#still not....really the kind of thing i actually Enjoy making

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

[prev]

"...I really don't think this is necessary, Plain Yogurt. My hair is neat enough." Healer Cookie tries to protest to Shadow Milk, who sits behind him with his legs stretched out beside each hip, trying to comb his hair icing with his fingers.

Healer Cookie. Bleugh.

It's such a generic name, it's hardly a name at all. Shadow Milk knows Pure Vanilla doesn't remember his actual name, but that doesn't make him hate that stupid placeholder any less. As a matter of fact, Shadow Milk actively refuses to call him something so bland, so he doesn't.

"But it could be so much neater! Just let me do this for you, my dear." He insists, gritting his teeth as he fights with a stubborn clump in his hair. This would be way easier if he had his claws out, but 'Plain Yogurt' isn't meant to have claws and Pure Vanilla would probably notice the scratch of them against his scalp. "You don't have any patients to worry after right now, anyway. You can relax a little."

Pure Vanilla winces slightly at the tug of the clump coming undone, but he doesn't complain, finally giving up his protests as his body goes lax. He sighs, a faint smile flickering over his face. "Alright, alright. Just this once."

They lapse into a comfortable silence as Shadow Milk continues to painstakingly smooth Pure Vanilla's neglected hair out. Pure Vanilla sits docile as he does, like a doll being dressed up, and Shadow Milk grins to himself, enjoying the thought. That's what he is, after all.

There's a delicious irony in this situation, and Shadow Milk never fails to savour it. He had known about this amnesiac spell before he had escaped the Silver Tree, but he had kind of been assuming it would have resolved itself by the time he got his opportunity for freedom. It was an inevitability that one would arise, with the two halves of that torn White Lily Cookie both locked in stasis. It encouraged her Seal to weaken faster, and Shadow Milk jumped out at the first chance he got.

Only his spirit could slip through the crack, but that was fine, that was fine, since his original body was stale and practically useless after several millennia without use. All he had to do was steal the body of a Cookie on the edge of crumbling entirely – a traveller fallen victim to a monster attack with their soul already fleeing their body in fright – and maintain its endangered state with his own magic so he could throw himself at Pure Vanilla's doorstep, the picture perfect image of a miserable Cookie in need. It just so happened that the doorstep was a dusty, ignorant one.

Well, whatever. Pure Vanilla's current state is both convenient and inconvenient for Shadow Milk. The Soul Jam is currently dormant, but it still seems to be stubbornly connected to Pure Vanilla, because it didn't react to Shadow Milk's presence or his remaining half of the Soul Jam. With it in hiding like that, it makes it legitimately impossible for him to quickly steal it back, because there is nothing to steal.

That means Shadow Milk has to use more convoluted methods. That's fine; those are his favourite kinds of methods, anyway. Slipping into the village like a wolf in sheep's clothing, carving an undeniable space for himself at Pure Vanilla's side and waiting, waiting, waiting.

When Pure Vanilla finally resonates with the Soul Jam again, he will certainly regain his memories and buckle under that unaddressed storm of grief, regret and self-loathing. Taking the Soul Jam back then will be the easiest thing in the world. Who knows, maybe Pure Vanilla will hand it over himself in a fit of grief-stricken anguish! Wouldn't that be fun?

It doesn't seem like that will happen anytime soon, though. Funnily enough, Pure Vanilla seems to be avoiding the Light of Truth to the absolute best of his ability, wrapped tight in those bandages of his and unwilling to shed them. It makes Shadow Milk laugh if he thinks about it for too long.

Denial is the first step towards Deceit, after all. First, you refuse to look Truth, harsh and bitter, in the face. Then, when you inevitably have to confront it, you turn to the veil of Deceit to make the world less unbearable to look at. And Pure Vanilla has already managed to get himself one foot on the staircase, without Shadow Milk interfering in the slightest.

It gives Shadow Milk an inkling of an idea. He could get Pure Vanilla there, surely. All he has to do is swoop in as he suffers through his returned memories and... twist the knife a little. Or a lot.

Whatever the case, he has to be there for that. The wait is sluggish, but Shadow Milk doesn't bother speeding things along himself. He could, and he definitely will if he starts getting too bored, but for now, the novelty of playing pretend with a physical body for the first time in far too long hasn't quite worn off yet.

"You're being awfully quiet." Pure Vanilla teases quietly, breaching the silence that has nestled around them. "You're usually much more talkative than this. Perhaps I overlooked a patient in need?"

He's not being serious, and his curled lips make that glaringly obvious. Shadow Milk scoffs out a laugh. "Oh, please, I've never been crispier! I just have my work cut out for me with your hair, so I have to focus."

Pure Vanilla's smile falters into a small frown. "...Is it really that bad?"

Yes, Shadow Milk wants to hiss. He's used to Pure Vanilla's visage being delicately graceful, holding the air of a king, his pale blonde hair framing his face in immaculate curves. Now it is ruffled and unkempt, the ends dirtied with the grime that floats around the village, and though some of it is removed with each pass of Shadow Milk's fingers, it is far too saturated to get rid of it entirely like that.

It annoys Shadow Milk, teetering on the edge of anger, and so does Pure Vanilla's outfit. The rags he wears as robes, haphazardly and poorly stitched together. They don't suit him at all, and Shadow Milk's director's eye, attuned to aesthetics, chafes at the sight of his doll like that.

He could dress him in much, much better things than that. Sweeping robes of black and gold, because gold has always been flattering with his complexion, made of the finest sugar coat fabric. Or blue and gold, like a night star. And if - when - Pure Vanilla lays his eyes on the Truth once more and chooses to continue hiding from it, then Shadow Milk will provide. He can give him a blindfold of silk, embroided with honey floss, far softer on the eyelids than some old bandages.

Pure Vanilla just needs to properly reconnect with his Soul Jam first. Draw it out into the open.

So, yes, Shadow Milk really does think his hair is that bad, but he won't tell him that. He's not above upsetting Pure Vanilla, but there is nothing to gain from it in this tiny instance. It wouldn't even be that funny, really.

"I'm exaggerating, I'm exaggerating." Shadow Milk reassures lightheartedly, at least satisfied with the silkiness returning to Pure Vanilla's hair under his meticulous ministrations. "I'm fixing it up now, anyway. Why, do we have to talk all the time?"

"No, of course not." Pure Vanilla's hands idly twist together in his lap. "But you usually hum when we don't talk, so..."

Shadow Milk usually hums on purpose, to make sure Pure Vanilla is always aware of his presence. It has to be a conscious decision, because Shadow Milk is naturally silent otherwise, in the same way his footsteps tend to drift along the ground if he isn't trying to make them heard. It is the instincts of a predator stalking its prey.

But Pure Vanilla doesn't need to know that, because that doesn't apply to Plain Yogurt. So, instead, Shadow Milk says, "You don't like the silence?"

"No, the silence is fine, but I like hearing your voice." Pure Vanilla admits, with that small, content smile of his creeping onto his face, at odds with his bedraggled appearance. "It's lovely."

Shadow Milk's fingers stall in his hair. His incorporeal eyes blink and squint in the shadows around the village, exactly where he has left them. Then, he slowly lowers his hands down to Pure Vanilla's shoulders, leaning forward to speak gently into his ear, a taunt and a fact, "Of course it is. It's mine."

Shadow Milk watches as the barest hint of colour rises to Pure Vanilla's cheeks. He wonders if he knows that he does that, whenever Shadow Milk gets close enough for his breath to brush his dough– no, he doubts it. Pure Vanilla knows very little, the way he is now.

