u and damien.

Your stomach turns.

Cartman, being nice? That’s suspicious as hell.

YOU: lol fuck off

Normally, that would be the end of it. But instead of letting it go, he sends another message.

CARTMAN: nah fr. breakups suck. lets hang out. get ur mind off it

You narrow your eyes at your phone. This is weird. Cartman doesn’t just hang out for no reason. If he’s being nice, it means he’s either scheming or trying to manipulate you into doing something.

YOU: what are you up to

YOU: why the fuck would i ever willingly hang out with you

The typing bubble pops up.

CARTMAN: because im the only one with the balls to hit u up rn

Your lips press together.

You glance at Kyle’s texts. Stan’s. Butters’. They’ve all checked in, yeah, but none of them have really pushed. Not like Cartman is.

The typing bubble appears again.

CARTMAN: cmon. lets go get food or some shit.

CARTMAN: i know ur sitting there all sad and mopey. bet ur still in pjs huh

CARTMAN: put on some pants and meet me outside

You hesitate, staring at your phone.

Every instinct is telling you not to do this. That it’s Cartman, and whatever he’s planning is definitely not for your benefit.

But the thought of leaving your dorm, of stepping outside and breathing fresh air for the first time in days, suddenly sounds really appealing.

You take a deep breath, tossing your phone onto the bed before pushing yourself up. Your limbs feel heavy, like they haven’t been used in days, which isn’t far from the truth. You shuffle over to your dresser, yanking it open and digging through the mess of clothes inside, searching for something that doesn’t scream depression cave goblin.

The mirror catches your eye, and you wince. Jesus Christ. Red was right—you look like absolute shit. Your eyes are puffy, your hair is a tangled mess, and the hoodie you’ve been living in has at least three different food stains on it. You shake your head, peeling it off and grabbing the first decent top you can find. A black long-sleeve, something simple. You throw on a pair of jeans, lace up your sneakers, and drag yourself into the bathroom to try to look like a functional human being.

Brushing your teeth feels like the first productive thing you’ve done in days. You wash your face, rub at the bags under your eyes, and decide to put on some light makeup—just enough to make yourself look like you haven’t been crying into your pillow for seventy-two hours straight. A bit of concealer, some mascara, a touch of blush to bring life back to your face. When you finally step back from the mirror, you almost feel normal again. Not great, not even good, but at least like someone who belongs outside.

You grab your phone and shove it into your pocket before heading out, stepping into the crisp afternoon air. It feels weird being outside after isolating yourself for so long—like stepping into a completely different world.

Cartman is waiting near the dorm entrance, leaning against a bike rack with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. He looks… surprisingly normal. No shit-eating grin, no obvious I’m plotting something look on his face. He just raises an eyebrow when he sees you, nodding in approval.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls. “You do remember what fresh air is.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “Shut the fuck up.”

Cartman smirks, but it’s not as smug as usual. More amused than anything. “Nah, but for real, you look way better. Like, less feral.”

You scoff but don’t argue. The two of you start walking without discussing where you’re going, falling into an easy pace.

Cartman glances at you, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “So. You gonna tell me why you’ve been hiding in your dorm like some emo bitch, or do I have to guess?”

You huff, staring straight ahead. “Gee, Cartman, maybe because I just broke up with my boyfriend?”

He snorts. “Pfft. Yeah, sure, let’s pretend that’s the real reason.”

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on.” He gives you a pointed look. “You and Kenny have been acting weird as shit since Tolkien’s party. And now you’re spiraling, ditching classes, dumping your little demon boytoy outta nowhere? Yeah, I wonder what could’ve possibly happened.”

Your throat tightens. You knew people had noticed, but hearing it out loud makes it real.

You shake your head, trying to deflect. “Jesus, Cartman. What, are you a fucking therapist now?”

Cartman smirks. “Nah, just not fucking blind.”

You don’t say anything. You just keep walking, staring at the ground, your hands stuffed in your pockets.

Cartman watches you for a second, then exhales through his nose. “Look, dude, I don’t actually give a shit about your love life. But it’s pathetic watching you and Kenny dance around this bullshit. Either fix it or get over it.”

Your fingers tighten into fists in your pockets. “It’s not that simple.”

Cartman groans. “It is that simple! You like him, right?”

Your breath catches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Fucking knew it.”

Your face burns. “Shut up.”

Cartman just grins, smug as ever. “Nope. Not until you admit it.”

You glare at him, but he just keeps looking at you, waiting. Daring you to say it out loud.

Your jaw clenches. Your pulse is hammering in your ears, and you don’t want to talk about this, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“…I fucking hate you.”

Cartman barks out a laugh. “That’s not a denial, bitch.”

You groan, rubbing your hands down your face. “Fine! Yes! Okay? I fucking like him. Happy?”

Cartman smirks. “Extremely.”

You scowl, shoving him. “I hate you.”

Cartman swings into the drive-thru like he owns the place, barely glancing at the menu before rattling off his order—two double cheeseburgers, a large fries, and a Diet Coke, because of course he drinks Diet Coke with all that shit. You roll your eyes but place your order, opting for something way smaller because you don’t have the stomach for a grease coma right now.

Surprisingly, hanging out with Cartman is… nice. Not in a sentimental way, because that would be fucking weird, but in a way that makes you forget, just for a little while, that your life is a disaster. He’s still an asshole, still poking at you with sarcastic remarks, but the edge isn’t as sharp as usual. He lets you eat in peace, doesn’t push you to talk about Kenny any more, and for once, you don’t feel like he’s scheming.

Which is why you don’t even think to ask where the hell you’re going when he starts driving again.

It’s not until you’ve been on the road for a solid fifteen minutes, the town shrinking in the rearview mirror, that it finally clicks.

You frown, glancing out the window at the passing trees. “…Where the fuck are we going?”

Cartman, not taking his eyes off the road, just smirks. “Oh, now you notice?”

You glare at him. “Cartman.”

He huffs dramatically, shaking his head. “So impatient. Jesus.”

“Dude, seriously.”

Cartman sighs, but there’s a glint in his eye, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Okay, fine, buzzkill. I was gonna keep it a surprise, but whatever.” He shifts in his seat, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Karen wanted to see you.”

Your brain stalls.

Your stomach flips.

“What?”

Cartman barely reacts, just shrugs. “Yeah. She called me yesterday, practically begging me to bring your sorry ass down. Apparently, someone’s been ignoring her texts?”

Guilt immediately floods through you. Karen had been texting you, but in the middle of all the Kenny bullshit, you just… never replied.

You turn to Cartman, eyes wide, hands bracing against the dashboard. “Are you serious?!”

Cartman smirks, nodding. “Mhm.”

You let out a squeal, bouncing in your seat. “Oh my God—why didn’t you tell me sooner?!”

Cartman snorts. “Because it’s fucking hilarious watching you freak out.”

You don’t even care. You’re too busy buzzing with excitement, practically vibrating with the need to see Karen. It’s been too long—too many weeks since you last hung out, since you last talked about anything that wasn’t just a casual text. The moment you heard she declined your offer to visit, you figured she was just busy with school, but knowing she wanted to see you? That she asked Cartman to bring you?

You almost want to cry.

The next hour flies by. You barely notice the drive, too busy fidgeting in your seat, checking your phone, resisting the urge to text Karen to say you’re coming. Cartman teases you, of course, calling you a gross sap and telling you to calm the fuck down, but you can’t help it. This is exactly what you needed.

When the car finally pulls up to the McCormick house, you don’t even wait for it to stop completely.

You’re out of the car in seconds, practically jogging up the porch steps, your heart pounding with excitement. You knock on the door, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet, barely able to contain yourself.

But when the door swings open, it’s not Karen.

It’s Kenny.

Your stomach drops.

The excitement in your chest turns to stone, sinking straight to your gut as you freeze on the porch, your breath catching in your throat. Kenny blinks at you, looking just as stunned, his lips parting slightly like he hadn’t been expecting you either.

“…Oh,” you manage, swallowing thickly. “Uh. Hey.”

Kenny recovers fast. His lips twitch into something resembling a smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, yourself.”

Behind you, Cartman slams his car door and walks up the porch steps, brushing past you like you don’t even exist. “Alright, my work here is done,” he announces, already heading inside like he fucking lives here. “You two idiots have fun figuring your shit out.”

You whip around, your eyes wide. “What?!”

Cartman just grins over his shoulder. “Later, lovebirds.” And then—like the absolute menace he is—he disappears inside, leaving you standing there, stunned, while Kenny leans against the doorframe, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Realization crashes over you like a fucking avalanche.

Karen never called Cartman.

Karen never asked to see you.

This was his plan.

Cartman set you up.

You turn back to Kenny, your mouth opening, but nothing comes out.

Because this—standing here, alone with Kenny, trapped in a situation you never would’ve willingly walked into—is exactly what you’ve been avoiding for days.

Kenny exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before tilting his head at you, his smirk just barely masking the tension in his eyes. “You gonna stand there all night, or you actually gonna come inside?”

You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of every nerve in your body screaming at you to run. Your fingers twitch at your sides, your throat feels tight, and for a second, you actually consider turning around, walking back to Cartman’s car, and demanding that he drive you anywhere but here.

But you don’t.

Because Kenny is still watching you, standing in the doorway of his shitty little house, backlit by the dim glow of the kitchen light, his expression unreadable. And despite the panic clawing up your throat, despite everything you’ve been trying so hard to bury, there’s still a part of you—a really fucking annoying part of you—that wants to talk to him.

You cross your arms, licking your lips. “Did you know about this?”

Kenny lets out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Nah. Thought you were the one who wanted to see me.”

Your stomach twists.

“Guess Cartman’s still a conniving little bastard,” Kenny mutters, stepping back, giving you space to walk inside. He doesn’t invite you in, not really, but he’s waiting.

You hesitate.

If you go inside, you can’t ignore this anymore. Can’t pretend like things are fine. Can’t act like everything that happened between you two never fucking happened.

But if you don’t go inside…

Kenny shifts his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets, still watching you, still waiting.

Fuck.

You exhale sharply through your nose, your hands clenching into fists, and finally, finally, you step forward, brushing past him into the house.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Kenny’s house is just as you remember—dim, cluttered but not dirty, the faint scent of weed and cheap cologne lingering in the air. It’s weird being here again, standing in the same place you’ve crashed a hundred times before, but now the air feels thick, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down on your chest.

Kenny walks past you, moving toward the kitchen, not looking back as he grabs two beers from the fridge. He cracks one open, then tosses the other to you without warning. You catch it just in time, fumbling slightly, scowling as you glance up at him.

“What?” Kenny shrugs, taking a sip from his bottle. “Figured you might need it.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Kenny smirks against the rim of his bottle, tilting his head as he leans back against the counter. “Relax, princess. Just saying, you look like you’re five seconds away from bolting.”

You are.

You really fucking are.

But you don’t.

Instead, you crack open your beer, take a long, slow sip, and fix Kenny with the kind of glare you hope makes you look unbothered. “Cartman’s a piece of shit.”

Kenny huffs out a laugh. “No shit.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You shift on your feet, fingers tightening around your bottle, your pulse thudding in your ears. You need to say something, anything to get past this fucking wall between you.

But before you can, Kenny beats you to it.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head, his eyes locking onto yours. “How long were you gonna avoid me?”

Your breath catches.

Kenny watches you, his eyes sharp, his smirk lazy but too knowing, like he already has the answer, like he’s just waiting for you to lie.

Your grip tightens around your beer. “I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Kenny laughs.

It’s not loud, not mocking—it’s something else. Something that makes your skin prickle, something that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

“Yeah?” he hums, stepping closer. “So you just happened to ghost me for, what? Four days?”

“Five,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

Kenny raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Ah. So you were counting.”

You scowl, hating the heat creeping up your neck. “Fuck off.”

Kenny grins, leaning in just slightly. “C’mon, babe. Just tell me.” His voice dips lower, smoother, the teasing lilt sending something sharp and hot curling through your chest. “Did kissing me really fuck you up that bad?”

Your breath hitches, your stomach flipping violently as your grip goes slack around your bottle. You open your mouth, but nothing—nothing—comes out, because what the fuck is he even asking you?

And Kenny—Kenny notices.

His smirk flickers, like he wasn’t actually expecting you to react like this. Like he thought you’d just roll your eyes, shove him, laugh it off like you always do.

Like he didn’t just turn everything you thought you knew upside down.

And that’s what does it. That’s what fucking breaks you.

“Are your parents home?” you snap, your voice sharp and shaking.

Kenny’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “No. They’re out.”

And that’s all it takes before you fucking explode.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” The words rip out of your chest, raw and jagged, your body thrumming with barely-contained rage. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, your entire body vibrating. “You knew I was fucking avoiding you, Kenny! You knew and you still—” You let out a sharp, exasperated breath, shoving both hands into your hair before throwing them up wildly. “What the fuck was that back at Stan’s dorm? What the fuck is this—” You motion between the two of you, your chest heaving, your breath coming too fast. “Why the fuck did you kiss me?”

Kenny just leans back against the counter, watching you, letting you burn yourself out. But then—then his smirk sharpens into something mean, something ugly.

“I dunno,” he drawls, voice casual, but there’s an edge underneath it, a low, dangerous bite. “Maybe ‘cause you kissed me back?”

“That’s not—” You shake your head violently, rage choking you, clawing up your throat. “That’s not fucking fair, Kenny! You don’t get to act like I’m the only one who—” Your voice breaks, your hands shaking.

He steps forward, his presence looming, his blue eyes burning into yours. “The only one who what?” His voice is smooth, sharp, his breath warm against your face. “Who liked it?”

Your throat goes dry, because you can’t argue that.

Kenny sees your hesitation. His smirk deepens, but his jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. “’Cause babe, you sure as fuck didn’t seem like you wanted to stop.”

Something in you snaps.

You shove him. Hard.

And for the first time—Kenny actually stumbles.

He catches himself, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, to steady himself, but he doesn’t. He just stares at you, eyes flashing, jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his fucking teeth.

“I was confused,” you spit, voice cracking. “I am fucking confused! Because for years, you never—” You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, throwing your arms up. “You never fucking looked at me like that before! You never touched me like that before! And now—now you’re just—” Your breath stutters, your vision blurring.

Kenny stares at you, his entire body coiled like a fucking trap.

“You never let me,” he says, voice rough, hoarse.

You freeze.

Kenny exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling. “You never fucking let me, babe.” His voice is raw, wrecked, and for the first time tonight, there’s no teasing, no amusement, nothing to hide behind. Just Kenny—exposed and furious. “You were always looking at someone else. Always chasing after some other fucking guy. Always acting like I was just—” He shakes his head, scoffing, jaw flexing. “You don’t even see me.”

“You never fucking saw me,” Kenny continues, his voice gaining heat, cracking under the weight of whatever the fuck he’s been holding back all these years. “Not like that. Not the way I see you.”

Your hands tremble, curling into the fabric of your shirt. Your head spins, your pulse a frantic, erratic drumbeat against your ribs.

And Kenny—Kenny looks at you like he hates you for making him admit it.

“Kenny,” you whisper, but your voice is useless. Weak.

He just shakes his head, laughing bitterly, shoving a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, you’re fucking unbelievable.” His breath shudders as he steps back, putting space between you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter like he needs something to hold onto. “You don’t even get it, do you?” His laughter dies, his  eyes meeting yours, burning into yours. “You like me. You fucking want me. But you’re too chickenshit to admit it, so instead, you just let me fuckin’ sit there, watching you fall all over Damien fucking Thorn like a goddamn idiot—”

“I did like Damien!” you snap, voice shaking. “I do! He—” You cut yourself off, because that’s a lie. You didn’t like Damien. Not really. Not the way you should’ve.

Not the way you liked Kenny.

And Kenny fucking knows.

His lips curl into something bitter, something that isn’t really a smile. “Yeah?” he mutters. “And that’s why you let me put my hands all over you in my truck, right? That’s why you let me fuckin’ taste you?”

Your entire body locks up.

Because fuck him.

“Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking.

Kenny just laughs, running a hand down his face, shaking his head. “Yeah, well—join the fucking club.”

Your hands are shaking. Your face is hot. Your heart is hammering so fucking hard you think it might burst.

And Kenny just stands there, breathing hard, his hands still gripping the counter, like he’s barely keeping himself together.

Like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with himself anymore.

The air between you is electric. It’s thick, choking, so tense that you think one more wrong move might make the whole fucking house collapse around you.

You reach for the half-empty beer on the counter, your fingers gripping the can so tight it dents slightly under your hold. You take a long, slow swig, the bitterness of it doing nothing to cool the heat burning under your skin. You swallow hard, setting the can down with a sharp clink against the counter.

Then you look at him.

"Go fuck yourself, Kenny." Your voice is flat, empty, but your chest is aching.

Kenny’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers curl against the counter. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t crack some bullshit joke. He just watches you, silent and unreadable.

“You wanna talk about me chasing guys?” You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I was never chasing anyone, Kenny. And you know that.”

Kenny doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You inhale sharply, fingers tightening against the countertop. “Everyone fucking knows that. I’ve never had a boyfriend, never had a girlfriend, never even had a fucking chance in high school. And you wanna know the worst part?” You laugh again, but it’s bitter, sharp as a knife against your throat. “It wasn’t just me who knew it. You, Kyle, Stan, Cartman—all of you knew. And you acted like it wasn’t a big fucking deal. Like I wouldn’t notice.”

Kenny finally moves, shifting his weight, his brows pulling together slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You press forward, your voice rising. “You acted like I was just supposed to be fine with hearing about all the people you fucked, all the people you kissed. Like I wasn’t the only one sitting there, listening, realizing that I was never gonna have what you had. That I was never—” Your breath catches, your throat tightening. “That no one was ever gonna want me like that.”