"I hope I'm not interrupting something."

Black Raisin's voice is sharp and intrusive from the tent flaps, respect for Pure Vanilla muddied by a marked unhappiness. Pure Vanilla obviously can't see the withering warning glare she shoots Shadow Milk then, but Shadow Milk does, and he relishes in it. He leans the slightest bit closer to Pure Vanilla and gives Black Raisin a mocking grin past his shoulder, showing the slightest flash of his fangs before dulling them back down to Plain Yogurt's average Cookie teeth. Just a little trick of the light.

Black Raisin's expression darkens, her fist tightening at her side. Shadow Milk knows very well that she has not liked him from the beginning, and he has been gleefully pushing her headfirst towards hatred ever since. Things like this are always more fun with a little antagonism, and he gets a thrill whenever Pure Vanilla kindly sides with him instead.

"Oh, no, Plain Yogurt was just combing my hair. He insisted." Pure Vanilla chuckles, a little sheepishly and a little fondly, mostly unaware of the lethal staring competition happening over his head. He runs a hand over his own hair, as if to check what Shadow Milk has done, and Shadow Milk finally leans back out of his space. Black Raisin calms, and looks towards Pure Vanilla, who turns to her with a more serious expression. "Did you need me for something? Did someone get hurt?"

Black Raisin softens entirely like chocolate in the sun. "No, Healer, nothing like that, thankfully. I just wanted to let you know a group of us are heading out to patrol."

Pure Vanilla's face loosens into a relieved smile. "Ah, alright then. Stay safe, all of you."

"We will." Black Raisin turns to leave, hesitates, before turning back. "Oh, and the others just finished a batch of raisin buns. Feel free to help yourself."

Pure Vanilla hums in acknowledgement, but very pointedly does not answer. Shadow Milk knows why he doesn't. His eating habits were already abysmal to begin with, but living in poverty in a village with limited supplies made it even worse. He never seeks food out himself, and when it is given to him, he has a tendency to try and squirrel it away to give to some patient later, as a pick-me-up. Unfortunately for him, Shadow Milk tends to notice these things.

Once Black Raisin has left, Shadow Milk scoots back from Pure Vanilla, pulling his legs back from where they were stretched out to finally stand up. "So, should we go and help ourselves?" He challenges Pure Vanilla, daring him to refuse.

Pure Vanilla tilts his head this way and that, clearly reluctant, before tackling the dare head-on. "You can go ahead without me. I'm not hungry at the moment."

It's not a lie, but it dances on the edge of one. Shadow Milk sighs, ignoring his own budding amusement in favour of the scene. "But I don't want to eat on my own. You don't have to be hungry to eat, do you?"

Pure Vanilla hesitates for a few seconds, before reaching for where he had laid his staff, picking it up and steadying it against the ground. "...No, I suppose I don't. And I certainly wouldn't want you to be lonely."

He says it playfully, but Shadow Milk's eyes narrow at the words, his face falling blank. He doesn't respond immediately, circling Pure Vanilla with silent footsteps, not bothering to make himself heard.

The tense moment lengthens, and Pure Vanilla's expression falters with uncertainty, his head turning left and right. He had spoken playfully, so he must have expected a similar quip back, and found the silence he got instead unnerving.

"...Plain Yogurt?" He calls, with the slightest shiver of nervousness in the name. Shadow Milk comes to a stop in front of him, silently tapping his heels together with a sense of satisfaction.

"I'm here, my dear. Let's go, shall we?" He smiles, holding a hand out towards Pure Vanilla with a little snap of his fingers so he knows where his hand is. Pure Vanilla eases.

Yes, it'll take some time to get the Soul Jam if he continues to let things run its natural course, but Shadow Milk has time to spare. Even this little play in a rundown village is far better than the thousands of years he has spent stagnant, doing nothing, practically non-existent in the eyes of the world. Here, his presence makes an impact. Here, he can pick Pure Vanilla apart thread by thread and Pure Vanilla will let him, with a smile on his face.

That's all there is to it, really.

Shadow Milk hums as Pure Vanilla slips his hand easily into his palm, like he trusts him with his whole life.

"Just follow me!"

(Sweet fool.)

[asilentguardian]

Okay but I’d love to see your take on stepdad Hal attempt at parenting and trying not to overstep if you’re up for it

Thank you very much for the prompt! I love fics where Hal is slowly integrating into the batfam.

Please enjoy Hal's attempt at giving Tim advice, just in time for Hal's birthday!

-----

It’s a rare night. Bruce and Hal in the same bed, relatively early. Early meaning 11pm, but for them it’s a miracle. Hal thought that somehow being married would mean their schedules would magically align, that the universe would start seeing them as one person, one unit. But between Batman and the Green Lantern corps and their jobs and Bruce’s kids, there really isn’t time for them alone. Plenty of time to save the world together, to put out fires both literal and metaphorical, but little time for this. Laying together, falling asleep together.

Bruce has already slipped under, arm firmly around Hal’s waist. Hal would love to follow him, to curl against that heat, but Hal’s insomnia has joined them, too, and he can already tell it’s going to be a rough one. It hits him out of nowhere, sometimes, this restlessness. Bruce is still in the early stages, liable to rocket out of sleep if Hal tosses and turns too much. Good sleep is so rare for Bruce these days, so Hal begins the slow process of extracting himself from the bed and Bruce’s grip, only cheating a little bit with the ring to climb over him.

Nights like these used to find him fleeing the manor to the apartment he had refused to give up. But Bruce would inevitably come hunting him down, because he could never let anything go, and Hal would end up putting on a show of resisting, and they’d end up back in bed anyways. The apartment was another battle, one that Hal also ended up conceding. It still felt strange to have a permanent residence in Gotham, of all places.

Now, these nights have him wandering around the manor, exploring the library or one of the multiple sitting rooms or the kitchens until he inevitably runs into one of many nocturnal members of Bruce’s family. His family, really. Another argument they’ve run into, one that Hal isn’t quite ready to concede. He’s never seen himself with kids, doesn’t really think he’s cut out for that. He’s not a natural, not like Bruce.

The glow from the kitchen at the end of the hall tells Hal that he isn’t the only one awake, as usual. Hal makes his footsteps heavier, not willing to repeat the mistake of accidentally sneaking up on a bat. It’s Tim sitting at the counter tonight, another familiar sight.

“Hey kid,” Hal greets as he walks to the fridge. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, face still buried in his phone. It’s funny, the different ways Bruce is reflected in his children. Hal is certain he’s heard the same exact noise come out of Bruce when his attention is turned toward a case. Not that Hal would say so outloud. They all tend to get prickly, when he compares them to Bruce. All of them except Damian, who is still young enough to worship his father. 

Hal is still smiling to himself when he turns back to Tim, snack in hand. He scans his eyes over Tim, making sure his sleeplessness isn’t self-imposed, as it too often is. Another trait, courtesy of Bruce. Hal’s smile quickly drops when he notices that Tim isn’t actually absorbed with his phone, just kind of staring at the black screen, mind clearly somewhere else. There’s no dark circles under his eyes, but they are red and puffy. It’s clear he’s been crying.

“Hey, you okay Tim?” Hal asks. Tim blinks and looks up at him before quickly looking away again, trying to hide his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds, voice devoid of emotion. Tim is still a teenager, technically, and Hal knows that they don’t take well to prying. Tim especially keeps most things close to his chest, doesn't share much with anyone, Hal thinks. Bruce is only able to keep track of his life through border-line unhealthy amounts of surveillance. Tim seems to be aware of this and allows it, so Hal figures it’s fine. But he’s never seen Tim cry, not enough to leave him looking like this. Bruce would probably go apeshit, if someone had hurt Tim, so Hal tries again.

“You sure? Because you can talk to me about anything, if you need to,” Hal says, and immediately cringes. He sounds like his high-school guidance counselor. “I mean, I know I’m just that guy your dad married, but I’m still happy to help you with anything.”

Even worse now, Hal sounds like his own step-dad, and what a horrific thought that is. Tim doesn’t take the opportunity to poke fun at his fumbling attempts to be cool, just continues to stare at his phone. He glances up at Hal, then back down at his phone, tapping it against the counter. Hal doesn’t move, sensing that Tim is either going to actually open up to him or deflect again, and he wants to give him the space to think.

“It’s not that big of a deal, really,” Tim hedges.

“C’mon, hit me with it then,” Hal encourages. Tim glances at him again, and his shoulders sag in defeat.

“Bernard and I got into a fight,” Tim mutters. Hal is secretly grateful that it seems to be a teenager-shaped problem, and not a vigilante-shaped problem, though maybe he would be a better help with the latter. His few teenage relationships were pretty disastrous. He takes a moment to wrack his brain. He had heard from Bruce that Tim was dating a civilian, a boy, and assumes that this Bernard guy is said boyfriend.

“First one?” Hal guesses. Tim shrugs.

“Not really. But this one was just,” he pauses, trying to find the words.

“Worse?” Hal offers, and Tim nods, finally making eye contact with him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that mad before,” Tim says. Hal winces in sympathy. He remembers the first time he had seen Bruce really, truly, mad at him. It hadn’t been a fun night.

“What was the fight about?” Hal ventures, still unsure of how far he should push. Tim is a Wayne, and he’ll have no problem telling Hal when to fuck off, but he’d like to not piss off Bruce’s kids.

Tim huffs and looks away, guilty.

“Vigilante stuff,” he says vaguely. Hal raises his eyebrows. He wonders if Bruce knows that Tim’s civilian boyfriend knows his identity.

“He mad you didn’t tell him sooner?” Hal asks. Tim shakes his head, brows furrowing.

“No, he figured it out a long time ago, he’s just. He’s overprotective, I guess,” Tim says. He freezes after a moment and looks at Hal, frantic.

“Don’t tell Bruce I said that. He’s already twitchy about Bernard knowing at all,” Tim rushes out. Hal puts his hands up in surrender.

“Relax, kid, I won’t rat you out,” Hal says. Tim relaxes like he just dodged certain death. “But you know what he’d say, right?” Hal adds. He didn’t use to understand Bruce’s paranoia about identities, not really. He thought it was all bullshit, a way for Bruce to exert control over all of them. But after they started screwing around, after Hal ended up at the manor a few times, after he saw the way Bruce talked about his kids, he started to understand. The stakes were higher, for Bruce.

“Man, you used to be cool,” Tim groans, rolling his eyes. Hal crosses his arms at that.

“Hey, I just said I’d help you out,” Hal says. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs. They fall into silence again, Tim picking at the edges of his phone case. Hal lets him have the time to collect his thoughts like Bruce often needs. 

“How did you and Bruce do it?” Tim asks, suddenly much more timid.

“Do what?” Hal asks.

“Stop fighting all the time,” Tim says. Hal can’t stop the bark of laughter that bursts from him, and Tim looks at him in confusion.

“Kid, we have not stopped fighting since we met. That didn’t change just because we starting fu- I mean, dating,” Hal says. Tim raises an eerily familiar eyebrow at the slip up, but lets it lie.

“But you’re married now,” Tim insists. Hal knows that his smile in response to that is embarrassingly soft, but he still can’t help it. It’s still thrilling, to think about Bruce and married in the same sentence. 

“Yeah, we are. I married him even though he drives me crazy and can make me madder than just about anything else in the universe,” Hal says. Tim shifts in his seat, clearly more uncertain than before. Hal Hal panics, just a little, at the thought of completely blowing this.

“Look, just because you love someone doesn’t mean you won’t disagree sometimes. You might even get angry at each other. Bruce and I could disagree on the color of the sky, probably, but the difference between then and now is that we actually try to understand each other. We fight because we don’t want to be misunderstood, you know?” Hal says. Tim looks at him suspiciously.

“Not really, no,” he drawls. Hal sighs.

“Well, then you can’t go wrong with a good apology,” he offers. Tim looks even more suspicious now, and Hal suppresses his laughter, this time, but can’t help but be reminded of a prickly kitten.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tim says. Hal offers him a smile, and turns to the cabinets to hunt for a glass.

“You’re not, by the way,” Tim adds, quiet enough that Hal almost misses it.

“Not what?” he asks, filling his acquired glass with water.

“Just some guy Bruce married. You��re a part of the family, too, you know.” Tim says. It’s Hal’s turn to feel uncertain now. He swallows his knee-jerk reaction of denial, takes a sip of water before turning around. Tim’s gaze is piercing, and Hal gets the same feeling he gets when Bruce stares at him, like he can sense whatever self-deprecating thought has passed through Hal’s mind.

“Thanks, kid.”

[forestofforever]

"You're upset."

Anyone would be able to tell, the way she was hiding her face, the shaking of her voice... "Why? What's wrong?" He leaned his face a bit closer, trying to get a peek at her expression. "Is it the teeth? I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I didn't want to worry you, and I kind of assumed that they'd go back to normal after fixing the whole thing tonight... and my old ones kind of fell out so I wasn't really sure how to bring it up... I didn't mean to hide anything from you, I swear, but I didn't want to upset you."

Even if he couldn't fully grasp why she was upset, he did at least try to understand, as well as try to make it better. The changes were clear to her but for him, it simply felt as if things had finally clicked into place, his personality and thought process seamlessly adapting in such a way that he didn't even realize anything had changed at all. Much like his teeth, this felt right. This slight shift in personality also made him enjoy this, the way she was clearly experiencing negative emotions... It would be so easy to push her over the edge now... but while he did enjoy the suffering of others, he didn't really want her to be upset with him.

"Is it because of what I said about Lana? I'll still apologize to her if you want me to." He didn't feel an ounce of guilt anymore, but if she needed him to apologize in order to feel better, he would do it. "I feel like I am supposed to feel bad about hurting her. I think you want me to feel bad about that...right? I'm...uhm... I don't think I'm able to actually feel guilty about it. I can't really recall what guilt is even supposed to feel like, to be honest with you. Ah! But see, now I'm not hiding it from you! That's good, right? No lying?" He grinned, almost seeming proud before looking back at her, his grin instantly fading.

"Please don't be mad at me." He spoke softly, furrowing his brows in an expression of concern. "I won't bite you, I promise. I'll be good. I'll behave myself." He pressed his face against the top of her head.

"I'll be good."

Alura didn’t believe in love- not real love at least and it wasn’t something she was searching for. She just knew what love didn’t look like. How can you believe in something you don’t know? Her dad abused her mom and her mom still treated him lovingly- she knew that wasn’t love. The one person she ever did ‘love’ she almost killed him and he almost killed her- that couldn’t be love either. Was such a thing even within her grasp or was she cursed to always care about others more than they cared about her? The inability to even recognize the feeling made it so even if she did care about someone that deeply- she would never know. Her actions towards Etienne may or may not fall in that category. It’s hard to tell when he’s switching between someone who makes her safe and something that makes her feel threatened.