Something flashes across Kenny’s face, something quick and sharp and pained. His hands flex against the counter, like he wants to reach for something—for you—but he stops himself.

“That’s not fucking true,” he mutters, voice lower now, rough around the edges.

You huff out a sharp breath. “Yeah? Then why didn’t it happen, Kenny?” You shake your head, forcing out a bitter smile. “If it wasn’t true, if I was so wanted, then why the fuck did I spend years being the only one who never had a story to tell?”

Kenny opens his mouth. Then closes it. He looks away, his fingers twitching against the counter, his breathing shallow.

You don’t know what you want him to say.

Maybe you want him to tell you that you’re wrong. That it wasn’t like that. That there was some other reason, some stupid fucking excuse for why you were always left on the sidelines, why you never got to be the one with the relationship, the first kiss, the stupid high school romance.

"You know what else fucking hurts?" Your voice is rising now, louder than before, chest heaving with every sharp inhale. "I had to hear about your love lives from other people." You jab a finger at him, your whole body vibrating with anger. "Kyle, Stan, Cartman—they’d all mention shit offhandedly, and I’d just have to sit there and fucking pretend I already knew, because you sure as hell weren’t gonna tell me jack shit about it yourself."

Kenny flinches, the smallest movement, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. Like it never even occurred to him that keeping that shit from you might’ve actually fucking hurt. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but before he can, you keep going, the words pouring out faster than you can stop them.

"I got to sit there and hear about you making out with some girl behind the bleachers, about Stan losing his virginity junior year, about Kyle having that thing with that one chick from AP Chem—" You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Cartman told me about half of your hookups, Cartman, and he tells me things just to fucking piss me off! And you—" Your voice cracks, and you shake your head, fists clenching. "You never said a fucking word. Not once."

Kenny's lips press together, jaw tight.

You’re yelling now, your whole body shaking, the years of being left out, of being treated like the safe, reliable best friend everyone could unload their shit on but never let in, bubbling up so violently you think you might actually explode.

"Do you have any fucking idea what that felt like? To sit there and smile and nod and act like it was fine? Like I wasn’t—like I wasn’t some fucking side character in my own goddamn life while you guys got to go out and—" You inhale sharply, voice trembling. "Live?"

The room feels hot. The air between you thick and suffocating, so heavy you think it might actually crush you.

And Kenny—fucking Kenny—doesn’t say a damn thing.

And that’s what makes you break.

You take a shaky breath, stepping back, running a hand through your hair, chest rising and falling unevenly. Your face is burning, your eyes sting, and you hate it, hate the way your throat tightens like you’re about to fucking cry. You refuse. You refuse to let Kenny McCormick be the one to break you.

Before either of you can say anything else, the door swings open, slamming against the wall with a dull thud.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Cartman deadpans, standing in the doorway with a bag of chips in one hand, an energy drink in the other. He looks at the two of you, expression completely unreadable. "Are you two gonna start throwing shit next, or should I just fucking go?"

Your chest is still heaving, adrenaline still buzzing under your skin, and Kenny looks about two seconds away from putting his fist through a wall. Neither of you say anything.

Cartman sighs, shaking his head as he takes in the scene. "You guys are seriously acting like Kenny’s parents."

You blink, thrown off just enough for your rage to falter. "What—"

Cartman waves a hand dismissively. "You’re yelling, he’s standing there looking like he’s about to punch a hole in the drywall, it’s fucking weird." He gestures vaguely between the two of you before taking a step back. "You know what? I don’t wanna be here for this. You two can scream at each other all you want, just don’t break anything. I’m getting the fuck out of here."

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks out, shutting the door behind him with a lazy thud.

The silence that follows is deafening.

You swallow hard, throat raw from yelling, your hands still curled into fists at your sides. Kenny is still standing there, his chest rising and falling, his jaw clenched so tight you think it might actually snap. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for something—like he wants to reach for you—but he doesn’t.

Your heart is still hammering in your chest, adrenaline pulsing hot through your veins, but the fight is over. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it never will be. Maybe this thing between you will always be teetering on the edge of something too big, too messy, too painful to actually deal with.

You scoff softly, rolling your eyes even though they’re burning, even though your vision is blurring. You take a sharp breath, force it down, and turn away from him. You don’t want to fucking look at him. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Your grip tightens around your beer as you move, your feet carrying you toward the hall before you can stop yourself. The floor creaks under you, the air in the house thick and stale, but you don’t slow down. You don’t stop until you reach the door to his childhood bedroom—the one he used to share with Karen, back when you were all just kids, before everything got so fucking complicated.

The door groans as you push it open. The room is small, dimly lit by the dull glow of the streetlights outside. It smells like old fabric, cigarette smoke, and something faintly familiar—something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. The same shitty posters are still on the walls, some curling at the edges. The twin mattress is shoved into the corner, the sheets wrinkled, the blanket tangled.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

It’s quieter in here. Not better, not easier, just…quieter.

You move toward the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge, pressing the cool can against your forehead as you squeeze your eyes shut. Your breathing is still uneven, your hands still trembling, but you try to shove it down. Try to ignore the way your whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight, like if you let go for even a second, you might just fucking fall apart.

Because this—this whole thing, this whole fucking night—was a mistake.

You calm down, just enough to breathe without feeling like your ribs are gonna crack under the pressure. The beer helps. At least, it gives your hands something to do, gives your mouth something to focus on other than the lingering taste of bitterness and regret. You tilt your head back, taking a long pull, letting the lukewarm alcohol burn its way down your throat.

When the can is empty, you don’t think. You just crush it in your palm and toss it across the room. It clatters against the wall and bounces onto the floor, landing somewhere in the mess of old laundry and discarded shit Kenny probably hasn’t touched in years.

Your eyes wander, searching for something, anything, to latch onto so you don’t have to think too much. That’s when you spot it. One of Kenny’s old, shitty porn magazines, half-buried under some old CDs and a cracked game case. The corner is bent, the cover faded, but you know exactly what it is.

Without hesitating, you grab it. You flip through the pages lazily, not really absorbing anything, just needing something to do with your hands, something to focus on that isn’t the fight still burning under your skin.

And then the door creaks open.

You don’t look up, but you know it’s Kenny.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and for a second, he just stands there. You can feel him watching you, can feel the weight of his stare pressing against your skin, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t comment on the fact that you’re flipping through a fucking porno like you’re reading the morning paper.

Instead, he moves to the mattress on the floor and sits down heavily, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. He exhales, slow and measured, like he’s still trying to piece together whatever the fuck just happened between the two of you.

You don’t acknowledge him.

The mattress creaks as Kenny shifts, his weight sinking into the old fabric. He exhales, long and heavy, a slow drag of air that sounds like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough—low and worn in a way that makes your fingers tighten around the pages.

“…You really hate me that much, huh?”

There’s no teasing lilt, no hint of sarcasm or deflection. Just exhaustion, like he’s been carrying the weight of this conversation for days. His voice holds an edge of something else too, something raw, something almost afraid to hear the answer.

Your fingers pause against the edge of a page, the magazine trembling slightly in your grip.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you scoff, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “Oh, don’t be fucking dramatic.”

Kenny laughs under his breath, but there’s nothing amused about it. The sound is hollow, like it barely scrapes its way out of his throat. He drags a hand down his face, his fingers pressing into his temples for a second before he lets them drop. His shoulders are tense, his whole body wound tight like a wire ready to snap.

“I’m not being dramatic,” he mutters, shaking his head. His blue eyes flick to you, sharp, intense. “I just don’t fucking get you.”

You flip another page, the movement slow and deliberate, like you’re trying to piss him off.

“What’s there to get?” you mutter, voice flat. “You’re the one who kissed me.”

Kenny’s jaw tightens, his lips pressing together for a second before he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?” His voice is quieter now, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface, something restrained but dangerous. “We’re gonna act like I forced you?”

You don’t answer. You keep your eyes on the magazine, keep your breathing steady, even as your throat tightens and your stomach twists.

Kenny leans forward, his elbows pressing into his knees, his fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles go white. “You kissed me back,” he says, his voice steady, but his eyes—his fucking eyes—are burning into you, demanding something you can’t give. “You climbed into my lap.”

Your grip tightens on the magazine.

His voice dips lower, rougher. “And now, what? You wanna pretend it didn’t happen? You wanna pretend that was just—what? Another fucking favor?”

Finally, finally, you look at him.

Kenny stares at you, his blue eyes dark and stormy. His lips are parted slightly, like he’s caught mid-breath, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your stomach flip, something vulnerable, something hesitant, like he’s afraid of what you’re about to say.

You lick your lips, swallowing hard. “It was a mistake.”

Kenny doesn’t react at first.

Then he exhales sharply, a quiet scoff leaving his mouth as he shakes his head. “Bullshit.”

You glare at him. “It was.”

“No,” Kenny says, his voice harder now, rough around the edges, like he’s barely holding himself together. “You don’t get to fucking say that.” He pushes himself up from the mattress, his movements stiff, restless. “You don’t get to act like I was the only one who wanted it.”

Your breath stutters. “I—I didn’t—”

Kenny laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all. It’s sharp, bitter, filled with frustration. He turns his head away for a second, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you, his gaze searching, his brows furrowed.

“You didn’t what?” His voice is quieter now, but the words are no less intense. “You didn’t like it?” His eyes flicker to your lips before snapping back to meet your gaze, challenging, daring you to lie. “You want me to believe that?”

Your stomach clenches, and you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek so hard you taste metal. “It doesn’t fucking matter, Kenny.”

“The fuck it doesn’t.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife. He takes a step closer, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Jesus Christ, do you even hear yourself?”

Your hands curl into fists in your lap. “Just drop it.”

Kenny scoffs. “Yeah? You want me to drop it?” He gestures between the two of you, his frustration spilling over, his eyes flashing. “Fine. Let’s drop it. Let’s pretend it didn’t happen, let’s go back to being best fucking friends—” His breath catches, and he stops abruptly, dragging a hand over his mouth before exhaling sharply. “But you can’t even look at me the same, can you?”

Your throat tightens.

Kenny’s breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab something—like he wants to grab you. His voice lowers, quieter now, but still unsteady. “You broke up with Damien.”

You snap your head up. “What?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “You broke up with him.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “That—That’s not—”

Kenny shakes his head. “You did,” he says, stepping closer, his voice steadier now, like he’s putting the pieces together in real time. “And I bet he doesn’t even know why, does he?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

Kenny watches you, his expression shifting—less anger now, more certainty. His brows draw together slightly, his lips parting just enough to take a breath, like he’s about to say something final. And then—his voice drops to almost a whisper.

“You like me.”

It’s not a question. It’s not a taunt. It’s just the truth.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, watching you, waiting, his expression open in a way that makes your chest ache. He looks at you like he’s finally, finally seeing you clearly. Like he understands something he should’ve figured out a long time ago.

You just stare at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a fucking landslide.

And Kenny—he fucking sees it. His lips part slightly, his chest rising and falling, and for a second, just a second, you think he’s going to say something else, going to push, going to demand more.

But then, he just exhales.

And the way he looks at you—like he finally, finally understands—makes your stomach fucking drop.

Tears blur your vision, and you shake your head, rubbing your sleeve over your eyes, trying to push them back, trying to keep yourself from completely fucking breaking in front of him. The old magazine slips from your lap, forgotten, landing with a dull thud against the mattress. You swallow thickly, your throat raw from screaming, from everything you’ve been holding in for days, weeks—hell, maybe years. Your hands press against your face, fingers curling into your hair as you force yourself to breathe, but it’s shallow, uneven.

The silence stretches. The weight of his gaze is suffocating. You can feel it—burning into you, like he’s watching you break apart in real time.

“I do like you,” you finally say, your voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. But the second the words leave your mouth, it feels like something inside you cracks wide open. Your chest tightens, your stomach twists, and you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut. “I really do, Kenny.”

Your voice wavers, cracks like brittle glass, and you hate it. You hate how vulnerable you sound, how exposed you feel, like you’ve just handed him your fucking heart on a silver platter, knowing damn well he could crush it if he wanted to. But it’s too late to take it back now.

Your hands tremble against your face before slowly falling into your lap, fingers twisting into the fabric of your sleeves. You finally look at him. He hasn’t moved from where he sits on the mattress. His eyes are wide, lips parted like he’s struggling to find the right words, something unreadable flickering across his face.

A sharp inhale pulls through your nose, and you force yourself to keep going before you lose your nerve. “But do you—” Your throat tightens. You barely manage to push the words out, so soft, so fucking fragile that it makes you sick. “Do you even want to be in a relationship with me?”

Kenny just stares at you, his fingers twitching against his knee, his breathing uneven, like he wasn’t expecting this—like he wasn’t prepared to hear those words from you. His brows furrow slightly, his lips pressing together before parting again, but nothing comes out.

Your heart is pounding, hammering so fucking loud that it drowns out everything else, and the longer he takes to answer, the worse it gets. Your stomach twists, your fingers tighten around the sleeves of your shirt, and you suddenly feel like you’re going to be sick.

Kenny’s face falls, his eyes widening slightly as he watches you struggle to keep yourself together. The way your face crumples, the way your lip trembles as you bite down on it, the way your eyes shimmer with unshed tears—it fucking guts him.

Before you can turn away, before you can pull back and shut him out completely, Kenny reaches for you. His hands are rough, calloused, warm as they cup your face, his fingers pressing gently into your skin, grounding you, holding you there. His breath is uneven, his grip steady but not demanding, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he isn’t careful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that.” His thumbs brush against your cheeks, barely there, like he’s trying to wipe away tears that haven’t even fallen yet.

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly, your fingers gripping the fabric of your sleeves so tight that your knuckles ache. “You’re not saying anything,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of your own words. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Kenny exhales sharply, his thumbs still stroking your skin, his jaw clenching like he’s fighting against something. “Because I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he finally admits, his voice rough, almost desperate. His brows draw together, and he shakes his head, inhaling sharply. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing and make you think for even one second that I don’t want you. That I don’t—” He exhales, shaking his head. “Fuck, babe. Of course I wanna be with you.”

Your breath catches. Your entire body stills.

Kenny’s hands tighten slightly against your face, his fingers twitching like he wants to pull you closer, like he wants to shake you until you actually fucking believe him. “You think I don’t want you?” His voice is thick, almost disbelieving. “Jesus, I’ve wanted you since we were kids. Since middle school. Since before I even knew what wanting someone actually meant.” His laugh is breathless, bitter, like he’s laughing at himself more than anything. “And yeah, I was a dumbass. I didn’t think I’d ever get a fucking chance, so I buried it. I watched you go through life thinking no one saw you, thinking you weren’t wanted, and it fucking killed me, because I saw you. I always saw you.”

Your chest tightens so painfully that it knocks the air from your lungs.

Kenny shakes his head, his grip on you still firm, still steady. “But you—you liked Damien. You wanted him, not me. So when you asked me to help, I thought—fuck, I thought that’s all I’d ever get.” His lips press together, his expression raw, stripped down to something so painfully real that it makes your stomach churn. “I thought if I couldn’t have you the way I wanted, at least I could be the one you came to first.”

A tear finally slips down your cheek. Kenny catches it with his thumb, his jaw tightening, his blue eyes burning with something so intense that it makes your heart clench.

“You’re fucking stupid, McCormick,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion.

Kenny lets out a sharp, breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah,” he mutters, his lips quirking up into something sad, something small. “Yeah, I am.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it doesn’t even fucking matter.

Because the next thing you know, Kenny’s pulling you forward, and you’re meeting him halfway, crashing into him like you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life.

The second Kenny’s lips press against yours, something shifts inside you. It’s not like before—not like the messy, desperate kisses you shared in the past, not like the times you let yourself pretend this was just practice, just a favor. This time, it’s different. This time, it’s real.

And it terrifies you.

Your breath hitches, your hands trembling as they hover awkwardly at your sides. You should be used to this by now, should know exactly how to move, exactly how to kiss him back, but everything feels brand new. It feels like the first time all over again, like you’re stepping into something you don’t fully understand, and you’re too afraid of fucking it up.

Kenny must notice, because instead of pushing forward, instead of deepening the kiss like he usually would, he slows down. His lips move against yours in a way that’s soft, careful, coaxing. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t take, doesn’t overwhelm you. He just lets you feel him, lets you process the fact that this is happening. That you’re here, with him, kissing him for real this time.

You inhale sharply, your fingers clenching into fists at your sides. The tension knots in your stomach, twisting tight, and the heat rising up your neck makes you feel like you’re burning from the inside out. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except stand there and let yourself be kissed, let yourself be wanted in a way you never thought possible.

Kenny smiles into the kiss, and you feel it—feel the way his lips curve against yours, feel the way he’s holding back a laugh like he finds this whole situation amusing. Like he’s enjoying the way you’re coming apart so easily for him.

Your face flushes instantly, and you pull back, breathless and flustered, glaring at him. “Are you seriously smiling right now?”

Kenny lets out a quiet chuckle, his hands slipping down to your waist, fingers curling lightly around your sides. “Yeah,” he murmurs, voice smooth and teasing. “You’re just—fuck, you’re cute when you’re all shy like this.”

Your stomach twists violently, and you shove at his chest weakly, scowling. “I’m not shy.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Babe, you’re shaking.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the second you glance down at your own hands, you realize he’s right. Your fingers are still curled into fists, your knuckles white, your whole body tense like you’re bracing for impact.

You swallow hard, embarrassed beyond belief, and Kenny just watches you with that same lazy smirk, like he knows exactly what’s going through your head. Like he knows exactly what to say to make it worse.

“You nervous?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

“No,” you lie immediately, shifting your weight, refusing to look him in the eye.

Kenny chuckles again, the sound low and knowing, and suddenly, you feel his fingers moving. He doesn’t grab you, doesn’t pull you in, just brushes his thumbs in slow, deliberate circles against your hips, his touch featherlight but firm enough to keep you grounded.

“Yeah?” His voice dips lower, smoother. “Then why are you panting like a fuckin’ dog?”

Your entire body stiffens. “I—I’m not—”

Kenny leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Babe,” he murmurs, voice dripping with amusement. “You’re shakin’, you’re breathin’ all heavy, and you’re lookin’ at me like you don’t know what to do with yourself. What’s wrong?”

You shove him again, harder this time, your face burning. “Shut up.”

He grins, his hands tightening around your waist for just a second before loosening again. “Make me.”

You stare at him, at the cocky smirk on his face, at the way his blue eyes gleam with something sharp and knowing, and for a split second, you actually think about it. Think about shutting him up the only way you know how.

But you’re still nervous. Still shaking. Still trying to wrap your head around the fact that this is even happening.

So instead of kissing him again, instead of throwing yourself at him the way you want to, you just huff, looking away, trying to ignore the way your skin tingles under his touch. “I hate you.”

Kenny laughs, full-bodied and warm, his hands slipping lower, his fingers tracing slow patterns over your hips. “Nah,” he murmurs, leaning in closer, his lips just barely brushing against your jaw. “You love me.”

Your face burns hotter than it ever has before, and you bite your lip hard, forcing yourself to focus on anything—anything—other than Kenny’s stupid, smug face. Your eyes flick to the peeling posters on his wall, ones he’s had since middle school, the corners curled and edges torn from years of being in this shitty house. You trace the details with your gaze, willing your heart to slow the fuck down, but it’s useless.

Because Kenny is still watching you, and you can feel it.

Then, suddenly, his hands grip your waist, and before you can process what’s happening, he pulls you straight into his lap.

A startled noise catches in your throat, your hands flying to his forearms for balance, gripping onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. And maybe he is, because your whole body feels like it’s floating, weightless, untethered. Your breath stutters in your chest, pulse hammering against your ribs as you try to not focus on the fact that your legs are now straddling his thighs, your knees digging into the shitty mattress.

Kenny leans in, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw, and your whole body shivers.

You let out a breathy laugh, tilting your head instinctively as his mouth trails lower, his lips ghosting along the sensitive skin of your neck. He’s not even kissing you properly, just teasing, just brushing his lips against you in that slow, deliberate way that makes heat coil low in your stomach.

"You nervous?" His voice is low, smooth, but there’s amusement laced beneath it. His hands flex against your hips, his thumbs brushing over your skin. “’Cause I wanna date you? Be your boyfriend? Make all that practice official?”

You gasp, half a laugh and half a mortified choke, and shove at his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge. He’s too fucking solid beneath you, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“Kenny, shut the fuck up,” you whine, your nails digging into his forearms.

He just grins, his breath warm against your throat. "Nah, babe, you shut the fuck up. You’re the one who asked me if I even wanted to be your boyfriend.” He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, and your stomach flips. “Kinda sounds like you were nervous.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, groaning as you try to ignore the way your entire body is betraying you. “I wasn’t nervous,” you lie.

Kenny laughs, low and husky, his grip tightening just slightly. “Yeah? Then why are you gripping me like you’re about to fucking die?”

You force your hands to relax, your grip loosening against his arms. "I'm not," you mumble, but your voice is weaker now, breathier, and you know he hears it.

His smirk presses into your skin. "Mmhmm."

He shifts beneath you, rolling his hips just slightly, barely a movement at all, but fuck—you feel it. You gasp, fingers clenching against him again, and he grins, like that was exactly the reaction he wanted.

“Bet you’re nervous right now,” he murmurs, his lips trailing back up your jaw. “Bet you’re all shy ‘cause now you know I actually wanna date you.”

You do feel shy, shy in a way that you’ve never felt before with him, shy in a way that feels so fucking stupid, because it’s just Kenny. It’s just your best friend, the same asshole you’ve known since you were kids, the same one who’s seen you at your absolute worst and still stuck around.

But this—this is different.

Because you know he’s right.

You were never nervous when it was just practice. When it was just a way to learn, just a way to catch up, just a way to make sure you didn’t make a fool of yourself when it actually mattered.

But now, it does matter. Now, it’s real.

And the fact that you can’t just pretend otherwise—that you don’t want to pretend otherwise—makes you feel like you’re unraveling.

Kenny pulls back slightly, tilting his head to look at you, his lips still way too close to yours. His blue eyes flicker over your face, taking in every little detail, every little shift in your expression, like he’s reading you as easily as a fucking book.

Then, in a voice so soft, he murmurs, “Hey.”

You swallow thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “…What?”

He smirks, but it’s softer now, gentler. He lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, tracing the shape of it like he’s memorizing you. His touch lingers, warm and steady, before finally tilting your chin up.

“Stop fucking overthinking it,” he says. “Just say yes already.”

You stare at him, your heart hammering, your breath shallow. The weight of everything—of this moment, of what it means, of what you want—settles deep in your chest, warm and heavy and so real. Kenny is just watching you, waiting, his fingers still resting against your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek like he’s trying to ground you, to keep you here with him.

You swallow hard, your lips parting, and then finally, you smile. It’s small at first, barely there, just the tiniest curl of your lips, but it grows, spreading across your face like the sun breaking through clouds. And when you finally say it, your voice is quiet, breathless, but sure.

“Yes.”

Kenny laughs, full and real, like that was the only answer he was expecting. Before you can blink, he’s gripping your waist tight and hauling you closer, squeezing you so fucking tight against him that all the air in your lungs gets pushed out in a sharp, surprised oof.

His arms wrap around your back, strong and solid, pressing you down into his lap like he never wants to fucking let you go. His warmth seeps into your skin, his body firm beneath yours, and you let out a breathless giggle as you clutch at his shoulders, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his stupid, slightly worn band tee.

“Fuck, I knew it," he mutters, his face buried against your shoulder, his grip unrelenting. "Knew you couldn’t fucking resist me."

You scoff, rolling your eyes even as you nuzzle into him, feeling the way his body shakes slightly with barely restrained laughter. "Shut up," you mumble, but it has no bite to it.

Kenny just grins against your skin, tightening his arms around you like he’s trying to fuse you to him. "Nah, nah, you shut up, babe. You’re the one who took this long to say yes. I’ve been waiting."

You blink, pulling back slightly so you can look at him properly. "Waiting?"

He smirks, his blue eyes flicking over your face, but there’s something softer beneath it now, something real. "Yeah, waiting. You think I was gonna sit here and not let you figure it out on your own?"

Your stomach flips, your fingers tightening against his tee. "Kenny—"

"Nope. Don’t even start, sweetheart," he interrupts, grinning. "’Cause I knew. Knew since fucking middle school you were it for me. Just had to wait for your dumbass to catch up."

Your breath catches, your entire body locking up. "Middle school?"

He hums, tilting his head, feigning thought. "Mmm, maybe even elementary."

"Kenny—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he says, shaking his head. "Why didn’t I say anything? Blah, blah, blah. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna fuck it up, babe. You were my best friend. And you were so fucking oblivious, it was actually kinda cute."

You gape at him. "Oblivious?"

Kenny chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. "Babe. You made out with me, blew me in my truck, straddled me—"

Your face burns. "It was practice!"

His smirk widens, his hands sliding down to squeeze your hips. "Was it?"

You open your mouth, ready to argue, ready to defend yourself—but then you stop. Because, fuck. Maybe he’s right. Maybe deep down, it wasn’t just practice. Maybe you’d been finding excuses to get close to him, to feel him, to have him.

The realization sends a shudder through your entire body.

Kenny sees it. Feels it. And his smirk softens, turning into something warmer, something deeper. His fingers brush lightly against your waist, and his voice, when he speaks, is softer too. "You wanna know why I let you do all that?"

You hesitate. You swallow. "Why?"

His smirk fades completely, and all that’s left is him, raw and open and fucking real. "’Cause I wanted to be the one you learned with. The one you trusted with all that. Even if it meant waiting. Even if it meant watching you go after someone else. I just—I just wanted to be the first for you. In every way."

Your chest aches.

Your stomach flutters.

Your throat tightens so hard you think you might actually cry.

Because fuck—you believe him. You know he means it.

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your lips crash into his.

It’s desperate, hungry, like something inside you just snapped. Your hands fist into his tee, pulling him closer, deeper, more. Kenny groans against your mouth, his fingers digging into your hips, his entire body burning beneath your touch.

"Fucking finally," he mutters between kisses, grinning even as he tilts his head to deepen it.

You let out a breathless laugh, but it dissolves into a soft moan when his tongue brushes against yours.

His hands slide lower, gripping your thighs, squeezing like he owns you. And maybe he does, because right now, in this moment, you feel like you belong to him completely.

His fingers twitch against your thighs as you shift in his lap, pressing your body flush against his. The heat between you is suffocating, intoxicating, making your skin tingle, making your breath come faster. You tighten your arms around his neck, dragging him impossibly closer, swallowing the soft groan that rumbles from his chest.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, twisting and tugging as you kiss him harder, deeper. You barely recognize yourself in this moment—so desperate, so needy for him—but fuck, you don’t care. Kenny makes a sound low in his throat, his hands tightening on your thighs, his fingertips digging in just enough to make you shiver.

His hair is getting kind of long, you realize, your fingers threading through the messy blond strands. Longer than he usually lets it get, curling slightly at the ends. You like it. You like the way it feels between your fingers, how soft it is despite how rough and careless he is with himself.

Kenny grins into the kiss, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “You checking out my hair, babe?” His voice is rough, slightly breathless, his hands sliding up your back, warm through your shirt.

You hum, teasingly pulling at a strand between your fingers. “Yeah,” you murmur, dragging your lips along his jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to his skin. “Didn’t know you were growing it out.”

Kenny exhales sharply, tilting his head back just slightly, giving you more room. “Didn’t really mean to,” he admits, his grip on you flexing, like he’s trying to stay still, trying to control himself. “Guess I’ve just been too busy thinking about someone to care.”

Your stomach flips. You pull back just enough to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

His smirk is lazy, his hands sliding down to your hips, gripping, squeezing. “Yeah.” He tilts his head, his blue eyes dark, filled with something that makes your breath catch. “Guess who?”

You roll your eyes, laughing, but it comes out shaky. Because he’s still looking at you like that, still touching you like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s making sure you’re really here.

You shake your head, biting your lip. “You’re so fucking cheesy.”

Kenny grins. “Yeah, but you like it.”

You do. You do like it. And fuck, you like him.

Your heart is pounding, your body burning, and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—makes your head spin. You swallow hard, trying to catch your breath, trying to keep yourself grounded, but then Kenny shifts, his hands sliding under your shirt, his rough palms pressing against your bare skin.

You inhale sharply, your eyes fluttering shut, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Kenny stills beneath you, just for a second. His breath is unsteady, his hands flexing against your waist. “That okay?” His voice is lower now, careful.

You nod quickly, breathless. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s okay.”

His smirk twitches, but it’s softer this time. “Good.”

Then he kisses you again, slower now, deeper. His hands move carefully, like he’s savoring every inch of skin he touches, like he’s making up for every second he didn’t have you. His fingers trace along your sides, up your back, sending shivers down your spine.

You whimper softly against his lips, your thighs tightening around him, your whole body aching for more. Kenny groans, his grip on you tightening, his lips parting against yours.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna be the death of me, babe.”

You laugh breathlessly, your fingers sliding down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his tee. “You’ve survived worse,” you tease, brushing your nose against his.

Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. “Not like this.”

You bite your lip, watching him, feeling your heart swell in your chest. You want him. Not just like this—not just pressed against him, not just feeling his hands on your skin—you want all of him. The realization settles deep in your stomach, heavy and warm, making your breath hitch.

Kenny catches it immediately, his smirk curling like he knows exactly what’s running through your head. His hands are still under your shirt, tracing slow, lazy circles along your ribs, like he’s got all the time in the world. Then, without warning, he leans in, pressing his lips to your hair. It’s soft, almost sweet—if not for the fact that he doesn’t stop there.

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then lower, dragging his mouth over your jaw, your pulse, the side of your neck. You let out a breathy giggle, nerves and anticipation tangling together in your chest. He still hasn’t moved his hands, still hasn’t grabbed at you the way you thought he would. He’s just touching, teasing, letting the tension build.

You try to keep yourself steady, to not let the moment get ahead of you, but then Kenny shifts against you, his thumbs brushing right beneath the band of your bra, and your breath stutters. No one’s ever touched you like this before. No one’s ever even seen your tits. And it’s Kenny—Kenny, who’s always been a little pervy, who’s made enough comments about tits to last a lifetime.

But this is different.

His fingers skate higher, tracing the edge of the fabric, his smirk pressing against your skin when he hears your breath hitch. “Nervous?”

You let out another giggle, softer this time, your hands twitching against his shoulders. “Duh.”

Kenny hums like he expected that, his hands not stopping their slow exploration. “Yeah, babe, I figured.”

You roll your eyes, smacking his shoulder. “Shut up.”

His chest shakes with another quiet chuckle, but when he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression is softer. His hands settle against your ribs, warm and steady, like he’s giving you time to process. He’s not pushing, not rushing, just watching you.

“You gonna let me?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher.

Your pulse pounds in your throat.

You nod.

Kenny exhales, the breath warm against your skin, and you feel the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart against your back. It mirrors your own, fast and hard, like neither of you can quite believe this is happening. His forehead drops to your shoulder, his body pressing close, fitting himself against you like he’s always meant to be there.

He mutters something low, too quiet for you to catch, but his lips brush against your skin as he says it, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

Then he raises his head, flashing you that familiar, toothy grin—the one that usually means he’s about to say something absolutely filthy. And he does.

"Y’know, if you wanna keep laughin’, sweetheart, I could give you somethin’ else to put in that pretty mouth.”

Your stomach clenches, your whole body heating up all at once. The little rasp in his voice, the way his accent gets thicker when he talks like this, makes you feel like your brain is short-circuiting. It should be embarrassing—should make you wanna shove him off—but instead, you feel your thighs press together instinctively, your breath catching in your throat.

Kenny doesn’t stop smirking, clearly pleased with himself, but his hands don’t rush. They move slow, deliberate. His fingers slide under the cups of your bra, coaxing the fabric up, but he doesn’t move your shirt yet. He just touches, cups your tits with a careful sort of reverence that you weren’t expecting from him. His palms are warm, rough in a way that makes your skin feel hypersensitive, like every brush of his calloused fingers against you is setting you on fire.

You can’t stop giggling, nerves bubbling up too fast, and it only makes you feel more ridiculous. Your face is burning, your eyes darting everywhere except at him. You stare hard at the posters on his wall—some old band he likes, a tattered pin-up girl, a dumb ripped-out magazine ad for some beer company. Anything to avoid looking at the way he’s watching you.

Kenny chuckles against your neck, his thumbs tracing slow, teasing circles against your skin. “Ain’t gotta be shy, babe. Nothin’ I haven’t seen before.”

You let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh, still refusing to meet his eyes. “You have literally never seen my tits before.”

He snorts. “Fair. But I been picturin’ ‘em since we were like fifteen, so I figure that counts.”

You groan, covering your face with both hands. “Kenny.”

He laughs, shaking his head. His grip on you tightens, pulling you even closer, his breath hot against your ear. “What? S’true.” His voice dips lower, sending a full-body shiver down your spine. “Been thinkin’ about this for a long fuckin’ time, babe.”

Your stomach flips, heat pooling between your legs at the sheer honesty in his tone. Your breath is coming faster now, hands slowly lowering from your face as you try to process what he just admitted.

He wanted this.

He’s wanted this.

The realization makes your whole body tense, anticipation curling hot and thick inside you. Your fingers twitch against the rough denim of your jeans, pressing into the seams, trying to ground yourself.

Kenny’s hands are still on your tits, still kneading softly, his touch steady but not pushing. He’s waiting. Letting you adjust, letting you decide what happens next.

You finally tear your gaze from the posters, tilting your head just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips parted slightly as he watches you.

You swallow hard, pulse hammering in your throat.

“…Can I?” he murmurs, fingers curling slightly, testing.

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod.

Kenny lifts your shirt with a patience you didn’t expect, his fingers grazing your skin in slow, deliberate movements. Your breath stutters, nerves tangling up in your stomach, and you fidget with the cuffs of your sleeves, twisting the fabric between your fingers to keep your hands busy.

The second the air hits your tits, your body reacts—shivering, skin prickling with sensitivity. A quiet giggle bubbles out of you, half nervous, half from the sheer ridiculousness of the moment. Your eyes flick up to the ceiling automatically, desperate for something—anything—to focus on. The glow-in-the-dark stars are still there, scattered unevenly across the paint, some peeling at the edges, clinging on for dear life.

"Didn’t know you were still rockin’ the galaxy decor," you say, your voice a little breathless, a little shaky.

Kenny chuckles, his breath fanning warm against your shoulder. "Yeah, well. Girls love ‘em."

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin, but your amusement is short-lived when his hands move. His palms, broad and warm, slide over your exposed skin, settling over your tits fully. His thumbs skim the peaks, tracing soft circles over your nipples, and the sensation sends a sharp, unexpected jolt straight through your body.

You inhale sharply, your giggle cutting off, your thighs pressing together instinctively.

Kenny notices. Of course, he notices.

His smirk is lazy, his fingers tightening slightly, kneading you with slow, deliberate intent. "Oh yeah," he murmurs, voice dipping into something lower, something rougher. "That’s cute as hell."