She was happy when he called her pretty- it wasn’t something new to hear but coming from him it felt almost special. This man really thought she was pretty? How lovely. A small hint of excitement could be seen in her eyes- thinking about the ballgowns and how Etienne really would make her feel like a princess if they were in that situation. His last few words though- made her uneasy almost as if she knew what was coming.

Lana.. so that was her name. Alura had never even known her name but at one point was covered in this woman’s blood. Her smile faded and a look of shock fell on her. Was this really Etienne? He seemed so distraught after he had hurt her- he couldn’t really think this could he? Although Alura was more likely to use violence than the average citizen- it was normally for a greater result of outcome. Still, a bit of a paradox, she believed it was wrong for humans to kill others and that violence wasn’t the answer to anything- she just didn’t mind being the villain.

“No-“ her words were cut off by his laughter. A look of shock was replaced by a look of horror as she noticed his teeth. What had happened- when did this happen? It was all starting to come together now, the merchant and him were becoming one at an alarmingly fast rate. Would Etienne even make it to night fall? Alura froze- the sweet and innocent moment gone. The anxiety she had felt before was slowly returning- seeping in and gripping her tightly. She pulled her hands closed to her chest- he could’ve bit off her finger earlier and she wouldn’t put it past the merchant to do something of the sort.

The new sudden appearance of his teeth were one thing but the casually cruel words and the fact she had no idea- that’s what really bothered her. Alura didn’t know what to do or say- she didn’t want him to her face. So she hugged him- hurrying her face in his chest so he couldn’t see her. Lunch? She needed to eat but she didn’t want to. Her stomach was swirling again- the anxiety. “Maybe we should order takeout..?” Her voice gave away something was wrong. It was shaky and almost forced- like she was trying to keep calm. Alura didn’t think going out in public with him like this was a good idea or something she could handle.

“I just want to go home.” His home? Her home? What was home to her?

[rainebelowzero]

kurt brainrot is real!!! may i request something with like friends to lovers i guess? kurt wants reader and is really awkward and cringe and whiny and freaky :p post-op trans reader?! love ur stuff dude ur so cool!!

Down bad Kurt Kunkle x Trans Male Reader (long ass title sorry)

notes: thank you! Sorry this took so long :') also I agree, I've had Kurt brainrot since like 2022. I have like three requests I'm working on so expect those some time soon (for real this time 🙏), also one of them is my first Eddie request so yippee 🥳🥳🥳 the other two are Kurt so I'm gonna work on them today, at least one might be out by tonight??? It's like almost 11am for me so probably earlier than that

♡ Kurt is a freak, car sex (kinda?), trans reader, spit, mention of choking, mention of slapping, sorta mild masochism (??), making him eat his own cum, premature ejaculation, reader asks him out at the end awww ♡

You often went on rides with Kurt, fucking around while he works. Sometimes people complain about the fact that there's another person in his car when they get picked up, but usually they don't really care, and it was an interesting experience to see all kinds of people from Azusa. Plus, Kurt loved having you around, and you usually get free food out of it.

He really, really liked you. In a way that wasn't completely normal. You mostly saw it as him just being awkward, especially with the way that a lot of the time after you touched him, he'd get all fidgety. You weren't stupid, you knew damn well. It was just fun to tease him. What you didn't know about though, were the more secretive things he was doing, like stealing your things when you weren't looking, or jerking off every time you posted on your close friends story on Instagram.

It drove him insane, every little touch, every look, he spent hours getting off to a picture of your body after your top surgery healed, he was obsessed. He tried to brag around you, do that thing guys did when they would talk about other people they “liked” to make the real person they like jealous. You knew it was bullshit, and after getting no reaction from you, he kind of just stopped doing it. And the amount of times he almost drove straight off the road because he was looking at you were way too many.

It was just a normal day of your usual routine, sitting in his car. It was a hot day, and you had taken off your jacket, sweating. Kurt's A/C was broken, so it was actual torture. Not for Kurt though. No, he was very much enjoying the sight of you. At some point, it became unbearable, and you, being more horny than usual, wanted Kurt. He was pretty cute. And you ended up on top of him, basically every single fantasy Kurt has ever had since he met you.

Kurt watches you with almost wide eyes, and if he were in a cartoon, there'd be little hearts in them as you straddle his waist, finding the most comfortable way to do that without hitting your head on the ceiling of his car interior. It's a little difficult, considering you were two grown men, but you made it work, your hands cupping the man's face.

His skin is warm, face flushed as he stares up at you, barely breathing. You lean down, catching his lips in yours. His movements are uncoordinated, inexperienced, but you don't care, you hold his head in place as you stay against him. You pull away slightly, still close enough to feel each other's breaths, and Kurt's hand snakes up, pressing against your chest. He pulls it away as fast as it settles there.

“Sorry.” He says softly, but you catch his wrist, holding his hand against yourself back in place.

“It's okay.” You respond, voice low. His fingers grip your shirt gently while you lean back down, kissing him again. His lips part slightly, and you grip his jaw, not too hard, but enough to hold him in place. His eyes follow you curiously, and as you lean over him, you urge him to open up.

He opens his mouth a little more, sticking his tongue out a little, and you spit right into his mouth. He lets out a sound, a low groan that almost turns into a desperate whine as he swallows it, some of it dripping down his chin before he can lick it away. You kiss him again, sloppily as your hands roam his body and he tightly grips the front of your shirt.

He can't believe this is happening. He had been into you for almost your entire friendship, and now you were feeling up on him and your tongue was in his mouth. You can feel his erection beneath you, and he whimpers every time you move around in his lap. You do it a few times on purpose, teasing him while you tangle a hand in his hair. When you pull away, he stares up at you, eyes fully entranced in your features as he pants, trying to catch his breath.

It's taking literally every shred of self control for Kurt to not immediately cum in his pants. He's straining hard against his jeans, and he was definitely going to jerk off to this memory later with the shirt he stole from you the last time he went over to your place.

You run your hands down his chest, and he can't help but admire your hands. He wants them around his throat, like that one time he tried to choke himself (it didn't work out). You'd know how to do it, he thinks. You'd wrap those perfect fingers around his throat, squeezing in a way to make Kurt so deliciously close to passing out, just to let him breathe at the last second.

He thinks about letting you slap him around, though he'd really let you do anything to him. Anything you wanted, he'd say yes in an instant. He's probably jerked off to worse.

Your hands meet his belt, and you get his pants down, pulling his hard cock out. He's leaking like crazy, so much you kind of think he already came, but he bucks his hips up when you touch him, the best he can with you in his lap. He doesn't really know what to do with his hands, but he's happy when you don't disapprove of him snaking his hands under your shirt. His fingers run over your scars, before he suddenly gasps loudly. You press the nail of your thumb against the head of his dick, and it hurts so good, making Kurt squirm under you.

He whines, and with about three or four quick pumps, accompanied by slick precum covering your hand and his cock, he's thrashing underneath you, panting and whining as ropes of cum shoot up into his stomach and over your hand. It takes you by surprise, and you both kind of stare at each other as soon as Kurt comes down from the high and realizes what happened.

“I-I…that’s never happened before.” He chokes out, very embarrassed, though the humiliation kind of makes him a little harder. You console him, and a small part of Kurt was wishing you'd degrade him for it, but that's for another time.

Instead, you swipe your fingers against the man's shirt, collecting some of his cum. He gulps as you raise your hand to his mouth. “Aren't you gonna help me clean up?” You say, and it almost makes Kurt cum again on the spot.