Your breath hitches. "Shut up."

"Nah, don’t think I will." His thumbs flick over your nipples again, firmer this time, making your stomach tense. "You’re real sensitive, huh?"

You don’t answer—mostly because you don’t trust your own voice, but also because he already knows the answer.

Kenny laughs quietly, pressing his lips to your shoulder again, his teeth grazing the fabric of your shirt before he speaks. "Guess I should’ve known. You get all squirmy when people tickle you—figured you’d be just as jumpy when someone plays with your tits."

Your face burns, mortification mixing with something else—something heavier, hotter. "Oh my God, Kenny—"

"Relax, babe." His voice is low, teasing, but there’s something real beneath it, something that makes your stomach flip. "I like it."

Your fingers dig into your sleeves, gripping tight. The worst part is that you like it, too. The way he’s touching you, the way he’s looking at you, like he’s been wanting this for a long time—it’s making your head spin, making it hard to remember why you were so nervous in the first place.

His thumbs circle your nipples again, slower this time, more purposeful, like he’s memorizing how you react. Your breath catches, and you shift in his lap, your ass pressing back against him more than you mean to.

Kenny inhales sharply, his hands pausing for just a second before his fingers flex, his grip tightening around you.

"Fuck," he mutters, half under his breath, half into your skin. His hips shift, pressing up—just barely, but enough for you to feel the growing heat between you.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs squeeze together tighter.

Kenny’s hands don’t stop moving, don’t stop touching, but his voice is quieter when he speaks again, more deliberate.

"You still good?"

You nod before he even finishes the question, your breath shaky, but certain. "Yeah."

His smirk returns, but it’s softer now, tinged with something you can’t quite place.

"Good," he says, and then he rolls one of your nipples between his fingers, and your whole body jolts in his lap.

You finally turn your head to look at him, your face scrunching up as heat prickles at your skin. The sensation still lingers—sharp and electric—where his fingers toy with you, and you don’t know if you want to squirm away or lean into it.

Kenny, of course, just grins. That cocky, lazy smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. He looks thoroughly entertained, his eyes hooded and amused as he watches your reaction.

"Aw, what’s wrong, babe?" His voice is dripping with fake innocence, but his fingers don’t stop, still rolling your nipple, flicking his thumb over it just to watch you twitch. "Too much for you? Thought you wanted the full boyfriend experience."

Your stomach tightens, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh bursts out of you, half flustered, half exasperated. "Jesus Christ, Kenny," you groan, swatting at his arm. "You’ve been my boyfriend for, like, four minutes, and you’re already insufferable."

Kenny laughs, leaning in, his lips ghosting over your jaw. "Four minutes?" he repeats, his breath warm against your skin. "Damn, feels longer. Guess time flies when you’re havin’ fun."

You roll your eyes, but your face is burning. "Fun for you, maybe."

Kenny hums, his smirk widening against your skin. His hands move, sliding down from your tits, gliding over your ribs, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. "Oh yeah?" His voice dips lower, smooth and teasing. "You sure about that?"

He suddenly pinches your nipple one last time, sharp and unexpected, and you jolt, a surprised noise escaping your throat before you can bite it down. Your body stiffens, your fingers gripping onto his forearm instinctively.

Kenny lets out a breathy laugh, clearly pleased with himself. "Yeah," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck. "Thought so."

You groan, smacking his arm again, but your grip lingers, your fingers tightening around his wrist like you don’t actually want him to stop. Your body is betraying you, heat curling in your stomach, a slow, steady throb building between your thighs.

Kenny just grins wider, like your frustration is the best part of this for him. His fingers flex against your sides, squeezing lightly, and then—without warning—he shifts his grip and pulls you higher up in his lap. You yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance, but Kenny barely gives you a second to react before he ducks his head, his mouth latching onto your tit.

A sharp gasp catches in your throat. Your hands tighten in his shirt as warmth floods through you, your whole body tensing at the wet heat of his mouth around your nipple. His tongue flicks against it, slow and deliberate, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach, down lower, an ache blooming between your thighs.

You press your face into his hair, your breath stuttering as you try to remember how to form words. "K-Kenny," you manage, but you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

He hums against your skin, and the vibration sends a shiver down your spine. He sucks lightly, his lips sealing around you, before pulling off with a quiet pop, breath warm as he exhales against the damp skin. His fingers squeeze your hips, steadying you.

"Yeah?" His voice is low, rough, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his lips are slick, his pupils blown wide. He smirks, tilting his head. "Somethin’ you wanna say, babe?"

Your whole body feels like it’s burning, and you’re not sure if it’s from embarrassment or how fucking good it feels. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and you glare down at him, but it doesn’t hold any real heat. "You’re so—"

"—Good at this?" Kenny interrupts, his smirk turning downright smug. "Yeah, I know."

You groan, smacking the back of his head, but you don’t stop him when he moves to your other tit, his mouth latching onto you all over again.

Kenny groans against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest, making your whole body jolt in his lap. His tongue flicks over your nipple, slow and teasing, before he closes his lips around it again, sucking harder this time. His free hand kneads your other tit, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers, his thumb circling over your already sensitive nipple.

Your breath stutters, tiny, bitten-off moans slipping past your lips before you can stop them. It feels good—too good—like every nerve in your body is tightening, winding up until you’re shaking in his lap. But at the same time, embarrassment prickles under your skin. The way Kenny is touching you, how easily he’s pulling these sounds out of you—it’s overwhelming.

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your face deeper into his hair, inhaling the scent of his cheap shampoo and the lingering smoke clinging to him. Your fingers grip the fabric of his tee, tugging hard like that’ll ground you, like that’ll stop the dizzy heat spreading through your stomach. But Kenny doesn’t let up.

"Aw, babe," he mutters against your skin, his voice thick with amusement and something deeper. His breath is hot, his lips trailing against the curve of your breast. "You gettin’ shy on me?"

You shake your head quickly, but the way your body trembles in his hands tells another story. Kenny chuckles, low and smug, squeezing your tit in his palm before his mouth moves again, teeth scraping lightly against your nipple just to hear you gasp.

"Shit, you’re cute," he murmurs, rolling his hips up just enough for you to feel the heat of him beneath you. His hands tighten on your waist, keeping you steady. "Makin’ all these pretty little sounds for me. Can’t believe I never got to hear ‘em ‘til now."

Your face burns hotter, and you tug at his shirt in frustration, like that’ll shut him up. "Shut up," you mumble, voice muffled against his hair.

He laughs, sharp and breathless, and nips at your skin in retaliation, sending another shock of heat straight through you. "Nah," he says, grinning against your chest. "Not when you’re bein’ this fuckin’ cute about it."

You groan, curling into him as his mouth moves lower, trailing wet kisses across your skin, each one searing. His hands slide up your back, tracing the dip of your spine, making you shiver.

"Kenny," you whimper, barely above a whisper.

His breath catches.

For the first time since this started, he stills. His grip on you tightens, fingers pressing into your skin, like he’s holding himself back. His forehead drops against your chest, and you feel him exhale, slow and measured.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice rough, strained. "You can’t just say my name like that, babe."

You blink, biting your lip, confused. "Like what?"

Kenny lifts his head, and when you finally meet his gaze, the look in his eyes makes your stomach flip. His pupils are blown wide, his face flushed, his lips wet and slightly swollen. He looks wrecked—like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Like you want me," he says simply.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. The air between you feels too thick, too charged. He’s looking at you like he’s waiting, like he’s daring you to say it—to admit it.

Your breath is shaky as you push your hair back, fingers catching in the strands before falling to the sleeves of your shirt. You fidget, tugging at the fabric, trying to ground yourself, trying to focus on anything other than the way Kenny is looking at you. Like he already knew. Like he was just waiting for you to say it.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe, and then—quietly, barely above a whisper—you admit it.

"I do," you say, your voice raw, unsteady. "I want you. I want you so fucking bad."

The words hang between you, and for a split second, everything stops. Kenny's fingers twitch against your skin, his breath catching in his throat. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say something, but whatever was on his tongue dies before he can get it out. His whole body goes still, tense beneath you, his hands flexing against your waist.

And then—he moves.

His grip tightens, and in one quick motion, he’s shifting you, pulling you even closer until your chest is flush against his. His mouth crashes against yours, no hesitation, no teasing—just heat, all-consuming and desperate. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long, like the second you said it, something inside him snapped.

You whimper into his mouth, fingers twisting into his shirt, holding on as his hands slide up your back, gripping, pressing, pulling. His tongue flicks against your lips, and you part for him instantly, letting him deepen it, letting him take exactly what he wants.

You’re breathless when he pulls back, and the look in his eyes makes your whole body clench. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling unevenly, his lips wet and slightly swollen.

"Say it again," he murmurs, voice rough, needy. His hands tighten at your waist, his fingers digging into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. "Say you want me."

Your heart pounds against your ribs. You’ve never seen him like this before, never seen him lose control, never seen him look at you like he’d set the whole world on fire if you asked him to.

"I want you," you whisper, voice trembling. "Kenny, I—"

He groans, and suddenly, you’re on your back. He moves so fast it leaves you breathless, his body pressing you into the mattress, his mouth hot against your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, pushing you closer, pulling you deeper into him.

Your fingers claw at his back, your legs shifting beneath him, your body already burning from the inside out.

Kenny’s hands grip the waistband of your jeans, fingers pressing into the fabric, warm and just a little unsteady. His breath is hot against your skin, his lips still parted from where he had been kissing you, sucking at your neck like he couldn’t get enough. But now, his mouth is still, and he’s looking at you—really looking at you—his blue wide and dark, a flush creeping high on his cheeks.

And then, he does something you don’t expect.

He begs.

Not with teasing, not with that cocky smirk he usually hides behind, not with some lazy drawl of c’mon, babe, don’t be shy. No, this is different.

“Kinda losin’ my mind over here,” he says, his voice wrecked, ragged, like he’s holding onto the last frayed edge of his control. His fingers flex against your jeans, gripping the fabric tight, and his forehead presses against yours, like he can’t even bear the space between you. “Please.”

Your stomach flips, heat spreading through you so fast it makes you feel lightheaded. You’ve never heard Kenny like this. You’ve seen him flirt, tease, talk his way into people’s pants with nothing but a lazy grin and that effortless charm, but you’ve never heard him plead.

He presses a kiss to your cheek, then another, his lips dragging down to your jaw, your neck. “Let me, baby,” he mutters, voice hoarse, desperate. “Let me make you feel good. Been wantin’—fuck—been wantin’ this for so long, just—” He groans, breath shaky, like he’s physically restraining himself from just taking what he wants. “Tell me I can touch you. Please.”

Your chest is tight, your lungs forgetting how to work properly. He’s trembling a little under your hands, not enough to be obvious, but you can feel it in the way he’s gripping you, in the way he keeps shifting his hips like he can’t sit still.

And the worst part? You love it. You love the way he’s looking at you, love the way his voice sounds when he’s this far gone, love knowing that you—not some random hookup, not some person at a party, you—are the one who got him like this. The one who made Kenny McCormick, smooth-talker, lady-killer, completely lose his mind.

Your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, sliding up into his messy blonde hair, tugging lightly. Kenny groans at the touch, his head tilting back slightly, and you swear you can feel his pulse hammering just beneath his skin.

You smile, just a little. “You’re really begging, huh?”

Kenny lets out a breathy, half-strangled laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, fuck off,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. His lips brush against your collarbone, then your throat, and he exhales sharply. “You have no fuckin’ idea what you do to me.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

You know this is just Kenny. Kenny, your best friend since forever. The same Kenny who used to eat entire bags of expired Halloween candy in one sitting, who once got stuck in a tree trying to rescue a cat that didn’t even belong to anyone, who always knew exactly how to make you laugh when you needed it most.

You exhale slowly, fingers still tangled in his hair, your other hand smoothing down his back. He’s so warm, so solid beneath your touch, and you can feel the way his muscles tense when you shift against him.

You bite your lip, considering him, watching the way his breath catches as you trace your fingers lower, down his spine, pressing just slightly at the small of his back.

Then, finally—

“…Okay.”

Kenny stills.

For a second, he just looks at you, eyes dark and searching, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Then, he exhales, long and slow, like all the tension in his body is uncoiling at once.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually say yes. Like he needed to hear it.

His hands tighten against your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your jeans now, tracing against the sensitive skin of your hips. He leans in, pressing his lips to your ear, and when he speaks, his voice is low, reverent, almost awed.

“You have no idea how bad I’m gonna make this for you, baby.”

Your whole body shudders, heat slamming into you all at once. The second Kenny's fingers hook around the waistband of your jeans, your breath catches, and you whine—actually whine—lifting your hips to help him shimmy them down. The fabric drags against your thighs, your knees, pooling somewhere near your ankles before he kicks them off the bed entirely.

And then it's just you, in nothing but your panties, laid out beneath him.

Kenny settles between your legs, weight pressing into you in a way that makes your stomach flip, his hands skating up the tops of your thighs, warm and rough and fucking confident. But when his fingers brush the thin lace of your panties, he stops. Doesn't keep going. Doesn't pull them down. Just hovers, playing with the hemline like he's got all the time in the world.

You blink, nerves creeping in now that you're actually here, spread out in front of your best friend like this, half-dressed with his hands teasing the only thing left covering you. Your fingers tighten in his sheets, your eyes darting everywhere—his glow-in-the-dark stars, the pile of laundry in the corner, the goddamn Mysterion poster still tacked to his wall—like any of it is more important than Kenny McCormick breathing against your stomach.

It isn’t.

Kenny sees right through you, of course. He doesn’t move his hands, doesn’t push you, doesn’t rush you, just watches. His blue eyes flick over your face, tracing the way your chest rises too quickly, the way your fingers grip the sheets like you need something to hold onto.

His lips twitch, his smirk lazy, teasing, but softer than usual. “You ignoring me, babe?” His voice is low, smooth, edged with amusement but still careful. “Kinda rude, y’know, considering I’m about to have my face between your legs.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. “Jesus Christ, Kenny.”

He grins, a little more like himself now, but he still doesn’t move. Doesn’t do anything except keep his hands where they are, fingers playing with your waistband like he’s waiting for something.

That’s when you realize—he is.

You swallow thickly, forcing your eyes back to him. “I’m not ignoring you,” you murmur, voice smaller than you mean for it to be.

Kenny raises an eyebrow, like he doesn’t quite believe you. His thumbs stroke over your hip bones, slow, lazy little circles, and even though the touch is innocent, it makes your pulse trip over itself.

“Uh-huh,” he hums. “And yet, you look like you’re real interested in my ceiling instead of me.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands for half a second before dragging them down, your whole body burning. “It’s not that, I just—”

You stop. Exhale. Look at him, really look at him, at the way he’s just watching you, at the way he’s waiting, his mouth slightly parted like he’s holding himself back.

It clicks.

Oh. He’s giving you an out.

Kenny fucking McCormick, the guy who spends half his time running his mouth about tits and ass, the guy who has no problem making the filthiest jokes at the worst moments, is actually holding back for you.

Your best friend is between your legs, waiting for your permission to touch you.

And you want it.

Your throat feels dry, nerves tangling with the raw, aching want that’s been building up for what feels like hours. “Kenny.” You barely recognize your own voice, the way it dips, the way it wavers just slightly.

His eyes snap to yours immediately, sharp, focused.

You wet your lips. “You can keep going.”

Something shifts in his face, something hot and pleased and maybe even relieved. His smirk deepens, his fingers pressing into your hips just slightly, just enough for you to feel it.

“Yeah?” His voice is still teasing, but there’s an edge to it now, something heavier, something darker. “You sure?”

You nod, breath catching. “I want it.”

Kenny inhales sharply through his nose, and you feel the way his fingers twitch against you, the way his body tenses for half a second before he exhales, shaking his head like he can’t fucking believe this is happening.

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his hands up your sides, fingers skimming your ribs before sliding back down, settling at your hips again. “You have no fuckin’ idea how long I wanted to hear you say that.”

Kenny hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties, and this time, he doesn’t tease, doesn’t stall. He drags them down, slow enough that the air against your newly exposed skin sends a shiver up your spine, but firm enough that you know he’s done waiting. The fabric catches for half a second on the curve of your ass before sliding down your thighs, past your knees, stopping at your ankles.

You don’t dare look at him. Heat burns up the back of your neck, flooding your cheeks, and your whole body feels too tight, too aware of the fact that Kenny fucking McCormick is sitting between your legs, staring right at the part of you no one’s ever seen before.

Your fingers twitch against the sheets. Your thighs press together on instinct, but Kenny’s hands are still there, still holding you open, still keeping you right where he wants you.

The silence stretches. Too long. Too heavy.

You shift, fidgeting, your hips tilting slightly on the bed, and that seems to unfreeze him.

Kenny exhales sharply through his nose, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, his fingers flexing against your skin. And then—because of course he fucking does—his mouth runs off again.

“Holy shit.” His voice is rough, low, like something just knocked the wind out of him. “You’re—fuck, babe.” He drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to compose himself, but when he looks back at you, his smirk is back in full force, lazy and dripping with something else, something darker. “Y’know, I always thought if I ever got between your legs, I’d have a lot to say. But I think you just made me forget every word I ever fuckin’ learned.”

Your stomach clenches. Your face burns hotter.

“Kenny.” You say his name like a warning, but your voice is shaking too much for it to sound threatening.

“Nah, I mean it.” He groans, head tilting back for half a second before dropping forward again, his eyes glued to you. “Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin’ perfect.”

Your thighs twitch. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to let the nerves get the better of you.

He notices. Of course he does.