He hesitantly sticks his tongue out, dragging it across your fingers before you shove both of them into his mouth. He moans softly, before lapping up his mess, cleaning off your hands. He can't handle it without whining, his cock twitching and throbbing with need, purely getting off on the image of you feeding him his own cum.

When he finishes, you wipe your hand off on your shirt, kissing him again and sliding back into your seat. Kurt fixes his appearance,and the drive to drop you off is mostly silent, though Kurt keeps looking away from the road to glance at you. When you get there, he looks away, something nagging at him.

“Do- should..we just forget about that?” He asks. He wouldn't be able to, no matter what.

You shrug. “We should go on a real date sometime.” You say, kissing his cheek and then getting out of the car.

He's instantly rock hard again.

[omgfangirlland]

Will Mark snap at some point?

Like is he gonna be slightly yanderish for his Sister? Like when the Batfam comes around?

Like:

Mark: "Hey would you prefer staying home and play some boardgames with me your brother" Insert puppy eyes

Batsis: "Yeah sure why not, after all we haven't had enough time this past days"

Mark smiling because he definitely not said that to batsis just because he knew the Waynes were in the city and he didn't want to share his sister no more

Or just Mark and Nolan even Debbie some days encouraging Batsis to just stay in the house and Batsis being like "sure why not, it's not every day that my parents who definitely have their relationship on a thin threat and my brother are in good terms" so she stays in with them (the reason being that also the Ways are in the city)

Or just

Dick Grayson and Mark Grayson are having a passive aggressive competition Infront of Batsis and she's just like..... 😐...... Plus point if Damian (+Jon)bor Oliver just 'steal' your time away from those two (Dick and Mark)

I just need protective/Jealous Older bro Mark

-Nameless 💜

Yes to both. It'll be slow, drop by drop, slow enough that batsis wouldn't notice the clingness. They were already quite close anyway, Mark being more clingy as the story progresses would be brushed by Batsis as her older brother just being worried for her.(and MC enjoys the attention of the family, so she can't complain but shh don't tell Nolan it'll go straight to his head)

Like family nights? Mark and Oliver hanging around as she paint? Comic reading sessions? Batsis is fed and warm, and the pettiness she holds towards batfam grows. Add to it that Nolan realizes he's never really held his kids enough, and some days, the man just picks them all up- baby/toddler Oliver strapped to his front, in one arm Batsis just chilling and the other Mark who is mortified- "I'm a grown man now, dad, but this is nice ig"

The Dick vs. Mark rivalry will be started by Richard, like Mark didn't see this dude as a threat, you told him you hate Dick Grayson, he hates Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson is on the ignore in real life list.

Dick "the angry Robin who fakes going to therapy and is still having issues regarding attachments and expressing his real emotions" Grayson being overheard saying something like "Oh, batsis still loves me us, she stuck around those lesser Graysons becomes she missed me us, she doesn't actually need them."

Instant war. Not because Mark fears what he said to be true (well, maybe a tiny bit) but because of the pure audacity this guy has- how dare he, Mark is the favorite older brother and it shall stay that way. (Mark will use his brain for once and start shit and then go fake crying to Batsis about the meanie Waynes just to make it harder for them to repair the bond)

I definitely see the Mark v Dick thing being an opportunity for the younger siblings, and they'll milk it too. Oliver "they're being scary" puppy dog eyed Grayson and Damian "mother asked if you and Debbie wanted to come eat lunch with us at this family owned restaurant, we could finally spend some time together. You never have time for us." manipulative Wayne would make it hard to say no. Jon being happy to spend time with his friends and their family would be the nail in the coffin.

Batsis will be kind of weak when it comes to the youngsters. Them teaming up together would be an instant win. Those are her little siblings (Jon included, that boy has hung around long enough for the honorary title of little bro by then)

Is Mark jealous by that? Sure, but he has big brother privileges, and being annoying is one of them. (He doesn't really have it in him to be mean to the youngsters due to them being young. He remembers how he himself was, so for now they're giving a bit of grace.) The lil siblings are cuddling? Mark is immediately lying on top of them. "No, you can't get up. It's jail time." And just grabs them all, holds them knowing nobody will save the. Debbie? "Aww, family time." Forehead kisses and bye. Nolan? That man is debating joining or not. The bats? Good luck even coming near the house.

The lil siblings trying to chill in batsis room? Mark is already there, pillow fort built. Mark "Sorry kids, space is big enough only for your sis and I." smugass Grayson has his plans spoiled by Jon immediately going back home stealing all the pillows and by Damian who just buys more. Mark pouts while reading his comics in the much bigger pillow fort Oliver made while Batsis hands the kid colors for his book, Damian "coloring the sun green is... a choice." Wayne helping, and Jon is making friendship bracelets.

Mark's not as pouty when he's forced to join the bracelet making and when he's handed four bracelets(Damian was very much forced to make one for everyone), but he still misses when he had all your attention.

[httpzsho]

I HATE THAT I LOVE YOU | 리키

PAIRINGS. fwb!riki x reader

GENRE. angst, friends to ???

WARNINGS. swearing, kissing

SYNOPSIS. you didn't know being in a situationship was this complicated, especially when the person you're with it is your bestfriend.

SHO'S NOTE. inspired by my bae's ( @nishikio ) fic “It was never just fun” go check it out :]

YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED A LOVE LIFE, watching the cheesy couples act all lovey-dovey during the love month was an eyesore. only becuase you didn't have one of your own.

well, you kind of had one.

your bestfriend, riki. you wouldn't really call him your lover, it's not really official. you don't even remember how it happened. you both just flirted with one another and it flowed into.. whatever this is.

he'd buy you flowers, call you “baby” or “pretty”, take you out on dates, but he'd also ignore your texts, tease you too much, and just simply be a jerk.

you're lying if you said you didn't actually like him. you did, you really do. but it pains you that you don't even know if he does too, or all of this is just some fun to him.

and it doesn't help that he constantly gives you mixed signals.

KI : hello, pretty

: morning, riki :)

KI : you free after school?

: i think so, yeah. why?

KI : go to a party with me. I'll pick you up at 7.

: see you there <3

[ KI reacted '♡' to your message.]

great, a party. you enjoyed being in some, but you really didn't want to go in a party on the night of valentines, you're positive that the room will just be filled with your friends with their partners.

and well, you can't really call him that.

you spent the rest of the afternoon getting ready, putting on your silky red dress, and a plump pink lipstick. you kept your hair simply by just wearing it down. you made your way over to your living room, the sound of your velvety heels making contact with each step.

not long after your doorbell rang, you opened it as your eyes were met with rikis, his outfit simple yet still giving him the elegant look. his chrome hearts hoodie with his pants.

“good evening, gorgeous.”

you chuckled, “oh don't bait me with flattery. let's go,” he grinned as he took your hand and led you to his car as he drove you both to the party. as you expected, it was filled with lovebirds, some even kissing here and there. others are already wasted.

you both made your way to your friendgroup, they knew you and riki weren't just friends, but they were aware you weren't really something. the night went on with you and riki gulping down a few shots. you weren't much of a big drinker. you were starting to get tipsy.

you and riki were on the corner of the room, absentmindedly observing everyone dance and go out and about. you turned to riki, admiring his features. “you're s'handsome,” he chuckled at your giggly tone. “mmh you're just drunk, pretty.” he held your waist gently, just incase your legs begin to give out. “'m not, your lips are plump too.” you stared into them, the gap between you two ever so close.

fuck it. he pressed his lips onto yours, closing his eyes as he melted onto you, for the very first time. he pulled away slowly, realizing what he just did.

fuck, you've never kissed before. and he did it without your consent. this was you and him's first kiss too.

he wiped his lips, your strawberry flavored lippie still lingering within his.

as the night buried on more, he decided to drive you back home. and afterwards went home to his own apartment.

all he could think about was how wrong it was for him to kiss you. you were drunk, what if you didn't want that at all? plus, in you whole 'relationship' you've never kissed before. he doesn't even know if you truly like him or if this is just some no-strings-attached thing.

whatever it was, he knew the solution was to get rid of his feelings. he hated you, he hated your smile, he hated your laugh, he hated your voice. and most of all, he hated how he didn't even hate you one bit.

the day after that you went to school, looking for him. completely oblivious to what happened the previous night. the only recent memory that was left in your mind was you swallowing lots of alcohol.

you spotted him in his usual spot in the cafeteria, you approached him, but he simply gave you a cold look.