His hands press into your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into the soft skin. “Hey.” His voice drops, still warm, still teasing, but there’s something else there now—something softer, something careful. “You good?”

You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching you closely, waiting, his smirk still there but smaller now, more relaxed. Not pushing. Not rushing. You exhale, trying to settle the wild hammering of your pulse.

“I’m good,” you murmur. “Just… no one’s ever—”

Kenny’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing through it before he grins again, this time slower, more deliberate. “Yeah?” He tilts his head, his eyes flickering with something that makes your stomach flip. “No one’s ever eaten you out before?”

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God, Kenny.”

He laughs, full and warm, and you feel his breath against your inner thigh as he leans in, presses a soft, teasing kiss there. “Babe, I was askin’ for confirmation, not shame.”

You groan, dragging your hands down just enough to peek at him through your fingers. His smirk deepens, and he squeezes your thighs lightly, spreading you just a little wider.

“Well, shit.” His voice is smooth, lazy, but there’s something real behind it. “Guess that means I get to be your first for this, too.”

His fingers dig in, just enough for you to feel it, and then—his mouth lowers.

His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread open for him, and then—his mouth lowers.

Soft, teasing kisses press against your inner thigh, light as air, barely-there brushes of his lips that make your skin break out in goosebumps. He trails lower, slow and deliberate, his breath warm against you, taking his fucking time because he knows it’s driving you crazy.

Then, finally, he kisses you right where you’re burning the most.

The jolt that shoots through you is immediate, electric. Your hips twitch like they’re trying to escape on instinct, but Kenny just chuckles, low and amused, tightening his grip to keep you still. His hands flex against your skin, thumbs pressing slow, grounding circles into the dip of your hips, but it does nothing to stop the way your whole body is tensing up.

You whine, the sound half-muffled, half-strangled, your thighs trembling in his grip.

And Kenny fucking smiles against you.

Like he’s enjoying this. Like he’s enjoying you.

Your heart slams against your ribs, your breath catching in your throat. You can’t look at him, can’t even bring yourself to glance down, because if you do—if you see his head between your legs, his mouth on you—you might actually die.

So you slap a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut.

Kenny notices immediately.

“Oh, nah.” His voice is muffled against your skin, but you can still hear the smirk in it. “What’s that about?”

You shake your head frantically, pressing your palm harder against your lips.

He laughs again, the vibration of it sending a shiver through you, and then—he licks a slow, teasing stripe over you, like he’s testing. Like he’s waiting for you to break.

You do.

Your muffled moan slips out against your hand, and you swear you can feel the way Kenny grins.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against you, his breath warm. “That’s what I thought.”

His hands slide up, dragging over your waist, your stomach, fingertips skimming over your ribs before pressing back down, keeping you pinned. His thumbs stroke over your skin in lazy circles, like he’s trying to soothe you, but his mouth is doing the exact fucking opposite.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t go in too fast. He just explores, teasing you open, slow and deliberate, his tongue dipping between you just enough to make you shudder. His mouth is warm, soft, wet, and every careful press of his lips has a purpose, every stroke of his tongue designed to pull more sounds out of you.

And you are making sounds.

You’re trying not to, biting down on your knuckle now, but it’s useless. Kenny makes a pleased noise at that—low and cocky—and you barely have a second to register it before he does something with his tongue that makes your whole body jolt.

You gasp, thighs twitching, back arching slightly against the mattress.

Kenny groans, his grip tightening, and then he presses in deeper.

Your fingers scramble against the sheets, gripping at nothing, your brain fogging over completely. It’s too much and not enough, your body burning, heat pooling between your legs, twisting tighter and tighter.

Kenny pulls back slightly, just enough to murmur against you. “Babe, I swear to God, if you don’t move that fuckin’ hand, I’m gonna make you scream my name.”

Your stomach clenches, another whimper slipping out before you can stop it.

His smirk is audible. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

You whine his name, the sound slipping out before you can stop it, high-pitched and desperate. Mortification floods through you immediately, heat crawling up your face, but Kenny?

Kenny fucking loves it.

“Oh, babe,” he drawls, low and lazy, like he’s savoring the sound, like it’s his favorite thing in the world. “That’s cute as shit.”

You groan, turning your head to the side, pressing your cheek into the mattress like you can escape the sheer humiliation burning in your chest. But Kenny isn’t having that.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, mouth still moving against you, still pressing slow, teasing kisses against your heat. “Say it again.”

You shake your head frantically, thighs twitching in his grip. “No.”

He laughs—breathy, smug, completely unbothered. “Yeah? We’ll see.”

Then, without warning, you feel it—his fingers, warm and calloused, pressing against your entrance. Just a nudge at first, just testing, just enough to make you gasp and squirm.

Kenny hums like he’s considering something. “Oh, yeah,” he mutters. “This is gonna be fun.”

Your stomach clenches, your whole body locking up as you try to process how the fuck this is actually happening. His finger presses in just barely, not even an inch, just enough for you to feel the stretch, the way your body immediately reacts, the heat that spreads through your thighs like wildfire.

You moan—loud and sharp—and Kenny groans like the sound alone is enough to drive him crazy.

“There she is,” he breathes, his voice rough, strained, like he’s barely holding himself together. His free hand tightens around your thigh, grounding himself, pressing bruises into your skin. 

He pushes in a little further, slow and careful, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s not just the stretch—it’s the way his mouth is still on you, the way he’s still licking into you like he’s starving, the way his fingers move in sync with his tongue, pushing, teasing, coaxing you open.

“K-Kenny,” you choke out, your hands gripping at the sheets, your whole body on fire.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his breath hot against your skin. “Yeah, keep sayin’ my name like that.”

You shake your head, trying to bury your face into the mattress again, but Kenny pulls back slightly, just enough to catch your gaze.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice low, demanding, but there’s something else there, something almost pleading. “C’mon, baby, lemme see you.”

Your breath stutters. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn your head, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips slick, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. His jaw is clenched tight like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s fighting to keep control, but his fingers? His fingers are still moving, still pushing into you, still coaxing those sounds out of you like he lives for them.

His smirk is gone. There’s no teasing left in his expression. Just heat. Just hunger. Just Kenny, looking at you like he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters, his voice rough, almost disbelieving. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His fingers don’t stop. They keep moving, curling up just right inside you, pressing against that spot that makes your legs jerk, makes your stomach coil tight. His thumb circles your clit, slow and teasing at first, but when you whimper—when you moan his name all pretty like that—he starts rubbing faster, more deliberate, like he’s committing every little reaction to memory.

Your thighs twitch against his shoulders. Your fingers claw uselessly at the sheets, your breath stuttering with every flick of his wrist, every wet, obscene sound coming from between your legs. It’s too much and not enough all at once.

Kenny groans low in his throat when he feels your walls squeeze around his fingers, the sound muffled between your legs, and the vibration makes your hips buck against his mouth. He’s grinning, you know he is, because when you finally risk a glance down, his blue eyes are locked onto you, dark and hungry, like he’s starving for you.

Your face burns. You slap both hands over your mouth.

Kenny’s free hand moves, gripping your wrist, yanking your hands away from your face. His chin is slick, his lips glistening, and when he smirks up at you, you almost feel lightheaded.

"Nuh-uh, babe. I wanna hear you.”

You whimper, squirming against the sheets. “Kenny—”

He rewards you with another curl of his fingers, pressing against that spot so perfectly it makes your whole body jerk. Your back arches, your lips parting in a silent moan, and that’s all the proof he needs that he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

His mouth is on you again, tongue dragging over your clit, slow and firm, sending hot pulses of pleasure through your core. His fingers thrust in and out, faster now, wetter, each movement accompanied by filthy, wet sounds that make your skin feel like it’s burning. Your thighs are shaking, and Kenny just hums like he’s proud of himself.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters against you, his breath warm, teasing. “Gonna make such a mess, babe.”

Your fingers bury into his hair, tugging hard. Kenny groans into you, like he fucking loves it, and then he’s sucking on your clit, flicking it with his tongue while his fingers keep fucking into you, and it’s—

It’s too much.

Your whole body tenses, heat curling in your gut, tight and overwhelming. Every muscle in your body locks up as you gasp, as your head tilts back, as your vision goes white-hot with pleasure.

“Oh—oh my God, Kenny—”

He moans against you, sloppy and desperate now, fingers moving faster, tongue pressing harder, dragging you through it, keeping you there, making sure you don’t slip away from him just yet. You convulse against the sheets, legs twitching, hands gripping his hair so tight it must hurt, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow down, not even when you whimper and try to push at his shoulders.

You sob out his name, thighs squeezing around his head, and finally—finally—his movements slow. His fingers ease out of you, his tongue drags over you one last time, and then he presses a final, lazy kiss to your inner thigh before pulling back.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your whole body trembling, your skin burning. Kenny sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his smirk lazy and satisfied. His eyes flick up to you, taking in the wrecked state you’re in, and he whistles low.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice rough, breath uneven. “Didn’t know you could cum that hard, babe.”

You groan, tossing an arm over your face, mortified. “Shut the fuck up.”

Kenny just laughs, but doesn’t move away. He shifts, pressing his palms into the mattress on either side of you, caging you in beneath him. His body is warm, solid, still a little tense, like he’s holding back just enough to keep himself from fully sinking into you. His breath is heavy, rolling over your flushed skin as he watches you, eyes hooded and dark.

Satisfaction, definitely—he’s fucking proud of himself, no doubt about that. His pupils are blown, his jaw tight, his smirk a little slower, lazier, like he’s savoring every second of looking at you like this.

And then—he dips his head down and kisses you.

It’s not rushed, not desperate, but it’s deep, lingering, his lips moving against yours like he’s claiming you, like he wants to make sure you remember exactly what just happened. His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open up for him without thinking, letting him taste you, letting him steal whatever breath you have left.

You can taste yourself on him, warm and heady, and your face burns at the realization. You let out a soft, helpless noise against his mouth, and Kenny groans, pressing himself closer, his weight settling just enough to remind you that he’s still hard, that he still needs you just as much as you needed him.

His hands move—one dragging down your side, fingers tracing your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the other cupping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you deeper. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t force it, but he makes sure you feel him, makes sure you know exactly how much he’s still holding back.

When he finally pulls away, he lingers, his lips brushing against yours like he doesn’t want to break the contact. His eyes flicker over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the way your chest still rises and falls unevenly beneath him. His breathing is just as ragged as yours now, his smirk faded into something softer.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, dragging his thumb across your cheek, his touch warm and careful, like he’s not quite ready to let go of you yet. His voice is lower now, rougher, like the words are catching in his throat.

“Fuck, babe,” he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, full of adoration. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You smile up at him, warmth swelling in your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you tease, “You’re prettier.”

Kenny scoffs, smirking down at you like you just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. “Yeah, alright.” His fingers trace along your waist, slow and absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, like he just needs to be touching you. His breath is steady, but you can feel the way his chest rises and falls a little heavier now, like he’s holding back something.

Your hands slide over his stomach, feeling the heat of his skin beneath his tee, and that’s when it hits you—he’s still fully dressed. Meanwhile, you’re here, completely bare under him, skin exposed to the cool air. Your lips part, a quiet huff of realization leaving you as your fingers bunch into the fabric of his shirt.

“Not fair,” you mutter, tugging at the material. “Why are you still wearing this?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, a teasing lilt creeping back into his voice. “What, you wanna see me naked that bad?”

You groan, tilting your head back against the pillow. “Kenny.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, but he doesn’t argue. He leans back onto his knees, pulling his tee up and over his head in one fluid motion. The dim glow from the window shadows over his chest, the faint lines of definition visible even in the low light. A scar you’ve never noticed before runs just under his ribs—faint, but there. You don’t even realize you’re staring until Kenny tosses his shirt aside and runs a hand through his messy hair, shaking it out.

“You gonna help me with these, or you just gonna admire me all night?” His voice is lazy, but there’s something else beneath it—something heavier, something real.

You roll your eyes to cover up the way your throat suddenly feels tight. “Cocky asshole.”

Still, you move, reaching down to undo his belt, fumbling with the buckle before finally tugging it loose. Kenny shifts his hips up slightly to make it easier for you, his breath hitching when your knuckles brush against his stomach. The muscles there twitch, just barely, and the sight of it sends a sharp, unexpected jolt of heat through you.

He exhales, low and steady. “Didn’t think you’d be this eager, babe.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans, your voice quiet but certain. “Shut up and let me take them off.”

Kenny just hums, low and lazy, like he’s enjoying this way too much, but for once, he doesn’t throw in another teasing remark. He watches you, his blue eyes dark and steady, gaze flickering between your face and your hands as you grip the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers tremble slightly, but you don’t stop. You push the denim down, the fabric rough against your palms as you ease it over his hips. His boxers catch slightly on the way down, stretching for a moment before slipping lower, and you swallow hard, refusing to break eye contact even as your face burns.

The heat spreading through your chest is impossible to ignore, your breath uneven as you take him in—his skin flushed, muscles tight with restraint, the way his jaw clenches for just a second when the cool air hits him. He looks so effortlessly good like this, sprawled out beneath you, half-dressed, his hair still a mess from where your fingers tugged at it.

Your breath hitches when his hands move, sliding up the backs of your thighs, not rushing, just touching, just feeling. His thumbs rub slow circles into your skin, grounding you, a silent reassurance without a single word. His lips part like he wants to say something, but he just exhales instead, eyes scanning your face, searching for hesitation.

You press your palms against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. You take in everything—the way his pupils are blown wide, the faintest pink dusting his cheeks, the way his lips are slightly swollen from kissing you so hard earlier. He looks so good like this, so effortlessly wrecked already, and it sends another wave of warmth flooding through your stomach.

You wet your lips, dragging your fingers down from his chest, over his ribs, feeling every little shift of muscle beneath his skin. When your hands settle at his hips, your thumbs pressing lightly into the sharp cut of bone there, Kenny makes a noise—low and rough, the sound barely escaping his throat.

You shudder, feeling the weight of his gaze on you as you shift lower, positioning yourself between his legs. The anticipation sits heavy in your stomach, thick and all-consuming. You feel his fingers slide into your hair, not guiding, just resting, his touch warm against your scalp.

The moment stretches between you, thick with tension, the only sound is the quiet rhythm of your breaths. You glance up at him again, lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Show me what you like.”

Kenny grins, slow and wicked, his fingers tightening just slightly in your hair. His blue eyes gleam with something dangerous—something smug, something completely self-indulgent. You can already tell he’s going to drag this out, going to make you squirm just because he can.

“Oh, babe,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement, “you really want me to spell it out for you?” His thumb strokes along your scalp, deceptively gentle. “You want me to tell you how I like your pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock? How good it felt when you were takin’ me earlier, all eager, like you couldn’t get enough?”

Your stomach flips so violently it makes you dizzy. Heat slams into you like a freight train, settling hot and heavy in your chest, your throat, your cheeks. You blink up at him, utterly mortified, mouth parting uselessly as your fingers flex against his hips. Your entire body feels too warm, too aware of every inch of him under your hands, against your skin.

He sees it—sees the way your breath stutters, the way your lashes flutter, the way your thighs twitch slightly where you kneel. And of course, being the absolute menace that he is, Kenny doesn’t let it go unnoticed. He chuckles, breathless and low, his smirk twitching wider.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t get shy on me now,” he teases, voice dipping, rough around the edges. “You wanted me to talk you through it, right? Thought you liked it when I told you how good you were doin’.”

You groan, slapping a hand over your face for half a second before dragging it down, fingers pressing into your flushed cheeks. “Jesus Christ, Kenny,” you mutter, voice tight, and he just laughs, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

He shifts slightly, sitting up a bit more, leaning into you, his breath hot against the top of your head. His fingers thread deeper into your hair, a subtle but deliberate motion, his thumb brushing along the side of your jaw. His smirk softens, just a little, just enough that it feels a little less like he’s playing with you and more like he’s… waiting.

“You gonna do it or not?” he murmurs, and despite his usual cocky drawl, there’s something else underneath it. Something quieter. 

Your throat works as you swallow, fingers tightening at his hips, your heart hammering so hard it echoes in your ears. You inhale, slow and steady, forcing yourself to push past the nerves, past the mortification. Because you want this. You do. And Kenny, for all his relentless teasing, is being patient. Letting you set the pace.

You exhale sharply, glaring up at him, though the heat in your face ruins the effect. “You’re the worst.”

Kenny just grins wider, completely unbothered. “Yeah, yeah, now quit stallin’, babe.”

You roll your eyes but let your hands move again, sliding lower, gripping him properly, feeling the way his body reacts under your touch. Kenny’s breath hitches, just barely, but you catch it. His smirk falters for half a second before he schools his expression, tilting his head as he watches you through half-lidded eyes.

You lick your lips, steadying yourself, your fingers curling around him as you squeeze experimentally. His abs twitch, his jaw flexing as his breath stutters again. You glance up at him once more, holding his gaze, and despite everything, despite how much he’s been running his mouth, you can tell—he’s waiting.

You hum softly, giving him one last lingering look before leaning in.

You close the distance, pressing your lips to his skin, feeling the warmth of him against your mouth. His body tenses under your hands, his fingers twitching where they rest against your scalp. The shift in his breathing is instant—what was once steady and measured now comes in short, uneven exhales, his chest rising and falling faster. You feel the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch, the way his thighs flex under your hands as you settle more comfortably between them.

The heat of him is overwhelming. You’re hyperaware of everything—the weight of him in your palm, the slight pulse against your fingers, the way he’s holding himself completely still, like he’s waiting for you to take the lead. You inhale slowly, steadying yourself, your breath ghosting over his skin. Kenny hisses through his teeth, his grip tightening in your hair for half a second before relaxing again.