“soo, did you have fun last night?” he hummed. that's it. you sighed. this wasn't new. he would always be sweet & charming one moment, then the next it's like he doesn't want you at all. it annoyed you.

you thought it'd be a pattern, sweet then not, sweet then not. but to your surprise the next couple of days were silent. he didn't approach you, call you pretty, or give you any affection. you were curious. and a little hurt angry. did something happen that night? did you do something wrong?

you were going to talk to him but as you went to where you usually saw him, there he was, standing beside his locker with some girl clinging onto him. she looked at him with heart eyes. and he laughed, smiling with her.

that made your heart break into little pieces. yeah sure, he wasn't your boyfriend, but that 'moments' you have together mean nothing to him? were you really just a pawn?

you watched from afar as you clutched your jacket. you didn't even notice the tears in your eyes. why was he so important to you? worst of all, why him?

you went home that day with a heavy heart pounding in your chest. you barely got any sleep. your mind occupied with the memory of him with that girl.

it shouldn't hurt. but it did.

the next few days, the only view that clouded the school was him and that stupid girl. you see him doing the things he did to you, accompany her, buy her snacks from the caféteria, and just simply be there. each moment hurt more than the last.

the last class of the day finally ended. you went out the classroom, only to be met with the sight of him and the girl, again. you were going to tear your eyes off them, but was distracted when she kisses him.

she kissed him. his first kiss.

your heart shattered, once again. he never did that with you.

your tears formed quickly, you rub your eyes and ran. not knowing riki saw you and followed quickly.

you stormed off the school, your brain mindlessly fogged with that scene. why? why was it so easy for him to replace you?

“___!” you heard him call out, his hand grabbed your fist and turned you around. “please, hear me out-” he pleaded, you yelled, “what? that you suddenly went distant then found a girl better than me?” you wiped your tears, not wanting your eyes to meet his.

“it's not like that!” “then what?” you pulled your wrist out of his grasp, “was I that replaceable to you? I thought we had something- but.. I guess not! you even had your first kiss with he—” he cut you off, “she's not my first kiss, you are!” your eyes widened, in complete disbelief. “h-huh?..” you stared at him.

“look, the night at the party—you were drunk, and you caressed my lips and I wasn't thinking so I just kissed you, and I really fucking wanted to do that for a long time, but I don't even know if you liked me seriously or not, and I swear nothing else happened, but I felt really REALLY bad because I just kissed you even if I didn't know if you want to- and I was so in pain because I like you a lot, and I wanted it to go away, so I pretended to like this girl who liked me and she sucks, and then she suddenly kissed me and I wanted nothing but to reel your lips again, because I hate you so much and I hate that I love you, but really I don't!”

he flipped his hair, sighing. “and I completely understand if you don't feel the sa—” you cut him off, pulling him by his collar and pressing your lips against his. for a moment, he freezes. but he soon melts into your lips, kissing you back, just like the first time.

“I.. that was..” he panted, breathless.

“I love you, pretty. I mean it.” you hugged him. and his hands wrapped around your waist, he kissed your forehead. you giggled. “I love you too,”

“you promise?”

“pinky promise.”

⩩ ( @nishikio , @stvrriki ) ⊹ ࣪ ˖

© work of httpzsho | sho

[lavenderprose]

I do think Taash eventually starts a Permanent Sleepover type situation with Harding purely because staying in the main lighthouse starts to feel just a bit too much like being Rook and Emmrich's houseguest.

And it's not that they're made to feel intrusive. Emmrich and Rook always look up from their Weird Necromancy Chats when they hear Taash coming down the hallway and offer them a seat in the library sitting area. They're having tea. It's really fragrant and it smells crazy good, actually, but Taash can also smell how much Rook is enjoying Emmrich's Death Yap. Even if their sense of smell wasn't so developed, Taash has fucking eyes, and they can see that Rook's legs are crossed harder than a clamp trap and their face is glazed over like one of those Antivan teacakes Lucanis always brings back in a pretty pink box from Traviso. Apparently they take sixteen hours to make. They're really good, especially the chocolate ones--

"Taash?" Emmrich says, head politely cocked, like Taash can't literally smell his--

"You guys are weird," Taash says, as mildly as they can (because they don't actually think Emmrich and Rook realize how weird they are) before they quickly hustle away.

So yeah, it all gets to be a bit much. Between the tea times and the giggling that Taash can hear through the wall sometimes, and the way that they feel like if they don't absolutely CLOMP down the hallway out of their room, they might see something they really don't wanna see. Rook and Emmrich seem to forget that anyone else exists when they're looking deeply into each other's souls, or whatever it is they're doing.

"I don't actually think they're fuckin'," Taash tells Harding. They're laying on Lace's floor pallet, pillows and blankets all tossed to the side, because Taash and Lace? They're fuckin. All the time. Fuck yeah. "I would understand it if they were fuckin'. Who doesn't like fuckin'? I mean, I know some people don't, I've talked to Lucanis--"

"I don't think that's what's happening here," Lace says, in that nice and gentle tone she uses when she sees that Taash is starting to get way too in their head about yet another aspect of Other People and the Way They Act that they can't quite process. "Some people just...they don't...well. You know how sometimes, when you have something you really enjoy eating--"

"Like those teacakes Lucanis buys," Taash says immediately.

"Yeah, like that." Lace lays back and folds her hands over her stomach, bouncing her feet to a jaunty tune in her head. God, she has great boobs. Point one to Taash for getting to touch those great boobs. "Well, sometimes you want to really enjoy the teacakes, so you eat them slower. To, um, savor--"

"Oh, haha, no." Taash frequently inhales the teacakes with alarming speed and gusto. They are best eaten whole, two at a time.

"Okay. Well...okay. When we go to Rivain, and the sun is setting on the water."

"Uh-huh."

"And the birds are singing, and everything's quiet, and you know we're heading somewhere--maybe somewhere exciting!--but you still want to sit there for a minute and enjoy it? Because...who knows if you'll ever have this moment again, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess," Taash mumbles. They shift down until their head is next to Lace's, which kind of means their bare ass is all on the tile greenhouse floor, but it's whatever. Lace is super pretty from this angle. "It's like an edging thing, then."

Lace's face twists spectacularly. "No, that's not--"

When Taash returns to the main Lighthouse that night, they catch just the briefest glimpse of something happening on the banister at the top of the staircase. When they blink, Emmrich has positioned himself in front of a red-faced Rook, only visible as a wad of hair breathing against the back of Emmrich's shoulder and a hand clutching his elbow from behind.

"Taash!" Emmrich says, way too loud. "We thought you were spending the night with dear Harding! Ah, of course, you do live here too. We apologize for--"

Rook hisses something into Emmrich's spine. It sounds like, "Shut up shut up."