You press another kiss to his length, slower this time, letting your lips linger just to see how he reacts. His fingers flex at your scalp, a quiet curse slipping past his lips, and something about that—about knowing that you’re the one pulling these sounds from him—sends a shiver down your spine.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, his voice raw. “Startin’ to think you like this more than I do.”

You roll your eyes, your lips curling into a smirk. “Maybe I just like seeing you like this.”

Kenny exhales a laugh, but it’s shaky, strained, his whole body tight with restraint. “Yeah?” His head tips back slightly, his fingers twitching in your hair. “Fuckin’ hell, babe. Didn’t take you for a goddamn tease.”

You hum softly, letting the vibration pass through him before parting your lips, your tongue slipping out to taste him. The salt of his skin, the faint heat of him—it’s familiar now, yet still so foreign. Your pulse jumps at the weight of him on your tongue, and your eyes flicker up, searching his face.

His expression has gone tight, his jaw locked, his eyes dark as they stare down at you. His grip in your hair tightens just slightly, like he’s holding back, like he wants to guide you but is forcing himself to let you figure it out on your own.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice strained, rougher than before.

You smile against him, letting his reaction spur you on. You take him in further, your lips stretching around him, your tongue pressing flat against the underside of his length. Kenny curses again, his head tipping back slightly, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale. His thighs tense beneath your hands, his fingers digging into your scalp, and you can tell—he’s already losing his composure.

It makes you bold. You hollow your cheeks, sucking lightly as you bob your head, working to find a rhythm, letting him guide you with the subtle shifts of his body. His hips twitch, barely restrained, his breath coming heavier now, more labored.

“Shit—” Kenny groans, his voice wrecked, his usual teasing nowhere to be found. His other hand comes up, brushing his knuckles against your cheek before settling at the nape of your neck, his grip warm, firm, but not forceful. “You—fuck, babe—”

You hum again, letting the vibrations drag another strangled moan from him. His breathing grows heavier, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips stutter slightly, a barely restrained thrust. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight, strained. “You’re—fuck, you’re doin’ so good.”

The praise sends warmth pooling low in your stomach, your pulse kicking up as you double down, taking him deeper, working him faster. Kenny groans, his head falling back, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. His thighs tremble under your hands, his body coiled tight, strung out.

You can feel it, the way he’s tensing, the way his grip tightens almost painfully in your hair, his breathing ragged, uneven. He’s close. And knowing that, feeling that, makes you want to push him over the edge, to hear what he sounds like when he finally lets go.

You suck harder, your tongue swirling around him, your pace never faltering. Kenny curses, his whole body tensing, and then—he breaks. His hips jerk, his breath catching in his throat, his fingers clenching at your scalp as he spills into your mouth with a groan so wrecked it sends a shiver straight through you.

He slumps back against the mattress, chest heaving, body spent, fingers slackening in your hair. You stay still for a moment, letting him ride it out, his pulse thudding beneath your fingertips. When he finally exhales, long and slow, he cracks an exhausted, lazy grin, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “You tryna kill me?”

You huff a quiet laugh, your own breath a little unsteady as you pull back, licking your lips. You swallow, tilting your head slightly in consideration. You’re still not sure how you feel about the taste, but it’s not the worst thing in the world.

Kenny notices. His grin widens as he takes in your expression. “Shit,” he chuckles, still breathless, “look at you, sittin’ there all cute, thinkin’ about my cum like it’s a fuckin’ fine wine tasting.”

Your nose scrunches immediately. “Oh my god, Kenny.”

He laughs, stretching his arms over his head, looking way too pleased with himself. “What? Just sayin’, if I knew you’d be this into it, I woulda let you blow me years ago.”

You smack his thigh, making him yelp dramatically. “Gross. You say that like I’ve been waiting for the opportunity.”

Kenny smirks, tilting his head. “Haven’t you?”

Your jaw drops. “You’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he drawls, lazy and smug, “you still got on your knees for me.”

Heat floods your face, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You roll your eyes, shifting to sit more comfortably, smoothing your hands over your thighs. “Well, yeah. I was being nice.”

Kenny scoffs, sitting up slightly. “Nice, huh?” His smirk deepens. “Damn, babe, that was the most generous fuckin’ favor I ever got.”

You groan, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re welcome, jackass.”

Kenny just grins, still looking at you in that way that makes your stomach twist, something softer lingering behind the teasing. For a second, it almost feels like he might say something else. Something that isn’t a joke.

But instead, he stretches out on the bed like he doesn’t have a care in the world, flashing you a lazy grin. “So,” he muses, tilting his head, “we doin’ a pop quiz next time, or what?”

You narrow your eyes, fighting the urge to laugh. “You’re about to get a pop quiz upside the head.”

Kenny barks out a laugh, head tipping back. “Oh, fuck, babe—romance ain’t dead after all.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting to crawl back into his lap. His cock is still half-hard, pressing up against your bare thighs, a solid, heated weight between you. The air feels thick, charged, the lingering warmth of everything that just happened still humming under your skin.

“Seriously, though,” you murmur, settling against him, the bare skin of your legs brushing his jeans where they’re still pushed low on his hips. “Eat more pineapple.”

Kenny’s hands find your waist easily, like they belong there, like they never want to leave. His fingers flex against your skin, his grip just firm enough to make your breath hitch. “The hell kinda review is that?” He tilts his head, flashing you that familiar shit-eating smirk. “You tryna meal-prep my cum or somethin’?”

Your face burns instantly. “Oh my god, shut up.”

His laughter rumbles against your chest, warm and easy. His thumbs drag slow circles against your hips, soothing, steady. Despite the way he’s still talking shit, there’s something softer in his touch, something grounding about the way he holds you there, bare and warm in his lap like this is exactly where he wants you.

You cup his face, brushing your thumbs against the stubble along his jaw. He’s still got that lazy, lopsided grin, but his eyes are watching you carefully, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. Like he’s willing to follow your lead.

You don’t think about it.

You kiss him.

His lips part under yours immediately, a low sound slipping from the back of his throat. His grip tightens on your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make heat coil in your stomach. He kisses you deeper, slower this time—not teasing, not rushed, just sinking into it. His mouth moves against yours like he’s savoring it, like he’s taking his time memorizing the way you taste.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging lightly, and he groans into your mouth, his hips shifting beneath you. His cock presses against you, hot and heavy, and you shudder, gasping softly against his lips.

Kenny exhales sharply, breaking away just enough to press his forehead against yours. His breath is warm, uneven, and his thumbs keep moving, slow and deliberate against your skin. His voice comes out rough, husky. “You tryna start somethin’ again?”

Your pulse kicks up, heat curling low in your stomach. You still don’t know where the line is—if there even is one anymore—but you do know one thing.

You don’t want to move away from him.

Your fingers tighten in his hair. “I don’t know,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath. “Are you?”

Kenny’s smirk flickers back into place, lazy and sharp. His grip on you tightens, his hips shifting up just enough for you to feel the thick press of him against you, no layers left between you now.

“You already fuckin’ know the answer to that, babe.”

You giggle nervously, hands gripping the sheets, heat crawling up your neck. You don’t dare look at him, too overwhelmed by how solid he feels between your thighs, how steady his hands are on your hips—like he’s keeping you grounded when your head is spinning.

Kenny watches you closely. He knows you too well, knows every little nervous tic, every way you try to hide when you’re overwhelmed. His fingers flex against your skin, rough and warm, not pushing, just holding.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice softer now, the teasing edge gone. “You good?”

You swallow hard, nodding once, but Kenny doesn’t buy it. His thumbs drag slow, lazy circles over your hips, a silent reassurance.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, but your voice wavers, your breath catching when his grip tightens just slightly.

Kenny exhales through his nose, amused but careful. “Bullshit.”

You shift under him, chewing the inside of your cheek. You don’t even know why you’re nervous—not really. You and Kenny have done plenty already. You’ve kissed him, let him touch you, let him guide you through things you never thought you’d do. You’ve had him in your mouth, had his hands all over you, had your lips wrapped around his in ways that weren’t exactly innocent.

His smirk twitches at the corner, but it’s not mocking. It’s knowing. He leans in, pressing a lazy kiss to your jaw, then lower, nipping just enough to make you gasp. “You think I don’t know the difference between you faking confidence and actually having it?” His voice is low, teasing, but gentle. “I’ve had your mouth on me, and you were still shy about it. You really think I don’t know when you’re nervous?”

Your stomach flips, face burning. “Jesus Christ, Kenny.”

He laughs, a warm rumble against your throat, but his hands stay where they are, thumbs brushing slow, steady circles into your hips. “Nothing wrong with being nervous.” He exhales, dipping his head lower, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then lower still. “Just want to make sure you want this.”

You do. You really do.

You exhale shakily, your fingers tightening in the sheets. “I do,” you whisper, and it’s embarrassing how breathless you sound, how wrecked you already feel before he’s even done anything.

Kenny groans softly, his breath hot against your skin. “Then let me make it good for you.”

You smile weakly at him and press a quick, soft kiss to his jaw. His stubble scrapes lightly against your lips, grounding you for just a second, but the nervous energy buzzing under your skin won’t settle. Your fingers twitch, fidgeting with the cuffs of your long-sleeve shirt, still bunched awkwardly around your neck, your tits spilling from your bra. The fabric feels like it doesn’t belong anymore, clinging in all the wrong places, but you don’t know whether to tug it off or leave it.

Kenny watches you carefully, his hands still resting on your hips, fingers twitching slightly. He’s waiting for you to move first. His eyes flick over your face, your bare skin, the way your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths. He’s letting you take control, as much as he clearly wants to take it from you.

You shift off his lap, moving onto the pillows, your back pressing against the mattress. The sheets are warm beneath you, carrying the lingering heat of your own body, but they do nothing to stop the way you feel completely exposed now. You inhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered unevenly across the paint. Some are peeling, barely clinging on, tiny faded flecks against a dark canvas. You used to trace them with your fingers as a kid, lying here beside Kenny after long nights of sneaking around South Park, talking about everything and nothing. It was easier then. It wasn’t like this.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, your stomach coiling tight, and then—quietly, barely above a whisper—you ask, “Do you have a condom?”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud. Then, he exhales, a long, slow breath, and when you finally force yourself to glance at him, his eyes lock onto yours. They’re darker now, heavier, the teasing glint in them replaced by something deeper—focus, intensity, maybe even something close to disbelief. Not that he doesn’t want this. Not that he doesn’t need this. But like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice rough, lower than before. “Yeah, I got one.”

You nod, swallowing thickly, your pulse thudding against your ribs.

Kenny doesn’t move right away, doesn’t go reaching for his jeans or scrambling for his wallet. Instead, he shifts onto his elbows, hovering over you, pressing his weight into the mattress beside you. His fingers brush your cheek, slow and deliberate, tilting your face toward him.

“You sure?” His voice is quieter now, steady, his breath fanning against your lips. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut in quickly, your own voice shaky but firm. Your hands find his shoulders, your fingers curling against the bare skin, feeling the warmth beneath your palms. “I just…” You pause, your throat tightening, and then force yourself to meet his gaze. “I just don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny blinks. Then—he smiles. Not a smirk, not a teasing grin, but something softer. Something real.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lightly over your cheekbone. “I do.”

Heat floods your chest, spreading up your neck, wrapping around your ribs, making it feel hard to breathe. Kenny leans down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead before shifting back, reaching toward his discarded jeans. You watch as he digs into his wallet, pulling out a condom, rolling it between his fingers before tossing the wallet aside.

He glances at you again, scanning your face, waiting for even the tiniest hesitation. You don’t move. Don’t stop him. So he tears open the foil packet, rolling the condom on with practiced ease, his breath steady, his hands sure.

Then he moves over you again, pressing his weight against you, his forearms bracing on either side of your head. His skin is warm, his scent thick in the air—faint sweat, cheap soap, cigarettes lingering beneath it all.

“You good?” he asks again, his nose brushing against yours.

You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

His hands slide down, fingers gripping your thighs, spreading them apart with an easy familiarity. His touch is steadier now, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you there like he’s making sure you don’t slip away from him. He moves carefully, lining himself up, the thick heat of him pressing against you, not pushing in yet, just there, waiting.

Your whole body tenses, your breath catching, your fingers digging into his arms. Kenny stills immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your cheek. “Look at me.”

You do. Slowly, your eyes flutter open, locking onto his. He holds your gaze, his own steady, reassuring, no teasing left in him now.

“We’ll go slow,” he says, voice soft but sure. “I got you.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening against his arms, nerves twisting tight in your stomach. His body is warm over you, solid and steady, and the way he’s looking at you—patient, but sharp, like he can see right through you—makes you feel both safe and like you’re going to fall apart all at once.

“…Will it hurt?” you whisper.

Kenny’s lips twitch, and for a second, you think he’s going to say something smart, something cocky, but when he sees the way your brows are pinched, the hesitation in your eyes, the teasing dies before it reaches his mouth.

“A little,” he admits, his voice dropping lower. His hands skim up your sides, thumbs stroking slow, lazy circles against your ribs, trying to settle you. “But we’ll take our time. And if it’s too much, we stop, no question.”

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. His words help, but the nerves don’t disappear. Kenny sees it. Of course, he does. His smirk softens, and he dips down, pressing a slow, wet kiss to your throat, then lower, lips brushing against the curve of your shoulder, the center of your chest.

“You trust me, yeah?” His breath is warm, teasing over your skin.

You nod, fingers fisting in the sheets. “Yeah.”

Kenny hums, satisfied, and leans back, one hand trailing down between your thighs, fingers teasing at your entrance. “Try to relax, baby,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something deeper, something smoother. “You’re already so fuckin’ tight. Don’t wanna break you.”

You inhale sharply, your whole body flushing with heat, and Kenny grins, but there’s something careful under it—like he’s gauging your reaction. He drags his fingers through your slick, teasing, pressing the tip inside for just a second before pulling back. “See? Already openin’ up for me.” He presses his lips to your jaw, voice dipping lower, rougher. “Gonna take me so good.”

Your breath stutters, and before you can second-guess yourself, you shift your hips, guiding him where you want him. Kenny groans, low and wrecked, his grip flexing against your waist.

“Impatient now, huh?” he murmurs, amusement flickering through his tone. “Thought you were all nervous, and now you’re tryin’ to fuck yourself on my dick.”

You whimper, embarrassment and frustration curling hot in your stomach. “Kenny.”

He exhales sharply, his teasing smile twitching. “Alright, alright, I got you,” he mutters, shifting his weight, his free hand cupping your cheek for just a second before sliding down your body. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You barely have time to nod before you feel him press in.

The stretch is immediate—sharp and foreign, burning in a way that makes your whole body tense up. It’s too much, too thick, like he’s splitting you open inch by inch, and your breath catches, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Kenny stills instantly. “Shit—you gotta relax,” he murmurs, his hands gripping your waist.

Your throat tightens, your chest rising and falling too fast. The sting doesn’t ease, just sits there, deep and aching, and you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head.

“Kenny, it—it hurts.” Your voice wobbles, and you don’t mean to, but you turn your face into the pillow, squeezing out a choked, quiet sob.

Kenny freezes. For a second, everything is completely still.

And then—his weight shifts, and you feel him everywhere. His hands slide up your arms, coaxing them away from where you’ve curled in on yourself. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing slow and deep, trying to get you to match him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, lower, like he’s trying to anchor you. “It’s okay. I got you. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

Your breath shudders, your fingers tightening against his arms. You blink up at him, your vision wet, and Kenny curses under his breath, his thumb catching a stray tear before it can slide down your cheek.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he mutters, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss to your temple. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.” His voice is softer now, almost hesitant. “You want me to stop?”

You shake your head quickly, your grip flexing on his shoulders. “No—no, I just…” You sniffle, embarrassed, dragging a shaky hand down your face. “Just—give me a second.”

Kenny exhales, relief flickering across his face, and then he’s kissing you again—slow and lingering, distracting, like he’s trying to pull you away from the discomfort. His fingers stroke over your waist, your thighs, warm and steady, keeping you grounded.

The pain is still there, but it’s dulling now, your body slowly adjusting, and when you shift your hips, testing, the burn fades just slightly.

Kenny groans, low in his throat. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight, his hands flexing against you. “You feel so good. So fuckin’ warm.”

Your stomach clenches at the rasp in his voice, the way his breath is uneven against your skin. He’s holding back, you realize. He’s shaking with it, barely keeping himself still, waiting for you.

You exhale shakily, tilting your head to press a kiss to his jaw. “You can move,” you whisper.

Kenny swears softly, his head dipping to your shoulder, his breath stuttering out. “Fuck—” His grip tightens, and he pulls back just barely, then pushes in again, slow, careful, but deeper this time.

Your breath catches. It still aches, but now there’s warmth under it, heat curling through your stomach. Your fingers claw at his back, your thighs tightening around his hips.

Kenny watches you closely, his blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his breath uneven. “That better?”

You nod quickly, your lips parting. “Yeah.”

His grin flickers back, lazy but pleased. “Knew you’d like it.”

He thrusts again, just a little harder, and the pleasure sparks, spreading through you like a slow burn. Your head tips back, your breath coming faster, and Kenny groans, ducking down to mouth at your throat.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, his voice rough, strained. “Squeezin’ me so good. Can’t believe no one’s ever had this pussy before.”

Your stomach flips, heat pooling between your legs at his words. He knows exactly what he’s doing—knows his voice alone is enough to wreck you. Your nails dig into his skin, your breath coming faster.

Kenny grins against your neck, his hands flexing against your hips. “Makin’ all these sweet little noises for me,” he murmurs, his pace picking up just slightly. “You like bein’ my girl, huh? Bein’ the only one I’ve ever fucked like this?”