Emmrich's clothes are, like, really messed up. For him at least. One of the buttons on his trousers is undone.

"Oh," says Taash. They turn around and walk their ass right back to the greenhouse.

"Hey," they say, as Lace flounders out of sleep. "So, uh, I was wrong. Can I stay here? Forever?"

[see-arcane]

Welp. Been a minute. Overdue for an update.

So.

The Depressing Bit

Going to go ahead and rip off the band-aids quick.

First off, I passed my one-year laidoffiversary a couple weeks back. Still no new job despite applying every day of the week for the past year. A lot of dead-end interviews. Three times as many scams and I don’t dare guess how many entirely false job openings posted by companies who were never hiring in the first place, but wanted the positions out in the open to scare their actual employees with the threat of being easily replaced and to look good to investors with the illusion of growth. So there’s that.

Then, while doing my taxes, I came to a fun little revelation.

You know my novella The Vampyres, ala eBook and paperback? Had its birthday last year, March 15th. As I plugged in my earnings from that book from Draft 2 Digital’s doc, I discovered I'd made a grand total of $278 from it over the course of 2024. Cool.

I paid $275 to purchase the ISBNs (International Standard Book Numbers) for the eBook and paperback respectively, and a barcode. Which would mean that I made approximately $3 in profit from The Vampyres after a year.

Except I also spent $25 on a ‘change token’ with Draft 2 Digital because I had to make an alteration to the book's interior.

Meaning I spent $300 total on self-publishing this book. And have so far made back $275 of it.

…

Still glad I did it. Still glad a few folks might someday come across it and enjoy the read. But it’s…yeah. Kind of a glum revelation with March 2025 coming up.

Still job hunting. Still writing. Still hoping and going.

Anyway.

New Stuff

Ko-Fi

Added a couple new options in with the doodles and fancier art bits if you want to take a gander.

Substack (For Now)

While I’ve been posting my chapter updates on my Substack for a bit, and my stuff is still going up there for the foreseeable future, I’m going to start shopping around for an alternative platform. Not a big fan of how Substack is apparently buddying up to Elongated Muskrat and his specific idea of ‘freedom of speech.’ The main things I’m looking for is a lack of price tag and easy usability. I’ll let everyone know if/when I make the switch to something better.

StoryGraph

The Vampyres is on StoryGraph (and so am I). I’d appreciate you leaving any reviews on there rather than Goodreads, the latter being one of Amazon’s Bezos Babies. Really, nice reviews anyplace where books are picked up will help, but do consider a hop to StoryGraph in particular.

Merchandise

One of my New Year’s Resolutions is finally setting up shop with a little merch. I want to make stationery and possibly some novelty mugs* as things to start with. I’m browsing around for a good manufacturer and shipping combo option while trying to 100% avoid Shopify or affiliated sites. Not real keen on them being fine with selling Nazi and MAGA merch. (Frankly not keen on how dodging Nazi infiltration has become a rote part of trying to ~Sell Myself~, but here we are.)

I’ll post prospective product pics once I have something solid. Cross your fingers for me.

*The mugs are mostly for me as I have a devastating addiction to charming drinkware. But I guess you guys can have some too.

???

I don’t really have anything salient to put here. I’m mostly just grateful to all my friends out there in the Internet abyss for sticking around and making all this feel a little less lonely. Thank you.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Imma be a little honest with u Raven, I really like the “Crowley is Reverne” theory, and I think we have enough evidence to say that’s the path twst might be taking us in and I want it to happen, but I feel like a lot of fans forget that, until we get an actual in game confirmation, ITS STILL JUST A THEORY. I see a lot of people already accepting it as canon, or at least acting like it is, I even see fanart for it, but I feel like some people forget that twst still has enough room to NOT go down that road and use Crowley for something else. Of course there’s nothing wrong with indulging in something that hasn’t been confirmed yet, but now there’s just SO MUCH media out there for it now it’s like, hold your horses bro, we don’t wanna over feed something that still has the capacity to not happen.

I don’t mean to shut down those people who enjoy the Crowley/Reverne theory, myself included, but you get where i’m coming from, right? 😅

Mmm, I kind of understand the annoyance but I also kind of understand why the theory is popping off right now. For the former, yes, seeing too much of a good thing can spoil one’s feelings on it, just like how eating too much of your favorite food can get you fatigued of it. For the latter, people may enjoy the silliness of the theory or are antsy for the long-term looming questions in Twst’s narrative (like what are Crowley’s true motives and what happened to Raverne) to finally be answered. I empathize with you both.

The way I see it, this is similar to patterns of behavior previously observed with other popular theories. For example, fans (including myself) basically treat the Leech family mob theory as though it is canon + make fan content for it, even though there is arguably wiggle room for other explanations and canon has not confirmed one way or another yet.

There’s no harm in it, so long as you’re not getting into arguments with who does or doesn’t believe in the theory. Maybe it’s because I haven’t personally run into people who seriously believe X or Y theory will be canonized, but I honestly think most people are only joking or having a ball with “Crowley is Raverne” rather than taking it super duper seriously as the direction the main story will take. Even if it ends up not being true, I think there’s still merit and value in the works produced. We can look back on it at a later time and have a good laugh at how silly the idea is, or maybe imagine what could have been if Twst went down that route.

Those are my thoughts ^^ I hope that this gives you some perspective or at least something new to consider.

[forsaken-headcanons]

Hello it is I back with more rambles because I cannot be quiet

Between the three, Elliot has the best memories and stuff of 7n7 and C00lkidd. 7n7’s memories depend on how kind the Spectre is feeling that day, and C00lkidd is blissfully unaware that anything bad even happened to all of them (being Forsaken getting transformed by the Spectre the true nature of what he’s even doing during rounds), leaving Elliot as the one with the most memories between them all.

The first time Elliot confronted 7n7 about his son being a killer, the latter was kind of confused. Of course his son isn’t here, his dear… dear… 7n7 then realized he couldn’t remember his son’s name at that moment and panicked so bad he just teleported to his room immediately. Elliot, for all the tension he has with 7n7 and C00lkidd for the damage they did to his family’s restaurant, can’t help but feel bad for them. He still avoids 7n7 most of the time and dislikes his son, but he also can’t deny that seeing how they’ve ended up is very saddening. Perhaps before Forsaken a sick part of him would’ve thought of it as cathartic, but now? It just feels depressing to see 7n7 just… forget about his son sometimes. His memories are fleeting and what he does remember depends on the whims of a fickle being who delights in their suffering. It’s rather pathetic —almost pitiful— how far the man has changed from an anxious but well-meaning father. A nervous wreck who seems somewhere else half the time.

Elliot also knows that C00lkidd is genuinely unaware of the majority of what’s going on, but it’s not like the child keeps it a secret, constantly laughing and talking about how “fun” this game of “tag” is. Sometimes Elliot will use this for his advantage, trying to buy himself more time with pizza and playing along with C00lkidd, but other times he’ll just watch 7n7 during the round. Muttering things about how the killer seems so familiar sometimes, vague realization others. The times where he actually remembers are the worst, he thinks. Elliot has to avert his eyes when 7n7 lets himself be caught, if only to “hug” his son before he forgets again.

Elliot is torn between ignoring and helping 7n7 in between rounds sometimes. Seeing 7n7 apologize for his son’s actions yet often forget a lot about him is just too much for Elliot sometimes. The other survivors know they have tension with each other, but if Elliot sometimes makes a special pizza of toppings he knows 7n7 likes, or lets the man sob in his arms when he’s feeling really awful, then that’s between the two of them and they’ll never mention it once the moment is over.