Your breath stutters, your body clenching around him, and Kenny groans, his rhythm faltering for just a second. “Shit—yeah, just like that.”

He fucks into you deeper, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and everything turns hazy, hot, the pleasure twisting in your gut. Kenny’s hands grip your thighs, his lips dragging over your skin, murmuring filth between soft, teasing kisses.

“Gonna take such good care of you,” he breathes, his voice low, hoarse. “Fuck you nice and slow ‘til you can’t feel anything but me.”

And God—he is. You’re so full, stretched around the thick length of him, your body molding to his like you were made for this, made to take him. The ache that lingered when he first pushed in has faded completely, replaced with a deeper, rolling pleasure that spreads through your limbs, settling hot in your stomach with every slow thrust of his hips. He keeps talking, keeps whispering against your skin, voice rough and unrestrained, a steady stream of praise and filth that has your pulse hammering.

“Look at you, babe,” he mutters, dragging his teeth along the curve of your jaw. “So fuckin’ tight, takin’ me so good. Goddamn.” His hands flex at your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he’s forcing himself to keep from losing control completely. He moves slow, agonizingly so, hips rolling in a way that lets you feel every inch of him dragging along your walls before he sinks in again, burying himself to the hilt. It’s steady, deliberate, making you feel all of it—how thick he is, how deep he’s pressing, how wet you are around him.

It’s good. So fucking good. But it’s not enough.

You bite your lip, heat crawling up your neck, embarrassment tingling under your skin even as you bring your hands up to his face, cupping his jaw. His stubble is rough against your palms, his lips parted, his breathing heavy, warm. His eyes are locked onto you, heavy-lidded and burning, pupils blown wide with hunger. He looks wrecked already, sweat dampening his blond hair, strands sticking to his forehead. The sight of him like this, flushed and desperate, sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

You offer him a shaky smile, feeling vulnerable but unable to hold it back. Kenny blinks, his expression shifting for just a second, something softer flickering behind his usual cocky grin. He huffs a breathless laugh, smirking as he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

And then—before your nerves get the best of you—you ask, barely above a whisper, “Can you go faster?” Your voice wavers, shy but certain. “It’s just… it feels really good.”

Kenny freezes.

His cock twitches inside you, and his fingers tighten, his grip turning almost bruising as he drags you down harder against him. His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, his entire body tense like he’s fighting to keep himself in check. His smirk flickers—there, then gone—before his expression turns darker, more intense, his jaw clenching.

“Fuckin’ hell, babe,” he breathes, voice hoarse, thick with something raw. “You gotta be real careful askin’ me shit like that.” His fingers flex against your waist, holding you still, his cock pulsing inside you. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

The weight of his words presses into you, heat curling low in your stomach. You do know. You can see it in the way his body trembles, the way he’s holding himself back, restraint evident in the tautness of his muscles, the uneven rhythm of his breath.

He shifts his weight, pressing his forearms into the mattress beside your head, his body caging you in. He holds your gaze as he pulls out slow—so slow it’s maddening—letting you feel the full stretch of him before he slams back in, hips snapping forward in a sudden, punishing thrust.

The force knocks the breath from your lungs. Your mouth parts on a strangled gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers clawing at his back. The way he fills you, the way he grinds so deep, has your legs tightening around him, your body instinctively pulling him closer.

Kenny chuckles, breathless but smug, his lips brushing against your ear. “You want it faster?” His voice is low, teasing, but rough with need. He rolls his hips again, slower this time, drawing it out just to make you whimper before snapping forward again, making your entire body jolt. 

He picks up the pace, fucking into you harder now, abandoning the slow, careful rhythm in favor of something rougher, something that sends sparks of pleasure racing up your spine with every sharp thrust. His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open wider, keeping you pinned beneath him as he fucks you into the mattress.

“You like that, huh?” His breath is hot against your neck, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Like gettin’ fucked like this? Like bein’ stuffed full of my cock?”

You moan, fingers digging into his shoulders, unable to hold back. Your body is hypersensitive, every inch of you attuned to him, to the way he moves inside you, the way he presses against you like he never wants to let go.

Kenny groans, dragging his teeth along your throat before biting down, just enough to make you gasp. “Goddamn,” he mutters, pulling back to look at you, his expression wrecked, desperate. “You feel so fuckin’ good. So goddamn wet for me.”

His pace is relentless now, deep, grinding thrusts that have you panting, squirming, your legs trembling from the intensity of it. His hands slip under your thighs, hooking your legs over his arms, folding you open so he can get even deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hips stuttering for half a second before he regains control. “Look at you, babe—spread out for me, takin’ it so fuckin’ good.”

The shift in angle has you seeing stars, the pressure so perfect, so overwhelming that you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips—breathless moans, needy whimpers, his name tangled in every exhale. Kenny eats it up, groaning at the way you clench around him, his own breaths growing rough, uneven.

“Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he grits out, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Like you don’t wanna let me go.”

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath fanning across your lips as he keeps fucking you, the slick sound of it obscene in the quiet room. “You like this, don’t you?” His tone is smug, but there’s a raw edge to it, a desperation creeping in. “Like havin’ my cock buried deep inside you, stretchin’ you out, makin’ you mine.”

You whimper, nodding frantically, too far gone to feel embarrassed about how wrecked you sound.

Kenny grins, groaning as he thrusts harder, his pace quickening just slightly. “Yeah, you do,” he mutters, pressing a messy kiss to your lips, swallowing your moans. “Fuckin’ knew you would.”

Your nails rake down his back, your thighs trembling, the heat in your stomach burning hotter, winding tighter, threatening to snap. Kenny feels it—feels the way your body starts to tighten, how your breathing turns erratic.

He tilts his head, lips parting as he watches you. You’re close. He can see it written all over you—the way your lashes flutter, the way your fingers clutch at his arms like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered. Your body is trembling beneath him, your chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

"You don’t gotta hold back, sweetheart," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. "I got you. Just let go for me, yeah?"

He shifts, angling his hips just right, rolling into you deep, slow but deliberate, hitting that spot that makes your whole body jolt. His hands roam over you, sliding up your sides, feeling every little tremble, every twitch of your muscles as you tip over the edge.

"Kenny—oh, fuck—"

Your voice catches, your breath stuttering, and then—you break.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs. Your whole body tightens, your thighs trembling around his hips, your fingers clutching at his back as you moan against his skin. He groans low in his throat as he feels you clench around him, his pace faltering for just a second as he buries himself deep, letting you ride it out.

"That’s my girl," he breathes, his lips brushing against your jaw, your cheek, anywhere he can reach. "Fuck, you’re so goddamn perfect. Feels so fuckin’ good, baby."

His hands smooth over your thighs, your stomach, his touch warm and reverent, tracing lazy circles over your skin, coaxing you through the aftershocks. He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let the pleasure fade just yet—he keeps rocking into you, deep and steady, riding the high with you, drawing out every last shiver.

You gasp, still reeling, body sensitive and buzzing. Kenny presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours, his lips ghosting over your mouth, your nose, murmuring sweet praises between kisses.

"Goddamn," he whispers, nipping at your bottom lip. "You got no idea how fuckin’ good you feel. Gonna make me lose my goddamn mind."

You exhale shakily, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging lightly, pulling him closer. He grins against your skin, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your throat.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw. "Not too much?"

You shake your head quickly, breathless, still floating, still warm. "I’m good," you whisper, voice hoarse but certain. "So good."

Kenny smiles, his hands slipping beneath your knees, adjusting the angle, shifting deeper. You shudder at the feeling, the stretch, the warmth still smoldering in your stomach.

"Yeah?" His voice is softer now, but still thick with desire. "Think you can give me one more?"

His thumb strokes over your hip, his lips brushing your ear. "Bet I can make you cum again, baby," he murmurs, kissing just below your jaw. "Wanna feel you fall apart for me one more time."

You whimper, nodding, already feeling the heat coil again, already wanting more.

Kenny groans, kissing you slow and deep as he rolls his hips, sinking into you again, starting to move just a little faster, a little rougher, pulling another breathless moan from your lips.

"That’s my girl," he whispers. "Let me take care of you."

Heat spreads up your neck, pooling in your cheeks, your entire body buzzing from his words. You whine softly, tucking your face against his shoulder, overwhelmed by how good he’s making you feel—how gentle he is despite how deep, how thick he is inside you. Your childhood best friend—now your boyfriend—fucking you like he worships you, like he’s waited just as long as you have for this. It makes your chest ache, your stomach tighten, the intimacy almost too much to take.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in closer, needing more. Your arms loop around his neck, holding onto him, your fingers tangling in the damp, messy strands of his hair. He groans at the way you squeeze around him, his pace stuttering for half a second before he finds it again, thrusting slow and deep, dragging every inch of himself out before sinking back in, stretching you all over again.

“Kenny,” you whisper against his skin, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his neck. “I want you to cum.”

A rough groan punches out of his chest, his fingers tightening at your hips. “Fuck, babe,” he mutters, his breath shuddering against your cheek. “Tryna make me lose my mind?”

You moan in response, tilting your head to suck at the sensitive skin beneath his ear, marking him up just like he did to you. His hips jerk, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he growls low in his throat, snapping his hips a little harder, a little rougher. You gasp, clutching onto him, the change in pace sending heat licking up your spine.

You feel him everywhere—his weight pressing you into the mattress, his hands gripping your body like he never wants to let go, the way his cock drags against that spot inside you with every roll of his hips, making your breath stutter, your thighs tremble around him.

And you want more.

You meet him halfway, rolling your hips up to match his thrusts, your body instinctively chasing the heat building between you. Kenny swears under his breath, dropping his head to your shoulder, his hands sliding down to grab handfuls of your ass, gripping tight as he fucks into you deeper, harder.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, his voice rough, wrecked. “Keep fuckin’ yourself on me like that.”

His words send a shiver through you, your nails dragging down his back, desperate to hold onto him. “Kenny—”

“I got you,” he rasps, kissing you again, swallowing the moan that spills from your lips. His tongue slides against yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark and blown wide. “You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your stomach tightens at the praise, heat spreading through your body, making you move faster, grinding up against him, wanting to make him feel just as good as he’s making you feel.

“Shit,” Kenny hisses, his grip flexing against your ass. “You’re gonna make me fuckin’ cum.”

“Please,” you breathe, dragging your lips along his throat, sucking another bruise into his skin. “I wanna feel you.”

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from his chest, his pace turning rougher, more erratic, the heat between you burning hotter, sharper, making your whole body tremble. You can feel it, how close he is, how he’s barely holding himself back.

“Kenny,” you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Cum for me.”

His body shudders, his breath catching, and he groans your name like a prayer. His hips snap against yours, sharp and desperate, his hands gripping you so tight you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You whine, arching against him, gasping as he buries himself deep, his whole body tensing before he finally lets go.

You feel it—the way his cock throbs inside you, the thick pulse of his release filling the condom, the warmth of him even through the barrier. His muscles lock up, his breath leaving him in a sharp, ragged exhale, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he rides it out. His fingers flex against your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

A heavy silence settles between you, broken only by the sound of your breathing. His chest rises and falls against yours, the heat of his body soaking into your skin. His weight presses you into the mattress, grounding you, keeping you right there with him.

His arms tighten around you, but he doesn’t move to pull out yet. Instead, he exhales against your neck, his breath still uneven, warm and damp as it ghosts over your skin. His hair sticks to his forehead, the strands tickling your cheek, but you don’t push him away.

You stare at the ceiling, trying to process everything at once. The glow-in-the-dark stars still cling to the paint, faded from years of use, scattered unevenly like a sky full of dying light. They’re the same as they’ve always been, and yet, everything feels different now.

Kenny McCormick is your boyfriend.

Your best friend. The same Kenny you grew up with, the same one who used to steal your fries when you weren’t looking, who made you laugh until you couldn’t breathe, who always had your back no matter what. And now—now he’s here, wrapped around you, his cock still buried inside you, his lips brushing against your neck like he belongs there.

Your chest tightens, but not with panic. There’s warmth in it, deep and slow, spreading through your ribs like embers catching fire.

Kenny groans, low and lazy, and nuzzles closer. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, barely above a breath. “I think you just killed me.”

A weak laugh escapes you, fingers twitching against his back as you drag them up, tangling into his hair. “You’re still breathing.”

His lips curl against your throat, a slow, lazy grin. “Barely.”

His arms stay locked around you, his body heavy, his breath steadying against your skin. He’s not in a hurry to move, and for once, neither are you. His fingers stroke over your hip, tracing slow, aimless shapes, warm and reassuring.

After a moment, he shifts just enough to lift his head, his eyes locking onto yours. They’re darker now, still hooded from the afterglow, but softer, like he’s looking at something—someone—important. His usual smirk is there, but it’s different, lazy and satisfied instead of cocky. His fingers skim your shoulder, brushing over the fresh marks he left behind, his touch slow, deliberate.

His gaze lingers on them, something flickering behind his expression, and his smirk deepens. His thumb presses into one of the bruises, just enough to make you shiver.

“Shit,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. “Look at you.” His voice drops, thick with satisfaction, his lips brushing against your jaw. “All mine.”

Heat floods your face. Your breath catches, and for a second, you forget how to speak. The weight of his words sinks into you, deeper than his hands, deeper than his body still pressing you into the sheets.

You swallow hard, fingers still tangled in his hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He hums in approval, tilting his head into your touch, his smirk curling wider. His eyes flick up to meet yours, watching you carefully, drinking in your expression, waiting to see if you’ll deny it.

You don’t.

Kenny grins, slow and lazy, before leaning in, his lips brushing over yours like a secret. His mouth is still swollen from kissing you raw, still tastes like everything you just did together—like heat and sweat and the salt of his skin. The kiss is softer this time, unhurried, the kind that lingers, the kind that says more than either of you know how to put into words.

You melt into it, sighing against his lips, the corners of your mouth twitching up in a smile. He feels it, you know he does, because you can feel him smile too, lips curving as he deepens the kiss just slightly. The warmth of him settles over you, all-consuming without being overwhelming, a weight you don’t mind carrying.

When you finally break apart, your fingers trail absently along his shoulder, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the damp skin of his back. You’re both still catching your breath, still tangled together, bodies flush, skin damp. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it hums with unspoken thoughts, the reality of what just happened creeping in at the edges.

Your stomach twists—not with regret, not even with doubt, but with the sheer weight of it. The line between friends and lovers has blurred, smudged beyond recognition, and there’s no pretending it doesn’t matter.

Your fingers tighten against his skin. “…What are we gonna tell the guys?”

Kenny blinks, caught off guard for half a second, before a slow smirk spreads across his face. “Shit, I dunno,” he says, voice rough around the edges, still hazy from pleasure. “Kinda wanna just show up holdin’ hands and let ‘em lose their fuckin’ minds.”

A breathless laugh escapes you, and you shake your head, the image of it flashing behind your eyelids—Kyle’s immediate demand for an explanation, Stan’s barely-contained surprise, Cartman’s inevitable shit-eating grin. You can already hear the smug, drawn-out I fucking knew it he’d throw in your face.

Kenny’s fingers skim along your side, lazy and absentminded, like he’s committing the feel of you to memory.

“Unless…” He tilts his head, voice quieter now, more deliberate. “Unless you don’t wanna tell ‘em yet.”

You hesitate, not because you’re unsure of this—of him—but because it feels like something you want to keep to yourself, at least for a little while longer. There’s a selfish kind of intimacy in it, in the knowledge that for now, this is just yours and his, untouched by the outside world.

“I do,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slide into his hair, smoothing back the strands that cling to his forehead, still damp from sweat. “I just… kinda like it being ours for now.”

Kenny watches you closely, that usual cocky grin softening at the edges. His fingers flex against your waist, just slightly, grounding you, holding onto you like he’s making sure you don’t slip away. He nods, just once, but his expression says more than words ever could.

His lips part, like he’s about to say something serious, maybe something important, but before he can get a single word out, the door slams open so hard it rattles the walls.

"AHAHAHAHA! PAY UP, BITCHES!"

Cartman stands there, holding his phone out like he just caught the crime of the century. His face is split into a shit-eating grin, his other hand dramatically pressed over his mouth in fake shock. He doesn’t even hesitate before snapping a photo.

Kenny barely even lifts his head from where he’s still sprawled over you, his bare skin warm against yours. He blinks, unimpressed. "You fucking serious right now?"

Cartman cackles, already tapping at his phone. "I fucking knew it!" He’s not even talking to you—he’s on FaceTime, his phone angled just enough for you to catch Kyle’s scowling face on the screen. "Look at ‘em, tell me they didn’t just fuck! I win, bitches! Hand it over, I want my money tonight!"

Kyle groans. "Cartman, what the actual fuck—why are you even there?"

"Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was being a good friend and forced them to make up!" Cartman shoves the phone closer, like he’s making a goddamn documentary. "You see this? This is the face of victory, gentlemen."

"Jesus Christ," Stan’s voice cuts in, followed by the sound of a palm smacking a forehead. "Dude, hang up, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? You doubted me! You all doubted me! But now I have undeniable proof that these two horny degenerates—"

"CARTMAN!" Kyle barks. "HANG. UP."

Kenny groans into your shoulder, his whole body shaking, not with anger, but with barely restrained laughter. "Dude, just get the fuck out."

Cartman scoffs. "Pfft. Fine. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous, Kinny." He pulls the phone back to his own face. "Alright, losers, I’ll be expecting my money by the end of the night, or I’m doubling your debt. Later, virgins."

And just like that, he’s gone, slamming the door behind him, his laughter echoing down the hall.

Silence settles over the room. You and Kenny just stare at each other, exhausted, tangled together, your bodies still warm from everything you just did.

And then, somehow, it’s funny. The sheer absurdity of it, the fact that of course Cartman would bet on your love life and of course he would crash this moment just to gloat about it.

You snort first, and then Kenny’s grinning, shaking his head, and before you know it, you’re both laughing. It’s breathless, ridiculous, delirious, your shoulders shaking as Kenny presses his forehead to yours, his body still heavy on top of you.

"Our secret, huh?" he murmurs, lips brushing against yours.

You huff, nudging his shoulder. "Shut up."

luv u kenny <3

event masterlist | part one | part two

[mantequillamcwhoremick]

okay so i should emphasise im absolute shite when it comes to predicting books/fics ((idk i feel books tend to have more twists or in monologues there’s things you have to think extra hard about in comparison to film lol)) but here it goes for chaos plan because i have my thinking cap on:

-so i’m thinking after it is revealed Gerald basically screwed over Kyle and Kyle and Stan’s identities are at a risk under Chaos I’m thinking this happens:

-Kenny has some guilty going on and feels it’s his fault now that his friends are in danger and takes it upon himself to turn himself into Chaos.

Pretty basic but I’m wondering that if Kenny were to do this it’s an indirect trap and Chaos tries to reveal Mysterion’s identity to the public not realising that it’s acshully 🤓☝️ his husband!!!

-I’m still intrigued about Cartman’s involvement with Chaos but I’m thinking that Chaos is purely using Cartman for intel because Cartman was given an incentive!!

Okay these theories probably are surface level but this is what I have in my head now for what may happen down the line now shshs 😞☝️

ohohohohoho here we fucking GO

okay so first of all let me actually defend Gerald bc it wasn't my intention to villanize him; like the guy has lots of flaws but his gambling addiction isn't something i condemn him for, and Chaos (as does any business that profits off of people's addictions) targeted people like him SPECIFICALLY to trap them in debt, JUST IN CASE he could use the leverage at some point. and there's specific reasons Chaos especially wanted leverage on Kyle's dad, you can figure which😁😁

but yeah. "Gerald screwed over Kyle" isn't a verdict I meant to convey, at the end of the day the guy has a gambling problem and hid it from his family in hope that he could fix it before they find out their very home is at stake; not to protect himself, but to protect THEM from freaking out... like Kyle ends up doing upon finding out. Which is actually something very similar to what Kenny did when hiding that he lost his job from Karen & hasn't even told anyone in his family that he'll have to pay a fat hospital bill for someone he beat the fuck up.... OR that he got involved in a scammy deal with the police chief, or that he's the town's nb 1 most wanted criminal... etc. The only one who purposely screwed anyone over here is ... well. One Vic Chaos.

OKAY ANYWAYS. onto the actual point, sorry

"[Kenny] takes it upon himself to turn himself into Chaos" 😁😁😁 wheehehehe i like where your thoughts are... keep them going... sadly can't say much more than that

"if Kenny were to do this it’s an indirect trap" can't say anything here either but just know i am giggling and kicking my feet. do with that info what you will

"Chaos tries to reveal Mysterion’s identity to the public not realising that it’s acshully 🤓☝️ his husband!!!" I'm deadass foaming at the mouth at Chp identity reveal expectations/predictions. one thing i gotta say is you gotta throw a bunch of shit Kenny assumed & conveyed via his narration out the window tho😁😁😁bro is NOT reliable

"I’m still intrigued about Cartman’s involvement with Chaos" good. this is a surprise tool that will help us later

i'll give you one hint tho

(note: i am NOT saying Cartman is the real main villain of this story. i purposely kept him on a leash. no Mitch Connor fuckery in Chaos Plan, trust.)

anyways.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR INDULGING ME EHHEGJHWGJEHWJ🫶🫶🫶🫶 you're unnecessarily apologetic about your theories bro i am BURSTING with joy. kisses your forehead gently and wishes you a wonderful month of march

[ryuichirou]

Replies

A lot of replies; a bunch of them are for asks that are already pretty old… sorry for the wait.

Talking about the types of tropes I like, and also a bunch of miscellaneous twst-related stuff (including a surprising amount of older asks about overblot sex).

Anonymous asked:

What are your and Katsu’s favorite tropes in media?

Katsu replied to you sooner that I have, Anon, so if you haven’t read it, you can read Katsu’s reply here!

I’m sorry to keep you waiting for this long, especially considering that I realised that I wrote a post about it some time ago as well… But I don’t want to just waltz in like two month after you sent this ask and say “hey, read this post instead”, so I’ll add some more thoughts!

Gap moe!! But specifically the type of gap moe when a character that seems very stern and antagonistic at first ends up having a huge soft spot for the protagonist, ending up as kind of a pushover, someone who gets bullied by the narrative and a cutie overall. Examples of that would be Levi from SnK or Barok from TGAA; it’s kind of subtle with them, but it’s enough for me to woobify the shit out of them lol

Also it’s probably super obvious because of my horror comic + the kind of spooky twst content we post sometimes, but I really love the “cryptids among us” trope, especially when it’s genuinely creepy and the comedy aspect is a bit unhinged lol When someone gets bad vibes from a character and it turns out that they’re either cursed or not a human at all, or when a character tries to hide his inhuman nature… it’s a pretty broad description and this trope doesn’t work for me all the time, but I hope you understand what I’m talking about!

Hmm, when it turns out that the bad guy is genuinely bad. Like when the story makes you feel bad for feeling sorry for them or humanising them for a moment there. I feel like it doesn’t happen too often, but one example I could give is Eric Cartman lol Maybe jjk Sukuna in a way? I just like the feeling of oh no we shouldn’t relax around this guy, he really is that bad.

I also love subversion of tropes, but only when it doesn’t feel like the authors are patting themselves on the back too much for being original. I don’t know, sometimes it gets annoying lol But I really love when you watch a show, kind of subconsciously expecting a certain outcome, and then something happens that completely switches the narrative, even its tone sometimes. Hunter x Hunter gave me this feeling a lot, and the Boys as well (mostly the first season), for example.

Anonymous asked:

Love your art as per usual! This is kinda unrelated but have you played the Bayonetta games? And if so what Twst boy do you think would pull off her outfit the best?

Thank you, Anon!

We haven’t, but of course we’ve seen Bayonetta around :) she is iconic, after all.

Who would pull her outfit the best… Malleus has a perfect presence for it, but Vil would absolutely nail the posing and those high heels!

Anonymous asked:

Graceful as shit

Anonymous asked:

That seems oddly fitting... Does spark a question in me, who would you put in which dorm other than their own? Like what would you say is option no. 2?

Thank you, thank you!

Also to the second Anon, it’s a very good question; I remember that the boys had to answer it themselves in one of their birthday interviews, but I don’t remember who said what, which is for the best. I’ll think about it a little and post this part of my reply separately some other day! (you won’t have to wait for months I swear)

Anonymous asked:

I love how Jades little black hair streak gets its own roller

Thank you!! Yeah, he is just being silly lol

We joked that he's going to straighten it back when he wakes up as if he didn't spend the night curling it. Just to mess with Epel's head a bit.

Anonymous asked:

I love it, the art, characters, Azul boobs…

Especially Azul boobs… and they’re pretty covered this time, too!

I’m glad you like it, Anon <3

Anonymous asked:

Why don't try make the Heartsaball more sexy? Hmm?

Oh I know what you mean, Anon. 😇

When the time is right (=when you expect it the least)…

Anonymous asked:

You know, we've talked about the bottoms getting fucked out of their overblot, but honestly If Idia got on the scene Azul's could have been over real quick too

Might be wrong but I think his curse can burn other's blot too, he could have sucked him dry in two ways

Solider on a mission to provoke a guy into shoving his tentacles into him, it's for the greater good

Whenever I come back to this ask I start nodding, Anon. Now THIS is a good way to apply the Shrouds’ curse! Idia really can suck him dry in two ways until he calms down… in two ways.

I wonder if waking up with not only his overblot being taken care of, but also with a post-nut clarity would make the situation even more embarrassing for Azul… he’d definitely feel much more satisfied though.

Idia is such a trooper…

God, ch3 where everything is the same, but the final battle is just Azul tentacle-banging Idia while the rest of the guys present watch in silence.

Anonymous asked:

Do the boy sexier in overblot, like instead of semen, is blot-ink

But imagine semen mixing up with blot and slowly disappearing into its darkness though…

This world needs more overblot sex though, that’s just a fact.

Anonymous asked:

We have talked about fucking people out of overblotting which is great but also like revenge sex after the overblot? Some of these guys are so bitter about being thwarted

Azul is easy enough because he can go straight to the source

The others would have to do a whole song and dance to a make a bid for jealousy and try cucking them with the other guys tops

Jamil could probably fuck the tweels though or one up that and have sex with every Octavinelle student except for Azul just to be petty

Doesnt work that well because they arent all mad about being stopped but ssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Woah, Azul really could go straight to the source…! And considering how bitter he is at Leona (he is still not over it!), I think he is legally entitled to have his revenge sex. That would pacify his soul AND satisfy his body AND boost his ego!! Maybe he has something planned, who knows… this man believes that revenge is a dish best served cold. And it’s definitely going to be a 4-course meal with this guy.

When I started reading about Jamil, I thought “aw, but Kalim wouldn’t really care that much would he”, and then I realised that you mean Jamil cucking Azul by sleeping with every Octavinelle student but him DAMN THAT’S COLD (hot) 😭 Azul is going to overblot again, and then he’ll have another bitch to prepare a 4-course meal for.

It really is difficult to think about this for other guys, but hey, Leona has a chip on his shoulder about his plan not working. I don’t go where to go with this thought though, but who knows…

irregardlessly-tish asked:

Since I first listened to the song Alter Ego by Doechii I thought "this is a Leona song", and he's probably my least favorite twst boy... but when I listen to the song I think that maybe if he was actually that bitch™, if he could truly reach the levels of cunt a character based on Scar should reach... maybe I'd like him more. He could serve so much cunt, he has the potential! But he's probably too lazy to even do that... such wasted potential.

I see what you mean! And yes, the lack of Scar-ness is one of the things that make me not like Leona as much as I would have otherwise, so I really feel you. He really was born to serve cunt and be a cunt…

Well, at least now we have a song to listen to while we daydream about what could have been.

adrianacopycat170 asked:

i feel like crewel has flash backs to when he was thinking about having sex with Mozus when he sees Deuce cus Deuce reminds him of himself when he was younger

idk man

You know, there are a lot of similarities between Deuce and Crewel, with both of them being troubled bad boys when they were younger + the teacher crush thing lol Maybe he does see himself in Deuce a little bit, but maybe he also thinks that he wasn’t as pathetic as he is right now back then.

He is wrong though, he was just as smitten and pathetic, he was just expressing it differently…

Anonymous asked:

Yo, freaky question time : obviously Lilia tops, but considering how experienced and slightly deranged he is, do you headcanon him using toys on himself while toping for maxed out stimulation? In my head he'd try to get as much pleasure out of intimacy as possible. Like, he has a prostate, even if no actual dick goes near it do you think he still makes use of it? And the other way around, would he use toys on the ones he tops to also wreck them not only by topping them but using every nerves available they have? Asking purely for science and serious reasons

Good question, Anon!

Because of our biases and preferences when it comes to tops, we wouldn’t really headcanon Lilia stimulating his own butt, but I get where you’re coming from. I also think Lilia is very intrigued by sex toys though! So yes, to answer your second question, he would absolutely wreck anyone he’s sleeping with if he comes across a toy that seems like something new and exciting (so any toy lol). And using all of them at once to keep every area overstimulated sounds like a very Lilia thing to do.

Also, we’re going to have a hc post about sex toys hopefully soon, so I’ll talk about this topic again…

Sorry for the wait, and thank you for your ask!

Anonymous asked:

Jade getting Trey into mushrooms (They taste very good and can be quite good in desserts). Trey getting Jade into teeth (your teeth are designed for chewing this so if you bite in this way it will do this to you lover  vs biting that way will…). Then the two of them term up suing their newfound two shared interests to absolutely destroy Idia. Forget his legs. His jaw and head are going to be in pain for days from all the weird mushrooms and how long his mouth was forced open for.

Also Rook was there while they had their fun. No he was not invited. No they do not know how he got there as he was very much not there one second and when the turned around there he was (Oya~ Oya~ When did you get here). He very much is enjoying show (Rook put your pants back on!). No they could not get him to leave. He got to watch from up close rather than through the binoculars. Trey refused to let him take part in any way or to take off (or reach inside) any of his clothing. Trey was hoping that the lack of adequate stimulation would drive Rook away. It awakened something in him instead. Vil was edged many times when Rook returned to Pomefiore.

Trey and Jade had some private time with Idia a couple weeks later without a stalker/interloper when Vil mysteriously got dosed with an asphoradic (You made me a special healthy cake to fit in my diet Trey? Very well, I suppose I shall give it a try at some point) and Rook was taking care of him.

Anon, sorry for the late reply!

You really took me on a journey, but in a good way. That’s one sexy criminal drama… this world doesn’t want Jade and Trey to unite their forces against someone, and Idia absolutely wants it the least out of everyone, but who is going to ask him? This poor guy… he really is a perfect victim lol

The thing with Trey is that when he is enabled, his actions could lead to unexpectedly bizarre circumstances, so I can actually see Jade being amused by what else he could do to Idia.

Also, poor Rook! He has the right to join – he is also in the science club, after all, he could add some of his own freak to this already wild mix! But I guess that would be too much for Idia lol Oh well, at least now Vil is also a victim of these guys’ shenanigans…. That’s what friends are for after all – to make special healthy cakes for their friends’ lovers.

Anonymous asked:

This year we got some tweels/Malleus interaction since he duos with both (Jade club card and Floyd's new bday card) plus he appears in Jade's nightmare suit vignette. I love seeing some of the characters who rarely interacted with the other before get focus, like Trey and Silver in bday vignette (idk if they talked before this).

So, i'm curious what's your take on tweels/Malleus 👀

I find it funny how Malleus call them both Leech- he stands by calling everyone by their last name, even siblings- wouldn't that be confusing-

(Also i rly hope you understood what i said, my mind is all over the place from excitment)

Dear Anon, it’s been so long, I hope you are still somewhat excited… because it is a great thing! Malleus absolutely should get paired with the tweels more often – it’s such a fun combination! Malleus should get ALL the duo options!

And yes, he really does call both of them Leech… although I feel like we’ve seen him refer to them by their names a couple of times – even the Shrouds couldn’t make Malleus ditch his habit of calling everyone by their last name, but I guess “left Leech” and “right Leech” doesn’t work as well as “Shroud” and “smaller Shroud” 😭 It’s so funny…!

Another Tweels+Malleus moment that comes to mind is that Malleus and Floyd had to operate a cotton candy stand together (…with Sebek as well!) during the Portfest, and that was pretty funny as well.

As for the ship, I think it has a lot of potential. Be it with one of the tweels or with both of them at the same time, Malleus absolutely is going to get confused by them a lot, but also amused by their mischievous minds. I think they would also remind him of Lilia a little bit, which is always a plus for Malleus.

As for the tweels, they do like shiny and interesting toys, and there is no one in this school who is more powerful than Malleus, and his entire character is so unique and new to them, they could really get into it.

Also I absolutely agree with you in terms of character interactions; I really love that twst has a lot of events that forces random characters to talk to each other, and a lot of times it makes our shipping minds go “hm? What was that? 😳”

Now you made me think about Trey and Silver…

[wendytestabrat]

another example of kyle being a liar and a hypocrite

ok so like this was a small kyman moment but in the episode “lice capades” when cartman was trying to figure out who had lice ofc kyle had to preach down cartman’s throat about what he was doing to make himself look like the innocent one as he usually does. what pisses me off tho was that kyle was trying to accuse cartman of being the one to have lice and saying cartman is just trying to pin it on someone else when bitch…kyle had lice too sooo LOL that’s exactly what kyle was doing & i loved how cartman called him out on his shit and was like “that’s exactly what you would do if you had lice kahl”. like yeah i know the ENTIRE class had lice and lied about it but the fact that kyle was also one of the kids to lie about it but then go out of his way to portray himself as the saint saving everyone from cartman in this situation shows how truly shitty and fucked up he is (when he didn’t even need to say anything if he REALLY didn’t want someone to suspect he had lice). and what’s unique abt this episode is it follows the story from clyde’s POV and his headlice and like bitch you didn’t see clyde doing any unnecessary attention-seeking shit like that to cover up the fact that he had it LOL. even tho clyde was rlly scared people would find out it was him and he thought he was the only one who had it he didn’t even say shit about it and just kept to himself. which goes to show that in any given situation cartman & kyle are def the ones to talk way too much and be overly dramatic and draw too much attention to shit (bc they’re insecure af) which i’m sure the other classmates take note of. and they’re the best liars and manipulators too but that’s a whole other story. and then after cartman & kyle were bickering stan jumps in too and is like “guys stop” or whatever and cartman is like “this is exactly what you would do stan is try to make the peace” LOL. so what that tells me is stan is also super egocentric and quick to hop in on shit too for attention even if he’s just portraying himself as the mediator. hence why the other kids hate all four boys and stan spends too much time with cartman & kyle and gets too involved with their stupid shit. and then cartman is like “and this is exactly what kenny would do stand and say nothing” bc kenny is an unproblematic king and is shy and doesn’t do attention-seeking shit like that. so by the order of how shit escalated in the scene this is my ranking of the boys in order of most to least narcissistic.

1. cartman

2. kyle (bc ofc he had to try to get in on what cartman was doing and outdo cartman as usual for attention)

3. stan

4. kenny