I enjoy the funny pizza man greatly I think about my favorites way too often .. cannot be concise in my words when it comes to them I guess LMAO

-🪶anon

You don't have to be concise. This is very nicely written and I like the idea of what you're talking about.

[mikasa-imadebiscults]

Hi! I was wondering if you could do hashira with an extremely tall s/o, who is additionally mean & scary looking but literally the sweetest person ever. No rush(if you do it) Thankyouu! ^^

(Hello hello Anon! I hope you are doing well and that you enjoy this. This is mainly like how you met/how the Hashira first impression of you so I hope that’s okay. Have a great day/night!)

Unexpected Softy

(Characters Included- All the Hashira)

(Warning: GN! Reader, fluff, and some swearing)

🦋Shinobu Kocho🦋

- She first met you in her infirmary, you were injured in a fight fairly badly so you were in a vulnerable position. Due to the condition you were in she had to keep a very close eye on you, to ensure your safety. She saw it all by now in the Demon Slayer Corps after all, so your intimating looks didn’t faze her.

- She does find it adorable that you look all tough on the outside but is actually a big softy. She teases you about it all the time, she just can’t help herself.

🐍Iguro Obanai🐍

- Was shocked at first about how sweet you were compared to your appearance. He thinks it’s a nice contrast though, it’s one of the things he likes about you the most.

- He ended up growing fond of you very quickly. It was a strange feeling for him at first, considering kindness in his world is hard to come by. Even so, you continued to be so nice and eventually he got used to the new feeling.

🍡Mitsuri Kanroji🍡

- Was lowkey a tiny bit scared of you at first but still thought that you looked cool. She wanted to get to know you but didn’t know how exactly to approach you. So one day when she was having a snack, she saw you and offered you some. Once she realizes how nice you are, that fear completely dissipates in an instant.

- One of the many things she loves about you is that you’re taller than her, more of you to hug (koala style or one of those bone-crushing hugs)

🔥Kyojuro Rengoku🔥

- Not afraid of you at all, in fact he approaches you first. You two got along really well, especially with both of your kind spirits. Even some of the people who were terrified of you saw you two being so friendly and got over their fears.

- If he sees other slayers nearby visibly shaking in their boots because of you, he’ll kindly introduce them to you and tell them that there’s nothing to be afraid of. He will also say how kind you are and to never judge a book by its cover.

🔊Tengen Uzui🔊

- He’s another one who talks to you first. He likes your vibe. He definitely helps boost your confidence, the compliments he gives you and how he hypes you up is enough to make your confidence skyrocket.

- When you meet his wives, they get comfortable with you fast due to your kind nature. Even though Suma is a bit afraid of you, she enjoys your company and eventually warms up to you.

☁️Muichiro Tokito☁️

- Didn’t think much about you at first. I mean demons look scarier than you, some of them at least. Then fast forward to when you two started dating, he began to notice how others looked/acted towards you. He questioned it to himself but didn’t say anything as long as no one messed with you.

- Your kindness rubs off on him a bit the more you two hang out together. The other Hashira even notices the change.

🌪️Sanemi Shinazugawa🌪️

- At first he mistook your tough demeanor as you thinking that you’re better than everyone and that made him angry. He didn’t say anything though, but that was until one day you accidentally bumped into him. He got pissed thinking that you did it on purpose and started yelling at you, accusing you of thinking that you’re superior to everyone.

- Once he was finished ranting, you cleared things up telling him that none of that was true. Fast forward months later when you started dating, that first confrontation became a inside joke between you two (he kinda feels bad about it, he makes it up to you tho)

🌊Giyuu Tomioka🌊

- He can relate to you, after all, being a Hashira he also knows what it feels like to have people be afraid of you. When you first spoke to him, he was pleasantly surprised by your kindness. It makes a small smile appear on his normally blank face.

- Does make a mental note to compliment your appearance and tough exterior often when you’re dating. Just in case your brain decides to mess with you one day and tries to make another insecurity.

🪨Gyomei Himejima🪨

- Doesn’t notice your “scary” looks because, well, he’s blind. Though he does however notice the way people act around you and the tension that arises in the air whenever you come along. He doesn’t understand at first until he asks the frightened people what’s wrong.

- Of course the terrified slayers just said it was nothing and scurried off. He was even more confused. Until you came up to him and explained that they were most likely scared of you. You said it like it was nothing because you were used to it by now. Gyomei nodded in understanding, he knows how you feel and offers some words of encouragement.

Masterlist

[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

[charmwitch]

thank you... I'm still an infant in this fandom and I don't really talk to too many people about my works. I just want to have fun and enjoy this sudden, weird hyperfixation. I've played the games when they came out, but I think I was too busy with university and other stuff to really appreciate them back then... I know I'm annoying but I hope you all like my art.

It's kind of crazy to think how fast these two games came out one after another, and they made new models and stuff! Woooh! Happy Anniversary!

Thank you!!! I just wanna draw them cute... art is so hard haha

more thoughts:

I'm not an old guard of the series or anything. Most of you know I've only been working on OCs/FFXIV and some ragnarok online and other fanart for the past few years... thank you everyone who's stuck around for those and beyond those, honestly.

I've been having a lot of fun and enjoying not worrying whether my interpretations are okay or good with the fandom. I don't actually talk to a lot of folks in fandom (unless you reply to me on bsky, I feel uncomfortable in discords due to previous interactions.) But I'm always happy to discuss and share with other fans. So please feel free to send me comments if you'd like. Tumblr makes it hard bc there's no real good way to reply to say, tags, and I had to turn off asks a while back, but in the comment box I'm always loving comments!!

Sometimes I think "will this love ever amount to anything" and I mean, it won't. But I'm happy to share my works. They almost feel fleeting though, like they don't matter at all, but I hope you reading this enjoy them. The journey to enjoying something enough to draw it thousands of times is so funny. It does fill me with hope though during these times.

I dunno, I just wanted to say some things I guess. thank you for being here.

Happy 18th Anniversary to Radiant Dawn this week

I have two years to improve my art and make sick ass illustrations for the 20th anniversary. For now, I'm screaming because the 20th anniversary of Path of Radiance is exactly two months away. Gotta work on sickass drawings.

anyway I love Soren's white robes because like I said on bsky it's a physical manifestation of his growth throughout the series. letting his heart slowly thaw out. it's cute. I like it.

[beatcroc]

listen. i love pizza tower with my whole heart & mind. you know this. you Know. but first and foremost i am a character design bitch, and the pizzas are, frankly, very bland. this is not a critique or a complaint, because obviously That's Not The Point and more importantly i would be horrified if anyone tried doing that much animation with anything more complex than what's there. but also it means when i get a taste of some truly whack ass insane design work again it is like fuuuucking catnip

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

forever obsessed with dynamics between vampires, specifically that of a maker and fledgling, as a way to explore abuse. the creation of a vampire itself can so easily be a literalization of the lasting impacts of trauma and also much more simply the ways a perpetrator might shape their victim’s very identity. the extremes of isolation in the way that the new vampire, in most narratives, must cut all ties to their mortal life, or else go through an elaborate charade to maintain the facade of humanity, while forever still being removed from it. and the sheer dependence and vulnerability of being in an entirely new state of being, wholly uncertain of what it entails, and relying on another person to define… everything.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pages from trying to keep a little sketchbook-scrapbook type thing going for two weeks lol. I gave myself specific rules in hopes they might all end up more cohesive/consistent seeming, but alas, scribbly chaos reigns, it seems